#and the memory will haunt you till the battlefield | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

widowsofchaos · 9 months ago

Note

could you please do prompt 168 with carol x fem reader? if you’re comfortable writing that of course:)

𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐥 𝐢𝐬 𝐭��𝐞 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐚�� 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐨𝐭

synopsis: Trying to find peace at your job’s gala, but a familiar haunting shadow finds you once more.

pairing: dark!Carol Danvers x brown!fem!reader

ao3 // modern au // 5k words.

warnings: dubious wlw smut (forced stimulation, vaginal fingering), stockholm syndrome, toxic established relationship, domestic violence, mention of childhood abuse.

a/n: Carol’s outfit reference. title is a reference to the song, Mary by Alex G. requested 168. “Don’t get too close to that one, she’ll singe your fingertips and have you on your knees.” from this dialogue prompt list. dog metaphors, because I must write pain. Channeled my inner amy dunne for Carol. I’m sorry that I’m just finishing this 2 years later, but I hope whoever requested this, I hope you see this! <3

“She became the parent, the lover, the friend you’ve always craved for—- and yet, here you are,”

The truth can sting, just the sharp tip of a knife, flickering at the raw flesh. Poking and prodding till there’s small plots of ichor forming.

“——broken…” Her index finger arched, halting her words, still a vivid memory, “…. but not beyond repair.”

A scoff escapes.

“What is love without hate, I guess.” Unconsciously it spewed from your lips, the vowels felt like acidic vomit. A pregnant silence arose.

That all knowing head tilt, with those observant eyes—- always earned uncomfortable tension within you.

“Love isn’t meant to be confused with hate.”

The cigarette burns slow between your clenched fingers, nursing three fingers deep. Brown liquor swishes against the carved rocks glass, its clear silver grooves twinkles under the gala’s vermilion hues.

Fragments of words compulsively knock against the walls of your brain; as you mull at the gala’s open bar. A scorned woman who just wants peace, and quiet. Lingering stains of hurt that can last a lifetime settles to silence for once in a long time.

Showered an ugly duckling with affections, and built the pillars of security. Growing up in a childhood filled with anxiety and fear of attachments, lingering stains of abuse from the very beings who birthed you into this world.

She cleaned you, bandaged the scars, and assured you that she was the only one who adored you—- persisted that she was the only one who would.

Now, fighting violently in the legal battlefield of divorce, these past weeks have been mentally exhausting —- all whilst handling the burdening responsibilities of your profession.

Your very mind and hands helped craft this sophisticated gallery.

Your boss, Mr. Laufeyson, opened a new exhibit in the National art museum—- Norse history, one of his niche fixations. A man birthed on Norwegian soil, but raised in the monarchal land of England.

An established man who often seeks to explore the rich culture of his ancestors with much sophisticated adoration, and esteem. The Norse exhibit is now the largest section of the institution, with vast collections of rare artifacts protected behind hard stainless glass.

He breathed down your neck for long weeks, you had the task of restoring each piece that had been brought in, nearly breaking your damn back from all the hovering.

A gala bustling with a sea of middle-class folk, and self-proclaimed aristocrats of New York. You sought solace at the open bar, smoking a stogie—- and slipping into the whiskey.

It wasn’t a preferred choice, but it helps give a quick kick to your nerves. Seeking solitude away from pressures to gallant with faux professionalism, and an particular noisy friend, who should be presenting the Norse gods section.

Earlier, she was pestering with a thousand questions flying by the mouth —- if you ever gave thought to rekindling with Carol.

Dissociating into a mindless static, flickering at your clear square nails, as your cigarette burns slowly. At first, the mention of this exhibit with your boss months ago sent you into a frenzy of joy, but now—- it’s a dreadful experience.

All you long for is to start your weekend, to cuddle with your daug—-

“What an incredible scent you have—-”

Oh God, no.

“—- is that Histoires de Parfums, 1969?”

Fuck.

“I haven’t been around that perfume in a long time.”

It’s as if she can smell you a mile away.

A sensual, purring voice whispers near you. A shadowing silhouette eclipses the shimmering ceiling lights from your peripheral vision.

Your lips wrinkle, restraining the foreboding tears of frustration. Tightly nodding, swallowing a sob. Your breathing becomes heavier.

A hum, “It really smells wonderful.” With precision, the shadow sits onto the empty seat beside you.

“Thank you.” A forced smile curls at your mouth.

“With that scent, I’m surprised you’re not being hounded by the men here tonight.” A subtle wordplay, are you looking for anyone tonight?

As if your mind has forgotten all the bad, and reminisces on the good, all the fun, all the beauty that once blossomed.

“It’s not men I'm looking for.” You whisper, snuffing the cigarette into a provided ash-tray. A creamy hand strokes your knuckles, and your skin shivers under your blouse.

A jolt to your groin, and your breath hitches. All she can do is just touch you, and it’s as if you can get on your knees, and forgive her for everything.

“Why?”

You can see that pearly grin, from the corner of your eye, teasing and twisting.

“They’re too easy to hunt?”

You exhale a chuckle, eyes still trained onto the glistening counter.

“They bore me.”

“So—” Her voice lulls as a moan, “—- see anyone worthwhile?” Her fingers curl around your glass, twirling it by the rim. Your lipstick stain faces her direction, and bold as always, she lifts for a sip. Connecting the lip stain to hers, her eyes never leave yours.

It’s not tacky, nor forceful. How she moves is as if it is her nature.

Your eyes gaze over your shoulder, taking a full look. Finally, to drink in the force of nature that is your estranged wife—- Carol.

Her blonde tresses cascade on her shoulders, milky breasts on display. A pristine, black dress, that cuts and splits at the chest hem, polished nails, and clean skin. Her dress halts near her knees.

“Well, I have my eye on a blonde tonight.” You say timidly. Tenderly, your eyes glance fleetingly, a quick trace over Carol’s bodice, nearly losing your composure.

A pregnant pause.

That pretty pink mouth stretches smugly, as if the cat that got the cream. The hooks caught the flesh.

“You like blondes.”

Her tone lingers as an open question, guising the truth.

“Just one in particular.”

Sinking now, the hooks are tugging.

“Really?” Carol leans, her eyes hooded. “Which one?” Pretending to scan her eyes across the ocean of people.

But your eyes remain fixated on her. As if you were a lost puppy, just gazing at its human. Lucidly, influcating between the spaces of yearning, and guilt.

How at ease Carol is, as if nothing was wrong. The charming woman, the woman you thought she was. The woman she wanted you to think she was.

“The one in the black dress.” You say softly, and defeated brown eyes.

Carol’s eyes gaze back at you from the corner of her oculus, downcasting with a mirth, humming a chuckle. “Don’t get too close to that one, she’ll singe your fingertips and have you on your knees.” She shakes her head, an enticing warning.

A dangerous but delicious fruit hanging at your reach. She wants you to take the bait, urging you to—- to get you back in her grasp, and if she does, she won’t let you go.

This game, a cat and mouse play, is all too familiar. Playing as strangers, attracted together by lust, and curiosities—- the type of curiosity to feel the other’s flesh, subtle carnality. Act out, with playful words, pretend to be different people.

It slowly suffocates you, a twang in your chest, a reminder that this isn’t normal.

She isn’t normal.

Carol can be an array of personalities, she can be the doting wife, the whore in bed, the mother—- she can be the bitch with a violent mouth. Different faces for different folk, no one knows her true self, and she’s good at it —- real good.

So, when you tried to seek help from friends, they couldn’t believe it, nor did they want to. You’re not surprised that Carol snuck into the gala—- your co-worker, Maria, who you thought was a true friend —- the matchmaker from hell, let her in, unknowingly allowing the terror onto you.

But, that’s no surprise. Maria has been Carol’s right hand since their days in the Air Force.

None of your friends believe you—- and, it’s hurtful to admit, you’re too scared to speak about all the hurt Carol made you endure over the years.

Barely spoke of the discomfort Carol used against you, and all your shared friends thought you misinterpreted. All saying that Carol is just head-strong, and that you two are perfect together.

Carol feeds the fire with a ‘She’s just going through a tough time.’

Boundaries aren’t respected, everyone trying to push you back together, inviting Carol in social events —- to the point where you didn’t go out anymore, and just drowned in work.

“I like challenges.” Carol softly leans in, her breath fans the bare skin of your shoulder, “All the more fun when I win.” Her voice drops low, to a wispy whisper.

Her body heat engulfs you, and your eyes droop with haziness for a slick second. You can’t—- not again. No matter how intoxicating she can be, how delicious, it’s not worth your peace.

You’re too drunk for this.

“This cat is too tired to entertain.”

“Who said you were the cat?” Carol’s brow arches, halting you in your step. Carol’s infliction hardens, from the corner of your oculus, you can see the clench of her jawline. That pretty mouth morphed into a restrained frown, the same one you see before a punishment.

An offense has been made.

“I didn’t realize the roles were switched.”

The mask slips.

It’s always her way, her rules. Because no matter how clever, how coy the mouse can be, the cat always wins.

“You’re getting brave on me?” Carol asks.

And now the mask has been dropped.

“I think it’s best I leave.” You quickly collect yourself, a bit wobbly from the alcohol. Leaning against the counter to regain your composure, trying to stand upright.

Not this time. You won’t fall for her charm.

Carol sucks her teeth, “You’re seriously going to leave? Aren’t you tired of this childish bullshit?” Crossing her arms against her chest, lips wrinkling into a scowl. Carol talks as if scolding a child.

Your body twists in a haste, “My bullshit?” Your teeth are gritting harshly, hissing. Angry eyes pierce over the hill of your shoulder, fingernails digging into the leather of your purse; if not the leather, her eyes preferrable.

But this is a place of work, no matter how elegant the night is, you will scream if you have to—- just to escape her. You click your tongue, shaking your head in disbelief.

“I mean I’m usually amused by your brattiness,” Carol laughs sarcastically. “But, now it’s gotten too far.” Her fingertips graze your arm, toying with you, soft and playful—— her fingers grasp your arm in a clutch, earning a whine.

Her eyes are hooded, nearly tugging you downwards. A whine bubbles at the pit of your throat, too terrified to even move.

“You have to come back home.” Carol says, a strain to be sweet, but it’s as if a monster tries to be human. “I miss you.” She purrs, but her eyes … are cold, and agitated.

You remain silent, closing your eyes shut, gliding down in your seat. “Carol… have you signed the divorce papers, yet?” Your eyes stay glued to the sticky counter.

Carol chuckles, “You’re going to try to talk business to me, and you can’t even look me in the eye?” Her baby pink polished nails thump against the bar, thump thump thump.

“I don’t want to fight anymore.”

“And neither do I.” She sips her drink, smirking into the cup, “But it seems my wife likes to play games.” So light, so sarcastic, chastising you as if this was a running joke on your end.

“Carol, for fucks sake.” You pinch the bridge of your nose, “You made me go crazy.” You bite on those words, full teeth. Fingers curling into makeshift claws, vowels spilling as acidic vomit.

“Controlled me, like I was your puppet.” Your fingers curl and slither in gesture. “Manipulated me against the world, against our friends.” Your mouth opened again, the words weighing heavy against your mouth, but a hum interrupted.

“Look up at me when you talk.” Carol says, your eyes peer up through your lashes, owlishly. “If you’re going to lie, you might as well make it convincing.” She licks her lips, tasting the remnants of her liquor.

“I —- I—” you can’t find the words to even respond. You stare at her incredulously, she will never admit to it. Even now, she has you questioning your own sanity, if it was even worth fighting against her.

It’s not worth screaming about it. Not anymore.

“I have to go.” Swiftly, you stand up, with a bated breath.

“That’s how you talk to the mother of your child?”

Stiffening, as the hairs that align a cat’s spine, “Don’t you dare!” Your index finger pointing, shouting in a hush. “Stop using Kamala against me—” your voice wavers, throat nearly choking a sob, “You did enough of that in court.” Big brown eyes sheening wet, the last nerve shot.

Trying to maintain a level of calm, eyes fluttering back and forth around, seeing if anyone has witnessed your outburst.

“I don’t even have to do that,” Carol’s open palm gestures to your rigid stance, “she can see perfectly fine how erratic you’ve been.” Carol hisses, making your nose scrunch up.

Kamala adores — idolizes— Carol. So memorized by her strong, willful mother, since she was a waddling baby.

You haven’t dared utter a bad word about Carol in-front of Kamala, fearing to shatter the fragile bubble you curated as a shield for her. You wouldn’t let her witness the court meetings, especially the negotiations of joint custody.

By every fiber of your being, you’ve tried to make this separation as discreet as possible—- but Carol has been a devil, bulldozing those efforts. To make you appear as the bad parent.

You can’t stand her lawyer, Carol hired one who hails from Hell’s Kitchen—- fitting since he’s a thorn upon your rib. Subtlety bringing up your mental health, questioning your abilities as a mother —- no doubt, Carol was chewing his ear off about your past.

All Kamala knows is that her mothers are splitting up, with foreign lawyers, and that she now has to split weekends—- those pained brown eyes, her puffed cheeks, it kills you deeply—- all the guilt weighs on you, it feels as if you’re to blame for all the problems.

“You’ve taken so much from me, Carol.” You lean in, kneeling at her eye level. “My dignity, my peace— shit— even my sanity.” Your body anxiously fidgeting, breath quickening.

“But I will not, let you take my child away from me.” Your fingers dive into your purse, fumbling with irate, snagging the last cash you had—- with the finality of this conversation, slamming the money onto the marble countertop.

You carried Kamala, incubated inside you for nine months, fed her from your breast—- you will not lose her, not over your cold dead body.

“Goodnight, Carol.”

Sharply, you turn on your heel, leaving Carol without turning back. Walking with a gait, faking confidence, but truly at your core, a gnawing sense of uneasiness.

The corridor stretches as a miniature maze, the more you descend out of the gala, the less crowded it is. Turning left and right, trying to find the exit.

The ambiance is of grainy gray, the tinted blurred windows are foggy with the night’s shadows.

The echoes of clicking heels are faint, your mind doesn’t register, as your own feet and mind are stuck on auto-pilot.

“There she goes again,” an agitated voice snags your attention, brows furrowing, “always acting like the little victim.”

Not granted the chance to realize, in a flash, just as quick as you turned your head, rough hands grab you by the curve of your shoulders, throttling you against the chilled wall pavement.

Earning a hiss, and a gasp, stinging pain births and stretches along the muscles of your spine. Quickly, your fingers fruitlessly try to claw at Carol’s, but all it does is make her more enraged.

Carol thrashes you once more against the wall, and another for good measure; airy gasps of pain escapes you, tears beading at your lashes. That militant discipline seeps from her pores, it’s not a stranger to you, the rough edges of her touch is a familiar bruise.

“It may have worked with the rest of the world,” Carol barks in your face, nose to nose, “but it’s not going to work with me.”

Sniffling, your chin wobbles, trying to restrain a sob that burns your throat raw.

Carol hums, that tut of a sympathetic mother, “Look at us.” Her thumbs rubbing your shoulders, pressing on the blooming bruises. “I don’t like it when we fight.

Eerily, she influcates from predator to savior, “You always get erratic, and you know it upsets me.” Leaning in, her pink lips press a kiss on a falling tear.

“Where’s my special girl?” Carol whispers. Fear is beating inside of you, buzzing as tv static. Staring at Carol through your hooded lids, terrified, and confused.

Carol purrs, awaiting for an answer.

“I’m here.” Barely a murmur, you speak softly.

Carol thrives off of her aggression. But it’s not the traditional masculinity that some women possess in their personalities. She feels it’s the only gift her father ever gave her.

“It’s very cute that you try to fight me.” Carol mocks, her knuckles stroke your cheek. Carol hums, her eyes tracing over every facial feature.

“Let me see if she missed me.”

A string of no no no slip from you meekly.

One of Carol’s hands graze over your shoulder, twirling her fingers into your hair—- gripping between her fingers tightly. To then cup the nape of your neck, her thumb pressing slightly over your pulse point.

As she has you pinned by the scruff, her other hand flows down your cavlices, to your clothed breast—- she snags the collar to expose skin.

Groping a handful of your tit, she mutters still so soft, traveling down the path of your navel—- with a quick precision, Carol snatches your groin; more like clawing.

A sharp gasp escapes you, and all she does is laugh.

A quick glance at the end of the hallway, praying that nobody turns the corner. Carol snickers. “Afraid someone will catch us?” You exhale a huff, nose flaring.

“I remember you used to be quite adventurous.”

“That’s when I was young and stupid.”

Her eyes narrow, pinching your vagina in her hand even tighter. With her knee, she wedges her thigh between your shaky legs, spreading you more open.

Slithering her hand through the stitched fabric, her knuckles stroking your sensitive skin. Your breathing becomes heavier, and all she does is smirk.

Moving your panties to the side, Carol’s makes herself home to your body. Ashamed to feel yourself grow wet, and Carol moans.

“It seems she missed me.”

All unbridled frustration hits the hilt, you cry in a stretched whine, thrashing in her hold. In need to escape, you wanted to go home, away from her.

All these weeks of trying to flee from her, do the right thing to gain custody, to live a good life, give your daughter stability —- all of it goes down the drain by her simple touch.

Beating on her arms with fists, slapping and trying to knee her in a weak spot. Carol’s eyes darken—- as if she’s bored of the insolence.

Carol pushes her weight onto you, pinning to the wall. And her fingers don’t cease on her assault.

“I hate you.” You choke on a wail, your head tilting up as a child.

“I’ve saved you.” An expert circular motion of her fingertips, sending a jolt to your bundle of nerves.

“Who else can say that?” Carol leans in, her head tilting, as her lips meet your cheek.

Softly, she kisses you, caressing and grazing against the skin of your cheek.

“I took care of you, and you just want to leave?” Carol’s pink tongue slithers between her lips, licking and nibbling. Boldly, her fingers dove between your folds, playing with your wetness.

“You wanted a savior, baby, I’m it.” The bridge of Carol’s nose traces yours, humming at the wet sensation of your tears. “You were nothing before me—-” another finger plunging inside you, “—- and you will be nothing after me.”

“I — I — would rather be alone.” You say with a stammer, lips wet with tears. Mouth curling into a brave scowl, regaining some bravery, “I’ll be fine.”

Carol’s face leans a little back, tilting her head mockingly. “When I say nothing after me, I mean it—-” Carol’s teeth bare as fangs, “you’ll be buried six feet deep, before I let you go.” Her fingers grip the nape of your neck, tugging you in.

“No one can ever have you.” She whispers.

Your eyes are owlish, you don’t doubt her…. her time in the boot camp was extensive, you felt her trained strength many times—- she loves like a knife. Many bruises healed over the years.

Not brutal beatings, but very handsy.

A glimmer of fear suffocates you, your body keels as a leashed dog.

Her fingers slither against your peach fuzz, slipping between your mound, toying with your wetness. Splitting your velvety folds apart, Carol vulgarly strokes you with her fingers sloppily, staining the hem of your panties.

Carol grinds herself onto your thigh, you can feel a wet spot pooling at her silk panties. Your fingers are digging into her forearms. A rough dance of humping and grinding, both reaching for a high.

Your wet walls can’t help but suck her inside, clenching tight. Fiercely plunging in and out—— it’s been some time. Since the last time, you were touched. It’s bordering on painful, a bit tight.

You did entertain another for a while. A woman you met at a bar. Short dark chestnut hair, a soft posh english accent, a bold yet cheeky mouth. She said her name was G’iah, you never met anyone with such a name.

Despite the attraction, the idea of offering yourself physically was too overwhelming. But, the emotional energy was wonderful. It was a breath of fresh air.

You just couldn’t bring yourself to love another.

Skin screaming for touch, yet your heart is trying to fight back. The flesh only reminisces the good, but all the hurtful memories are chained to your mind.

Carol’s mouth ajar, hovering over the meat of your cheek. Your face scrunches, eyes tight, a whine boils at your throat. She breathes a chuckle. She always finds amusement in your misery.

Carol loves to play God—- the Old Testament God. In the carnal sense, and in spite. Worship her, and only need her, obey every command, but commit a sin—- and she shall see to it, that her pettiness will rule over your life.

Her fingers spread, your slick connects to her fingertips, flickering the gossamer thin threads between her expert fingers, diving into you.

Her teeth grazes your cheek, her warm breath cascading against your mouth. Torn between closing your thighs to stop her, or thrust your hips into her hand.

Carol’s tongue slips out, and kitten licks your parted lips. Her pink tongue licks your canines, inhaling your breath. Sweet scent of liquor coats your tongue, Carol suckles into her mouth, moaning at the taste.

A lewd pop comes from Carol pulling back on your tongue, as her fingers curl harsher. Bordering on pain, the pleasure is electric. Pulsing through you, as her thumb toys with your swollen clit.

Her moans are animalistic, you can feel her pussy splitting, a sensation of silk and waxed bare skin. Her clit is grinding fully onto your thigh. It feels so damn good.

A part of you wants her to cum on you. To use you.

Carol’s face tilts away from yours. Her brown eyes swirl with malice, narrowing for a split moment. A smile stretches.

“Kamala would be so hurt to lose her mommy—” Carol’s words earn a mean eye from you, but all she does is laugh humorlessly. “How could you abandon our child?”

Like a stab to your heart, Carol just twists the edge deeper. Her fingers still deep inside you, clenching in need for her to finish— to get you right at the precipice.

“I would never leave Kamala,” you speak with a strain, a rough slice at your throat. “I love her.” Bordering on pleading, your eyes water-sunk.

“Then why do you make her cry?”

“What?”

“Every night she asks why her mom isn’t home,” Carol leans more of her weight on your belly. Her fingers fucking you harshly, hitting that sweet spot so perfectly. Your juices are now soaking down her hand.

“She cries till she falls asleep. She thinks you hate her.”

Torn between rutting your hips into her palm, grinding and fucking her fingers as if it was one of Carol’s toys —- and the need for space, to free yourself from these clutches.

Salty tears fall to your wrinkling lips, shaking from silent tears.

“It doesn’t have to be this way,” Carol says, her voice smooth and affectionate. Her lips pouted, “We can be together again.” Her shiny blonde hair kisses her lashes, in the grainy city lights, she looks innocent.

“Don’t you want to be a family again?”

She pushes her fingers further, slowly playing with your clit— and then stops, edging you. She can feel your spongy walls nearly spasming. Carol knows how to play the strings of your flesh.

Damn her.

“I do.” Your voice gurgles in a sob.

You know she’s tricking you… and you enjoy it.

In some deep seeded—- an absolutely fucked —- part of you, relishes in it. Because it’s all you know. But, it’s that glimmer of tenderness, the kisses, and honeyed words that pulls you back in.

Back to mutilate yourself on her knife over and over again. And isn't that what love is? Carol would say, time and time again, after the dust settles from her fits of rage.

Wet squelching floods your ears, echoing throughout the empty hallway. Your hand trails to her waist, gripping her dress, roughly grazing the smooth skin of her waist.

Legs entangled, and Carol’s thrusts are getting faster, sloppy. Her moans are getting high-pitched, away from primal and more girlish.

You cling to her, in this moment, you just need to feel anything. And you know she needed it too.

A burst of euphoria, hanging onto each other, as if both would fall apart. Carol felt it, how you spasmed on her fingers. Clenching so tight, trapping her hand for a moment.

Bated breaths dance against each other, hair flying by the breeze of huffing. Yours are gasps of relief.

In a desperate plea, you reach for a kiss, but Carol pulls away.

“I hope you learned something …” Carol hisses, her fingers stroking between your slippery folds, agitating your over-stimulated clit. The meat of your thigh quivers, tailbone pinching as you try to mesh into the wall, far from her.

Carol takes her fingers out, leaving behind an empty feeling—- like a void. Without blinking, Carol unabashedly suckles on her two fingers, tasting you.

“I hope you make the right decision.” Carol whispers against her tips. Pulling her warm weight off of your bodice, a chill sweeps against the tepid sense of your belly.

Carol hums for a moment with a stony face. She tugs on the collar of your dress, the top of your bosom exposed —- it was a stiff gesture.

Without a word, Carol posed her spine, and walked away, a snide side-eye.

Leaving you behind with an ache between your thighs, love bites across your chest, and fresh bruises. Left behind in the chilled hallway, and in wrinkled attire —- as if you were a used whore.

Your head falls, crying into your chest. Your fingers pulling your dress down, your inner thighs tender. Your fingertips touch the wet spot Carol left behind near your knee.

A pause.

It’s wrong, but you crave her taste. Suckling your fingertips into the cave of your mouth.

You can still smell her fragrance lingering—- and yet, you crave it, hoping it clung to your dress.

Timid footfalls carry you through the high-end residential hallway. Bated breath, and in wrinkled clothes, you lift and loosely drop your luggage in your grip. Pacing back and forth, trying to salvage any scrap of courage to knock.

Your head is bowing down, chin to chest. A stop in-front of the door. The reasoning motivating your surrender blurs—- is it for Kamala only, or is it also that a loyal dog who always forgives?

A silent white flag has been waived.

A lonely dog always comes back.

Dull steps creep closer, syncing with the beat of your heart. One unlock, and another follows. Defeat seeps from your pores, a bone-rattling warning siren echoing in the rush of your ears.

The door knob slowly twists, as if she’s mocking you. But not a second more, the door creaks open. Green eyes blink back with mirth, and a smile.

No words are needed.

Carol hums, stroking your hair, fingers gliding down the terrain of your neck, guiding you inside by the nape of your neck.

Awaiting on the bed is a silk nightie, and skincare, curated by Carol’s choice. Pristine, wrinkled-free silk. Not one flaw in sight.

She knew you would come back. A cocky woman, and yet she’s never wrong. A stir of irate coils in your belly, but it’s snuffed before it can disrupt.

In the dark, you tip-toe down the hall. Elated and relieved, it felt like a century crept by, but it was only a week of separation.

Weekends weren’t enough. You needed to see her everyday.

Brown fingers slowly grasp at the knob, twisting open. The white walls are adorned by the flash of a night light that glows small stars glimmering against the ceiling.

A room of action figures, anime, music posters and a wall dedicated to her drawings. That familiar scent that never really went away, that baby smell that clung to her as an infant.

Kneeling into her bed, curling under the blanket. Legs curling underneath you, knees bent, as you caress Kamala’s scalp, furling her hair behind the shell of her ear. Your brown fingers melt into the onyx shine of her tresses.

Her sleepy cheeks puffed, she looks like a sleeping cherub. Silently, tears cascade against the hill of your nose, staining the pillow sheet.

For months, you’ve tried to conjure ideas on how to run away from this life with Kamala, but all your ideas end up in the possible reality of being arrested with charges of kidnapping, and never seeing your daughter again.

The truth of the matter is -— you will crawl skin bare in the deepest parts of hell just for her. Suffering silently in these marital ruins, for the sake of being able to raise your only child, is what you will do.

You don’t know what you want with Carol —- you don’t have anything else to offer as a wife, besides submitting your entire being as a sacrificial offering.

It’s all she ever wanted. Wholesome love is seen as a defect in Carol’s eyes, a trait taught to her by her father. Control over everything is what brings her peace. And being cared for is what brings you solace.

The only person in the world Carol doesn’t unleash her wrath upon, who she adores entirely, is Kamala. Never once has Carol raised her voice, nor her hand at Kamala.

It’s disturbing, to see Carol be so genuine in her affections.

But, you’re ever so grateful. Despite being a masochist, under all the rubble harboring in your cavity— is a little girl suffocating for tenderness. For anything, just for someone to hold her.

Carol is a peculiar creature, and yet she has driven you to the brink of madness over the last stretched months, because she can’t bear to lose you —-- that has to mean something, right?

But as you lay here, wallowing in the dead silence, staring at Kamala slumbering —-a thought came to you; a lingering fear. Paranoia gnawing at you, chewing away bit by bit.

You wouldn’t want Kamala to suffer like this one day.

#widowsofchaos wrote this #carol danvers x reader #dark Carol Danvers x reader #carol danvers x female reader #dub non con #dark elements #lesbian Carol Danvers

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justahopelessaromantic · 1 year ago

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Memories (Ch. 2: Deku)

Fandom: My Hero Academia Links to Chapters 1, 3, 4, 5, and 6 Summary: They'll probably write memoirs about all this. That or they’ll pay someone else to. When they're all retired top heroes, of course, ready to share their life stories with the public they’ve spent their lives protecting. Who knows? It might even inspire the next generation of crime fighters! Maybe they'll even throw together a neat little scrapbook or something as a class this year and give it to Mr. Aizawa as a gift. For now, it'll just have to settle for rattling around in their brains every once and a while. You know. Like memories do.

Deku remembers cold hard marble

Pressing against his hand

Face smushed

Nuzzling into the soft silk of his sleeve

Scattered sand and dirt scrapes his palm and finger pads

As he runs a thumb against his notebook’s torn pages

To steady himself,

Deku says

Inko doesn’t believe a word of it

Either way,

She snaches his hand

Before he even sets his bag down

Crinkles her nose

Staring so hard

He swears she’ll see right through him

Swipes her thumb

Right underneath the cut

Tilts her head up

Catches his crybaby virus

Holds him close to her chest

And she does not get it

But she understands

And that’s enough for him

Unamused eyes bear into him

Kaachan’s haunt him till the bell rings

Kaachan haunts him till he perishes

Bleeding out on some unnamed battlefield

Weeping so softly

No one hears a sound

He shakily brings himself to his feet

Frantically wiping at hot tears

Eyelids stringing with dirt

Rough and raw

Cheeks burning in…

Shame?

Embarrassment?

Fear?

Frustration?

He could never tell back then

Harsh sobs no longer stirs up pity and concern among his desensitized peers

No longer impress

He’s done it too many times

Maybe he ought to make a note of that in his notebook

To remember it

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mercurygguk · 4 years ago

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winter soldier | jjk

genre; winter soldier/avengers au, angst/smut/fluff

pairing; winter soldier!jungkook x avenger!female reader

summary; the love of your life died during ww2, they honored his death. you had never imagined you’d ever see him again until you’d join him in death, but here he is and he’s trying to kill you. he’s not himself at all. you, however, insist that the man you used to know is still in there somewhere.

word count; 6,764

warnings; descriptions of war/battle/fight scenes, descriptions of scars, the rest of the avengers joins the party, reader is like Cap A but not like Cap A, you know??, jungkook looking hella hot with his long hair and steel arm, inspiration from ‘captain america: winter soldier’, swearing, SMUT; explicit sexual activities, oral (f. receiving), love making at its highest- nothing kinky, just plain ol’ sex

a/n; okay so um, i’m binge-watching the avengers movies atm and i was watching Captain America: Winter Soldier. i kid you not, throughout the entire movie i was imagining what jungkook would look like as the winter soldier- jungkook combined with superheroes is like the perfect story, amirite?? ;)) enjoy!

ps. once again, i didn’t proof read so ignore my possible mistakes lol

(for reference, this is what jungkook’s hair looks like in this fic)

War.

Terrorizing. Horrifying. Absolutely petrifying.

There are several words to use when talking about it, describing it, reliving it. Once you’ve experienced it, it will haunt you till the day you die and even beyond that. There isn’t much positive to take from it, not many positive memories come to you as you think back to the time during war. Only one positive memory returns to you from those dark times...

Him.

Him who did not fit in with the military services due to his lack of strength and speed. Him who never let anyone step upon him and evolved with the job. Him who never backed down from a challenge or an order given from the highest ranks. Him who had braveness unlike anyone, loyalty like no other, a will to fight for what’s worth it and to win. Him who made you fall for him without meaning to. Him who promised he would always come back to you, no matter what happened.

And then one day he didn’t. They had told you he went down in the fight, died for his country, for his team. He hadn’t hesitated to sacrifice himself, thrown himself towards the threat in the hopes of ending it for everyone once and for all. That he did. He killed himself in the process of saving everyone else.

A hero is what they had called him. Honored his name, saluting as they all stood facing his military photograph, serious faces and emotionless eyes all over. Tears had filled your eyes that day, but they didn't fall. You refused to let them. There was no way you would cry because of a liar. A coward, really. Anger kept you going, anger aimed at him. A rage so intense that you would convince yourself that you hated him. Some people would call you selfish, selfish for hating a man who sacrificed himself for everyone else. They were right. You were selfish. But love makes you selfish, and you loved him. So ridiculously much.

Years later, decades into the new century he remains as a positive yet heartbreaking and frustrating memory in your mind and heart. You haven’t aged a day thanks to the advanced technology and the project you offered to be the experiment of, in the end of the war. After his death and the war seeming more out of control than ever, you thought there wasn’t much more to live for, so you volunteered. A successful masterpiece, professor Kim had said as you regained consciousness on the lab table. You were his greatest, most succeeded experiment. You still are, except for the fact that Kim Namjoon is no longer walking among people on earth.

Now you’re living as the successful masterpiece he has created. Stronger, faster – young too even though your real age is something near 98. It doesn’t show. You look like any other 23-year-old but with extraordinary strength and speed. Being a part of a team as the Avengers truly has given you a meaning of life, a purpose that you didn’t feel you had before joining this outstanding team of superheroes as some would call you.

But as you stand here, in the middle of a battlefield that is scarily similar to those back in the 1940’s, you feel small. Gunshots fire around you, flying past your head and ringing in your ears. Explosions going off from the shots fired by Stark, Iron Man as he’s known as. The grounds breaking from the power of Thor’s hammer, the bad guys falling like flies in the hands of Widow. You’re watching it all unfold, breathing for a split second as robots are charging at you with red, glowing eyes.

For God’s sake, just how many of these are there?

Keeping yourself from rolling your eyes in pure annoyance, you set off running towards them with an unmatched speed, fists up and ready to take them out. One goes down after another, surrendering to your very angry, very powerful fists. Your patience is running thin as the robots keep appearing from left and right, setting their focus on you as demanded by whoever’s controlling them. A person you haven’t managed to find yet, but determined to hunt down and put a bullet through their head.

“Hey, Thor!” You call out to the nordic God flying around you, punching fists through robots and throwing his hammer at them. He glances your way, finding you surrounded by robots, too many for you to fight by yourself. “A lil hand here?”

He nods in response, immediately dropping to the ground and plunging his hammer into the asphalt on the ground, lightning seeping through the ground and into the robots, taking them down and splitting them in half. Thor throws a smug smirk at you before turning back around to fight another round of robots. You roll your eyes, about to run off when shots are being fired at you.

“Shit!” You hiss, running to hide behind a tipped-over truck while fishing out a gun from the strap around your thigh. You lean out, aiming in the direction of the shots. There is a man with long, dark hair, a black mask covering half his face and a silver arm that does not look familiar at all. The mysterious man steps onto the railing of the bridge he fired shots from, hard glare focused on you as he steps out and lets himself fall to the ground beneath the bridge. He lands on his feet, supporting himself with the silver fist into the asphalt. He stands to his height, walking straight towards you and leaving a mark in the asphalt where he had landed. Your eyes widen as he holds up a machine gun, opening fire at you as you scramble to run off while loading more shots into your gun.

Peeking around the corner of the brick building you’re hiding behind, you hold your gun up to aim at him. You fire a bullet, hitting his silver arm. He doesn’t budge, the bullet not even leaving a bump in the silver.

“What the-” you gape, firing shots again. He holds his silver hand up, the bullets bouncing off like they’re made of cotton, still walking towards you with eyes focused on you. There’s something about him that seems familiar – maybe his build? Or the way he walks? Or was it the slightly curly hair on top of his head? You can’t quite pin it as you watch him get closer, fists clenched tightly at his sides as if he’s ready to throw punches at you. You contemplate running to him, throwing the first punch at him before he gets to you. There is a slight hesitancy in your body as you can’t shake off how awfully familiar he seems the closer he gets to you. Knowing what the right thing to do is, you step out from your hiding spot, collecting all strength as you charge at him. A yell of anger and confusion rumbles from your chest as you jump on the last step, fist pulled back only for it to be forced forward and into the center of the mysterious man’s chest.

He stumbles back slightly, gaining his balance quickly before he steps closer, throwing a punch at you as well. You dodge, throwing your leg into his side in a strong kick. He grunts as he catches your leg, pulling on it to force you towards him. You ram into him, his clenched fist connecting with your jaw. You groan in pain as you fall to the ground, landing before his feet. Squinting at him, you watch as he kneels down over you, holding you down against the ground. As he stares at you, raising his hand to deliver a punch to your face again, you realize it as your eyes meet his. You gasp softly, not believing the sight in front of you. It’s a known fact that you would recognize those deep, brown eyes anywhere in any given moment.

“J-Jungkook?”

The sound of your voice, the sound of his name falling from your lips has him freezing for a split second. His eyes shift between yours as he slowly begins to sink his fist. But not even seconds later he’s raising his fist again and that’s when you can tell that he does not recognize you. He is looking at you as if you’re a complete stranger, like he didn’t spend the last year of his life telling you that he loved you more than life itself.

His gaze fills with the only feeling he feels, hatred. He moves to force his silver fist down and into your face, a face he used to call beautiful as he traced his finger tips along the edges. You barely dodge it, trying your very best to meet his eyes again as you call his name.

“Jungkook!” You fight the tears that are brimming your eyes as you continue to dodge his hits the best you can, “Hey! It’s me!”

He’s not holding off, continuing to throw punches at you and hitting the asphalt as you squirm in between his thighs. He’s impeccably strong, the asphalt cracking under the jabs of his fists. His thighs are keeping you in place as he pins you to the ground, your arms locked along your sides. You know he’ll punch you to death if you don’t get inside his head. It seems nearly impossible as his eyes are trained on you, emotionless and angry, only a small glimt of the man you used to know in them.

“____! Might wanna duck down a bit,” Tony shouts as he flies in your direction, his glowing hand aimed at Jungkook.

Your eyes widen in horror as you scramble together all the strength you have, throwing Jungkook off you and away from the deathly ray of light coming from Tony’s palm.

“No!”

The shot hits the asphalt a few meters away from you, nearly grazing Jungkook but it doesn’t, thankfully. Tony is shocked as he comes to a halt in the air, staring between Jungkook and you. You wave a hand at him. “I got him,” you assure him as you pant out breaths of air, nodding towards Widow and Thor, “go help the others.”

The man in the iron suit in front of you seems to hesitate for a second as he looks at you. He catches the pleading look on your face, glancing back at Jungkook for a moment before nodding at you once and flying in the direction of Widow and Thor, aiming his shots at the robots that are still coming from all sides. You turn your attention back to Jungkook, the body of the love of your life but not the eyes or mind of him.

“Jungkook,” you try again, slowly stepping closer as he stays still, slightly shocked that you had saved him from Iron Man’s deadly shot, “it’s me, ____.”

You’re begging, tone pleading him and hands up in surrender as you slowly step closer to him. He’s breathing hard, chest rising and falling in deep breaths. His eyes are dark, cold and distant as you get even closer. He’s frozen in his spot. He seems confused behind that hard expression, confused because you look less terrified than you did before realizing who he is. He doesn’t flinch or move away from your hand as it inches closer to his face, reaching for the black mask on his face.

“Hey,” you softly say, hesitating to touch him as you let a single tear escape and roll down your cheek. Something flashes in his eyes as he looks into your wet eyes, a small hint of recognition, familiarity too. Maybe he remembers. You hope he does. He lets you pull the black mask off completely, the strong line of his jaw appearing in front of you as well as his pink lips you used to kiss so often in that hidden place you liked to meet almost every night. “It’s me,” you whisper, “it’s ____.”

You’re afraid you’re imagining things as tears build up in the corner of his eyes, his jaw tightening. It’s too much for him. The memories returning with full force, the emotions filling his chest and warming it for the first time in 70 years. He wants to cry. He doesn’t know whether it's happiness because you’re right here in front of him, after he thought he would never get to see you again as he took his last breath back in 1944, or sadness because he’s well aware that he almost killed you if you hadn’t pushed him off you.

“____?” His voice betrays him as it cracks, your name coming out in a croaked voice. More tears escape as you hear your name falling from his lips for the first time since that morning in the military camp where he said ‘see you soon’ and then never returned. He freezes as you throw yourself at him, arms wrapped around him as you pull him closer in a tight hug. The sniffles and muffled cries you let out breaks his emotionless, cold heart and filling it with a warmth he hasn’t felt in so long. A tear escapes from the corner of his eye as he lets his own arms snake their way around your waist, hugging you just as tight as you hug him.

Relief.

That’s what he’s feeling.

Jungkook wanders around inside Stark’s office, eyes exploring things as he calmly runs his silver hand over them. You watch him from a few feet away, arms crossed over your chest. Worry is filling your entire body as his back is turned to you. He still doesn’t seem like himself. There is something about him that makes you anxious, something about him makes you wonder if he’ll turn at any moment, falling back into whatever sort of amnesia he has been experiencing for the past decades.

You jump in surprise when the door opens beside you, revealing Tony. He notices your jumbled state, giving you a small, half smile. You turn your eyes back to Jungkook who’s picking at an ancient-looking sculpture on Tony’s desk causing Tony to take a step closer.

“Hey! Buddy!” He calls out, catching Jungkook’s attention. “Don’t touch that, please. It’s antique.”

Jungkook steps away from the desk, hands up in mock surrender, emptiness in his eyes as if he couldn’t care less about Tony’s antique sculpture. No one really cared about that sculpture. It’s doomed to break at some point when it’s placed in his office, in the Avengers building.

“Tony,” you catch the attention of the older man, looking straight at him with hopeful, desperate eyes, “can you help him?”

He turns to face Jungkook, looking him over from head to toe. “Friday, give me a scan of whatever’s controlling Jungkook.”

Anticipated, you wait while biting a nail. Jungkook doesn’t move an inch as Friday scans him for anything to help Tony figure out a way to help. He’s glancing from Tony to you, his eyes meeting yours. Seconds. It takes seconds from his stare meeting yours to something flicking behind his dark brown irises, something inside of him snapping like the tips of someone’s fingers. Your eyes widen in panic as you move to stand between Tony and Jungkook.

“Tony!” You shout, moving fast as you try to get in between the two men. Tony has already activated his iron hand, catching Jungkook’s silver fist right before it hits him square in the face. You come to a halt, staring in surprise as Tony tightens his hold on Jungkook’s fist, forcing him to the ground. “Tony, please, don’t hurt him. He’s not in his right mind!”

“Oh, really?” Tony scoffs, sarcasm dripping from each word. A small yelp leaves your mouth as Tony kicks his knee up under Jungkook’s jaw, knocking him out. Jungkook falls limp to the floor, eyes closed as he’s kicked unconscious by Tony. You kneel down beside him, brushing his long strands of hair out of his face. He looks peaceful as he lays there, completely unconscious, and yet there’s a furrowed look on his face, like he’s never free from whatever that is controlling him. You sigh deeply, head dropping as you cradle Jungkook’s hand in your own. Tony’s palm rests on your shoulder. You glance up at him. He gives you a small, reassuring smile.

“Don’t worry, we’ll help him,” he tells you. You nod, knowing he spoke the truth.

“Thank you.”

The frustrated look and furrowed eyebrows are gone. He looks genuinely peaceful this time, long lashes resting on the top of his cheeks as he rests beneath the sheets on your bed. You can’t help yourself as you reach out, palm cupping his cheek, your thumb brushing over his cheekbone in a soft caress. Hopefully you’ll have the love of your life back once he wakes up from the deep sleep Tony put him in.

You’re about to move away, retrieving your hand from his cheek just as you hear him whimper softly. Turning back to him, you watch as his lower lip begins to quiver, eyebrows furrowed tightly together. “No,” he whimpers again, head shaking in his sleep. “Please, no! Don’t!”

Worry fills you once again as you sit on the edge of the bed beside him, hands cupping his face between them. “Jungkook,” you softly call, trying your best to wake him without startling him. “Jungkook, my love, please wake up. Please!”

Startled, you gasp as his eyes shoot open, his lips parting as he gasps for air. He’s looking right into your startled, widened eyes. It takes a minute for him to realize who you are and where he is, the surroundings not seeming familiar at all, but it feels nice. The aura, the warmth and the dimmed lighting in the bedroom where he’s tucked under the sheets.

“Hey,” you breathe out as you smile, not sure what to say to him. Tony had made sure to help him, get whatever that was controlling him out of him, his head to himself now and slowly filling with memories, both good and bad ones. “How are you feeling?”

He groans as he moves to sit up. You help him straighten up, making sure he has a pillow for his back as he leans back against the head of the bed. He closes his eyes tightly together as he drops his head back, still trying to calm his erratic breathing. You sit back in the chair you had pulled to the bedside when you got here.

“I feel…” he begins, words feeling foreign on his tongue as he speaks with a croaking voice. He sighs deeply. This is a lot for his head to take in in just one day. “I feel like my head is about to explode.”

Your smile is careful as you look at him. “Makes sense,” you softly say, watching him glance at his arm only to notice the silver is still there, like he had hoped it would be gone. It’s easy to tell the arm itself is a symbol of a very dark time as he looks at it and then looks away from it. He isn’t fond of the silver arm, obviously having a love-hate relationship with it as it has given him power and strength he never had to begin with and problems he never voluntarily wanted in the first place. There’s pain in his eyes as he glances at you, shame as he cowers under your gaze.

You frown deeply. “What happened to you?” You ask, voice barely above a whisper. He closes his eyes, not really wishing to go back to those dark times where his life was saved and changed for the worse. The dark times where he became a shadow of himself and a manipulated soldier, brainwashed to take orders from others.

“I, uh, I don’t think-“ he stumbles over his words.

You place your hand over his actual hand, your thumb brushing the skin there. He glances at where you’re touching him before looking up at you. You’re hurting, it’s easy to see. It’s not your own pain though, it’s his. You’re feeling pain for him, hurting because he went through things he never should have, things where death would’ve been much less painful. You want to kiss him, kiss it all better if that was possible.

“You can tell me,” you whisper, pleading him to confide in you, to tell you what happened to him all those years ago.

He sighs deeply, turning his hand over to wrap it around yours. A rush runs through your stomach as he grips onto your hand with a hold so tight that you find yourself promising him silently that you’ll never let go again by giving his hand a small squeeze.

“They found me a few days later,” he starts, gaze focusing on the way yours and his fingers intertwine with each other like they’re meant to do it, “in the ruins of buildings. I-I wasn’t fully awake when they did, only just coming to my senses again after the explosion that was meant to kill me.”

You’re focusing on his hand in yours now, not able to look into his eyes as he tells the story of how he ended up here, 70 years later, and still looking like himself but with longer hair and impeccable strength.

“I didn’t recognize them. They wouldn’t tell me anything. They took me to this place, a bunker or something like that. There was this huge laboratory inside with equipment way ahead of its time,” he looks confused as he relives the horrifying moments, “I was placed in a chair and the next thing I know they’re sawing my arm off-“

You whimper. “Oh, god,” tears dwell in your eyes as you grip his hand tightly.

“____, I have never felt as much pain as I did that day,” he looks you straight in the eye, the pain from that day flashing over his face as he recalls it, the feeling of it. “And all I could think about while they turned me into this- this monster… was that I lied to you.”

You shake your head in denial. “No, Jungkook,” you whisper, “you couldn’t know. You couldn’t.”

He offers you a small half-smile, remorse covering his features as he reaches up with his silver hand, careful as he lets the fingertips of it brush your hair out of your face.

“I’m sorry I gave you an empty promise,” he whispers, silver fingertips brushing against the side of your face. You cover it with your own hand, letting him cup your face in the cold silver. He leans closer, hissing lightly as pain shoots up the side of his torso. “I’m sorry that I didn’t come back to you like I promised.”

“You did though,” you sigh deeply, resting your forehead against his. “You’re right here.”

He nods softly, his eyes shifting between yours.. “and I won’t leave again,” he assures you before hesitating, shrugging as he adds; “unless you want me to.”

You chuckle through the tears that had built up in your eyes. He’s smiling at you as you reach up to cup his face in your palms, brushing your thumb across his cheeks. He’s watching you, still not quite believing that you’re here with him. After so long. 70 years of wondering if you’re still alive. 70 long years of wondering where you were in the world. 70 unbearable years of longing for your touch, your soft, plump lips that made his heart stop beating for a few seconds each time they would touch his in a kiss.

“You have no idea how much I’ve missed you,” he whispers into the small gap of air space between you and him. “Each time I’d return from a mission and become myself again after being under mind-control, you were the first thing on my mind. To be honest, I don’t think you ever left it. You’ve always been there with me, in the deepest parts of my consciousness. You kept me sane during the missions, kept me from forgetting myself completely.”

Listening intently, you close your eyes as your thumbs continue to brush over the skin on his cheeks. He continues, a deep sigh falling from his lips and clashing against yours causing goosebumps to rise upon your body. You’re shocked that you have gone this far without smothering him in kisses. You don’t want to risk anything, waiting patiently for him to make the first move in the direction of more physical affection, whether it’s a touch of his hand, a hug or more.

“And when I realized it was you earlier today...” his voice cracks, “when I realized I almost killed you- I don’t think I can ever forgive myself for that.”

“You can and you will,” you softly tell him, the undertone of your voice stern, “you didn’t kill me. You wouldn’t. You were gonna recognize me sooner or later.”

He exhales shakily. “You don’t know that,” he almost snaps, eyes closed tightly as he drops his silver hand from your face. He pulls away from your touch, the warmth of him disappearing the further he moves away. He’s not looking at you. Tears are threatening to spill as you stare back at him, lips slightly parted as you want to speak up. You want to tell him he’s wrong, but you already know that he will not take your words for what they are. He, and you, know what would’ve happened if you hadn’t pushed him off when you did.

“You’re right,” you say, catching his attention again. He barely glances at you, noticing the small remnants of tears in your eyes before looking back at his silver hand, clenching and unclenching it. A tear rolls down your cheek. “You’re so right, Jungkook. I don’t know if you would or not.”

You get up from the chair you’ve been sitting in since you brought him back to your apartment. Jungkook still refuses to look at you as you move onto the bed, crawling closer to him. You don’t hesitate as you lay a hand on his shoulder and throw a leg over his to straddle his lap. He finally looks at you, eyes slightly widened at your actions. His eyes meet teary ones again, his silver arm moving out of an old habit as he reaches up to wipe your tears away.

“But I like to think you would.”

Your lips press against his before he can reply to your words. Jungkook gasps and then grunts in response as you press your mouth to his, desperately and needy. His body freezes beneath you as you kiss him, tasting his lips for the first time in an unbearably long time. It takes him a while to realize that you’re kissing him, finally kissing you back as he cradles you in his arms, pulling you closer to his chest. The silver arm keeps a tight grip around your waist, holding you in place as the other runs up your thigh.

Pulling away, you gasp for air, letting your forehead rest against his. Jungkook is breathing heavily, his breath once again clashing against yours as you both catch your breath. Your eyes meet, seconds after he’s kissing you again, your tank top riding up as the silver arm keeps you tight against him. The silver touching your skin causes goosebumps to cover your skin, a chill running up your spine as you cup his face. His tongue licks against your bottom lip, you let him in. A moan escapes your lips as his tongue touches yours.

“I’ve been holding myself back ever since you woke up,” you whisper against his lips, making him smile as his hands slide under your top, pushing it up before pulling it over your head completely. You return to his lips, catching them with your own as you reach for the hem of his t-shirt. He helps you pull it off, your mind elsewhere as you throw it onto the floor. Your hands rake down his body, over the tensing muscles of his abdomen as he moves his kisses down your cheek and further under your jaw. Your breathing is ragged as you pull away, only a few inches so you can glance down at his torso. The sight horrifies you, your fingertips brushing over scars and healed wounds.

“Oh my god,” you whisper as you glance up at Jungkook, his eyes meeting yours for a few seconds before you look back at his chest. Your eyes wander, over his both small and larger scars to his silver arm. You feel your heart tightening as you take in the way the silver arm is sewed onto his body. You hesitate to reach up, Jungkook’s eyes on you as you let your shaking fingertips brush over the burned, scarred skin that keeps the silver arm attached. “I- This…”

His human hand comes up to cup your cheek, thumb caressing your skin. “I know,” he agrees without hearing the rest of the sentence. You look back at him, finding relief in his eyes as you rest your palms against his chest. “It’s not as bad as it looks,” he then says.

“They literally cut off your arm,” you point out, shaking your head in disbelief. You can’t even imagine how much pain he must’ve been in when they did this to him. “I wish I could have spared you this pain, spared you the torture you went through.”

He smiles softly. “I know, ____. But there's no way you possibly could’ve.”

You're carefully running your pointer finger along one of his scars when you look up at him, eyelashes framing your eyes so perfectly. He thinks you’re absolutely beautiful, even more so than the last time he saw you. You can’t do anything to stop the words that tumble from your lips next.

“I love you so much, Jungkook.”

His breathing stops for a second, his heart skipping a beat. He hasn’t heard those words since 1944. He didn’t even hear those words that morning you had sent him off, he hadn’t said those words when he promised to return. He should have. That way you’d never be in doubt of his love. He wonders if you’ve loved him since or if there has been anyone else in the meantime to love you the way he should’ve.

Silently, you watch him as his thoughts run one hundred miles per hour. Your palms are sliding from his chest to his shoulders and further up his neck to cup his face again. The love he feels is evident in his eyes as he focuses on you.

“I love you,” he whispers, carefully turning you over onto your back only for him to hover over you. You’re watching him, tingling in your stomach as you hear the words fall from his lips. He returns to kissing you, kissing the skin on your cheek, your neck and further down to the very top of your chest, right beneath the collarbones. He glances up at you as he kisses his way down the valley of your bra-covered chest. “I didn’t say it enough back then,” he mouths against your skin, another round of goosebumps rising beneath his lips, “I should have said it more. I’m sorry.”

You exhale deeply, arching your back into his touch as he reaches your navel and moves even further down to the waistband of your pants, your spandex pants that you so elegantly wear whenever you have a mission with the Avengers.

“Stop apologizing,” you breathe out, eyes closed as you succumb to his touch. The silver hand brushes over your stomach as it runs up to your chest, unclasping your bra on the front. It falls to the sides, revealing your perky nipples to the crisp air. You gasp softly as a silver hand brushes over both, the cold steel doing nothing but erecting them even more. “I've always hated it when you apologize.”

He smirks softly against your lower stomach, pressing one last kiss to the skin there before pulling the silver hand down to pull off your pants, and panties too. The pants are barely on the floor before he returns to your lower abdomen, kisses being spread across your hip bones and pubic bone. You reach down to tangle your fingers in his long hair as he runs his hands up the inside of your thighs. He spreads your legs, revealing your throbbing core to him.

“God, I missed this,” he breathed out, the air of his words hitting your wet folds. “Having you like this, all to myself.”

You whine from above him. “Jungkook,” you whimper, “please.”

It doesn’t take more for him to lean closer, tongue licking a stripe up between your folds and to your clit, his silver arm sliding across your abdomen to keep you down as he eats you out for the first time in decades. One would think he had lost his touch and knowledge of a woman’s body, but you can say that he certainly didn’t as he roots himself between your legs, tongue licking your wetness and prodding at the entrance.

“Oh god,” you moan, softly gasping for air as his human hand rests on top of your one thigh, fingers digging into the flesh there. You’re in heaven, on the ninth cloud as he slurps your arousal, licking your folds and clit as if his life depended on it. “Fuck, Jungkook!”

The sound of your name toppling from your lips as he hits a certain nerve makes his body flush with a warmth he almost forgot what feels like. You’re writhing in the tight hold of his silver arm, squirming as he licks you to your release. The orgasm is approaching fast and hard, Jungkook being the sole reason for it. No one could ever get you there as fast as him.

“I’m s-so close- oh!,” you pant, your walls clenching as Jungkook’s actual fingers slide into you. He pumps his hand in and out of you in a pace that is perfectly building up your orgasm. He takes nothing but a glance into his eyes as he leans down to softly kiss your clit that you’re toppling over, hitting the wall of your orgasm. “J-jungkook, my god!”

You jerk away as he leans forward, tongue licking up your release, tasting it on his taste buds. He hums with a small smile as he glances up at you, loving the way your eyes are almost bulging out of your head at the sight of him between your thighs. It takes nothing more than a few seconds before you shitting up, Jungkook meeting you halfway in a kiss. Tongues clash against each other, the taste of you on his tongue as he kisses you deeply, needingly.

“Please fuck me,” you mumble in between kisses, a desperate whining tone attached to your words. “Make love to me, Jungkook.”

He seals your words with a kiss, giving you a silent promise of doing just that. As if he’d lick you out and that would be it. No way.

You watch, teeth biting into your bottom lip, as he gets off the bed to remove the sweatpants you had dressed him in when you got back, getting him out of those military pants with belts and buckles all over them. His cock springs free, slaps against his abdomen as it stands proud into the air. A rush runs through your stomach at the sight, mouth slightly watering. Once the sweatpants and his boxers lie on the floor by his feet, he crawls back onto the bed. He moves closer, pushing you back onto your back as he hovers over you. You’re glancing at his silver arm for a mere split second, your hair reaching up to run along the hard edges of it. Jungkook can’t feel your touch but he’d like to imagine that he can as he watches your palm brushing over and further up to the nape of his neck. His eyes move back to lock with yours. You’re looking at him just like you did that last night of intimacy you had back in 1944, the night before he was sent off on a deathly mission. A huge wave of emotions hits him as he glances from your eyes to your lips and back again.

“I love you,” he softly says, eyebrows furrowed together as he looks at you, “so much, ____.”

You smile, pulling him down to meet you in a kiss. The kisses are soft, tender even as he reaches down to line himself up with your entrance. You gasp into his mouth as the tip of his cock prods at your folds. A hand of yours tangles back into his locks as he pushes inside, the tightness overwhelming for the both of you. He rests his forehead against yours, your breaths clashing together between you as he buries himself to the hilt.

“Shit,” he hisses, glancing down at your connecting hips. “Can i move?”

You nod your head, whispering, “yes.”

Jungkook watches the way your eyes roll to the back of your head as he pulls out and pushes back in, the sight causing him to do it again and again, wanting to see you lose yourself and succumb to the feeling of his cock brushing against your walls.

“Oh fuck!” You gasp as he gives you a particularly hard thrust, the sound of skin slapping against skin as he hits that exact spot that makes you whimper out a soft, whiny moan. You’re clawing at his shoulders, his neck and chest as he sets a rhythm, keeping it steady as he grinds into you. He grabs your leg with his silver hand, helping you to wrap it around his waist. The other follows suit, locking with your other behind his back. He hits deep inside of you, his veiny cock sliding against your walls so deliciously.

It’s like that last night you had with him all over again just with more longing and more desperate kisses. Your stomach tingles with the overwhelming amount of emotions you’re feeling in this exact moment as you look up at him – his long hair slightly damp at the roots, his toned chest glistening in sweat as he works you both to a release, to a high you’re both so desperately in the need of.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans as you unawarely clench around his length, his head dropping to your shoulder. “Don’t do that or I’ll cum right now.”

“Sorry!” You squeak, chuckling as he eyes you with a small smirk. God, you wanna ride him so badly. “Oh, Jungkook,” you moan breathily as he hits your spot again. He’s watching you, eyes running over your face as it contorts in pure pleasure.

“Fuck, I’m close,” he grunts, leaning up on his hands to get a better angle. He rams his hips into you, his strength coming to show as he thrusts into you harder than ever before. The power of his thrusts have you seeing stars as your second orgasm nears you. Jungkook can feel it as you clinch repeatedly around him. He won’t last much longer if you continue to do that.

High pitched moans tumble from your parted lips as he speeds up his movements, desperately trying to get you over the edge before he topples over himself. Your nails are digging into his shoulders as you reach your high, the orgasm hitting you like a bullet.

“Oh my fucking god,” you moan, breathing ragged as he continues to fuck you to get himself to cum. His breathing is uneven, not matching his thrusts as all as he moves in and out a few more times before stilling inside of you, spilling his load and painting your walls inside.

“Fuck, I love you,” he breathes out as he drops his forehead to your collarbone. You’re smiling widely as you run your fingers from his shoulders and up into his hair. He lifts his head to look at you as you push his long, brown hair out of his face. You know him too well when he gives you a look, a small smirk on his lips. A joke is coming. You can just feel it. And you can’t help but grin at him as everything feels exactly like 1944 again. Also, you want to punch him for his next words:

“Not too bad for a 98-year-old, huh?”

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trulycertain · 3 years ago

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In which Jolyon Till finds himself being covered by a mysterious sniper. Sometimes, the past comes back to haunt you, and it has Solar knives. Ao3

Jolyon is sniping Cabal for fun and profit, and because his queen told him to. That helps. The Supremacy rings out, kicks against him, but it won’t feel like coming home until... There. The Gladiator’s down. He lets himself exhale, and reloads.

Two more Legionaries die while he’s reloading – swift bullets to the respirators. Sidearm or handcannon at that distance, he’d guess. There aren’t any other Crows out here as far as he knows, but they do get the odd Guardian making trouble. He looks for the shot’s source, and almost doesn’t see it.

There, like a curl of smoke: the edge of a cape. They move like grass in the wind, like half a dream you must have had, but now you’re not quite sure. For someone who must not be scared of mortality, they're good. And now he sounds like – never mind.

He takes down three Legionaries. His companion picks off the ones around the edges – one, two. Sniping now, he can hear the report of the rifle even from here. They’re a good shot. Almost as good as him.

If I ever meet one of those undead who can shoot as well as you, I’ll probably renounce my title. Or make them a Crow. The deep boom of Uldren’s rifle, and Uldren grimacing at the shot being good but not perfect. A bitter snort, and he added, They’d learn to fight, but they’re too paracausal to bother.

Jolyon shakes his head, tries to shake that memory away too. The less thought about Uldren, the better.

A sniper’s easier to find - doesn’t move as much as anyone else on the battlefield, if they’re sloppy. This one isn’t, but Jolyon is, as said, good. He catches it from the corner of his eye as he’s resettling himself - squinting, he raises his rangefinder to his eye, and… there: a hood, a cape, the barest shine of black armour, and then they’re disappearing into the grass.

Jolyon snorts. At least they’re not shooting at him. He’ll take all the help he can get, even if it’s from one of the Tower’s crayon-eaters.

A thrown knife embeds itself into a Legionary’s breathing tube. A flaming knife. That confirms that. A pause, and it’s being recalled to some spot in the trees, glowing with Light – Jolyon looks, but they’re gone before he can truly see. That briefest shift that could almost be a blown tree, a bird – but it isn’t. Jolyon looks away. They have a fight to win.

Their sniper rifle rings out again.

He pinpoints the Guardian by their last four shots, while he's taking out the last two Cabal on his side. Once you have the wind and the angle… The problem is, that cuts both ways. He waits, patiently.

Another shot, further into the trees. On a Cabal that was behind a crate, that he couldn’t quite get a clean shot on. Again. Like the last one, like they have a rough idea of his sightlines. He grimaces. They know where he is, too. And he prefers to know who his spotter is, lest the next shot be in his back.

He takes his finger from the trigger, and looks. Looks carefully, slowly, the way he’s been taught since he woke up in the Distributary. The way that got him called in from the forests by the Queen and her brother, with a proposition.

There, lying behind the wreckage of a ship – hooded, and Awoken, from the faintest glow of eyes under the fabric. White hair, bright against the dark greens and blacks of what’s clearly recon armour – no, black hair, too. Black and white. They readjust position and grip, and for a moment he gets the glimpse of blue-grey fingers against a dark gun. Reefborn. They sigh, the sniper’s exhale before sighting, and something about it is – Jolyon feels a rush of -

They still. For a moment, they look aside, and familiar gold eyes meet his through the scope.

Jolyon stares, gone cold and burning at once. This is what the Traveller does. This is what the Traveller -

Uldren would hate this. He'd laugh bitterly, outraged at the thought of it.

Those eyes widen. Uldren's mouth moves, shaping a familiar word -

- and then there’s the smallest flash of Light and Uldren’s gone. The gun transmatted too.

No. Not Uldren. Just some dead thing wearing his face.

Jolyon doesn’t flinch, but it’s close, and it takes years of training. Instead, he gets out from the scope, lies there, and breathes. Tries to remember how to.

Tries not to remember the startled, terrified recognition in the Guardian's eyes when he mouthed, Jol?

#My fic #Jolyon till #destiny crow #uldren sov #Destiny #Destiny 2 #Post-Season of the Lost #Angst and whatnot #Crow #Shh writer's half-asleep it's Crow posting hours #Long post

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thekingdomofelfhame · 3 years ago

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Jurdan Fanfic: Nightmares

She struggled with the water, black azure waves closing up to her waist. Her chestnut brown hair was now drenched in cold sweat as she panted and gasped for air, heavily exhausted with her bodily strength.

Her vision was now starting to betray her as a figure approached her. An enigmatic woman with blue hair wearing a sun-dipped dress decorated with pure white pearls all over her skirt appeared before her; the Princess of the Undersea herself.

But something wasn't right, something was off. Jude's vision started to blur as she noticed something twirling around Nicasia's neck.

"He was always mine. You're just... well", she chuckled, " you're just an entertainment"

Before Jude could make out something, the Undersea melted away to give shape a battlefield, or better yet a memory, the same memory that had been haunting Jude since the day it was created.

Her breath hitched with every passing second as she watched herself swing Nightfell through the serpent's neck. She waited for him, she waited for Cardan to come back, the same way he had before on that very same day, but nothing happened.

The sky was no longer a calming blue but was now blood red. There was no sign of life anywhere; no lush green lands, no soothing waves of the crystal blue sea.

Only death...

Her hazel brown eyes shifted to the dead serpent, its head swimming in a pool of its own blood, a pool made by Jude herself with no sign of Cardan anywhere.

She screamed on top of her lungs as she sank to her knees, not finding enough strength within her to face the music.

Her heart raced with time as she finally found the courage within her to finally open her eyes only to find herself draped in Cardan's arms, holding her tight.

" I'm sorry for waking you up. I am sorry I worried you", she said, her voice barely a whisper against his skin.

" Jude. I am your husband. Worrying comes with that title", he whispered as he kissed away the tears on her cheeks and added, "Now, tell me. What's bothering you?"

"You...you did not come back", she choked out as a sob rose in her voice.

It was the truth. She was never worried about Nicasia and her history with Cardan. She knew he never loved her, she knew he would never choose her, she knew that no matter what traps she would lay for him Cardan would always find a way out.

But this...

The fear of losing him never diminished.

She had just got him back. What ever would she do if she lost him again?

She hugged him as hard as she possibly could, her fingers digging into his back, perhaps to make sure this wasn't a cruel dream.

He stroked his fingers through her chestnut brown curls as he continued to kiss her, sweet and soft.

"Oh Jude", he pulled away just the slightest to look at her in the eye, to get lost in those big brown eyes of hers.

He loved her so much and watching her cry in her sleep like that just shattered his heart into a million pieces. Never had his wife looked so... broken.

This was Jude. This was Jude Duarte. She never broke. And yet, for the first time when she did, it was from the pain of losing him.

"The important thing is that I am here and I will always be here. You won't be able to get rid of me that easily"

To that, she nodded and Cardan could feel her smile against his bare shoulder as she snuggled up to him, her head buried in his neck and her hands pressed against his chest, feeling his heartbeat as she wished and prayed to whatever gods to stay in her husband's arms forever till the day she died.

The thought made her smile once again as she forgot about her nightmares and went into a deep slumber. He would never get tired of her smile. Never.

Let me know if you wanna be tagged! Also, I will now on follow a policy of following back those who follow me, just to spread a bit of kindness!!

Taglist: @wanderingpages @thatrandomfangirlll @slightlyrebelliouswriter23 @acourtofhearts @aelin-queen-of-terrasen @aesthetics-11 @angelpaulene @annihliation @anyaskywalker23 @ashlightgrayson @augustintodarkness @awkward-avacado-s @babycardan @beholdyourqueen1 @booklover-sleeplover @booksandothersecrets @booksofthemoon @b00kworm @cabeswater-and-camaros @cardaans @cardan-greenbriar-tcp @cardanslittletail @cardanstrickytail @courtofjurdan @feysand-babies @firestarsandseneschals @fizziefaerie @highladyofthefangirlcourt @highqueenjudeduarte @hizqueen4life @hoegreenbrair @hopefullyanauthor @hurema @iammissstark @im-wintermelody @iminsanenotobsessed @ireallyshouldsleeprn @jessacarstairs @judiecardan @junipersuns@jurdanhell @justtryintolivemybestlife @jyoti96 @katexrenee @katsemkitgostadetog @kevin-day-is-bi @kingandfireheart @kittkatandbooboo @knifewifejude @lady-thea-of-narnia @larrysaturn @leaff-life @lemon-check @life-in-black-lines @lifeminuspickles @livelovereading123 @localgoof @lordoftermites @greenbriarxrose @queenofbunnies13 @fanficreader435 @nightspeckle @thewickedkings @the-cruel-prince-cardan @myqueenjudeduarte @florafey

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nathscalet · 4 years ago

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Akainu,Aokiji, Kizaru,Sengoku discovering that you were a revolutionary infiltrated in the base and only get near to him to steal information.( I'm sorry I can't write fujitora because I'm a failure)

Akainu 🌋

🌋Seducing him it wasn't easy, it wouldn't work. So you just get really closer to him. Dealing with his bullshit everyday with a smile.

🌋He became attracted to your ruthless side in the battlefield.

🌋He feels great with you fanning his ego but not so much.

🌋If you played right, one night stand may happen and it will haunt him forever. He won't be able to get out of his head, his heart will long for your affection and attention, but his pride make him grumpy.

🌋Tô get his attention you will have to be the top one. Ace every marine test to get promoted.

🌋if You're younger than him, it make him feel strange and ashamed if he feels something other than idk

🌋A blushing mess when he asked you out.

🌋Stotic boyfriend, cared deep, deep,deep down.

🌋When he discovered you're a revolutionary his world turned upside down. He will feel so angry and sad. Might cries angry tears

🌋If you manage to survive he will hunt you till the end of the world.

🌋If he manage to kill you, your memories will still plague his mind in his sleep. He won't be able to love, trust someone like he did with you.

🌋he will be a sweetheart with you in private.

(Author gagged writting this)

Kizaru 💡

💡He didn't understand the fluttering felling in his heart at first but when he did it comes out as a surprise.

💡Doesn't care about anything, he fell for you, your outgoing, happy and free spirit personality, your sassiness, your skill in the kitchen and in the bedroom.

💡He absolutely would plan to have something more serious with you after one night stand.

💡Teases you a lot.

💡He feel like he could do anything with you by his side.

💡Picture him get caught by a enemy and you went to his rescue like a knight in shining armor. In love. Totally ask you to date him in the heat of the moment

💡When you guys dated this b1tch got shameless. Fucking in his desk,ok, in Akainu desk, ok. Kisses out nowhere, ok. extremely handy. He can't get enough you're his and his alone.

💡Totally spoils you, whine to you everything, totally kidnap you to sleep in his headquarters.

💡Lives for your affection.

💡Goofy couple.

💡In denial that you're a revolutionary, cries, shout, kick everything in the speed of the light.

💡Doesn't have the heart to kill you. May ask someone else to do it or just throw you at impel down.

💡He can't live without you, sometimes might go looking for you only to realize you're not there anymore.

Aokiji 🧊

🧊Easiest to seduce. Pretty laidback and chill marine admiral.

🧊It might be easy to sleep with him, to became his addict drug but to become his special someone it takes time.

🧊He would observe you like a hawk.

🧊When you guys are dating cuddles everywhere anytime.

🧊Another sucker for your attention and affection.

🧊Super jealous. He would get protective and grump when jealous

🧊When it was his birthday he asked you to be his present, you took to the heart. Gave him a lap dance in a spicy lingerie, he almost machtched Sanji with his nosebleed

🧊You guys talk a lot, deep conversation, small talks, spill the tea. You guys like to learn about each other

🧊I think he would understand you. He may even join you because well love 💕

Sengoku 🐐

🐐Stress relief. You became the secretary or a really high rank marine to get closer to him.

🐐The hardest to seduce. You didn't even try and I think that it was that it worked. He would see you as a good reliable person.

🐐One day working until late you were dropping documents at his office, entering you notice that he fell asleep and his eyes were strained a little bit.

🐐You never thought you would carry the head of the navy in your arms like a baby to the coach and put a blanket over him, put his glasses and cap aside.

🐐he woke up a little later after that and notice that he change places and got a blanket over him. You asked him if he would like tea with rice crackers and if he was alright, u saw his eyes get puffy while he told you about rosinante.

🐐You became his emotional support and stress relief. After he poured his heart out for you, he received the best hug from you. You offered him a back massage. That's was when he fell, totally sucked for your massage.

🐐The massages grew into him and became a sexual tension between you guys.

🐐Sleeping with your subordinate... tsk tsk tsk . The dating was a secret between you.

🐐When it was revealed that you were a revolutionary it was like another Rosinante died again. Didn't have the heart to kill you or throw you into impel down. He just let you get away while silent crying in his office drinking sake.

History

- You were a member of the revolutionary, one of the elite and the prettiest one.

-The revolutionaries were in need of information so they decided to infiltrate someone in the navy base, that person being you.

-They suggested, intensively suggested to seduce the admirals or vice-admirals it depends when you infiltrated.

-You were ✋👁👄👁🤚 choto choto mate. Why me? Are you sure? Like for real me? I'm look like some homeless dude and I'm not good with men or relationships.

-You're a ex-tenryuubito that carries the will of D. Your life it's pretty complicate k

-You tried to commit suicide because you couldn't bear any longer. Your life in mariejoes was hell. You couldn't bear the screams for help, the hateful eyes from both ternryuubitos and slaves and what was the worse it was the vision that you had from the past, a darkness that should be erased from history, yours dreams turned into nightmares from the void century.

-You ended up being saved by the revolutionaries when you ask them why did they saved you, why they didn't let you Rest In Peace, you asked them if it was your punishment for being a noble.

-The revolutionaries took pity on you. Your eyes were so tired it was like you were the slave, but you look like a princess. Your way to talk, walk,eat, breath, sleep all screams tired.

-You begged them to kill you or let you rest forever. All their hated for the tenryuubitos skyrocketed, what did they did with this child to make u give up on humanity and your own life.

-Dragon gave you a purpose: take down the world government. He told you if you want to die so bad you could give your life to the cause then you could find peace.

-For the first time in your life after 8 years your eyes shined again. You had something to fight for. You dedicated your life to the cause harder than anyone else, you wanted to aton for your sins, the sins that your blood carries.

-The results of your dedication got you the highest position in the revolutionaries. Your nickname was redemption angel. Every soldier liked you, you were caring, attentive, bold, childish, a beautiful soul but more than that they admire you in the battlefield when you fought there wasn't a single battle they had lost.

-in the battlefield your persona change completely, you became cold, fast, brutal, fierce, deadly. An natural assassin and a warrior. Strength, speed, technic, intuition, luck, reflex you aced everything.

- Dragon took notice of your suffering, you were a warrior that wanted peace and redemption. It was sickening watching you train, they could hear your bones cracking, your ragged breath, they couldn't stop you, your eyes were the fiercest and wildest they had saw in their entire lives.

- You asked Kuma to teach you how to pray. You always prayed for the safety of the soldiers, the good in the heart of the people out there, you prayed for everyone, the only thing you asked for you was forgiveness. After battle you prayed for the ones you killed.

-You took upon yourself to light up the room, you knew the name of everyone in the base, you gave everyone you crossed path a hug and a smile.

-You were a child in the heart easy to please and a glutton. You have a blackhole as your stomach

- Dragon took notice that you were getting tired little by little, so he put u on the sidelines, get information.

-Sabo totally has a crush on you, but you sweet bean thinks that he is just being a sweetheart.

-ivankov gave you a lot of lessons and books about seduction and you were 😳😦🥶😰🤢🥵🤬. A rollercoaster of emotions

- You took the lessons serious. You went to a lot of strippers club to learn how to do pole dance, makeup, clothes. When you came back everyone nearly had a heart attack with your new persona, you are still an angel to them but when you put makeup and revealing clothes 🥵🤒🥴🤯

- Sabo and Koala nearly died from nosebleed. They were your subjects.

-Ivankov it's pround and almost guilty.

- Dragon had a nosebleed every time he saw you. You were trying to seduce him to go to your new mission. It was like he had a different girl every month, your acting 🎭 skills 10/10

#one piece headcanons #akainu #kizaru #aokiji #one piece #one piece x reader #angst #kizaru x reader #aokiji x reader #akainu x reader #sengoku x reader

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thoughtfullyrainynightmare · 3 years ago

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Hi I don’t know when you see this or if you have make a story like this but, I would like if you take the time to see if you can write a Nozel reaction to the news of the Megicula/Vanica attack on the Heart Kingdom and his reaction to found out that Noelle was ok, till he saw her again in Spade Kingdom before He saved her for Megicula’s killing attack(or you can decide where to go with this).That’s only if you have the time, or if you have written something like that you can tell me to read it. Thanks!!!

P.s I really like and enjoy your writing.

Hello~! ^_^

No I don't think I have written a piece like that 🤔 But it does go well with the pieces I have written already, so here it is 😁

BASHFDFAS Thank you 😭🥺💖 I hope you like this!

Characters: Nozel Silva & Noelle Silva

Warnings: Silva backstory references, references and implies to/of death (but no one dies, though canon existing deaths do hold)

Fic type: Oneshot

Length: ~0.7k

Nozel pinched the bridge of his nose. His eyelids felt heavy. But he knew that if he was to lay down and try to sleep, sleep wouldn’t come. It wouldn’t as it hadn’t on several nights before the one about to fall, and all because of a message that had arrived form Heart Kingdom.

The message had explained that a devil, wearing an eyepatch, had attacked Heart Kingdom and taken Queen Lolopechika as a prisoner, despite the best efforts of the Heart and Clover knights.

Devil woman with an eyepatch…

The description was all too familiar to him. It was one that he had seen in his nightmares for over a decade, and still, to this day, left a chill climbing up his spine. And that frost, it used his vertebrae as ladders while running up and down the length of his back, so that might not find peace from it.

And his thoughts, they drifted to Noelle time and time again, due to those memories that kept haunting him, and leaving dark footprints behind as his train of thought advanced. The memory of being unable to protect their mom and her, even while present.

Though he knew that he wasn’t the same person he was back then, he wasn’t as weak as he had been, just as she wasn’t either, he couldn’t help but worry. He couldn’t-, he couldn’t, he couldn’t, he couldn’t… shake the idea of her being injured. Because their mother had been severely injured by the devil. Their. Mother. And Noelle wasn’t at her level yet. Hell, Nozel himself wasn’t at her level yet.

He wasn’t… so how could Noelle…

He shook his head each time his train of thought begun tumbling down into the murky waters, and tried to focus.

They would have told me if she was injured… They would have. She is alright. She is. He tried to convince himself; his baby sister would be alright.

And the logical side of him was sure that he would be told if something had happened to her, and believed that to be true. The more analytical side of him, the side of him that was a ‘captain’, believed it to be true. But. He wasn’t ‘only’ a captain. He was also a brother.

Granted that he hadn’t made the best decisions as such, not even good decisions, but he wanted to be better. He wanted to make it the best he could. And he wanted to protect his siblings, but… the smallest of them the foremost. Perhaps he shouldn’t have stated that he had a favourite sibling, but he did. He had seen Noelle grow from an infant, and had held her as a baby, so he couldn’t help but have a soft spot.

And that very soft spot made the nagging, gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach only grow. A sensation that wouldn’t go away until he saw her, alive and well, despite believing, trusting that he’d be told if something had happened to her.

He trusted, and he waited, like the perfectly composed royal that he was, despite the thumping and twisting of the heavy sensation in his chest. And the next time he saw her, his baby sister that he had cradled in his arms once upon a time, was on a battlefield; facing the very being that had robbed them both of a mother.

He could barely believe it. She, Noelle, wasn’t a small, delicate, fragile flower, or a tiny sparrow at the mercy of the world and the birds of prey in it. Instead, she was a bird of prey her own, one that was tearing through her enemies, to the best of her ability, which was far more outstanding than most of his oldest members of the Silver Eagles.

She is a Silva… at the end of the day… He thought with a faint, passing smile. Passing only because he couldn’t just stand there and let her do all the heavy lifting. The worry had seeped away, fallen off of him like a casket of sorrows, and crashed onto the icy ground.

If only he could have dropped that casket onto Megicula instead…

Raining down his fury had to suffice; his, and his sister’s, of who he was very proud.

#noelle silva #nozel silva #black clover fanfiction #their lives

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hissterical-nyaan · 4 years ago

Text

The Promise

Pairing - Bucky Barnes/Desi! Female reader

Warning - Angst, sad ending, more angst

Summary - Bucky Barnes broke one promise that meant the most to Y/N

Word count - 1.5K

A/N - This is my first ever fanfic, I am very anxious so please be gentle with me :) This was created purely to make y'all cry lol. This is a songfic of "Lag ja gale" of Lata Mangeshkar ji. I absolutely adore that song and found it quite fit for this story!!! Also English isn't my first language and there might be grammatical mistakes. Thanks to @soradragon for beta reading this and helping me complete it, you are a blessing. Love you 💙 happy reading folks!

It was peaceful in Wakanda, a cool night had taken its place from the hot humid air of the day, the stars were shining bright and serenity hung in the air. It was impossible to imagine what the next day would have in store for everyone. No one had a clue that tomorrow was the day that would change everyone's lives forever.

There was the sound of soft humming coming from the modest hut which housed the one and only the White Wolf and his lover.

Inside was you, singing songs softly in your mother’s tongue before the two would go to bed for the night. It was a nightly ritual the two of you shared. For Bucky had found your voice so soothing it would chase away the recurring nightmares that would haunt his sleep every night. Bucky Barnes was unable to sleep without his love in his arms, without her angelic voice singing for him, and without her soft hand weaving through his hair.

You had an awful day today, throughout the day you felt anxious and restless. As if your mind has been screaming at you that something bad was about to transpire. You had no idea what, but it was bad. if there is one thing you hated most, it would be not knowing what will happen next.

You liked being prepared for everything! Your distressed state made you itch for your ma's presence and her wise words. So the next best thing to feel like she was there was to sing your ma's favourite song. It was a song you had beautiful emotional memories attached to.

Lata ji's masterpiece ‘Lag ja gale’. The song that always left you peaceful.

"What's on your mind, chaand? No cheesy love songs today?" Bucky teased lightly, slightly puzzled by the song choice. Normally, you would sing more happy, sweet love songs when you were in a good mood, not to forget how out of character you acted the entire day.

"Acha? You said you don't like my cheesy songs na, so I thought today I will comply with your wish and not sing my ‘overly romantic, Shona Babu songs.’” You shot back, poking your tongue out as not to worry him. Bucky pouted slightly.

"Arre baba okay now don't pout, I was just joking. I will sing the cheesy songs again tomorrow, right now this song just feels right to me.” Hearing that, Bucky mumbled a quiet yes and snuggled deeper into you, holding you tightly and moving his head ever so slightly to listen to your voice.

Lag Ja Gale Ki Phir Ye Hasin Raat Ho Na Ho

Shaayad Phir Is Janam Men Mulaaqaat Ho Na Ho

Lag Jaa Gale Ae Ae… (Embrace me, dear, who knows whether or not this beautiful night will ever come again. Maybe in this life we may or may not meet again)

You remember the first time you met Bucky, in Shuri's lab. You were a good friend of Shuri. You were a researcher staying in Wakanda with T'challa's permission and eventually befriended the Princess. The two of you loved to talk about anything and nothing. One day Shuri told you about the Winter soldier staying here in Wakanda. You had heard many things about him, but never had you seen him in the flesh. Till you saw him come into the lab, bruised and eyes swiming full of emotions, but the distraught was the most clear in those blue piercing eyes.

It was at that moment that you had decided you would help him, and try to soothe the aches and scars that had been covering his fragile heart. He was put in the cryo soon after your first encounter, but you couldn't help but think about him often.

Ham Ko Mili Hain Aaj Ye, Ghadiyaan Nasib Se

Ji Bhar Ke Dekh Lijiye, Ham Ko Qarib Se

Phir Aap Ke Nasib Men, Ye Baat Ho Na Ho (I have been given today, this time by destiny. To your hearts content see me closely, who knows, if your destiny, may present this situation again.)

Six months later, Bucky came out of the cryo and on his request, was given a small hut away from the palace in the fields. You often saw him, with his tiny herd of goats. You remember how one tiny goat - which Bucky had endearingly called Steve - was the one who caused you to talk to Bucky. Maybe that's why he was still your favourite goat, afterall he was responsible for giving you the love of your life.

Shaayad Phir Is Janam Men Mulaaqaat Ho Na Ho

Lag Ja Gale Ki Phir Ye Hasin Raat Ho Na Ho (Maybe, in this life, we may or may not meet again. Embrace me dear for this beautiful night may not come again)

Your phone rang suddenly. Bucky moved his head from your lap as you moved to get the phone, it was your brother who was calling you. It puzzled you, it was nearly midnight in India. "Y/N….jaldi aaja yaha… ma aur papa ki car crash ho gayi...I am so sorry, hum unhe bacha nahi paye." You went numb...The words didn’t make sense, you couldn’t make sense of them... Ma papa? No, no this can't be happening. You...you just talked to your mom a few hours ago! Bucky’s arms wrapped around you, holding you so close. He whispered some words into your ear trying to soothe you. But you couldn’t hear them, your mind just kept repeating your brother’s words inside your head like a mantra. That’s when the tears fell, soaking Bucky’s shirt. You didn’t remember you screamed.

Paas Aaiye Ki Ham Nahin Aaenge Baar-Baar

Baahen Gale Men Daal Ke Ham Ro Le Zaar-Zaar

Aankhon Se Phir Ye Pyaar Ki Barsaat Ho Na Ho (Come closer to me, as I will not be able to come to you every time. Put your arms around me and let us cry our hearts out. Who knows, if our eyes will ever see these tears of love again.)

You couldn’t imagine what you would be without Bucky, your Bucky. He was your rock, You couldn't live a day without him. From the day you confessed your love for each other till today, not a day has gone where he wasn't showering you with love. Even through all his trauma and pain, he did his absolute best to be there for you, his sweet, sweet Y/N.

Shaayad Phir Is Janam Men Mulaaqaat Ho Na Ho

Lag Ja Gale Ki Phir Ye Hassin Raat Ho Na Ho

Shaayad Phir Is Janam Men Mulaaqaat Ho Na Ho

Lag Ja Gale Ki Phir Ye Hassin Raat Ho Na Ho (Maybe, in this life, we may or may not meet again. Embrace me dear for this beautiful night may not come again)

Remembering the past left you in an emotional mess, you didn't even realise when the waterworks started.

"Chaand? Hey, no shhh why are you crying? Is everything okay? Talk to me."

"Bucky?"

"Haan chaand?"

"Promise me that you will never leave me." You uttered in a broken whisper

"I promise."

He broke that promise. Bucky Barnes broke his promise and left his chaand. It happened so fast, the Avengers fighting Thanos, and suddenly everyone turning into dust.

You felt helpless and scared, numb and cold. what was happening? Bucky had told you to not come out of the palace unless told. He didn't want you to be in harm's way. No, his Y/N was too precious, he can't risk it. You reluctantly agreed, but you weren't of much use on the battlefield anyway. You just hoped your love would return to you very soon.

Steve broke the news, and your whole world collapsed in front of your eyes.

"Steve, no..no it can't be... please tell me you are lying. This isn't the time to joke around! Where is he!?" you couldn't help but scream at him. All your dreams, hopes and future with Bucky shattered. He was gone, in just a snap. It couldn’t be real, this was a sick joke. that had to be it. A sick joke…

But deep inside, you knew it was real. All of it was real. The world around you seemed to crumble, all of it came down, it was as if someone let a glass cup fall and it shattered in a million pieces. Unable to be put back together again…

Now you had no one, no mom and dad, no Bucky...He was your rock wasn't he? He wasn't supposed to go...

After a few days, Steve offered to take you to America with him. The least he could do for his pal was to make sure the girl who had his heart was taken care of. But you couldn't go, it was too painful. Brooklyn will always remind you of Bucky, and you promised him when the time came to go back to his home, you will go together. No, unlike him Y/N L/N knew how to keep her promise.

You went back to India, to start a new life. A miserable one. If only you would have known that the last song you’ve sung to him would come true.

You never sang your mother's favourite song again

Tagging - @spiderrpcrker @a-dragon-under-the-stars @lil-stark @jacquessouvenier @soradragon (I hope you won't mind me tagging you!) And I also hope you liked it :))

Translations (please let me know if I forgot to translate something) -

Chaand - Moon (an affectionate term in this context)

Acha - Really (in this context, it can mean many things otherwise)

"Y/N….jaldi aaja yaha… ma aur papa ki car crash ho gayi...I am so sorry, hum unhe bacha nahi paye." - "Y/N please come fast here, mom and dad were in an car crash, I am so sorry but we couldn't save them" (ma = mom, papa = dad)

Haan - yes

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x female reader #desi fic #marvel fanfic #Bucky Barnes x desi reader #indian reader #marvel #mcu #idk what other tags to use 🤦

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pomegranates-and-blood · 4 years ago

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Atfǫr (Ivar’s PoV)

νοσταλγία Masterlist

Atfǫr: method, execution (law), attack (Old Norse)

Pairing: Ivar/Reader

Summary: Ivar’s perspective of what’s happening on Strepshire. Stretches over chapter 33 till 35-ish (chapter 35 picks up a lil bit after the end of this one)

Word Count: 3.9k

Warnings: Mentions and descriptions of death, war, and wounds.

A/N: Friendly reminder, so that you’re not caught off guard later, that in this universe Sigurd is alive, living in Bamburgh (Northumbria) married to Blaeja.

Long before Ragnar took him to England and Alfred taught Ivar to play chess, Ivar learned to play hnefa-tafl with Floki.

Ivar remembers, as if it were yesterday that he was spending time with him and not years since Floki had left them; how with the laugh that was uniquely his Floki would taunt him about his wrong moves, and when Ivar would get angry and refuse to play anymore, the boatbuilder would still set the pieces back on the board.

Sometimes it took days, sometimes it took hours, but Ivar always dragged himself back to that chair and called for Floki to join him for another match. Without fail, he was there, sitting across from him with that glint in his eye and taunting him to make his next move.

He remembers those days, and Helga’s quiet laugh as she passed by Floki, her hand over his back and her kohl-lined eyes on the board. And he remembers the first time he won was because of Helga.

It was some years before his father returned, and Ivar remembers the bubbling anger inside him at how Floki had managed to outsmart him for days on end when playing hnefa-tafl. He remembers Helga kneeling next to him so she could be on level with the table, and he remembers her hand over one of the pieces.

“Floki always gives up half of his defenders in the beginning,” She told him, a smile that, like all her smiles were, had a sadness to it. “Even he is predictable, Ivar. Everyone is.”

And she was right. Floki’s moves were predictable in hnefa-tafl, and Alfred’s moves were predictable in chess. And Stithulf’s moves are predictable in war.

And it is easy, at least for him, to see pieces on a board, even now.

It feels strangely reminiscent of the time they faced Aethelwulf, taunting the Saxons with only the presence of the army. It certainly feels the same to Ubbe, it seems, who by the third time they almost taunt Stithulf into attacking grunts a breath and tells him it is easy to do this all day when you’re sitting on a chariot, brother.

Still, they make enough time to let the few men they send inside settle and prepare the tunnels to wait for Stithulf, and when tomorrow comes they will make him face them while pretending not to know of the tunnels he will send his best through.

There’s familiarity in the way Ivar and Ubbe lay on the grass near the camp and overlook the city just like they did before York, only this time Hvitserk isn’t with them, only this time so many things have changed that it is almost as if they aren’t the same men.

“Hvitserk did good in finding about those tunnels.” Ubbe comments, and all Ivar offers in response is a grunt.

“They won’t be able to ambush us, but we still need to try to keep the Arabs inside that city,” He tells him, “Fighting them in open fields gives them a victory.”

“That is not something you’d have learned in Dublin.” His brother intones, and Ivar rolls his eyes, turning to lay on his back on the grass.

After a breath, Ubbe does the same, and they lay side by side looking up at the darkening skies.

“Of course I listen to her. Unlike you, I intend to keep my wife with me.”

He ignores the jab at him, only sighs.

After a few breaths of silence, his brother asks, “How is she, by the way? I haven’t seen her in…months?”

“Weeks.”

“Still.”

“She’s…” Ivar shrugs, and at the lack of words offers, “She threatened me to keep me from reaching Valhalla for as long as she has breath if I don’t return.”

Ubbe laughs, but still asks, “Do you think she can do that?”

“I don’t intend to find out.” He sentences, before sitting up and grabbing his bound legs to move them behind him and crawl back to camp.

At his back, Ubbe clears his throat.

“I am happy for you. Proud of you,” His brother tells him. Ivar stays silent, he doesn’t really know what to say to that. Ubbe chuckles, “You…you chose well, Ivar.”

“Better than you, certainly.” He taunts, but his smile is something less cutting than it should be, less mocking than he intended, as he returns to camp.

Late that night, when the few men they sent ahead have already set up within Strepshire, when the tunnels Hvitserk learned about are already theirs and await the Saxons’ ambush through them; Ivar lingers by the map of the city and its surroundings that his brother managed to find before he was to leave Kattegat.

He hears the steps he knows by memory now, and doesn’t turn to acknowledge Ubbe as he walks in. The older man takes a seat nearby, a horn of mead in his hand.

“There’s enough of an opening by now. We can send our men in during the night, wait within the walls.” Ubbe offers, but Ivar doesn’t hesitate to shake his head.

“You have to be careful, Ivar,” Floki tells him, holding the piece he took like a trophy between them. He narrows his eyes, but the man continues, “The fort will hurt you -and me- once the game starts. You can easily be trapped and cornered inside the walls.”

“No, we fight on open fields. The Arabs are going to be in those tunnels, we can take care of the Saxons outside the walls.” He orders, and for once Ubbe doesn’t argue.

“If those mercenaries join him outside the walls…”

“We will know. They stick out.” Ivar tells him, the conversation so similar to how they planned to defend Dublin from those foreigners of strange weapons and stranger tactics.

“I will take the flank. They will count on them to unbalance us, right? Well, I have fought them before, I can lead my men against them.”

Ivar doesn’t take his eyes off the map, but he does betray a mocking smile,

“Look at you, brother, taking advice from a Greek witch.”

Ubbe lets out a huff of laughter, and it is in that small moment of quiet, in that small and private moment past all the pride and the jealousy, that Ivar admits, only to himself of course, that he has missed his brother, missed what he thought lost when he almost killed Sigurd.

____

Ubbe pushed his men to cover the opening in the city’s walls, keeping the Arab mercenaries trapped inside and at the mercy of the long and thin streets, easily ambushed with each wave they send in.

And on the open fields outside Strepshire, the Saxon army takes heavy losses, and Ivar watches raptly as the armies clash. Pieces on a board, but so much more entertaining to watch.

He sees the commander call for retreat across half a battlefield.

Alfred’s eyes lift to meet his for barely a moment, and he retreats his hand from hovering over the knight and grabs his King, moving him away and closer to the Queen. And Ivar doesn’t know much of this game the Saxons play yet, but he knows when the most important piece retreats, he has won. It is only a matter of time now.

Ivar knows it is Stithulf. He would recognize the man anywhere. Both his death and his life haunt Ivar more than he would ever admit.

It is the man that threatened his kingdom, the man that tried killing him and his brothers, the man that his wife vowed revenge against. More than almost anything, he wants him dead.

Yet he is also the man that, just by breathing, keeps you with him.

The Saxon lives in a state between dead and alive as much as you do, as much as Ivar does, it seems.

“I want that one,” He tells his men, eyes on the Christian that at the sound of his voice turns to meet his eyes. Ivar smiles, his voice a hoarse yell when he orders, “And I want him alive!”

And something familiar shines in the Saxon’s eyes. Fear.

And Ivar wonders who it is Stithulf fears, truly. If it is him, or you.

And it fills Ivar with a strange sort of thrill, to imagine that his wife, the woman that looks at him -and only him- with softness and warmth and what he could fool himself into believing is love, is the woman that across a sea, with nothing but the implication of her wrath, manages to make a man like Stithulf fear.

You’re smiling down at him, a smile that reminds him of that first time he saw you, of blood dripping down your lips and the war cry of a Valkyrie, “What a pair we make, then. The Viking King and the Greek witch.”

They don’t need Stithulf to retreat, and he signals his men to let them go and cower. They will strike again soon, and even if they can get far enough, they will meet again.

Now settled comfortable inside the city, Ivar walks the narrow streets, still littered with injured or dead men, towards the dilapidated building where he was told they kept Stithulf, trying to ignore the building pain in his legs at forcing himself to wear the braces for too long now.

They keep Stithulf in a darkened room, hands and legs bound with rope and arms tied to a wooden pillar at his back. Ivar takes a seat in front of him, toying with the crutch as he observes the older man.

He hadn’t noticed, though he realizes now he should have guessed, that Stithulf was not only scarred by his last encounter with you, but blinded. His eye is white and unseeing, surrounded by still-pink scar tissue.

Ivar leans closer to the Saxon, who keeps a defiant eye on his.

“That plan of yours, how is it going?”

“I’m not Bishop Heahmund, I won’t entertain your ramblings, heathen.”

That does make him smile. The fool thinks he gives nothing away by offering resistance, when he actually shows his hand more than he ever could with an open stance.

Ivar leans back with a downward curve of his mouth, “I am willing to entertain yours. So, tell me, why do all this?” He motions with his free hand all around him, “You had to know you’d lose.”

“Why did you and your brothers gather your Great Army and marched on England? Why did your wife vow to take my soul with her to her Hell?”

“Revenge? Not very Christian of you.”

“The seat of power of my home is occupied by Vikings, the last of my King’s blood was abducted by a son of Ragnar,” Stithulf’s eyes hold a certainty, a fire, that almost surprises Ivar. “Revenge is all I have left.”

“Bamburgh is not occupied, it is legally my brother’s. And your princess’ marriage to Sigurd was the work of Ecbert, no…abduction.”

The Christian laughs bitterly, mocking, “Ah, and your wife is willingly staying by your side? Tell yourself all the lies you wish, heathen, we both know the tale is other.”

“And what is this tale?”

“That none of you beasts, you…sons of Ragnar, can hold on to anything. Not land, not love, not each other.”

But you do not care to be called a beast, a monster, do you? One such as you knows better than to expect love, I suppose.

The anger starts in his chest, an old blend of too many things that it is easier to name wrath, and Ivar feels his nose furrow in a snarl, his teeth gritting together.

With the anger comes the restlessness, the need to make the pain and the anger take form, the desire to hurt back.

And he gathers, out of all the things you’ve forgiven, you could certainly forgive him for killing Stithulf instead of bringing him to you alive, couldn’t you?

For a few moments he lingers on it, he lets himself be lulled by the siren song of silencing the iron-willed Saxon once and for all. To silence his voice and all the others that agree with him.

But your voice is clear in his head as if it were being spoken by you again, as if you were sitting across from him and looking into his eyes and whispering, while he still lives, I have reasons to stay here.

And he stays frozen, lingering on the realization that bound and helpless lies the man that he promised you as a gift, that the one thing keeping you in Kattegat could be dead soon, that the promise could be fulfilled and you could be gone before winter is over. And so Ivar stays there, frozen for too long trying to think of all the possible outcomes, as if this were but yet another battle, but finding himself unable to think of anything other than a life without you in it.

Gone is the woman that had an axe to her neck and still asked if she should be impressed, and pleading eyes search his, “You cannot do this, you cannot expect me to-…don’t put chains on me.”

The answer was always there, wasn’t it? Even if you say you can’t choose, the choice has already been made.

You turn to face him, steeled resolve shining in your gaze, arrogance in your posture, “You won’t be the first man to try to chain me. My very blood makes me belong to them. Athens, and Sparta, Greece; it’ll summon me to return sooner or later.”

It was never even a choice, was it? You were always going to belong to them, you were always going to love and need and choose them.

A deep breath, and you meet your gaze, a resigned sort of strength making you give him your answer, that is as unwavering as your voice, “I would leave.”

He stays frozen, for so long it seems, that even Stithulf grows bored of the silence.

“I assume you’ll be taking me with you to your home?”

“It won’t do you any good to assume anything.” Ivar tells him, curving his mouth downwards in a nonchalant grimace, trying to dispel the thoughts from his head, trying to focus on the present.

The older man only keeps his eyes on the nothingness ahead, as if he can see a ghost in his mind’s eye.

A ghost that with a knife in her hand and his neck within reach chose to scar him, a ghost that with a smile talked in a foreign tongue and promised him suffering and death.

“She made you promise her my head, didn’t she? And you agreed,” Stithulf chuckles, and he almost sounds proud, “Too smart for her own good, that witch. And too beautiful for ours.”

Ivar doesn’t bother hiding his disgust, toys with the idea of blinding Stithulf’s remaining eye. What was that story you told him? Walk the Underworld blind, deaf, and dumb, so that all the dead know…

Instead, he mocks, “Are you going to sit there and talk about my wife?”

“Well, I am sitting here with nowhere to go, and you aren’t talking about anything.”

“I thought you weren’t to entertain my ramblings.”

Stithulf only shrugs as well as he can with bound arms, keeping his one good eye on Ivar.

“Plans change.”

“Ah, like your plans involving your Bishop. You sent him to die to Kattegat’s border.” Ivar tells him, eyeing him from the corner of his eye as he pours himself a drink.

“Leofric? It was his choice, a choice he made once he was no longer needed. He is-…” Stithulf stops himself, considering his choice of words, and looks at Ivar inquisitively. All he offers in response is a small smile and the lift of his eyebrows over the rim of his cup. The Saxon amends, “…was a man of God, he lived by Christian teachings, he died for the Lord and so he shall be-…”

Ivar decides to ignore the rest of his words, rolling his eyes and letting his head follow the movement. For a man that claims to not be anything like Heahmund, Stithulf seems to love the sound of his own voice as much as the other man did.

But there were things Leofric said before dying that Ivar still needs answers to.

“Your Bishop, he said something about dead men breathing.” Ivar interrupts, eyeing Stithulf carefully, looking for any give in his expression.

The Saxon only stares at him, impassively, “Are you one to fear ghosts, heathen?”

He looks into his eyes, both blinded and piercing, and he doesn’t see a man. But he doesn’t see a piece on a board.

He sees a dying fire, he sees a choked flame, he sees an ending. He sees the last flickering light that’s keeping Ivar from the darkness.

And he cannot let it go out, not yet.

Even though Ivar will deny it until Valhalla calls to him, it is infuriatingly easy for you to get him to grant you whatever you wish.

You need only look at him and offer a soft and secret smile, or a touch of your hand on his arm, or a whisper of his name, and he is pathetically gone, ready to grant you whatever it will be that could keep you happy, safe.

You asked him without words to know where the place you were in was located on a map, long before he knew your name, in some old hut in Aneridge. And as if the Gods themselves moved his hand, he pointed to the location of the small town, growing a little warm at the sight of the softness in grateful eyes that looked up at him.

You ask silently for his attention with your chin resting on his shoulder, with your fingers skimming over his arm, with your hand on his. And, lovesick fool he is, he answers each of those summonses without thinking twice about it; turning to you and meeting your gaze.

And he likes to think -no, no, he knows, because he knows you, because…he knows- that in the last kiss you shared while it was still just the two of you, before the people set watchful eyes on you and the titles laid heavy on your heads; you asked him for the same thing he asks the Gods: for more time.

And so he leans forward, holding onto a knife, one of a set of five of which one still is kept safe by you.

Ivar’s eyes look into Stithulf’s grey one, and he watches the Christian squirm and groan as he retraces with the knife the scar you gave him, drawing blood and pain.

As he restarts the count, he breathes life to the dying embers.

“Run,” He tells him, the next movement of the bloodied knife cutting the rope that binds Stithulf’s legs, but not the one on his wrists. “We will meet again.”

And when the sun rises and the men wake up, they will hear him demand to know where the Christian has gone to, maybe they will even see him punish some undeserving fool.

And he will ignore Ubbe’s knowing stare, and he will set sail home and lie through his teeth, and live in this borrowed time a while longer.

Just this winter. Just one winter with you, and he’ll readily face spring and whatever it brings then.

____

Ivar never really saw love. Or experienced it. He doesn’t really know what it is like to love, or be loved, other than his mother, and Floki, maybe.

But he never witnessed it either, and that’s what he dwells on as the ships approach the docks. For a lifetime of watching, of being witness to how other men achieved the things he once believed he never could achieve himself; Ivar never really saw love.

His father was never there, and even when he was, it wasn’t love what kept him and Aslaug married. It was a quiet respect, a strange rivalry kept at bay by something other than themselves.

He hasn’t seen Sigurd in years, but even before it all fell apart, Ivar knew it wasn’t love what he and Blaeja had. It was companionship, a blend of resignation and relief at how out of all the possible outcomes, they happened to be bound to one another.

Floki did love Helga, he knows that, and he knows Helga loved him. But it was so drowned by the quiet sorrow, the way Helga would look at Floki, and it was so jarringly painful, the way Floki would look at his wife.

And Ivar still remembers the edge in that Greek’s voice as he called your name, he still remembers the look in your face as he died in your arms. But in quiet nights you’ve told him that was never love, that was illusion and guilt.

So, he doesn’t really know what love looks like, or what it is.

He doesn’t really know if the way your eyes have a strange shine to them and you smile despite yourself as you meet his gaze from the docks is love.

But he wants it to be.

And he understands the poor fool that believed every lie you told him, including that you loved him. Because you do not need speak a word other than his name, and Ivar is willing to close his eyes and pretend what you said were words of love.

He doesn’t have time to dwell on it, and grow angry at himself for still craving useless things, like softness, like love.

You are standing in front of him, wide smile and the faint shine of tears in your eyes, and he realizes in the quiet that you bring that he has had this small voice whispering that it would all turn out to be a mirage all this time.

Because this is real, because this is his; Ivar’s hand is certain on the back of your head, and he brings you to him and claims your mouth.

There’s a soft sound against his lips that sends a thrill of warmth down his spine, and your hands are warm against him as your mouth moves against his own, as you surrender to his kiss.

In the warmth you bring he realizes there truly was a part of him that believed that when he returned everything that had changed before he left would turn out to be nothing but a dream.

Your hands are on his chest, and your eyes focus on them for a few moments before you lift your gaze up to him.

“I missed you, Ivar.” You tell him, quietly, easily. You say it in a breath, as if it is simple. And it is simple, he gathers, though it doesn’t feel like simple in the way his chest pulls tight at the words.

He leans down and kisses you again, seals those words against his own lips, finds a way to make the promise they whisper more than words. And he kisses you -or you kiss him, he doesn’t think he minds the difference- until your lips are bearing the mark of him, and your breaths are labored.

You blink, dazedly, as if awakening from a dream, and it feels Ivar with pride to be able to disarm you, at least partly.

“How many…how many injured?” You ask, for the first time looking around you, “Your brother, is he…?”

“He’s well,” He tells you, and searches your eyes before adding, “Stithulf still lives.”

And Ivar may not know what love looks like, but he does know what relief looks like. And that surely shines in your eyes at his words.

____ ____ ____

Hope you liked it, thank you so much for reading!!

Taglist: @youbloodymadgenius @heavenly1927 @toe-vind-ek-jou @xbellaxcarolinax @pieces-by-me @angelofthorr @samsationalwilson @peachyboneless @1950schick @punkrocknpearls @ietss @itsmysticalmystery @revolution-starter @chibisgotovalhalla @the-a-word-2214 @fae-sedai @crazybunnyladysworld @funmadnessandbadassvikings (won’t met me tag you bb)

#ivar the boneless x reader #ivar x reader #ivar the boneless imagine #ivar the boneless #ivar #νοσταλγία masterlist

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seraphiism · 4 years ago

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till our lonely limbs collide / felix robane ( who made me a princess ) ( i feel my body stretch between two cliffs. one side is fantasy, the other reality. i can feel my fingers start to lose their grip, and i can't hold on. ) [ COMMISSION ] a/n: quote by dave malloy

[ 1:58am ] he dreams of war, the knight of crimson blood.

( such a holy title, they praise, but the words turn blood cold. --and what an honor it is that you wield it. )

he is cruel. he is unkind. perhaps the world does not view him as such, but when the sun sleeps and the moon rises, memories of sin return. bloodshed. violence. unheard pleas for mercy.

the adrenaline of war filled his lungs and never left.

now, he is suffocating.

it haunts him, but he does not beg for forgiveness. he is not a prideful being, nor one who believes it would be granted to him. there is no need for justification in protecting the ones you care for-- he knows this; he repeats it like a mantra that falls upon deaf ears.

one day, he hopes to hear it.

( felix robane carries death in his memories and heart. it aches, this burden he must bear. )

[ 3:02am ] in slumber, he revisits the battlefield. it has always been a foul sight, the ruins and rubble and the dead bodies littered across it. there is dread even in victory, and a lingering bitterness in the echoes of a damaged heart. he wakes, not in horror, but in exhaustion and defeat. he does not think the feeling will ever fade, but the role of an imperial knight has never been an easy one. with honor comes chaos and the weight of the world, a burden that lays on his chest. it presses down and down-- slowly, softly, and silently, until it is known.

"did you see it?"

the sound of your voice grants him a breath of fresh air, and once again, he is brought to the present. he smiles, but it is forced and lacks the usual kindness.

"see what?"

a pause that feels longer than it should have been. a simple word you wish to say, but the weight that lies in it is much too heavy; hesitation almost overwhelms your sorrow as you dare speak of it.

"war."

the warmth underneath the covers dissipates at once. his room, your home away from home, feels deserted. how strange it is that a single word can bring solitude, even in the presence of love.

the look he gives you is one you wish you could never see again-- such heartache in those gray eyes. silently, you scoot closer, arms wrapping around his figure as his head rests against your chest.

"i'm sorry." you whisper, and you say it again and again and again until your voice breaks.

one reminder. one memory. that is all regret needs to blossom.

( do not forget, even the monsters in the back of your mind must feed. )

[ 3:19am ] he falls asleep quickly in your arms.

( he will wake soon. it will happen again, but you will be there, as you always are. it will be okay. it will be alright. )

[ 4:04am ] he dances between the edges of sleep and consciousness. in and out he goes; he cannot distinguish what is real and what is not. he wants to find reality, wants to anchor himself to it, wants to allow himself to understand that he is safe and he is with you, but he cannot.

how do you find yourself in ruin?

the ghosts lay anguish to his sins. they exist as he does; one in the same, but in different planes of being.

he wants them to leave.

[ 4:06am ] you have spent many nights in his bed before. you force yourself to stay awake, watching for the warning signs to come. a twitch, the slightest furrow of his brows, then the way his body stiffens suddenly.

you kiss his head softly, as to gently ease him from the nightmares.

it doesn't work. it never does, but you always try.

"felix, love," you call softly, wondering if the sound of your heart will reach his, "you are safe."

he stirs in his sleep, but does not awaken. his grip on you tightens desperately. you think of every word of consolation that exists in the world, hoping to lessen the pain and despair that resides in his nightmar.

he wakes eventually, eyes wide when he finds reality and sees the concern on your visage. apologies spill out immediately, almost too quickly for you to understand, but the tension around your diaphragm fades. you inhale sharply.

"you don't have to be sorry, silly." a weight is lifted from your shoulders and you smile at him, fingers fixing stray strands of messy hair. "how do you feel?"

he searches his mind to find all the ways to express the thousands of emotions that bury themselves in an undying spirit, but words fail him.

"i'm alright." he answers. that's all he can manage, but that is enough. "you don't need to worry about me."

he smiles half-heartedly, though it disappears quickly when you pinch his nose despite his many protests.

"who's going to worry about you while you're worrying about a certain sassy princess and nonsensical emperor?"

"i think i should pretend i didn't hear that."

"uh huh. i think so, too."

his laughter is filled with warmth and all the comforting things you could ask for in life; upon hearing it, relief eagerly greets you both. you continue to lie together in growing reverie, your eyes counting each wrinkle in his night shirt as he thinks of the many emotions he has felt within these past few hours.

fear. anxiety. wandering regret.

relief. contentment. gratefulness.

he looks at you with such love, gaze shifting between your eyes and your lips.

"how are you feeling now?"

his lips meet yours in answer, adoration flowing through your veins at his touch. you break apart, barely, if only but for a brief moment.

"thankful." he murmurs, the word drowned out by your laughter as he leaves butterfly kisses all across your skin. "thank you."

the nightmares come and go in his life. he knows they will never truly go away, but he has made peace with it. it doesn't get easier and it won't, but felix holds many cherished ones close to him, and with them, he can endure it.

( with you, he feels as if he could face anything. )

#who made me a princess #WMMAP #felix robane #felix robane x reader #quote by dave malloy #.: writing #.: commission

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gotnofucks · 4 years ago

Text

Parts of Whole

(No images are mine, but I did edit them. If anyone knows the owners, do let me know so I can credit them)

Pairing: Sam Wilson x Bucky Barnes, Sam x Steve (platonic)

Summary: Steve would see his OTP’s ship sail, even from across the grave.

Words: 3.9k

Warnings: mentions of death (nothing graphic and not very sad), language, angst + fluff

A/N: I saw the trailer for tfatws and I just had to write this. This is also my entry for the amazingly talented @sagechanoafterdark and @sweater-daddiesdumbdork challenge (pic prompts above). Thank you for hosting this and being wonderful. The beautiful dividers are made by @firefly-graphics . Huge thanks to @the-inquisitive-hobbit for beta reading and giving me her very valuable insight.

It never felt right in his hands. It was his to wield, his to claim, and yet it never felt more foreign. The concentric red and white circles with the star embedded in the blue center glared back at him from the mirror. It had been months, but Sam had never taken this shield with him to any mission. He couldn’t.

It felt starkly cold in his hands, lifeless and materialistic. It was Steve’s symbol of strength and hope. It used to hang on his back, warmed by his body heat. Now, it seemed like the shield only existed to remind him of Steve’s absence. This shield was made for Steve. It belonged to him, it always would. How could he ever stand where he stood? How could Sam ever be the captain that Steve was, take this shield that held more power than a crown on a head?

He put it down again, covering it with a cloth before shutting the door on it, leaning heavily against it. He missed him, he missed him like a throbbing wound that refused to heal. If only he could see the sun shining on those golden locks again, have those baby blue eyes smile at him again. What wouldn’t he give for that.

He didn’t notice he wasn’t alone until a heavy hand was on his shoulder, squeezing gently. Sam didn’t open his eyes, just let the weight of it anchor him, let it bring him back from the chaos that was his mind. The cold metal hand felt like a relief against the overwhelming burden of grief that penetrated his being whenever he touched the circular shield.

“I miss him too.” Bucky said, and Sam opened his eyes. Bucky’s eyes were blue too, slightly grey where Steve’s were green. He could see himself reflected in them and he straightened, looking away, hiding his weakness.

This mantle of Steve Rogers that he was supposed to assume, this legacy he was supposed to take forward felt like cheating. His friend, his mentor, his brother was no more. How could people just expect him to move on? But they did. It didn’t matter he was emotionally compromised, it didn’t matter he wanted to drown, like Steve nearly had at the Potomac all those years ago. The world didn’t wait to create one disaster after another. They needed Captain America then, and they needed him now. Like Fury said, trouble always sticks around.

Sam cleared his throat, making sure he was collected before looking at Bucky again.

“Everything loaded in the Quinjet?” He asked and Bucky nodded. They’ll be leaving for another mission soon, and Sam was glad he’ll have the sounds of battle to drown the war in his heart.

“Sam.” Bucky said once Sam started leaving. “Take it.”

Sam looked at Bucky over his shoulder, his gaze equal parts pain and accusation. Of everyone, Bucky shouldn’t be the one telling him this.

“I’ll meet you in the jet.” He said firmly and quickly marched to his room, shutting the door behind him. He hated coming back to the compound, the lingering memories of their fallen warriors whispering in his ears every time he was here. He preferred his little house in the woods where it was only Bucky and nature with him.

He took out his tactical gear, laying it on the bed and getting out his wings when he heard it.

“You are punishing yourself Sam.” Came his voice.

It was this moment where Sam broke, sliding down the wall and letting a few tears escape. He was gone but he never left him.

“How could you have been so selfish Steve. Why?” He asked, looking up to glare at Steve. Even dead he looked so handsome, so put together with his hands on his hips. He didn’t look like the old man they had buried a month after the battle. No. He was their Steve, their young, beautiful Steve who left them behind.

Sam didn’t know why he saw him. He didn’t know if this was a ghost or a creation of his mind. To him, it was Steve. It was Steve and it was a beautiful suffering to see him again every time he reappeared.

“I am sorry.” Steve said and knelt before Sam, looking apologetic. Sam didn’t try touching him. Not when the first hundred times his hand just went through him.

“You are? What for?” Sam asked. “For leaving behind your shield and title, for leaving me behind, or for abandoning a best friend you promised to walk till the end of the line with? What are you really sorry for Captain?”

Steve didn’t answer, he never did. He let Sam take out his hurt and anger, and Sam cried. In the privacy of his walls, he cried. He was so tired of pretending to be strong, to be happy. He hid behind his jokes and smiles, fooled the world which was so ready to move on while Sam was buried somewhere with Steve in the cemetery, half dead, half alive.

“I am sorry Sam, for everything.” Steve insisted. “But you need to stop punishing yourself for mistakes you never made. You can’t live this way.”

Sam snorted a laugh for even in death Steve was a humanitarian bastard. He didn’t come back to haunt his enemies; oh no the centenarian came back to help his friends. Why didn’t people see that he could never be Steve? That Sam Wilson can never, won’t ever be the Captain that Steven Rogers was.

“I hate you so much Steve, I really do.” Sam whispered, wiping his nose and getting up. Steve watched him getting changed, no barriers of shame between them from that side of the grave.

“You always said that. I have never heard a ‘I love you’ more pronounced than I do in your hate.” Steve commented with a soft smile, it widened when Sam gave him a half-hearted glare. It was amazing how they could go from having a painful conversation to joking, but that was how it worked with Steve. He knew Sam, he knew everything that made him laugh and made him smile.

“What are you doing here anyway? Don’t you have a tea party with Gandhi or some other do-gooder like you in the afterlife?” Sam grumbled, tightening the belt in his suit and attaching his wings to it. Steve chuckled, sitting on the chair and watching Sam with a relaxed smile.

“They are too uptight for me. Mother Teresa tried to adopt me the other day” Steve said, and Sam laughed. His wings were the colours of American Flag, a new change. He grabbed his weapons and fixed Steve with a look, hating and loving him for being so him.

“I’ll see you after the mission?” He asked tentatively. He would never admit it, but he feared one day Steve would disappear again. It was crazy, it was not normal to see dead people, but Sam would rather have a shadow of Steve than just a memory.

“I’ll be here as long as you need me Sam. Always.” Steve said, a sad smile on his face when he saw Sam leaving without the shield.

Sharon greeted him in the jet, talking to Bucky and the other agents over the blueprint spread before them. Sam nodded his hello, snatching the half empty pack of Cheetos from Bucky’s hand and munching on it.

“So now you want to steal the show and my food. You’re such a dick Wilson.” Bucky said, poking Sam in his shoulder and Sam poked his tongue out at him, a gap-toothed smile on his face. Their previous somber interaction would not be mentioned, filed again like so many inside the neglected corner of their minds.

“Bitch, I paid for grocery this month. This is technically mine.” Sam replied, making Bucky scowl. Sam knew there was a 70-30 chance he’ll find his bed crawling with centipedes when they got back home.

“Charming, boys.” Sharon remarked rolling her eye. “What are you guys doing for Christmas? Must be nice to have a holiday.”

Bucky shrugged, sharing a look with Sam. It was their first Christmas without Steve, a 6 feet 2-inch void always between them.

“Nothing special. Stay home, watch movies, eat a lot.” Bucky said. A lot remained unsaid, but they rarely needed words to communicate anymore. Sam bumped his shoulder in his, offering him some Cheetos to munch while he silently grieved.

“Well, I’ll leave my address here for you to deliver your presents to me.” Sharon joked and Sam laughed softly, mentally making a note to get her something.

“Alright then, and I’ll just casually remark that my phone and laptop are both in serious need for an upgrade. Just saying.” Sam said. “Hey Buck, what are you going to gift me?”

Bucky crumpled the empty chips packet before sending Sam an amused glare, flipping him off.

“A ball gag, so that I can hear something other than your stupid voice.” He snarked.

“Damn dude, at least ask me out for dinner before getting kinky.” Sam winked and Bucky swelled with indignation, pointing an accusing metal finger at Sam.

“I cook dinner 3 times a week you bastard, and I don’t even burn it!” He protested making Sam laugh louder than ever. He loved making Bucky mad, teasing him into an incensed rage that usually ended in a pillow fight or sometimes with Sam’s head in a headlock.

They straightened as they saw the incredulous looks on the new agents’ faces, baby agents as Bucky liked to call them. It was times like these, when both the battle-hardened veterans missed their lost teammates, the inside jokes that were shot around with as much precision as bullets and arrows on the battlefield.

They got to work again, discussing the mission and its details with the other agents. Sam would run point on scaling the territory and fly down to the enemy base with two agents while Bucky would guide him from up here and take out potential threats. They just needed to secure a technological innovation and it didn’t seem too like much work. As Sam poured over the briefing, his eyes subconsciously went over to Bucky who was fiddling with the equipment, making sure everything was in working condition.

If someone had told him a few years ago that Bucky would become his anchor, his solace in his darkest hours, Sam would have punched them in the face. But as it happened, they came to lean on each other, the only unchanged part of their older lives, the only person who made each feel that were still real, still alive. They were still annoyed by each other, but the arguments were more of a routine than an actual expression of resentment.

He didn’t realize he was staring until someone deliberately coughed behind him.

“He is so pretty, isn’t he?” Steve asked, though it was a rhetorical question. Bucky Barnes was a beauty, from his blue grey eyes to the new golden streaks running through his new arm. Sam tried not to notice the way Bucky’s armor clung to his muscles, his face looking almost boyish as he forgot the world and focused on his task.

“I thought you said I’ll see you after the mission.” Sam muttered, taking care that no one noticed him talking to air. He hurriedly looked away from Bucky when their eyes met, a heat rising in his cheeks that made Steve chuckle.

“I said I’ll be there when you need me. And it seems like you do.” Steve commented. He took the seat next to Sam, so near that Sam swore he could feel the heat emanating from his body.

“I don’t know what you mean.” Sam snapped, the smug look on Steve’s face making him wish he could touch him if only to be able to punch him. Stupid blonde best friends with perfect teeth and beautiful smiles and an ass that looked just as round after being dead.

“Oh, I think you do.” Steve said, shifting his gaze to Bucky. “I liked his hair longer but the shorter is going well with the new arm. Don’t you think?”

Despite himself Sam found himself nodding, admiring Bucky as he’d done a thousand times before. He liked his longer hair too, but without them falling in his face, he could see him better. And the arm. The new arm that gave Sam tingles in the most delicious ways, it had him flustered for three whole weeks after Bucky first showed up with it on him.

He didn’t know when it started, but Bucky had somehow become the most beautiful person to Sam. From the way he would make him the perfect mug of coffee to their little kitchen garden they started to keep themselves busy, he loved everything about him. Those moments where he would sense the turmoil inside Sam and silently slip his hands in Sam’s to assure him that he was there, these little moments endeared him even more.

Sam had lost count of how many times Bucky and he had woken up on the couch, sharing a blanket, both silently afraid to sleep alone. He had forgotten how many times he had spent kneeling at Bucky’s bedside, coaxing him out from a nightmare. Every moment spent in each other’s company, laughing, joking, mourning together, it brought them together in a way Sam had never imagined before.

“Tell him” Steve said, a wistful look on his face as he looked at his best friend. “He feels the same. I know.”

Sam shook his head, tearing his eyes away from Bucky with reluctance. He’d already lost so much, he wouldn’t lose Bucky too. Not because he has a minor, very minor teensy tiny crush on him.

“Man, shut the hell up.” He snapped.

“Who’re you talking to?” Bucky called out from across the jet and Sam’s head snapped up, mouth parting a little before he mumbled out a ‘no one’ and focused on the papers in his hand. Sometimes he felt guilty for keeping Steve a secret, for keeping Bucky away from his best friend. He knew Bucky cried into his pillow at nights, he knew because he’d held him then, tried his best to fill the cracks that appeared in the walls of Bucky’s heart as well as his own.

But then, Steve chose to come to him. Chose to talk to Sam. And he was afraid that telling anyone would disturb this magic, whatever this was. That he would once again have to bury Steve. So, he kept quiet. He buried this secret in the deep recesses of his mind, the initial worry of insanity long forgotten in favor of seeing his friend again.

“Do you even have a plan?” Bucky questioned, watching him prepare for the jump. Sam had a job for every agent accompanying him, but the idiot had not outlined anything for himself.

“I do.” Sam said, and when Bucky looked unconvinced, he lightly punched his shoulder. “You’re my plan, my backup. I scream, jump down and get my ass back up.”

Saying this, Sam jumped, the exasperated look on Bucky’s face imprinted behind his eyelids as his wings flared out and he floated.

Everything that could have gone wrong on this mission did, and Bucky was hysterical even before Sam’s call for backup came. He was going to kick Nick Fury’s ass, but before that he was going to bring his friend back in one-piece and chew him out for giving him a heart attack.

Sam’s wings took most of the weight of the fall, so he came back with a sprained ankle and bruises. Bucky was getting increasingly irritated when they came back home, their little secluded spot in the woods welcoming them with the smell of pine and wild grass.

“It’s not my fault Fury gave us shitty intel.” Sam groaned, “You can stop being salty now.”

Bucky remained quiet, the silent treatment going for almost the third day in row and Sam was at his wits end. It was stupid and ridiculous because Bucky almost always pulled the stupidest moves in the field, like stopping a bomb with his hand or listening to the villain’s evil monologue.

Steve was grinning as he leaned against the edge of the table, and with every suggestive wink he gave Sam, the new Captain America resisted the urge to throw a vase at him.

“He cares so much that he’s speechless.” Steve commented and Sam flipped him off. Dickhead has been giving running commentary of the thick tension in the air since they came back, and Sam was on the verge of calling for an exorcism.

“Why do you do that?” Bucky asked suddenly and Sam was so glad to hear him talk again it took him a while to understand the question.

“What?”

“This thing, looking somewhere and talking to yourself, or – I don’t know, you keep being weird.”

“You’re the one with the cyborg brain and arm and I’m weird” Sam tried deflecting. Bucky frowned, coming closer to sit near Sam, leaving abandoned Christmas decorations scattered around them. Clint had delivered it for them but neither had the heart to put them up.

“Sam.” Bucky deadpanned, and Sam sighed, resting his head back and avoiding eye contact. He looked at Steve who was still smiling, his beautiful face like a slap on the face and caress on the head at the same time.

It was more difficult than one would assume to explain. Why did Sam see Steve, and why did only Sam see Steve? Was it a hallucination, or his spirit? Would Steve go away if Sam confided in Bucky? Would Bucky be mad he didn’t tell him? There were so many questions, so many doubts, and yet as Sam looked into Bucky’s eyes, shining like sapphires, he couldn’t keep it to himself.

“Its…Its Steve.” He said, looking down and playing with the soft lint on his blanket. He didn’t hear Bucky say anything but moments later a metal hand gripped his, stopping its nervous movements.

“Steve?”

Sam gulped, the coolness of Bucky’s hand in his warming his heart, swelling it with hope and an emotion Sam was too afraid to acknowledge.

“Steve, he – he talks to me.” Sam confessed and tentatively looked at Bucky whose eyes were brimming with emotion. He expected him to call him crazy, or to get mad, but what he did not expect was Bucky to shift closer and take Sam’s other hand in his too.

“He talks to me as well.” Bucky said. Sam was breathless, both by the slight smell of cinnamon that came from Bucky and the way Bucky came even closer, close enough that he could count the flecks in his eyes.

“He does?” Sam asked and Bucky nodded.

“I don’t know how he does it with you, but whenever I need him, miss him, I feel him speak to me from here.” With this Bucky placed one of Sam’s hand on his chest, the beating heart under thumping strongly. Unconsciously, Sam’s hand caressed Bucky’s chest, mapped its muscles and the jagged scars that bulged under his left shoulder.

“I see him.” Sam admitted, unable to look away from Bucky. “I can see him”

Tears blurred his vision until they dropped on his cheeks, sliding down, and forging a river down, leaving a trail of hurt, betrayal, and loss in their wake. Bucky’s hand came up to wipe them away, staying on Sam’s cheek, playing with the soft hair on his chin.

“I see him too. In you.” Bucky said and they didn’t know who moved first, but their foreheads were touching and then their lips met in a chaste, hesitant kiss. Sam melted into his touch, molding himself to fall into Bucky’s larger frame, his arms circling his waist and pulling him closer. They kissed as if they had walked a hundred miles just to kiss each other, as if they had saved every last breath just to live this moment.

“I – I, Buck –” Sam began but Bucky shushed him, pulling him into another soul-searching kiss before pulling away.

“I know.” He murmured.

As Sam relaxed in Bucky’s warm embrace, lost himself in the blues of Bucky’s eyes, he noticed Steve from the corner of his eyes. There was sadness on his face, the pain of a goodbye in the creases around his eyes. But when he smiled, he smiled with genuine love and happiness. The two parts of his soul he’d left behind seemed to have found themselves, and with them Steve felt himself complete.

“Till the end of the line pals.” He whispered.

Sam never saw Steve again.

Their Christmas was not very festive in terms of decoration. There was still too much pain, too much suffering in their hearts. Steve and Nat’s pictures beamed at them from the walls, and Sam sent Pepper the confirmation that they’ll come over for New Years.

It was a beautiful thing about human nature, about how one rises from the ashes to become stronger. Sam and Bucky lost someone, but they found each other. In the shared grieve of their hearts, they discovered the love long buried in there, eagerly waiting to be spread and shared.

They stayed warm under the blanket, wearing oversized sweaters that they wouldn’t be caught dead wearing outside. The sweaters may or may not have been Steve's; the soldiers mutually decided to hold Steve close in this way. Sam’s heart was tripled in size, as his head rested in the crook of Bucky’s neck, the smell of chocolate and cinnamon melting together to make a little world of their own. Sam wondered if he would mind growing out his hair again.

“So, what did you get me?” Sam asked, knowing he wouldn’t mind if Bucky did get him that ball gag. Part of him almost hoping for it.

“How rude Wilson, here I’ve given you all of myself and you still thirst for more.” Bucky mocked and Sam tackled him into a hug, peppering kisses all over his face.

“Bitch, you’re lucky I lo-” Sam cut himself off, suddenly shy. The smirk on Bucky’s face melted into a smile, a hungry look in his eyes.

“Say it” Bucky ordered. And Sam did. The Captain obeyed his Sergeant without hesitation.

“I love you. I love you so freaking much! I got us the cheesiest gifts.” Sam said in excitement. He pulled away long enough to grab his gift from under the bed, giving it to Bucky to open. He watched with his bottom lip between his teeth as Bucky opened the box to pull out two chains, each dangling with a rectangular pendant.

Dog tags.

Their dog tags. Bucky raised his eyes to Sam’s, fisting his hand in Sam’s t-shirt to pull him closer into a searing kiss, all tongue and teeth and moans, hips grinding as passion merged with love and emotion.

“I love you!” Bucky growled and kissed Sam again. “And I got you chocolates that look like dicks. I didn’t know this would happen between us when I bought them, and I was going to give you a hint with them.”

Sam’s laughter echoed around their small house, the dopey smile on his face remaining intact as they ate candy and burnt sparklers into the night. In the colourful light that played on their faces, they held hands together, filling the void that was there with the warmth of each other.

“We can use the shield as a sleigh until you’re comfortable using it as a weapon.” Bucky mused and Sam smiled into his neck, thinking of a certain blond asshole who may have gone away, but will never be lost.

Permanent Taglist: @what-is-your-wish @shooting-star-love @stanmysoul @sweeterthanthis @scentedsongrebel @muralskins @rayofdawnworld @donutloverxo @just-one-ordinary-fangirl @angrythingstarlight @rockyrogers @slothspaghettiwrites @nerdygirl8203

CE & Steve : @littlegasps @bluemusickid @harrysthiccthighss @abeyyaaar @slytherinandoutasgard @empath-bunny

SebStan & Bucky : @sebastiansthot @its-izzys @harrysthiccthighss @empath-bunny

For this fic : @barnesandco

#ssholidaychallenge #sambucky #sam x bucky #sam wilson x bucky barnes #sam x steve #tfatws #fluff

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curiosity-killed · 3 years ago

Text

grey hours

word count: 1685 cw: mentions of suicide/suicidal ideation

“You can’t be serious,” Jisel said.

Callebero shrugged, passing the wine to Sirion at the third point of their little triangle.

“You can’t marry till you’re of age,” he said. “That’s two decades from your first nameday.”

Staring at him, Jisel squinted as if she could suss out a lie underneath. After a moment of futile searching, she turned to Sirion.

“He’s joking, right?” she demanded.

Caught in the middle of a sip, Sirion wrinkled his nose but still lifted his left hand to shake it once in the negative. Callebero leaned forward, a grin curving up his lips.

“Alas, were it not for the laws of this land, we really could have had a runaway romance as the rumors tell it,” he teased. “Here you could be imperial consort and—“

Wadding up the waxed fabric cover of the jar, Jisel threw it at his face. He caught it before it hit because he was a little shit, but he was laughing.

“And here all you’ve given me is my kingdom,” Jisel retorted, dry. “What a paltry betrothal gift.”

“Hie, I didn’t give you anything,” Callebero said, pointing at her with the hand clutching the pink fabric. “The whole scholarly court accorded you the title based on a thorough review of the histories.”

Rolling her eyes, Jisel leaned back on her palms, careful to keep to the fabric of the blanket she’d brought this time rather than the cold stone beyond it. Between them, Sirion wore a small smile, a little bemused as if he didn’t know quite how he’d wound up sitting with the two of them on the palace roof in the middle of the night. The bewilderment was fair, she supposed: it didn’t make sense for any of them to be sitting here under the sea-salt stars while Ancelm curled slumbering around them.

“Aeridians,” she griped. “Next you’re going to tell me that all the horses in the city have to be dubbed like knights.”

Callebero and Sirion shared a brief look, little more than a flicker of their gazes, before turning to her with solemn looks.

“No,” she said immediately. “No, absolutely not—“

Standing alone on the roof now, Jisel couldn’t remember what they’d told her—if they’d tried to spin together some nonsense tale or if they’d descended into laughter too quickly. She remembered the warmth of it, the easiness in their little knot tangled together under the bruised vault of night. Those nights dropped pearl-like into her memory, iridescent and gleaming against the stains of the changing years.

The sky hung heavy and low with grey clouds now, painfully bright and unmoving. Underneath their heavy blanket, the city seemed stilted, hushed. Even the grand bazaar was closed, its vibrant canopies folded up and tucked away under the punched-gut shock that threaded through the city. Jisel had come up here to escape that oppressive hush in the palace, but even here, the breeze was too limp and half-hearted to do more than brush against the ends of her scarf dangling down her back.

As a child, she’d read stories and heard people talk about grief. Enough young men had died during the last war with Alir that everyone knew someone who had died, from brothers and fathers to uncles and cousins. Every family had a missing son in those years. She’d heard them say that it didn’t feel real at first, that they kept expecting to look up and see their lost ones cross the threshold of their home, lit by the setting sun and safe in the warmth of home.

That was not why Jisel had come up here, to this flat roof paved with gentle memories. She’d prepared for this, over the last couple years, ever since Jimar, ever since Callebero came back cold and distant. Callebero possessed a remarkable force of will, and if he wanted to die, then no matter Jisel’s efforts, she would not sway him. So: Callebero was gone. She did not hunt his ghost in the crooks of these old stones.

But—Callebero had often been gone, these last years. Always running toward the sword and away from the sheltering wings of the castle. As much as she knew he was gone, it seemed unfathomable that he could never return. Was this what the Aeridians meant, she wondered, when they called for the spirits of their ancestors to walk in step with them? The hauntings she’d grown up on were curses and cruelty, malicious spirits dragging their victims down into an early grave out of envy and hatred. Yet every time she sorted through papers or read a line in the book by her bedside and thought ‘I’ll show Callebero this,’ her breath caught and she had to pause, fight to reorient herself to this living land.

The door creaked behind her.

Few people came up here at all, the point of her escape, and Jisel glanced over her shoulder expecting a servant or, perhaps, Fran. She stilled, gaze hardening.

For his part, Catterik seemed equally startled to see her. He stopped short with his hand still pressed flat against the door, halfway between the shadowed stairs and the dismal light outside. After a moment, he swallowed and stepped forward, letting the door swing shut behind him. Jisel watched coolly as he crossed the terrace to stop beside the diamond-carved railing.

“Alir liked heights, too,” he said after a long moment staring out at the grey city. Swallowed. “Used to run old Riker ragged trying to make sure the imperator princep didn’t die from falling out of a tree or slipping out of a tower window.”

Biting down hard, Jisel turned her own gaze out on Ancelm. From here, she could see all seven minarets spearing up toward the sky, the ring of eight completed by the palace’s own dome behind her. Soon, the evening horns would sound from the westernmost towers to call the city home to rest. Their sound had felt unnerving lately, as if they suddenly were too loud in the uneasy quiet.

Catterik spoke quietly, but his voice was still too much for this shroud-grey hush.

“I—” he scoffed out a laugh that almost sounds wet. “I couldn’t stand him when he was young. I was so wrapped up in Alir, and he took her from me, and—”

She was never his, Jisel didn’t say. From what she’d heard of the hallowed emperor, Alir been no one’s but her own—and perhaps, for a brief moment, a part of her had belonged to her son. The rest—war-forged, restless, hungry with her own toothed ambition—had been incapable of being owned or tied down. As much as the gentry all scrambled to compare Callebero to his mamán, they differed in this: Alir had refused to be anyone’s, and Callebero longed to belong to someone.

Folding her hands behind her back, Jisel considered a small figure walking alone down the main boulevard of the city. From this distance, she couldn’t make out the colors of their clothes beyond a green smudge and couldn’t guess at the features of their face. For all she knew, it could have been Callebero walking to the palace gates to interrupt his own funeral. It could have been herself, the first time she came to Ancelm with her wide eyes and unwritten future.

“Jisel.”

She looked to Catterik coolly, jaw tight. Swallowing, he pressed his lips together and inclined his head in a gesture that almost looked like concession. He held her gaze.

“Praesidion.”

Better.

“The funeral tomorrow,” he said, tone strangely urgent. “Don’t go.”

Liquid fire dripped down Jisel’s back, a molten rage. It steeled her spine, forged a rod of adamantine in place of bone as she turned to face him fully for the first time since he intruded on this place of memory.

“Warming Alir’s bed did not make you Callebero’s malán, Imperator Viachi,” she said. “If you cannot stand the sight of a Capallan at his funeral, stay home.”

His lips pulled back slightly, disgust or a snarl starting in the pinch of his brows. Fuck him, she thought. Fuck him and the gentry he came from, all their gilt and hollow claims. Turning on her heel, she swept past to the door and tugged it open. He didn’t call after her, but as she stepped over the threshold, a servant skittered back. Bowing quickly, they yelped a frantic excuse she didn’t bother listening to. One would expect the imperial spymaster’s welps to be better trained, she thought as she followed the curling stairs down to the heart of the palace.

At least they weren’t subtle enough for her to worry about them catching anything of importance. There was enough unease to balance without having to consider whether some determined spy could get into her chambers to steal anything of use.

Only when she closed the door of her office did she finally pause and exhale. Reaching up to slip the heavy circlet from her head, Jisel tipped her head back to hang against her neck. From across the room came a quiet whine, and she sighed, straightening to walk over to where Nox laid. Without Callebero or Sirion to pester, he’d clung to her heels like a stray following the first kind stranger to offer it food. She didn’t know what to do with him, really. Without his master or sister, he was still a warhound—trained for the chaos and slaughter of the battlefield more than the quiet schemes of the palace.

She knelt down beside him, scratching behind his ears briefly before her hand settled into long, soothing strokes down his back. With a little chuff, he flopped his head into her lap and blinked his wet brown eyes up at her before settling in fully.

“I know,” she murmured. “I know, little love. It’s unfair, isn’t it?”

He offered no reply except the steady weight of his head on her thigh and the silky blanket of his fur under her fingers. In her other hand, the crown’s cold edges bit into her palm.

#tcp is ANOTHER story where the main character (or one of them anyway) dies in the first chapter #but it's fine #he gets better #story: tcp #my writing #ch: jisel #ch: catterik #fun facts for this: the fabric is pink bc i rlly wanna try dyeing shit with beets #hm thought there were more fun facts but maybe not

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manycreates · 3 years ago

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War of Lovers

a/n: I return from writer's block with the unintentional help of my friend. We were just talking and then boom! Writing idea! So thanks for that Zack. The writing became a book trope thingy so... Characters: Royal! Male X Royal! Female Type of work/text: One-shot/Ficlet Synopsis: A prince met a princess and they fell in love but little did he know that she was his enemy and his kingdom's downfall Warnings: blood, angst, murder, betrayal, regret, death

He lied on the ground with a dagger in his heart as she pinned him down with her knees beside him, hands still on the blade. Tears welled up in her eyes as she slowly pulled out the dagger with a shaky hand. The removal of the blade caused a shock of pain through his body as it slowly faded again to the open wound in his chest.

"Ouch. That hurt, " he said with a chuckle. "It's a critical hit," he joked. A twitch of his lips pulled the corners of his mouth into a small painful smile. The tears in her eyes flowed down her cheeks at the sight of his smile and the open wound in his chest.

How can someone still joke and smile when their loved one put a dagger through their heart and they're on the very last strand of life?

She couldn't understand it. She couldn't understand him.

"Ah!" He exclaimed as his punctured heart pumped the last bit of blood it could as it began to slowly shut down. The blood flowed out of his heart instead of into it. He surely couldn't take any kind of pain. Physical pain. Mental pain. But if there was one pain he couldn't tolerate or heal from, it was emotional pain.

The pain of betrayal from the only person he had ever loved.

It hurt but he still couldn't help but look at her with contempt and happiness and... love. "This is it. This is how I die. This is how I wanted to die..." His smile widened as he reached his hand up to wipe away his lover's tears from her eyes, bloody fingers leaving a stroke behind on her cheek.

Like war paint but the marking was too late to adorn. The battle of kingdoms and rivals and enemies. The war is long over but it isn't just any war between enemies, it was the war of lovers. The victor had turned out to be the princess but she didn't want to be the winner. Victory never tasted so bitter.

With the last bit of energy he had left, he spoke "I always knew you'd be my demise..." He breathed his last as his hand fell, her cheek feeling cold as his warmth had left her instantly. She wanted to say 'sorry'. She had so much to explain and just one question to ask of him but it was too late. She stared into space hoping this was just one of his childish jokes. Hoping this was just a dream. Hoping this wasn't... real.

But alas, she found no hope and the feeling of loneliness began to slowly and agonisingly set in. It took its time as if it was torturing her until her eyes filled with tears all other again. Her tears followed like fountains in the lushest of royal gardens.

With all the anger she could pull out of her body, she took a hold of the dagger again and darted it into the ground right beside his head as a blood-curdling scream left her lungs. All the guilt and shame and pain could be heard in every vibration of her voice for miles across the corpse-filled battlefield. But no matter how many times she could plant a dagger into the ground or scream her lungs out, she still wouldn't be able to get rid of all the emotions she never ever wanted to feel.

The memories and feelings will forever haunt her and not a second will go by where she doesn't question herself

Why?

You have now reached the end of this post *cheers*. Likes, comments and reblogs are always welcomed and appreciated ♡ Till next time :) Thank you!

#Also sorry not sorry #I wanna make you people sufer #mannywrites #enemies to lovers #prince #princess #royalty #war #kindoms #rivals #enemies #betrayal #regret #angst #popular book trope

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chestnut-b · 5 years ago

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Himawari Chapter 6

This man will be the death of you.

The first time Iruka had laid eyes on Kakashi’s figure in that field of sunflowers, a voice had whispered in his ear, as if carried by the wind.

Chapter 6 of a Demon Slayer AU.

Iruka, I’m sorry.

His mother had smiled at him sadly the first time he’d mentioned hearing voices. She’d taken him into her warm arms and sang a sweet but melancholic song, her hands running through his hair, the sound of the waves breaching the shore outside eventually lulling him to sleep.

It wasn’t until he was older that he was made to understand the nature of being born a Senju.

Descendants would always be born with bodies that would fail them.

Their karma from having produced a great demon would haunt their line till the day Orochimaru was wiped from existence.

But the gods, in some twisted form of consolation, decided to bestow their kin with exceptional foresight, allowing them to amass their fortunes, and continue their fight till this day, leading the demon slayers.

Of all the voices Iruka had heard throughout his life, the one that would have saved his parents never reached him.

Iruka had been a sickly child, too weak to lift a sword. He could manage a kunai at least, much to his father’s relief, and soon, he began his training in the shinobi arts. Poisons, traps, diversions and an almost inhumane focus on accuracy made up a large part of his childhood memories with his father. Bittersweet, but precious nonetheless.

Ikaku hailed from a small shinobi village on the Izu coast, its destruction eventually leading him to the demon slayers. He’d been reporting to Sarutobi at his estate when he came across a visiting Kohari.

“He was as red as a tomato.” Sarutobi would chuckle, grinning widely as he recounted that first meeting. His father’s dour demeanour had been well-known amongst his comrades, but so was his sense of duty. It made his desertion with Kohari all the more shocking.

“The burden of being a Senju is not an easy one to bear, Iruka. She wanted to protect you, however she could.”

It was the night of his thirteenth year. He was managing a squirming Naruto in his arms when Sarutobi had said that. Had Iruka followed the path he was meant to walk, he would have already been married to a wife chosen by the temple, and the baby in his arms would have been his own, one who would eventually endure the same cycle of karma as their ancestors before them.

If being thankful for avoiding that fate made him a coward, so be it.

His parents had brought him to Sarutobi several times as he grew older, despite the lingering fear of retribution for deserting. With his instruction, Iruka had eventually worked up the strength to even wield a sword, something Sarutobi considered an achievement in itself, even if his stamina would always be left wanting.

“If something happens to us, go to him.”

Those were the last instructions they gave him before they had set out from their home. A week prior, a talking crow had appeared, bearing news of the coming birth of an Uzumaki, and the hoard of demons and familiars who were beginning to gather. His mother, already in a weakened state, simply looked at her husband resolvedly.

Perhaps she too, had received her own revelation. Ikaku had deserted the corp, but never his will to protect the weak from demons. His blade had never seen a dull day, and this time, he would not let his old comrades face the coming threat alone.

They’d died fulfilling their duties.

Iruka was proud of them. He’d told them as much, praying before the empty grave markers he’d made outside their home.

He’d just wished they hadn’t left him behind.

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

If he closed his eyes and focused, he could hear the beat of Kakashi’s heart.

Like the rumbling of a storm forming in the distance.

As a child, he’d run out of the house to stand on the edge of the cliff where his parents’ graves now stood, watching with fascination as the darkening clouds gathered where the sea met the sky.

If he closed his eyes, he’d find himself there yet again.

“Naruto, keep yourself together. Not much longer now.”

Surprisingly, the boy nodded obediently without complaint. He’d been strangely quiet. They were passing through another wisteria grove, and Iruka found himself being carried on the Hashira’s back as they made the last of their way back to the school. Kakashi had insisted; he wasn’t in good shape, despite the rest he had gotten.

An hour ago when they’d left the cave, he’d slipped an arm under his knees and back, lifting him up as easily as one would a child. Resistance at this point was futile, and Kakashi’s amusement seemed to grow the redder he got.

This man will be the death of you.

The first time Iruka had laid eyes on Kakashi’s figure in that field of sunflowers, a voice had whispered in his ear, as if carried by the wind.

It wasn’t said with any kind of discernible malice, nor was it tainted with foreboding, like so many of the voices he’d heard before.

It was gentle and lined with warmth, almost as if it was meant to comfort him.

Mother?

Iruka had been so shaken by this, he’d forgotten to offer his name to the Hashira when they finally met.

Nearly two months later, here he was, flush against a warm and broad back that reminded him painfully of his father, Naruto trailing sleepily behind them.

If this was what that voice was referring to, perhaps it wasn’t the worst way to go.

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

They moved at a steady pace amidst the rain of falling petals overhead, and he was just about ready to doze off before Kakashi’s musings reached his ears.

“I was thinking...we’re not too different after all, Iruka-sensei.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Final Selection. I didn’t pass either.” He admitted softly.

“I’ve heard Naruto tell better lies, Kakashi-san.” Iruka couldn’t imagine a world where it could be true.

“You wound me, sensei. I’d never lie to you.” Iruka thought he almost sounded serious for a moment, but Kakashi sighed wistfully before continuing, a little more subdued than Iruka was used to hearing.

“After my father died, I ended up at a school. I met a boy, Obito, and a girl, Rin there. Minato-sensei eventually came and took us as his apprentices.”

“Obito was an idiot, but we became rivals. We entered the selection together. I’d always made fun of him for being a crybaby and a goody-two shoes, but he ended up saving many of the entrants that year.”

“We ended up against a demon who’d survived on the mountain for over three decades, eating humans and absorbing other demons. We were outmatched, and I’d lost an eye, but...Obito managed to activate his Sharingan.”

The Sharingan; so Obito was a descendant of the Uchiha, Iruka realised. Like the Uzumaki, they’d come from a long, ancient line of demon hunters. Their eyes were said to have granted demon-like perception, but at a steep price. Much like the Senju, none with an activated Sharingan would live to see old age. By now, they had been all but wiped out, after one of their members had become a demon, slaughtering and sparing not even a single child,

“We thought we’d defeated it, and I’d let my guard down. The cave we were in collapsed on us.” Kakashi continued. “Obito protected me and took the blow, but his right side was crushed.”

Iruka’s hold on Kakashi’s shoulders tightened on reflex. He knew what was coming. The eyepatch over Kakashi’s left eye, along with his fame as a Hashira, was more than enough.

“Rin was skilled enough to fulfill his last request, but I lost consciousness right after, and when I came to, the selection was over. Obito was the only one who failed to make it that year.”

Kakashi looked up at the wisteria flowers overhead.

“So you see, sensei, I don’t deserve to be standing here right now. I didn’t pass the selection like I was supposed to.”

Iruka pressed closer.

“Please don’t say that. It hasn’t just been Naruto and my life you’ve saved.” Iruka whispered. How many lives had Kakashi rescued since becoming a slayer, too many to count, in all likelihood.

Passing the selection meant you had to survive a week on that battlefield, and Kakashi had, by all means, passed. Most of the entrants would have been children.

The demon Kakashi had faced might have been an outlier, but the thought of Naruto having to go through the same ordeal was almost too much to bear.

“You don’t resent the Senju for all this?”

It was a question only a Hashira could answer. They were the only ones in the corp who knew the identity of their leader; it was a secret as closely guarded as the location of the family estate. The rest of the corp knew him only as “Oyakata-sama”.

“I can’t say they’ve done everything right, but they are doing their best.” Kakashi stated. There must have been more he wanted to say, he’d refrained from doing so.

They continued walking in silence for a while more, but a question had been circling in Iruka’s mind since Kakashi had mentioned it the night before.

“Kakashi-san...your father, did he...look like you?”

He felt Kakashi’s pace hitch for just a beat.

“Why do you ask?” It was barely a whisper.

“If he did...I might have seen him before.” Iruka admitted.

It was one of Iruka’s earliest recollections. The man had hair much longer than Kakashi’s, and though Iruka had yet to see most of the Hashira’s face, the aura they projected was remarkably similar.

The man fought Ikaku outside their home. It had been a fierce battle, and the first time he’d seen his father fight another human. Kohari had been holding him, and she’d been more scared than Iruka remembered being.

“I think he’d been sent to find us. Father called him -”

“Sakumo.” Kakashi finished. Iruka nodded.

“He didn’t say very much. They fought, and after a while, he just left.”

Kakashi snorted. “That sounds just like him”

Iruka smiled wryly. He’d left out the fact that Sakumo had beat his father half an inch from his life. With a wave, he’d left with a satisfied look on his face, together with the hound he’d arrived with.

“He’d found us, but nothing ever happened after that.”

Kakashi chuckled softly. “So he was testing your father’s resolve then.”

Iruka smiled.

“He must have been a good man.”

“What makes you think that?” It almost sounded like a test.

Iruka had only ever seen his father cry twice. The first, when he had to accept there was nothing he could do for his wife’s declining condition. The second…

“My father cried when the news came.”

That Sakumo had killed himself, having been turned a demon. Even if it had been against his will, his village would have shunned him, even in death. His family too, would have been made outcasts.

Kakashi remained quiet, and Iruka was slowly beginning to regret bringing up the subject.

“Thank you. It’s good to know I wasn’t the only one.”

Gods.

He closed his eyes, feeling like the child he used to be, watching the storm brewing on the horizon. Sakumo and Kakashi, watching them in battle, had felt exactly the same way.

He thought of his parents, who were watching him from wherever they’d gone.

Father...Mother…

If there is any happiness out there meant for this man…

Please, guide him to it.

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

Iruka had requested for the last of his dignity to be spared, and so just before they’d arrived at gates, Kakashi set the teacher back down on his two feet. Strapping his sword back into his belt, Iruka checked on his young charge, who had been almost unnervingly quiet since they’d set out this morning.

“Naruto, something wrong?”

“I’m fine, sensei.” He could have been a lot more convincing if he’d looked Iruka in the eyes. Iruka’s expression grew more concerned, and he placed a warm hand on the boy’s head.

“You must be starving. I’ll have them fix you something as soon as we get back.” The boy nodded in response, and the three of them walked towards the gates.

“What the heck happened to you?” Izumo and Kotetsu had run up to them as soon as they were in sight. Iruka scratched the back of his head and sighed.

“We ran into some trouble on the way back. One of the entry points’ been destroyed, and we encountered a demon at the cave by the ravine.”

“You’re serious. It’s the second one this month. We’ll have to let the others know. You look like crap by the way.”

Iruka rolled his eyes in Kotetsu’s direction.

“Who took over my class today?”

“Oh, Mizuki did, he wasn’t too happy about it either. He says you owe him a main dish at dinner.”

“Right.” Iruka sighed.

Behind them, Izumo went up to Kakashi, holding up a slip of paper to the Hashira.

“A message arrived this morning for you, Hatake-dono.” Kakashi thanked the man, and looked at the letter’s contents.

The Snake Pillar has arrived. Your presence at headquarters is requested. Your debriefing will be held in two days.

So Anko had returned. A debriefing…

Kakashi’s gaze found Iruka’s back. He’d gone up ahead with Naruto, but turned around to send a tired smile his way.

Was this feeling...Disappointment?

Perhaps.

Despite the realisation, he found himself smiling too.

It had been a long time since he’d had something to feel that way about.

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

“I see.”

Iruka was staring into his tea cup again.

“Naruto’s in good hands, Iruka-sensei.” Kakashi said, sipping at his own tea. He’d spent the afternoon packing his belongings.

It had been years since Kakashi had spent this much time in one place, but it wasn’t as difficult as he’d expected. Two months had gone by in the blink of an eye, and he’d been given precious time to think about things he’d brushed off before.

Like why he was still alive. Why he was still a demon slayer.

Despite everything he’d lost, living the life he did, it was easy to forget.

“I’ll send Bisuke and Guruko when I can.”

Iruka laughed softly. “Not that anything exciting happens around here, but I’d like to hear about your adventures, Kakashi-san.”

The teacher’s face seemed to brighten at his words. His face was faintly flushed, and his smile was warm. It was different from the one he’d seen the day they’d first met, the one that was meant to greet a superior. Kakashi liked to think they could be friends.

That night at dinner, when Iruka gave up his dish as compensation to Mizuki for covering for him, he’d laughed when half a grilled fish appeared on his empty plate.

It was a worthwhile sacrifice to hear it.

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

“Naruto’s resting in bed. He’s still pretty out of it I’m afraid.”

Iruka scratched at his scar sheepishly.

They’d walked together till the gates were out of sight. Guruko was trailing behind Kakashi, but when they’d stopped, Iruka kneeled down to give her a satisfying rub.

“Don’t let Kakashi-san work you too hard, Guruko.” He whispered. Guruko barked happily in agreement. Iruka laughed, and rose again to face Kakashi.

“So this is where we part.”

“For now.”

“For now.” Iruka repeated, nodding.

He reached a hand out towards the Hashira, who took it firmly in his own.

“It’s going to be a bit lonelier now. Keep safe, Kakashi-san.”

It was a hard ask for someone who’d lived to throw themselves into battle.

“Well, I’ll do my best, Iruka-sensei.”

He would. Kakashi had to stay alive, now that he’d found a new reason to fight.

“Maybe I’ll find a way to defeat Orochimaru, and you’ll finally be able to leave this fancy cage you’ve built for yourself.”

If the gods are willing, you’ll get to see Naruto grow up, or even have a family of your own.

Iruka’s eyes widened, before softening again. He let go of Kakashi’s hand.

“I’ve never thought of it that way, but thank you, Kakashi-san.”

“I’m really glad I got to meet you.”

Kakashi smiled at him one more time before he started walking. Lifting an arm, he gave a lazy wave before eventually disappearing from sight.

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

It should have only been the two of them, so why did he feel a third presence?

Iruka felt a burning sensation in his chest.

It hurt to breathe.

He pried his eyes open.

Naruto lay in his futon an arm away. But he was wide awake, and he was staring at Iruka wordlessly; not with his sky-blue eyes, no.

The eyes that bore into him now were slit, and glowed orange like a molten fire.

“Naruto...?” Words struggled to leave his throat, but the boy didn’t respond. Iruka felt despair grip him. If this wasn’t a nightmare, what was he to do?

He did the only thing he could think of.

Reaching an arm out to Naruto, he pulled the boy to his chest. It was as if he’d held his hand to a naked flame. His entire body burned.

He heard a faint growl and felt the child struggle under his arm, and despite his burning lungs, Iruka held him closer.

“Naruto, it’s alright. I’m here.” Iruka cried.

No matter what happens. I’m here.

The boy stiffened in his arms, but soon relaxed into his hold. The heat emanating from his body dissipated, and Iruka found the strength to take in air once again. The third presence he had felt faded from his senses, and the boy was soon breathing in the relaxed rhythm Iruka had come to know.

Closing his eyes, he recalled Kakashi’s words the day before.

Naruto’s in good hands...

I can only pray you’re right, Kakashi-san.

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End of Chapter 6

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Author’s Notes:

Ohh, I wasn’t kidding when I said this was going to be a slow burn. ;_;

It’s not a chapter with too much going on in it, but I hope it was an enjoyable one nonetheless! I’m curious as to what you think (if you’ve read Demon Slayer) and how it’s been used as a backdrop for this fic. Of course, things have been changed a bit. : )

I’m really happy with how the art turned out for this chapter though! I’ve had to teach myself how to draw again after a long hiatus, and this was the first time I’ve been satisfied with the end result, so I hope you enjoy it too!

#kakairu #iruka #kakashi #iruka umino #umino iruka #demon slayer au

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