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killerpancakeburger · 8 months ago

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Breaking point (2/2)

SUMMARY: Civilian!Reader, who works as Price's assistant, has a breakdown at work. Soap+Ghost help the best they can. Hurt/comfort. Can be read as platonic or romantic. Gender Neutral Reader.

PAIRINGS: Soap x GN!Reader

Ghost's version (1/2) Soap's part 2. Soap's part 3.

TAGS: Hurt/comfort. Military inaccuracies (I make shit up for the sake of the plot). Soap is tooth-rotting sweet.

WARNINGS: Mention of relative in the hospital, suicide ideation, depressive thoughts, swearing.

WORD COUNT: 4.3k

A/N: Very self-indulgent, Reader is going through it and so am I. 🙃Soap is Prince Fucking Charming (very cliché romance tropes). Yours truly suggest to listen to "Strong For Somebody Else" by Citizen Soldier to set the mood. (Song includes suicide ideation and depressive thoughts too, so listen at your own risk).

This bad good boy gave me a harder time than expected lol.

After ending the call, you put down your phone on your desk in a daze, hand shaking.

The news you’ve just been told cannot be real. Life could not possibly be that cruel. What did I do to deserve this? you wonder helplessly. It’s like every time you get back up, life knocks you down again, sending you tumbling on the cold, hard ground.

Clenching your fists, you stare into space, a thousand thoughts disorderly swirling inside your brain, all bursting with anguish, until a burning tear running down your cheek brings you back to the present. You’re at work, your boss is in the next room; a breakdown is a luxury you cannot afford right now. Better bite your tongue hard enough to draw blood than be caught sobbing.

Inhaling a shaky breath, you take your head between your hands, shoving your fingers into your hair, trying to convince yourself to postpone your nervous collapse. Only one hour left, and you’ll be free to cry your eyes out at your flat. Or on the way home, even. It’s not like the other passengers ever paid you attention the other times you’ve cried on the bus.

But somehow your attempts have the opposite effect, and more tears roll down your face, staining the papers beneath it. As you furiously wipe your face with your sleeve, with a blend of frustration and despair, pissed at yourself, and wanting to get rid of the evidence of your fragile state as fast as possible, the unmistakable sound of your office’s door opening makes you look up.

Of freaking course of all bloody people that could have walked in on you, it had to be Soap fucking Mactavish. Only the most gorgeous man on base - according to you, that is.

You weren't proud of it, but you had a crush on him since you arrived, six months ago. His piercing cerulean eyes, rugged good looks and outgoing personality wouldn’t let you know peace. The mere sight of him was enough to bring a goofy smile to your face, and every conversation between the two of you left you blushing and elated.

You initially thought that this silly, juvenile infatuation would fade away soon enough. Ok, he was beautiful, and he had eyes to damn yourself for, so what? Surely with enough time and exposure, he'd feel mundane. But things didn’t go that way at all.

On top of looking stunning, he just had to be friendly. He made you feel welcome when you arrived. He made efforts to include you in conversations, asking questions to get to know you. He relieved you of the burden of small talk, appeasing your social anxiety, by happily keeping the conversation going on his own, never taking offense when you had nothing to say. He chose to spend some of his free time with you, escorting you back from the archives or dropping by your office.

He was even flirty at times. Flirty. With you.

You could have still disregarded all this; tell yourself he was like this with everyone, that it was just his personality; imagining things would only end up with you hurt in the end.

But then, during a meeting, you witnessed his sincere concern for civilian lives. His righteous anger against unjust orders, when you had fully expected a soldier to obey mindlessly.

This had been your undoing; the moment you knew you were a goner. A severe fondness for him had sunk its claws deep inside your chest and had no intent to let go. It didn’t mean you had any intention to declare your feelings though; you never entertained the thought that he could return them, therefore there was no need for any confession.

For him to be the one to have caught you in this state, it was downright humiliating. Especially since his good heart would make him feel obligated to care.

He was still wearing his leather, fingerless gloves, and some dirt lingered on the contour of his face, like he tossed his weapons and his flak jacket to the side right out of the heli bringing him back to base, and rushed here.

“Hiya hen, brought you the- Shite, what happened?”

His booming voice and cheerful tone fade away as his eyes widen with concern. He briefly freezes at the door in shock before closing the distance to your desk with great strides. You lower your eyes in shame, avoiding his gaze.

“Nothing. Nothing happened. Everything's fine.”

“No offense, bonnie, but yer not very good at lying.”

You bit your lip, forcing yourself to look at him. Staring at your own lap is only going to make you seem more suspicious.

You grit your teeth and lie some more, trying to sound carefree.

“It's nothing, really. I'm just being a crybaby.”

Crybaby.

Soap turns the word over in his mind, unconvinced.

He still remembers that one time when you showed up thirty minutes late to a meeting with the Task Force, panting, leaning on the threshold, the front of your clothes soaked in blood.

“Sorry I’m late,” you started.

“‘Sorry’ isn’t going to cut it,” Price interrupted before laying eyes on you. “Bloody hell, what happened to you?”

You explained how Private what's-his-name bled out in the break room after carelessly reopening his stitches and you had to stop the hemorrhage with your bare hands and a bunch of paper towels while shouting yourself hoarse for help. Yet when Price ordered you to take the rest of the day off, you insisted on going on as usual, forcing their captain to make it clear that it wasn’t a mere suggestion.

You and him had a different definition of “crybaby”.

Clinging to what's familiar, you focus on the stack of papers under his arm.

“You have the latest reports? Give it here.”

You hold out your hand expectantly. Instead of giving them to you, he sets them down on the opposite side of your desk, out of your reach.

“Paperwork can wait.”

You blink in astonishment at him.

“No it cannot…?”

You roll your eyes at his behavior and get up to seize the reports, but he snatches them from you. You can feel your composure snap like a twig.

“Johnny, what the hell?!” you yell, throwing your hands in the air.

You could remember exactly the first time you called him Johnny, only because it had been such an embarrassment. You couldn’t get used to his alias; sure you had been warned beforehand that some of them were… original, but somehow "Soap" was the one that stood out as the most ridiculous. You briefly entertained the idea of using his first name, except that for you “John” already referred to Captain Price. Only once you tried to call him Mr Mactavish, and as a result Gaz and him guffawed so hard they almost fell off their chairs. Even Ghost let out a cough that was most definitely a concealed laugh. You were running out of options until you heard the lieutenant call him Johnny; you instantly liked it. It just… fitted him.

From that moment on you used the nickname, but only in your mind. You didn’t have any of the liberties Ghost had and you wouldn’t take them, out of respect, and shyness. Or at least this had been the plan until you fumbled and called him that to his face. The ensuing silence felt deafening as you were realizing what you’ve just done, and you apologized immediately, mortified.

He just laughed it off; said you could keep calling him that. True, he had appeared more surprised than irritated, but you didn’t want to take the risk of him simply being polite. This too, had been your plan, until he ruined it merily.

Somehow he must have noticed your efforts to not slip up again because he teased you about it.

“Not Johnny today? Did ah dae something wrong?”

You went back to “Johnny” quickly - anything to put an end to the mischievous glint in his eye and the rascally smirk on his lips aimed at you. Being the target of his undivided attention sent a pang in your chest and knots in your stomach. Those sensations weren't exactly unpleasant, but it led to an ominous feeling that this was too good to be true, and that at any second this vision would shatter to reveal the cruel reality; so you'd just grant him a timid smile to confirm he did amuse you, but then proceed to look away.

It's the first time you’re pronouncing “Johnny” with anger; real, raw annoyance, as well as animosity, instead of the fond frustration you usually display when he messes around.

To your utter disbelief, he smiles in response to your outburst.

“There we go, talk tae me. Even if it’s just tae scream at me.”

The remark pacifies you instantly; you lower your arms, defeated.

“I'm not gonna… I don't want to scream at you.”

You sigh and sit back, setting down your elbows on your desk to take your head between your hands, overburdened.

“The hell you want me to tell you? That my mom's on the brink of death out of nowhere? That when she's gone I'll be all alone in this world?”

You swear, aggravated, as tears sting your eyes again, and this time you ignore if you'll be capable of holding back the flood.

Nevertheless you can still hear Soap curse under his breath, Scottish accent growing thicker, before moving to get on your side of the desk, to reach you, dispensing soft-spoken, soothing words along the way. You pivot to face him, your burning eyes and the sensation of dried tears on your face making you painfully aware that you must look as pathetic as you feel.

Your eyes widen in surprise when you see him kneeling at your feet. His hands reach for your face, slowly enough to give you time to back away if you wanted to.

“A'm sorry, ah didnae mean tae mak' ye cry, a'm a bloody eejit. …Can I?”

His fingers stopped a breath away from your tear-stained cheeks.

At that exact moment you can’t quite believe what he's about to do, yet you nod your head in agreement - not trusting your voice to not break - all the same, the gaping void in your chest aching for any kind of contact he'd be willing to provide.

His warm fingers cup your cheeks as the pad of his thumbs gently, almost reverently, wipe the underside of your eyes.

“There we go,” he cajoles, meticulously drying any wet spot on your skin.

“A'm ‘ere whether ye want tae talk or not, aye? A'm not going anywhere.”

You stare at him in silence, thunderstruck by the scene unfolding in front of you. Never in your wildest dreams you would have expected to have this man at your feet. He sets his hands down on your knees, squeezing them softly, and is looking right at you, encouraging smile and tender gaze, reassurance radiating from his expression. The position allows you to greedily take in every little detail: the white line of the scar on his chin, the breathtaking shades of blue in his eyes, the gap in his left eyebrow.

As you lose yourself into the work of art that are his features, he keeps conversing.

“We should take yer mind aff things. We could play board games in tha rec room. Or ye could let aff some steam wi’ tha punching bag in tha training room! Ah could teach ye how tae shoot on tha shooting range-”

You open your eyes wide as his suggestions turn progressively more violent.

“I have a bus to catch, and that's overlooking the fact that I haven't done anything in my last hour of work today…”

“If anyone gives you trouble, just say ah forced you.”

You chuckle at the idea.

“You'd never compel me to do anything.”

You can’t repress a loving smile. Johnny just feels that safe to you.

He smirks mischievously at that.

“Na, but they'll believe ah dragged ye intae mah evil schemes.”

He punctuates his statement by a roguish wink that wrests a laughter from you.

“You should take my bed,” he declares suddenly, serious again.

As the silence between you two stretches and your smile is replaced by a mix of shock, confusion, and worry, he realizes how this may sound. Flustered, he starts rambling to defuse the situation.

“Wait, no- steamin’ jesus - Ah didnae mean it like that! I’d take the couch in the rec room, ‘f course. Ye shouldn't go through tonight alone.”

“Oh my god, Johnny, I could never take your bed from you. You must already sleep on the floor so often for missions…”

“Exactly, hen. This is nothing for me. The couch is a hotel compared to that.”

You open your mouth to argue more, but then he makes an expression that can only be described as sad puppy eyes, even going as far as slightly tilting his head to the side to perfect the impression. You gulp in response, stricken straight through the heart, and knowing pertinently that you could already hardly refuse him anything, so if he begins to gaze at you like that…

“Pretty please?”

Oh no. Not that line.

He's now excessively batting his eyelashes at you, which, while not exactly alluring, is both comical and endearing. Hell, who are you even kidding? You’re so smitten with this blue-eyed creature, is there any act from him you wouldn’t find endearing?

“Are you… pouting?”

“Depends. Is it working?”

You sigh, aware it's a losing battle, and look away, a futile attempt to hide the ridiculously potent effect he has on you, or to at least shield yourself from his influence, if only momentarily.

“I think you know the answer to that.”

“Maybe ah just wantae hear ye say aye tae me.”

Your cheeks catch fire at the suggestiveness of the words. As if the regular rasp of his voice, that felt like an exquisite caress along your spine, wasn’t already making it incredibly difficult to keep your face at a reasonnable temperature.

“You're gonna get me fired, Johnny.”

“Over my dead body,” he retorted with surprising determination, solemnly pressing a hand over his heart.

You scoff indulgently. Coming from anyone else, the hastily taken oath would be preposterous, but Soap has always proved himself trustworthy.

“Let's go. Your knees must be sore,” you mumble, trying to sound casual.

“Wanna make a joke aboot mah stamina when kneeling but ah will keep it fur next time,” he slips as he stands up, way too smugly for your own good, so you pretend you didn’t hear anything. As if you needed any more incitement into picturing him on his knees in a different context.

You get up quickly after, but he does not get out of your way. You rise a quizzical eyebrow, his close proximity triggering alarm bells inside your head. If he remains near enough for you to feel his body heat, you’re going to get dizzy.

He simply grins.

“Want a hug?”

You blink at the unexpected question. Yes, implores your touchstarved mind. YES, cries out your sensitive, enamored heart.

No way, rebuffs your cautious brain. It will only hurt more knowing what you can’t have.

He opens his muscled arms, smile genuine, almost blinding, like a tacit invitation, and all your reluctance seems to evaporate with that simple gesture. Before you can linger any more on the harmful consequences this lack of restraint will eventually cause, you throw yourself into his embrace. It feels like falling and flying all at once.

Your hands close on the back of his shirt, near his shoulder blades, and, pressing your face into his shoulder to make the world disappear for a moment, you cling to him like he could rescue you from the sinking ship that was your sick mind. One of his arms close around your waist while his free hand rubs your back, leaving trails of fire in its wake, but bringing you much-appreciated comfort nonetheless.

“You're too nice to me. I feel like I'm taking advantage of your kindness.”

He remains silent a drawn-out second, and you're terrified you just screwed everything up.

“Yer givin me too much credit, lass “ he finally says. “Ah don't go ‘round base comforting every person I find.”

His tone isn’t angry, per se, but it lacks its previous joviality.

Soap tilts his head back, biting his lips, thanking the universe that with your face laying against his chest, you can’t perceive his embarrassment.

He can’t tell you. Not yet. Not now.

He can’t tell you that he used to consider writing reports as the worst part of the job until you came along; until you awarded him a heartfelt, radiant smile when he gave you his; that he noticed how little you smiled outside of artificial ones you fabricate for work purposes; that when he manages to make you smile or laugh genuinely, it feels like a prize, that only he is privy to.

Months ago, he took the resolve to make you smile more; for a while now he started doing his reports more seriously, or even did the ones of Gaz and Ghost, just to have an excuse to see you, to behold the way your face lightens up when he brings you necessary paperwork before you even demand it.

And he certainly can’t tell you about that one time where he handed over his reports in advance, but you weren't there, so he left, heart heavy with disappointment, dragging his feet, until he heard your voice coming from the room he just left.

“What are those?” you questionned your coworker.

“Soap just dropped them.”

“But… I didn't even ask him to yet?”

Perplexity combines with glee in your voice.

“He's a good boy, isn’t he?” prompted your colleague.

You let out a fond, wistful sigh, before responding, half-joking.

“I know! Such a good boy for me.”

Getting to hear you beaming over his benevolent action was already a treat, but witnessing that compromising exchange? To be called a “good boy” by you short-circuited him. He swore - “Steamin jesus” -, ears burning, face on fire, covering it with one hand. He needed to leave badly. Seek refuge in his room, where he could be free to replay that tantalizing line on loop in his mind. “Such a good boy for me.”

Your heart beats a bit faster than usual as you obediently follow Soap through corridors you’ve never been in before. You trust him with all your heart, but that doesn't change the fact that what you’re doing is against the rules; and those rules aren't high school's, but the ones of a military base.

You flinch hard as a familiar voice screams in your direction.

“SERGEANT MACTAVISH!”

Oops, you think. That's Captain Price, your supervisor, and he sounds pissed. You never witnessed him calling Soap by his last name before, but that being said, you never saw him deal with a kidnapped assistant either.

You've been caught red-handed.

Your mind begins to come up with plans to lessen the punishments that are without doubt about to descend upon you two, but Johnny grabbing your hand brings you back to reality.

You lift your gaze to him. He doesn't seem worried at all, if anything… is that a spark of delight in his eye?

He only pronounces one word.

“Run.”

So you run, carried away half by adrenaline, and half by the sergeant dragging you. Thankfully Soap is aware that there's no way you can keep up with him and his training, so he comes to a halt a minute later.

Panting hard, you double over, hands clenching your knees for support, heart thumping in your chest, blood throbbing in your ears.

“Why… are we… running…!?” you manage to exhale. “It's only… gonna make… things worse…”

By your side, he's standing fresh as a daisy, barely ruffled by your flight. The sight would be infuriating if his eyes weren't glinting with amusement and he wasn’t offering you a dazzling smile.

“Because it's fun,” he affirms like it's evident.

Little by little, you catch your breath, throwing Johnny a look that's half in earnest, half in jest.

“More fun for you than for me.”

He doesn't get flustered by your moderate reprimand.

“Is it selfish o' me tae wantae spend more time wi' ye? Didnae want us tae git interrupted yet.”

The line feels like a punch to the chest, stealing the breath you just recovered and leaving you agape.

He takes your hand again with the natural of a well earned habit.

“C'm'on, ah have more than one trick up mah sleeve.”

You're unsure which of the views unfurling under your eyes is the most magnificent; the sunset in front of you that's painting the sky in shades of pink and orange, or the striking man by your side whose eyes could rival the most astounding sights.

Nibbling on the dinner Soap smuggled out of the cafeteria with too much ease for it to be his first time, you regularly sneak glances at him as he fills the silence with tales of his adventures - the parts that aren't top secret, at least. You two totally did not break onto the roof moments ago, no sir.

Goosebumps travel along your arms and any exposed skin as the night falls and the sun takes away the warmth with him. You furiously brush the outside of your arms for heat, and you're about to suggest finishing this inside, when a jacket lands on your shoulders.

It is still warm with his owner's bodyheat, deliciously so. You curl up and drag it closer, your face on fire. Realizing that Soap gave you his jacket without you even having to ask or complain about the cold… you’re conflicted between obsessing over this like a giggling schoolgirl, and feeling apologetic.

Once you more or less got your blushing under control, you turn to him, displaying a contrite expression.

“I don't want to take your jacket on top of your bed, Johnny.” you pout.

“A'm a bloody furnace. Wanna check?”

He asks, cheekily, even adding a wink for good measure. As if there was any more artifice needed to make you putty in his hands.

He presents you his bare arm for the taking, all golden skin, bulging muscles and a constellation of white scars.

You indulge him and lay a hand on his bicep, knowing he won't relent otherwise; that is definitly the only reason; it has absolutely nothing to do with your own desires.

Indeed, he's burning. As you envy and bask in the heat provided by his body, forgetting that your touch is lingering too long for someone who is just a coworker, he chooses that moment to flex shamelessly, showing off the impressive circumference of his muscle. You feel obligated to squeeze it in response, a way to finally meet him head-on instead of passively enduring his quips, and it feels like reinforced concrete under your fingers.

You fail to hold back your laughter at his facetious demeanor.

“You're ridiculous.”

The comment holds no bite, a smile brimming with tenderness stretching your lips.

“I'll be the most ridiculous man on the planet if it makes you laugh.”

He's leaning back, hands propped on the ground behind him, head slightly tilted to gaze at you, and the earnestness on his face could almost make you believe his words.

Almost.

But instead a sharp pang pierces your chest, right between your lungs, at heart's level. The smile you return him in spite of yourself oscillates between content and heartbroken, before opting for the latter.

Tomorrow you will ask him, maybe even plead; tomorrow you'll ask him to put an end to the flirting. You cannot bear it.

But just tonight, you'll indulge it. You'll pretend to be normal, a well-adjusted human being, instead of a broken shell; you'll act like an adult for who flirting is a regular event and not the mental equivalent of a nuclear bomb.

You abruptly stand up, dusting yourself off, purposely ignoring the newfound lack of understanding on Soap's face and how his mouth opened for a question.

“It's getting late,” you state, not nearly as casually as you'd like. “I'm beat!”

You're running away and you know it; but you never claimed to be brave. Really, it is the best solution for everyone involved, or at least it's how it has always seemed to be your whole life.

He escorts you to his room - of course he does. Even if he already picked up his things earlier to crash on the couch, already showed the place to you.

As you awkwardly face him on the doorstep after saying your goodbyes and your thanks, unable to look away yet incapable of making eye contact, pain flares in your torso thinking of him, somehow intertwined with joy and gratefulness for his existence. Maybe your inner struggle shows on your face because next thing you know, he cups your cheek, forcing you to look up, but as the deranged idea that he's about to kiss you manifests in a remote corner of your mind, your brain swiftly shuts off as his lips make contact with your forehead.

The touch is light yet your entire being seems gathered on that point of contact.

“G'night, bonnie,” he half-whispers, as if to make sure his words exist only for you.

He grants you one last smile, small but so sweet you feel your heart tightens.

“Good night, Johnny,” you manage to articulate before sheltering in his bedroom. The room smells like him.

The moment the door shuts behind you, you rest against it, tilting your head back, letting out a deep sigh. Morbid curiosity pushes you to glance in the adjacent bathroom's mirror, if only to see what you look after this evening. A flustered mess? A sorrowful wreck?

Catching your reflection's eye makes you grimace as you realize an incriminating detail.

You forgot to give Soap his jacket back.

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wannabespacesmuggler · 4 months ago

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L.H. | When You Call My Name

Masterlist | Buy me a coffee

Summary: Decades after the events of 1973, Logan finds himself drowning yet again at the bottom of the Potomac River. Luckily, you're there to help pull him out of his nightmare.

Pairing: Logan Howlett x Reader

Warnings: depictions of drowning, mentions of death, discussion of nightmares, Logan's claws make an appearance, mentions of religious trauma and biblical imagery, mentions of abuse (it's on sight when I see you, William Stryker), mentions of self-deprecating thoughts, hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending, not really a warning but set after the events of Days of Future Past, loosely based on "Like a Prayer" by Madonna, Logan's POV, gender-neutral reader

Word Count: 2.4K

Author’s Note: So this one got away from me and my own religious trauma may have taken over a tad bit — sorry in advance (If you find comfort and solace in religion, more power to you. This is simply written from my own perspective and lived experience.) This came to me while listening to "Like a Prayer" by Madonna for the thousandth time since seeing Deadpool and Wolverine. Intended this to be shorter, but then I got possessed by some fanfic phantom and this was created. Super proud of the finished product though — hope you all enjoy.

As Logan’s eyes shoot open, he’s only got one thought running through his mind: his lungs are on fire. He attempts to move but is met with a sudden searing white pain shooting through his veins. His eyes, still adjusting to the eerie darkness surrounding him, search for the source of his injury. Panic rises in Logan’s chest as his gaze follows the metallic glint of rebar weaving through his body. He attempts to draw in a shaky breath, and his chest burns as water fills his lungs.

No.

It can’t be.

He’s drowning at the bottom of the Potomac River.

Logan wants to scream out of frustration, but it’s impossible. He has no more air left in his lungs, and he has no hope of reaching the surface to take a much-needed deep breath. Even if he could endure the agony caused by his body’s movements, the weight of the rebar Erik impaled him with is pinning him to the riverbed. He’s going to die here.

Cold. Alone. Suffering.

And yet, a sudden tranquility washes over his body and mind as he realizes that maybe he can finally rest in peace. He knows he placed his trust in the right people — somehow, Charles and Hank will find a way to stop Erik, and finally, the world will see that not all mutants need to be feared. He did his part — he brought everyone back together against all odds.

Logan knew the risks before Kitty sent him back in time, but there was no other choice. Because he also knew what the future would hold if he did nothing — he’d watch the sentinels eviscerate the last of his friends until he was the only one left. And that’s not a future he can live with. But what he can live with is no one remembering his life before 1973 as long as they’re safe — as long as you’re safe.

His body relaxes at the thought. He may not have a future with you in this new timeline, but knowing you’ll have the life you’ve always dreamed of puts Logan’s mind at ease. You’ll finally be able to live a peaceful life teaching at Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters instead of being forced to play the part of a loyal soldier. Although Logan is deeply saddened by the fact he won’t be a part of this new life, he has more than enough memories of you from his timeline to keep him content in the afterlife.

Logan’s eyes flutter closed as he begins to feel himself slipping into unconsciousness. His regenerative abilities may be able to keep the rebar from killing him, but it cannot save him from asphyxiation. But before he can completely drift off, something grabs his body, pulling him towards the surface. Once free from the river’s grasp, he begins coughing up water. His body desperately gasps for air, and it feels like his lungs cannot get enough oxygen.

Logan finds the strength to open his eyes and takes in his surroundings. It’s bright — too bright. He blinks several times to adjust his vision to this sudden change. His attention gets drawn to the sound of several men talking in hushed voices. And as he looks up at his rescuers, the panic in his chest starts growing like a wildfire through his body. Logan might have let out a dry laugh at the sight if he wasn't in excruciating pain. Because instead of being met with any type of salvation, Logan seems to have been cursed with eternal damnation, no matter the timeline, in the form of William Stryker. Some things never change.

He’s younger than when Logan met him in his timeline, but as Stryker smiles down at him, Logan knows this is the same man — the same sick, twisted man he knows all too well. Panic turns into terror as he realizes what he’s about to endure. Agonizing years of torture and torment that he’ll be burdened to forget. He can’t do this again. Not after knowing a life full of not only hardship and loss but also friendship, laughter, and love. He can’t let Stryker take that from him — all those years of happiness. He can’t let him take you.

Stryker opens his mouth to speak, but instead of his condescending tone, Logan hears your voice call his name. Logan’s brow furrows at the sound. Maybe his extended lack of oxygen caused some sort of brain damage. But then he hears it again — a voice he’d recognize in any timeline. Your voice.

And suddenly, it hits him. This isn’t happening. There’s no river, no pain, no Stryker. This is a memory — a nightmare.

His eyes snap open, and his body jolts forward until he’s sitting up. He coughs hoarsely, as if his body is still trying to expel imaginary water, as he attempts to catch his breath. A layer of sweat has formed over his toned body, and his muscles flex as he rolls his shoulders back. He shakes his head roughly, trying to get a grip on reality.

And then you say his name again.

His head snaps up, and he looks at you with wild eyes. You’re standing across the room — arms wrapped around yourself tightly as you watch him worriedly. You take a hesitant step toward him. Logan’s brow furrows at your unsureness, concerned about what he might have done in his sleep. But then he follows your gaze to his extended metal claws, and your hesitancy becomes understandable. This isn’t the first time Logan’s claws have come out in the middle of the night. His eyes nervously scan over your body for any injuries he may have inflicted as he retracts his claws.

“Did I hurt you?”

You immediately cross the room as he speaks. Logan watches as you climb onto the bed and sit crisscross before him between his legs. You gently take both of his hands in yours and pull them onto your lap — the hesitancy long gone in your actions.

“No, Logan. I’m okay.”

He lets out a relieved sigh as he leans forward until his forehead meets yours. He takes a moment to simply relish in the warmth of your touch. Logan relaxes his tense shoulders and melts further into you as you draw lazy circles into the palm of his hand.

“Where’d you go?”

You pull away slightly to meet his eyes, and his breath hitches. Regardless of how many lifetimes he spends by your side, he’ll never get used to the fondness in your gaze as you look up at him. He remembers waking up in this timeline, thinking he actually did drown at the bottom of the Potomac River. Because this had to be heaven: having you tucked neatly into his chest, legs tangled up with his, steady breaths fanning across his neck. But as he felt you stir in your sleep, arms tightening slightly around his waist, he realized that this was real. He’d come to terms with his own death because at least his two hundred years spent suffering on this earth would mean something. But then he woke up from that nightmare, and he’s spent every day since then wondering when he’d inevitably be pulled out of this dream — waiting for history to repeat itself yet again. But he’s still here — and so are you.

“D.C., 1973.”

You hum quietly before bringing his hand up to your mouth and placing a tender kiss to his palm. Logan waits for you to ask another question about his nightmare, but you silently return to tracing circles into the palm you just kissed. He shouldn’t be surprised; you know him better than anyone by now — better than he knows himself. You know not to push him. And he appreciates it more than you’ll ever know. After years of having his autonomy stripped away, you wait for him to come to you — allow him to open up at his own pace. Soothe him whenever he feels that he is sliding backward instead of moving forward. Healing isn’t linear. This has become your mantra for him on the nights when he’s sure that he’s slipping back into the past — when he longs for the familiarity of his vices and self-destructive tendencies. And you sit next to him with relentless patience through the highs and lows as he continues to navigate and grieve the fifty years he lost.

He’s come a long way since he first woke up. And he still has a ways to go before he can say that he’s processed everything he’s lost. Truth be told, he’s not sure he’ll ever truly heal entirely from his past. But you tell Logan that it doesn’t matter. Every time he begins to think that he’s too damaged — too broken — you reassure him that you love him as is. But he still tries to piece himself back together, for your sake. Tries to open up — to show you that he trusts you more than anyone he’s known during his two hundred years across two separate timelines. And so he continues, letting you into the depths of his tortured mind.

“I was drowning. Again. And it all felt so real. I couldn’t breathe, and I was sure I was slipping into the darkness, but then Stryker was there…”

As Logan trails off, he notices how your body tenses at the mention of Stryker’s name. Your hands tighten ever so slightly around his, and Logan lovingly sweeps his thumb over your knuckles. He knows that name holds as much weight to you as it does to him. He knows about the years of abuse you endured at the hands of William Stryker. He vividly remembers when you confided in him. After months of running into each other in the middle of the night, Logan found you silently crying with your back pressed against the railing of your favorite balcony in the mansion. Without a second thought, he slid down next to you and wrapped an arm around your shoulders. He didn’t know you — not like he does now. You’d recounted how you first met on Three Mile Island when Scott and Jean brought him to the mansion. And he was thankful for the small piece of his past that you gave back to him. But under the dim light of the night sky, you revealed precisely what you endured during your years of captivity at Stryker’s facility. And that night, Logan made it his life’s mission to get revenge against the man. Not for his sake. No — for you. He would tear Stryker apart limb from limb for what he had done to you.

“You aren’t there. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

Although the words are directed towards him, he knows you’re equally trying to convince yourself of that fact. He knows that even though William Stryker is long dead — after Logan made good on his promise to you — he still haunts you. Unlike Logan, your trauma does manifest in the form of nightmares but insomnia. He thinks maybe this is why the two of you work. After years of feeling alone in this world, Logan finally found someone who understands him and what he’s been through. Although your torment isn’t identical, the similarity in your stories bonded the two of you together. You help him piece together the shared fragments of your past as you heal alongside him.

“I know, you pulled me out.”

Your brow furrows at his confession. He lets go of your hands and gently holds your face. Your face flushes as he openly admires you. The faint light of the single side table lamp that Logan had left on softens your features, making you look damn near angelic. Logan isn’t a religious man, but his mother was. He was a sickly child before his mutation restored his body. His mother would often sit by his bedside with a bible in hand. And on the nights when he wasn’t delirious from his fever, he would listen to his mother read to him. One verse always stood out to him: “God is faithful, and He will not let you be tested beyond your strength but with your testing He will also provide the way out so that you may be able to endure it.” She meant for the words to comfort him, but the words only angered him.

He remembers finding himself down on his knees multiple times during his years as Stryker’s mindless, faithful soldier. Praying to that same God that his mother once trusted to save her baby boy from the illness slowly degrading his frail body. He begged Him for salvation — to be given the way out that was promised in the bible verse his mother once recited. But instead of an answer, Logan was met with silence. So if the years of physical and psychological abuse he endured were nothing but a test from the Lord above to prove his faithfulness, then that’s no God worth following.

“I heard you call my name, and it brought me back home.”

God never did anything for him. He didn’t bother protecting the innocence of a broken, misguided child. He refused to provide respite from the harshness of humanity. He never offered him any form of help or guidance during his times of greatest need — but you did. Without even knowing, you came into his life like an answered prayer.

Seemingly at a loss for words due to the intensity of his gaze, you grab onto the front of Logan’s t-shirt and pull him into a tight embrace. Your hands slide under the white fabric and slide across the contours of his back. He melts into your touch — finding relief in the direct contact of your skin on his. He’s never considered himself desirable, but you hold him like he’s something to be coveted. And then you murmur his name again. It’s barely a whisper, but the sound rings in his ears because your voice is heaven-sent.

“You’re a goddamn saint, you know that?”

A melodic laugh escapes your lips as you shake your head at his words. You pull away from him slightly and tilt your head up to meet his gaze.

“I’m nothing special, Logan.”

You don’t mean it in a self-deprecating way. Logan knows that — knows that you simply see yourself as ordinary. But you couldn’t be more wrong. Because you might not actually be a saint or an angel, but you are the only person in two hundred years who’s managed to restore his faith in what this world has to offer.

“Well. You’re special to me, sweetheart.”

#logan howlett #james logan howlett #logan howlett x reader #logan howlett x you #logan howlett fanfiction #hugh jackman #x men #x men fanfiction #deadpool and wolverine #wolverine #wolverine fanfiction #wolverine x reader #wolverine x deadpool #marvel #marvel fanfiction

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stargirl-writes · 2 months ago

Text

respite

pairing : f! reader x anakin skywalker

word count : 2.2k

masterlist

summary

Amid the war, a healer and a soldier find themselves entangled in a delicate dance between love and survival. When exhaustion and unspoken wounds threaten to drive them apart, they must confront the weight of their fears, jealousy, and vulnerability—knowing that healing isn’t always about fixing what’s broken, but learning to hold on through the storm.

tags : angst, angst with a happy ending (!)

warnings : blood, tending to a wound

notes : hello my loves <3, 1 yr writing for a.s. and long story short all my energy was used trying to survive my medical internship. healer! reader is my most self indulgent coping mechanism— here's another angsty catastrophizing passage i'd like to share wit y'all hehe

Anakin Skywalker was a knife personified.

Sharp, blunt, useful. A touch can draw blood.

But despite the danger, he was made of steel— unrelenting and unyielding. One would make an effort to not stare too much— at what his purpose of being reveals; that in the hands of someone cruel, he becomes something of a weapon.

They say that the healer has the bloodiest hands— a permanent imprint of those you've saved and those you've failed.

You try not to think about it too much— your losses cannot equate to the priviledge of a chance to keep someone alive. That was a gift. Only a God can define salvation—what you're doing is an attempt.

But what did your fingers ever do before they held him?

All of it seemed to pale in comparison.

Maybe the sun has set differently in Coruscant, a place always buzzing with neon and noise— maybe you just stopped noticing it the way you stopped noticing him. You don't know why there remained a part of you that was mistrusting, waiting for him to grow tired with you. Instead, the jagged streaks of electric blue and searing magenta faded into something soft, casting a warm golden light that lingers even after the sun slips behind the horizon, refusing to ever dim.

It's both comforting and heartbreaking that over time you could forget holding onto something so sharp long enough to feel it slip— can leave a trail of blood.

The door to your quarter hisses open— and the weight of Anakin fills the room before he utters a word. His boots are heavy on the floor, dragging with a kind of exhaustion that sinks deeper than muscle and bone. Even his shoulders, which assumes the posture of a Jedi slumps forward. He pauses— gaze wide and apprehending.

His robes are dark with dust and sweat, blood smeared across the cuffs of his bionic arms— not his, someone else's. Always someone else's. He stands there too long, unmoving, as if having already read what's on your mind.

"You're hurt," You speak across the room.

"I'm fine."

His voice is low, flat, like all the life has been scraped out of it. You've seen this before, the wounds he carries aren't the ones stitched into his skin.

He turns on his heel, taking off his clothes. You step closer, noticing the slight wince as he tries to reach for his robes. He held a pose of defiance, unflinching even as you slowly took off the fabric that clung to his flesh. You pressed your palm against the soft skin of his shoulders, coaxing him to sit by the edge of the bed.

He lets out a sigh as the robe slips off. You turn to grab the medkit sitting at your bedside table— its existence a harsh reminder that anytime he comes home— so will the hurt that resides deep within him.

His eyes are hooded and dark as he follows your fingers gently press over a gash lining his chest. He sat still— either too tired to care or too numbed to feel it.

"You can't keep doing this, Anakin,"

He tilts his chin upward, "Doing what?"

You paused, eyes locking in a silent challenge as he kept playing asinine.

"Coming back half-dead and pretending it doesn't matter" You pressed the cloth over his wound, he hisses, flinching away.

He takes your wrist, eyebrows furrowed at your accusation. "I'm still here, aren't I?"

"Barely."

You seal the wound with a sterile band, the scar tissue will build thick and uneven, just like all pain that he refuses to touch buried deep underneath.

It's hard not to get frustrated to watch Anakin undo all the work you've done— that he would resort to passively allowing it to hurt. His skill with a saber is unquestionable, a droid won't be able to even come near him to inflict pain. As the war dragged on— he'd come home late at night appearing more and more injured. Perhaps it's his way to alleviate some guilt. Because he needs it to believe a sort of redemption— that he is not reduced to what was required of him.

A weapon. Unyielding. Unrelenting.

You turn to pack your materials back to the medkit— no longer able to stomach the tensed silences. You can't quite remember when it felt as though you've become one. Someone who deals death and someone who restores life. Where you began and where he ended was the most beautiful thread in the fabric of fate. There had only been one night—just one— where he let himself sleep, slumped against you in a rare moment of peace. You remember the way his breathing evened, slow and steady, as if for a few precious hours, the war has loosened his grip on him. And the room is blanketed with a sort of promise, that he'll be here for you as you were for him. And that also meant working through the difficult days where loving simply won't suffice.

It seems that the difficult days are outnumbering the ones where you both were happy. Thinking back at it makes you feel as if those days had been another lifetime ago.

He slumps down the bed, arms folded holding his head. "I've handed the 501st' command to Ahsoka, the mission in Mandalore is dragging on, I need her with me,"

He's always carried more than he should. Always assumed the weight of a galaxy, even when it would break him. Having your back against him made it easier to deliberately slow down your words to an unassuming casualness. "Without Obi-Wan?"

You go to Obi-Wan to fill the gaps of the chasm forming between you and Anakin, the ones only Obi-Wan seems to understand.

You turn to sit down beside him. You didn't need to access the force to feel the shift in the atmosphere.

"I haven't seen him in a while," His eyes were staring ahead— up at the ceiling. "So… how is Obi-Wan?"

There was an unmistakable edge to his words—tinged with bitterness and accusation.

"What?"

He chuckles hollowly. "I figured you'd know by now. You always run to him."

His sarcasm drips with an underlying insecurity. Obi-Wan, a person he looks up to, being more trustworthy than he was. He's trying not to sound accusatory but it's obvious that he's struggling with jealousy.

You open your mouth to say something. To defend your actions. What else could you have resorted to? When anytime you try to bridge that gap between you, he turns away. Your heart lodges in your throat— any attempt to explain just sounded as if you and Obi-Wan had been conspiring to manage him.

He straightens, balancing his weight against his arms, gaze demanding an answer. "Why do you keep going to him?"

"I'm not—"

He stands to his feet, tension rippling through his body like a coiled spring. "Yes you are! Every time you think something's wrong you look for him like I'm in need of fixing."

You clasp your fingers together— begging them to steady. "I'm only worried about you— you keep coming home changed like…"

"You're disappearing.“ You answered, "How long can you go on like this without breaking?"

There was a beat of silence. He rubs his temples, pacing bad and forth like staying still is the hardest thing he's ever done.

"And so what, you're going to keep patching me up thinking I'll be someone else?" "No," "—Then stop pretending that I am."

“I keep losing everyone, I can't lose you too." You utter as the guilt verbalizes.

His expression softens recognizing the vulnerability of your words. Something in him falters— just for a moment, a breath—and the weight of his exhaustion settles to his shoulders. He kneels down in front of you.

"You're not losing me," He says, quiter this time, as if he's convincing himself as much as you.

"It feels like it…"

He clasps his fingers over your hands, unraveling them. He opens his mouth to say something back—but then he stops. His head dips, the fight draining out of him. In the quietness, you could hear him pace his breaths with yours.

"You're not going to go through this alone anymore," He shifts closer, his bare chest leaving imprints on the skin of your knees. "Ahsoka will be on Mandalore while Obi-Wan takes Utapau, I'll stay here."

Your fingers slip through his hair, brushing it away from his forehead, tracing the uneven skin lining his face. He leans into your touch, and for a little while, the storm settles, just enough to let you both breathe.

He'll always be someone else's arsenal. He is yours. In a way that you wear his touch as a shield, his promises as hope from all the battles left to fight. He plants soft kisses on the palm of your hand, and a light ignites. Something eternal. Something that tells you that there are things worth holding on to—even when it hurts. You're not going to find the resolution tonight. But this was the beginning. That would have to be enough.

"I'm staying," He says as he presses his lips to your palm again, as if sealing the promise neither of you fully understands yet.

You nod, a smallest curve at the corner of your lips, for a fleeting moment, you feel him smile too.

It feels as though love will suffice. You knew he'd weave the fabrics of fate until it only spells your name. That he will tire, and it will not be easy.

"You know for someone who's fine, you're really bad at hiding pain."

Anakin's lips curved to a faint tired smirk— barely there, but real enough to make your heart lighten. He snakes his long fingers against your waist, pulling you closer until his warmth anchors you.

"Guess you must be rubbing off on me." He murmurs, voice rough with exhaustion, but there's a softness in it—like something broken finding a way to heal.

For a moment the weight lifts. It's not gone, not really, but the edges have dulled enough that you can hold him and not wince at the contact of him being pressed against you. Neither of you speaks again, nor moves again. In the dim of night, with senses dulled, the ordinary becomes profound. And— all of the terror slips away, for now. He no longer is someone that breeds horror. He is love. Made solely to be felt by you.

#anakin #anakin fanfiction #star wars #anakin imagine #anakin x you #anakin angst #anakin x reader #anakin skywalker x female reader #anakin Skywalker #anakin skywalker x reader #anakin skywalker #sw #star wars x reader #angst with a happy ending #anakin x y/n #anakin skywalker imagine #anakin star wars #anakin (ciella's ver)

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sirenedusud · 3 months ago

Text

once more to see you (adar x elf!reader)

decades at a time, you find yourself crossing paths with the Uruk.

AN: hey guys i was listening to mitski and for some reason (yeah sure) i was filled with yearning for adar. he intrigues me so. i need help like mentally or something.

AN II: at some point the horny evaporated from my body and i was feeling something different, this ended up being like 30% adar lmao, BUT ALAS I WRITE FOR MY OWN PLEASURE AND I CANNOT HELP IT. enjoy.

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Dawn swept across the great delta, the pools of seawater and grains of sand glistened like stars as the sunlight dappled through the clouds. Eärendil's plea had been answered by the Valar, and so a host of your fellow elves from Valinor arrived upon the shores of Beleriand. You followed the call with haste as you wished to be reunited with your dearest friends in exile, but now your stomach turned at the sight ahead. A looming shadow crept over the mountain range, threatening to overtake what remained of Middle Earth's western shores.

Your company had concluded setting up camp the day before. Now only battle preparations were being rehearsed repeatedly, for no one could predict when the fight would erupt. You spent the entire morning doing drills you could have done as easily in your sleep and so decided to slip away from the encampment for a moment away. The forest gave you no comfort though, darkness lingered everywhere, muffling your hyperaware senses. Still you wandered, bow clamped tightly in one fist. Minutes later, you stumbled upon a clearing in the woods, but someone was already there. Their presence made your blood run cold; you notched an arrow for good measure.

It was too late though, the figure turned swiftly, looking directly at your frozen figure behind a tree. He did not draw his sword, nor did you release your arrow. You found yourself completely transfixed on him. He seemed to be an elf, with his long, pointed ears and tresses of midnight black hair.

Whatever danger oozed from him ceased now as his own eyes captured every inch of you. You noticed tear stains on his hollow cheeks, had he been crying before you came? You stepped out of the tree's shadow without hesitation, allowing the sunlight to pour down on you, illuminating your pale blue attire and long, woven hair. He only continued to gaze at you, as if he was studying the magnificent night sky etched with constellations.

“What is something so fair doing wandering on this dark path?” he asked calmly. Your cheeks flushed, but before you could open your mouth a horn blared in the distance and you pointed your arrow in its direction, then back at the elf. He was gone. This couldn't mean well. You ran back to the encampment as fast as you could to find elves running back and forth, your commander yelling at soldiers and captains alike. The war began.

***

The black blood mucked onto your armor would not budge regardless of how much pressure you rubbed at it with. With a sigh of defeat you dropped the filthy rag and laid your head on the boulder behind you. Decades had passed and the war continued. In this moment of stillness between the two fronts, you and Galadriel had led the injured away from the desolate northern regions. Your mind wandered on the events of the past years: the countless orcs you had slain, the mountains and plains which had been ravaged, the elves and men that fell to their death beside you, and the glimpses of the dark elf from the woods passing by you on the battlefield yet never crossing your path.

"What troubles you?" Galadriel's soft voice stirred your attention. She stood before you, glorious even through the weariness of war.

"Nothing. Nothing besides the stench of those rotting Orcs," you replied without a look to her, guilt creeping into your heart. She crouched down before you and took your hands into her own without another word.

A deafening roar split through the air suddenly, snapping everyone awake. Upon the northern horizon, winged serpentine beasts flew in your direction. Men and elves alike shouted at the sight in an uproar of confusion.

"What treacherous hole have those beasts crept out of?" one man cried out, looking to his own equally mortified commanders.

"So this is Morgoth's desperate assault," your tall commander pondered, before speaking loudly for all to hear, "his forces have been expended. Do not give into fear. Do not fear!" In a blur, you part from Galadriel and fall into line with the remaining soldiers charging back into the heat of battle. The dragons devastated the front line, scalding skin off of bone, melting armor and sword, snapping arrows like twigs. As one dragon swooped down to rake through soldiers, you shot a large arrow into the beast's eye, causing it to roar in pain, but too quickly it recovered to charge straight at you. In that moment, fear paralyzed you. The cloud of flame descending upon you grew hotter by the second, and you closed your eyes. No fear.

That was until a cold metal hand yanked you by the nape of your armor, dragging you away from the now burning spot. You opened your eyes to see a black-haired figure pulling you further and further away from the fields and into a dark ravine. The ground was bloodied, black trees stood completely charred here. The air hung thickly; perhaps it was from the dragon fire, perhaps it was only something between you and the elf. He finally stopped to release you, causing you to catch yourself from face-planting into the rocky ground. He paced a little ways further, keeping his back to you. The sounds of clashing metal and roaring dragons continued in the background, yet grew faint as you focused solely on your savior.

"Who are you?" you asked warily, a hand resting upon the slender blade on your hip, yet rather pathetically you wished nothing more than for him to gaze at you like in your last meeting. He does turn eventually, and his eyes do find yours, but they were filled with anguish so strong it drew a worried expression from your own face.

"I am..." he began, "I thought I was fighting for my children’s place in this world, but it seems I led them all to death..." Children? What children did he speak of? You knew he served Morgoth, alongside other monsters and tormented souls twisted into Morgoth's "creations,” but no children were on that battlefield. You stood up slowly, trying to navigate the elf's mood as he looked down at the ground. His scarred hand grasped his black sword tightly, but you crept closer. He looked up again, stopping you in your tracks as electricity crackled between the two of you.

His pale face was scarred so severely that you winced at the thought of what it looked like when they were fresh, but he was beautiful nonetheless. His melancholic grey-blue eyes shone upon a set of high-cut cheekbones. His thin lips parted to speak again, but his gaze dropped down to the black blood staining your armor. Suddenly, his eyes darkened and he grew angry, stepping away from you. You panicked at this change in temper and unsheathed your blade.

"Forgive me," he muttered before striking you across the head with the butt of his sword. The power of his hit threw you unconscious and you crumpled to the floor. For a moment he regretted his action, but the shrieks of the dragons snapped him back into reality. He pulled you behind some large rocks, out of sight from any dangerous passerby, and returned to the battle which costed him his kin. The battle which he knew Morgoth was losing.

***

The golden forest welcomed you with a gentle breeze as you walked down the rows of trees carved into figures of martyred elves. You stood before the familiar faces, ebbs of grief resurfacing in your heart. Decades had passed since the War of Wrath ended and now you remained in Middle-Earth with numerous other elves. Sometimes you longed for the light of Valinor, yet other times a dark desire only found in this foreign land kept you chained to Middle-Earth. Now, you simply resided in the elven kingdom of Lindon.

"There you are," Gil-galad's voice called to you gently. You turned to greet him, his eyes softened at the sight of your weary face. Your heart, on the other hand, leapt after taking in the sight of the golden king. Moments like this passed between the two of you before, a connection that yearned to blossom during these peaceful years spent together in Lindon, but you said nothing of it and neither did he with all his power in the world. He stepped closer to you, taking your hand into his larger, warmer ones before speaking.

"I know this look. I know you regret not joining Galadriel on her...search," he began, his golden rings dazzling in the sunlight, "but I have a task for you which I hope proves to be a distraction because I do not wish to see you mourn the past, wandering here in these woods alone." His voice grew firmer towards the end. He was right, long had you spent idly in solitude, spiraling in dark memories yet also refusing to return to Aman.

"What is your command?" you asked aloofly. Gil-galad let out a sigh and patted the back of your hand, guiding you back out of the forest and towards his halls.

"I want you to go see Celebrimbor. See what he is conjuring in that workshop that keeps him so occupied," Gil-galad continued, "I'm afraid our friend is not replying to my envoys as swiftly as I would like, and thought perhaps a more familiar face would get things out of him sooner." A stronger breeze passed through the exit of the woods, causing your eyelids to flutter shut and you to inhale deeply. You opened your eyes to find Gil-galad studying your face, then looking away shyly. Before entering the main hall, he turned to you, gently clasping his hands upon your shoulders.

"Go now. Take two with you," he instructed, "and allow that foul battlefield to leave your mind.”

***

The road to Eregion was short. Your companions became immersed in the citadel's magnificence upon arrival, and so you made your way to Celebrimbor alone. Sure enough, you found him in his workshop, chipping away at a slender blade handle made of polished marble.

"Celebrimbor-"

"Oh!" he shouted in surprise, the blade snapping off of the handle before him, "Ohhh." He turned to you with a frown, but immediately lit back up.

"It is a delight to see you my dear friend," Celebrimbor stood up to come closer to you, "such a delight! We must feast and drink on this occasion...for when was the last time you graced my humble workshop,” he rested one hand on your back as he began guiding you towards the doors you had just entered from.

“But you see…right now I'm quite busy." You began to protest with the elf, but he swept you out of the tower quicker than you could repeat Gil-galad's inquiries. With no other way back inside, you headed out of Eregion's main gates and into the woods. You hadn't meant to go wandering again, but your body had grown accustomed to this ritual: to walk deeper into the woods, fall deeper into memories with every step, become blind to what stood before you physically as your mind filled with images of the past.

The sun began to set and you found yourself in a small clearing full of sweet scented flowers and lightning bugs floating about. Images of the dark elf's face flashed before your mind’s eye, causing your heart to stammer. You admitted to yourself that right now more than anything you wanted to see him once more. The softness he spoke to you with, the scars on his pale face, the agony in his burning gaze, the way those same eyes were so captivated by you in the woods; everything about him was intoxicating. It was so pathetic of you, an Eldar, to be emotionally bound to a creature of darkness. There was now an emptiness within you that he had dug, a hollow that tore open even wider when you remembered him. You fell to your knees in a soft bed of moss, grabbing fists of your hair as you begged yourself to forget the enemy.

"This is madness! I've been marked by some ill will. It’s a stain. It's just a trick of the dark forces, not my own mind! Not mine, not mine, not mine." Your hands hammered at your head. You threw your body forward and released a frustrated scream and then, bereft of any more strength, remained in child's pose upon the soft green earth. Crickets began to chirp around you, and the sound of careful footsteps reached your ears as well. You should have looked to see who it was, but you chose to sulk in self-pity. They grew closer, stopping midway as if they had seen something, then began to head towards you before stopping mere feet away.

"Fair creature..." a low voice spoke above you. You whipped your head up to find the darkling standing before you, clad in full black attire. Suddenly, you became aware of your lack of weapons, but then fell distracted by two tears escaping your eyes. It is a strange sensation, unfamiliar to you completely. Two drops of warm water traced down your cheeks and into the crevices of your lips, the taste of salt hitting your tongue, before continuing down your chin. You raised a hand to wipe the salty rivulets away, but a thumb in a black glove found them first. The dark elf knelt before you, looking curious as ever.

"How are you here?" Numerous questions filled your head at once, but time was of the essence with someone as fleeting as this elf.

"I fled in the end with my remaining children, in...someone else's refuge,” he hesitated with his words. He was afraid to reveal too much, yet he yearned to be vulnerable with you because he felt that he could. You caught his hand before it dropped away from your face, and rubbed your thumb against the back of his glove. He fell into a trance again, bewitched by your beauty, the beauty of elves he could no longer recall from his own memory. Your heart beat rapidly in your chest as he kept his hand in yours, your questions now forming quicker in your mind than on your tongue.

"Who are you? You left me in the mountain last we met. Why did you do it? Why not kill me? I killed…so many of yours," you spoke frantically. His eyes grew hurt, but he did not pull away from you.

"For as long as I can remember, I am called Adar," he began slowly, "My kin and I are Uruk. Yes, you killed many of them, yet I do not know why I spared you. I know...I saw something in you that day in the woods. Something that I should have turned away from, but I gave into it in that moment, and then again in the battle." Your face flushed and it was your turn to cease eye contact. Whatever intense desire you felt, he had felt it too, you were sure of this. All the sinners of Middle-Earth could have been pointing and laughing at you in this moment. You grew afraid, so afraid of how relieved you were to be with Adar right now, to know him a little more.

"I know what it is that stopped you from killing me," you tested your words as you were still apprehensive of this servant of Morgoth, "I felt it too." Slowly, you pulled Adar's hand up to your heart. For a moment the two of you remained like this, then he uttered something in a foreign tongue and pushed you away. He marched away from you before turning around.

"Do not ever seek me out," he said hoarsely, "for your own sake."

***

The waves lapped at the edge of the harbor on which you stood upon. You watched as some elves began to slowly board the ship set for Valinor. Galadriel stood beside you, looking increasingly agitated as her time to board came closer. Her company had returned several days ago from their search for Sauron, but the elves refused to carry on, forcing their commander to fall back as well.

You turned to Galadriel and she mirrored you. You gave her a weak smile, knowing full well she did not wish to take this gift of returning to Aman.

“Perhaps you could speak with Gil-galad once, since Elrond was of no use in this,” she said with a hint of hope, but you shook your head.

“If I speak any word of this to him, he’ll put me on that boat too and be rid of the both of us,” you turned to look back as you spoke, catching sight of the king in the distance. He gave you a small nod, perhaps thinking you were having a heartfelt farewell with your friend. Galadriel let out an airy laugh as she glanced at the king as well.

“Well, why aren’t you coming with us?” Galadriel inquired suddenly, curious as to why you had bound yourself to Middle-Earth. You looked at her shyly but simply shrugged; if you told her the truth you knew she would have dragged you onto the ship herself.

“There is still much I want to see. Things not as troubling as well, Sauron,” you responded slowly, taking the last few steps on the dock with Galadriel before she boarded the white ship. She turned back one last time to embrace you, bringing her lips close to your ear.

“I know he is alive,” she whispered.

“I believe you,” you reassured her before releasing her. She muttered a final goodbye before turning to face the front of the ship. You watched as Círdan, Master of the Grey Havens, stepped off the ship before it made its way out of the harbor. Galadriel, nor any of the other elves, turned back. You watched until the ship became a speck on the horizon, until the sun began to set, and until Elrond reached for your arm to guide you away from the harbor.

***

The elves of the Southlands were to return home. Wishing to escape Gil-galad’s ever-watchful eye, you chose to carry this message to the Watchtower of Ostirith. The elves spoke ill of the men in the villages below, who all felt the same way towards the elves even though they were severely defenseless without them. Save Arondir, who had grown fond of one particular woman. Oftentimes you wanted to advise him against it, to say that he would only be hurt if he chose to love a mortal, but you yourself chose worse things to love.

Upon one quiet morning, something had drawn you to the black forest surrounding the tower. The silence of these woods became unnerving though after walking through them for half an hour and you contemplated turning back, but you found yourself lost. You could not sense the way you came from at all. Terror split into your mind as you trekked down the path you were certain you had come from, desperately scanning the forest floor for signs of your own footprints. You were beginning to lose daylight, and prayed the woods were as empty as they sounded.

You suddenly stumbled into a thicket of webs and groaned at the white strands sticking to your hair and clothes.

“Cursed things! Spiders this close to people? Or, perhaps…I am not as close to civilization as I thought I was…” you trailed off into thought as you cut through the webs. The task at hand becoming so distracting that you did not detect one spider crawling up behind you. Your ears had caught the sound of one of its feet slipping though, but before you could turn to parry its attack, you found the arachnid dead with a black arrow through its skull. It fell with a loud thud to your feet, and you stared, dumbstruck, at the archer. Adar stood there, though not as shocked as you. You scrambled out of the webbed mess and straight to him, desperate to catch him before he slipped away again.

“I caught sight of you when you entered the forest. I sensed you were lost and only followed to make sure you returned to Ostirith in one piece–“ Adar began but stopped as you wrapped your arms around him, pressing your cheek into his armored chest.

“Please, please don’t leave! Please stop doing this to me,” you pled. A split second later Adar dropped his bow and clung onto you as well, his one bare hand raking through your long, soft hair. He pressed his face into your smooth forehead, and inhaled your floral scent, absorbing anything and everything he could of you. No guilt or shame reached you now. It was as if no one could see you, not Ostirith, not Gil-galad, nor the Valar.

“What does an Eldar want to have to do with me?” Adar’s question finally broke your peace. You looked at him in confusion, your mind juggling between reality and its possibilities.

“You could be forgiven, you did not know what you were going to be forced to do when Morgoth had twisted you into…none of this has to be your burden,” you rambled, but Adar shook his head.

“I cannot abandon my children. They have every right to be free in Middle-Earth as anybody else.”

“Children? What are these children you keep speaking of?” you sighed as you took a small step back and planted your hands to your hips. Adar smiled down at you, but inwardly he prepared for you to finally be disgusted by him, to finally reject him and free the both of you from this tangled web of emotions.

“The Orcs,” he explained, “they had been abused by Morgoth once, and I cannot allow it to happen again. They deserve to be free, to have their own land, with no ruler above them…I wish to grant them this peace.” You stared at Adar incredulously. What madness could possess someone to pity the vile Orcs?

“The only peace you could grant them is to put an end to their treacherous existence,” you replied harshly. Adar’s eyes grew angry for a moment, but his pent up desire caused him to soften under your stern gaze. You trembled as you began to realize that perhaps he would not join you in this eternal life, the darkness had truly twisted his soul. As if sensing this, Adar grasped your chin with his hand and forced you to look into his eyes.

“I don’t know what to do…” your lip began to quiver.

“For now…be here with me,” the Uruk responded before dipping his head down to capture your lips in his. You immediately melted into his armored body, any flame of despair within you extinguished. You kissed him back fervently, your hands reaching for his neck, lips feeling every inch of his cold ones. He rocked your head gently to the side, giving himself more leeway to devour your lips. You let him slip his tongue into your mouth, a cold metallic taste filling your senses. His hands wandered down your body, slowly squeezing every bit of you from your breasts to your hips. A moan slipped out of you after one of his hands trailed back upward and gave your throat a soft press.

Twigs snap in the distance and you lurched back from Adar. His cold eyes scanned into the dark forest, his body covering yours protectively. After a minute passed, he turned back to you. His own heart, which he once thought long dead, jumped at the sight of you. The moonlight illuminated your flushed cheeks, your lips now glistening from the kiss, and the ardor in your eyes.

“We are not alone, fair creature,” Adar whispered to you between kisses on your cheek then nose then other cheek, “Your kin searches for you. Go to them.” You wanted to protest, but Adar only brushed a hand through your hair once more before stepping back into the forest, fading without a trace.

“There you are,” Arondir’s voice came from behind you. You turned to face the stoic elf with a dazed expression. He did not ask you why you were here, but simply beckoned you to follow him back to the tower. On your way back, you turned the cold taste of Adar on your tongue over and over again.

***

Arondir led you straight back to the tower, but before entering the fortress, he turned on his heel to face you.

“Who was with you out there?” he asked.

“Wh-what?” you stammered as the question caught you by surprise.

“Who was with you in the woods?” Arondir repeated, emphasizing each word. He took a step forward, looking down at you sternly. Your blood ran cold. Did he already know? Could you lie?

“I was lost, I was talking to myself. There wasn’t any–“

“Do not lie!” Arondir’s jaw tightened as he snapped at you. You stood with your mouth agape, feeling as if you were shrinking smaller and smaller under his judgmental gaze.

“Did you not think I could sense the darkness lingering on your flesh?” you shivered as he continued, “and to think…you succumbed to it so easily.”

“You don’t understand! It was nothing of that sort!” you pled but to no avail. Arondir scowled, turning away from you and headed into the tower.

“It is best you leave these lands. For good,” Arondir called over his shoulder before leaving you alone in the dark. You fell to your knees, praying under your breath for the night sky to come down and swallow you up from your spot.

***

When you reached Lindon, two soldiers immediately led you to Gil-galad. As you entered the king’s study, you noticed a crumpled letter on his ivory desk, as if he had read it and crushed it in his palm immediately. The tall elf stood with his back to you for several minutes, sweat began to form at your hairline. Finally, he turned to you with a somber expression.

“Do you know what I just read?” he asked, barely in a whisper.

“Gil-galad…” he raised a trembling hand to stop you regardless of asking you a question. He stepped around his desk and loomed over you. His eyes searched yours for something you could not decipher. He raised a pointing hand as he spoke.

“Tomorrow, at first light, there is a ship leaving for Valinor. You will take it, and you will not have any say in this,” he seethed. Disappointment burned in his eyes, and for once you became afraid of him. Naturally, you did not protest and without another word bowed to Gil-galad before turning to leave the room.

Hot tears streamed down your face as you made your way as far as you could from everyone. You kept your face down in shame, making your way to the edge of the city before bumping into someone. You looked up to see Elrond. His mouth parted in surprise but he quickly swept you into a tight embrace, patting your back as you stifled a sob.

“Surprised he didn’t send you off with Galadriel the first time,” Elrond joked quietly, but his voice remained solemn. He did not ask anything else of what had happened in the Southlands, even though he knew the basis of it.

“I should have left the moment the war ended.”

***

The waves were gentle as they carried your ship closer and closer to the golden rays before you. Warmth hummed within your chest as the clouds parted completely to reveal the brilliance of Aman. The welcoming light grew stronger, infiltrating every bit of your surroundings. Your senses began to buzz entirely. Any despair in your mind melted away, and the hollow in your heart filled with something soft and kind. A song from the Amanyar carried through the breeze; the chorus of silken voices beckoned you home.

#adar #adar x reader #adar fic #the rings of power #lotr #lord of the rings #lotr fic #dark elf #galadriel #gil galad #elrond #middle earth

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buckrecs · 2 years ago

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HELLO so i was wondering if you have some winter soldier x reader fics?? ive been trying to find some but theyre all so short (still amazing stories tho) tysm, i really appreciate you making recs

Winter Soldier!Bucky

masterlist | req masterlist

ONESHOT

Into Cursed Pixie Dust by @buckets-and-trees

“He's credited over two dozen assassinations in the last fifty years…” but you don’t know that. You run into him once, then again, again, again. Destiny draws you together, and neither of you can deny the pull. And yet though he never ages, you do.

Stalker by @you-are-my-sanctuary

In which Bucky has a crush on the new PR manager and is being an adorable stalker.

sleepwalking by @lanadelreyscokewhor3

when your boyfriend bucky wakes up with the winter soldier mindest, you do the only thing you know how to do- comfort him. he does the only thing he knows how to thank you- possessive sex.

Colors in the Dark by @buckychrist

The world is without color, and that’s never bothered the Winter Soldier. The Fist of HYDRA didn’t have time for love and soulmates. At almost a century old, what are the odds that his soulmate was even still living?

ephemeral by @earlgreydream

the winter soldier shows up wounded at your door during a storm.

Purgatory by @wkemeup

While on a mission, Bucky becomes dissociated into the Winter Soldier. But instead of becoming a threat, his instinct is to protect.

a soldier gone rouge by @kinanabinks

the winter soldier has been sent to kill you. why, then, are you so wet?

Reverse Psychology by @waiting4inspiration

Bucky’s Winter Soldier mode is triggered. But you have something up your sleeves that will bring him back.

Comply by @gogolucky13

With Hydra, everyone is a prisoner.

Don’t Fear the Reaper by @gogolucky13

One night, the Winter Soldier appears at your place of work to eliminate a target. He leaves you alive, only to return a few months later.

Fatal Mistake by @rookthorne

A rogue agent amidst their ranks, it was the perfect plan, a perfect escape. It was their fatal mistake.

Wolf, Partner, Gloves… by @revengingbarnes

HYDRA’s words make Bucky go into Winter Soldier mode. Then he meets you, and you make for him words that will bring him back to normal.

the dragon and her shadow by @kashimos-hajime

You fall in love with the Winter Soldier, and they punish you for it. Sentiment is weakness, but what can they do? After all, they cannot kill the Fist of H.Y.D.R.A. and mortal men cannot even begin to comprehend slaying a dragon.

take it easy, romeo by @sunmoonandeddie

The Soldat remembers one person through it all.

You Found Me by @samthemarvelfan

Bucky Barnes always came home to you. What happens when he doesn't? Worse than that...what happens when he forgets you existed?

Gone Again by @tokoyamisstuff

The Winter Soldier is lost and confused, unable to remember a single thing - except for the place where he’d find the woman that had become his safe space.

I’ll Come Back for You by @milliedazzledust

something where he is in winter soldier mode and protecting the scientist (y/n) where she is the only one who can sort of calm him down after a mission.

Void by @theeleggymeggy

Working as a nurse at HYDRA, you find yourself intervening when you catch Alexander Pierce striking The Asset. You don’t even know this man, but you can’t just stand and watch him be beat down.

Sweet Memory by @

SERIES

One’s Promised by @invisibleanonymousmonsters

Living a double life was not a choice when one was the daughter of Alexander Pierce. Y/N was the youngest agents of SHIELD and one of the most respected threats within Hydra’s empire. No matter her allegiance, she was feared by both. Y/N Pierce would’ve tried to escape it all… if it hadn’t been for The Winter Soldier.

Soldat by @the-fallen-nightmare

Captain America and Reader have worked together at SHIELD for over a year. What happens when they have a run in with The Winter Solider and Steve finds out the secret Reader had been hiding from him all this time? And what happens when reader is captured by Hydra and The Winter Soldier, again. Can she make Soldat remember her or is her life with Steve just a slow fading memory now?

Breach by @darkmasterlistyouneveraskedfor (dark)

The reader finds herself in the Winter Soldier’s cross hairs during a lock down.

Reset by @lunarbuck

The government has fallen, Hydra has taken over. You were an agent of SHIELD long before the reign of terror began, and became a member of the resistance when they needed you most. Everything changes when the Winter Soldier captures you from your safe house.

Devil’s Backbone by @trashmenofmarvel

With your team dead and your mission failed, you’ve been taken by the assassin to an unknown location and are at the mercy of your cruel tormentors.

Krasavchik by @after-avenging-hours

While under orders from Karpov to test the Soldat’s loyalties to Hydra, you find yourself questioning your own loyalties.

Welcome Home… Soldat? by @winterarmyy

Y/N had make a habit of greeting Bucky a warm 'welcome home' everytime he came back from his missions, but there was one particular day when she unknowingly greeted someone else.

#bucky barnes fic rec #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x f!reader #bucky barnes smut #winter soldier x reader #bucky barnes series #winter soldier!bucky #winter soldier!bucky x reader #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes x agent!reader #bucky barnes x avenger!reader #bucky barnes x hydra!reader #winter soldier smut #dark!bucky barnes x reader #dark!winter soldier #sex pollen

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lair-of-asmodeus · 1 year ago

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Imagining...

Imagining General!Lilia in his glory days...

Him fucking you so slow that your body spasms in every move of his hips. Making you have multiple orgasms before he truly starts to fuck you.

Your armors are literally torn to the side, your bare skins exposed to the outside. You can feel the breeze on your body.

Though, it doesn’t matter. You two are sweaty as heck.

It’s tantalizing how he manages to hit your core and make your body twitch, how he knows all the spots in your body that will arouse you more, how he feels inside your pretty hole.

He bites your neck as he pushes his hips inside you again. You feel like cumming, once more, and your insides end up painting him with your juices.

He pinches your nipples as he slowly pulls his hips, muttering something you cannot understand. His cock twitches inside you.

He licks the shell of your ear, causing you to tighten around him.

“Lilia...” You speak up, earning a small groan coming from the fae general.

“Quiet down, you utter fool...” He mutters angrily, “Someone will hear us.”

And he smacks your ass, then squeezes it right after.

You cover your mouth again, but your groans can be heard. You internally thank the Gods above that you two are in a different part of the forest, otherwise someone would hear you. But even so, he orders you to be quiet in case someone happens to pass by and witness you two indulge in sin like this.

He lets go of one of your nipples and that hand goes to caress your genitalia.

“Cum for me, you little slut...” He rasps out and smacks your ass, “...with such watchful eyes that are on me, this is the fitting punishment for the likes of you..!”

And your body spasms once again, cumming once more. He stops moving and he watched your aroused form tremble with a toothy grin.

“Like that...” He smirks, “What a wonderful slut you are, doing as I say. Oh, if only my soldiers were just as obedient as you right now~”

You look back at him,

“...General... Lilia...” You whisper, “...please... just fuck me already..~”

He raises an eyebrow, “My~ How demanding you are, asking for something like this from your general~”

You bite your lips and look at him seductively, trying to tempt him. He just laughs and says,

“...Kufufu~ You have endured the punishment long enough, I might as well reward you for being so patient~♡”

...And starts to RAM HIS FUCKING COCK INTO YOUR HELPLESS HOLE!

You nearly lose your composure and give in, but you cover your mouth at the last second.

“Liliaaaa..!!” You gasp as he smacks your ass once again, “...Oh... Oh gosh..!”

“It is General Lilia for you, (Name)..!” He smacks your ass once again as he leans down and bites your neck.

His cock feels hard inside you. You can feel it twitching while hitting the good spots.

He pulls you by the hair and makes you look at him.

“You are so fucking cute... But are you worthy of receiving my seed~?”

You nod almost immediately and eagerly. He bites your neck hard enough to draw blood and holds still while thrusting inside. You feel the pain, but it makes you feel more aroused than before.

“LILIA..!!” You scream his name as you reach your peak again, but it doesn’t stop him. His cock just twitches more and more until he hits your core once more, hard, and you feel something warm pouring inside.

“ARGH..!!! NNGH!!”

Your mouth opens to scream, but it comes out like a quiet whimper. His seed keeps pouring inside you while your walls suck him in.

You momentarily collapse as you two pant and you feel the general pull out. As you two lay on the grass, you look at him. He looks back at you with a mischevious glint in his eyes.

“Who said I am done with you~?”

And with that, he lays you on your back and spreads your legs which causes his seed inside you to spill a bit to the ground.

And with that, he fucks you again...

(inserting to be continued meme)

#twisted wonderland smut #twst smut #lilia vanrouge smut #general lilia vanrouge smut #lilia vanrouge thirst

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ranna-alga · 1 year ago

Text

I just realised something from the TLOU gameplay that made me so depressed that I needed to share with you all.

Rewind back to the prologue where Sarah is dying, and we see Joel look away from her a total of two times before she dies: the first time is at the same moment the camera pans to solely Tommy, of whom Joel is looking at (first image). Before he is out of shot, Joel can just be seen looking to Sarah again, until the camera turns back to him where he looks away a second time towards Tommy again (second image).

Now, if you go and listen to the audio of the actual scene itself, you'll notice that the second time he looks away is when Sarah draws her last breath and passes away. She's already dead now.

And Joel missed it by looking away for only a second.

The second time he looks away and then looks back at Sarah, she is already gone. He couldn't do anything. He couldn't look into her eyes, still filled with life (albeit hanging on a thread) anymore before becoming absolutely soulless because he missed it. He didn't see the light leave her, he didn’t see her succumb to the bullet wound where she would move on to no longer feel anymore pain in death. He missed it almost instantly. His last good look of her is after the second time he looked away, when she's already passed on.

But then we fast-forward to the very near end of the game where Joel is trying to perform CPR on Ellie after she almost drowned. He's becoming mentally and emotionally frantic because he cannot lose another one and projects this by trying to resuscitate her. He is back to where he was twenty years prior trying to save Sarah. And then the Fireflies appear.

Joel looks away from Ellie one time. He probably doesn’t even realise that these are Fireflies (they could have been Hunters or even FEDRA for all he cared). The look on his face in the second image is heart-breaking, but it only lasts for a second before he immediately looks down to Ellie.

He only looks up at them once. He doesn’t look up a second time.

Again, if you watch the original scene with audio enabled, you can hear the shakiness in Joel's voice, almost tearfully and very much coming from a place of fear. He's literally pleading for Ellie to wake up, all the while keeping his eyes on her - not looking up again - not even with one of the Firefly soldiers approaching him with an armed weapon.

He can't look away a second time because the last time he did, he lost Sarah immediately. He fears that will happen again, but he cannot let that occur. He won't. Not with Ellie: his second chance, his new reason to live, his new love. Joel refuses to tear his eyes away from her, even for another second, if it risks her life suddenly slipping away before he could even realise it.

He cannot afford to have another daughter lay lifeless in his arms and have her drift off to a place where he cannot follow and protect her anymore, even if it means placing his own life on the line.

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thepascalparadox · 30 days ago

Text

Chapter One: Beyond the Window

Word Count | 1.7k

Pairing | General Marcus Acacius x OC F!Reader

Chapter Warnings | None, just introducing the two of them! You always loved the gentle song of birds beyond your window. It offers a fleeting escape from the grim realities that haunt the Roman people outside the gates.

If only I could save them. Yet, one can only do so much. Your father does not bear the name "Justus" by chance. He strives with all his might, doing what he can for the empire. Since your mother’s passing, he has grown quieter, more withdrawn, even distant at times. And yet, the love he holds for you remains steadfast and undeniable, as does the love you bear for him. He has done everything for you, even in matters of matrimony.

At times, you wonder if you should care whether the man you marry will be young, old, or at least pleasing to the eye. But the truth is, you do not. You’ve heard tales of other women in your position who dared to hope for love, only to be met with anguish and betrayal. You will not be one of them.

Marry. Bear an heir. Go somewhere distant. That is the plan.

No love in sight, no heartbreak. Only you, poetry, music, and the birds that sing just beyond your window.

· · ──────────── ·𖥸· ──────────── · ·

"I do not to see the purpose of wearing such elegance, when all eyes must rest upon the oh-so-great general of Rome," you say, your annoyance evident as you prepare for yet another festivity you must attend. Or better, endure.

"It is a moment of great significance for your father and for the imperium, Melita," Vera replies, her voice carrying the weight of a serious tone. "And besides, you should not speak of the general in such a manner. He is a man of honor, having done much for Rome."

You miss the days when you and Vera would run freely through the palace gardens, carefree as children, with no burdens to bear. Now, she assists you in preparing for events you cannot avoid, and you wonder if she still sees you as a friend, or only as the filia Caesaris—the daughter of the emperor.

"I apologize," you say softly. "The people hold him in great esteem, and I should indeed be grateful for all he has done for my father. I just wish we could remain here, listening to the ladies gossip about the handsome soldiers returning from war."

"It will be worth it," Vera says with a glint of excitement. "We shall see those soldiers with our own eyes. At last, we shall be the ones doing the gossiping."

"May the gods have mercy on us," you mutter, already dreading the upcoming event. · · ──────────── ·𖥸· ──────────── · ·

The sound of metal striking metal still echoes in the general’s ears. The scent of blood, the desperate cries for mercy—it all lingers, vivid and fresh in his mind.

It was you or them. Your home for their home.

He wishes he could be like the other soldiers, who seek fleeting solace in the arms of strangers, lovers whose names they scarcely remember. But those were the days of his youth. He is now the general of the mighty Roman Empire. His focus must remain on strategy, on returning as many men as possible to their homes.

He hears his name called for the second time.

“Forgive me, what was it you said?” The presence of the lady at the entrance of the tent only then registered. His mind was still trapped in the aftershocks of battle, not yet fully adjusted to the safety of the moment. It always took a few days to refocus, to remind himself he was no longer in danger.

“Excuse me, dominus,” she replies softly “I asked if the armor suits you, if it is comfortable. The emperor insists it is to your liking.”

He finds himself momentarily lost in the tenderness of her voice, the sound of a woman’s presence - he had missed the feeling.

“Ah, yes,” he says, shaking himself from his thoughts. “It fits very well, indeed. Thank you for your service. I shall be in the chariot in a moment.” · · ──────────── ·𖥸· ──────────── · ·

The triumphal chariot draws near, as the man within waves to the crowd, who scream his name and hurl flowers in his direction. He is indeed very loved. You actually missed hearing and seeing the roman people so happy. After all, some of their sons are returning home. If the general returns, it means the war is over, and peace—albeit brief—shall once again grace the empire.

"The people adore Acacius," your father remarks, ensuring that you and the senators hear him. His tone carries pride, almost as if he himself had returned victorious from the battlefield.

"Does this mean you no longer wish to conquer, Father? Is the war truly over, or shall we find peace but only for a moment?" You whisper, careful that only he hears. A lady should not meddle in matters of politics, but your father had always encouraged you to think freely, to care for the well-being of the Roman people and do what you can to help them.

He leans closer, his whisper low, careful. "This is not for me alone to decide, Vita mea. The Senate desires more land and more wealth. My enemies long for the fall of Rome. The rich seek to fill the Colosseum, to profit from the slaughter and tragedies within. If I do not appease them, they will come for our heads. Do you understand?"

You nod, seeing the weariness in the emperor's eyes. He is just, but at what cost? Trying to please everyone, sometimes, can deny you from your own beliefs.

The general ascends the stairs, and now you may better observe him. He is a towering figure, muscles honed from battle—as soldiers ought to be—his face the very likeness that artists would strive to capture in paintings and sculptures. His gaze is unyielding, as one who has borne witness to horrors, yet bears them silently.

"Emperor Antoninus Justus, I have taken Namidia in your name, so your dominion may eclipse that of all emperors before you," the general declares with stoic solemnity.

"Ah, Acacius, you need not be so formal," the emperor replies, a rare smile curving his lips, a smile you've seen only on joyous occasions.

"We shall celebrate your victory with grandeur in the Colosseum," one of the senators exclaims, raising his cup of wine in eager celebration, seeking the approval of the other senators.

The general, however, would prefer to retire for much-needed rest, would he not? You notice the fleeting glance exchanged between your father and the general—an unspoken understanding shared between them.

"There is no need for such, the glory must be all yours," Acacius replies, his voice still heavy with that same unyielding seriousness.

"The games will proceed, whether you desire them or not, General," the most influential senator among the merchants, Macrelius, declares, his tone laced with authority, intending to compel the general into submission. But Acacius does not flinch. In fact, you notice a fleeting look of irrelevance from the general toward the senator, as though he were but a fleeting shadow, insignificant in comparison to the horrors the general has witnessed. You smile, a quiet thought passing through your mind—perhaps the general shares the same defiant spirit that you carry within you.

"The people of Rome, and my family, are forever grateful for your devotion, General Marcus Acacius," you finally speak, your voice cutting through the tension in the room, a small attempt to make your presence known amidst the sea of men.

It is only then that you realize your eyes have not yet met those of the soldier. But when they do, it is as though the rhythm of your heart falters for a brief moment, missing its beat. Acacius, too, seems surprised, his face relaxing slightly, as though a weight has lifted for the briefest instant, dispelling the tension that hangs in the air. But that impression, it seems, lasts only a heartbeat—or perhaps less.

The general takes your hand, now appearing so delicate in his grasp, and with the utmost care, almost imperceptibly, he presses a kiss to your fingers. Not in a manner of flirtation, but with the solemn respect of a soldier honoring his superior. "It is an honor, to me, Caesaris filia," he says, his voice steady but laced with reverence. "To serve Rome as your father has called me to do."

He looks into your eyes, and you are not quite certain, but it seems as though the dark center of his gaze has deepened, growing larger with intensity. He holds your gaze, almost as if testing whether you will flinch, afraid of his stature, his rank, or the ghosts of battles he has fought.

But just as he did with the senator, you do not waver—not even slightly. You keep your eyes locked with his, and maybe—just maybe—you take the opportunity to truly observe his face.

He has what you would call "a funny nose", though far from ugly—certainly not. His hair, touched with strands of gray, weaves through the dark curls in a wild, unruly way. Faint lines trace the space between his brows, the mark of one who has carried more burdens than most could bear. He has lived enough to wear wisdom in his features, but you cannot find a single thing that would make him anything less than captivating—not one flaw to diminish the sight of him.

And just like that, the moment slips away, and the general withdraws his hand. You nod as gracefully as you can and begin to make your way toward the door, your presence no longer required in the room.

As you leave, you see men from all corners of the hall approaching him—offering congratulations, smiles that seem to lack warmth or sincerity. Yet, before you can step out, you steal one last glance at the general, realizing that your earlier mockery of him was unfounded. He seems like a man of worth.

Unexpectedly, your eyes meet his once again. You cannot shake the feeling that he sought you out—that he waited for you to look, after all, the door to leave lies just behind him. This time, however, you avert your gaze. Not out of fear or submission.

But because you know that if you linger on him for just one second longer, you may lose yourself to the way your heart stirs in his presence.

#joel miller smut #pedro pascal #gladiator ii #gladiator ll #marcus acacius smut #marcus acacius fic #marcus acacius x reader #marcus acacius x female reader #general marcus acacius #marcus acacius

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iliketangerines · 5 months ago

Note

I JUST WOKE UP AND NEED TO TELL YOU THIS BEFORE I FORGET! Had a dream where reader is a cumslut but she’s also Bi-Han’s wife. She yearns for his touch but he’s always so busy and ignores her or says another time. She uses his students and gets caught and bi bi goes feral on her. He then says he doesn’t mind reader being a whore and painted inside and out 🫠 He just wants us to be happyyyyyy oh gosh 💀💀💀 pleaaaase?

addition to the bedroom

a/n: guys...i fear i'm running headfirst into a burnout

pairing: bi han x afab!reader

warnings: nsfw (MDNI), pussy eating, voyeurism/exhibitionism

you lay on your bed in the bedroom, staring up at the moonlit ceiling and sitting with only yourself, Bi Han too busy to indulge in spending time with you

ever since Kuai Liang and Tomas had betrayed the Lin Kuei, Bi Han had no time to do anything with you anymore

he took his meals in his office, going over meeting notes, rations, supplies, and everything in between while eating

he left bed early, came to bed late, and could only nod his head at you in acknowledgement when he saw you in the hallways or at meetings

it had left you needy and wanting for him, his time, his voice, his touch, but your needs were below than those of taking care of the Lin Kuei

and so you lay alone in the bed, drawing the covers over you a little bit further as you reminisce on the memories of Bi Han

the door creaks open, and you turn your head to find Bi Han walking in the bedroom

you sit up in the bed, commenting that he was a bit early in coming back to bed, and he hums and crawls into bed, pressing his lips to yours in a sudden kiss

a surprised sound comes out of your throat, but you let him kiss you, closing your eyes and humming at his body pressed against your

your eyes flutter open, and you let out a surprised squeak when you find a member of the Lin Kuei standing at the door

pushing at his shoulders, he parts from your lips, and you tell him that one of his members wanted him

he lets out a small sound before saying that he had invited the member over to his bedroom for the night and that he had a proposition for you

Bi Han says he knows he’s been neglecting you, that he hasn’t had a lot of time to pay attention to you since he had become the sole leader, and that he knows you’ve been needy for him

his hands move to your body, slowly bringing them up your shirt and squeezing at your chest, and he says that he knows you crave his touch, his mouth, his cock

your eyes flick between the Lin Kuei member and him, unsure of where this was going, and you can’t help the arousal that swirls in your gut

he continues, saying that he still doesn’t have the time, not just yet, but for the time being, if you want, you could fuck some of the Lin Kuei members to ease the tension

you blink and look at Bi Han and then at the Lin Kuei member who stands still in the doorway, and he murmurs that of course, there would be rules: they could not mark you, kiss you, cum in you, that was only for Bi Han

but he knew that you had urges and that you could satisfy them with some of the Lin Kuei members

you sit still for a moment, unsure of what to think as all your thought turn into mush and clog in your throat, and your hands nervously clench together

and then in a quiet voice, you ask if he was okay with that truly, and Bi Han nods, saying that he had thought of the whole thing, he cannot leave his partner unsatisfied after all

the deal is appealing you cannot lie, a way to satisfy your cravings for heat and pleasure, and you look into Bi Han’s dark eyes to confirm

they hold nothing but sincerity, and so you slowly nod your head yes, that you accept the deal

Bi Han nods and kisses you softly, and he pulls away, saying he will be here to guide this Lin Kuei member first and then he will have to take his leave

with that, he beckons over the soldier, and they make their way forward, closing the door behind him and undressing himself

Bi Han’s cool hands reach to the hem of your shirt and pull it up over your head, revealing your toned chest to him and the guest

his fingers then hook into the waistband of your underwear, and he pulls it off your legs, kissing the expanse of your skin

and then Bi Han sits back, gesturing for the soldier to try and please you

they crawl in between your legs, spreading your thighs and placing them over their shoulders, and you can feel their hot breath on your pussy

the grandmaster tells them to place their tongue on your clit, to keep their tongue flat and firm on the sensitive bud to make you squirm

you grip onto the sheets, nervousness still curling in your gut at the soldier, someone you recognized as one of Bi Han’s best warriors

the thought is filed away as their tongue laps against your clit, listening to Bi Han’s instructions to a tee, tongue flat against your clit and relentless in giving you pleasure

Bi Han only watches from the edge of the bed, eyes entirely focused on the way your back arches off the bed and how you fist the sheets

your sweet little moans grace his ears, and he smiles at how you writhe in pleasure as the soldier wraps their lips around your clit and sucks on it

it makes you gasp and keen, sensitive from the lack of touch over the course of the past few weeks, and you clench your thighs around the soldier’s head

Bi Han hums and tells the soldier to fuck you on his fingers, to curl them up into you and listen for your whines, to know if you were really being please

the warrior listens, moaning into your cunt as he tongue flicks your clit back and forth, and uses one of their hands to part your folds and sink them into your wet heat

their fingers stretch you open, thick and calloused as they curl, looking for your sweet spot

after a minute they find it, a gasp leaving your throat and your hands flying to the soldier’s hair to pull on

they grunt into your cunt but continue to bully the spot, massaging it with the pads of their fingers, and you whine and buck your hips against their face

your orgasm hits you, crashing over you and sending you soaring into the stars and spiraling into the deepest depths of pleasure

gasps for breath and loud whines fill the air as they fuck you on their fingers through your orgasm, and Bi Han hums and squeezes your shoulder

you struggle to calm down as they slow with their tongue and fingers, and they look to you as Bi Han leans over you and brings your hand up to his lips

he kisses your knuckles gently and says that he must go now, but his soldiers will take good care of you until he can return

and then Bi Han stands up and walks to the bedroom door, sliding it open and glancing at you one more time as you whine, the soldier moving his tongue against your clit again

and the the room drops back into darkness as he gently closes the bedroom door, and you stare at the warrior through blurry vision as they close their eyes and continue to fuck you on their fingers

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mermaidgirl30 · 7 months ago

Text

✨Slip Into Me: Part 1 Saved Before Dusk✨

QZ! Joel x fem! reader

Series Masterlist Kofi

A/N: This just stumbled upon me when I was driving home from work this week, so I wrote this in about a day. I’m still not sure how I feel about the first chapter, but I hope you guys enjoy! Thank you to @mountainsandmayhem for giving this a read for me! (I cannot keep up with tags, so be sure to go follow my notifications blog if you want to be notified when I post @mermaidgirl30-updates)

Chapter Summary: You run into trouble with one of the FEDRA soldiers, but a broad, handsome stranger comes along and intervenes.

Rating: Explicit (18+ MDNI)

Chapter Tags: QZ! Joel, outbreak au, FEDRA soldier tries to attack reader, Joel steps in and saves reader, soft Joel, a bit of pining and a little flirting, eventual smut in next chapter, no use y/n

Word Count: 6.1k

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

The Boston QZ is grimy, filthy, overrun with FEDRA soldiers who stalk and parade up and down the city of turmoil. Their tanks fill the streets night and day, ordering people around as if they were their own personal slaves. The buildings are rundown, furniture tattered and torn, bodies filing in and out day after day just trying to survive off the little ration cards they collect every week.

It’s not a place you wanted to stumble upon, not a home at all. But this was where you’d stay for now because your group was all gone, killed by feral raiders who murdered your friends in cold blood. You were the only one left, untouched in an infected world. You were lucky to make it out alive, but at what cost? You sure as hell didn’t want to stay here in this cage. But you guess it’s better than being attacked by infected or murdered in your sleep.

They offered you a little apartment, ration cards for a hard day’s work cleaning and organizing weapons for FEDRA. You don’t trust any of the soldiers, don’t dare look them in the eyes most days, only when you have to. Maybe one day you’ll make it out of here alive, but for now this place is giving you shelter, food, running water, electricity. It sure beats living on your own out in the woods somewhere where no one else can defend you. You’ve learned to be on your own, but that doesn’t mean you like it.

The air is warm as dusk draws near, the summer heat stifling even as you walk through the shade. Your shift is over, dinner gone and finished, so now it’s time to go back to your cold, lonely apartment. Maybe tonight you’ll actually get some decent sleep instead of waking up screaming from nightmares of distant times. You still see faces of loved ones you lost get murdered by infected and raiders, friends starve to death, companions freeze to death. You don’t know how you made it all this way, but you did. You had to stop holding on to the past, it wasn’t coming back for you.

You swipe your fingers against the cool bricks of falling apart buildings, making your way through the narrow alleyway that’ll lead to your apartment building. Just as you pass a stairwell on the side of the brick building, a dark shadow makes its way toward you.

You freeze, stopping dead in your tracks, fingertips still tracing the rough bricks. There’s a tall FEDRA man walking toward you. Navy blue pants, combat boots, a camouflage vest strapped tight to his chest. He looks menacing. Piercing blue eyes narrowing your way, coarse blonde locks that look like pure ice, a large scar running down the side of his dirty neck, and fists locked tight at his sides.

“Hey, girl. What do you think you’re doing out here all alone? Up to no good I suppose?” he asks as he stalks toward you like a hungry tiger, eyes locked with yours as a smirk meets his chapped lips.

You back up to the brick wall, feeling like you could sink like jello into the dusty cracks of the brown faded bricks. You have nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. You’re trapped like a helpless little mouse. “No, I’m just trying to get back to my apartment.”

“Sun’s about to go down, shouldn’t be out so late in the day close to curfew. You’re up to no good, aren’t ya? Trying to sneak around and steal some ration cards?”

“No, I…”

“Don’t lie!” He bites back, jaw seething as he pulls your wrist and clamps down on your skin. It feels like wires setting your nerves on fire, like he’s ripping through your delicate bones.

“Please, I’m only trying to get back. Let me go,” you beg, using all your might to get out of his tight grip.

“I don’t think so, love. Thieves get searched, and I’m gonna search you till I find what I’m looking for,” he snarks.

Before you can fight your way out of this mess, he spins you around and pins you to the wall, slamming your face into the sharp bricks as you cry out in pain. He crowds your body, digging his fingers into your hips as his other hand shoves your face against the searing surface. You can’t break free, can’t fight your way out of this. He’s too strong, too overpowering. You’re completely helpless.

“Please, stop,” you whine, feeling a warm tear slip down your cheek.

“No, I don’t think so, doll. Think I’ll stay right here between your…”

Before he can finish his sentence, you hear a deep gruff voice growl behind you. “Get the fuck off her, Seth.” You feel the soldier’s weight being dragged off you, hear the sounds of a body being thrown into the side of the opposite wall.

You spin around and freeze, watching a stranger punch the soldier’s face with bruised knuckles. The soldier spits blood from his mouth, but the other man grabs the edge of his navy collar and pins his back against the brick wall.

“Think you’re a tough guy, Seth? Think it’s alright to put your filthy hands on her? I’m sure she didn’t ask you to, so mind your fuckin’ manners and keep your goddamn paws off her,” he growls, spitting up into the soldier’s wide eyes.

You don’t know what to do, what to think. All your brain can do is eye the back of the man who saved you. He’s tall, so very broad, wide shoulders, tousled dark curls that probably feel like silk. His green flannel is rolled up to his elbows, exposing cascading veins that drape down his tanned skin, ending in massive calloused hands. His dark jeans are faded, worn brown boots covering his feet. He looks like your knight in shining armor, your saving grace. Why he saved you, you don’t know. But you want to find out, now.

The soldier laughs in his face, but he only grips his collar tighter as he sends another punch to his swollen eye. When he spits more blood, he turns back to your savior and laughs casually like he didn’t just get beaten up. “Fancy meeting you here, Miller. Say, you ever find those cigarettes and drugs we sent you out for?”

He clenches his jaw, releasing his collar so he can push the soldier again against the wall. “Ain’t got nothin’ for you, Seth. You want some, you can give me more ration cards,” he hisses.

The soldier laughs, shaking his head back and forth. “Five,” he wagers.

“Ten,” the broad man demands with narrowed eyes.

He raises his hands in defeat and sighs. “Fine, ten it is. Just hurry up with my order, will ya?”

The other man slaps his face, hard. You can practically hear the split of a rubber band snapping against skin. The soldier cowers over, holding the side of his mouth in pain as he stands back up slowly. “Tell me to hurry up one more time, and I’ll break your jaw,” he seethes. “I’ll do it when I’m good and ready, Seth. You’ll be the very last.”

He narrows his cold blue eyes, pointing a finger accusingly at the man who saved you. “Better watch it, Miller.”

“You threatening me? I shouldn’t be the one that’s careful, you be careful. Wait till Tess hears about this,” he growls with furrowed eyebrows.

Seth backs up all wide-eyed and bruised, like he’s afraid of the name Tess. Before he can get anywhere, the broad bodied man nods his head to him. “Get out of here, and don’t mess with this girl again. Got it?” he growls with the bite of his scowling jaw.

Seth looks over at you and nods before he runs off in the opposite direction, clutching his vest like it’s the only thing keeping him at bay.

He huffs out a deep breath and turns to you, furrowed eyebrows turning into a contemplative, concerned expression. Your eyes go wide, taking in the front of his face for the first time. He’s absolutely gorgeous. Dark brown eyes that look like pools of honey hone your vision, sweaty, tanned skin glistening in the fading light of day. His dark beard is threaded with silver, a strong jaw set with plush lips that half open when he looks at you. He’s the most handsome man you’ve ever seen, and he’s so fucking broad. You decide then that his eyes could kill, they could devastate anyone in their wake by how beautiful they are. Warm chocolate eyes flecked with wisps of honey brown. Absolutely breathtaking.

“You alright there?” he asks with concern lathered in his voice, careful with his large steps as he walks up to you.

“Oh, I’m… yeah, I’m fine,” you breathe out, suddenly forgetful on how to take deep breaths. Your heart is racing wildly, you swear it’s about to fly out of your chest.

He reaches out, but stops himself. Instead, he just points out the left side of your face. “Your face. You’re hurt,” he says with a scowl, clenching his hand into a tight fist at his side like he’s furious at the soldier for hurting you.

Your hand shoots up to the side of your face, and that’s when you feel it. The blood, the aching feeling of having your face bashed into the hard bricks. “Ahh, fuck,” you whine, hissing when you try to brush your fingertips over the swelling area.

“Here, c’mon. Follow me. I’ll get ya taken care of. I’ve got supplies back at my place. Can fix ya up in no time,” he offers as he nods his head for you to follow. You stay put, weighing your options. You don’t know this man, but he saved you, so he must be safe.

He takes a few steps forward and turns back around when he doesn’t see you following. “You comin’?” he asks with hope in his brown eyes.

You take a moment to breathe and then nod, agreeing to go with him. “Yeah, lead the way.”

You follow after him, letting him lead you away from the narrow, dark alleyway. When you get on the sidewalk of the main street you notice he walks on the outside of you, like he’s shielding you from any other soldiers who might give you a hard time. You don’t know why he does it, but you owe him a huge debt now.

You cross your arms over your teal t-shirt, looking up at the tall man who saved your life while he leads you to building two where he must live. You’re about to speak, but he beats you to it. “You know, you shouldn’t be out alone when the sun’s about to go down. A bunch of no good soldiers swarmin’ the streets here. What were you even doin’ out?” he asks, turning to a stairwell where he leads you up to the second floor.

“I was just heading back to my apartment. I got a late start with work today, had some things to finish up.”

He hums, looking back at you with furrowed brows. “Next time walk back with someone. Seth ain’t the only lowlife soldier. Gotta be more careful,” he tsks as he takes out a golden key in the pocket of his denim jeans.

You sigh, feeling as if he’s somehow blaming you for not knowing the safety rules around here. “Look, I’m new here. I didn’t know any better. I was just trying to get back to my place. I didn’t… I didn’t…”

“Whoa, hey. S’alright. Nobody said you did anythin’ wrong. I’m jus’ sayin’ watch yourself. Alright?” he asks with his hands raised, like he means no harm.

You drop your guard and sigh. “Sorry, just a little on edge,” you mutter.

“Don’t blame ya one bit. Now, c’mon. Take a seat at the table. I’ll get you a warm washcloth,” he instructs as he opens the rusted red door, the hinges squeaking while you make your way into his little apartment.

He shuts the door, and you take in your surroundings. The walls are covered with chipped white paint, the kitchen tiny, a little solid wooden table surrounded by two brown dining room chairs. The living room is open, a sunken leather couch with a broken coffee table sitting in the middle of an old, threaded blue rug. White satin stain coated curtains cover the glass window, and light shines dimly throughout the small apartment. It’s worn down, but it’s cozy enough.

You make your way over to one of the chairs, slowly pulling it back as to not make it drag across the hardwood floor. When you get comfy in the back of the chair, you watch Joel disappear into the other room, listening to the trickle of a running faucet while the bathroom light shines down the narrow hallway.

You fidget your fingers together, tapping your foot nervously on the dusty floor. You’re in his apartment, the man who just saved your life. And he’s tall, broad, and devastatingly handsome. His looks could surely kill a man with just the gaze of those dark flecked eyes. He had danger written all over those honey colored eyes. Eyes that could eat you alive.

He comes back down the hall a minute later, tan washcloth in hand, flannel sleeves rolled up to his elbows, corded veins skating all the way down to his massive hands. You’re nervous just by those large, thick fingers grasping the washcloth. You wonder what they’d feel like on your skin. Maybe like burning fire, hot charcoal, extreme heat rushing off his rough fingertips. He might feel like wildfire.

He pulls up the kitchen chair across from you and grunts when he sits, like his whole body hurts from the weight of working in the summer heat of the QZ. “Look up for me,” he requests, sliding his chair a tad bit closer to yours, enough to brush his knees against yours.

You gasp when his fingertips meet your skin, his hand cupping your chin and turning your injured cheek to where he can reach you. You were right. His fingers do feel like wildfire, calluses gliding against your smooth skin as he gets a good hold on you. It’s almost enough to send you jolting from the chair.

“This might sting a bit. Jus’ hold still,” he says gently, a deep voice escaping behind plush lips. You wince a little when the warm material meets your wound, but you relax when he gives you that certain look that says be still.

You hiss a little at the contact of the warm cloth across the scrapes on the side of your face. He makes eye contact with you and asks with those deep brown eyes if you’re okay, stopping his movements for just a second before you nod and let him continue.

From here you can see how clear the dark flecks in his eyes shine, a faint red scar above his right eye, silver threaded coarse beard that looks almost soft to the touch, and pink lips that look so inviting. He watches you study him, his own eyes flicking back and forth from your injury to your eyes, silently assessing you with a wary stare.

You see it in his eyes, he’s curious about you, maybe interested, but he doesn’t give much away. You see pain behind those dark irises, a worn body just getting by in the QZ day after day. You don’t know him, but you can tell this much. He’s reserved, quiet, careful, a man that keeps his guard up. You’d like to see behind those walls, if only for a moment. See what all he’s really been through.

After a couple more seconds of silence he finally talks. “You new here? Haven’t seen you around these parts before.”

You nod, watching him trace the edges of the warm washcloth across your cheek. “Yeah. Just got here a couple weeks ago,” you murmur, clenching your jaw when he rubs against a really sore area of your cheek.

“What the hell brought you here?” He says it rough, like he can’t believe anyone would ever dare come here by their own will.

“Raiders attacked my group. I was the only one left alive, and I just sort of stumbled upon the QZ gates. One of the soldiers found me and offered me a place here.”

He hums, dark eyes assessing you slowly, sliding down your body briefly as something twists in your stomach at the sight of him really taking a good look at you. “M’sorry ‘bout your group, but I’m more sorry you ended up here in this hell hole. FEDRA runs this place, and none of ‘em are remotely friendly. Especially Seth.” He spits the name out like it’s poison on his tongue, and you see he can’t stand the man that attacked you.

You purse your lips and ask him the same. “And you? Why are you here?”

He drops the washcloth from your skin, clenching his jaw as he stares with a hardline drawn on his forehead, shaping wrinkles across tanned skin. “That’s a long story that I don’t feel like answerin’ right now.”

Before he brings the lukewarm washcloth back up you grab his wrist, preventing him from lifting his arm further. He stares at you, eyes partly narrowed, challenging you to ask him again. “At least tell me where you’re from. Your accent, are you from the south?”

He leans back in his chair and sighs, nodding his head slowly. “Came from Austin, Texas. And you?” He raises his thick eyebrows like you owe him the same gratitude of telling him where you’re from.

“California. Northern part,” you answer, listening to him hum once again until he brings the washcloth back to your temple.

“You’re a little far from home ain’t ya?” he asks quietly while he brushes the soft material over your face.

“Unfortunately,” you mumble under your breath. Another flick of those pools of honey your way and you see a hint of concern, maybe even sadness buried in those flecks of darkness. He seems to have so many layers to him. You want to unravel them, unfold every piece and dig into his past, his present, his mind. And maybe you’ll get there, one day. Maybe, just maybe…

You suddenly realize you don’t even know his name, how have you not asked him yet? You heard the soldier say Miller. Maybe that was his last name.

You pick at the fading denim of your jeans and raise your eyes to his hesitantly. “Your name. I didn’t catch it.”

Another brush to your raw skin, and his soft brown eyes meet yours. “Joel Miller. And your name is?” he asks with a piqued interest, raising his eyebrows slightly. You tell him your name and he says it back to you slowly, another flick of his dark eyes over your body. Like he’s memorizing you entirely. Your name, your shape, your essence. It makes the room sticky and hot at the sight of his eyes exploring you, even if it means nothing.

“Joel…” you repeat, slowly spilling the syllables off the tip of your tongue.

“That’s right…” He says your name again slowly, like honey dripping off his warm tongue, every murmur and gruff sound making you a bit dizzy.

“You’re gonna be alright. Might bruise up a bit, but nothing that’ll last long. Gonna be sore tonight, jus’ clean it good and keep it dry. Ain’t gonna scar over,” he says as he nods to your face.

He cups your chin again, turning you slightly to him as his calloused fingertips brush a strand of hair behind the slope of your ear, breathing down your neck as you finally smell him. He smells woodsy, summer sweat kissing the air, cheap whiskey filling your senses. Then he looks deep in your eyes, one hand falling slowly to the top of the table, fingertips curling over the scratched wood, his jaw flexing as his eyes travel down to your lips for just a second, a breath in time. And suddenly you’re frozen in place, waiting for something to happen, something that shouldn’t happen. He wouldn’t, he’s not…

Another soft graze of his rough knuckles to your cheek and then the front door slams open, sending both of you back in your chairs.

“Joel! Got some information for you about the drugs we gotta… Oh.” She stops in the doorway, eyes wide as she looks at you, surprised Joel has company. She’s tall, thin but built with muscle. She’s strong, long brunette hair, and hazel eyes clouding her vision.

“Joel Miller has company? Who might this be?” she asks curiously, slamming the door shut with a bang as she folds her arms over chest and nods your way.

Joel introduces you two, and you quickly learn her name is Tess. “Nice to meet you, Tess,” you say with a small smile, your arm resting on the edge of the table.

“Likewise. What happened to you? Looks like you got knocked up pretty good there.”

“It was Seth. Fucker had her pinned against one of the alleyway walls and was givin’ her trouble,” Joel spits as he flashes his incisors Tess’s way.

“That piece of shit. Wait till I get a hold of him, gonna make him wish he never saw the light of day,” she scoffs.

“He’ll be running for the hills, Tess,” he chuckles as he places his meaty hands on top of his large thighs. “What’d ya need?”

Tess leans up against the fading wallpaper and throws him a pack of chewing gum. “Found this when I was outside the walls today, but just wanted to check in about tomorrow. Wanted to go over the plans before we head out in the morning. I can come back later though and discuss it.”

Tess’s hazel eyes wander over to you, and she gives you a welcoming smile. “So, how long have you been here? Not long because I would’ve noticed a new face.”

“Just a couple weeks. Just getting settled in,” you reply as you play absentmindedly with your hair.

“Where do they have you working at? I can always stop by, give you some tips, show you around the area. I’m sure you could use a friend.”

You nod and smile up at her. “Yeah, thanks. They’ve got me working down at the weapons station. Cleaning and sorting and whatever else they tell me to do.”

“I see. I’m sure that gets redundant and boring, so maybe I can show you a thing or two to not lose your mind in this shithole,” Tess replies, making her way over to Joel.

“You’re lucky this one was around,” Tess says with a firm slap to Joel’s back, stifling a grunt from him as he pushes Tess playfully in the arm. “Joel can be a real pain in the ass, but he’s sure nice to have around.”

“Yeah yeah, shut up. Thanks for the gum,” Joel chuckles as he pushes the pack of Spearmint gum into the pocket of his jeans.

“Sure thing, handsome. I’ll see you later.” She waves and gives you a nod before heading out the door. “Welcome to the Boston QZ again.” Tess makes her grand exit and shuts the door loudly, her footsteps fading into the distance.

You twist your hands in your lap, suddenly overstimulated by the presence of an intimidating woman who clearly gets her way in the QZ. You wish you were stronger, braver, more outspoken like her. And clearly she knows how to pull Joel’s strings. You’re not jealous of her, only slightly envious that she has Joel hooked around her finger.

“She seems nice,” you say slowly, looking over at Joel as he laughs at your words.

“Yeah, she ain’t too bad. Trust me, she’ll be having Seth shakin’ like a dog out in the freezin’ rain,” he chuckles.

You laugh at his words, but suddenly you’re asking something you shouldn’t be. “Are you guys like… together?” you ask nervously, gulping down the rest of your words as you hold your breath like you’re underwater.

“Me and Tess? Nah,” he laughs, shaking his head at the mention of it. “She’s my neighbor. But we work together, she’s my partner. We smuggle things for FEDRA.”

“Smuggle things?” you ask, confused by what he means.

He leans forward and places his hands on the table. “Yeah, smuggle things. Items, sometimes people, whatever they need. We go out on a bunch of missions. Searching abandoned buildings, makin’ trades, doin’ deals with folks around here and for some of the soldiers. Kind of an easy way to get extra supplies and ration cards.”

“So you’ve got sway with the soldiers here?” you ask curiously.

“More or less. Tess is the one with the real sway, but I guess you can say people kinda fear me. They don’t really mess with me. Hell, they know not to.” He knocks his knuckles against the edge of the table, and you reach up to scratch your face, wincing when you forget how god awful sore it is.

“Shit, I forgot about my face,” you whine, gripping the edge of your denim tight as you sink your nail beds into your thigh.

“Careful there, try not to mess with it,” he warns softly, bringing back the cool washcloth to your scratches. You sit back and let him tend to your wound, watching how careful he's being with every swipe of the cloth to your fragile skin.

He’s close again, close enough to where you can smell him, inhaling the woodsy scent as summer sweat mixes with the pinecone scent. You could get drunk off the smell, and you really hope it’ll stick to your clothes when you’re back in your apartment, alone with your delusions of having his large hands all over your skin.

You watch the way his large biceps cling against his flannel shirt, like he’ll rip the soft material at any given moment. His knees brush against yours, fingertips grazing your jawline like the edge of a soft feather, enough to send tingles down your spine.

“Is it just you here?” you ask while he holds the damp cloth to your cheek.

“Jus’ me,” he murmurs, dark eyes flicking back to yours.

“Do you have family around. Anywhere?” you ask cautiously. His jaw clenches, and his lip quivers while he analyzes the question, figuring out if he wants to answer or not.

He sighs, “I’ve got a brother. Tommy.”

“Here?”

“Nah. Haven’t talked to him in years. Last I heard he was settling in Jackson, Wyoming,” he mutters, clearly annoyed about the topic of conversation.

“Why don’t you go find your brother?” you ask, conflicted if you should continue the questions.

“It’s complicated,” he grumbles.

“What’s so complicated?”

“He’s halfway across the country.”

“So?” you say mockingly.

“So? That’s a hell of a ways to go to find someone that I’m not sure even wants to see me,” he says with gritted teeth.

“Joel, I’m sure he wouldn’t be upset. What makes you think he wouldn’t want to see you?”

“We got into a bad fight, and we weren't agreeing on some things. Turns out we wanted different things, so I told him to leave, and he went. Followed some fireflies, hell if I know how long he actually stayed with them,” he scoffs, digging his worn boot into the wooden floor.

“Fireflies?” you ask with wide eyes.

“That’s what I said,” he grumbles with furrowed brows, getting annoyed with you already, but you just keep talking.

“Oh, that’s… well, that’s something. But I’m sure he’d want you to try to reach out. Would you go, if you thought he would? Do you have any other family?” you ask intrigued, pulling yourself to the edge of the seat.

He leans back and drops the washcloth to the table, sighing as he pinches the bridge of his nose in annoyance. “You sure do ask a bunch of questions, don’t ya?” he huffs, crossing his arms as a hard line maps across his forehead.

“Well, I’m just saying. If I had family still alive I sure as hell would go find them, not stand back and watch them slip away from me! I fucking wish I had mine!” Your words come out louder, harsher than you mean to, and Joel’s just sitting there, staring at you with wide eyes and an expression you can’t quite read.

The room is suddenly silent, only the sounds of your labored breathing and teary eyes fogging up the room. You shouldn’t have snapped, shouldn’t have thrown that back in his face. You shouldn’t have pried, now look what you’ve done. “Sorry, I didn’t… I didn’t mean to say it like that.”

He opens his mouth partially, big brown eyes lathered in concern holding your gaze. He looks like he understands your pain, maybe just a fraction of that. But he doesn’t share it with you. “S’alright. Don’t gotta apologize. Think we both jus’ over shared a little too much.”

You nod, biting your tongue from saying anything else stupid. What’s wrong with you? “Yeah, guess so.” You take a deep breath, hearing him scrape his chair back while his left arm rests on the edge of the table.

You see it then, a black military watch clasped to his wrist, the glass broken and arms not moving on the watch. It’s broken, just a mere memory of some sort that you want to unlock, but now is not the time.

“Think I should get you back to your place,” he says in a deep voice, one that says he’s finished talking about family matters.

“Yeah, okay,” you say quietly.

“Where are you stayin’ at?”

“I’m in building four.”

“Alright then. That ain’t too far. C’mon, I’ll walk you back. Make sure no soldiers give ya a hard time,” he says through clenched teeth.

“Joel, wait.” Before he can push himself up, you rest your hand on top of his, feeling his warm skin simmer underneath yours.

He stares at your hand on his, ticking his jaw nervously as his brown doe eyes fall back on yours. “Thank you, for today, for saving me.”

“It was nothin’, don’t mention it,” he murmurs, sliding his hand out from under yours, memorizing the way his hand feels like fire underneath yours, mourning the loss of his skin on yours.

“I owe you.”

He looks at you with a serious gaze, his thick fingers clamping down on the material of his flannel. “Don’t owe me a damn thing, sweetheart. I’d do it all over if I had to.”

Oh.

His jaw twitches, amber eyes glowing into yours, a sudden tension filling the room. It feels a lot like longing, understanding, some kind of connection. But the spark of it snaps when he pulls back his chair and stands, nodding for you to follow him. “C’mon, let’s get you back before we break curfew.”

He leads you out of his apartment, down the rickety stairs and steers you through the winding buildings, avoiding FEDRA’s eyes on the main road. His fingertips brush against yours as he walks briskly next to you, staying near and looking every which way as to not have another run in with a soldier.

The city is musty, old brick buildings barely staying intact. Military tanks litter the streets while old broken down cars sit to rot around the QZ. You stay close to Joel, keeping quiet as he concentrates on getting you back to safety.

You should be grateful to him, you are grateful. He saved you, even though he really didn’t have to. He took care of your wounded cheek, made sure you got back to your place safely. You were eternally grateful for the broad man that showed you kindness when no one else did in this godforsaken city. Joel was a good man, as far as you could tell.

He leads you to your building, the one with the number four painted in white on the side of the old bricks. Your room is the first door on the right, a chip right next to the jiggling door handle.

You turn around and face him, leaning up against your solid oak door as you look up into those dark brown eyes you’ve grown accustomed of thinking about too much. “Thank you, Joel. For everything. Really, I owe you.”

He chuckles, running a hand through his tousled curls as he smiles a crooked grin your way. “Gotta stop sayin’ that, sweetheart. You gave me company, I’ll call that even enough.”

You swallow, nodding his way. “Alright then. I guess I’ll let you get back before they catch you outside your apartment.”

You turn around and twist the door handle, pushing it open until he stops you in your tracks and places his fingers around your wrist. “Wait a second.”

“Huh?” you ask, whipping back around to find him digging inside his back pocket and retrieving a little switchblade in his hand.

“Here.” He stretches his arm out and holds out the knife, nodding for you to take it. You just stare at it, your mouth open wide without even taking a step forward to take it.

“Well, go on. Take it.” He steps forward, brushing against your knuckles as he pries your fingers open and drops the knife in your palm, closing your fingers over the switchblade so you have no option but to keep it.

“Oh, no. Joel, I can’t. This is yours,” you argue.

He tsks your way, clicking his tongue and urging you to listen. “Keep it, I’d feel better knowin’ you had somethin’ to defend yourself with. Ya know if someone tries to mess with you again. Jus’ be careful with it,” he instructs.

You open your palm and assess the bronze blade, tracing the cold edges, watching the glisten of the sharp tip reflect off your eyes. You close it up and slide it in your pocket, looking back at Joel with a wide smile. “Thanks, Joel. You didn’t have to.”

“I did and stop thankin’ me. I’ve got plenty more where that came from. Jus’ want you to be safe is all,” he murmurs, his deep voice carrying through your ears as he pushes his hands nervously in his jean pockets.

“Oh, I see.” Your voice comes out in a mere whisper, but he hears you through the hot wind that blows against your hair.

“Jus’ watch your back, okay? It ain’t easy around here, and you can’t trust anybody.”

“What about you?”

He knits his brows together and gives you a tight lipped smile. “You can trust me, sweetheart. Ain’t gonna hurt ya.” He cups your chin, rough fingertips meeting your soft skin. It almost feels electric, like his fingers are magic, and maybe he is. That’s what he feels like.

His eyes hover over your lips for just a second, peeling them back up to meet your wide eyes. He’s got a soft side to him, something someone would miss if they weren’t looking close enough. You have a feeling he doesn’t let his guard down with just anyone, but with you he did, if only for just a few seconds.

He drops his hand from your chin and steps back, keeping his eyes aligned with yours. “Guess I’ll see ya around,” he says, stepping back away from your apartment.

“Yeah, guess you will,” you breathe.

He nods your way and gives you a small smile. “Have a good night, trouble.”

“Trouble?” you question, laughing at the accusation.

“Yeah, that’s what I said. Trouble,” he chuckles as he makes his way back through the narrow buildings, disappearing with one more glance your way, capturing the deep brown eyes that look your way, memorizing them, burning them in the backs of your eyes so you can remember every fleck and sparkle of those sweet honey eyes.

You walk into your empty apartment and close the door, kicking off your shoes and dragging yourself to your falling apart mattress. You collapse into the cool white sheets, closing your eyes and replaying every glance, every touch, every word of you and Joel’s time together. You don’t know what’s come over you, but you clearly have fallen for the broad shouldered man with beautiful brown eyes.

Maybe the QZ wasn’t so bad after all. Maybe it wouldn’t end you like you thought it would. Maybe just maybe Joel would be your saving grace. Maybe those honey glazed eyes would haunt your dreams until you saw him again. And that’s exactly what happened that night. All you saw were crystal clear brown eyes and tousled curls tracing through your fingertips, sheets drenched in the summer sweat of him. You knew then that you were fucked.

Tags: @milla-frenchy @amyispxnk @sawymredfox @aurorawritestoescape @akah565

@rav3n-pascal22 @keylimebeag

#joel miller #Joel miller x reader #joel the last of us #post outbreak joel #outbreak!joel #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x female reader #joel miller fic #joel miller fan fiction #joel miller pedro pascal #protective joel

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silvergreenseraphim · 5 months ago

Text

The First Soldier’s/Glenn Lodbrok’s Relevance In Rebirth

—

Time for translations regarding the Glenn Lodbrok subplot in Rebirth.

Note: Once again, if anyone spots errors in my translations, please let me know!

Hello everyone! It’s been some time. Rebirth was amazing and Ever Crisis has been such a thrill to see unfold shortly after with so much new lore.

As it turns out, Mr. Glenn was very important! Our mystery hooded man was him all along.

Or was he? 🤭

This is an interesting side story in Rebirth that I can’t stop focusing on. The translations have been helpful. The Ultimania as well. I will reference both for this post.

For right now, a mix of these sources and the hints in the game all imply that it was Sephiroth revealing his will through one of the black-robed men. This would not be the first time he relied on “a vision represented by the cloaked figures.”

These extensions and visions of Sephiroth “stem from the will and conscience of Sephiroth that is at play here.”

He uses this ability to torment Cloud in Remake. In Rebirth, we can see him extending that power towards Rufus Shinra too.

Some debate this point, but let us take a look at Glenn’s introduction to Rufus where a very strange interaction occurs.

Tseng introduces “Glenn” to Rufus in Junon here:

“A messenger of Governor Suhur (Sufur) of Wutai would like to visit. Colonel Glenn Lodbrok.”

Rufus is startled, but lets the messenger in. We see what appears as Glenn Lodbrok. He is older than he looks in Ever Crisis and worn down. He also does not seem to wear much besides his heavy black cloak. Rufus sits up quickly with a surprised look. He is hit with a memory of shooting this same man in the back. Notably, the Glenn from the flashback features his Wutai garb and face. He is the Glenn of Ever Crisis.

Rufus: You’re alive?

Glenn: Most certainly dead.

Ultimania translation below:

When Rufus questions Glenn’s survival, the latter has a fit of laughter and responds with the evident truth. He is dead. Rufus can only presume this to be a joke, but the Ultimania questions this bit of humor.

Looking at this through the lens of it being Sephiroth’s will in front of Rufus, we could chuckle at his honesty. He tells Rufus the truth from the moment they meet.

But that can wait! Onto business:

“Glenn” begins to speak on the matters of Wutai and Shinra. I must note that the Japanese VA’s performance is perfect. This is not the rugged and brash Glenn of Ever Crisis. He is a theatrical announcer and speaks to Rufus as though they are planning a grand show.

He says,

“Now, President Rufus. I assume you will be taking over the vision that my Governor and the President shared?”

Rufus responds, “I intend to.”

And here are Glenn’s plans to set the stage. He gestures with flair.

“The theme of this next era will be the war over Huge Materia. Shinra and Wutai maintain tensions as through repeating clashes in various places.”

An acknowledgement of the pointless war of Wutai and Shinra, but Rufus has other plans.

“That’s fine for a while. However, the president died…and the situation has changed. We need a new vision.”

At this, Glenn sneers,

“You still love (drawing your visions), Bocchan (young master). Do you still believe in the Promised Land?”

Glenn is saying that Rufus prefers to run his own show, craft his own visions. He knows Rufus long and well for a defective colonel of Wutai.

Side note:

The term “bocchan” is explained here. In the context with Rufus, it is used to refer to a rich young master.

Glenn continues,

“Shinra’s father and son only think about pumping up Mako. If you don’t return it once in a while, the planet will die.”

Glenn returns focus to the war between Wutai and Shinra, along with its benefits. He says,

“The rage, sadness and hatred that war brings forth will spark the ultimate sense of solidarity and optimism. This spirit inspires the world, enriching the planet…”

I cannot say strongly enough that the ways that Glenn moves and his VA speak feel like direct mockery of how Shinra plots their political movements. Nothing is real or sincere. War is a show and tool that is used to create unity. Shinra and Wutai are actors on a stage that battle for audience favor.

All of the pain that war brings will cause people to rise up in unity together! This spirit of solidarity will enrich the planet’s life. Rufus looks uncertain and nearly bewildered in this scene, as if he cannot tell if Glenn is serious.

“It’s for the future of the planet. Let’s take this step before calamity.”

Glenn declares this with zeal, but Rufus protests.

“But—”

Glenn cuts him off.

“You started this. You’re not a kid anymore. You can’t just stop whatever you want.”

This line is difficult to translate with the correct nuance, but Glenn is saying that Rufus must grow up and face the consequences of the events he sets in motion. He cannot stop them because he feels like it. Glenn’s VA also loses his care-free charm for a moment. There is a dark, aggressive and dangerous tone here that betrays the deeper anger in these words.

That venom disappears after some silence and Glenn returns to his theatrics.

“Let’s deliver justice together.”

Before he leaves the room, Glenn turns with a mocking bow and congratulatory message.

“Aahh, I almost forgot about the message from Governor Sufur! Congratulations on your appointment as president! I wish you increasing growth!”

Glenn laughs at the transparent joke about Rufus being honored by a man of the same name spelt backwards and exits the room. Rufus is left feeling upset and humiliated.

——

This next scene I would like to include a video clip of because there are more hints about Glenn’s true identity here.

“(Your) dreams are still cute.”

Glenn sneers and laughs at Rufus for dreaming of the Promised Land. Rufus begins to see that “Glenn” is not what he seems. A figure wreathed in purple haze and darkness that appears from nowhere.

“What/who the hell are you?“

Glenn mock-pouts as though he is offended Rufus does not trust or know who he is.

“Don’t say it like that! (Don’t say mean things). I can see everything inside your head, Mr. President. You’re scared of me?”

With this, “Glenn” leans forward as if to peer inside the mind of Rufus. He points at what he detects.

“Uh oh, I can still see it! What’s that?”

“Glenn” lists the weaknesses inside Rufus.

“Fear, hatred, an inferiority complex in relation to your father….and the loneliness behind it all…”

“I won’t deny it. It’s all my driving force.”

Rufus is honest about his negative feelings and admits they are what motivate him. Glenn is pleased with this. After all, he had earlier mentioned how the painful spirit of war would strengthen the planet.

He says,

“Hey, that’s good! The planet needs a little bit of that bite right now. Enliven it with that power.”

Rufus is baffled and mutters to himself,

“Do you care about me that much?“

He can only wonder why this figure wants and needs to stir up his driving emotions so much.

——

(I have skipped Glenn’s TV speech because the dialogue was basically the same).

In our last scene, Rufus remembers his father and finally admits that the man was masterful.

“You were…amazing…”

Rufus is not alone. “Glenn” once again appears at his side. To Rufus’ statement he responds,

Me?

But no, “Ha. How could that be?”

More mockery. Moving on,

“So, you know Governor Suhur? (Sufur). He neglected an important press conference and we were humiliated.”

Rufus is cold and responds,

“The Governor will not stand on such a poor set.”

“Glenn” is annoyed.

“I see. Growing up a rich kid must be so difficult. Well, hey, it worked. The anti-Shinra warriors are on the move.”

Rufus has had enough. He ignores the theatrics and says something astute and strange.

“Hey Glenn…isn’t this war a toy/plaything to keep me away from Sephiroth?”

I still must praise Rufus for his intelligence, but…I do not know why he would assume Glenn was trying to aid and distract Shinra from Sephiroth. This bit is a mystery.

“Glenn” begins to clap proudly. He says,

“I was sure you’d find out.”

And then we see him. The true culprit and architect.

The voices of Sephiroth and Glenn meld together,

“But it’s already happening. Our “promised land” will be born. Good for you. You’ve surpassed your father.”

Sephiroth even sneers now about Rufus completing the dream of his father. The father he hated. Rufus stands his ground.

“I want the real thing.”

(A sentence with double meaning. He wants the real Promised Land. Not a fake. Just like how Sephiroth is playing a fake Glenn).

Sephiroth morphs back into Glenn and only says,

“Oh, don’t you think it’s fitting?”

When Rufus shoots “Glenn” in the back, history repeats. Sephiroth turns back one more time and uses the now-clear black robed man to get in the last word through Glenn’s voice.

“As good at shooting people in the back as always.”

Rufus empties his gun into the ghost.

Extra details from the Ultimania on the scene:

—

Dialogue from the Shinra board meeting scene on Glenn:

Scarlet: Then what about that Glenn-whatever?

Tseng: Glenn Lodbrok. 15 years ago, he participated in a geological survey on Rhadore. He left the army after the mission failed.

Heidegger: Hmph, he has the air of a deserter. He’s spewing out lies!

Tseng: After, he traveled to various places. He seems to have made connections with people with anti-Shinra ideology around the country.

———

There we are! After the conclusion of The First Soldier’s episode 1 arc, we now know what caused Glenn to defect. The death of Rosen and the Rhadorans was a crime against humanity too great for Glenn to ignore. He became an anti-Shinra warrior and politician. But how did he first meet “Sufur” and when did this same person (Rufus) shoot Glenn dead?

There are questions here we do not have answered. However, Sephiroth is a voice that provides a bitter commentary on what happened. Through Glenn he relentlessly mocks Rufus. Even in the Japanese translation. He succeeds in posing as Glenn and starting fresh fires between Wutai and Shinra to stir up the planet’s energy.

And on top of that there is a personal undertone to how Sephiroth behaves around Rufus. He mocks Rufus on a level equal to how he torments Cloud. It’s all very interesting.

I will share more analysis at another time!

#this post is too long already 🙏#ff7 #final fantasy 7 #ffvii #the first soldier #ffvii rebirth #glenn lodbrok #ever crisis #sephiroth #rufus shinra #ff7 rebirth #my translations

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mmogurl · 2 months ago

Text

Last to Fall Chapter 3 - Dark On Me

18+ | 2.9k | Aegon II Targaryen X Female Dragonseed Reader | Unresponsive Aegon | half sister reader - you're a princess now! Fastest elevation in class ever! wholesome, fluff, severe injury and burns, mentions of death and other bad things, but still... this whole thing is actually kind of sweet compared to what I usually write.

Ok! This chapter was actually very emotional for me to write. I think sometimes I put my mind too closely into that of my characters, because as I was imagining several parts of this chapter from the reader's perspective, I found myself tearing up. Hopefully that emotion comes across in the work and makes it better.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 On AO3

I've also decided that I'm going to try my best to fit every chapter to a Starset song because the whole Series is based off the title of one (Last to Fall). I'm enjoying the challenge of finding one that suits each theme/ story! They're not all going to be perfectly aligned, but I'll try my best. This one is Starset - Dark on Me I especially like the line - 'But I found in you what was lost in me.. In a world so cold and empty.' Thanks to @zaldritzosrose for headers and I actually made all the gifs myself again! Tags: @coffeebooksrain18, @lexi-anastasia-astra-luna, @meggletoomanyfandoms, @theanbitchless (If you wanna be removed or added from/to the taglist, just let me know)

You hear the horns sound and watch from the balustrade as the procession makes its way through the city up towards the Red Keep. The soldiers return from battle victorious, carting the head of Meleys upon a wagon, but you haven’t seen Sunfyre return yet and nobody will tell you what has become of the king. You’ve heard his mother, Queen Dowager Alicent, mention Aegon in hushed whispers with some council members, but she has not deemed you worthy to share whatever information she has.

Even with the king’s decree elevating your status to that of princess, none will tell you what has happened. You must assume the worst. As the caravan draws closer to the castle, you can see another cart led by two horses. It carries what appears to be a casket covered by many blankets and your heart sinks at the thought of your most dire fears come true.

He cannot be dead. No, no. You won’t accept it.

You rush down to the courtyard, to await the arrival of your king, praying to any gods that might listen that he is still alive. A large contingent of the Kingsguard greet you outside and you feel even more strongly now that your assumption must be true. That Aegon is indeed in that wooden tomb, very likely deceased, but your heart still holds out hope that you’re wrong. The massive gates open to the inner wall of the keep and you watch with despair as the wagon is pulled forward.

As the wooden cart stops, your eyes dart to and fro as men step up to bear the casket forth. You catch the gaze of one of the white cloaks standing near you, and plead with him for answers. “Is he dead?” you whisper, desperate to know the fate of the man who had asked you to be his.

He offers a knowing expression of remorse, but nothing more. You are forced to follow behind as six men carry the king inside, be he dead or alive. You can’t help but wonder where everyone is. Where is his mother? His brother? Where is the small council? Is nobody here to witness the return of the king? You can’t help but to cry quietly as you follow the men of the City Watch and Kingsguard combined with your hung head low.

They carry the massive wooden crate all through the castle, heading upstairs until they enter Maegor’s Holdfast. You pass by Queen Helaena who is standing outside of her chambers, observing the procession with curiosity. You can’t help but wonder if they had kept the truth from her as well. When your eyes lock onto each others, her features twist with curiosity at the sight of your tears, but there is no malice present.

Helaena has never been rude or cruel to you, despite her knowledge of your role in Aegon’s life. She almost seemed grateful that you were able to offer him the companionship that she could not. The queen did not follow further, opting to stay back, likely having a sense that even more tragedy was on the horizon. You didn’t blame her for that, but it didn’t change that you must know. You had to see with your own eyes what had become of your love, Aegon.

As the doors to the king’s chambers opened, your gaze fell upon Alicent standing to the side by the windows. Of course she had known, but chose to leave you in the dark, suffering alone with your doubts and fears. When she saw you, she averted her eyes for a moment, her facade of calm cracking slightly before she steeled herself and offered you a nod. You returned the gesture with a trembling lower lip stepping aside to watch what came next.

They removed the lid of the casket and a whimper escaped your lips as one soldier took Aegon’s sword, Blackfyre, from within and placed it to the side with reverence. The soldiers cleared the room as men dressed in black heaved a dark canvas bag from within the wooden coffer. The sight of this actually made you fall to your knees with grief, finally seeing proof that Aegon was not of this world anymore.

A lamenting wail throbbed through your chest as they placed Aegon’s body on the bed. Your hand clutched the footboard as you fell down on one knee, barely keeping yourself upright. Alicent came to stand beside you, and you barely noticed the presence of the maesters entering through your sobbing.

“Is he alive?” the Queen Dowager asked with a mixture of shock and trepidation. The words stopped your weeping instantly as you pulled yourself up and leaned over the bedframe.

“His Grace, remains with us, for the moment,” Grand Maester Orwyle answered somberly.

You let out whining gasp that makes you sound like a pathetic animal, but you can’t help it. “He was alive? And you carted him through the streets as though he were a corpse!?” You cannot help but cry out as you stare accusingly at Alicent, appalled by the treatment he’d received.

“I didn’t have much say in it,” the Queen Dowager replies looking bewildered as the sight before her seemed to sink in. “They told me.. They thought it would be best that nobody saw the injuries he sustained.”

You stop your outrage, realizing that she likely didn’t know the extent of the damage either. Still, you wish she would have confided in you what little she had known so that you might have better prepared for this.

Orwyle takes an instrument from his medical kit and begins to remove pieces of Aegon’s armor. The more you look, the more you begin to understand what has happened to him. The entire left side of his body, from his head all the way down to his leg, has been scorched by dragonflame. His arm appears to have been dealt the brunt of the damage, where the Valyrian steel has melted into his limb, leaving it a gored tangle of flesh and metal.

A cry threatens to escape your lips once more, but you stifle it. There will be time for sobbing later, but for now you wish to keep yourself preoccupied. “I wish to help,” you say desperately, but everyone is so busy at work that nobody even responds. “Please,” you ask again, your brows furrowed with anguish. “I need to help.”

Alicent offers a glance at one of the maesters assisting Orwyle and from there, a chain reaction of assent occurs, until finally a young man tugs your arm and pulls you to the side.

“You can aid me in making the poultices,” he says softly. You cannot possibly express how grateful you are for the opportunity to stay busy, while attempting to save your king. You offer the Queen Dowager an appreciative look from across the room and return to learning how to prepare the treatment for Aegon.

It is likely a good thing that you are not watching as they remove the king’s armor, for you can hear his ragged breaths and the gasp that startles from Alicent’s mouth in response to it.

“Is my son going to die?” she asks sounding petrified. You do not wish to hear it, but you can’t tune it out either.

“I’m afraid I cannot say,” Orwyle responds quietly, turning his head to regard the Queen Dowager for a moment. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Your Grace, these next hours are most critical.”

“Of course,” Alicent replies, taking a step back so that she’s no longer interfering with the healers work.

The young maester in training hands you a plate filled with individual leaves of steamed cabbage and notions for you to take it to the bed. “Take these,” he says quietly as a mouse. You don’t hesitate to obey, not wanting to hinder Aegon’s chances for survival.

You hold the tray out, leaning over Aegon’s bed, to an aged maester with a gray beard dressed all in dingy whites. He begins to take one piece at a time, placing the wraps at the bottom of Aegon’s broken leg and working his way up. Your hands shake slightly, but you do your best to stall your trembling so that you might be of use. Stealing a glance down the length of the bed, you see Orwyle sponging charred bits away from Aegon’s once pristine face.

Your heart aches, but you push it deep down. There will be time to grieve later if he dies, but you refuse to give into despair again before that actually happens.

“Someone will have to rule in his stead,” the cold and familiar voice cuts through your thoughts.

You turn to your right and see Aemond standing there, dead center at the foot of Aegon’s bed. He had always seemed dangerous to you, but has never looked this unhinged before. You can’t help but wonder what might have happened at the battle of Rook’s Rest to change his demeanor so drastically. The way he looks at Aegon, it reminds you of a cat playing with a mouse, holding it by the tail and swatting at it.

You can’t help but wonder how he stands there without an ounce of concern for his brother. As your discomfort grows, you decide that you will have to keep an eye on the prince from now on. You swear solemnly to yourself, glaring at Aemond while you do so, that you will keep watch on the king as though your life depended on it. Just in case.

————

It has been a couple of days now and while Aegon has not yet woken, he has not yet passed into the arms of the Stranger either. He’s been cleaned up considerably, and his wounds all tended to. The only remnants of the horror you witnessed when he first arrived in the Red Keep being the charcoal still tinting his cheek and of course all of the burns that lace his left side. His broken leg is propped up to keep the blood from swelling, but otherwise Aegon looks peaceful in his slumber, despite the audible struggle he has breathing. You lay next to Aegon on the bed, unwilling to leave his side for any reason lest he might wake alone without a caring face to welcome him back. Nestled carefully against the side of him that is not horribly burnt, it almost feels comforting to feel his chest rise and fall beside you with a fire crackling in the hearth.

At first, you worried that Aegon might pass at any given moment, but once he was out of imminent danger, it became a waiting game. Inevitably boredom overcame you as the king continued to sleep. You took to cleaning to pass the time. First, washing and scrubbing every nook and cranny of the floor in his chambers despite the objection of everyone that came across your endeavoring to stay sane. You then moved onto dusting and cleaning out the tapestries. It was one of the few times you’d left the king’s chambers since he returned, but you wanted to take everything outside to be aired out, lest there be a dust storm within.

A soft sigh pulls you from your memories and your eyes open to see Alicent sitting at the side of Aegon’s bed. Her hand is clinging to his as she leans slightly onto the bed. You can tell from her expression that this whole situation has been very taxing on her. Within such a short span of time, she’s almost lost her eldest son and king, and been passed over for the regency of the realms in his absence for Aemond. Given the predatory way the new Prince Regent had been staring at Aegon days prior, this is a decision you wholeheartedly disagree with.

As much as you hate to admit it, you’ve grown to appreciate Alicent’s company. At first she seemed annoyed by your presence, but you can only assume that in seeing your dedication to her son, she’s softened towards you. She’s even shared several kind words with you, which felt incredibly awkward, especially when she began referring to you as ‘The Princess,’ a title you are still not accustomed to hearing anyone speak, let alone her.

The Queen Dowager had never acknowledged the decree previously, but then none of the acceptance really matters without Aegon here to share it with. He’d talked of marrying you upon his return and now you wondered if that would ever happen. Your fingers caress softly along his arm, a motion that has become almost involuntarily by now as you huddle to him, hoping that your touch will bring him back.

Alicent stands suddenly, her eyes bleary as she places a hand on her son’s good cheek. She almost looks afraid to get too close, as though admitting the depth of her care for him might somehow make it hurt more to lose him. She nods a soft ‘good night’ to you and goes to leave the room. You watch for a moment as the maester opens the door for her in anticipation, and rest your head back down on the pillow.

And that’s when you hear it, so quiet and coarse that you might have missed it if you had not been right beside him. “Mummy,” he whispers without opening his eyes.

You dart up from the bed with haste, looking at him incredulously, as though he had just risen from the dead. “Queen Dowager!” you cry out, not wishing to disturb him, but needing to get her attention. “Maesters! He spoke!” You realize you are laughing with relief as you call out to the them, brushing the backs of your knuckles upon Aegon’s cheek gently as you coo to him. “She is coming, my love.”

As Alicent rushes back to her son’s bedside, you both share a look of hopeful promise. “What did he say?” she asks, her eyes searching over Aegon as though he might move, and than glancing back to you.

“He said ‘Mummy,’” you answer with a smile, happy to see the look of touched gratitude that appears on her face.

“Oh my sweet son…” she trails off, seemingly unable to put words to how she is feeling. She stands beside him, reaching out with a little more confidence this time. “Mummy’s here,” she offers quietly as the two maesters on duty gather behind her.

Aegon lets out a gravelly sound, his breath hitching as he fights for consciousness.

“We’ll let Grand Maester Orwyle know of this development,” one of the men in white offers. “But if he is soon to be speaking with us, it is good news indeed.”

The Queen Dowager is in high spirits when she is finally ready to leave for the night, so exhausted she can barely keep her eyes open. “Thank you,” she says, looking you in the eyes as she rises from her chair. “You didn’t have to call me back, but I’m glad that you did.”

“Who am I to deny him his mother if that’s who he’s ask for?” you say as though there was no other possible outcome in your mind.

She smiles at you with a warmth she’s never shown you before, nodding slightly. “Will you have them fetch me if he wakes again?” she asks with fondness in her voice.

“Of course,” you reply, settling back into the bed beside Aegon. You are surprised when she walks around to your side of the bed, and proceeds to mother you under the covers.

“If you’re going to spend your nights in here, than the least you can do is keep comfortable,” Alicent says with a hint of jest in her tone.

It is definitely a touch strange as she pulls the blanket up and around you, tucking it underneath you slightly. It’s almost suffocating, but in a nice way. “Good night,” you say, turning on your side towards Aegon. You’ve practically made a nook at his side from the amount of time you’ve spent there by now.

“Sleep well,” Alicent calls as she extinguishes the candles, leaving nothing but the hearth to light the immediate vicinity. She ushers the maesters out of the room, with an authoritative pitch. “Get some rest for the night, my son is in good hands as you can plainly see.”

As the doors close and you’re left in silence, you can’t help but consider how sometimes the worst things in life can really help to bring people together. You’ve also seen tragedy tear relationships apart, but when something beautiful can blossom from the ashes of destruction, it almost feels like everything is going to be alright again. Like Aegon is going to wake up and get out of his bed and move on with his life. And when he does, he’ll find himself rousing to a world in which his mother might feel a little more comfortable showing her thanks for his company.

You nuzzle your face into the crook of his neck, inhaling deeply of his scent. Despite all of the medicinal herbs and the lingering remnants of carbon, you can still smell him. You press a tender kiss on his neck, right below his ear, humming softly as you taste him on your lips.

Whispering softly, you beseech him with kindness, “I love you, Aegon.” You run the tip of your nose against his jawline, savoring the feel of him. “I’ll wait for you… As long as it takes. Just come back to me.”

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youvebeenlivingfictional · 9 months ago

Note

33 in hand holding with leto?

Sorry this took so long nonnie!

33. bandaging the other’s hand and not quite letting go

Warnings: Angst; pining; brief wound description

"Leave us."

The sound of his voice makes your stomach churn with nerves. Your eyes flit to Gurney's just in time to see the thin press of his lips, and his warning frown—don't shoot your mouth off, not now. He pats your knee before he rises from the chair across from yours. You don't have to turn to see whatever looks pass between him and the Duke. You can only hope that he offers another warning, but you can't be sure. Gurney has an allegiance to the Duke that he doesn't have to you.

You're a fellow soldier, and you have his respect, but the Duke rose him from the hellish Harkonnen pit and gave him a new life.

You force yourself to focus on your breathing as you hear the door shut behind Gurney, leaving you alone with—

You don't dare look at Leto as he lowers himself to sit in front of you.

He's silent as he takes stock of the supplies that Gurney had laid out to tend to your wound, the gaping cut that runs the length of your palm where you'd stopped a knife from connecting with Leto's neck. Gurney has already cleaned it, laying the wound plain for his Grace.

Leto takes a jar of salve up, removing the lid and allowing the sharp, sterile scent to fill the air between the two of you. Your heart leaps as he cradles your hand in his, and scoops a hearty amount out. It's going to sting, but you resolve to sit still and stone-faced through it all.

You wait for the rebuke, the scolding that you acted recklessly. You wait for him to tell you that your blood is spilled across his desk, his documents. You wait for him to tell you that he would have handled it without need for your intervention.

Your answers sit ready on your tongue. Your act was not reckless, it was necessary. You've spilled blood for the House of Atreides, and this is no different. Copies of documents can be made; desks can be cleaned or removed. There is only one of him, and he cannot be replaced or replicated. You're certain that he could have handled it. You know that it is a quick man, strong, and capable.

But you had seen the knife, and you had leapt without thinking. You hadn't given a second thought between putting yourself between him and harm's way.

Leto caps the salve again, reaching for a thick roll of bandages next. You fight to keep your palm open despite the prickle of the medicine itching your aching skin.

You finally allow yourself to glance at him as his hones in on wrapping the bandage. You can feel him moving slowly, wrapping your hand with care. His lashes sweep across the apples of his cheeks; his lips are set in a grim purse; his jaw is tight. With each pass of the wrapping, he draws in a soft breath and sighs it out again. You can feel him tuck the edge in securely, and nearly flinch when his gaze lifts to hold yours.

Neither of you speak as you sit there, your hand still cradled in his, his thumb sweeping across the side of your palm, away from the wound.

"...Do not do it again."

It's a warning, and a plea. It hits you in the heart, and in that moment, you know that you cannot follow his order.

You will do it again. You will do it again and again and again until every threat is neutralized, or until you draw your last breath.

But if voicing the lie will help him sleep; if it'll lessen those dark, growing circles beneath his eyes; if it'll keep you on his detail, where you can ensure his safety—

"I won't."

#Leto Atreides x Reader #Leto Atreides x You #Leto Atreides/Reader #Leto Atreides/You #Leto Atreides fic #Leto Atreides imagine #asks #replies #anon #requests

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actualbuckybames · 5 months ago

Text

Another scene from that fic I haven't posted. Excerpt of this scene under the cut

---

Bucky falls the instant he steps inside the facility. Vertigo takes hold and then he’s falling, falling away from himself and away from the howling storm trying to tear him apart. He falls and the Soldier weathers the storm, the memories hitting him like hail. It’s just pain. Pain and noise. He’s done more under worse conditions.

He takes the pain and burns it like fuel as he plunges into the depths, puts the noise where it can’t disrupt his focus. The mission is to confirm this facility’s purpose and purge it. No prisoners. As always, no survivors.

A quarter of them try to fight. They die.

A quarter of them try to run. They die.

The rest beg for their lives. They die.

The last makes a stand in the bare concrete room housing the cryo unit. He manages to separate the Soldier from his guns with a kind of stun baton that leaves the metal arm jolting and uncooperative, but on his next lunge, the Soldier grabs the baton halfway down the shaft with his right hand and crushes it.

His left arm resets and locks in for a punch that sends the man crashing into the cryo pod. Though blood streams from his nose, he fumbles at his waist and unsheathes a knife. The Soldier almost smiles. When the Soldier draws one of the tantos from his back, the man pales. He’s fast enough to dodge when the Soldier whips it at his head and just barely quick enough to catch the second tanto on his own blade when the Soldier closes the gap.

Caught up in the flurry of blows, the Soldier lets the grin twist his lips under his mask. This man is good. Very, very good. As good as anyone can get with unmodified flesh and bone.

But he is unmodified. Sweat gleams on his face and he pants with each lunge, parry, and dodge. The Soldier feels no exhaustion and gives no quarter, chasing him around the small space and ensuring he never has any delusions of reaching the door.

For a minute, the man thinks he’s holding his own. The Soldier lets him think that. It feels good to stretch these muscles, to wield a knife in a way he hasn’t since fighting Captain America—

Fighting Steve—

“Перешеек,” the man gasps, and the Soldier freezes. That is what that word means: silence and stillness. The land between shifting waters, immovable and eternal. His muscles lock. The arm’s plates lock. Everything locks and his thoughts break against his body in waves.

The man doubles over with his hands on his knees and heaves for breath. Drops of sweat splatter on the floor, joining the blood he’s shed from the dozen small cuts the Soldier has inflicted on him over the course of their fight.

They’re fighting. Right. But the man said перешеек—he’s a handler. The Soldier obeys the handler.

“Fuck,” the man straightens and glares at the Soldier, “you are fucking terrifying.”

The Soldier cannot respond, but his muscles are starting to itch with a need to move. There is a headache crawling out from the base of his skull with a sound like a scream.

“You killed all of them, didn’t you?” He peers past the Soldier, towards the door. “I don’t understand why they keep saying to bring you back alive. You’re not worth this.”

He knows: the knife in his hand belongs in the man’s eye, in his brain. But перешеек holds him fast. Can’t disobey the handler. Can’t move. Can’t do anything other than watch as the handler steps close and lines up his own knife.

“Fuck that,” the man says, face contorting in anger. “Fuck you.”

He drives the knife into the Soldier’s chest.

Pain crashes through the Soldier’s mind in a tsunami that rips away the shackles of перешеек. Clarity, as it always does even without the burn of electricity, follows in its wake: this man isn’t his handler. He doesn’t have authority to override the mission. The mission is to take no prisoners and leave no survivors and he is still alive.

The Soldier’s left hand slams into the man’s chest and throws him back. Something cracks on impact; a rib, from the man’s grunt and subsequent gasp. With his right hand, the Soldier rips the knife out of his chest. The man’s next sound of pain is cut off by that knife when Soldier drives up into his brain through the fleshy underside of his jaw. A puppet with its strings cut, the man crumples and the Soldier lets him fall. Even lets him keep the knife.

For just a moment, the room is silent, no more echoes of combat bouncing off its bare gray walls. The Soldier’s breathing is the loudest sound.

He spares the next moment to examine the tear in his jacket. The wound beneath is bleeding heavily from him pulling the knife out but, upon inspection, it shows itself to be narrow and small. At the angle he struck at, the blade must have hit bone, to be stopped from going any deeper. Or the man underestimated the Soldier’s muscle density and the force required to rip through it.

The wound requires cleaning, but he halts his steps toward the exit and the medical supplies beyond when a quiet beep reaches his ears. It’s a sound he knows, a sound deeper than anything a knife can reach. He turns and faces the cryo pod. The beep comes again. Underneath it is the soft hiss of air through narrow tubes. His left hand twitches and he crosses the room in three long strides.

There’s a man in the cryo pod. That doesn’t make sense; this is the Soldier’s pod, even if he has no intention of using it ever again.

He wipes at the fog on the small window and frowns at the pale, gaunt face framed with ice crystals that rests on the other side. That frown deepens when the face and its tousled blond hair tugs at frosted strings of memory in his mind. As the monitor beeps a soft and infrequent report on the man’s vitals, recognition gives way to vertigo and the Soldier—no, no, James, Bucky, my name is Bucky—nearly collapses against the pod. Frigid metal bites into what little exposed skin makes contact but he doesn’t feel it because his eyes are fixed on Steve. Steve, who’s stuck in the pod. Steve, who’s stripped of his serum and small and week and frozen. Steve, whose vitals are sounding off ever slower while Bucky’s own heartbeat thunders in his ears.

GET HIM OUT. The order screams through his thoughts and tears up everything else on its way. He’s slamming his fist on the emergency release before he even thinks to move. But the pod doesn’t open. Doesn’t open when he hits the release again. Doesn’t open when he tries the actual command sequence for defrosting. Doesn’t open when he slams his fist into it with a shout. And still Steve's vitals are slowing.

Static bites at his focus and black creeps in at the edges of his vision. All he can see is the cryo chamber. Steve. Steve. That cold—he wouldn’t wish it on anyone. It never leaves. It’s enough to kill Stevie. More than enough.

God, he might already be dead. When was the last beep?

“Stay with me,” he begs the silent figure while he claws at every seam in the pod, hunting for purchase. “Don’t you dare quit, you’re too stubborn to stop now, you hear me? Too stubborn by half. Stay with me, don’t leave.”

He hasn’t heard a beep in—

In—

His metal hand smashes into the side of the pod, denting the metal enough to expose a lip he can fasten his fingers around. He rips the panel away with a roar but it’s just an exterior support. There are so many more. So many.

He’s yelling at Steve, now, so Steve can hear him over the sound of Bucky tearing apart the pod. Screaming for him to stay, to wake up, to stay god please stay, because the monitor isn’t beeping anymore and—

The last hinge gives way with a shriek and the pod door goes crashing across the room. Searingly cold air blasts over him, forcing his eyes into a squint, but he reaches in blindly with his left hand and finds—

Nothing. The pod is empty. Blinking away tears, he stares at the unoccupied restraints in mute confusion, the adrenaline pumping through his veins only making that confusion spiral faster as frigid mist spreads across the floor. A blink and that mist is gone. The cold is gone.

A glance to the right: no vitals monitor. A glance back at the pod: no Steve.

There’s blood roaring in his ears, the ground is swaying under his feet, he can’t get enough air, and he's falling.

---

He comes to after a few seconds, finding himself sprawled on his right side. Another few seconds pass before he pieces together what happened and why his right shoulder and head ache. The wound in his chest is still bleeding. It’s the easiest thing to focus on with his mind fogged by confusion and pain.

Thick drops of blood pool around the fingers of his hand when he brings it near and then fall to the floor. He watches them, transfixed. And then notes how bright red his blood is. A good sign.

With a bit of effort, he gets his left hand braced against the floor in front of him and, fingers scraping on the concrete, slowly levers himself up while putting as little strain on his core as he can. He uses the cryo pod for support as he gets to his feet, leaving a bloody handprint on the metal. The front of his jacket is shiny with blood and the room spins a bit when he stands straight, but it’s manageable once he leans against the wall and takes a few measured breaths. He looks to his right; the cryo pod is empty.

Of course it is. Why wouldn’t it be?

#abb art #bucky barnes #winter soldier #the winter soldier #i should actually tag this fic probably uhhh #abb autoresurrection #technically this scene is from book 3 (of 3) and the first one was from book 1 #i didn't bother with a background this time 😊#my art

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