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zepskies · 1 month ago

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UNRAVEL ME - Part 1

Pairing: Soldier Boy (Ben) x Afro-Latina!Reader

Summary: In the wake of Vought Tower finally falling, you find yourself crossing paths with Soldier Boy. Rogue, weakened, dangerous, and hunted, he needs a place to hide. You’re not about to offer up your own home to shelter a supe wanted by Homelander and the CIA…but he’s also not going to let you refuse.

AN: Finallyyyyy lol. I know I've been talking about this series for months now, but it was genuinely challenging for me to write this prequel for Lost in Translation (which was requested by various Tumblr friends and anons who wanted to see Soldier Boy matched with a woman of color). I think maybe it's because this is now my third Soldier Boy series, and getting this guy to show character growth is hard to do three different times. 🤣 But let's see how it goes with another post-season 3 misadventure! 💜💙 This series also fulfills a hilarious prompt for @jacklesversebingo!

Song Inspo: “Unravel Me” by Sabrina Claudio

JVB Prompt: Accidental Old Person Acquisition

Word Count: 6K

Tags/Warnings: Angst, threats, SB being his typical asshole self, obnoxious flirting, racial elements, Ben drinks Cuban coffee, among other ethnic mini adventures in the future. The reader is a mixed-race Afro-Latina with textured hair.

💜 Series Masterlist

💙 YouTube Playlist || Spotify Playlist

Part 1: Hot Tamale

Vought Tower is falling.

Or at least, that’s what it feels like: the ground trembling like a Magnitude 7 earthquake, overhead lights flickering, a line of rubble falling on your head as you finally manage to squeeze out of the stairwell and into the main floor's reception area. You take in a large gulp of air, breathing past the oppressive clog of warm bodies, sweat, fear, and a hint of piss.

The walls quake along with the tile floor; you spill onto it hard, hitting your knees, though you curl your fingers fast when a woman from Legal almost steps on them in her dagger heels. Fuck!

Fear and adrenaline compel you to scramble onto your feet and claw your way through the gift shop. Maybe you'll be able to cut through the aisles of overpriced Starlight plushies and Special Edition Black Noir Funko Pops to get to one of the east exits.

It's Vought’s very own 9/11. You were told to evacuate over the intercom, and now you're about to find out why.

It’s taken over an hour to try and escape. You’re still trapped in the building, obviously, caught up in the lobby. It's backed up by the clusterfuck of people squeezing themselves through the narrow exit doorways to the garage, like rats clamoring over one another to avoid extermination. Somehow they've broken through the glass to override the security protocols that had first tried to lock you all in.

Just when you make it past the display of red, white, and blue Homelander mugs, a blinding light catches your eye through the tall windows and the growing darkness of the evening. The light falls and falls, what looks like a tangled ball of red and orange and green.

It explodes into the ground, shaking the very foundations of New York City. You cling to the display table and manage to dive underneath it.

You hide there until the shaking stops.

Tears sting in your eyes as the unsteady screams of your coworkers ring out in the lobby, even though you don’t recognize most of them. You suddenly remember your boss; you lost sight of him on the way down the first five flights of stairs. You morbidly wonder if he was one of the ones who got trampled along the way, or blown off the side of the building in the crash.

When the outside world is quiet again, you crawl out from underneath the table. Everyone who still can is slowly getting to their feet, picking themselves up, some of them helping the people closest to them. You don’t know what the hell is happening, but you have a strong feeling Homelander is involved. He’s been playing at CEO for weeks, now that Stan Edgar has been deposed.

Instead of leaving out the front, you continue your plan of going through one of the east side exits. There’s a narrow alley that leads to the garage farther down. You step out into the evening light, made darker in the alley behind what’s left of the Tower. You know the metal door to the garage isn’t too far away, but before you can get to it, you see a man stumbling right toward you.

It's too dark to see him clearly, and even though you back up a couple of steps, the green of his uniform captures your attention.

��Oh my God,” you breathe. “Soldier Boy?”

He glances up at you through furrowed brows. The state of him, ragged and soot-stained, his labored breaths, and the way he’s leaning against the wall—it all tells you that he’s been through some major shit.

“Uh, a-are you okay?” you ask shakily, clutching your messenger bag.

“I’m fine,” he says, though his eyes bore into yours with an intensity that makes your spine prickle with unease.

In record time, your brain collects what little you know about the ancient relic of a supe that’s mere steps away from invading your personal space. Homelander has been calling him a rogue in the press, but even though your role at Vought barely makes you a blip on anyone’s radar, you know enough about what really holds the company together…which means you know better than to believe even one iota of what that star-spangled prick told the public.

Your gaze flits over Soldier Boy, now with some concern despite your wariness.

“Are you hurt?” you ask.

“I said I’m fucking fine. Do I look fucking hurt?” he growls tiredly. When he tries to stand a bit straighter, he almost stumbles against the wall.

Part of you twinges with sympathy, but still, your lips purse at his attitude.

“Dude, you don’t want me to tell you what you look like,” you say.

His eyebrow twitches. He opens his mouth to retort, but that’s when a man’s voice can be heard nearby. You turn your head at the sound.

While you’re distracted, Soldier Boy grabs you with more strength than you anticipated and drags you along with him against the wall. You gasp, but he holds a dirty half-gloved hand over your mouth.

Voices begin to echo from down the other end of the alley, closer to the main road. The supe has already turned his head in that direction, but your gaze flicks there next, your eyes wide and fearful.

“I don’t need a fuckin’ doctor,” says a man. His accent is thick as hell, like a Mary Poppins chimney sweep. Cockney? He’s tall, wearing a long black coat to match his black hair. He’s also arguing with a black man and a skinny white guy. A couple of ambulances zoom by, for a moment overtaking their voices and casting their bodies in the red glow of the siren alarms.

“Considering you coughed up blood on my fucking shoes, I’m dumping you off at the nearest hospital within a mile, and then you lose my number for good. Got that, motherfucker?” says the black man. He’s just as intimidating as the other guy, if not more so, considering the way the Brit's leaning against the wall like he might keel over right there.

The skinny guy breaks the tension between them. “Look, we should go. Annie’s got Maeve, and Homelander could be circling the sky looking for us right now.”

Queen Maeve? What happened to her? She was supposed to be in rehab. Who's Annie? Oh shit. Annie January. Starlight broke Maeve out? No. I should've known that rehab story was bullshit too. Who fucking knows what actually happened there. More importantly, what's happening here?!

Your thoughts tumble into one another while your heartbeat pounds in your ears. Your breathing comes out shallower through your nose, considering the big meaty hand covering your mouth.

If Homelander's looking for these guys, then none of this little scene is good. It makes you a fucking witness. Shit...

Soldier Boy tightens his hold on your arm. Slow and quiet, he opens the door to the parking garage with his elbow, since his other hand is still locked over your mouth. He guides you in.

“Don’t scream, or I’ll start squeezing,” he warns. At least he releases his hand from your mouth, instead, grabbing the back of your neck. “Where’s your car?”

“Wait, come on,” you plead, your voice shaking. “Whatever you did, I don’t want to know, but I didn’t sign up to be your getaway driver.”

Ben’s grip tightens a fraction. “All I need is a fucking ride. That isn’t too much to ask, now is it, sweetheart?”

“Depends on where you’re trying to go,” you say. But you decide that not getting snapped in half is good enough reason to lead him to your car. You rarely have cause to drive it, so it mostly just stays parked here in the garage. For once, you’re grateful that you shell out a portion of your monthly paycheck to reserve this space.

You fish your keys out of your car and unlock the door with shaky hands. Soldier Boy watches you press the button on the small key remote with furrowed brows, but he takes it from you after forcing you in the driver’s seat, so he can enter the car on the passenger side.

The second your tiny blue Kia rumbles pitifully to life, your music blares loud enough to feel the bass in the floor. Soldier Boy smacks the radio buttons roughly until it stops.

You give him a thin smile.

“Not a fan of Bad Bunny?” you ask.

Irritated, he grabs a hold of the small plushie swinging from your rearview mirror. He yanks it off despite your protest, nearly breaking the mirror, and stares in gruff bewilderment at the white fluffy heart. It has a Dominican flag embroidered on the front and a Cuban flag on the back—custom made on Etsy.

The supe raises a brow, but he dismissively tosses it somewhere in the back seat. When you look at his grumpy face, he just reminds you of Oscar the Grouch. He reaches down and shifts the seat back, but he barely has any leg room for those thunder thighs and combat boots.

“Just fucking drive,” he says, his voice like sharp gravel.

Again, your annoyance sparks at his rudeness. Are all supes assholes, or is it just the ones you’re forced to interact with?

“Okay, but where the hell do you want me to take you?” you ask. “The subway? The airport? The Hudson River? What?”

He thinks about it, drumming his fingers against his leg. His uniform is a bit poppier than military green, yet more classic than Homelander’s with the stretch of that silver-plated eagle across the chest.

“Too many eyes at the airport. I need to lie low for a while before I get outta dodge,” Soldier Boy admits. Then he sits back in your passenger seat, adjusting the recline until his broad frame is below the view of the window. You think it’s both for his own comfort and so he’s less likely to be seen.

“Your place should be all right,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest.

Your mouth falls open in shock. “Are you for real?”

He just gives you a stern look. He’s not fucking kidding.

“Look, you may be a superhero and all, but I don’t fucking know you! And…” Just then, clarity strikes you as you remember what’s been going on in the news for the past week. “Didn’t, uh, didn’t you…blow up a building in Midtown?”

He doesn’t seem to want to answer at first, leveling you with that stoic, bearded face. His gaze eventually drifts away from yours.

“That was an accident.”

Your breath gets caught in your throat. “That’s a pretty big accident.”

Again, Soldier Boy doesn’t answer you. You try to focus on the road, but it’s pretty impossible when you have a supe that’s supposedly risen from the dead in your passenger seat, who also exploded 19 people on accident, who tried and failed to kill Homelander.

Speaking of, Homelander himself is looking for this guy…which means you’re helping a fugitive escape. What’s worse, he wants to crash on your goddamn couch.

One of your hands leaves the steering wheel to cover your mouth. You press your hand there until the mix-match of gold and silver rings start to bite into the sensitive flesh of your lower lip.

“Coño su madre,” you mutter the curse under your breath. I’m so fucking screwed.

You unlock the door to your third-floor apartment with a heavy sigh. As usual, it gets stuck the first time you try to swing it open. You throw a little more strength in your arm the second time, and the door finally budges.

You flick the lights on inside and unveil the shoebox that is your home. It’s barely a one-bedroom. The open kitchen lies to the right with a small two-seater table nestled against the wall, while the “living room” lies to the left. There you managed to fit a faded violet loveseat couch from your college days, a bookshelf from Goodwill, and your TV perched on what’s supposed to be a coffee table.

Straight ahead is a narrow hall that leads to your bedroom door on the right side and the one and only bathroom on the other.

Well, this is gonna be fun. Slumber party with America’s Most Wanted, you think, with no small amount of Jesus fucking Christ weighing your steps.

Soldier Boy’s broad shoulders barely clear the open doorway. He shuts and locks the door behind him and takes stock of your apartment with a slow turn of his head. He doesn’t seem impressed, except for the paintings, funky ‘60s style shelves, and other canvases decorating the walls.

“You some kind of artist?” he asks, giving a cursory glance to each one.

“Uh, yeah, kinda,” you nod. “But most of these aren’t mine.”

On every wall, there’s a cluster of art, from canvases to pottery, glass, burnished clay, and brass. There are replicas of paintings by Salvador Dalí and Frida Kahlo, Picasso and Basquiat, Monet and Amelia Peláez, even a sculpture of a woman that you tried to replicate from Ana Mendieta. It’s meant to represent the suffering of women. Hell if today doesn’t qualify.

You toss your messenger bag onto the couch and throw up your arms at your sides.

“Well, since the police, Homelander, and probably the rest of the government are looking for you, you should do the whole ‘get outta dodge’ thing in the morning,” you say. You clasp your hands together in the facsimile of a prayer and politeness all in one. “But if you really wanna spend a night on my couch, then that’s okay.”

We’ll get through this. Just one night of insanity and then this’ll all be over.

“That bed looks big enough for two,” the supe says. He nods at your open bedroom door and smiles suggestively, his gaze roaming over your form.

You get that shiver down your spine again, even as you blush. You take a pointed step away from him.

“Uh, how about fucking no,” you snap. “That door will be locked, and I have a taser that I’m not afraid to use on any tender bits.”

He raises a brow at you, but he snorts. He steps toward you, his gait slow and arrogant. You cross your arms while he closes the distance, his hair falling forward across his forehead as he stares down at you with a hint of a sneer. His chin and forehead are still stained with grime, just as his red gloves are scuffed and half burnt from whatever happened in that blast.

Your heart trips up faster. A tremble of fear runs through you, but you refuse to move.

“You do realize that that’s tantamount to flicking me with a rubber band,” he says. His half-lidded gaze runs over you with a note of interest. The corner of his mouth raises in a smirk. “Besides, whatever we might get up to, I can guarantee you’ll enjoy it. Just ask Loni Anderson. Farrah Fawcett. Hell, Molly Ringwald. Love me a fuckin’ redhead once in a while.”

You give him a look that could (proverbially) crumble Empire State.

“Don’t fucking bet on it,” you say.

Yes, your voice is quiet. Yes, you have to work past a swallow. But you don’t ever drop your gaze. You meet him head-on with every bit of stubborn fire you have left inside you.

“If you touch me, I’ll scream," you say, a wary trembling in your chest. "Even if you kill me, they’ll find you that much quicker.”

His smirk falls away. His gaze roams over you again, this time in a different way. Maybe he sees the way your entire body is tense, locked up tight, prepared to recoil and scream if he tries to grab at you. He relents.

“Christ, relax. It’s your fucking loss anyway, sweetheart.” His eyes roll dismissively as he turns away from you. “I need a shower.”

He strides down the hall in search of it. You move quickly to get ahead of him. The last thing you need is him rifling through your bedroom drawers.

“Ah, wait! I’ll get you a towel,” you say. It irritates you to have to treat him like a “guest,” but you don’t know what else to do. The man can literally snap your neck. Even for that big ass bluff you just pulled, you really, really don’t want to die.

You could try calling the police while he’s in the shower, but you don’t know what he’ll do if he finds out. And who’s gonna be quicker on the draw—the human police force, or the literal super soldier?

No, it’ll be more painless to just wait this guy out and see him off in the morning. For now, he doesn’t seem inclined to hurt you. He even took a rejection of you “sleeping” with him pretty well, for a supe. They tend to think they're God’s gifts to humanity. Working at Vought, you’ve been propositioned more than enough times. Though God forbid you say no for a ride on their magical dick. You’d rather not jump on that potential steel trap. You know a guy in Marketing who had his happy place literally frozen and chipped off.

After finding a fresh towel for Soldier Boy, he shuts himself in the lone bathroom across from your room. Soon, the old pipes roar to life. You retreat into your room for a long, slow breath. It’s less steadying than you’d hoped.

You also shut and lock the bedroom door behind you, for whatever good that might do you.

Not much, you realize warily.

You sink your fingers into your hair and blow out a sigh of frustration. What even is my fucking life right now?

Tugging on the knotted curls, you loosen them from the bun you wrapped tightly this morning. For all Vought claimed to care about diversity, your boss once commented on your “wild” hair shedding on the tile floor.

Taking in a few deep, yoga-style breaths before you lose your shit, you dig into the recesses of your closet and dresser drawers. Your most recent ex had left at least one shirt, maybe a pair of boxers. Soldier Boy will have to make do with your favorite sweatpants. They’re stretched out enough from years of wear and washes that they’ll probably fit him.

Juuuuust great. You're really contemplating this asshole wearing your clothes.

By the time you gather your bearings, shove your soul back into your body and leave your room, Soldier Boy is exiting the bathroom, the fluffy purple towel slung low around his hips.

“Jesus!” You jolt and instinctively step back. There’s nowhere far to go in the hallway, so your ass ends up bumping against the hollow wall.

Once again, he wears a smug sort of smile as he stares down at you in amusement.

“Like what you see, huh, baby doll?”

“Put your tits away, please,” you snap, handing him the bundle of clothing while trying not to look at him directly. You can’t help glancing at his muscular frame out of the corner of your eye.

Good lord, it’s like he was chiseled from marble. Make that marble with a golden tan, and a patch of hair across his chest that you could run your nails through.

His lips curve with a cockier smile. You quickly look away.

Great. He caught you ogling for one tiny second. And with that moment of human weakness, all that strong talk you accomplished earlier had probably just withered away into nothing. Is he going to take that as an invitation to slide into bed with you tonight while you’re trying to sleep?

Yeeeah. Who the hell are you kidding? You’re going to tape your own eyes open if you have to, but you’re not dropping your guard around this guy. He doesn’t seem to actually want to hurt you. He wants to use you for convenience’s sake. But it doesn’t change the fact that he’s dangerous, hunted, arrogant as fuck, and weirdly horny for a guy who just threw himself off a building.

Subtly clearing your throat, you move past him to the living room. There you set up the couch for him to sleep on. He ventures back into the bathroom to get dressed, which gives you a small break. You’re mentally counting the seconds.

He comes back somewhat fully dressed. The shirt is a bit small for him, as are the boxer shorts.

“Christ, who did this belong to, a fucking eunuch?” Soldier Boy asks. “Tell me you’ve got a brother. Because if this was your boyfriend’s, then he wasn’t doing shit for you, sweetheart.”

You begin to blush on reflex, shooting him a steely glare. Those clothes did belong to your ex, but that’s none of his damn business.

“As promised, here’s the couch,” you gesture to the neatly fitted sheets, blankets, and even a fluffy(ish) pillow you so generously laid out for him. “Again, I will be locking my bedroom door, and if you make even a step in that direction, prepare to get tased in the dick. It’s already set on the max setting.”

Soldier Boy smirks. You fail to see how what you’ve said is in any way funny. You’re definitely not laughing, but you do blink in surprise when he takes your hand and brings the back of it to his lips for a kiss. His beard briefly rasps against your skin. He looks down at you, meeting your eyes with his own. The green in them makes you falter.

“Believe it or not, I appreciate the help,” he says, turning on the charm. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

Your lips purse. Does he really think hitting you with that Brad Pitt tone of voice is going to work on you? He fucking kidnapped you, and not to mention, is currently holding you on house arrest.

“Oh, now you want to know my name? After conning me into being your Uber driver and your Airbnb in one?” You try to slip your hand out of his, but his grip tightens. He’s still smiling, amused by your struggle.

“Come on, what’s your name?” he cajoles.

You sigh. Despite your better judgment, you give it to him begrudgingly.

"What's yours?" you ask, mostly drenched in sarcasm. Though a small part of you is...curious.

He stares back at you for a moment, something almost like surprise flicking through his gaze. His lips twitch at the corners, wry and humorless.

"Ben," he says, finally letting go of your hand.

“Okay, cool. So nice to meet you, uh, Ben," you reply, gesturing at his overall form. You still can't believe he's standing here like an iron lamppost in your living room. Are you about to step into the portal to Narnia now and continue this fever dream, or fall straight down to hell?

"All right, mind if I go now?" you say, crossing your arms as the snark escapes its cage. "I’ve had a bitch of a day and I need my beauty sleep."

Ben raises a brow.

Shit. You bite your lip.

Okay, you know you’re being a bit too hostile to a man who can all too easily snap you in half, but he’s got this way of pushing every single one of your buttons at once. Not in a good way. In the wish I could fucking scratch your eyes out kind of a way.

You're frankly lucky that Soldier Boy just seems amused by your attitude. Silly woman with her silly fits of belligerence.

His green-eyed gaze slides from the curve of your jean-clad thighs to your hips, over your breasts concealed by a red blouse, and finally up to your chin, your lips, your eyes. You can’t help the way your skin tingles at his scrutiny, even as you frown.

“From where I’m standing, sleep isn’t what you need,” he says. He somehow manages to sound both flattering and suggestive.

Your face flares hotter, and your lips press tightly together.

“Sweet dreams, Soldier Boy,” you say, somewhat sarcastically as you head back to your room. You intend to grab your pajamas and take them with you into the bathroom. You’re going to have to bring your taser and lock yourself in there for a shower, even with the obvious safety hazard. What-fucking-ever at this point, as long as it keeps out Hungry Like the Wolf out there. But his reply makes you pause.

He snorts. “Good night, sweetheart.”

You turn to look at him over your shoulder. He spares you one final look, less arrogant and more taciturn, before he turns away and lowers himself down onto the couch.

You sigh, but you can’t help peeking around the corner at the supe sitting in your living room. His broad frame takes up the entire center of the little couch. You’re not all that sure he’s going to be comfortable there, since his long legs are definitely not going to fit across the loveseat, but he’s going to have to deal with it until tomorrow.

You watch him rest his elbows above his knees and blow out a long, tired breath. He raises a hand to rub between his furrowed brows. For a long beat, he just stares vacantly at the floor between his knees.

Then he leans back against the couch, crosses his arms, and closes his eyes. He seems…lost. Exhausted.

You wonder if he has anyone in his life worth getting back to. Anyone at all.

Shaking your head, you quietly make your way back to your room.

Ben finds himself watching you the next morning. He sits at the two-seater table while you putter about in the kitchen.

You’re cute, he has to admit, all sleepy and barely awake as you slide around in your fuzzy red slippers. A large Knicks shirt hangs off your body, exposing one smooth shoulder. Your sweatpants are overlarge as well, which only makes him think about the generous curves you’ve got hiding underneath. He took notice yesterday. You had a lot to work with under that little blouse, jeans, and chunky heels.

Yesterday you were put together, even though you’d clearly had a rough time escaping the Tower. Today you've slunk out of your room with baggy pajamas, your hair a mess of curls running down your back.

“Want a cafecito?” you ask.

Ben raises a brow. “If you mean coffee, then that’d be good. Something hot to eat would be even better.”

“First of all, this isn’t a bed and breakfast,” you say, turning to him with an edge to your voice. “Look, I’m exhausted. There’s a bakery down the street. I can pick something up.”

As a matter of fact, your favorite Colombian bakery is right around the corner. You start thinking about all the pastries you’re going to treat yourself with, even though it does make you miss the Cuban bakeries back home. You would absolutely kill for a pastelito with guava and cheese right now.

Instead of cold-blooded murder, you set the tiny espresso cup of coffee in front of Ben. His face shifts to confusion and bewilderment.

“I asked for a cup of coffee, black, not this baby doll tea set cup of coffee,” he says.

“It’s a Cuban espresso,” you inform him. “And believe me, you don’t want it any bigger than that.”

Unless he just wants to spend the rest of the day on the toilet. Maybe he needs to clean out his system.

“Just try it,” you encourage. “I think you’ll like it.”

He eyes you with skepticism, but he takes a sip.

It’s sweet, but the rich, robust taste hits him between the eyes. His brows raise high.

“Okay,” he says with a growing smile. “I see what you mean.”

“See? Now you don’t gotta doubt me again,” you nod. He watches you pour one for yourself, stirring in a frankly alarming spoonful of sugar.

“Where are you from, exactly?” he asks.

You glance over at him, taking issue with the way he asks the question.

“New York,” you respond tartly. You're really from Miami, but he doesn't need to know that.

He rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean. What are you, Mexican or something?”

You raise a brow, your lips pursing when he begins to smirk.

“I do like me a juicy taco,” he says.

His slutty grin is too much for you. Your hand tightens around your coffee cup.

“Okay, a lot to unpack there, Romeo, but no. Not all of us are Mexican!”

“All right. Calm down, Chiquita. You should take it as a fucking compliment,” he says. He raises a brow at you. “You’re a real spicy one, aren’t you?”

You gape incredulously. “Excuse me?”

Chiquita?! What the hell is that? Is he saying you look like a goddamn banana, or does he actually know a few words in Spanish? Is he actually calling you a little girl? And for the cherry on top, did he really just call you spicy?!

Either way, he’s about to get slapped across his pig-man mouth.

“I’ve gotten with a few Latinas in my time,” he says as he leans back in his chair, crossing his arms as his thighs splay out a little wider in the sweatpants you let him borrow. “Always with that fuckin’ feisty little temper. But you know what, I got no problem with a hot tamale.”

“Oooh.” The sound is pure and unadulterated FED UP. You down your espresso like a shot. You’re already contemplating another dose, because you don’t have the energy for this.

But you’re also reminded then, that this man came to fame in the 1940s. He was born, what, before the damn Dust Bowl and the Great Depression? He’s literally an ancient relic, a walking black and white billboard of tóxico, and he acts like one too.

You fairly slam your ceramic cup on the dining table as you slide into the seat across from him.

“Just so we don’t have any more conversations like this in the future, here it goes,” you say with a sharp sigh. “My mom is Cuban. My dad is black and Dominican. I’m as mixed as it gets, but I’m in no way spicy. If you’ve got me mad fucking tight right now, it’s because you clearly have no idea what decade you’re in.”

Your insult strikes a nerve, making his eyebrow twitch. Soon, however, his lips curve.

“I’ve got you tight, huh?” he says, cocking his head. A lock of his hair falls roguishly across his brow. “Gotta say, wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had that effect on a woman.”

You freeze, another hot blush burning in your cheeks. You can feel it making its way down your neck. “That’s…that’s not what you think it means.”

His lazy, arrogant, salacious smirk really makes you want to slap him, but you have a feeling that it’ll hurt you way more than it would hurt him. You get up from the table and ignore the loud scrape of the chair on tile.

“You know what? Forget it! I’m hungry. Don’t follow me.”

You go back to your room and lock the door behind you. You come back out a few minutes later dressed in what he thinks is your way of teasing him—in some ass-hugging jeans and a shirt that clings to your form. Ben watches you cross the room, smiling at the way you give him some narrowed side-eye while twisting your hair up into a wild ponytail. It’s a simple thing women do that’s always attracted him for some reason.

He also likes the shade of red you painted on your lips.

“You are a feisty little thing,” he remarks, sipping his espresso. “Can’t say I mind.”

“Good. Stay here,” you hotly retort. Or better yet, get the FUCK out of my apartment.

You don’t say that last bit out loud, but he can read it loud and clear in your eyes, filled with that Latina fire. He remembers it all too well.

He grabs your wrist before you slip by him though. He hears the way your breath hitches, your gaze snapping down to meet his. You manage to hide most of your fear.

Maybe it makes some part of him twinge, deep down. You don’t know that he mostly finds you amusing. That he’d rather not hurt you, considering you don’t pose even one fraction of a threat to him. That like it or not, he needs to stay in your rathole apartment until he can figure out how to get out of the city unseen, let alone out of the country.

“You think I’m fucking stupid?” he asks.

You say nothing, but the look on your face tells him what you want to say. His eyes narrow.

“You’re not leaving,” he says.

“Well, I’m not cooking,” you counter. “There’s nothing to cook—”

“Order a damn delivery.”

“You know how expensive that is? Between delivery fee and tipping nowadays, Doordash charges a whole other meal on top of the meal! UberEats isn’t much better. Plus, none of the good places around here deliver like that. Not for breakfast at least. And anyway, I really need to go grocery shopping. What do you expect me to do, open a can of tuna and a jar of olives for breakfast?”

Ben’s not going to pretend he knows what the fuck you’re talking about, but his patience is running out.

“All right, enough. Give me your uh, your phone,” he demands. His tone gains an edge, a warning.

You expel an irritated huff, but you reach into your purse and all but slam it on the kitchen table. He takes it and examines it with some curiosity, but mostly, he retains his stoicism.

“I know for a fact you can get basically whatever you want on this fucking thing within half an hour,” he says. “Do what you need to do to get some grub over here, but you’re not leaving this fucking apartment until I say so."

He raises his brows and meets your eyes in a not so subtle warning.

"Just so you know, I've got a sharper ear than you think," he adds. "If you get stupid and try making a call for help, it's gonna be the last thing you fucking do. You understand me?”

Your teeth grind together, but ultimately, your sense of self-preservation reminds you not to poke the bear anymore. You force your anger and fear to dim to embers beneath your skin, and you nod in agreement. You then lower your gaze, waiting for him to let you go.

When he does, you slip away from him as soon as possible, taking your phone as you go.

For what it’s worth, you lock the bedroom door behind you.

AN: Aaaand we're off! lol Did you expect him to basically force her into house arrest? 😅 We're gonna have some fun on this one, but there's also going to be a fair bit of action and slow-burn moments.~

Next Time:

You suddenly stand from the table, your chair scraping across the floor. You can tell the sound irritates his sharp ear as he glances up at you with a frown.

“You are a goddamn fugitive. You get that right?” you say, regarding him with an incredulous tilt of your head. “Now you’ve hooked me into this. I could get into serious shit because of you, and you don’t even seem to care! What…what kind of fucking superhero are you supposed to be?”

At the same time, you don’t know why this surprises you. Most of the supes you’ve met couldn't care less about the average person. The entire purpose of Vought’s Legal Department springs to mind.

Still, you thought America’s first supe ever—the one who supposedly fought in WWII, pounded Nazis up the ass, and represented the ideals this country was supposed to be founded on—might actually give a shit. Yet again, it stings to be proven wrong.

Ben’s expression had been verging on apathy, but now, he’s irritated and angry. He pushes back from the table and stands up to his full height. Even wearing your ex’s plain gray crew shirt and some threadbare sweatpants, the man’s frame is intimidating. He makes slow steps closer until he’s looming over you.

⋆˙⟡ Keep Reading: Part 2

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Soldier Boy Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Soldier Boy Tag List (Part 1)

@spnwoman @waynes-multiverse @luci-in-trenchcoats @rizlowwritessortof @lamentationsofalonelypotato

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@stoneyggirl2 @sl33pylilbunny @spnfamily-j2

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colderdrafts · 2 years ago

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Calm waters

Just a lil one-shot drabble for some practice. Enjoy 💙

Merman (octo) x gn reader. Sfw, tw kidnapping, mild violence

He sits on the same rock as usual, large, black tendrils partially holding onto it, partially running through the depths below. He breathes deeply to calm himself, a familiar scent of salt in the air.

This part of the beach is quiet, a vacant a spot he retreats to for some peace, away from prying eyes. At times, he brings the visitors of the oceans and his heart with him.

Topas watches the odd metallic bird rising high up in the sky, leaving it's odd ever-growing white tail behind on the air, like using a paint brush on a blue canvas.

How something like that can even fly is beyond him, truly another marvel of human ingenuity. The distant roar of its powerful 'engine' floods his senses, like an imitation of a rumbling thunder. He misses the lightning that usually accompanies the sound, however. Perhaps it would strike him, and give clarity as to why he's allowed himself to be fooled once again.

Frankly, he should have seen it coming, this is how it always ends. So why did he think anything will change? Why does he trust whatever fleeting promises anyone who gives him the time of day throws his way?

He gnaws on his bottom lip, agitated, sharp teeth threatening to draw blood. The pain is grounding. Reminding him he's still a someone and present, despite how he's been discarded like an accessory. Something interesting to spend your time on while you're away from home - an item you'll leave behind and forget about.

He's exciting, new, a creature of the depths, a hermit you'd be lucky to stumble upon at all. For a time. But the second whatever schedule they have in place for their lives run out, they're gone, him being nothing more than a summer fling, a short lived ecstasy and rush of dopamine.

He stares at the monstrous metal bird like his eyes could vaporize it, and strike it down so you'd be in his arms again, come back to where you belong. He knows you're on it. He recognizes the logo of the company you're flying with, reminiscing the way your claw-less fingers traced over the ticket you once showed him. Telling him stories of the lands you used to belong to.

He squints at the obnoxiously bright colors coating the bottom of the flying vessel, like a mockery of a proper bird.

He knew you'd be leaving today, but you promised to at least come say goodbye. Tell him your beautiful lie that you'd return sometime. You couldn't even do that for him.

He really thought this would be different. He turns away angrily, hauling himself down the slope of rocks toward the beckoning water. Perhaps he should spend the next decade or so in the further deep to get his mind on straight again.

They're gone, just like the others. The metal bird has won once again. Nothing will change that now. He's so stupid-

"Topas?"

The sound is barely a breath upon the wind, but nevertheless the familiar call of his name stops him dead in his tracks. Your voice instantly sends an excited chill down his spine, and he hardly dares move in case he'd just imagined it.

Topas turns then, slow and anticipatory, the tendrils of his lower body squirming to find something to hold on to. Deep green eyes settle on your haggard form standing at the tip of the waves, your feet hidden in the sand. Your protective fabrics are wrung awry, your knees scraped bloody (and smelling so, so good) and you're clearly out of breath.

Topas deducts you've been running. Supposedly you had a fall along the way. Your appearance is that of a seasoned fighter, and it's breathtaking.

He resist the immediate urge to take you into his arms, curl everything he is around you and enjoy your strange body, hardened by the land, pressing against his again. He must not forget you broke a promise.

What's to say you will not do so again? Topas ignores the want in his heart and narrows his eyes, taking some satisfaction you have the grace to avert yours. Acknowledging, like someone who knows of their guilt.

"Did the metal bird leave without you?" he asks as a greeting, guarded. And now you're looking for further entertainment until it flies again?

You take a few deep breaths to muster your voice, finding the courage to look back at him. "No - well, yes, I mean. No?" you falter, struggling to find which words to speak first.

Topas wonders why you're trying to say all of them all at once, forcing his face to hold back the creeping smile threatening to remove his upset. Your fluster still warms him, enjoying the effect he can have on you. He patiently waits for you to explain yourself, slowly moving through the water and closing the annoying gap.

"I overslept, and dashed for the airport," you begin, stubbornly steadfast at his approach. Still, you appear like a spooked seahorse awaiting its chance to flee, and he just wants to drag you back into the water, make sure you can't bolt. "I made it to the gate. But. I couldn't get on it. It wouldn't be right."

He stops at that last part and stares for a beat, borderline flabbergasted.

You fidget with your hands again. Topas wonders if it's because you want to hold his. "I'm sorry I'm late - but I said I'd say goodbye, right? It's the least I could do for you. For all this time you've spent keeping me company and guiding me through an area I've never been to."

His eyes widen. Isn't that - that's a big deal for a human, isn't it? Going out of your way like that? Abandoning something seemingly as mighty as time?

It always seems it's notoriously important humans get to the 'right plane' at the 'right time', well in advance, everything must be perfect and go smoothly.

To get home, to get back to work. It's so, so important. And yet you abandoned that chance. For him? To keep your promise?

"You came back just to say goodbye? And now you can't go..?" he asks.

"I, uh. Yeah. Yeah, that about covers it," you chuckle awkwardly, a sound like music. You've about caught your breath, trying and failing to smooth out some torn fabric. "Sorry I'm such a mess right now."

Silence. Topas covers the ground in one quick jump, rapidly closing the remaining distance and roughly latching onto you, knocking you flat on your back in the sand below. He holds on tight, coiling his tendrils around your legs and almost squeezing the breath right back out of you. You let out the most adorable startled and half-strangled noise, gods he could crush you, it's so good you're still here.

You returned. You can keep your promises. You abandoned your important human nonsense. It's almost unreal.

Your heart is razing, he can tell, but it's alright, so is his. He smooths some tendrils along your legs in a calming motion, and the nervous laughter you let out soothes you. He feels your arms reaching back around him, sliding across his skin and settling on the small of his back. He knows you like to hold them there, feeling the space where his hips turn into strong muscle of the tendrils running into the water.

"Good," he breathes, smelling your sun kissed skin. "Good. You can't go. You're staying here."

You chuckle sadly. "Topas-"

"No."

Its not as much the demanding tone as it's the way everything he is suddenly tightens around you.

You stiffen, anxious like the first time he held you, perhaps he got a little too excited. He didn't mean to frighten you then, and he doesn't mean to do so now. But this is important. It's important you understand how significant this is.

"No..?" you repeat carefully. You pet his back like a silent attempt to soothe. You'll have to forgive he can't appreciate the gesture right now.

"I know what you're about to say," Topas says through gritted teeth. He keeps his face hidden in the crook of your neck so you can't look him in the eye, still aware his intensity has a tendency to frighten humans. "'There's another one flying away soon. I'll leave with the next one. I'll return next year. I promise I'll never forget you.'"

He spits the last words out with the vitriol of all the times it's happened combined, his bitterness clouding the air.

"Topas," you try. Your voice sounds so oddly brittle, your hands settle on his chest, pushing slightly. "Topas, please let go of me-"

You can feel teeth ghosting over your neck like Topas' considering if biting you would bring his point across better. He tightens his grip on your legs, and you stop squirming.

"Something will get in the way of all that. It always does. You won't be back, and you'll forget," he says.

He lifts himself slightly, finally looking you in the face. Your eyes are blown wide, and you're still breathing too quick, staring like captured prey. His heart sinks at the sight, but this is better than the alternative. He gingerly leans down, resting his forehead against yours.

"But I know you want to be here now," he whispers, staring into you. "So I'm just going to not give you any other option."

Slowly, he starts dragging you across the sand. You let him for a bit, still confused at his sudden change of tone, but the second you realize he's dragging you toward the water you start struggling, attempting to pull free from his iron grip.

He's set off your fear response, Topas acknowledges, but it'll stop clouding your mind soon enough. He just has to get you to the water-

He's interrupted by a sudden sharp sting in his eye. You've managed to get a hand free and went to roughly poke him. Topas squeals in pain, his tendrils loosening just a bit of their grip. Your body heat leaves them behind and he can't taste you anymore, you've pulled them to you. Another blow follows, this time to his stomach, as you kick against him to gain more distance.

Topas grunts from the sudden impact, and you turn over on your front, calling for help. You're trying to drag yourself away from him. That won't do. He recovers, and leaps forward again, locking his hand around your ankle, dragging you back across the sand.

"No, no, calm down-" he bristles, pulling you back into his body, hands on your calves, thighs, hips - he locks his body around you again to stop your frantic kicking and screaming. Once back in control, he starts tugging you over the sand once again.

"I can't breathe!" you shriek suddenly, clawing at the ground for anything to stop your shared path toward the depths. Your fingers leave patterns in the wet ground, the waves coming in to calmly sweep them away.

"I know," he mutters soothingly, keeping the momentum. "I know." He's not going to drown you. This is just to talk. Get used to the water, so you don't have to concern yourself with what's keeping you on land ever again.

The cool water seeps over his skin and yours in one, final pull. He stretches, long tendrils writhing around you, feeling the water around him carrying his body, his full freedom of movement finally returning. He breathe deeply, enjoying the wetting of his gills as the salt welcomes him home. Now, he just has to get you away from shore, fast.

The land is left behind, the cold water making you still, clinging to Topas' embrace. He easily lets you. You've no other choice out here, at his mercy. It's keep calm or sink, and slowly, slowly, the beach gets smaller and smaller as the open waters get deeper beneath you both. He makes sure to keep your head above water.

The shore carries no trace of the human who missed their plane. The salty sea air caresses the skin of its visitors, and an empty rock sits quietly in the waves.

#colderwriting #monster x reader #monster lover #gender neutral reader #merman #terato

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vuesfluides · 4 months ago

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Get to know your mutuals: tag game

Thank you so much again for tagging & including me @musette22 💙

What's the origin of your blog title: It’s French for ��fluid views’ (plus it sounds really nice) because I was thinking about the blog being a place where you leave footprints of yourself constantly changing, evolving and ‘shifting’ views all the time, and ‘fluid’ covers that pretty well, so that’s why I picked it :)

OTPs + Shipname: Stucky

Favorite Color: blue, always💙

Favorite game: Any kind of games? I like playing catch? Does that count? Oh and Ludo!

Song stuck in your head: Let me copy & paste 😂: It’s Beethoven’s “Piano Sonata No. 14 in C-Sharp Minor, Op. 27 No. 2 “Moonlight Sonata”: I. Adagio sostenuto.” (lol)

Weirdest habit/ trait: I keep my fan on even in winter, because 1. I’m extra intolerant of warm weather or still air (I feel breathless when the air is still) and 2. I’m used to the sound of it, and when I turn it off all the unblocked noise drives me nuts.

Hobbies: movies, reading, writing, reading fanfiction, history, learning (about anything), exploring/listening to music. And doing random creative stuff if the idea is there.

Something you're good at: maths & physics, I don’t necessarily love these, but I am rather quick with them when I have to. It’s been the same in school, these were my best subjects.

Something you're bad at: directions, understanding architecture (like anything beyond just looking at them with no further curiosity)

Something you love: I love staying indoors, and having extra uninterrupted privacy and solitude (which is a privilege most people can’t have). But also nature and forests.

Something you could talk about for hours off the cuff: Stucky, Steve and Bucky (and other MCU characters), history of WWII, human nature and civilization, and just philosophy.

Something you hate: I hate being rushed into things. I also often find having to eat so frequently exhausting. (Like right now I have to get up and eat ugh)

Something you collect: older books and mugs. But I also read / use them.

Something you forget: I’m very likely to forget including the cost of drinks when I eat at cafés. Embarrassing.

Favourite movie / show: my favorite shows are 11.22.63 (2016) and WandaVision

Favorite food: if pancakes & chocolate chip cookies (my own recipes only) don’t count, I’ll go with roasted potatoes.

Favorite animal: cats.. and deer? Deer are so pretty! And dogs of course.

What were you like as a child: until I was 7, I think really active and playful, but after that, I became a loud, obnoxious, talkative monster until 10-11 or so.

If you could change any detail about your life right now, what would it be: move far away.

If you could travel in time, who would you like to meet? This is hard, either my dad before I was born, or if I could, maybe JFK? I am fascinated by that particular short period.

I can only think of a few to tag, but since we haven’t interacted that much please feel free to ignore this if you don’t want to play!

@guiltypleasureisfun @soliddarrity

I hope there are more people I can tag in the future!

#tag game #this was fun!

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likeawolfatthemoon · 1 year ago

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some recent work selfies of me being the local obnoxious blue-haired bisexual consumerist swiftie 💙💜💖🫶

#leanne.face #swiftlgbtselfies

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vacate-et-scire · 7 months ago

Note

Heyo! Could I get a matchup for Blue Lock? ( ≧∀≦)ノ💙

Pronouns: She/Her

Sexuality: Heterosexual

Zodiac Sign: Sagittarius

MBTI: ISFP

Appearance: Long wavy brown hair, fair skin, amber eyes. 1,68 m (5,6) - Average height tend to tall (Curvy).

Personality: Optimistic realist, Nightowl, Ambiviert, friendly and polite, a go with the flow person, i'm usually pretty chill, lazy bean who is a sleepyhead, i may be nice

and be good with all kinda of people but when someone gets over my boundaries/insults my family/acts disrespectful towards me I tend to get mean and say rude words, so don't mess with me :3. I'm trustworthy, keep secrets, and keep my emotions and feelings to myself. I'm very observant and read people well, so they can't manipulate me easily. Stubborn, Chaotic. Dark and sarcastic humour is my kinda humour. I'm also extremely sarcastic towards what I care about and will call them weird, adorable nickname as a sort of love language, whether it be platonic or romantic. People often call my smile pretty and call me very adorable. I'm always a happy girl, but they don't know my inside at all. Cheerful, mysterious girl. I tease the people I like and give them nicknames. I only open up easily when I vibe with someone, but if not, I'm distant and friendly.

Likes: Music, food, books, manga, anime, mythology, history, art, astronomy, my favourite animal is the red panda, stuffed animals, cats, and seafood.

Dislikes: Spiders, bugs, people that are obnoxious, dirt, coffee, math, being interrupted.

Hobbies: Dancing, Drawing, writing, Art, Gaming, watching anime, films and shows, going to the cinema, museum, shopping, Reading and collecting my favorite characters (usually husbandos from anime/ mangas) Nendoroids, acryl figure etc. I'm lying in bed at night and scrolling through Instagram reels, reading Wikipedia articles over historical stuff (always researching stuff I don't know).

I like smart, strong, witty, and funny guys who stimulate my intellect. As well teasing, somehow it's adorable and cute when you banter around together. Someone who i can be myself, be like besties who play together but also keep me stable. Someone who has a sharp tongue and doesn't hesitate to tell how he views things/his opinion.

Take your time, and thank you for doing that. Have a lovely day/night/ afternoon

( ﾟ∀ﾟ)人(ﾟ∀ﾟ )

Your Blue Lock Matchup: Michael Kaiser

Okay, hear me out here, Michael is obnoxious, and cocky, we see it all the time, but I think it would be different with his partner. If he is to love someone he would have to love them so so deeply for him to trust and get past his walls that he's put up, and you'd kinda have to teach him how to love and be kind, but he'd be listening eagerly because he wants to make you happy, only you, he values you and everything you hold dear. When considering your layered personality, Michael Kaiser stands out as your perfect-ish match. He's charismatic and sharp, which aligns seamlessly with your need for a smart, witty partner who can match your energy in playful banter and intellectual discussions.

Things would probably be very distant at the start, but as things settle, he will open up to you at the same pace you do. He loves a challenge, and your observant nature and strong boundaries would make him respect you deeply. Your ability to read people and stand firm when pushed would be very needed in your relationship with him, he tends to not always be completely truthful even to himself so to have a partner who might understand how he's feeling even when he's trying to push it all down it would absolutely make him melt.

Your teasing and sarcastic humour? It’s a language Kaiser speaks fluently. He likes to be... rude when talking to people but when it comes to his partner he tones it down, he loves to tease and pick small fun, it keeps the tone light and easy for him, comfortable. And while the more intimate moments are slightly uncomfortable for him since he doesn't completely understand love, yet he can't get enough of it from you.

Your artistic side and love for mythology, history, and astronomy would fascinate Kaiser. He’d love listening to you talk about your latest research rabbit hole or admiring your drawings, even if he doesn’t entirely get the nuances of art. He’d probably joke that your talent should be used to paint his portrait—but deep down, he’d be genuinely impressed and would see if you could sketch tattoo ideas for him.

Kaiser is the type who would absolutely spoil you. Whether it’s indulging your love of shopping, taking you to museums, he’d make sure you feel cherished. He's loaded, I mean the ace of his world-class team? He can afford to spoil you and really does like gift giving, although he prefers receiving since he's never gotten gifts for anyone before, but he's trying his best.

#🌸 match up #michael kaiser #michael kaiser x reader #michael kaiser x you

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iholli · 6 months ago

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HEY BTW I can't believe I never sent you this one

🪶 for RTE and Prowl! Tell me about your rat and my husband. (Bird optional, if you want to include her! But you can stay in RTE canon too up to you <3)

oh hell yeah 💖💖💖

💛 first things first, you know they can't stand each other. RTE is loud, destructive, and sarcastic, and Prowl ain't about all that, although he can give the snark right back to RTE if they feel like picking a fight. and don't even bother expecting them to work together on anything, ever. if Prowl tried to tell RTE to be maybe slightly less destructive they'd immediately knock down another building out of spite.

RTE by nature can smell a Decepticon a mile away. they know what you are, Prowl. and Prowl knows they know it from the first time they interact. slag, is RTE going to (heh) rat him out to Prime? or worse, to Megatron? and RTE just. leaves him with that for a while. they don't actually care what some ex-con is up to, especially since Megatron would like to have that information. a Decepticon? on Team Prime? don't be silly, Megs, can't you see they all have blue optics?

when Bee starts bringing the scavenger around the base, Prowl's not a fan, to say the least. he's still in one piece and Megatron hasn't beat down their door looking for him so apparently RTE has kept their mouth shut about him, but that's still a whole Decepticon. Bee has a cracked processor on top of how obnoxious he already is, clearly. Prowl tends to avoid RTE and RTE in turn rolls their optics whenever Prowl does get started about being patient or protecting all life or some such Optimus Prime 2.0 Speech which RTE absolutely could not care less about.

(at one point Prowl catches RTE laying quietly in a sunbeam when everyone else is out of the base, letting organic rats sniff around them and even gently playing with them in return. he'll never tell and he'll certainly never trust the 'con but hey, maybe RTE isn't all bad. just. mostly bad.)

💙 as for Bird, they'd probably get along just fine-- even if Phantom is more of a stealth type, she's still looking for a fight just like everyone else, and RTE is always happy to get into shit with anyone. they wouldn't necessarily be more than work acquaintances, but they'd be an effective team!

during TFA, after Phantom's initial confusion-- are we both supposed to be spying on the Autobots? are we supposed to report on each other to Megatron?-- once she realizes RTE really is just hanging out with the enemy, of course she's going to tell the boss. Megatron probably isn't that surprised. maybe Starscream told him the scavenger is just undercover on his own orders since, you know, RTE only does what Starscream tells them, and Megatron doesn't particularly care as long as these two aren't in the same room. don't worry about it, Phantom, just keep doing your job. well, that's fine, then. probably.

RTE doesn't pay Phantom much mind. no one besides Lugnut particularly cares to question RTE's loyalty and they aren't too interested in whatever Megatron is having 'cons get up to. honestly they probably find it funny when Phantom up and joins Team Prime and renames herself. talk about Megatron taking another L. RTE looks forward to battling her at some point, since they know Bird was a good fighter even before training with Prowl who's arguably the best warrior Prime has, in RTE's opinion. RTE doesn't necessarily see Bird as an enemy, since she's joined Prime rather than the Autobots, specifically-- just a good challenge whenever the teams battle.

#ive rewritten this like 6 times trying to determine if im characterizing everyone right 😭😭#enjoy bestie 💖#ratkingresponds #i dont know what to tag and at this point im too afraid to ask #transformers #maccadam #the rte continuity

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miss-andromeda · 2 years ago

Note

2012 TMNT 😁

The first character I first fell in love with:

This should be a no-brainer...I think you know him. Tall, purple bandana, gap between the teeth, way too smart for his own good...yeah, it's him. 😌💜

The character I never expected to love as much as I do now:

Honestly, Raph! I started the show thinking very surface-level of him; awesome ninja, anger issues, stuff like that. Then when I started rewatching the show, I started to see how vulnerable and soft he could be with his brothers - along with unbelievably sassy he can be. Seriously, dude has some of my favorite one-liners in the whole show.🤣❤️

The character everyone else loves that I don’t:

Oh, this is gonna be interesting...I'm gonna be blunt here, Leo. Don't get me wrong, I like him a lot and he has some amazing moments, but he doesn't necessarily have the snark that makes Raph and Donnie stand out, and the sunshine and humor that makes Mikey so endearing. I love Blue, but he's 4th place out of the four. 💙

The character I love that everyone else hates:

Hmm...probably Shredder. I've seen people say that his motivation is pretty lame (which, in some way, it kind of is) but he's not just a bratty child. He's a really twisted villain and seems to really believe his motivations are completely justified - and you can't deny he's completely ruthless in battle. Really exemplifies the concept of the head of the Foot - and honestly, I think he's a great villain.

The character I used to love but don’t any longer:

Probably April. I liked her a lot when I was younger (the concept of girl power and she's got a potential romance with my favorite turtle? Sign me up!), but once I got older...she really grated on my nerves. Don't get me wrong, I like her in season 1; she's an inexperienced teenager who's dealing with the pain of having her dad be kidnapped and is meeting some new friends along the way. Season 2 onwards? I wanted to strangle her. Not just because of the love triangle (although that is a part of it,) but also because she lost a lot of that awkwardness that made her likable in season 1, and just became a cliche girlboss. But she wasn't even likable there; she just felt like the token female character needed to add "diversity" to the group.

The character I would totally smooch:

See my first answer. 💜

The character I’d want to be like:

Probably Raph; minus the short temper, I'd love to have the skills he has and the undying love with an animal - be it Spike/Slash or Chompy. Plus, the sass. ❤️

The character I’d slap:

Well, I already mentioned April, but I like her in season 1 so that saves her. And it's kind of a cliche choice to pick a villain, so let's pick someone that I've despised since the beginning - even when I was a dumb kid.

Casey.

Does he get better in later seasons? Yeah, I'd say so; he becomes less in your face and more...just annoying, but kinda like Mikey annoying where you can't hate him. But in season 2, I wanted to strangle him too - and admittedly, still kinda do. He's way too obnoxious for his own good, is way too gross in his flirting with April (he's not chauvinistic or anything, but you just roll your eyes a lot of the time), and doesn't back up his bragging or anything with actually being likable, unlike Raph.

So yeah, he's the one.

A pairing that I love:

If you asked me this when I was a kid, I would've said Apritello - April and Donnie. Now, I don't shame anyone if they ship them, but let's just say I way prefer my version in All's Fair in Love and Science (shameless self-promo 😅) where they love each other platonically and April shamelessly teases him about his crush on my OC, Andi.

But to answer, a pair that I love? Mikey and Renet, personally. She captures that inexperience as a Time Master wonderfully, and she never comes off like an idiot - she's just trying to find her footing. And Mikey's so in awe of her that it's kind of adorable. They both have that same kind of childish, free spirit that makes me just want to protect them. 😅🧡

A pairing that I despise:

Okay, there are two.

One is the aforementioned Apritello. I used to like them as a kid, but watching it in hindsight is just cringeworthy. Don't get me wrong, I am all for Donnie having a crush (and admittedly, I'm a sucker for the love at first sight trope), but did they have to make it so forced and awkward? And I understand April feeling uncomfortable and not wanting to ruin their friendship about his feelings for her, but that's what communication is. And by not having that, she just kept leading him on and making him think he had a chance - only to either ignore him or just continue treating him like just a friend. It was so forced and awkward and...ugh.

And for the obvious - Leorai, Leo and Karai. Okay, who thought it was a good idea to imply that two siblings could have a romance - and have it be canon that one sibling had a crush on the other? Don't get me wrong, I love Karai; she's bar none my favorite female character in the show. And like I said, I love Leo - but the crush he had on Karai is what brings his character down for me. If they wrote him as impressed by her skills and seeing the good in her from a platonic point of view, it would've been sweet - and added another layer to Leo's character. But no, they went with the pseudo-incest perspective and made us all creeped out.

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Thank you for the ask, girl! ❤️

@kikithedreamerwriter @m1dnyt3-w0lf @margoteve @jasminarts01 @thelaundrybitch @raphsmuneca @happymoonangel @android-cap-007

#tmnt 2012 #ask game #tagged!#dee's random thoughts

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sweetestberryofthebunch · 2 years ago

Note

https://youtube.com/shorts/FFW7RPHdbKk?si=VdfFPpWHuRb7K6DD

Honestly this

#me but i wake up like huh that was realistic af #being obnoxious and blue 💙💙

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waynes-multiverse · 9 days ago

Text

Gaaah, I already knew what this was when I saw the title alone!! 😆🫶

Love the Midnights color scheme you picked for this one too, and you’ve done an amazing job of weaving the story of the fic together with the story of the song. All the little hints to the lyrics throughout fully made my Swiftie brain nerd out!! 🤓💜💙

And like I told you in dms, I absolutely love that I infected you with the “drabble sickness” with this prompt. So fitting to ignore a word count when writing a fic for me, honestly 😂🩵

Blake was an oxymoron—he dressed like a wealthy hipster and talked like a frat bro. He had the skinny jeans and a silky patterned shirt, a thin gold chain around his neck, an obnoxious gold pinky ring, and a trendy cropped haircut.

Blake seems like a Ken lol (nice touch 👌)

“I’m an assistant to the Head District Attorney of California,” you said blandly.

The guy blinked. “…Oh. Cool.”

“And what do you do, Blake?”

“Well, my dad owns an advertisement company, so I do some stuff for him every now and then. But mostly I’m a competitive gamer. Like, uh, League of Legends, Counter Strike, Mortal Kombat. What about you? You a gamer?”

Oh boy, dude’s so much out of her league it’s almost painful 🤣 (And I feel her pain – LA seems like the worst place to meet “normal” people in a club lol)

“Where’d you find the trust fund baby?” you asked. “He one of your clients? Let me guess. He likes his asshole bleached the same shade as his hair.”

God, I love her sass so much! She clearly stopped giving a fuck (and who can blame her, honestly lmao)

“Wait!” Sarah called after you. Your other two friends just rolled their eyes and stayed behind to keep drinking and dancing. They were used to your antics by now, just like you were used to theirs. They'd been trying to set you up on dates for a couple of months now. This one was the sneakiest by far.

Love how this bit parallels the song as well as everybody grows tired of hanging out with the “sad friend.” It’s that whole friends being there for you in the beginning of a break up, but after some time, everyone starts expecting you to be over it and move on, and they get annoyed with you if you haven’t 🥲

“I saw you, Mark. I saw the goddamn pictures. And my sister told me all about how your last night of ‘freedom’ went. But you know what? You’re fucking free.”

You put the ring in the palm of his hand. He stared down at it, jaw clenched. Meanwhile, hot tears streamed down your face.

I’m sorry, but pictures??? She actually took fucking pictures and showed them to her sister?!?! God, that bitch is evil 😳 This is a new level of fucked up and sick…

I truly wonder what happened that night. We left off the last part with Rachel kind of aiming to take advantage of Mark’s state of mind. I feel his need to explain the situation so deeply and I hope he gets a chance 💔

The coarse grains of sun-bleached sand would only remind you of Santa Cruz—a sweltering summer, a perfect day, now fractured and wrong in your mind’s eye.

A fucking lie.

Love the little shoutouts to the lyrics here (“love is a lie” & “Freedom felt like summer then on the coast. Now the sun burns my heart and the sand hurts my feelings”) – nicely done, friend 👏

And now, your ex-fiancé had an arm draped casually behind her chair. His smile was effortless, charming, the crows’ feet around his eyes crinkled with amusement.

God, honestly, such a bad moment to witness and catch him. Like she’s been suffering for months after thinking he cheated on her with her sister before the wedding, and he’s happy and handsome like nothing happened and this whole thing didn’t affect him at all, while she’s absolutely miserable. Seriously, poor, poor reader 😭💔

You were forced to take him in, his green eyes, the new haircut, the well-trimmed beard, the jeans and dark blue jacket.

Nice how you wove in the new haircut too! Great little Easter egg hehe 😏

“Uh, hey. Of all the gin joints in the world and stuff, right?”

Bonus points for the Casablanca reference. You know me well, friend 💜

The way he looked at her…

The turning of your stomach became a violent roil. You closed your eyes against the movie reel torturing you in your mind. You imagined how their night would go, drinking, laughing, touching, stumbling back into his house at 2:00 a.m. Maybe he’d end up actually loving her, someone more like him. More than he claimed to have loved you.

Ouch! As much as I ship Oliveras and Meachum on the show, this one hurt lol

The liquid contents of your stomach rebelled, and you threw up right on the edge of the street. You clung to a utility pole as you coughed and cried involuntary tears. You heaved and gasped for breath when you couldn’t stop.

Again, great use of the lyrics! 😁👏

You didn’t know it, but there was a gaping ache in his chest that had never really faded away. Seeing you again, let alone like this, made it sharp and splintering.

Well, I should hope so! God, is it weird I want him to be absolutely miserable? I mean, yes, technically, he already has cancer and that should be punishment enough, but I want him drunk and puking in the street too lmao

The distant sound of a lock turning in the door had you waking, slowly, a silent struggle in your bed. Your eyes cracked open.

Were you okay now? Was that him? Was he home? Had the past year just been a cruel invention of your mind to torture you?

Loved how you’re bringing us home here with the end of the song and make all these little references again and her memories of him. So perfect, seriously!!! 😍

“Have you been making this a habit?” he asked.

Worst question he could’ve asked, honestly. No one wants to be the miserable one after a break up. You always want to be the one who’s doing well. She doesn’t even get that. Poor girl 😅

While I (playfully) hated how smug and judgmental Mark was during that moment in the morning, I loved the whole cigarette bit. I knew it’d backfire as soon as she lit it 🤣 (and it showed that they’re still bantering like the couple they used to be 🥹)

“Last night. You two were out together, seemed to be having a good time. Sorry I crashed your date,” you said, trying not to seem as bitter you sounded in your head.

Again, fair enough to be bitter in her situation 🙈

“It wasn’t what it looked like,” he said. He met your gaze, firm, earnest. “It didn’t go down the way she said.”

Your sister apparently hated you enough to fuck your fiancé. Had she been vindictive enough to lie about it?

💯 I believe that’s what happened! And seriously, screw that fucking sister!! What an absolute mountain of dog shit… Seriously, how messed up do you have to be to do this to your own sister and hate her that much??

Dude, my throat closed so tightly during that entire flashback. I felt absolute disgust with every new paragraph that showcased her behavior and the reasons for it (kudos to your excellent writing here for making me feel this way lol). But what a trash bag of a human being 🤬 This ain’t “Rachel Getting Married,” you manipulative psycho bitch!!!!

I honestly hope she never talks a single word with her sister again. Their father would probably be so sad and disappointed, too 😔

Could he really shackle you to a dying man?

Sure, he didn’t know how long he had, but that could be a cruel waiting game, one you'd just gone through with your father for three months. Mark didn’t want to put you through that all over again.

Yup, this exactly! Same HC, friend 💯

“You actually did that yourself,” Rachel remarked. “Think you got a bit hot last night.”

I will absolutely fucking murder her!!! God, please give me a big blowout with Rachel in Part 3! I need to see that girl get punished for what she did. Like that whole thing isn’t just psychotic and completely immoral, but borders on illegal, honestly. Again, gender reversed roles and Mark would probably find himself in a courtroom after something like this 🙈

Yeah, Rachel did love you...but she also kind of hated you too.

It was a joke. A cruel prank. But maybe after this, you wouldn’t open your mouth to criticize her ever again. Maybe you’d think twice next time, because in the back of your mind, you’d remember that she could’ve had your man.

You need fucking long-term therapy, girl…

I’m so glad the truth is out, though, and reader even believed him. I do hope they find their way back ❤️‍🩹

And I’m honestly curious how you approach the whole cancer storyline in the next part. I seriously wonder how or if they resolve it on the show when they go for more seasons, or if that will stay a part of our job as fanfic writers lol. But I’m not opposed to finding some miracle cure and keeping him around longer lmao 😅🩵

The last line did things to me 😭 Amazing fucking job, friend!!! Again, you combined the lyrics and the essence of the song so well with this story! Absolutely loved what you did with it!! Thank you so much for writing this for me and indulging not only my new Mark obsession but also my Swiftie love 💜💙💜💙💜💙

CATASTROPHIC BLUES

Pairing: Mark Meachum x F. Reader

Summary: Nine months isn’t as long as it sounds. When you run into your ex-fiancé at a bar, he finds out what you've become. You find out the truth.

AN: Okay, so this was only supposed to be a 1K drabble sequel to DOWNGRADE for my lovely friend, @waynes-multiverse, but of course it snowballed on me lol. (And there’s a little more to come!) This is set during early season 1, let’s say between 1x02 and 1x03.

Song Inspo: “Hits Different” by Taylor Swift (YT)

Word Count: 6.3K

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only. Angst, drunkenness, skeevy men, Mark doing his best with an angry, hungover reader (bit of grumpy x sunshine), talk of cheating, what really happened, and other truths revealed…

Nine months. It should’ve meant something.

You should be able to go out with your friends to the club. You should be able to feel confident in one of your favorite dresses and the tallest pair of heels you could almost walk in.

You should be able to let loose on the dance floor, letting the closest attractive guy grind on your ass.

He later offered to get you a drink, his hot breath in your ear. An uncomfortable chill ran down your spine. But you know what? Fuck it.

You went back with him to the bar, taking the chance to rest your achy feet. He tried to make small talk with you, despite you being stiff and awkward now that you couldn’t distract yourself with the vibes of the music running through your body. Now the thump thump thump of the bass was too much, too distracting for a normal conversation.

You also started to get suspicious when one of your friends “casually” came up on his other side.

“Ask her about her job,” Sarah whispered. You just barely caught it.

“Oh, yeah. So, uh, what do you do?” Blake asked you. You were pretty sure he was more interested in your cleavage than your job.

“I’m an assistant to the Head District Attorney of California,” you said blandly.

The guy blinked. “…Oh. Cool.”

“And what do you do, Blake?”

Blinking slow, then sighing, you leaned over and locked eyes with Sarah, one of your best friends and a well-known esthetician in L.A.

“Where’d you find the trust fund baby?” you asked. “He one of your clients? Let me guess. He likes his asshole bleached the same shade as his hair.”

Sarah bit her lip in embarrassment. Blake coughed and spluttered into his scotch. You didn’t stick around for the predictable denial and slid off the bar stool. You gave him $15 for your drink, downed the rest of it in one long gulp, and savored the rush of it tingling through your head on your way out of the club.

Sarah, for her part, never let you walk out alone.

“Next time you try to set me up with someone, can you please just tell me,” you said tiredly, “instead of pretending you want to hang out with me?”

Sarah deflated. “Look, we’re just trying to help.”

“I know,” you said, holding yourself against the chill in the air. “I know, okay? I know you guys want me to move on, because I’m a fucking bummer. I know I’m…I’m not handling all this as well as I should be. And I know they still talk to Rachel.”

Tears stung in your eyes, but you sucked in a subtle breath. Sarah’s blue eyes were sad and glassy with guilt, even if it was just by association.

“Go back inside,” you said eventually. “I’ll just take an Uber home.”

But you didn’t.

Instead, you ended up at a bar down the street. You barely ever went clubbing anymore, but you hadn’t stepped foot into a real bar in nine months.

“Come on, sweetheart. You really want to do this here?”

“You’re one to fucking talk! But you know what? Far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing left to say. I just…I don’t know how you could do this to me.”

“Please,” he said. The green of his eyes were desperate. It was the first time you ever heard him beg. “Just let me explain.”

You wouldn’t let him touch you, let alone try to hold you. The thought alone made you sick.

“I saw you, Mark. I saw the goddamn pictures. And my sister told me all about how your last night of ‘freedom’ went. But you know what? You’re fucking free.”

You put the ring in the palm of his hand. He stared down at it, jaw clenched. Meanwhile, hot tears streamed down your face.

You walked away first—out of the seaside bar in beautiful Venice, California, with every piece of your heart bleeding out into the street.

Another vodka cranberry at the end of the bar turned into shots you couldn’t name or count. You rebuffed men who tried to talk to you. You ignored the voice in your head that sounded a lot like your dad.

Sweet girl, what the hell’re you doin’?

You stopped trying to answer that question a long time ago. Just like your friends had stopped trying to get you out of the house after work. No more wine tastings or Sunday brunches. No more weekends at the beach. The coarse grains of sun-bleached sand would only remind you of Santa Cruz—a sweltering summer, a perfect day, now fractured and wrong in your mind’s eye.

A fucking lie.

Another empty glass hitting the bar counter drowned out the salty crash of ocean waves, but you finally had to stop when your stomach churned with alcoholic slosh. Your brain reeled when you tried to blink. Your eyes felt dry, irritated, and glassy at the same time.

You got up from your seat and used the wall like an anchor on your way to the bathroom. You checked yourself in the mirror there. Your black dress, your hair, and your makeup were still intact, so you supposed you still looked good, if absent in the eyes. Again, you blinked too hard. Fuck.

On your way back out, new noise was filling the bar. A whole group of four or five people came in and grabbed seats at the bar, laughing, ordering drinks, giving each other shit. They sounded like cops. You knew, because you’d grown up around them your entire life.

“All right, Oliveras. What’re you drinking?”

You stopped short at the voice, deep and rich like aged whiskey. In fact, you needed the back of an empty chair to hold you steady.

“What, you're buying?” she shot back.

Amber. You recognized her profile and the litheness of her frame. You two were old friends, since you roomed together back in college. You hadn’t heard from her in months though. She had called to give her condolences when your almost-marriage fell apart.

And now, your ex-fiancé had an arm draped casually behind her chair. His smile was effortless, charming, the crows’ feet around his eyes crinkled with amusement.

“Well, within reason,” he replied, inclining his head. “I think I’m in the mood for some good fuckin’ whiskey—”

You stumbled in your stupid heels. You nearly took a whole table with you, but two chairs broke your fall. Almost all the cops in the group looked your way, their heads swiveling with a trained response to sudden sounds. Your name fell from Amber’s lips, a small, shocked breath.

Mark’s mouth fell open, his eyes widening when you looked up at him on reflex. You were forced to take him in, his green eyes, the new haircut, the well-trimmed beard, the jeans and dark blue jacket. He had no fucking business looking that good.

But you were like two shocked deers not expecting to meet in a forest—neither one willing to move or speak, or even blink…

Until you stumbled again. Your weight on the unstable chair began to give way.

“Shit.”

He and Amber both jolted to help you. Mark’s hand reached for you first, but you firmly ignored it and somehow straightened onto your shaky feet. You smoothed down the dress and fixed the little straps the best you could, even though one was hanging down your shoulder.

Your arm got tangled in the thin chain of your purse, but you slung that over your other shoulder with all the grace of a toddler. Then you affected a “polite” smile that just came off looking like a grimace.

“Uh, hey. Of all the gin joints in the world and stuff, right?” You made sure to enunciate, hoping your hand wave was casual and not insane. “I’ve gotta go.”

You pointed toward the door before you made it your mission to actually get there. Your heart pounded loud in your ears. The rush of cool and quieter air was a balm to your frayed mind, but it wasn’t enough.

The way he looked at her…

“Hey, you okay, sweetheart?”

Alarm trilled in the back of your mind. You had enough awareness to look behind you. Finally, you noticed the guy. He’d approached you in the bar earlier, but you’d turned down his advances. You couldn’t remember what you said to him. He clearly remembered you, though.

You waved him off, not even able to speak as you tried to stay upright against the utility pole.

He didn’t take the hint. He drew closer, wrapping the pretense of a helping hand around your arm. He fingered the edge of your leather jacket.

“You need a ride? I’ll get you an Uber or something,” he said, with the facsimile of concern. “Where do you live?”

“Hey,” a voice cut in, deep and with authority.

You tilted your head, and Mark’s stern face came into view along with the rest of him. Him and those damn bowed legs.

“Take a walk, pal. I’ve got her,” Mark said. He flashed his LAPD badge for good measure.

That made it even easier to knock away the foreign hands off your body and angle himself in between. His arm came around your shoulders, supportive and safe.

Half of you was grateful, the other half resentful, but all you could do was glare at him. He shot you a quirking smile.

The other man backed off, trying to hide his annoyance. He continued down the street with his hands in his pockets. Mark itched to do more than just scare him off. A familiar protective anger had burned in his blood, raising his hackles, but he had to focus on you.

He led you back to the front of the bar. He went slow enough for you in those red stilettos (ridiculous, he thought, no matter how sexy they were).

“Late night, huh?” he said.

“What d'you think you’re doing?” you said. Your tone would be more snippy, if you had any energy left. Your inner world was reeling, unfocused and barely conscious. You had no choice but to lean on him as you gripped his jacket, the dark blue denim rough between your fingers.

“Well, I’m thinking I could call one of your friends, have ‘em take you home. You came out alone?” he asked. He was trying to be civil, retaining his sense of humor, but there was no masking the concern in his eyes. Not completely.

“No,” you admitted, “but ‘m alone now. Obviously.” You snorted.

Mark’s lips twitched upward. He heaved a small sigh. “All right. Well, who do you want me to call? Sarah? Yesenia? Lauren?”

After a moment, you shook your head, even though that just made it swim. Fuck.

“I can’t…don’t want them to see me like this,” you said. The confession provoked a sniffle, a tremble of your lips. This time, you couldn’t stop the sting of tears from flooding over. You covered your face, as if that could stop your embarrassment, your overwhelming emotions from clogging in your throat in a painful lump.

“Okay, it’s okay,” Mark said. His tone pitched deep and gentle. It was an easy reflex for him to give into as he soothed a hand over your hair to try and calm you down.

You didn’t know it, but there was a gaping ache in his chest that had never really faded away. Seeing you again, let alone like this, made it sharp and splintering.

He led you to his car, and he took you home.

For a moment, you saw it so clearly.

Tracing his brows, the line of his nose, and the cut of his chin while he slept. What his hair felt like between your fingers, loose and soft, or gripped tight with need.

The sound of his voice reaching deep into your bones. The way his arms allowed you to reclaim safety whenever he came back to you…

Worrying for your dad on his twenty-five-year beat in Homicide had transitioned into worrying for Mark. He was always quick to reassure you though, to downplay with his ridiculous sense of humor and good sex. The best, actually.

But it was the in between moments you missed the most.

The distant sound of a lock turning in the door had you waking, slowly, a silent struggle in your bed. Your eyes cracked open.

Were you okay now? Was that him? Was he home? Had the past year just been a cruel invention of your mind to torture you?

…No. Your throat momentarily closed up as you realized. This really was just your shitty reality.

You groaned as you picked your head off the pillow, pushing your body up until you were sitting on the edge of your bed. Your bare legs hung off the side. You still wore your wrinkled black dress from last night, but your heels were strewn forgotten on the floor. You didn’t remember taking them off. You didn’t remember getting back to your apartment, let alone to your bed.

However, it all started coming back to you when the door shut again. Fresh coffee wafted in from the living room, along with something sweeter.

Your bedroom door creaked open, and there he was. Mark fucking Meachum.

He held a tray with two hot coffees and a greasy brown bag from your favorite bakery. Your gaze crept up to meet his, though yours was decidedly grumpy.

“Well, good morning, Sleeping Beauty,” he said with a smile. “It’s already almost noon, but I figured we can’t start the day without coffee.”

“Did you stay here all night?” you croaked in disbelief.

“Yeah, just, uh, took the couch out there,” he said, pointing in the direction of the living room. “Could use a couple of extra throw pillows though. Think I got another notch in my spine…”

At your persisting glare, his expression sobered.

“Just wanted to make sure you were okay, that’s all,” he said.

“Well, mission accomplished,” you snarked. “You can go now.”

Mark watched you try and fail to stand. You sunk back down to a seat on the edge of the bed, closing your eyes for a second while you attempted to stop your head from swimming.

He sighed and set down the coffee and pastries on your desk nearby.

“Have you been making this a habit?” he asked.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but last night was the first bar I’ve been to in exactly nine months and...fifteen days,” you replied. You swept your fingers over your cheeks, grimacing when you found remains of your mascara. You probably looked like a gremlin. This wasn’t exactly the way you wanted to look when you next saw your ex.

Except you’d never planned to see this man again.

“All right,” Mark said. He grabbed your purse off your desk, where he’d set it last night. He popped it open, your private goddamn property.

“Excuse me,” you protested angrily.

He retrieved a whole pack of cigarettes. “How about these?”

He tossed you the pack, and you barely caught it. Your irritation grew and grew, along with the sting of shame. The worst part was, he knew he didn’t have to say anything.

The unfiltered nicotine in your hand was the reason your father died. He’d been the Captain of Mark’s precinct for ten years—the exact number of years since your dad had quit smoking. It hadn’t mattered much in the end.

Still, you resented that raised brow of judgment on Mark’s face.

You leaned over and grabbed a lighter from your nightstand. You fished out a cigarette from the pack, and you took your time lighting it up. You were being an asshole, you realized, but you couldn’t stop yourself.

You made a show of holding the cancer stick between two fingers. You looked up at Mark, right in his eyes, and tried to channel Audrey Hepburn when you brought it to your lips for a long drag.

And you immediately coughed it up. Fuck.

Smoke polluted the air above your head while Mark nodded in vindication.

“Yeah. How’d that feel, Smokey?” he asked (all too high-and-mighty, in your opinion). He crossed the distance and took the cigarette from your hand while you kept coughing. He went into the bathroom to get rid of it.

Meanwhile, you held a hand to your chest and groaned. Damn him, he was right. Your stomach roiled at just the taste of that shit in your mouth, let alone first thing in the morning.

“Why don’t you get cleaned up?” he suggested, sweeping a hand toward your adjoining bathroom when he came back out. “A little coffee and sustenance will be waiting when you’re done.”

“Seriously, you can go. You don’t need to wait up for me,” you rasped, but the man still helped you to your feet with a supportive hand on your arm and your lower back.

“Yeah, and what if you lose your balance and crack your head on the bathroom tile? Nope, not on my watch.”

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered.

“He ain’t gonna help if you take his name in vain like that,” Mark couldn’t help but tease, fully expecting your glare. That was something your mom used to say.

You groaned, annoyed and still nauseous.

“Would you just shut up?”

“Nope, pretty sure I’m physically incapable.”

You snorted. “Clearly.”

He made sure you were steady on your feet before he left you in the bathroom. You avoided his gaze when he closed the door. His heart gave a painful pulse.

What the fuck am I doing? he thought.

Brushing your teeth and taking a hot shower had its innumerable benefits—making you feel alive and close to normal again, for example. But the one thing it didn’t do was get Mark out of your apartment.

You sat together on your couch while the TV played at a low volume. You saw the remnants of Mark’s night in your favorite throw blanket tossed over one of the armrests. The pillow he'd used for his head was caved in and smelling like his cologne, a rich, woody scent of sandalwood, spice, and musk.

You tried to ignore it while you finished eating a blueberry muffin. He polished off his third donut and washed it down with some more coffee.

“So,” you said. “Amber Oliveras.”

Mark blinked in confusion. “What?”

“Last night. You two were out together, seemed to be having a good time. Sorry I crashed your date,” you said, trying not to seem as bitter you sounded in your head.

Mark’s brows furrowed. “We’re, uh, not together. Not like that. We’re just working a case.”

“A case?” you said dubiously. “She’s DEA. You’re Homicide. What kind of case would you be working on together?”

He hesitated, brushing some pastry crumbs from his mouth. “Sorry, I can’t get into the specifics. You know the drill.”

Yes, you knew his cases were supposed to be confidential, but that hadn’t stopped him from telling you details before, especially because you were D.A. Valwell’s Executive Assistant. You had a higher clearance than the average civilian anyway.

But you let it go. It truly wasn’t your business, after all.

It was Mark’s turn to look your way. Morbid curiosity was eating him alive. Or maybe that was just the pull of being with you again, seeing your face, hearing your voice…even if you hated him.

He did think you were torturing him a bit too. You smelled nice, like floral soap and minty freshness. You were wearing an oversized shirt from your college days that was already threadbare from how many times you ran it through the wash. It slipped off one shoulder and barely went halfway down your thighs, brushing the edge of some little shorts. He had to stop his eyes from following the path of your bare legs.

“So, uh, how’ve you been?” he asked.

You paused. You even set down your muffin and chuckled, giving him a long look.

“How does it look like I’ve been?”

A grim silence fell between you two, thick and tense.

“All right," he said. "How long’ve you been smoking?”

You shook your head, lips pursing at his audacity. “You really don’t have any right to judge me. You know that, right?”

Mark rubbed a hand over his mouth and chin, an anxious, frustrated tick you knew well. “Look, what happened back then—”

You rose a hand to stop him. “Please, for the love of God. We don’t have to go through this shit again.”

You got up from the couch, intending to throw away the coffee cups and garbage if it meant gaining some space from this man.

But he followed you, stopped you with an imploring grip on your arm.

“It wasn’t what it looked like,” he said. He met your gaze, firm, earnest. “It didn’t go down the way she said.”

Your instinct was to jerk your arm out of his grasp, but he just held you in place, gently, but insistent.

“Are you gonna let me explain this time? If you do, then just let me get it out. And afterward I’ll screw. I’ll walk the fuck outta here, and I promise you, you’ll never have to see me again.”

You stared up at him, close to seething, but there was something in his eyes that stilled you, gripped you more than his hands. A sliver of doubt began to creep in.

Your sister apparently hated you enough to fuck your fiancé. Had she been vindictive enough to lie about it?

You had realized, all too late, that you couldn’t put anything past her. Mark could be stubborn, but he wouldn’t dig his heels in on this without a reason.

So you relented, with a small nod.

Breathing a subtle exhale of relief, Mark guided you back down to the couch. You turned off the TV and sat facing him with your arms crossed. You gave him an expectant look.

Mark steeled himself. Where to fucking start?

A beat to think, and then he knew.

He had to give you everything.

Nine Months Ago...

One late night. One fifth of whiskey at the hotel bar turned into numbers Mark stopped counting—until the Captain reminded him. Your father reminded him beyond the grave, with words Mark never forgot.

You’ve got someone waiting for you. Don’t take that for granted.

He needed to find you.

Somehow, he made it to the elevator by himself. Third floor. Room 304, 305, 306. Fuck. Was it 309?

The door opened, and his addled fucking brain thought it was you at first. She almost had your eyes, if just half the sincerity of your smile.

Rachel welcomed him in and shut the door. He stumbled at the threshold, and she stopped him from falling completely onto the floral-patterned carpet.

“Oh my God, Mark. You okay?”

No. And he knew he wasn’t ever gonna be okay.

But her hands were warm, carving sensuous paths under his leather jacket without him realizing.

“Don’t worry. I’ve got you,” she said, guiding him further into her hotel room. With slurring words, Mark asked her to go find you. He needed to talk to you.

“Shit, think I left my phone downstairs too. Needa get it,” he muttered.

“You’re a mess. I think you need to lay down first,” she said, huffing as she supported his weight over to her bed. She helped him lay down. A subtle smile tugged at her lips as she began to open up his jacket. He resisted at first, giving her a look of confusion.

“You should get comfortable. I doubt we’re gonna be able to move you from here.” She giggled.

He guessed he could see the sense in that. He let her help him shrug the black leather jacket off. You helped him pick it out a couple of weeks ago while you were planning for this trip.

Rachel tossed his jacket to the foot of the bed, and she sat close to him on the edge of it. Her bare thigh brushed against his arm as the skirt of her dress rode up. It looked like she’d been about to take a shower after a night out with you and your friends. He instinctively moved his arm, crossing it with the other over his chest.

“You know, I never got a chance to thank you,” she said.

Mark’s brows furrowed. It was taking all of his concentration just to keep her face in focus.

“For what?”

“You were really there for me when Dad passed. You were like our rock, coming by with food, checking in on me when you visited. It really meant a lot to me,” she said. Her words said one thing, but her eyes were beginning to lead him somewhere.

“Your dad was a good man,” he said tiredly. “You guys went through a lot. You, your mom, your sister. It uh, hit her pretty hard.”

Rachel’s lips pressed together. “Yeah… She was his favorite, you know.”

Mark blinked. “What, he said that?”

“He didn’t have to,” she said, glancing away. She began to drum her fingers against his arm. He noticed it, but he was also trying to concentrate on what she was saying. “He always talked to her more, trusted her more, even when he was harping on her. She got that government job, probably thanks to him. But he was proud of her.”

“’M sure he was proud of you too,” Mark said.

“No, I don’t think so. I just don’t know why,” she said, sniffling as tears welled up in her eyes.

Mark frowned in sympathy. “Aw, hey.”

He didn’t know how to make her feel better, but he didn’t like to see her cry either. He sat up the best he could in the bed. She met him halfway, burying her face in his chest and sliding her arms around his middle for a hug. He gave her that comfort, patting her on the back.

Only, she didn’t stop there. She shimmied a bit higher and buried her face in his neck, where she pressed a little kiss. An alarm bell rang in Mark’s mind, but his body was too slow to respond. She turned her head and laid another kiss on his cheek, and then his lips.

He finally jerked back, holding her at arm’s length.

“Hey. What the hell’re you doing?” he demanded. His tone was sharp without a filter.

Rachel’s tearful eyes met his as she bit her lip. Her hand tentatively drew down his chest, warm over his shirt.

“I just…I finally had to tell you how much you mean to me,” she said. “And I think she takes you for granted.”

His brows furrowing, Mark grabbed her wrist.

“Rach, I love you. I really do, but you’re like a lil' sister to me. I love your sister. I wanna marry her.”

The thought alone struck a sharp jolt of pain through his skull, and through his chest. He did want a life with you. But is that fucking fair?

Could he really shackle you to a dying man?

“Look, just...go tell her 'm here. Please,” he said. The fight was draining out of him. His energy was waning, his eyes blinking slow.

Rachel nodded, wiping at her tears. She left him in a huff, but she went to lock herself up in the bathroom first. The sink faucet turned on.

Mark sighed. Fine, let her clean up and pull herself together, but she’d better go get you. He doubted he could make it, even if he crawled. But if he had to, he would…

Slowly, the ticking seconds turned longer. His eyes grew heavier, until he was unable to pry them open again. He fell asleep.

He woke to a streaming sun in his eyes, and a pounding ache between them.

Shit. He groaned, covering his eyes. Maybe getting drunk wasn’t good for an already fucked head after all.

“Hmm, good morning, sleepyhead.”

Mark frowned. He looked over and found Rachel leaning on his arm. She was lying naked under the thinnest sheet. He knew, not only because of her bare shoulders, but her nipples poking through the fabric.

“Jesus Christ,” he grunted, immediately turning over to climb out of the bed. He was very fucking relieved to see he still had his jeans and underwear on, but his shirt was missing. He found it strewn on the floor.

“You actually did that yourself,” Rachel remarked. “Think you got a bit hot last night.”

There was a playful note in her voice. Mark grit his teeth. He was fucking pissed.

“You’re over the fucking line, you hear me?” he snapped.

“What, are you really gonna tell her?” she taunted. “It’s not like we did anything. I just prefer to sleep naked.”

He snorted. Sure. And what happened to the part where she was supposed to go find you and tell you where he was? No, the girl saw an opportunity, and she took it.

Mark hesitated though, because she raised a good point. Goddamn it, what was he going to tell you?

His jaw clenched, and he angrily finished getting dressed. He got up and stormed out of the hotel room, but not before Rachel got of out bed and let the sheet fall away from her slender form. She walked in confidence and feminine sway over to the bathroom, smiling in amusement when he quickly turned away before he saw anything.

The door slammed shut.

Her smile slowly fell. Tears of embarrassment stung in her eyes. Not really because he was mad at her, but because he’d rejected her too.

She knew it was wrong. Yeah, she was pretty sure it was the worst thing she’d ever done. Part of her even hated herself for it. You were her older sister, after all. You, who always looked out for her when you two were kids—better than Mom did. You, who got the most attention from Dad, and the quiet reliance of Mom.

Yeah, Rachel did love you...but she also kind of hated you too.

After she got dressed, she went back to find her phone. She cycled through the pictures she took, every angle that made it seem like your fiancé had spent the night in her arms after the hot and steamy bits.

Now...

Mark finished telling you the story from his perspective. He gave you as many details as he could remember: what she said and did, and what he said and did.

Understandably, you were getting more upset by the moment. That pendulum swung between shock, and anger, and upset again. It all culminated in hot tears as you crossed your arms, holding a hand over your mouth.

“How do I know that’s true?” you asked, wiping vainly at your cheeks.

The problem was, you wanted to believe him. Of course, you also wanted to believe your sister wasn’t quite as screwed up and hateful as you thought she was, but even this was insane. You'd only ever tried to look out for her. Maybe along the way you had been a little critical, a little too judgmental. But had you really deserved this?

Could you even let yourself hope it was all a lie?

Mark met your gaze head on. “Look me in the eyes and tell me I’m lying.”

You sighed in frustration. “Mark, you’re a professional fucking liar. I’m not a human polygraph.”

“But you know me.”

“I thought I did,” you said, rubbing at your eyes with shaking hands. Eventually, you were able to look at him again. “If what you said is true, why the hell didn’t you just tell me that?”

“You wouldn’t let me! You made up your mind before I could get a word in edgewise.”

“I was angry!"

God, what an understatement. You'd been so furious and hurt, you'd seriously debated taking one of your dad's old golf clubs and knocking out every window, headlight, and tail light in Mark's precious car.

"So you're saying you didn’t even fight for me. You just let me think the worst of you all this time? For what?!” You sunk your hands into your hair and pulled hard on the strands. You shook your head. “And you know what, why did you get so drunk in the first place? Your friends told me you went back to the hotel early, by yourself. It had to be for a reason.”

Mark nodded slowly.

That was when he knew, he really did have to give you everything.

“You, uh…remember those headaches I’d been getting?” he said. “Started about a month after your dad passed.”

Your brows wrinkled with a hint of confusion, but you nodded as the memory resurfaced.

“Yeah, you were going through entire bottles of Advil. But what does that—”

“I went to the doctor.” Mark rubbed a clammy palm over his jeans. He could stare down murderers, drug lords, and terrorists with steel in his veins, but coming clean with you was going to be one of the hardest things he’d ever done. He knew it in his bones, just like he knew why he needed to do it.

“Turns out… I’m sick, baby.”

Your expression changed, almost instantly. Traces of anger and doubt fell away, but so did some of the color in your face.

Mark took the chance to get a little closer on the couch. He laid a hand over yours on your thigh, but your whole body was locked up, sitting very still.

“W-What do you mean?” you asked.

“I mean,” he sighed, “I’ve got a mass in my brain the size of Nevada. I don't know how much time I got exactly, but..."

Your eyes widened. Your hands clenched into the fabric of your shirt, until your nails bit into your palms. As you processed those words and began to understand the weight of them, it sunk inky claws into your mind, into every shady corner.

You shook your head in denial, lips trembling. Mark just held your gaze, a silent confirmation that he said nothing but the truth.

"I found out a few days before the trip to Venice. I was trying to figure out how to tell you, but obviously I didn’t handle that part very well," he said.

Anger, stubbornness, suspicion, pretending you didn't care what he had to say—all of that faded. It drained out of your muscles, out of your pores. You began to fall apart.

You turned your hand under his and squeezed, hard. It was a while before you could speak, but Mark was patient. He held your hand and stroked his thumb back and forth across your skin while you tried and failed to hold onto your tears. Then your soul-wracking sobs.

Finally, he couldn’t help himself. He brought you closer, soothing a hand over your hair and pressing a kiss to your temple. You rested your forehead against his shoulder.

“I’m so sorry,” you said, a coarse whisper. “God, Mark. Why the fuck would you let me think you cheated on me, with my sister?”

He gave a wry huff. “I guess I thought I was being noble. I thought I’d rather have you hate me, than try to stay with me. Watch me break down, bit by bit, for God knows how fucking long. Now I know I’m just selfish. I don’t want you to see me like that… Hell, I don’t wanna see me like that.”

You pulled back on him. Devastation filled your bleary eyes, but you caressed his cheek with a shaking hand.

“Have you gotten treatment?” you asked.

“Doc says it’s not worth it.”

The divot between your brows deepened. “What about a second opinion?”

He hesitated.

“Have you seen another oncologist?” you pressed.

“No. Guess I didn’t see the point. I saw the scans myself. I don’t know how you’d confuse a big fucking tumor for anything else.”

“Mark.” You shook your head and wordlessly guided him closer. You framed his face with both hands, while his own found purchase on the soft curve of your waist.

It was nice to feel your touch again…but at what cost? All that stubborn fire in your eyes, all that pain, it was everything he’d been trying to avoid.

Still, you were gentle, sliding your fingers up into his hair. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath.

After all this time, you were still his peaceful spot. If you only knew the amount of death he’d seen in just the past couple of weeks on Blythe’s taskforce, the chaos, the stress of near-misses, being on the sweet razor edge of getting killed, saving his own body the trouble. That thrill took its toll.

Before that, those nine months undercover had been a divorce from his reality, pretending that he hadn’t left you broken along with whatever heart there was left in him.

He never imagined that he’d be here with you again. He never thought you’d forgive him, let alone touch him like you still loved him.

When he opened his eyes, you were still there. Tears clung wet to your lashes. You led him closer, where you tenderly rested your forehead against his.

He let you do it too. You were the only one he’d soften up for like this.

He smiled. “Hmmm. What now, sweetheart?”

You bit your lip, but you slowly pulled back and opened your eyes. You didn’t go far though.

You guided him into an even more familiar path to your lips. It was more bittersweet than he remembered, but worth it all the same.

He was home.

AN: So, you guys forgive me? 😘💙 I know it's not the happiest ending ever, but it felt like a good place to pause for these two. Rachel was more complex than she seemed, and so was Mark's side of the story!

I have at least one more actual drabble in mind for these two, coming soon! 😂 Please let me know what you thought of this one 💜

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lathalea · 4 years ago

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Day 25: Blame it on Cider, part 5

Here's today's fic for the Writer’s Month 2021 challenge (see @writersmonth for more info).

Hello, my beloved readers! Kudos for sticking around for nearly a whole month with me and my silly stories! 💙

Did you miss Thorin and Yrsa? Good, because they are back! I hope you remember how the last part ended: while the Orcs attacked Thorin’s merchant caravan, Yrsa and the baby escaped. Unfortunately, she didn’t meet Thorin again at the agreed time and place and started suspecting the worst.

I wrote this part in a real hurry, so I’m sorry about any errors etc. in advance.

Today's prompt: word: obnoxious

Fandom: The Hobbit Relationships: Thorin x Yrsa (Dwarf Female OC) Rating: T Word count: 3,5 k words Warnings: um, cold, mentions of bodily harm (just a tiny bit, nothing gorey), winter, and you’ll get a glimpse of how a typical Viking quarrel looks like (yes, this is a self-deprecating joke, ha ha, not funny) how the exhausted and almost completely frozen Dwarves try to quarrel, also: freezing cold

A special author’s note for @bitter-sweet-farmgirl: This part is longer especially for you, so you won't forget it so easily next time ;)

As usual, you can read this fic here and on AO3.

Have you missed the previous parts? Here they are:

Khuzdul: Lulkh - fool Inbarathrag - goat Ursarusê - my tiny fire Khaglâ-dûm - Blue Halls (name of a Dwarven settlement shamelessly made up by me) Thorinuldûm - Thorin’s Halls (the place in the Blue Mountains where Longbeards lived after Sack of Erebor)

* * *

Blame It on Cider, part 5

Two months later

It has been over a year since Yrsa last drank cider, but she promised herself one thing: when this miserable escapade of hers was finally over and she was safely back at home, she was going to get herself seriously drunk. But first, she would make sure that there were no men around. She learned that lesson well.

The greatest flaw in her plan was that she found herself several days away from home. There had been barely any snow in the Blue Mountains in November and Yrsa was convinced that she could easily make one quick trip to a nearby village and back before the winter blizzards made the mountain trails impassable. Her dear childhood friend, Haldis, was about to have a baby and asked Yrsa to assist her when the time came. Yrsa was more than happy to oblige. The delivery was easy and without any complications. Haldis gave birth to a strong baby boy and her husband threw a feast to celebrate the blessed event. While everyone drank ale, Yrsa drank water, and now she regretted it deeply. If she drank anything else, even a cup of mead, she would probably have a hangover. Which meant that she would stay in the village for a few days longer. But a stupid encounter with a stupid king a year ago (who, later on, probably was stupid enough to lose his life fighting off the Orcs while she stupidly escaped instead of helping him) made her abstain from alcohol. Ugh. Not thinking about the king, not now. Frozen tears are not fun. Moving on to the downsides of being sober. Anyway, when that stupid snowstorm came all of a sudden, Yrsa (instead of laying in a comfy bed in Haldis’ home and complaining about a headache) was caught in the middle of it, completely unprepared. Thus, the stupid frozen tears that were absolutely not welling in her stupid eyes at all as she marched home.

That stupid snow covered the stupid mountain trail and she had to plow her way through the stupid snowdrifts while ignoring the stupid snowflakes getting stuck to her face. And on top of that, there was that stupid freezing wind. It felt as if her cheeks would fall off any moment now. She wrapped her thick scarf around her face, leaving only her eyes uncovered. That helped a bit. But there was something that made her situation worse. Curse her bad luck! The sky was darkening rapidly and it seemed that the wind was becoming even stronger. And if that was not enough, the stupid snowflakes decided to magically turn into miniature icicles at that very moment, viciously prickling her skin.

Yrsa tried to speed up, but how fast can you walk with snow reaching up to your thighs and merciless headwind trying to topple you over? Even so, she soldiered on and climbed arduously up the slope, trying to ignore the tiredness in her legs. She had to reach that ridge ahead of her before the last light of the day disappeared. There was a small shepherd hut in one of the caverns and she wanted to stay there for the night. It was only used in summer so it stood empty and cold now, but it would provide her with shelter from the weather. And who knows, maybe the shepherds left some of their food there? Shut up, Yrsa’s stomach, there was still some leftover food from the feast in her travelling sack. She just had to get to that hut, get the fire going and all would be well.

It wasn’t. Of course. She should have expected it. Bad luck struck again. Yrsa was halfway to the cavern, barely seeing anything through the relentless waves of icy snow directed at her by the stupid wind, when she stumbled over something and slipped, falling face down into the snow. It hurt when she tried to get up. It hurt when she tried to stand on her right foot. With a helpless grunt, she slumped down on the snow. Multiple layers of clothing, including her thick leather trousers made it impossible to check her leg, but she was almost certain that her ankle was sprained. It would start swelling soon. She wouldn’t make it to the shepherds’ hut now, unable to stand on her leg and walk, not mentioning crawling in that snow, with the blizzard becoming more and more aggressive. Yrsa knew she didn’t have much time. She was still warm now, but she stopped moving a while back and her body had already started giving her some not so subtle hints about the biting cold. Think, Yrsa, think… She needed to do something. Otherwise, when the snows melt in spring, the shepherds would find her frozen body and then write on her gravestone: “Here lies Yrsa, daughter of Yri. Died a pathetic death because she was stupid enough not to drink ale at a feast (and she didn’t drink because she was terrified of doing another stupid mistake like the one involving that stupid cider and that stupid blacksmith,no, a king and his stupid lips… and his other body parts, and she stupidly ran away, and now he’s gone, and she’s freezing to death, but nevermind, there’s not enough space on this gravestone to write it all anyway)”.

“Get up!” Perfect. Now she was hallucinating from the cold. The wind was howling above her, and she was imagining things. How did the wind learn Khuzdul anyway?

“Get up, you lulkh! You will freeze to death here if you don’t!” The wind roared at her angrily and then something appeared in front of her. A hallucination. A hallucination that gripped her coat and lifted her up from the ground, as if she weighed nothing more than a feather. She cried out in pain, instinctively resting on her stupid right leg.

“I have injured my ankle, you inbarathrag! I can’t walk!” Yrsa shouted at the dark silhouette in front of her, trying to be louder than the wind. Funny how the hallucination wore a dwarven coat with a hood, just like hers, and how hard its chest felt under her gloved hand as she tried to steady herself.

The hallucination grunted, “Are you traveling alone?”

“Yes, I was on my way to…” Yrsa started.

“I’ll carry you,” the hallucination interrupted her. A pair of arms wrapped around her. She was lifted unceremoniously off the ground, thrown over a shoulder and across his back. Yes, it was a “he”. Judging by the timbre of voice, even though barely audible in the howling wind, it definitely couldn’t be a Dwarf-woman.

“Hey! It hurt!” Yrsa protested.

“Good, at least we know that you do not suffer from frostbite yet, boy,” he grunted and moved ahead.

“I’m not a boy!” she mumbled into his arm and shifted. It felt definitely too corporeal to be a hallucination.

“Be quiet and stop moving!” the corporeal… someone snapped at her.

“If you go towards the eastern ridge, there is a…”

The Dwarf stopped in his tracks.

“I said: be quiet!” He let out a roar. “Save your strength!”

Yrsa huffed, but decided not to grace this obnoxious brute with an answer. The obnoxious brute in question started walking again, climbing up the slope roughly towards the direction she had been going. All she could do was wait, clench her teeth, and try to get her mind off the pulsing pain in her leg.

He was a Dwarf, that was obvious. She hoped he wouldn’t turn out to be some kind of a bandit. No. He couldn’t be. She would already be dead by now. But who in their right mind would travel through the mountains in this weather? Except for her, of course.

Just then the Dwarf stumbled, but regained the balance quickly. When she asked whether he was well, he didn’t respond. As he marched ahead, he stumbled several times more. It seemed that his left leg was more prone to fail him and so he favoured the right one.

“We are here!” He finally stopped and placed her against a wall so she could support herself.

They were at the shepherds’ hut. The mysterious Dwarf helped her inside, and bolted the door behind them, shutting it in the face of the howling wind and snow outside. Good riddance. Ysa rested her back against a wall and sighed in relief, taking off her scarf and hood. She was shaking out the ice from her hair when she heard a shout and then something hard and heavy bumped into her.

“Yrsa!”

“Ummpf,” she responded eloquently, unable to breathe as a pair of arms wrapped around her in an iron grip, and her face was pressed against a coat.

“Thank Mahal, you are alive and well!” She heard the Dwarf speak, his voice strangely muffled.

“Th… Thorin?” Yrsa finally recognized him as his hand cupped the back of her head, pressing her into him.

“I thought I would never find you...”

“Is that really you?”

They spoke at the same time, and Yrsa suddenly noticed that her hand was pressed against his bearded cheek. She could feel the shards of ice under her palm. He definitely didn’t feel anything like a hallucination. Thorin was really there.

“It is me,” he murmured huskily.

“I thought you were… I thought the Orcs…” she started.

His azure gaze rested on her, making her heart flip, his hood was off, revealing his reddened cheeks, the noble line of his nose, and that sable mane of hair she remembered so well, and her knees weakened, and then she forgot about everything else and kissed him, ignoring the ice against her skin that covered his moustache. It didn’t matter. His touch was warm, oh so very warm, and his lips scorched her with passion as he claimed her mouth, and she responded with equal fervour, and there was that pleasant buzzing in her head, as if she was drunk on cider again.

“Yrsa… Yrsa...” her name left his lips between his intoxicating kisses, but she didn’t care, her whole body tingling with a mixture of disbelief and joy. Thorin was here now, alive, safe and sound, and she didn’t feel the cold nor the pain anymore, because she was in her blacksmith’s arms. No. In the king’s arms. She froze. And it had nothing to do with the blizzard outside.

“Yrsa, I need to know…” he muttered, their lips finally parting.

Her eyes traveled to the soft curve of his lower lip. The king’s lower lip. Words deserted her. What was she doing? Kissing the king, of all people?! Again? Was she out of her mind?! “Ursarusê… Where is she?” His words reached her, a soft murmur.

Oh.

“The babe is safe with my family,” She spoke carefully. By the way, how had it happened that she was now stuck between a certain Dwarf and the wall? Suddenly, Yrsa needed more breathing space.

“Thank Mahal the merciful!” Tho… the king, the King of Longbeards exclaimed.

“But what does it matter to you?” Yrsa frowned. Yrsa was sure she should have used some decorous kingly title at the end of that sentence, but she was too exhausted to come up with one. Oh, and by the way, her leg was starting to hurt even more.

“Yrsa…” he purred and gently pressed his forehead against hers. “How can you ask that? The babe is our gift from Mahal. I am going to take you to my halls and take care of you and the little one. I wish to…”

“What are you talking about?” She moved away.

“I am talking about Ursarusê, who else?”

“But it is I who found her in that forest, not you! What do you want with her?” Yrsa crossed her arms across her chest.

Now it was his turn to freeze. And pale slightly.

“Found… her?” Thorin uttered carefully. “So she is not…?”

His voice trailed off and then she finally understood both his puzzling concern from before, his insisting on making sure she would be safe together with the babe.

“Oh, by Mahal’s hammer,” she chuckled nervously, bringing her hand to her lips. “You didn’t really think that she was your child? And mine? What a silly idea!”

He responded with a grunt and stepped back, looking away. Without his support, she swayed, letting out a gasp of pain.

“Allow me,” the king said gruffly and made Yrsa lean against him. He quickly transported her to a bed near the well-lit hearth, making sure she sat down comfortably. She stole a glance at his face, his features schooled into an impenetrable mask. Stupid Yrsa. Stupid words, stupid nervous chuckling at the most inappropriate moment. Stupid leg. Stupid snow. Stupid blacksmiths that turn out to be kings. Stupid cider.

“Would you…” she cleared her throat and spoke in a tiny voice, studying the grey blanket on the bed. Suddenly, the woven pattern looked very interesting. “I… I think my ankle is swollen. I don’t think I can remove that boot on my own.”

He only nodded, crouching and helping her with the boot, never speaking a word to her. In different circumstances, with a Dwarf who was, for example, a blacksmith, only a blacksmith and not a king, she would probably turn the whole situation into a flirty joke, teasing him about bringing him to her feet, and they would both laugh, and everything would be fine again. Now however, shame burned her cheeks. An offended king on his knees (a king, for Mahal’s sake!), pulling a boot off the foot of some commoner, was not a funny story, not at all.

Yrsa had no other option but to focus on what she knew best and instructed the Dwarf (trying to forget that this was, in fact, a king) on how to take care of her sprained ankle. His movements were careful and efficient. The way he bandaged her told her that it wasn’t the first time he did a similar thing (even though he was a king and he probably had servants to do it for him!). When Thorin was done, he asked her about any other possible injuries and discomforts in a detached tone of voice, but she only shook her head.

“Get some rest now,” he rose, speaking to the wall above Yrsa and then turned to the hearth. With his broad back in the way, it took her some time to realize that he started preparing a meal. As her body warmed up, exhaustion caught up with her rather suddenly. The last thing she remembered was wrapping herself in her thick coat and resting her head on the pillow.

Thorin woke her up sometime later and presented her with a bowl of stew, a deep frown still etched on his face. As they ate, the silence painfully rang in Yrsa’s ears. It hurt more than her ankle.

“Ursarusê is a foundling. When I met you, I was on the way to Khaglâ-dûm. I wanted to find a good family for her there,” she tried, her words echoing against the walls of the cavern.

“But you did not,” the sounds he made resembled the grunts of a wild animal. A wounded animal. Stupid Yrsa. “Just as you did not go to the Longbeards’ Halls.”

“To… where?” That place was completely unfamiliar to her, and she thought she knew the Blue Mountains quite well.

“To the halls of my people.”

“Ah, you mean the place where your sister lives…? Thorinuldûm?”

The king flinched, “Not the most fortunate of names.”

“Then why did you name it this way?” Yrsa understood less and less. Wasn’t he supposed to be that vain, prideful king who established a city in his own name?

“I am afraid that I had no say in this matter,” Thorin shrugged uncomfortably, his voice rising slightly, like a murmur of thunder. “You, however… You never went to see my sister. I believed that… no matter. Do I understand correctly that you simply chose not to visit the place at all? Not to meet me again?”

He shook his head and focused on his stew.

Yrsa poked at a chunk of meat with her spoon.

“I waited for you at the gates of Khaglâ-dûm for as long as I could,” she put her bowl away, even though it was still half full. Her stomach was tied in a knot.

“We were delayed. The wagons needed to be repaired after the attack,” he spoke after a pause, his eyes on the food. “And there were wounded.”

“Your leg?” she recalled. “Was it…” “It is fine,” he interrupted her harshly.

Once again, that horrible silence filled the cavern, torturing her.

“I did not go to your sister, because…” Yrsa paused, gathering all her strength and trying to find the right words. “Because I had to think of Ursarusê. I wanted to reach home as soon as possible. I didn’t want to impose on your family. An unknown woman with a babe in her arms - that would mean two more mouths to feed. Besides, why would your sister, princess Dis, help someone like me? I’m a Firebeard, and only a simple herbalist.”

Thorin studied her for a long while. Yrsa shifted nervously under his gaze.

“She would help any person in need. My family knows hardships all too well,” he finally spoke.

Stupid, stupid, stupid Yrsa. Why has she forgotten all about the Sack of Erebor? He was a proud Dwarf, a descendant of Durin, and she had just hinted at his family being not only too poor to help her, but also too cold-hearted.

“I’m… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. Your majesty,” she finally recalled the correct title.

“Stop mocking me, Yrsa,” he gritted his teeth and stood up, empty bowl in his hand, his knuckles white.

“But… I’m not.” She was at a loss. It seemed that whatever she did on that day was wrong.

Thorin gave out a resigned sigh and approached her, stretching out his arm towards her.

Handing him her bowl, she stole a glance at his stone face, but his gaze was focused on the bowls in his hands.

“I do not understand you, Yrsa. First you… you choose me to spend a night with, and you seem to enjoy it, but afterwards, you disappear without a trace. Then we meet again, and you smile at me the same way as you did before, you promise to meet me, but you never do. Now you embrace me, teary-eyed, you kiss me, and then you push me away. What do you want from me, woman?”

Mahal, if he only knew. Shut up, Yrsa’s brain. There is nothing you should want from him. Thorin is a king. A king. Not a village blacksmith.

“Thorin, I’m… I’m sorry. You must think me a fool. You see, well, I didn’t want to put you in an awkward position,” her voice trembled slightly and she cursed herself. Stupid voice. “When I realized who you were, I didn’t want you to feel… obliged to anything.”

A sad chuckle rumbled in his chest, closer to a cough than a laughter.

“Is that why you left that wedding feast in such a hurry? Because you did not want anything from me so very badly?” Thorin spoke slowly and sat at the edge of the bed with a grunt, straightening his left leg.

Yrsa nodded, her ears burning. Why was he so bloody calm about it? Any other Dwarf would now shout, or growl, or stomp, or try to convince her to marry him because honor demanded it or something along these lines. But he just sat there with a frown, unmoving, like a piece of giant rock. And then he chuckled. How dare he? Giant rocks don’t chuckle!

“Is it so very funny?” she asked timidly. Her ears had to be on fire at that point.

“Oh, Yrsa. You are one of a kind. It seems that you always have to have it your way, doesn’t it?” he lowered his voice to a murmur. Low, velvety purr, like that dark wildflower honey she adored so much.

She gave out a helpless ‘hmph’ in response.

“If you do not wish to talk, at least allow me to speak the words I wished to say to you in Ash Creek,” he turned to face her, and there was a glint in his azure eyes, and it was so very not fair of him to have eyes like her favourite gems, sapphires.

“No!” She protested, backing away into the opposite corner of the bed. Oh sweet Mahal, it couldn’t be happening, not now! Couldn’t this Dwarf take a hint? This was not the time for THAT question, there was never a time for it! “No, there is no need to speak of anything! I do not need to hear it! Everything is fine! And besides… Besides, I'm tired!”

Yrsa gave out the most spectacular yawn in her life. She should have joined a theatre troupe with her skill.

Thorin rested his hand on the grey blanket that covered the bed. His fingers twitched.

“Very well, then. Let us sleep,” he rumbled. Yrsa didn’t understand why there was an amused spark in his eyes.

And then it dawned on her. There was only one bed in the cavern.

To be continued...

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