#i need him to hold me so tight he cracks my ribcage

[wildsaltair]

[crappymixtape]

hang on tight, baby • part two

NAVIGATION -> PART I •  PART II •  PART III favored to win in barrel racing for the upcoming rodeo, you’re out in the corral practicing when your obnoxious neighbor, tyler owens, swings by to say hi, but when the wind picks up you both won’t have a choice but to trust each other • 18+  | ( 3.1k – TW: natural disasters, tornado, injuries • witty banter as foreplay, fluff in their own way, enemies to idiots in love, tyler owens x reader )

H A N G O N T I G H T, B A B Y • P A R T T W O 🎶 parachute, chris stapleton

White noise buzzed in your ears, a scratchy static that closed in around you tight and suffocating and you couldn’t move. Stuck to the glittering red plastic bench seat and staring out the window at the thin twist of cloud pulling closer and closer to the ground until a hand pressed firm into yours.

“Sawyer, you with me? C’mon, we gotta move!”

Tyler’s eyes were wild, sea glass turned stormy with adrenaline, and the way his thumb flexed against your palm pulled you back to the present.

“Wha–oh–shit,” a string of curses fell from your lips and you pushed yourself from the booth.

“Dot! You got a basement?” Tyler called over the loud drone of the siren blaring outside, but the old woman was already ushering her patrons through the kitchen and out the back door.

“Honey, I’ve done this enough times I could do it with my eyes closed! You go kick those folks out there into gear,” she shoved the last of the diner guests out the door and waved a hand toward the lot where Tyler’s rig was parked.

You hadn’t quite made it all the way into downtown, just on the outskirts, but there had been plenty of people milling around before the warnings started. The post office across the street was filling up with panicked folks and Matty’s Mechanic just around the corner was sure to have people in it too.

“Alright, listen to me,” Tyler took hold of your shoulders and stooped down so that his gaze met yours, setting fire to the flicker in your chest. Steady, sure, safe. “I’m gonna go around to Matty’s, think you can check the post office?” he was nodding at you – you can do this – reassuring, but your heart was hammering against your ribcage so hard you were sure it was going to crack.

“Uh, ye–yeah–”

“Hey. You got this, okay? Okay?” he squeezed your shoulder. “We meet back here in two minutes tops. Right? And if I’m not here you get to Dot’s cellar.”

“What? Without yo–”

“I’m gonna be here, but I’m sayin’ so cos I know you like a good, organized plan,” he tried a small, half-hearted grin, but it fell at the edges and you thought for a minute, maybe he was just as scared as you were.

“Fine. Two minutes,” you breathed and when his hands left your shoulders the hammering in your chest gave way to an ache you’d been pushing back on since the first time you laid eyes on Tyler.

Come back.

“Two minutes. Now giddy-up,” and with that he was already out the door and down the street to Matty’s.

You watched him disappear around the corner just as the sky opened up. Split in two and heaved buckets of rain down onto the pavement, the wind picking up strong enough to start shredding the flag on the pole in the lot.

This wasn’t your first tornado and it sure as hell wouldn’t be your last, but it never failed to scare the shit out of you when the sirens wailed over the howl of the wind. Tyler was right though, there were people across the street that needed help, needed a shove back to reality and you could do it.

You could do it.

Shoving the door open against a gust of wind, it nearly pushed you back into the diner, but you shouldered into it and stumbled out into the parking lot. Rain drenched you within seconds, droplets the size of quarters, too warm and carrying with it the promise of destruction.

Boots splashing through the puddles, you sprinted across the street and into the post office only to find it was full of people – wall-to-wall and standing room only. Your heart stopped for a second, where in the hell were they all gonna go? And then you saw the post master.

“Hey! Hey!” you shouted at him over the cries of children and adults alike. “You got a basement or a cellar?”

He looked like a ghost, white as a sheet, like a deer in the headlights and you shoved through the crowd to get to him. Gripped his shirt in your hands and shook him.

“A cellar, basement, anything!”

“I don’t–s’my first day–what are we gonna do??” he shouted at you and you tossed your gaze out the bay of windows to the street. Diner, empty office space, abandoned gas station–

“There!” you pointed, the wind screaming outside now and pulling all kinds of debris and branches through town. “That gas station has a cellar, I’ve seen it. Get these people over there now! Hurry!”

You watched as your words cut through his panic, his expression steeling against the fear swelling in him and he hollered over the sound of the storm.

“Everyone! Hold hands! We’re gonna get across the street to that gas station over there, alright? Buddy system! Hold ‘em tight!”

A small smile flickered at the corners of your mouth — ‘atta boy — and one at a time people nodded, murmured okay, we got this, let’s go.

Leveraging the door open with every bit of strength you could muster, you held it against the gales as they ripped through the street, making sure every single person made it out. The post master did his duty too, running the line of people and shepherding them along before kicking open the old cellar doors at the gas station and giving you a thumbs up.

Safe.

Now it was your turn, and you were definitely sure it’d been more than two minutes. Your eyes flicked up to Dot’s and saw Tyler running back to the lot through the wind and rain, hiding his face in the crook of his elbow.

“Tyler!” you shouted against the storm, but it was loud now, the sky inky black as that tiny twist of cloud turned giant finally connected with the dirt and began swallowing everything in its path. Growing bigger and bigger by the second.

You knew you were out of time.

❝ I KNOW EVERY SINGLE FENCE POST, EVERY ROCK TO GO AROUND. I’VE BEEN STARIN’ AT THE RED OAK, WHERE I KNOW THEY’LL LAY ME DOWN. ❞

“Sawyer! Sawyer!” Tyler felt like he was gonna be sick. It’d been more than two minutes and you were no where to be found, but you had to get back to Dot’s, otherwise you’d–

“Tyler!”

His head whipped to the side at the sound of your voice carried somehow by the wind and when he caught sight of you holding open the door to the post office he heaved a sigh of relief. Thank, God.

“C’mon! Get outta there, we gotta go!” he shouted, waving an arm at the diner, but when you moved to come back out into the storm a heavy gust whipped down the street and slammed the door shut, throwing you back inside with it. “Sawyer!”

Tyler didn’t hesitate, not even one second as he tore across the parking lot to you despite the danger he was putting himself in – staring death down for you. It took every ounce of strength he had to pull the post office door open against the wind, but he got it cracked just enough to slip inside, breaths falling heavy from his lips.

And then he saw you. Sprawled out on the floor with your head propped against the wall of P.O. boxes and chin lolled down to your chest. The sight gripped him tight like a vice spinning shut, crushing his chest and squeezing his heart so hard he felt like he couldn’t breathe.

“Oh, God–shit–no, no, no–”

Clambering down onto the tiled floor he ghosted a hand over your forehead, wanted to sweep the hair from your eyes, but didn’t. Not now. Right now he needed to make sure you were okay. Checked for signs of blood or broken bones and when he didn’t find any, felt a heavy weight lift from his shoulders. He pressed his head to your chest for a heartbeat – thud, thud, thud – and that was all he needed. Scooping you up, an arm around your back and the other tucked under the crook of your knees, he lifted you from the ground.

“You with me, sweet stuff?” he asked and when you groaned he let out a shaky laugh. “Damn, Sawyer, you sure know how to scare a fella,” he teased weakly, gaze flicking up to see the tornado ripping through the buildings just two streets over. “Hang on, I’m gonna get us outta here,” he promised.

The wind outside the building was howling so loud he could barely hear himself think. The windows flexed, creaking and whining at the pressure building on the other side, and Tyler’s mind started to race.

Where the hell were you gonna go?

Dot’s was out of the question, too far now, and he’d seen all those people go to the gas station, it’d be full, but then a memory struck him like lightning.

He couldn’t have been more than seven, at this very post office with his granny to mail a package to his uncle Jasper when the sirens started wailing. The old post master had ushered them around the back of the counter and if you hadn’t known where to look you would’ve missed it – the thin outline of a square in the floor with a tiny handle and latch, a bunker.

Now this was years ago, and there wasn’t any guarantee it was still there, but he was willing to take his chances. Bumping the low swing door at the counter with his hip, Tyler pushed you both back to the post master’s desk, eyes frantically mapping the floor.

“C’mon, c’mon,” he muttered, the roof overhead beginning to rattle and shake. It was bound to be overhead any second and then he spotted it, dirt caught in the grooves and faint, but it was there.

“Sorry,” he apologized, trying to set you down as gently as he could in a hurry, and yanked at the handle.

A high pitched whistle filled the room, the air getting sucked out of every nook and cranny, and an explosion sounded outside – propane tanks or Matty’s garage – and Tyler flinched.

“C’mon, you son of a bitch!” he yelled at the door and gave it one last yank until it flew open in a cloud of dust. It wasn’t very big, but more than enough room for the both of you, and he let the breath he was holding go just as a piece of the roof ripped off and spun up into the angry swirl above him.

No time.

Grabbing hold of you, he tossed you over his shoulder and practically fell down the ladder into the bunker just as the rest of the roof gave way, debris tumbling down into the hole after you.

“Shit–hang on!” he called out to you, shielding your body with his, and the feeling of his chest pressed to your back pulled you out of your daze.

Eyes fluttering open you blinked against the dark, the small space illuminated in a flash every time lightning split the sky in two, and you sucked in a gasp. Where were you? Your hands scrambled for purchase and found the piping running along the wall Tyler had huddled you both against.

“Tyler!” you cried and he freed a hand from the old rusty pipes to grab hold of your waist, his palm wide and warm through the thin fabric of your shirt.

“Hang on, just hang on!” he yelled.

The howl of the wind was deafening now, an unyielding roar overhead ripping and tearing and shredding everything in its path. Distant booms and crashes telling you this was bigger than any EF-1 or 2. Tears welled up at your lash line, head pounding where you’d hit the mailboxes upstairs, and you squeezed your eyes shut against it all, pressing your hand into Tyler’s.

Please, please, please, you prayed silently to whatever god might be listening, Tyler’s chest heaving against yours, his heart hammering heavy in his chest until finally the roar began to dull. Slowed and stretched to a low growl, breathed its last breath and then plunged everything into silence.

❝ SUN COMES UP AND GOES BACK DOWN, AND FALLING FEELS LIKE FLYIN’ ‘TIL YOU HIT THE GROUND. SAY THE WORD AND I’LL BE THERE FOR YOU – BABY, I WILL BE YOUR PARACHUTE. ❞

You opened your eyes to slivers of bright light chasing across the dirt floor of the bunker, the sounds of sirens and emergency vehicles dipping down through the tattered door overhead, Tyler’s hand wide and warm still pressed to your waist.

A shaky breath fell from your mouth.

Alive.

“You okay?” Tyler asked, panted breaths fanning over your hair and it sounded small, vulnerable – no hot air or bravado. A side of Tyler you didn’t know. A glimpse of the fact that he was human just like you. That he felt fear just like you. That there was more to him than you’d wanted to accept and a tiny pang of guilt pinched in your chest.

“I think so,” your voice wobbled as you swallowed down the bile that had crept up your throat upon the sick realization that: had that bunker not been there, you wouldn’t be here and neither would Tyler.

Slowly straightening up, Tyler stooped just a little in the cramped space and kept his hand on your waist, his other reaching to take hold of yours.

“Slow, slow,” he eased, pulling you to your feet, coaxing you up from the dirt, quiet encouragement and then…your name.

Your actual God-given name.

Not Sawyer, not sweet stuff, not honey and it wrapped you up in a soft haze. Sounded like heaven and earth and the moon hung lazy among the stars in the sky and when you lifted your gaze to meet his, your breath caught in your throat.

Green eyes, sea glass, the long sweep of his lashes brushing the tops of his cheeks, brows knitted together with worry and something else, something warmer, and you wished you could figure it out. Wished you could swim in that soft sea green searching for what it was. Closer, closer, closer–

“Tulsa fire department!”

A voice rang out above you and you both startled.

“Oh–hey! Down here!” Tyler called up and a shadowed face appeared at the bunker entry.

“I’ve got two!” the man shouted over his shoulder before turning back to you, “Are you alright? Any injuries?”

Thinking felt like wading through molasses and you couldn’t put words to the man’s question. A beam of light flicked on, flooding the bunker and when Tyler stole a glance at you out of the corner of his eye he watched as your pupils stayed dilated.

“Damn,” he started, quiet, worried. “Yeah—er–yes. Possible concussion,” he told the EMT and the man nodded.

“Let’s get her up to the rig for an assessment,” and then he backed up to give you room to crawl out.

“Okay, you,” Tyler murmured, trying for his teasing tone and working overtime to quell the worried whispers in his head, “Up we go.”

Taking both of your hands he helped you gain footing on the ladder, nudging your boots onto the rungs with his own and curling your fingers around each hand hold.

“I’m right behind you,” he reassured as you started to shake, shock digging its hooks into you, “Easy, slow and steady.”

You took it one step at a time like he said, slow and steady, your frame trembling as you went. Tyler kept a hand on the small of your back the whole way, silent encouragement, up, up, up until the EMT grabbed hold of you and pulled you out.

Wincing at the sharp light from the sun, you buried your face into the crook of your elbow and let the man guide you toward the ambulance.

“Possible concussion here, pupils unresponsive to light, but no visible external wounds. Her partner here says he’s fine.”

The voices of the paramedics blurred together as you let them guide you to sit at the edge of the ambulance – the press of a stethoscope to your chest, your back, fingers feeling at your wrist for your pulse, a bright light blinding you for a fraction of a second and leaving behind little neon dots in your vision.

“Alright, seems minor, but she needs to be monitored for 48 hours,” the EMT said and you didn’t realize who he was talking to until you blinked away the pinpoints of light and Tyler swam into focus, “Are you her husband?”

That same flush from earlier bloomed across Tyler’s chest and up, up, up to his cheeks and all the way to his ears.

“Oh, n–no, I’m just–”

“He’s a friend,” you finished for him, rescued him from any further embarrassment and felt a small smile tug at the corners of your lips.

“Do you live alone?” the EMT asked you and the smile faded.

“Yes,” your turn to blush.

“Well, I’m right next door,” Tyler cut in, “I can check on her.”

The man flicked his eyes from you, to Tyler, and then back to you – unimpressed with whatever this was.

“Sure. Well, friend, she can’t be left alone at all for that duration. No sleep for the next 6-8 hours and if she throws up she needs to be seen again. After that she should be in the clear,” he jotted something down on a pad of paper, the two of you staring holes into the ground, like you were sitting in the principle's office or something. “48 hours, right? Right. Take care now,” the EMT leveled you both with a look then took off around the rig to help with the next injury.

Clearing his throat, Tyler rubbed at the back of his neck and closed the gap between you, the toes of his boots almost brushing with yours.

“My truck’s still here,” he thumbed over his shoulder at Dot’s, which was still standing in one piece and his big, red, pickup sitting in the lot. “Thought we were gonna have to walk,” a weak laugh pushed itself from his lungs, but his heart wasn’t in it. Crouching down, Tyler dropped to your eye-level and put a hand over the toe of your boot, “Let’s get you home.”

Taking your hand in his he supported your balance, his other arm wrapped around your waist to keep you steady. Walked you to the truck and eased you onto the bench. Gently buckled you in and drove carefully around all the debris and wreckage back down the road and in that moment he became more than just your obnoxious neighbor. Became more than a face on a t-shirt. More than his stupid catchphrase.

He was Tyler Owens and he just saved your life.

[ NOTE -> THIS IS PART 2 OF A 3 PART SERIES – STAY TUNED FOR THE LAST INSTALLMENT! ]

crappymixtape™ • tyler owens / twisters masterlist to come!  ♥️ reblogs and comments keep me going, friends! ily! ♥️

[luxaofhesperides]

"I see you, and I love you" + hurt/comfort ; requested by @oops-i-dropped-the-galaxy!

Danny can handle being a halfa. He’s had years to get used to it, switching between dead and alive, living boy and ghost, always living in flux. He’s settled into his identity as one of the few halfas in existence, navigating the living world and the Infinite Realms with ease after years of practice.

What he can’t handle is becoming an Ancient.

Apparently, while most Ancients are born into the role, ruling over their domain, some can grow into it. It’s rare, practically unheard of, but not impossible.

Danny is growing into the Ancient of Stars, changed from the inside out by his love of space. 

He would be happy if it didn’t hurt so much.

Danny can’t sleep at night anymore. When the stars are out, he can hear them singing, each windchime voice echoing through his ears. Though he can’t see them from beneath Gotham’s cloud cover, he can feel them shining brightly far above him. 

He lays in bed with Duke, curled up in his side, trying to muffle his whimpers as his bones creak and hollow, his soul growing too large for his body to handle. He is space contained in a human body. It wants to be free, to stretch from its suffocating confines and fill every dark space with cold light. His skin feels too tight and his teeth ache. 

All Danny can do is clench his jaw, wrap his arms around his stomach as tightly as he can, and try to weather through the pain of changing.

The agony of it comes in waves. He doesn’t know how long it takes until it recedes enough for him to feel like he can breathe again, trying to suck air in as his lungs are crushed by his ribcage. Slowly, Danny pushes himself up, taking care not to wake Duke, and stumbles out of bed. His throat is dry and feels as if its been scraped raw by sandpaper, and all he wants is water.

He gets halfway down the hall when the next wave hits.

Danny collapses, gasping for breath, and can only watch through tear-filled eyes as his fingers go dark, the same black as deep space. His body shifts, bones cracking and muscles stretching like taffy, and suddenly he’s big larger than life a galaxy a black hole there is darkness everywhere it is alive it is full of stars the stars are singing the stars are singing the stars are si

“Danny? Hey, sweetheart, are you okay?”

That’s Duke’s voice. He’d recognize it anywhere, even from miles away, even when he’s sure he doesn’t have ears anymore. It takes all his effort to pull himself back to Earth, back into their apartment, blinking up at Duke as the stars in his eyes fade away. 

Duke kneels before him, concern clear on his face, gentle hands reaching out to hold Danny steady. The feel of his warmth grounds him, keeps him more securely in his body. The pull of space is still there, tugging at him, trying to pull him out of humanity and into the form of an Ancient, but Danny can resist it so long as Duke keeps him tethered to the ground.

“It hurts,” he croaks, shivering.

“Shh, I know, baby. How can I help? What do you need?”

Danny leans forward, burying his face in Duke’s chest as tears slip out of his eyes. “It hurts,” he says again, voice shaking. “I keep changing and growing and my entire body is being torn apart and—” he gasps, cutting himself off. “I keep disappearing. I don’t want to disappear. I want to stay here but it takes me away and then I’m too big and no one can see me and I’m alone—”

“You’re not alone, Danny,” Duke says, holding him tightly as if his arms will be enough to keep Danny from breaking out of his own body, ridding himself of a mortal vessel, his only remaining tie to this world. “I see you, and I love you. Even if you have to change and go far away to be happy, I’ll find a way to follow you there, okay? I’m with you for as long as you want me.”

“I don’t want to hurt so much,” Danny whimpers, black fingers speckled with stardust clawing at Duke’s arms. 

“Just breathe through it, sweetheart, you can do it. Let it pass through you. I got you, okay? Just let the pain pass and you’ll be fine.”

He wants to snap at Duke that it’s not fine, that the pain will be forever, it’ll linger in every one of his joints, that he can’t just stop fighting it because it’ll hurt even worse then. But his jaws are aching, his teeth sharpening, and there’s a black hole in his throat that he refuses to let loose. He lets out another pained whine, shivering, and in his chest a star is formed, burning bright and angry.

“Breathe, Danny, breathe,” Duke soothes, rubbing a hand up and down Danny’s back.

It’s habit to relax into his touch. They’ve spent so many nights working through night terrors and injuries, comforting each other through gentle touches. The pain eases a bit, and Danny sighs, frost on his breath. 

“There we go, sweetheart, that’s it. You’re doing just fine.”

Another tear slips down his face, but the ache in his entire body as his growing ghost form tries to escape begins to fade. 

He’s spent so many nights in pain, waiting for the sun to rise to muffle the singing of the stars. If he can get any relief, he’ll take it, even if it means losing his human form.

Danny stops fighting. His resistance to this change falls away. There’s a moment where the pain disappears entirely, the world going still, but before he can let out a relieved sigh, the change hits him like an asteroid, sudden and instant and inevitable.

A cry is ripped from his throat, but it doesn’t sound like him. It echoes, deep and inhuman, and suddenly Danny is every dark space surrounding the stars, the arms of every galaxy, suns burning bright and dying, supernova, cold and ice and the slow drifting of planets in orbit. His body grows, expands, no longer a ghost but an Ancient, body curling into itself to stay within the walls of the too small apartment, large hands cupped around Duke to keep him safe. 

He can feel the cold of space. Orbits dance in his mind. Meteorites and asteroids drift without pattern across his chest. Danny can see everything with too many eyes, and he can cup planets in his palms, so much larger than possibility. His chest opens and expands and his body can curl around Earth and keep it safe. 

He feels settled in this new body, senses stretched in every direction and the universe is so much lovelier than he could have ever experienced it in a halfa’s body. 

Danny, Ancient of the Stars, hums and the universe shivers, singing back to him.

The pain is gone completely. He wonders why he resisted so hard; this is what he’s meant to be. He’s never felt so right before.

“Danny?”

Duke’s voice is small, but only because he is small when compared to Danny in his Ancient form. 

Duke, he tries to say but his vocal chords have changed. Instead of words, a deep hum erupts from his throat, similar to the purr of a particularly large cat. 

“Hey, sweetheart. Feeling better?”

Danny nods, pulling himself back together to feel his body more keenly, no longer stretched across the universe, cradling every star in his reach. Duke reaches a hand up and Danny reaches back, folding himself back into his body. His human eyes return and he realizes the apartment is completely covered in darkness with stars sparkling all around them. It recedes as he fits himself back into his body, the black on his fingers fading away until his hand is indistinguishable from a normal human’s. 

He takes hold of Duke’s hand and tries to stand. His legs are weak and unsteady and he falls onto Duke, who catches him with ease and sweeps him up into a princess carry. 

“There you are, honey,” Duke says, voice warm and relieved. “You alright?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I feel a lot better.”

“Good. Do you need anything? Hot chocolate, heating pad, sleep?”

Danny thinks for a moment, then says, “Hot chocolate.”

“You got it. Let me just set you on the couch and I’ll have it out in a minute.”

He carefully sets Danny onto the couch, then tucks the blanket they keep folded over the back around him. Once he’s satisfied Danny is comfortable, Duke heads to the kitchen, flicking on the light as he does. 

Danny sinks into the couch cushions, carefully moving all his fingers and toes to make sure they’re fine. He’s a little sore, as if all his bones where put through the ringer, but it doesn’t feel any different from when he has a particularly rough training day. 

What’s more important that his physical body is the fact that he can feel his core, settled deep in his chest. It’s no longer the cold of ice, but it burns coldness, a white star embodying his soul, a changed core to reflect his transformation into an Ancient. 

A baby Ancient, technically. He still has some growing to do, but the rest should be easier and, hopefully, less painful.

He closes his eyes and begins to drift off when he hears Duke return. It takes some effort to open his eyes, and his smiles softly and sleepily when he sees Duke set down two steaming mugs of hot chocolate on the coffee table.

“Love you,” he mumbles, freeing a hand from the blanket to try to pull Duke down to join him.

Duke goes to him easily, sitting next to him and pulling Danny in to cuddle against him. It’s been so long since he last felt so comfortable at night, not writhing in pain and biting through his lip to keep quiet, that he can’t help but sink into it. A purr starts up in his chest, and Duke startles.

“Sweetheart, are you purring?”

Danny flushes and tries to hide his face. The purr doesn’t stop. He’s always been able to purr after becoming a halfa, though purr is just an easier way to describe it. It’s less of his vocal chords vibrating and more of his core rumbling in contentment. Usually, it’s unnoticeable, barely able to be felt let alone heard. Apparently, becoming an Ancient and therefore a much stronger ghost means his purrs are also stronger and louder.

“You’re so cute,” Duke says, pressing a kiss against Danny’s forehead. “Drink your hot chocolate, and then we can go back to sleep.”

He makes grabby hands at his mug, and Duke laughs and picks it up for him.

“Love you,” Danny repeats, voice less muffled.

“Love you, too,” Duke says. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

“I’m glad you were there to help me. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“It’s a good thing you’ll never have to find out. I’ve got you, sweetheart, always.”

Believing him is the easiest thing Danny has ever done. If Duke says he’ll be there for, then he will. 

Always, always, always.

. . .

[send me ghostlights prompts!]

[duckymcdoorknob]

𝓣𝓲𝓬𝓴𝓵𝓮𝓽𝓸𝓫𝓮𝓻 𝓭𝓪𝔂 15: 𝓣𝓲𝓬𝓴𝓵𝓮 𝓕𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽

Closest gif I could get of the two together 😭😭

Happy tkember and almost tkcember, chat!

I am loving one piece so far and I’m gonna make it everyone’s problem.

I’m listening to Ado rn :)

I had to throw in a little bit of ler Zoro bc have you seen him.

—This do have tickles below the cut ngl—

Tags: @chrimsss @trrickytickle @trans-ace-lee @giggly-squiggily @switch-writer

“I’m boooooooooored!” Luffy whined, hanging upside down on the bow of the ship. “Someone come play a game with me.”

“Busy,” the long-nosed pirate murmured, tinkering with some kind of device.

“But Usoooooooopp!” The captain moaned in agony.

How was he supposed to survive in these conditions? God gives his toughest battles to his silliest soldiers…

A glint of joy sparkled in his eye in a moment’s notice. “Hey! Wanna have a tickle fight?!”

The gunner visibly tensed, clamping his arms down to his sides. “No way! I’m- I’m working on something!”

“But you’re so fun to play games with! And I have to know if you’re ticklish!!”

Growing more flustered and frustrated, Usopp barked out an absentminded response. “Come over and make me then!”

“Hehe, okay,” Luffy replied with a Cheshire grin. He stretched his arm out to grab the pole next to his crewmate, letting his body cling to said position.

A small squeak left the gunner as his eyes widened. “Uh… h-hi.”

“Hi!” The stretchy boy cooed, “betcha’ forgot I could do that, huh?”

Usopp did not like the menacing look that was glinting in his captain’s eyes. He shifted apprehensively as he slowly tried to step back. He looked for an exit, eyes darting drastically around the ship. He locked onto Sanji serving some kind of snack to Zoro and Nami, opting to break into a full sprint toward the three.

“SAVE MEEEE! SAAAAAVE MEEEE!!!!!”

Six concerned eyes snapped to the frantic Usopp, who was running from a sadistically smiling Luffy. The three relaxed, realizing that Usopp wasn’t actually in any real danger.

“Well, what did you do to piss him off?” Zoro asked as the curly-haired male jumped onto him. “H-Hey! What are you-“ Instinctively, his arms closed securely around his shipmate.

“Zoroooo, he’s gonna kill me!” Usopp cried, drastically hugging the burly man holding him.

“NUH UH!” The captain called after them, making his way over, “I told you, I just wanted to have a tickle fight!”

“And I said I was- HYEAH!”

The long-nosed pirate was cut off by sudden, repeated pinches to his hips, jumping a bit in the swordsman’s tight hold. “H-Hey- EEP! S-Stahap Zoro!”

“What? I’m not doin’ nothin’… Jeez…”

“B-Buhut you a-ahare!”

“Hey! No fair! I was supposed to tickle him!!” Luffy whined, pouting with his arms crossed.

“Oh yeah? Well-“ Zoro hooked his arms under the gunner’s biceps, causing the latter to kick his feet in defense. “Go for it, Captain.”

That glint of joy and menace found its way back, with Luffy settling in front of his shipmates and reaching up to wiggle his fingers at their gunner.

“Waitwaitwaitwait! Can’t we talk about this?!?! I’m sure we can make some kind of ar-ahahahangemehehent! Nohohoho!”

The captain giggled along with Usopp as he spidered his fingers along the long-nosed pirate’s sides.

“Luhuhuffyhyhy! Zohohohoro! Stahahap!”

“Stop? Already? But this is supposed to be a tickle fight!” Luffy cooed, squishing the soft torso of their gunner.

“Yohohou’rehehe uhuhunfahahair! Luhuhuhuffyhyhy!”

“Unfair?! You can get me back anytime you want; I’ll even tell you that I’m most ticklish on my ribs! Hey… speaking of which…”

Usopp’s eyes shot open as he felt Luffy’s fingers worm up onto his ribcage. He kicked his feet drastically, accidentally slamming his ankle down on his captain’s shoulder. “LUHUHUFFYHYHY! HYEAHAHAHAHA!”

“Yeowch… No need to get so violent with him, Usopp.” Zoro quipped, clamping his own arms to his sides and trapping the latter’s there. He spidered his fingers under both of the gunner’s arms, cracking an evil smile.

“NGHAHAHAHA! GUHUHUHUYS!” The curly-haired pirate squealed as he threw his head back onto Zoro’s shoulder.

“This tickle fight seems pretty one-sided to me,” Nami quipped, casually chewing on a piece of cheese.

“Just glad it isn’t me,” Sanji retorted quickly, shifting a bit.

The two locked eyes… oh shit.

“MEHEHEHRCYHYHY!! I CAHAHAHANT TAHAHAKE IHIHIHIT! TOO MUHUHUHUCH!!” Usopp cried, head unmoving from Zoro’s shoulder.

Zoro ceased his attack, freeing the long-nosed pirate’s arms.

“LUHUHUHUFFYHYHY PLEHEHEHEASE! M’GOHOHONNA DIHIHIHIE!”

“Hey, enough kid.” Zoro scooped up the winded Usopp, whisking him away to safety.

“Oh man! I didn’t know that you were so ticklish, Usopp! That was fun!”

“F-for YOU! I thought I was gonna die you motherf-“

Sanji whizzed past the three of them, Nami hot on their heels. “NAMI NO- WE CAN TALK ABOUT THIS!”

“You’d think with such long legs that you’d be able to outrun me, Sanji!” The orange-haired girl chimed as she tackled the chef, her fingers finding refuge squeezing at the blonde’s thighs.

“Heh, get his ass Nami!” Zoro called, still absentmindedly cradling Usopp in a safe embrace.

—————♡︎✞♡︎✞♡︎✞♡︎✞♡︎✞♡︎✞♡︎✞♡︎✞♡︎✞♡︎—————

[whump-tr0pes]

To Die Without Flinching

Many thanks to @newbornwhumperfly for being so generous in letting me put their boy Morja in Situations, and many apologies to them as well for holding onto this story for so many months while waiting for me to finish it.

My masterlist

Morja is a diathésimos, one of a class of indentured servants owned by society’s elite - though some would call them slaves. He has been tasked with a mission of critical importance by his anóteros: to infiltrate a dangerous family that has taken refuge in the north, and kill the criminal that they are harboring: Gavin Stormbeck.

“It is your part to kill me, mine to die without flinching.”

— Epictetus, from Discourses (Translated by Robert Dobbin)

Your Part to Kill | My Part to Die | To Die Quietly | Despair | Dawn | Breakfast Part 1 | Breakfast Part 2 | To Die Without Flinching

Contents: recovery, PTSD, conditioned whumpee, tied up, blindfolded, attempted murder, false execution, rescue

~

After weeks with this family, Morja now moved freely among them. When they left the house in the morning to do their chores, he left with them, eager to help. When they returned in the evening to cook dinner together, he joined them, learning the skill of which spices to mix together to create the flavors that pleased them all. When he returned to his room at night, he went without a lock on the door. He slept in the bed, now. He didn’t fear what might happen to him in it. 

This team, this family, they were kind to him in a way he had never experienced before. He knew they were dangerous, but he wanted - so, so badly - for them to trust him, so that they might always turn their kind eyes on him forever. Their patience for each other seemed to know no limits, and they always seemed to want to be together. They never raised their voices or their hands to each other, or to him. Even when he could tell they were angry, they never did what he knew in his bones should happen; they never tied his wrists and whipped him until their tempers were eased. That always made his anóteros feel better. And yet, they refused to do it to him. 

He didn’t understand it. 

Still, when Isaac Moore called him to the barn one day, he couldn’t help but feel a prickle of unease. A few weeks of strangeness could not undo a lifetime of lessons, after all. But when Isaac called him, he went. He obeyed.

“Yes, Isaac Moore, is there something you need?” he said, keeping his gaze on the floor of the barn. Even if Isaac was a diathésimos like him, he was still uncollared and freed. Morja must always show him deference and respect. 

“Yes,” Isaac Moore said, his voice flat. A shiver moved up Morja’s spine as Isaac moved to block the barn door. His eyes were dull, his hands in fists at his sides. 

The hair on the back of Morja’s neck stood up. “Please… tell me what it is I can do for you,” he said, though lips that were beginning to go numb. His lungs were too large for his ribcage.

Isaac Moore finally raised his gaze and met Morja’s. Isaac’s eyes burned into Morja’s as he said, “Put your hands behind your back and get on your knees.” His right hand was behind his back, reaching for his waistband.

Morja did not even consider disobeying. His fell to his knees with a crack, crossing his arms at the wrists behind him. “Y-yes, diathésimos,” he croaked. 

Isaac’s face hardened as he stepped forward. Morja sucked in a breath and forced himself perfectly upright. His hands quaked behind him, despite the fists he was making. When Isaac Moore stepped behind him and bound his wrists together, he let out a terrified breath. When a rough strip of cloth was tied over his eyes, he uttered a shameful sound of fear. 

His throat was too dry to swallow with. His chest was too tight to breathe with. His mouth hung open and he tilted his head, desperately listening for Isaac Moore’s next move. When the cold metal of Isaac’s gun pressed against the back of his head, he folded over his knees with a shudder.

“Don’t move,” Isaac ground out.

“Y-yes, diathésimos,” Morja sobbed dryly. He understood, now, he saw it all. It had all been a test somehow, and he had failed. This was the cleanest end he could hope for: a bullet in his brain, a shallow grave behind the farmhouse that had been his unwitting prison for all these weeks. Had the test simply been to see if he could figure out that he had been a captive at all?

Had his anóteros set this all up to punish him for his failure?

One thing was certain: he was going to die with his anóteros’ collar wrapped tight around his neck.

He pressed his lips together and waited for the white-hot blast, and then the oblivion after. It didn’t come. It didn’t come. Despite Isaac’s admonition, he rocked minutely forward and back, drawing in breaths too shallow to provide enough air. He tried to wait silently. Pitiful whimpers made their way past his lips anyway. 

He was failing.

“I-I need to do this,” Isaac Moore murmured.

Morja nodded frantically, at a loss for what else to do. The gun pressed harder into the back of his head, and he froze.

“You’re a fucking threat to my family. A threat to Gavin.”

Morja couldn’t deny it. He couldn’t deny that he had harbored some small hope that he might one day carry out his mission and make his anóteros proud - but he wanted something else, too, something he couldn’t name. The clash made him sick. 

“You can’t change. You can’t fucking learn, I’ve been watching for the switch to flip and it hasn’t. I need to put you down. I… I see you watching him… and I know that everything he taught you is still in there, because… because for the longest time, it was like that with me…”

Morja couldn’t deny that, either.. He squeezed his eyes shut behind the blindfold and waited to die. 

“I… I have to fucking do this.” The gun pressed harder, then harder still, until it was pinning Morja’s head against the wooden floor between his knees. He felt Isaac adjusting his grip. He heard Isaac shuffle his feet against the floorboards. He drew in a terrified breath, could barely let it out without a groan escaping him. He was trapped, unable to move, unable to speak. He heard Isaac Moore sniff. He was crying. 

“Isaac?”

Morja flinched hard when Gavin Stormbeck’s horrified voice filled the barn.

The gun eased its pressure on the back of Morja’s head. 

“Gavin.” Isaac sounded frightened. 

“What… oh, fuck, did you…? Isaac, what–”

Morja couldn’t help it; when Gavin Stormbeck fell to his knees beside him, when a hand settled in his hair, right next to the gun, he let out a muffled wail of terror.

“Tell me you’re not doing this,” Gavin breathed. His hand was shaking on Morja’s head. “Tell me you didn’t… lure him here so that you could execute him in cold blood.”

“He came here to execute you in cold blood, Gavin,” Isaac snarled. Morja’s body tensed as the gun jammed hard into him. “Don’t–”

“This isn’t you,” Gavin said. “Isaac… this isn’t you. Please tell me this isn’t who you are.”

No one moved or breathed for a long moment. Then Isaac said, “You know this is who I’ve been for a long time.”

Gavin’s hand tightened in Morja’s hair. “Not anymore.”

“But he–”

“He stopped! Like you! How can you look at him and not see you?” Gently, Gavin’s fingers smoothed through Morja’s hair. Horrified, desperate, Morja found himself pressing the side of his head against Gavin’s knee. 

The gun on his head pressed harder, harder, hard enough that Morja knew it would leave a deep bruise. Then, all at once, it disappeared. Isaac Moore stepped back. Heavy footsteps left the barn. 

Morja took a deep, shuddering breath and shook apart into dry, tearless sobs. His head rested on Gavin’s leg, and the syndicate son’s hands rested gently in his hair. 

“Shhh,” Gavin Stormbeck soothed. “It’s alright. You’re safe.”

Morja could no longer pretend. He could no longer be silent. He was so frightened, and confused, but most of all he was so, so tired. He didn’t much care if the syndicate son had a knife waiting for him. All he could feel was the gentleness of the boy’s hands in his hair, the solidity of his leg, and the beat beat beat of his heart that threw itself against his ribs. Gavin slipped the blindfold from his eyes and tossed the cloth into the corner of the barn. Slowly - he used his fingers, not a knife - he worked the knot tying Morja’s hands free.

“You’re safe,” Gavin said again. 

Morja’s fingers clutched at Gavin’s pant leg. “Y-yes, anóteros,” he stammered, desperate to be good, to obey - anything to keep Isaac’s gun from pressing against his head again. “Yes, Gavin Stormbeck–”

“Please don’t call me that,” Gavin whispered. 

Morja’s stomach heaved. His eyes went wide and he buried his face against Gavin’s leg. He shuddered in the moment between inhale and exhale - in the moment between mistake and correction. 

“I… I apologize,” Morja rasped through numb lips. He pushed away from Gavin and pressed his forehead to the floor in front of him, shaking, broken, cold. “Please,” he could not stop himself from saying. “Please.”

Gavin’s hand landed on him again. Morja made a horrible, humiliating bleat of fear, but he did not move. He did not move. He waited. 

“My name is Gavin Uriah,” came the quiet voice. It sounded like Gavin was in pain. 

Morja’s throat worked around a swallow. “I-I…”

“I’m not what they made me. And neither are you.”

Then Gavin’s hand was in his hair again, moving slowly, gently. The touch was so soft that it undid him. Morja crumpled, leaning forward into the touch until his head was in Gavin Uriah’s lap. Dry sobs heaved through him as the fear and pain moved over him and out. He pressed his face into Gavin’s thigh and allowed the touch, allowed the hand in his hair. 

“I’m sorry,” Gavin said quietly. “I’m so sorry.” 

Morja could say nothing in response. His throat was too strained. 

Gavin sat with him in the barn for a long time. He held Morja, waiting until his great, awful sobs had stopped, before he took his arm and led him back toward the house. 

Continued here

@womping-grounds , @free-2bmee , @quirkykayleetam , @walkingchemicalfire , @inpainandsuffering , @redwingedwhump , @burtlederp , @castielamigos-whump-side-blog , @whatwhumpcomments , @whumpywhumper , @stxck-fxck , @whumps-the-word , @justplainwhump ,  @finder-of-rings , @inky-whump , @thatsthewhump , @orchidscript , @this-mightaswell-happen , @newandfiguringitout , @whumpkitty , @pretty-face-breaker , @cinnamonflavoredhugs , @pebbledriscoll , @im-just-here-for-the-whump , @endless-whump , @grizzlie70 , @oops-its-whump , @kixngiggles, @1phoenixfeather , @butwhatifyouwrite , @carnagecardinal ​, @annablogsposts , @suspicious-whumping-egg , @starfields08000 , @morning-star-whump

[flowerpotmage]

Tight Grip, Broken Dam (17)

<< Previous Chapter | Masterlist | Next Chapter >>

You don’t question it anymore, when Miguel appears in your bed at night. He’s not there for sex, no, you’ve never even kissed—though you would be lying if you said you weren’t open to the idea of kissing him. He’s there for comfort. For rest. If only it could stay so simple.

Pair: Miguel O'Hara & GN!Reader

Notes: for chapter: oof! with bonus traumatic flashbacks to an event mentioned in chapter 2. descriptions of emotional dissociation, i think? A/N: i am very nervous pls be nice to me or i will perish

Word Count: 4.7k

Read this chapter on Ao3 here. If you like my work, please consider leaving kudos there as well! You do not need an account to do so.

Miguel’s mind races, trying to catch up to yours, before he speaks.

“Of course.”

You can’t—won’t—look at him, You gesture vaguely with your hand. “Can we…?”

You want to move to the living room. Okay. He nods, turning and walking back into the living room. He watches you follow, stopping where he had just stood at the opening of the hallway. You’re still not looking at him, mind somewhere far away.

He says your name, softly, hands tense at his sides. He has to focus to keep his finger-tip talons in the pads of his fingers from coming out just from sheer tension. You still don’t look at him as you stand and toy with the hem of your loose shirt—you’re well healed now, but it’s still more comfortable on your sometimes itchy scars.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, straight to the point. You move around him to the couch, sitting shakily, and he follows. “Hey,” he says softly, catching your attention again. You finally look at him, brows creased and nervous. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m assuming you know about dimension-209,” you say.

Miguel is as still as a statue. “I do.”

“Does… does that not–”

Images flash through his head. Another version of you, falling from a building. Another version of him, reaching, missing—

“You’re safe,” Miguel says, leaning towards you. “I’m not– They’re different from us. I’m not going to put you in danger like that.”

You finally look at him, blinking in blank confusion. “Miguel,” you almost laugh, but it’s too breathless, too tight and strained. “I’m not worried about that. That’s not what I’m talking about.”

He feels the confusion spread across his face, flexes and clenches a hand in his lap but continues to lean into your space.“Then, wh–”  His lips part slightly in surprise. “Oh.” Of course you know.

“Does it not… Do you ever think about it? That we were married in 209? And that we… that we’re–”

His heart skips a beat, his stomach feels like it’s trying to invade his ribcage. Of course he thinks about that. He’s seen the videos, footage from the other Miguel’s world of your lives before the accident. But–

“Don’t,” he whispers. You can’t broach this topic, if you do then he has to admit to being a hypocrite, to being selfish, to risking an entire world just to spend time with you. Because he knows better than to do this again—

“Miguel, what even is this?” The words spill out of you, rushed and desperate. “You have a toothbrush here–”

His face is pleading, begging you not to start this conversation.

“–you have pajamas here. You make me breakfast, and dinner, and clean my apartment, and take care of my injuries. You…” you swallow, and he knows you have the same lump in your throat that he does. “Miguel… you hold me like—”

“Don’t,” he says again, voice nearly cracking. “If you– if I–”

You bite the words back and swallow them down with the returning lump, looking up at him. He stares back at you, looking just as desperate and pained as he feels. His hands itch to reach out to you, to take away this conversation, to make everything okay.

“I’m not trying to…” you stop, not sure how to finish the sentence. “I’m not trying to be difficult,” you settle on.

“You’re not difficult,” he says, willing you to understand how much he means it.

“I just…” you can't tear your eyes from him, but you keep yourself from moving closer. “We’ve never talked about any of this. What any of this is. And…”

“If we talk about it,” he says, voice quiet but firm. “Then everything changes.”

“Why is that bad?” you press. “What if…” you swallow again, glancing away and then forcing yourself to look him in the eyes again. “What if I want it to change?”

Miguel’s lips open, and then press tightly together. “The difference is that they were from the same dimension.”

He can see it, behind your eyes and in the way your lips part softly, the confusion leaving your expression and replacing it with realization.

“How is talking about it any worse than what this already is, then?”

“You know why we can’t.”

“What, canon?” your eyes flit back and forth between his, desperate. “It hasn’t broken yet. Nearly all my events have already happened. It's been months of this, and everything is fine.”

Miguel forgets how to breathe for a long, agonizing second. In his head all he can see is Gabriella in his arms, the world around them flickering out of existence—

“You haven’t seen what can happen. It destroys everything.”

“Then why hasn’t anything broken yet?”

Miguel stares. You stare back, hands tight in your lap even as you turn on the couch to face him more directly. “You don’t understand,” he whispers, voice nearly cracking.

“Then explain it to me. Because– because I know, and I care about what we’re doing, protecting canon and everything, I care about my world. I have friends here, and I care about the people. I'm not trying to be selfish, but… how is any of what we’re doing fair to either of us?”

His eyes flick down to your lips against his will. Your breath catches.

“If I misunderstood,” you whisper, eyes averted, and he steps closer. “If I’m wrong, and you don’t feel the same, then I’ll drop it. We can… we can go our separate ways, and…”

His fingers touch your cheek and you close your eyes. “Please look at me.” You do, opening your eyes and tilting your head back to look up at him. “That’s not what I want.” His thumb strokes your cheekbone. “You have no idea how difficult this is.”

“Does it have to be?” you whisper.

Miguel closes his eyes. Somehow you’ve inched closer, and when he breathes in all he can smell is you. Your natural scent, your soap, your hair conditioner. He can even smell the clean scent of the lotion you must have put on your healing scars before dinner, the one he brought you after he realized he couldn’t stand to be in his own home by himself any longer.

He pulls away, hand dropping from your face.

And that’s it. He’s made his decision. He can’t bear to look at you, already feeling sick from how badly he wishes this wasn’t the right thing to do.

“I should go.”

It’s like the floor is falling out from under his feet, like the couch he’s on is made of sand. The apartment is dead silent, not even the sound of your breath audible through the rushing in his ears. He stands, steps away from the couch.

“There’s no—I shouldn't have allowed it to get to this point.” The portal opens behind him, and he still can’t bring himself to look at you. “I’m sorry.”

Then he steps through, and he’s gone.

Cobarde, he thinks to himself. Coward.

You barely remember how to breathe once the portal closes, stunned and staring at empty air.

You shouldn't have said anything. Fuck! You shouldn’t have—

Your hands shake in your lap, and you clench your fists to steady them. Breathe. Breathe, come on—

You finally gasp, pulling in air. It’s too bright, the lamp in the corner is too direct on your eyes. You cover your face, breathing into the shelter of your cupped hands. You shouldn’t have said anything.

“Fuck,” you say, but it doesn’t feel like you. It feels like someone else is speaking, reacting to what just happened for you. You turn and let yourself fall face first into the couch cushions, breathing in—

It smells like him. The whole cushion smells like him and you cry into it, pressing salt into the soft fabric.

You shouldn’t have said anything.

At first you cry. A lot. You call out of work, your hoarse throat convincing enough for Ellison to give you a reasonable extension. You sleep odd hours, restless and drained and your bed suddenly far too big and your couch too closely connected to rejection in that complicated wounded animal part of your mind. One night you take all your bedding and pile it on the floor just to try something, anything, different in hopes of sleep. It works, and you only wake once in the middle of the night from a rapidly fading dream. 

When you wake on the floor the next morning it's somehow been almost a week, much to your chagrin. Your head aches from the previous day’s crying, but you force yourself to rise from the floor and shuffle from your room, rubbing crust from your eyes as you yawn and go to the kitchen for a glass of water to ease the distant throbbing in your skull.

You shouldn't have said anything.

You sigh, eyes closed tight at the thought. When you open them again, they land on the stove clock: 7:45 A.M. Early. You groan, a new roulette of memories jumping to the forefront of Karen, and even Foggy and Matt, checking in on you. Voicemails and texts unanswered and ignored, ending with just one yesterday from Matt you have yet to listen to.

Enough is enough, you decide. You might still be slightly nauseous with roiling emotion, but it's time to get up and stop ignoring the people who do want to see you. You start with a shower, dressing comfortably but presentable enough to leave the apartment. You leave the pile of bedding on the floor under the window, stepping over the hill to get your phone off the charger.

On the bedside table is the watch from Miguel, left dark for the last ten days. You shut it away in the bedside drawer, leaving it behind when you leave the apartment and tap on one of Karen’s missed calls to ring her back as you lock up.

“Oh my god, hi!” Karen says, picking up before the third ring has truly even started. “How are you feeling? Ellison said you’ve been sick, and you haven’t answered any calls or texts so we got worried–”

“Still a little rough,” you say. “But better. I’m getting out to the cafe by my place now, but I was wondering if you have time for lunch later?”

“Yeah– yeah I can swing lunch.”

Plans are quickly made—Karen has an interview to get to—and you step a little lighter the last half block to the coffee shop. The fresh air and the people around you feel about a thousand miles away, and the light a bit too bright, but you can feel the way your body responds positively to movement, to the fall sunshine, the crisp fall air. There are more yellow leaves on the trees than when you were last out in the morning, walking to breakfast with M—

“‘Scuse me,” a tense man mumbles, stepping around your suddenly slowed steps.

“Sorry,” you mumble back, and he’s already past you. You inhale, chill morning air grounding you slightly back into your body, and put your focus on moving forward.

The drink you get is awful. It doesn’t taste bad, exactly, but the way the warmth spreads down through your throat and out in nebulous branches through your chest are in painful contradiction to your lasting mood. It feels like it's trying to be comforting, in a strange and shallow sort of way, like an acquaintance trying to force emotional closeness. You carry the full cup all the way home. It sits on your kitchen counter, waiting until after your frenzy of cleaning and laundry to be picked back up again, only finished once it’s gone cold enough for your increasingly sullen mood.

You leave your sheets on the floor when you leave again to meet Karen for lunch, hoping her presence and conversation will help. At the very least, you hope to tell her some of what’s been going on. You need to talk to someone, and you don’t dare to reach out to any of the other Spider-People about this.

You take the subway into Manhattan—the sour, sullen mood from the morning begins to fade back into the morning’s tiredness and that strange, exhausted, uncomfortable, distant underwater feeling away from reality the longer you sit on the L, and the bustle as you switch to the E seems to wake you up. The walk helps, the long flat blocks from your stop to the Nelson & Murdock office taking you further out of your head in a much more pleasant way. Finally, you reach the office, climb the stairs, and knock on the door before entering.

It’s surprisingly quiet.

“I’ll be right with you!” you hear Matt call from his small office to the left.

“Hey Matt,” you greet. “It’s just me.”

Matt says your name, appearing in his doorway. “How are you? Karen said you’ve been sick, and…”

You smile, then wrinkle your nose and immediately drop it, grateful that he couldn’t see what felt much more like a sour grimace. “I’m alright. Uh… some personal stuff came up,” you say, unable to help the way you look away awkwardly. “Is Karen around? We were going to get lunch.”

Now it’s Matt’s turn to grimace, though his is apologetic. “Karen and Foggy left to chase a lead in our case. Did she not leave you a message, or…?”

You pull your phone out of your pocket and sure enough, there it is. An earnest and apologetic text from Karen, offering to buy lunch next time to make up for canceling on you.

You sigh, smiling embarrassedly. “No, she messaged. I guess I just didn’t feel my phone go off in my pocket.”

Matt smiles sympathetically.

You stand there awkwardly as you consider what to—

“I haven’t had my lunch break yet,” Matt begins, interrupting your sluggish thoughts. “Now’s as good a time as any. There’s a good sandwich spot the next street over, if you don’t mind a change of plans.”

Relief relaxes your awkward stance. “That sounds great,” you smile, this time with far less grimacing. “I could definitely go for a sandwich.”

“Let me get my coat,” he says.

You’ve never spent time with just Matt before, and though you feel a bit awkward making friendly casual conversation in your current mood, the walk to the shop and then back to the office to eat ends up being rather nice. He invites you to eat in his office while the others are out, and you agree.

While Foggy’s office, which you had only gotten a brief look at once, is dancing the contradictory line between organized clutter, Matt’s space is minimalist and tidy. It makes sense, you suppose, to have everything tidy and in its perfect place if you can only know where something is by memory and touch.

Matt tucks away a small stack of braille printed pages into a folder and sets them aside in the top of his desk drawer to make room for the sandwiches you carry. You set his sandwich down in front of him, sitting down in the guest chair opposite to unwrap yours.

“Your office is so clean,” you comment, watching as he unwraps his own.

“Is it?” he replies, a smile pulling at one side of his mouth.

“Mhm,” you affirm, lifting your sandwich. “It’s nice. Foggy’s was a shitshow last time I saw it.”

Matt laughs, and you smile before taking a bite of your food.

You both eat your first few bites in comfortable half-silence, before Matt breaks it.

“So,” he says, wiping a hand on a napkin. “You said personal stuff came up. Is everything okay?”

Your stomach drops, your eyebrows furrow in a frown down at your food. Your heart feels tense, uncomfortable, and your stomach both too full and ravenous as if it has not one but two minds of its own. What do you say? You aren’t all that close with Matt, and—

“Do you need help?” he asks quietly, both gentle and serious.

You shake your head, realizing your silence had become just this side of too long. “No,” you say after swallowing the small lump in your throat. “No, it’s okay. Just uh… complicated.”

Matt is silent for a long moment of his own. Though his tinted glasses seem to be pointed, gazeless, at your neck, you have the distinct feeling of being stared at.

“Alright,” he finally says. “But if you need anything, ever, and there’s anything I can do… I know you’re closest with Karen, but—” he shrugs.

You smile, touched. “Thank you, Matt.”

He nods, and you continue on eating together. When you finish, you take all the trash (“No, it’s the least I can do, you have work to do.”) and head out into the bright and overcast afternoon.

Hell’s Kitchen isn’t all that far from the park, and you could use the exercise, so you walk the short fifteen minutes to sit at the pond. The trees here are lush, full of green leaves rapidly overtaken by yellow and even a spark of red here and there. The air here is just a bit fresher, the trees productive even in the middle of the city. You find a place to sit, watching the ducks and people coming and going for who knows how long. Families with young kids feed the ducks, old couples shuffling along arm in arm in dramatically thick coats to protect their frail bodies from the early fall chill. You text Karen and reschedule for lunch the next day, and you stay there until the sun is well below the city skyline.

Then you put on the mask.

It’s a normal night, as far as crime goes. Your body cuts through the chill early autumn air like a fish through water, swinging over the lanes of New York traffic. It’s business as usual: scoop people out of the path of reckless drivers, help someone cross the street, give a tourist some directions and maybe take a selfie. There’s some pickpockets of course, some attempted muggings and robberies, etc. You might be a little rougher with some of them than usual, but there’s no real damage. You blow where the metaphorical wind takes you, a chaotic path traced East, then South, then back North and Westward across the city, finally coming to a stop on a flat rooftop overlooking the Hudson River.

The air is cooler here—though the smell is far from fresh, a breeze carries cool air from the water inland. You take a moment to bathe in the quiet, taking in the lights across the river as they sparkle in the blackness of the water, and bask in the relative peace of Hell’s Kitchen at this time of night.

The moment doesn’t last long.

In the alley to your right you hear a thud and the clang of something hitting an empty dumpster. Spidey senses zing through your head and you silently dart over to investigate the alley from above. When you peer over the edge, a familiar costume greets you from the shadows.

It’s Daredevil again.

You glance to each end of the alley before jumping down in front of him.

He’s in rough shape, one hand pressed to his side and leaning on the metal dumpster. He startles at your landing, raising his fists to protect an already bloody face and wincing before realizing it’s just you. The fight visibly leaves his body.

“Spider,” he greets, breathless.

“Daredevil,” you return in kind, scanning over him. “You’re hurt.”

He waves you off, his casual gesture in contrast with the way he leans heavily on the dumpster for support, his hand returned to press on his side. “Just a pulled stitch or two,” he says. “They’re mostly healed, it’s not bad–”

“What the hell are you doing out here with stitches?” you scold, moving to help. You pull his hand off his side and sure enough, there’s the faint smell of blood under the somewhat leather and salt scent of his suit.

“My job,” he grimaces.

You press his hand back over the site, adding a portion of your own strength to compress it. He huffs, a puff of air released—whether it’s in surprise or pain, you’re not sure. Probably both

“Can I help you get somewhere?” you ask, and he tenses.

There’s the sound of heels on pavement at the end of the alley. He tenses under your hands, and you whip your head around—

“Ma– Mr. Daredevil,” Karen says in surprise. “Spider?”

“Miss Page,” Daredevil says through mildly gritted teeth.

You look back between them. “You’ve met.”

“Miss Page… sometimes brings my discoveries to the press.”

Oh, you know. You were there when she first received the official assignment at the paper as vigilante liaison, you were there when they added you to the list of subjects for her to interview, and you were her unfortunate sounding board for her new City Spider column.

Shit. You are not in the mood for this right now.

Karen’s keen eyes are zeroed in on the two of you, standing in the alleyway. “Is he alright? What happened?”

“I’ll be fine,” Daredevil grunts, trying to escape your help. Your strength stops him. “It was an… unfortunate encounter with some gun smugglers at the docks.”

“You were shot?” she gasps and rushes into the alley to join the two of you, all hesitance gone.

“No,” you shake your head. “He pulled stitches. Two, if I had to guess, based on...” you gesture vaguely. “It’s not bleeding through his suit.”

“Jesus Christ,” Karen whispers, taking Daredevil’s other side and leading the three of you to shuffle towards a main street. “What were you thinking?”

“That I needed to do my job.”

“Next time just ring me up and I’ll handle it,” you say. “Get a Spider Signal, or something.”

Karen smiles at your joke, shooting you a sidelong glance.

You get Daredevil within two meters, maybe five feet, of the end of the alleyway before he stops your little trio to lean heavily against the wall.

“Thank you for the help, Spider, but I can get home myself from here.”

You share a glance with Karen, hoping she can feel the doubt in your expression.

“I’ve got it,” she says, looking at Daredevil, then at you. “But… Spider, while I’ve got you here–”

“You know where he lives?”

She shrugs, Daredevil huffs. “Can we–”

Karen continues on, unfazed by your interruptions and determined to not let this opportunity slip through her fingers. “I’ve worked with vigilantes for a while now, and I think—I have this column, and I think the city could really benefit from—”

You shake your head, hands out and waving. “Woah, woah–”

Daredevil chuckles, then winces.

“Shouldn’t we focus on our bleeding friend here?” you gesture at him.

He waves you off. “I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding from your stitches-!” You sigh, exasperated. “Seriously, am I the only one here who takes injuries seriously? You’ll be lucky if it doesn’t get infected!”

“You’ve been injured before?” Karen cuts in.

“Well, sure, plenty of times. Road burn in that car chase, that time I twisted my ankle in third grade, that time the Venom anomal—” you stop counting on your fingers and cut yourself off, narrowing your eyes at her. “This is off the record.”

Karen nods. “Sure. But–”

There’s a bang, and a scream a few blocks away. Daredevil tries to push off the wall, and you whip your head around in the direction of the sound.

“Go,” Karen says. “But seriously, think about it. You can leave a message at the office of Nelson & Murdock–”

“I’ll think about it,” you say, and you’re gone.

You reach the scene and find a crying woman at the barrel end of a gun. Holding it is a man, one who–

“A mugging,” you whisper, but you know he can still hear you. “I was seconds too late. Bullet wound. She bled out.”

It all comes crashing back. A man escaping seconds after shooting a woman, maybe in her thirties, in the stomach. Her shaking, you trying to compress the wound but the blood just kept coming and then it was soaking through your suit and—

It’s the same man.

You don’t think, you just move. The gun goes off right as it’s yanked out of his grip at the end of your web, flung against the adjacent brick wall. A sharp scream. You drop into a Hell’s Kitchen alley for the second time that night, catching the man’s ankle at the end of a second web, pulling back hard so he falls on his face in his attempt to turn and run.

“Oh my god–” the woman hyperventilates behind you, but you’re not letting this man get away a second time. You pin him to the ground, web his hands and ankles and mouth and secure him to the ground.

“You killed her,” you hiss, shoving at his shoulders from your position above him. “It’s over. You’re caught.”

“Mmmbhm!!!” he tries to shout and struggles against the webs, eyes wide.

You squeeze your eyes shut, pushing down the urge to grab him by the shoulders and hit him against the ground again. Just once, not too hard, just to teach him a lesson and get some of this adrenaline—

“Oh my god,” the woman says again, behind you.

Your eyes fly open, and you jump to your feet. You turn, eyes scanning over her—

She’s alright. The first shot had never hit her—a warning, maybe?

“Are you alright?” you ask carefully, stepping closer with open, friendly hands. “Did he hurt you?”

She shakes her head. You blink, her full round lips and dark glossy brown hair pinging something in your mind—

“You’re from that club,” you say.

Her hair isn’t in fingerwaves like last time, though her thick black makeup is still there, running down her cheeks. “Funny seeing you here,” she says, shaky.

You sigh, then laugh. “Your luck is almost worse than mine,” you say, hands on your hips. Behind you the man struggles and yells through the webs. You turn and set back to work wrapping him up tighter. “You got a working phone?” you ask over your shoulder.

“Uh, yeah–”

“Call 911,” you say. “I’ll wait here with you.”

She does, and you do. You chat while you wait, learning her name—Violet—and that she’d gotten a new job at a restaurant after the incident with the Venom anomaly. Too traumatized to step foot back in the building, she explains. She asks you what you do, and then laughs a “Right, duh,” when you mime zipping your lips and locking them shut. She hugs you when the police arrive, tight and real and grateful, and then lets you slip away.

You stumble in through your balcony later that night, bone tired and heavy. The adrenaline has long since left your body, leaving your movements somewhat clumsy as you shed your suit straight into the washing machine.

It’s good, though. Tonight was good, you think, washing the sweat under the hot water of your shower. You’ll deal with the issue of Karen and her column later, if you have to, but that’s not what sits at the forefront as you replay the night in your head. You think you might have saved Violet’s life if the last robbery you saw committed by that man is anything to go by.

You close your eyes under the water when they suddenly start feeling hotter than the steam filling the room. A voice in your head tells you to breathe—it sounds suspiciously like Miguel, and that’s what finally pushes you and your tears over the edge.

You check the watch in the drawer when you go to bed, laying down to sleep on the pile of bedding on the floor again. There are no messages, no missed alerts, no pings from Peter or Gwen or Miguel-209. You fall asleep clinging to one of your pillows like it will come to life and fix everything for you.

<< Previous Chapter | Masterlist | Next Chapter >>

[hippolotamus]

Tagged by my love @disasterbuckdiaz (with a super hot snippet) @daffi-990 (with a whole lotta feels) @tizniz (with a super cute new fic 🦖) @buddierights (with a sweet fic of V-day past) thank you lovelies 💖

Today I bring you two snippets because Fuck It, amirite??? The first is because I was rewatching Fellow Travelers last night and a moment in Episode 2 hit me like a freight train.

But then the skit starts.

Caroline and Carlos, dressed in a suit and skirt respectively, playing as a couple having dinner at home. Caroline sits at a small table while Carlos stirs an empty pot of imaginary soup.

Even though it’s all pretend, the whole scene is so terribly, achingly domestic. A reminder of an unattainable dream. Within seconds Tim feels as though he is submerged, drowning in heartache. It fills his lungs, taking up precious space where air should be. Every silently jagged breath burns as he tries to take in oxygen, but only receives more pain. He doesn’t know how he’s not making a spectacle of himself, attracting attention to the way his heart cracks, just short of breaking completely.

It is a relief when Carlos approaches him, holding out the wooden soup spoon. The gesture is silly but provides a much needed reprieve. Tim finds it in himself to be able to laugh again as he’s fed the invisible offering. A bright feeling that bursts forth, genuinely happy as it displaces his gloominess.

When Carlos and Caroline have bickered and teased their way to the ending, they bow and curtsy as the group claps and cheers. Some even call for an encore. Instead Caroline insists Mary put a record on so everyone can dance.

A lesser version of Tim’s earlier distress settles over him like a thick fog. It blankets him in loneliness while he watches Mary and her lover sway to the music, holding each other close with their cheeks pressed together.

Snippet #2 is noticeably more zesty (any guesses from the banner???) but with no fewer feels. Find a bit of honey, when you call my name under the cut 😏 Hoping this one will be posted very soon.

“You okay?” Buck’s face is etched with such concern and care it makes Eddie’s chest tight. A squeezing around his heart that makes him wish he could pull it from behind his ribcage. To clutch it in his palms while he shows off all the places Buck’s mended and healed for him. A way to prove that Eddie is more than okay, and only improving as they continue to intertwine their lives together.

“Yeah, baby. I’m good.” Eddie lifts his head, angling his neck so he can kiss Buck again. He pours all of his gratitude and overwhelm into it, hoping the message is clear. That their unique brand of silent communication applies here as well.

It must because Buck continues to slide in, albeit slowly. He goes inch by inch, periodically checking in with a questioning look that Eddie returns with a small nod until Buck’s fully seated. And it feels… unusual. Not in a bad way, but an altogether different sensation than the times he’s fucked himself with his fingers or a toy. Of course it would be, because it’s Buck. It’s novel and precious and life changing. An event that Eddie would scribble in his diary if he had one. But at the same time — it’s Buck. So it’s also an inevitable homecoming, like being able to finally set down his burdens and breathe a sigh of relief.

“So good, Buck,” Eddie tells him before the question can be asked, because he knows it will be. He can see it in the infinite blue staring back at him, sparkling with affection and love.

Buck dips his head down, brushing their noses together, and Eddie doesn’t miss how bright, sunny blue turns darker, like dusky twilight.

“Gonna move as soon as you say so,” Buck murmurs against his lips. “‘ve wanted to fuck you for so long.”

Eddie’s belly swoops and his muscles clench in anticipation. Because it’s a two way street and this has been years in the making for both of them.

“Oh, yeah?” Before Buck can answer he tacks on, “Do it then. You’re not the only one waiting here, y’know.”

He’s rewarded with a mischievous smirk just before he feels Buck pull back. A moan — closer to a growl — rips out of him when Buck thrusts forward again, making him feel so, so full and whole. Complete.

no pressure tagging @wildlife4life @spotsandsocks @wikiangela @jesuisici33 @diazsdimples (I know you have something to share by now!) @stereopticons @shortsighted-owl @eddiebabygirldiaz @theotherbuckley @monsterrae1 @buckaroosheart @indestructibleheart @thewolvesof1998 @loserdiaz @fortheloveofbuddie @steadfastsaturnsrings @elvensorceress @honestlydarkprincess @spaceprincessem @apothecarose @barbiediaz @chaosandwolves @eowon @giddyupbuck @heartshapedvows @hoodie-buck @ladydorian05 @lemonzestywrites @statueinthestone @singlethread @the-likesofus @theplaceyoustillrememberdreaming @watchyourbuck @your-catfish-friend @vanillahigh00 and anyone else who wants to share

[nescaveckwriter]

Paintbrushes And Romance 🥰🐞 - Part 10

Dean x Fem/Reader

Part 10🥰🐞

A/N: Are we getting closer to the grand finale?! - Also side note - I've made a Spotify playlist, with all the songs of this series, I'll add the link... Much love, my bugsies 🥰🐞... Also can I just give thanks too my brother for helping me remember about 'Bobby' 😋

Warnings: violence, horror, cold, swearing, gore, blood,🙈

...

The raindrops is glistening against the window, cathing the street lights and throwing a rainbow of colours against the dark wall. Reaching over, searching, for your body, to pull you closer, hold you tightly, you get cold so easily, trying to reach a little further, a intense shooting pain in his chest, eyes flying open, confused and in a daze he looks around, its not your bedroom its a hospital room. What the hell! Dean look's to his upper torso, remembering, the look in Jack's face when he pulled the trigger. All of the sudden this amount of fear rushes over him, the message, you! He recites your name like its a prayer. Pulling the blankets off of him, he swung he's legs of the bed, standing up, just to crash down to the ground.

Frustration clear on his face, pulling out the IV out of his arm, and tugging at the other cables. The sound of the monitors flatlining is enough to alarm the night shift staff that, there's a code blue.

He pushes, himself up, steadying himself with one hand on the bedrail, walking towards the bedside table, he needs to get out of this hospital gown. He's legs feels heavy, and his chest tight, his breath a little restricted as he's ribcage feels like its been cracked. He pushes through the pain, almost there, he bite's his lower lip.

The staff comes running in, ready to resuscitate him again. To their surprise the large man with his broad shoulders is standing. The one nurse, tells the other one, go get his brother. She comes closer towards him, speaking in a calm voice she tells him to get back in bed.

He's emerald green eyes, turning a darker shade, almost hazel like. When he says , the hell I am! His voice filled with pain and more gruffy than usual. Being the stubborn man he is, opening the drawer, searching for clothing, noticing the chain with the diamond ring, taking it out, and sliding it over his head, so that it can be close to his heart again.

Sam run's towards his brother, man your awake he says, hugging him tightly. Dean now only balancing himself in this brotherly hug, he starts to speak, in a low voice, have you found her, where is she?

Sam's voice filled with regret and sadness. Not yet!

Dean's voice breaking, all he can get out is a heartbreaking no! While his legs gives in.

Sam's holding his brother up, his body feeling heavy, Sam, sits Dean down on the bed, gesturing him to take a few moments. You need to build up your strength man, Sam says with a concerned voice.

The hell she must be going through, Sam, Dean's voice is filled with pain and exhaustion. How long, has it been he asks, not really wanting to hear the reply, he looks at Sam searching his eyes.

Biting his lip, its been seven man, we haven't found any evidence, of where she could be, the deputy's took a look at the butcheries that you guys raided the last time, but not a single trace!

Anger and concern flashes in those green eyes, useless bastard's, he shouts.

Sam just looks at Dean, not really knowing what to say, just saying in a low voice, we'll get her, but first you need to get your rest, seeing Dean's about to resist his suggestion, he says even if its just for tonight, we can figure something out in the morning.

Seeing Sam's nodding for the nurse, and feeling the pinch of the needle prickling his skin, hearing her say, there you go, you'll start to feel calmer in a few minutes.

Sam, helps the nurse, to adjust Dean onto the hospital bed. Dean's eyes started to feel heavy, whispering your name, over and over again, till he's eyes are shut completely.

...

The last thing Luke said, was look what you made me do, while dragging you into the middle of the cage, you heard the steel door close.

Excruciating pain, that pulses through your upper thigh, awakens you abruptly. What, the hell? You see, Luke hunching over another man, in the cage, fix her, he shouted angrily.

The voice of the old man, sounded tired but familiar, when he said se needs a doctor. You open your eyes wider, you gasped for air, when you see its Bobby, you'll recognise that ball cap anywhere, the fire in your voice makes, both men turn around and look at you, leave him alone Luke!

Ha! Fix her! This isn't over. He shoves the old man closer to your side. I'll get the supplies, don't try shit! Or I will start taking her limbs apart right now, he says while looking at Bobby.

Bobby, shuffle's closer to you, he's voice breaking, my sweet girl, I'm so sorry, I didn't know he had you too.

Your eyes as big as sources, me too? He had you all this time aswell? Bobby just nods, the damn bastard took me by surprise.

He came to the scrapyard, looking for parts, when I turned the, damn idjit hit me behind the head, I were tied up in a cage like this one, for about eight days. When he came rushing in, claiming you needed help.

You look at him, the old man's face a bloodied mess, I'm so sorry, your voice revealing the pain your in.

He's eyes filled with concern when he said we have to stop the bleeding aswell as the infection but its going to hurt babygirl.

It's okay, you said, trying to put up a brave face. I.. uhmm... Do you know about Dean?

Bobby let's out a sigh, I do, with sadness in his deep voice.

They get interrupted by Luke handing Bobby a lighter and a open bullet casing filled with gun powder.

Luke comes closer to you, knife in his hand, distorted look in his eyes, he takes ahold of your pants cutting the fabric exposing the open wound. Taking off he's belt, saying with a emotionless voice, you're going have to bite down on that. Ready old man? Bobby's eyes shoots up at you, with concern.

You just nod trying to make your voice stronger than you feel, I'll be alright you say, not fully grapshing the pain your about to experience.

You bite down on the belt, Bobby's one hand on your leg holding it in place, and the free hand tapping the powder over the open wound, you hear Bobby telling Luke to hold you still.

Luke takes ahold of your shoulders pushing you firmly against the bars. You moan a bit, it stings you think.

You hear the flicking of the lighter switch, Bobby bringing it closer to the open wound.

It sounded sort of, like the 4th of July fireworks that got lit up.

Your screams bouncing off the factory walls, between the screams and shaking, you can hear Bobby saying something, but nothing makes sense, it burns like hell! You feel the pain immersing throughout your body, and then complete darkness.

....

Morning came and Sam walked in with coffee, only to see Dean already dressed, Sam opened his mouth to say something, but Dean put a stop to it, saying I don't want to hear it, the way I see it is you've got two choices, either you help me, or leave me the hell alone, but I'm walking out of hear today, and I don't have the freaking energy to fight you too. Sam handed him his coffee without saying a word, he just nodded, they proceeded to get everything, packed. Walking towards the exit, Dean glimpses over his shoulder, back to the hospital hallway, thanking whoever is above for waking him up, so that he can save the one, he loves more than life itself.

.....

Your eyes starts to slowly open, the rays of the sun, and the birds chirping let you know its morning. The moaning sounds that escapes your lips, when you try to sit in an upright position, let's Bobby know your awake.

"Hey sweetheart, here, have some water, are you okay? How do you feel?"

You take the bottle of water, taking a few sips and quenching the thirst you had. Thank you, Bobby, saying while smiling, still tired and groggy.

"Your going to feel like shit for a while, you lost a lot of blood, and your body suffered a big trauma, his face with concern, his voice low and deep with outlined exhaustion.

Hey, Bobby, Don't look so worried, your girl's though, a little laugh escaping your lips.

I know sweetie, but, I'm tired, he runs his hand over he's face.

I know, me too, but we are two against one, we can overpower him and run, saying with hopefulness in your voice.

Bobby gets up form his sitting position, how? You can barely stand, and as for me , I don't have the strength in me anymore.

Don't say that Bobby! Your voice sounded more angry than you anticipated! We have eachother and we will get through this together.

Walking towards you, sitting down next to you, your right sweetheart, I'm sorry, I'm just exhausted.

I know, I understand, but I won't stop fighting till my last breath. While lying your head on his chest, you saying in a low, painful voice, Bobby, I'll keep fighting, but I'm scarred... Scarred where not going to make it out of here, Scarred that he would win, silently sobbing now, I'm just scared.

"I know sweetie, he says, with despair. The two of you, just sit there, holding on to eachother for dear life.

....

Its been three days since Dean started his search, but still nothing, where the hell did the bastard take her, and where the hell is Bobby? Damnit! He hits the table, the papers getting tossed up in the air, he moans a little, when he feels the sting of the not fully recovered wound in his chest.

That's it! I'm going to see Jack! He says to no one really. Taking his keys, and jacket he walks out of his house, whispering underneath his breath if only you could return to me darling.

"Sam made sure, Jack would be locked up for what he's done. Jack's sitting in the cold room with only a table, and a one way mirror, knowing someone is probably behind it watching him, his face fills with surprise, shock and guilt, when he sees the large man enters through the door. Sheriff he exclaimed! I'm... He strutters.

Dean's voice sounded urgent and heavy. Stop! I know why you did what you did, hell maybe I would've done the same, but I'm not here for that! I need to know, have you seen the bastard, can you describe him, do you know anything damnit?

Jack flinching at the anger in his voice, yes he says, with regret visible. When I handed him the file, we met up at an abandoned road, outside of town, he drove a yellow car, almost like a cab!

What the hell! Dean basically screaming now, and you didn't think of telling anyone, what file damnit, speak up!

"I.. um.., Jack stutters" Dean looking him dead in the eyes, he's voice loud and full of anger speak damnit. "It's the file of the kidnapped girl, of ten years ago, Jack's says shakily.

Dean kicks the chair, it's all connected somehow, he's anger rolls over his lips. Looking at Jack, describe him now!

"He's in his late 30's maybe early 40's ordinary looking, I'm so sorry I was worried about Julie, I didn't really take everything in, he says apologetically.

Damnit Jack! Dean says running his hand over his face. Moving the chair away from the door, walking through it, he can hear Jack's mumbling something, but he doesn't care for the first damn time he's gotten some hope that, he could find the bastard.

After searching through the database, for what felt like hours, Dean had it figured out, Luke Fisher, is a registered cab driver, and the brother of the late Mike Fisher. This is all about revenge Sammy he says, while leaving a voicemail, he must be in court.

The black chevy impala, is parked a little across the street, he checked with the taxi services, Luke is working today, Dean just sat there waiting for him to clock out for the day, knowing he'd go right back to were he kept you, he waited patiently.

There he is, Luke gets out of the cab, walking towards the office, after a while he comes back, that's when he saw it, Luke's face was bruised, a little smile tugging at Dean's lips my girls a fighter he thinks. He starts the impala, when he sees Luke driving off, tailing him, saying "I'm coming baby, hold on, I'm coming...

[dynmghts]

TRANSMISSION FROM @osoreruna : "why didn't you say something before? why didn't you tell me? tell SOMEONE?" EMOTIONAL STARTERS , ACCEPTING .

feeling interrogated is one thing. katsuki has been on the receiving end of that before, where people try to delve in to find the heart of the reason, determined to mine out the truth even if they have to take a sledgehammer to it / that, he could handle. he didn't spend a lot of time caring about extras trying to get something out of him, because he didn't care about them.

but nothing prepares him for the feeling of interrogation from his idol, his mentor, one of the few people he holds in high regards ; nothing prepares him for all might asking that question of why.

the young bakugou's teeth grit together. his brows furrow, gaze avoiding all might's while his hands clench into tight fists. some of the choice words he has in mind never make it past his throat, while others await on the tip of his tongue, waiting for the moment he cracks ... [ because while the hurricane spirals and lashes against the world, a boy resides in the eye, sheltered and protected and isolated all the same. ] ... and can't contain his thoughts anymore.

why didn't you say something before, the question echoes, and katsuki finally snaps back ; ❛ why the fuck would i ?! ❜ his shoulders ache with their rigidity, palms hurting at his nails embedding into calloused skin. his hands shake. with his fringe in the way, it's hard to see anything beyond the curled up and vicious snarl he wears - but he makes himself smaller, almost, hunching over with his arms closing around him. [ stains of hot salt water sting his cheeks, but he refuses to lift his gaze and face his idol. ]

katsuki's fingers curl with tension, no longer digging into palms ... but they are rigid instead, tendons and muscles struggling to maintain their position as the ache snakes its way up his arms. ❛ i don't treat my issues like they're some story people are entitled to hear ! all they'll do at the end of it is pity me, anyway, and i don't need that. hell, i don't fucking want that ! ❜

a sharp breath follows, and katsuki reaches to grab at his other arm. his heart hammers against his ribcage. its furious and erratic beat gnashes at bone with an intense protest, his lungs filling up with a billowing and thick smoke that smothers oxygen, even as he tries to control his breathing. the inner tempest roars and presses violently against his larynx. he wanted so, so badly to not lose himself in front of all might like this / he was fighting it with every fibre of his being.

[ but as he steadies his breath enough to talk, he knows : it was a fight he couldn't win. not this time. ]

❛ this is my shit to deal with, and i - i have it handled. ❜ his aching hand reaches to wipe away at the string of salt water down his face, grimacing at its texture. ❛ don't treat me like i haven't. ❜

[metalbuckaroo]

💋Unspoken Rule #4💋

🍒 SUMMARY// At 3am, every Sunday, Bucky locks his bedroom door to watch his favorite camgirl. What's to happen when he finds out he's much closer to her than leaving generous tips on her videos?

💋 WARNINGS// smut, light fingering, unprotected sex, some sub!bucky, cursing, a smidgen of angst

🍒 AU// roommate!bucky x camgirl!reader

💋 NOTE// As always, requests and asks are open, feedback is appreciated 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI

🍒Ronly Friends Masterlist🍒

💋Main Masterlist💋

Moodboard by// @commonintrest

Over the next two weeks, two more videos were filmed. Both without kissing and not going any further than getting each other off without having sex, but also still as mind blowing as the first.

Bucky wanted to experience that high he couldn't reach himself. That no one else had gotten him to.

He didn't tell Steve or Sam about anything that had been happening, he knew there would be teasing and it would also blow the 'Soldat and Cherry' cover, so it became another unspoken rule.

He stopped trying to muffle the sounds he made as he watched the videos and ditched the headphones; making it obvious to you that he was still subscribed to watch videos that he could easily ask you to send him.

But, the sounds you could hear through his bedroom door were nothing compare to the ones muffled by the plastic mask when it came time to film another video.

A long talk about boundaries and keeping things casual, is what lead to the filming of the fourth video. Making sure both of you promised it would stay purely in videos. Nothing more.

Even as you laid against the throw blanket that covered your bed, completely bare besides the mask and wig as he tugged the glove on his right hand off. Bucky kept mentally repeating the promise.

Goosebumps prickled your skin when the cold leather and warm skin of his hands glided up the insides of your thighs, his cock twitching and eyes staying locked in on the glisten of your slit. His thumb ghosting over your clit to elicit a soft moan. "Don't tease." You exhaled, shifting around slightly under his piercing gaze.

Humming in response, Bucky ran two fingers through your folds. Coating the pads of his fingers with your slick before circling your sensitive bud.

The skillful work of his long, thick fingers had you convinced that your own would never be the same. The way they curled and stroked against your walls in the best way as your hands clutched the opening of his leather jacket. Quick to have your back arching from the mattress.

"Is my face in the shot?" Bucky said lowly when he leaned down so his face was inches from yours. Your eyes looking to the small screen on the side of the camera to see his hair shielded his face. "No."

"Good, wanna kiss you." His gloved hand reached to pull the mask down, the steady thrust of his fingers on his right not faltering. "Ok, just don't stop." You nodded, catching his plump lips in yours.

The taste of his tongue just as you had imagined it to be when it slipped between your lips to press into yours. Both minty and sweet.

Bucky swallowed every sweet sound he pulled from you, making sure not to break away from the breathless kiss until you had rode your orgasm. Your teeth nipping at his bottom lip as your hands pressed against his chest. "Mask on and lay back." You mumbled against his lips as he removed his fingers.

Bucky's mind was racing just like it was the first time as you moved over him, his hands holding your waist and heart thumping away against his ribcage.

He always thought that all sex would feel the same, but this was different. He had a certain proud feeling when you whimpered softly once he was fully sheathed into the tight warmth of your cunt, the instant flutter of your walls making him groan softly.

You had never had such a full feeling, his tip brushing your cervix as you swiveled your hips. Laying your hands flat against his taut chest to keep steady and letting your head lull forward.

Starting slow and working up to a faster pace when you had adjusted as his hands slipped down to hold your hips.

It was hard to keep focus, the feeling of every ridged inch sliding against your walls sending sparks of pleasure through you starting to engulf you. Trying to pinpoint the pitch of Bucky's moans and pants to know when to slow down.

His fingers curled into the flesh of your ass, hips rolling gently under you as the swirling in the pit of his stomach started. Only to fade away when your hips slowed into a grind, his eyes snapping open to meet your hooded ones as you gave him a wicked smile.

Bucky lifted a hand to hold the back of your neck, pulling you down to whisper in your ear. "You're edging me?" He mumbled, biting back a groan when you wiggled against him. "Be a good boy, Soldat."

He couldn't deny the warmth that washed over him from the two words he told himself wouldn't have an effect on him, muttering a few curses in Russian as he moved his hand back to your hip.

The tensing of the muscles in his thighs quickly started again, his release being held off until he was desperate.

His head lifted from the pillow, brows scrunching up as he tried to guide you faster, your movement nearly stopping when he did. "Please, dear God, cherry." Bucky whined as his head fell back against the pillows, chest and neck flushed and sweat slicked. His mask not helping the hot huffs of breath that fanned right back into his face.

You knew he could easily overpower you if he wanted to, and that's what made it even better. Watching as he tensed and wiggled under you in attempts to get the release he wanted- but he knew it would be worth it in the end. Being able to push as deep as he could go and fill you with his spend until you leaked around his base, would definitely be worth it.

Your throbbing clit ached for some kind of attention, but you weren't done with your fun of watching Bucky crack under you. The sturdy man muttering to himself to let him cum as his warm hand groped at your chest, gloved left caressing your waist and backside.

Needy whines promising he'd be good, telling you how amazing you felt stretching around him. Until his pleas and praises were enough to snap the coil.

Your fingers digging crescent moon shapes into the smooth skin of his chest as your orgasm took over completely. Mind fogging over for a brief moment.

"Oh, god- B-" your bit down harshly on your bottom lip to stop his name from rolling off of your tongue, falling forward against his hot chest as the aftershocks took over and you buried your face in the crook of his neck. Giving him the opportunity to chase his own high.

Bending his knees to plant his feet flat against the mattress, Bucky's hands went under your ass, letting out a shaky breath as he chased his own high with rigorous thrusts that made you keen against his flush skin.

"Shit- oh, fuck- so good, cherry." He grunted, gripping your backside as his hips pistoned up into yours, quickly reaching his high. A guttural moan vibrating through his chest when he filled you with hot spurts of his release.

His hands stayed on you until you were out of his reach to turn off the camera, looking over his blissed out form one last time as he felt for the edge of the plastic face covering.

"Holy fuck..." He panted, almost ripping the mask from his face. "Good?" You giggled, slipping on one of his shirts that was on your dresser as he sat up. "Great, best ever." Bucky chuckled, eyes wandering down to where the tops of your inner thighs glistened from his spend leaking onto them before the hem of the shirt blocked the view.

"Beat you to the shower." You grinned, squinting your eyes at him as you backed towards the door. "That's not f- wait!" He called when you slipped out of the room, standing to follow after you.

"I wasn't paying attention, that wasn't fair." Bucky pointed a finger at you with a frown that made you laugh lightly. "Better luck next time."

🍒 🍒 🍒 🍒 🍒 🍒

The next morning went as normal, Bucky left for work after breakfast, you took a trip to the grocery store. Only this time, you came back with something to talk to Bucky about.

He gave you a bright smile when he walked in the door, long legs carrying him over to where you were on the couch before he swiped the remote from your lap.

"Buck, I need to talk to you." You sighed, turning in your seat to face him. "'Bout what, cherry?" He said, shifting to be more comfortable as his knees parted more. "I, uh, I have a date next week so... I'm gonna do the next video solo." You nodded.

Bucky felt a pang in his heart, he promised everything was purely for videos, but he couldn't help the sliver of jealously that tainted his veins. "Does that mean- we're not gonna film together anymore?" He asked quietly, muting the TV so you had his full attention.

You sucked in a sharp breath and shrugged your shoulders. A part of you wanted to say no to the man at the store who asked you on a date, but he was nice and handsome.

"I don't know. This guy seems nice and all but, it was more of a- I don't want to decline your invitation because you're sweet, so one date won't hurt." You said, looking at where you hands were tugging a string on the couch cushion. "And you don't want to feel guilty about having sex with someone else days before the date. I understand." Bucky nodded his head, giving you a sweet smile.

"Thanks, Bucky." You mumbled, patting his leg before scooting closer. "Who is it?" He said, narrowing his eyes at you and hoping it didn't seem like a 'who's replacing me' type of question. "Cashier at the supermarket."

"He is pretty nice. Gives me extra coupons when I go." Bucky said, scrunching his nose up. "You're not mad, are you?"

He quickly shook his head and gave another smile as he wrapped his arm around your shoulders. "Of course not, all for the videos, remember?"

Chewing the inside of your cheek, you leaned further into his side. "Yeah... for the videos."

🍒 🍒 🍒 🍒 🍒 🍒

Taglist: @likeahorribledream @cxddlyash @iwannabekilledtwice @bookstan0618 @glxwingrxse @yliumy @pineprincess @makbarnes @cupcakehinch @doasyoudesireandlive @magicwithinnightmares @preferredrealty @andy-is-gay @stucky-my-ship @marvel-3407 @maladaptivexxdaydreaming @i-l-y-3000 @avoxzy @impala1967666 @mollygetssherlockcoffee @supernaturalbaesduh @bucky-hues @suchababie @an-adult-fairy @ju5tyna20 @hallecarey1 @jxlystan @elizabeth228 @secret21121 @strwbrrybucky @busybeingtrash @harrysthiccthighss @everything-burns-down @ynsdiarys @sunnynapp @bucky-harrymybfs @sylleblossomstar @winter-soldier-101 @smokeinherperfume @amalfoyandariddle @mal-edictions @missusbarnes-rogers-laufeyson @sky0401 @saturnaliatemple @doll1917 @eireduchess

[suspicious-whumping-egg]

Low Profile Pt. 2: Claimed

Masterlist here.

Hale was first aware of the throbbing continuing to persist in his head. A soft groan escaped his lips and he squeezed his eyes shut, nausea twisting in his gut. Cold steel was cinched tight around his wrists and ankles, keeping him securely restrained to a metal chair— which, when he looked down, he realized was bolted to the floor. The light was dim enough and straight overhead, almost like a spotlight, so he could barely see a few feet in front of him. From what he knew, he was alone, but it was more likely than not that he was being watched. Cameras? One-way glass? 

“Didn’t know you were such a lightweight,” Viper scoffed, his voice cutting through the darkness. “But it’s no matter. You’re awake now.” 

He flinched at the sound of the hitman’s voice, his chains rattling at the movement. “You were just standing there and watching me sleep?!” Hale muttered, his face reddening ever so slightly. 

Viper stepped into the light and nodded, the dim bulb distorting his shadow into a monstrous shape. “You know why you’re here,” he said sharply. “Quit trying to change the subject. And before you go screaming for help, we’re fifty feet underground, surrounded only by my allies.” 

Hale shook his head, which still spun from the drugs used on him earlier. His chest tightened with panic, and he fought to keep his tone even. “I— you’re an assassin, right? That’s all I know… so someone wants me dead.” 

 Viper scowled at him. “Don’t play dumb.” 

So Viper hadn’t been sent to kill him— although he had yet to discover if that was a mercy or a punishment. “If this is about my family… I— th-they’re not going to pay whatever ransom you’re holding me for. I know what much.” His voice broke as he blinked back tears, tugging instinctively at the restraints. 

Pain cracked across his face as Viper backhanded him, snapping his head back with the force of the blow. “Chancellor Soros,” he hissed. “You know the ins and outs of their security. You know the location of their safehouse. And you’re going to tell me.” 

“My father’s the one who knew him,” Hale protested weakly. “I don’t know—”

He was cut off by the sound of a blade being pulled from its sheath, freezing in terror. 

“‘Maybe you don’t know,” Viper said softly; effortlessly flipping and twirling a butterfly knife through their fingers. “In that case, I’ll have a nice little hostage video for whoever might remotely care about you, and get a nice outlet for my stress while doing it. Now, are you going to cooperate or is this going to have to get difficult?” 

Hale froze, his heart pounding out of his chest and burning against his ribcage. “You— you don’t—” 

“FUCK!” he screamed, hammering his wrists against the cuffs in a useless attempt to break free. “FUCK— YOU FUCKING—”

The dam inside of him collapsed, and he dissolved into heaving, painful sobs as the gravity of his predicament came crashing down. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t fucking care. He just wants to hurt me. He coughed and gasped for air, choking from the force of his own sorrow before he crumbled into pathetic weeping once more. 

Viper stood and watched him cry, endlessly patient. 

By the time his tears had subsided, Hale’s eyes were red, puffy, and aching. His throat was raw and his chest ached. His wrists and ankles bled from where he’d thrashed against his restraints. 

“What happened?” Viper soothed, a condescending grin playing at his lips. “You were doing so well, handling this all like an adult… what went wrong?” 

Hale shook his head. He didn’t trust himself to speak without descending into terrified babbling. 

Cold steel pressed against his cheek, the edge of the blade not quite piercing skin. A warning. 

“That wasn’t rhetorical,” Viper coaxed. “You were being so good, so reasonable… how do I get that back?” 

He squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head again. “I— I need a minute—” he gasped out weakly. “I just….”

The knife scratched a line over his face, not quite drawing blood but enough for the scraping pain to draw Hale back to reality. 

“I’m sorry— I’ll— I’ll do better… I’m trying…”

“Aww, no, it’s alright,” Viper teased, his voice sickly sweet. “You just want to be alone, don’t you?” 

Hale’s gaze flicked from the knife to Viper’s devious expression. It was evident some new torment was held in store if he tried to get a moment alone. “I’m okay,” he managed weakly. “I can handle it. I just… I fucked up. It won’t happen again…” 

Viper nodded approvingly. “Atta boy,” he said sarcastically. “You’re a smart one, hm?” He pressed down on the blade and carved a splitting line of pain over Hale’s cheekbone. 

Hale gasped in pain, his hands curling into fists, but he managed to stay still. If the bastard wanted to see him hurting, he wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of a response. The cut was repeated in a close parallel, his face stinging furiously in the blade’s wake. Blood leaked down his face in rivulets, mixing with his tears. 

It dawned on him, all of a sudden. Viper’s signature, so to speak— two short slashes down the face, vaguely resembling a snakebite. It was found on the corpses of those he’d killed, the victims who’d been unfortunate enough to get away from him alive. 

He’d been claimed.

[yanderenightmare]

uhm, yandere Katsuki with a small reader... like idk how to explain but fluff fear? like waking up together but all she can think about is how loud he sleeps and how BIG he is, also him being a total bitch about how small she is?

yandere kidnapper ! BAKUGO KATSUKI

Support me at KO-FI if you feel like it<3

goodiebag WARNINGS: dubcon/noncon mentions, kidnapping, abduction, abuse, degradation

PUFF

Waking up warmer than usual was something she’d gotten terribly used to. 

It had only been a couple days. A couple days in a foreign house without anything to do except prance around in what lingerie Katsuki bothered to give her, or sleep the hours away. Where which the latter was undesirable, because she’d be risking getting snuck up on by the brute predator once he returned. So, she was left walking about, dragging tired limbs through barren hallways, stopping to take in the space of each impersonal room, half-naked and cold in the marble mansion, doing nothing but dreading the time her hero came home. 

And in the absence of things happening, those moments where she was in fact preoccupied with something became so much heavier and longer than what they were in reality. Expanded, to the degree where she could pinpoint almost every single detail within the moment. 

This was one of those moments.

She wanted to focus on the bed, soft material, caky and cloudy beneath her, but it was difficult to ignore the mass behind her. His nose poking into the top of her head, nuzzling in her hair, a good measurement of knowing how close his teeth were to her neck as heavy breaths ran down her neck like a chilling breeze, ticklish and disturbing like crawling mites. His chest, rising, pushing into her back, the beating of his heart rattling her ribcage. His hands, large and so very warm, warmer than they were supposed to be, scathed like sandpaper as they scratched in their presence by rubbing her hip, arms slung around her body haphazardly, caging her, suffocating her, pulling her close, holding her steady, trapping her. 

Like a dragon protecting his treasure, she thought, but quickly discarded of the notion. It sounded too sweet. 

Katsuki wasn’t sweet.

He’d come home yesterday, coated in smog, droplets of blood flecked on his sand-skin in no particular pattern. He didn't shower, he’d only grabbed her and walked off to bed. No words shared, only whimpers and dark, disturbing chuckles. She’d struggled, as much as she could against the brute, but it felt as though he enjoyed that more. Tightening his hold until she swore she began to hear her bones ache, bristle as he squeezed the air from out of her lungs. 

She was happy she was spared his painful cock that night, but she was sure it would be a short-lived mercy.

His hold; though still strong, wasn’t as tight in the morning. She took it as an opportunity to create more space between herself and the fever-heat and blinding smell of caramel. She almost wished she could smell the blood and smoke instead, something bitter to disrupt the sickening sweet. She wished she could smell anything else, but even the smell of herself was overcome by him. She’d walked around the house thinking of it the other day, how it was almost as though he’d scented her, as though they were animals.

He didn’t take lightly to the disturbing of his slumber, grunting and growling, stirring that overbearing sense of fear inside her gut, her stomach folding in every possible way. She didn’t want to stop, she wanted to fight, she wanted to roar. He tightened his arms around her, squeezed her hip, planting her ass better against his crotch and she froze.

He smacked his tongue against his teeth. “Now what?” He coaxed. She expected his voice to sound groggy in the morning, but she’d learned in the past days, it never shed its ugly tone. “You gonna cry?” His voice sounding almost hopeful as he bit down on her earlobe, earning a gasp that along the way turned into a delicious little whimper. She tried clawing at his hand, his own nails digging into her skin. “Do yourself a favor and relax” All his taunting, patronizing overbearing words, dismissive to her discomfort, rather enjoying it, if only she could see the cracked smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. She kept struggling despite the obvious futility. “Yer’ not going anywhere, yer’ exactly where you need to be... exactly where you belong.” His tone was casual as he sucked in a breath, sighing with a grumbling growl, still sleepy, yawning behind her, comfortable when squeezing her plushie little form, keeping her close like child with a teddybear. 

But he wasn't enjoying how her legs were kicking, despite the rest of her struggles being teasingly pleasurable.

Pushed down on her back, manhandled into position, he made to move himself between her thighs. Now, with more mistaken freedom, she tried pushing him away. Foolish fists hit against the stiff muscles of his chest, until he grabbed them by the wrists and pinned them above her head. His face so much closer now, but he didn’t kiss her, still longing to hear her speak up, to beg, to plead, to scream. But he remained close, knowing how every one of his words made her heart beat that much faster, and how those especially crude words made her quiver or better yet bleat, like a little lamb beneath him.

“Come on…” He hauled out. She barely made out the words, as far hidden in the growl as they were. His voice tickling her burning ear, his head resting its heavy weight on her arm. “I know I’ve been busy, but…” He spoke as though she wanted to spend more time with him. “It’s my day off.” His voice in singsong, as if she’d be excited, the tone sounding dreadful and wrong when coming from him, dark as it was. But it earned him what he’d been wanting, that soft and struggled sniffle, breath caught in her throat, an uncontrolled shiver breaking the sweet feeble noise.

Content with what he’d reduced her to, he rested his head on the pillow beside her face, his weight laid down upon her in a lifedraining fashion. He hummed, closing his eyes, enjoying her small frame beneath him. In her rightful place, he snickered. Eyes fluttering to look at her pretty face, hand covered in dried blood and smoke as it ascended to tug a lock of hair behind her ear, his thumb stroking over her lips when he made to retract it. The state of his skin made him cringe when he touched the fairness of her complexion. It felt wrong, he admitted. 

They needed to find an even ground.

“Let’s shower, I’m dirty.” She could feel his lips on her ear now, but she was too shell-shocked to snap her head away, knowing what was coming.

In all honesty, she wouldn’t mind a shower. She’d been there a while and didn’t exactly feel clean with him spread, smeared all over her, inside her. But, he’d insisted on being so very close at all times, she was sure the same rules would apply in the shower. 

She tried her best to fight, but it was all so easy to simply grab her arm and pull her with him, yanking on her like a child with a toy. Throwing her inside the large bathroom, with strength that almost had her falling to her knees.

“Take yer’ clothes off.” He commanded, having her backed up against the cold tiles of the walls. “Or… they’re not really your clothes.” He tugged at the black fabric of his shirt, one she’d put on after realizing her own clothes were far from wearable anymore, singed as they were.

Towering over her petite shape, enjoying how she had to tilt her head a drastic degree to stare up at him. 

She was so tiny, it sent pleasurable shivers down his spine to look at her, small like a little pet. His shirt hung around her in the same way you’d expect a tent would, reaching all the way down to her knees, only barely fitting on her narrow shoulders.

She wanted to sound strong. “N- no.” It came out weak.

Snickering, he placed a hand on the wall beside her head. “I was hoping you’d say that…” His smile was so feral, she began wondering if smiles were ever a nice gesture in the first place. Katsuki seemed to do it simply to show her those large teeth stored in his mouth, teeth that could rip her throat out if he were dedicated enough. “Better you learn sooner than later just how helpless you are to stop me getting what I want.” He leaned in closer, stepping further into her space, threatening to crush her toes under the soles of his feet, his much too hot breaths striking her face on repeat. “Weak.” He spat the word, as though it were venom on his tongue. “Defenseless.” It disgusted him, distaste clear in the growl lacing his tone. “Fragile.” 

He’d not gotten exactly what he wanted. He wanted her to scream, whether it was of rage or of fear, didn’t really matter. The tears were no less satisfying though, dribbling down her cheeks, eyes glossy and sparkling.

He grabbed the collar of the t-shirt. She felt the pull, but the tear still came as a surprise. The ripped fabric, now reduced to useless singed rags, pooling around her ankles, and she found herself regretting her wish to smell smoke because the burn of the textile at her feet was not the type of bitter like morning coffee, but bitter in the way that made her eyes sting. Her knees almost gave out when his hand neared her again, his other hand placed above her head, meaning to cage her in between his warmth and the freezing wall behind her. 

Her nipples perked at once when he made contact, which made him smile, hand still hot, much too hot. He cupped one breast in his hand, much too small to fill it entirely. He didn’t seem to mind though.

“So soft…” The disdainful tone was gone, but she found herself missing it as opposed to what lingered in his voice now. “So delicate.” Lust was so terribly more frightening than his distaste. “So…” He licked his lips, a hot breath fanned over her face and goosebumps sprung to the surface of her skin. He hummed in response and she was sure she might just faint. “So sensitive.” She yelped when he pinched. “Mine.” His voice was low and rumbling, hot like raked coals. Tugging down her bottoms as well, she did little to prevent it. 

Not that it would have mattered if she did.

Support me at KO-FI if you feel like it<3

[wincestisasincest]

The Barrel - Ch. 1 (LOTR x Reader)

Okay, so time for a fun and sexy take on Modern Girl in Middle Earth that no one asked for - what if the Modern Girl had a gun? I wanted to try and write something where the Modern Girl in question was not completely defenseless, and had a fair amount of experience that the others lacked.

This will be very slow burn, I think.

Chapter: 1

Words: 1452

Warnings: Blood, guns (obviously)

Pairings: None (yet)

The butt of the rifle cracked against your cheek. You bit your tongue, but kept your arms rigid and eyes open. The taste of copper slithered between your teeth.

The orc staggered, his head reeling back with the force of the bullet that had just been lodged into it. His spine arched, and his arms flailed. Before he could catch his balance, his heart finished beating and he collapsed to the ground. Pungent, dark blood oozed into the dirt.

The wizard hardly flinched. His weary, sloped brow and buggish eyes were fixed on you thoughtfully. He tugged a strand of his curly brown beard - the one that had been blanched with bird crap.

You dropped your arms and let the rifle relax into the natural dent of your hands. They were clammy, but the crisp chilliness of the forest kept them from being sweaty. Everything about you, from the fresh redness pooling in your cheeks due to the recoil of the gun to the congested nose you had that made you sniff every couple of minutes, put you on the edge of sickness. And yet, here you were, shambling and corpse-like, but still upright and alive.

You stepped towards the wizard, your eyes occasionally darting back to the orc. You hadn’t registered yet that you were the one who killed it. You’d give it some time.

“Are you Radagast the Brown?”

You kept your voice monotone and deep to not risk exposing the rasp extending up the back of your throat.

“Who’s asking? Friend or foe?”

“Friend. I’m (y/n).”

“No family?”

“None that are around here. I’m, uh, not from here. If it wasn’t already obvious.”

You swayed nervously on your legs. Your combat boots were worn beyond repair, though their gaudy artificial stitching that was loosely holding them together still stuck out like a sore thumb. The black tank top clung to your body, and though you mostly kept it hidden with an oversized jacket, you couldn’t help the occasional peak of bare flesh and tight fabric. Oh, and, of course, your jeans were bright-ass blue and had a leather tag on the back with an impeccably printed logo.

“Indeed,” the wizard nodded, “I’ve never seen a bow quite like that before.”

You neither. This whole shooting business was about as new as Middle Earth. When you had woken up in a small pile of freshly fallen leaves, the gun, along with a few packages of ammo, were about 10 feet from your stiff body. You hadn’t dared to practice anything besides loading and unloading the gun, lest you run out of ammo in the middle of your hour of need. You had abstained from counting, knowing that it would just make you more nervous.

“Yeah...” you trailed, “but anyway, I know you don't know me, but you know Gandalf, right? He needs help.”

“Help? Now, there’d have to be something mighty strong that could get that old goat in trouble,” he raised an eyebrow hawkishly.

“Saruman.”

“Saruman? Well now, that can’t be.”

“He’s working with Sauron. Looking for the ring, and-”

“Hush!” he finally broke eye contact with you and warily scanned the tops of the trees. Nothing but a wall of silence.

“The forest... it’s quiet. Someone is listening. Come, come. Matters like these ought to be discussed inside,” he turned around and waved for you to follow, hustling in between long, imposing trunks that looked like they were ready to fall on you and crush the life out of you at any second.

******

You had killed the moth. Not on purpose, of course. You seemed to have fallen on it after you crashed through the sky of Middle Earth.

You could remember hearing its screams. You rolled over, looking for the source, grinding the roots further into your ribcage. When you finally saw the tiny thing flitting on the ground, trying to get your attention, you dumbly watched its crushed wings and snapped legs twitch with jolts of desperation.

“I have a message! A message for Radagast the Brown! Friend of the Eagles! You must take it in my stead - it is urgent. The fate of Gandalf the Gray depends on it.”

You said nothing, barely able to keep yourself conscious as you rapidly inhaled and expelled stilted breaths.

“Gandalf the Gray was betrayed by former friend Saruman the White. He is on top of the tower Orthanc, in Isengard, dying with each passing moment. He dispatched me to tell Radagast to seek out the aid of the Eagles - he fears that they may be his only chance at rescue from the tower.”

“Are... are you real?” you finally sputtered.

“I am alive, but not for much longer. My strength fails me. But you must go. Follow along the edge of Mirkwood until you find the brown wizard. The fate of Gandalf, and perhaps the realm, may depend on you. Please, time is of the essence. You must leave.”

The creature’s mouth never moved. You never heard the sound of its voice. But you felt the words in your head, bouncing around there after being injected by some foreign source. The moth pointed its head straight at you.

“Please. It does not matter who you are - your future depends on the knowledge that only Gandalf holds.”

A throbbing pain blossomed in the back of your head, just under your neck. The moth flitted its wings once more, and then the telepathic force that had been drilling into your skull blinked out.

You took a long sip of murky liquid in a cracked glass teacup. Warmth stirred in your void of a stomach, which you had been trying to ignore.

“My word. Then it is true. Saruman has turned to the darkness,” Radagast said to no one in particular. He looked out the window, as if waiting for the silhouette of his friend to appear over the horizon, completely fine.

“I’m sorry,” was all that you could say.

He turned to you, eyes still flickering with life but in danger of going out.

“So am I,” he said grimly, “but, no matter. Gandalf was right. The Eagles are his only chance of salvation from a place as wicked as Isengard. I’ll get the message to them at once.”

He looked at his feet. You couldn’t actually recall much about Radagast from the books - you knew more about how low of an opinion Saruman had of him. But the look of despair that was settling deep within his chest was a grave reminder that he was just as capable of complex thought as anyone else.

You realized that you had just seen a man accept that there would be war on their hands, and that there was nothing he could do to avoid it.

“It will be alright in the end,” you found yourself saying.

Finally, he looked up at you sadly.

“I know. The world will always be okay in the end. And I, who have lived many years and will live many more, will be around to see it. But what will happen to everyone in between?”

“I dunno,” you shrugged, “but in the meantime we’ll just... do our best to protect them. That’s all we can do, right?”

You tilted the edge of your lips up, not quite forming a grin but far from the hopeless neutrality that you had carried with you into the house. He analyzed you, squinting his eyes and pursing his lips, not caring if you noticed.

“Who are you?”

“I’m (y/n).”

“A person is more than their name, especially one such as you.”

“I’m nobody important to this world. I don’t belong here.”

“And yet here you are. You’ve become somebody important,” he scratched his chin, “this appears to be beyond me, but I suggest that you consult with Gandalf. You’re already heading in his direction anyway.”

“What?”

“I’m sending you with the Eagles. The fellow will be in a mighty poor condition when you find him, it’d be irresponsible for me to send him back all by himself. And besides, you seem like a useful person to know.”

He smiled coyly. Your mind buzzed.

“There must be someone else that you can send?”

“Nope. Well, no one humann, anyway. One of the quirks of dedicating your being to the plants and the animals. Now, on you get! I can hear them circling overhead.”

You had no idea how he had summoned the Eagles, and at this point, you were almost too afraid to ask. You gritted your teeth and let your stomach do a cartwheel as you realized that you were about to come to terms with your fear of heights in the worst way possible.

So be it.

[vitaliskravtsov]

calls and cuddles

A parswoops fic; ~700 words; T for cursing

Kent has a bad night, but Swoops is there, and mostly, that's what counts.

----

Kent's sitting on the floor of his living room in a W-sit, and he looks about 30 seconds away from crying.

Swoops hates that look, more than anything else.

"Hey," he says softly, kicking his shoes onto the mat and advancing in socks to kneel down next to Kent. "Hey, hey, Kent. Kent."

Kent's not wearing a shirt, which could mean any number of things- wrong fabric, too tight, wrong color, wrong smell- but it distills, in Jeff's world, to the fact that he can see Kent's ribcage heaving.

"Breathe, okay?"

"Go away," Kent whispers, voice wrecked and uneven and cracking. "Go away."

"Good try. Breathe in for me, okay?"

"Go away."

"Breathe out."

"I'm fine."

"In."

"Fuck off."

"No. Out."

There's tears rolling down his face now, and his body is shaking, and Jeff's heart is sitting on the floor, fucking up his knees, raking his hands through his hair like he wants to pull it out.

"Fuck. Off."

"C'mon," Jeff says, voice unbeliveably soft. "Unfold your knees."

Unbelievably, Kent swings one leg around to the front so that it's facing straight out and not backwards.

"Other one too," Swoops coaxes, and just like that, he's got an armful of crying hockey player. He rotates his knees to the side and then to the front, and then he's got a lapful of crying fiancé, tucked up against his body, sobbing. He presses soft kisses into Kent's hair, and holds on.

This is the hard part, the waiting it out until Kent has calmed down or cried himself out of tears. There are shortcuts out of it, sure, but those only tend to delay and result in more hurt, later. So instead he stays, and holds on, and when Kent stops shaking, he's there to carry him up to bed.

Swoops isn't stupid; he knows something set Kent off, but he can't find it, and after hour two of watching sports news while simultaneously scrolling the NHL website, he's stumped. He even texts Scraps, but he's got nothing.

When Kent stumbles out of his room, three hours later, he's wearing Swoops' jersey and a pair of Aces joggers, and he looks like someone put him in a salad spinner and went for a few rounds.

He wanders into the kitchen, silently, and pulls out a mug. He gets the milk out, gets the cocoa and sugar out, gets the cinnamon out. Mixes it all into a mug, and throws it in the microwave. He pulls out miniature marshmallows, plops them in his drink, and sits down at the table, head bent, fingers curled around the mug that must be burning them.

"My dad called," he says quietly. "Did you know that doors still slam the same?"

It doesn't make sense, to someone who doesn't spend most of their time trying to see how Kent connects patterns in his head for one reason or another, but it snaps into place in Swoops' map of shit never to do.

"Can we- can we go to the rink?"

And Jeff wants to say yes, anything, always but he knows what will happen if he does, and he knows saying yes will cause more harm than good, and he doesn't want to do that.

"Tomorrow," he says, instead. "We can go early."

"Need it now," Kent says.

"Come cuddle," Swoops tells him, instead of answering. He's weak for that voice, and he knows he can't say yes, and distracting is better than trying to keep saying no.

"Okay," Kent murmurs, and makes his way from the table to the couch, and into Swoops' arms.

"I love you," Swoops says, because he thinks if he doesn't say it, he'll have failed as a boyfriend and also as a human being, because to know Kent and to not tell him he's loved is as much a crime as arson, in Jeff's estimation.

"I'm sorry," the man laying in his chest answers. "You deserve-"

"You," he interrupts, because he can't listen to this. "I deserve you, because you are beautiful-" he presses a kiss to Kent's hair " -and gentle-" kiss "-and kind-" kiss "-and loving-" kiss "-and I don't want anyone else."

"Fuck off," Kent says, but it's soft now, and Jeff doesn't think he'll break if he sleeps.

"Never," Swoops answers. "Never."

[brettsey-two-tts]

Brettsey prompt - Sylvie showing up to surprise Matt, she’s got a lot more luggage and it turns out she’s here for her extended visit

Sylvie stared at the plain walnut door. She had seen it many times on her previous visits, but this time, it hit her differently. Her stomach was in knots from all the thinking she had been doing for the last twelve hours. There was no easy way to say it. She missed Matt. She really did; hearing his voice almost every day and seeing his handsome and charming self through FaceTime made her realize just how much she missed him. Most times when she woke up in the morning, she’d instinctively reach out beside her for him only to come to the harsh realization that he was no longer in the same state as her. As hard as it was for her to learn to come to terms with his temporary move, it still hurt nonetheless. She tried to ignore the pang in her chest, the small cracks in her heart, but after one particular FaceTime with him at the firehouse, she realized it was only going to get worse. The good-byes were only going to get harder.

She told Matt she was going to visit him. He didn’t ask how long and she didn’t tell him as she felt that was a conversation they should have in person. If there was any distinction for how long she desired to stay, it was by how large her suitcases were. She had two with her; both a darker shade of blue and both having protruding fronts where the zippers were stretched out and barely kept together by the seams.

She held her breath for a moment before letting it out. She was excited and anxious at the same time.

She knocked a couple of times on the door and waited.

She wondered if Matt was sitting near the door with his leg bouncing up and down, eagerly anticipating her arrival, because It only took a moment for the door to open.

And it was like the door opened to heaven itself. Matt’s hair was considerably longer than she last visited him and even though she’d seen it when they FaceTime’d, it was definitely better in person. He was dressed in a pair of jeans and a dark green short-sleeved t-shirt, both of which fully complemented his firefighter physique.

His charming blue eyes lit up and a beaming smile was plastered all over his face making the corners of his eyes crinkle. She missed his smile so very much.

“Hi,” he said in a gasp as if her very existence took his breath away.

Sylvie felt her emotions pour all at once; her heart thumped loudly in her ribcage and the overwhelming feelings of missing him so dearly nearly turned into a quiet sob. She launched herself at him and wrapped her arms around his neck. The motion nearly knocked him off his feet.

He let out a short laugh at the sudden force, but his smile disappeared when he noticed how much she was holding on to him, how tight she was hugging him, and how much she dug her nose into his neck. Something wasn’t right. He looked behind his girlfriend and saw her suitcases.

“Sylvie?” he murmured into her ear, trying to coax her into her comfort zone.

“Sorry,” she replied with a short gasped laugh. When she pulled away, he held onto her waist; he just got her back and a part of him didn’t want to let her go. “I’m just really excited to see you.”

“Me, too.” The suitcases behind her were still puzzling him. “That’s twice the amount of luggage you brought last time. I know I said I forgot my sweatshirt on your bed, but I don’t think it needs its own suitcase.” His joke was lighthearted and he thought it would at least elicit a chuckle, but Sylvie’s reaction was a very small smile, almost a frown. It made worry quickly wash over him. “Honey, is everything okay?”

She gave a small nod, but he didn’t buy it. He nonetheless gestured inside and helped her move her suitcases. As soon as he put her suitcases in the corner and closed the front door, he saw her twist around her wristwatch out of the corners of his eyes.

“I’m not just staying for the weekend, Matt,” she finally confessed.

He looked surprised but also elated.

“The other day after we FaceTime’d, saying goodbye to you was probably the hardest thing I had to do. I’ve missed you so much. I missed your smile, your laugh, your hair.” She reached up and carded her fingers through his longer-than-usual hair. He laughed at the gesture and then sighed comfortably at the serene feeling. Their adoring and loving gazes met as he held her. “I missed all of you, Matt, so much so that I don’t think a few days will be enough.”

“You’re always welcome here, Sylvie,” he reassured her. “You could stay here forever if you wanted.”

She smiled at the thought. Forever with Matt sounded picture-perfect.

He held her closer against his chest and pressed a soft kiss against her forehead. As he basked in her presence, her sweet underlying scent combined with the wonderful fruity scent of her shampoo, and the familiar and addicting feeling of her soft skin against his, he realized the bubbling feeling in his chest was because of her. The warmth that spread throughout and the utterly content feeling he felt whenever he thought about his life - it was all her. “I’ve missed you so much you have no idea,” he murmured under his breath. Even though the boys were out and it was only the two of them in the house, he still said it as if the words were only meant for her.

His bangs brushed against her forehead as he lowered his lips to meet hers. His heart thumped loudly in excitement as he felt her smile against his. Into each and every kiss, his smile grew and grew. There weren’t enough words in the dictionary to describe how happy he was. 

He lowered himself a bit and reached behind her thighs to pick her up. The repeat action, one that she absolutely loved from him, sent her loins ablaze. With her legs wrapped around his waist, her lips against his, and her hands lightly scratching at his scalp and carding through the longer hairs behind his neck, he carried her through the living room and toward his bedroom.

Blissful in their happy bubble, Sylvie went to bed that night with Matt’s bare chest pressed against her bare back and his arms around her waist, hugging her lower half to his and tangling their legs together. She wore a very wide and beaming grin as she easily fell into a deep slumber. There was nothing quite like falling asleep next to the man she loved with her whole heart. No matter what hurdles came their way, she knew they’d figure it out together.

[dirt-cup-draco]

Tethered- Fred x Reader

‘Don’t ever scare me like that again’ kiss with Fred where he lives (I’ve been crying about it lately) xoxo @starofthedawn

Your chest was tied up in knots, eyes burning and bile rising in your throat. The dust that permeated the air felt like gravel in your airways and you couldn’t help the wet cough that slipped past cracked lips. Even as you blinked away the tears that were running out, the world remained blurry and unfocused. 

After all, how could anything make sense when Fred was face down on the cobblestone. Pieces of the castle you two had called home burying him. 

“Lost in my eyes again, Y/N?” Fred asked, a playful tilt to his mouth. You were in the library, head buried in a book and not at all gazing into Fred’s honeyed eyes. You must’ve not heard him come in so when you looked up and saw him you couldn’t help the warmth that blossomed in your chest. 

You liked the way his lips were pulled up by an invisible thread as you finally took notice of him.  It wasn’t quite a smile, but a familiar expression that you held dear to your heart. It was understated, especially for Fred Weasley, but the expression was one of his most sincere. 

“Can’t help the fact you’ve got dreamy eyes, George,” 

“Sod off,” Fred said with no real venom, sitting in the chair beside yours and kicking his feet up onto the table. He was lucky Madam Pince didn’t often come to this corner of the library, otherwise she’d have his head.

You stuck your tongue out at him, even daring to toss a quill at his head- but before you could he caught your hand and held on tight. Your bright grin wavered at the edges but that joy was still blooming in your chest. Suffocation was a sure thing. 

“Everything okay, Freddie?” Voice soft, slow. You understood sometimes he just needed a hand to hold and you wouldn’t let yourself believe it was more than that. What it was, was Fred trusting you and needing you as a friend and that was more than enough. 

He nodded, his eyelids heavy and his demeanor sluggish. He almost seemed like a sleepy cat but you could see the way his shoulders dipped as you posed your question. 

Fred squeezed your hand as he sank down into his chair, knees now drawn to his chest in a protective ball. “Course I am, nothing could ever be wrong when I’ve got you to tether me to what’s good,” 

--

Your knees buckled as you stumbled the last foot to where Fred lay. Unmoving, broken, probably not breathing- You shook your head wildly even as the tears burned and your brain ached. Just like every other wizard, every other soldier at Hogwarts today, you had your fair share of injuries but you felt the pain dull to nothing; Your vision tunneled to the familiar hand that stuck out from the rubble, the feather soft shock of red hair that was visible under all the grey, lifeless stone. 

With a flick of your hand, some of the rubble broke loose and found themselves discarded on the burned and torn up grass ten feet from you. The panic pounding at your ribcage was only eased by the determination you felt to get Fred out of there, alive. There was no other option. 

Waves would stand still without the moon, plants would dry up without water, and you would cease to be anything but a shell without Fred Weasley. 

--

It had been an honest mistake at the time, George had tugged you away after class one day to an empty corridor and nearly begged you to ask Fred and put the both of you out of your “self sabotaging misery”. Problem was, all Katie Bell saw was George whisking you away somewhere private a week before the ball was to commence, both of you dateless. 

By the time you had both gone to the great hall for lunch, your group of friends were deep into speculations. 

“Going to the ball with Y/N then?” Fred fixed George with a look you couldn’t quite decipher but the shock of him thinking such a thing had you missing that usual twitch of his eye when he was aggravated. 

George whipped his head to you in confusion but it went unnoticed when Lee said, “Great! Of course you two got dates before me,” gesturing wildly to the twins. 

All of the confusion had your head spinning but hearing that Fred had a date to the ball made you steady again, the lead pit in your stomach anchoring you. Anyone would be a fool to not want to go with Fred. 

“You’ve got a date?” You said a bit too loudly, eyes narrowed at Fred. 

“Asked Angie,” 

“Yeah, two minutes ago,” She snorted. “Guess he didn’t want George to beat him by too much of a landslide,”  

George let out a too-loud laugh and tossed his arm back over your shoulders. “Take that Lee, we got two of the hottest girls in school to be our dates,” 

“Go with me instead and I’ll buy you as many sugar quills as your heart desires, Y/N” Lee bargained and George swatted him on the back of a head with a faux glare. 

You couldn’t help but snort at Lee’s antics, looking at George with gratitude. You could tell he was trying to talk you up, keep your heart from falling too far. However, his efforts couldn’t completely ease the ache in your chest. You were tethered to Fred and you didn’t think anything could change that. 

--

You’d done your best to completely immobilize Fred when most of the rubble was removed, only some of the smaller chunks of wall now littered over his legs and back. The immobulus charm had to be enough to keep him stable. If he was still alive. 

It was the uncertainty that kept you going in this moment. If there was even a slim chance Fred could be alive, you would do all you could to save him. You refused to lose him and that was that. You wished you could see his chest moving, or any sign of life but he was still too buried and the dust that settled over the battlefield made your eyes unfocused. 

Even though the final battle had ended an hour or more ago, how long had it been since you’d found Fred?, you were shut off from any of the joy that the win could have brought you. If Fred wasn’t going to be there to celebrate then how could you? 

“We’ve got to fix up the shop a-and get butterbeers,” You sniffled, trying to keep your hands from shaking as you worked your way through the rubble. You kept speaking as if holding Fred to his promises would bring him over the threshold and into your waiting arms. 

“You’ve got to give me that birthday present you’ve been bragging about for months, and you’ve got to help me prank Lee for singeing my favorite sweater with one of your fireworks,”

And on and on you went, all of the promises Fred had ever made you falling from your lips as you pulled the last of the rubble from his body. One of his legs and all of the fingers on his right hand were bent at grotesque angles. There was a line of blood that started somewhere behind his hairline and trailed down his temple, dripping off of his jaw and onto the ruins he had nearly become a permanent part of. 

You wouldn’t permit your legs to shake as you stood, the sun being further down in the sky than you remembered. The wave of your wand was light and methodical even as every step towards help weighed you down. 

Time passed you without you taking note, the sun sank beneath the horizon and you stumbled your way through the dark. Eventually, you were taken off guard by the light of someone’s wand. Time caught up to you then as you stared with bleary eyes, trying to recognize the face before you but having a hard time sorting anything in your over exhausted brain. 

“Help him,” Was all you had energy for, before darkness took over. 

--

“...understand how she did it,” 

“...miracle, really,” 

“Poor girl must’ve....” 

Conversations floated around your head as you lay cemented underneath the sheets that you had been securely wrapped in. You wanted nothing more than to swat them away like pesky flies, the voices weren’t loud but to you it was as if someone had put a speaker in the empty space of your skull and turned the volume up as high as it could go. Everything ached. 

“Am I dead?” You croaked, eyelids still too heavy to even attempt opening. 

Immediately, a woman nearly screamed and a cacophony of other voices rose up- both familiar and not. 

“You look like you wish you were,” Someone joked to your left and your eyes snapped open so quickly you became dizzy. You felt frozen in place as honey eyes swept over you from the top of your head to the tips of your toes. Despite being covered from the chin down you felt as if you were being looked through. A shiver ran down your spine and it was followed by a deep ache that had you groaning despite the emotions bubbling up within you. 

“Damn you Fred,” Was all you had to say before everyone else around you was clearing out. For a split second you felt guilt when you realized your parents as well as the Weasleys had come to stand beside you as you healed. 

“I’ve come back from the brink of death and that’s what you have to say to me?” He teased but his voice was torn to shreds and you had the terrible image in your mind of him screaming for help until he lost consciousness. The blood drained from your face. 

Fred seemed to take notice as he shuffled out of his bed that was right next to yours. He paused at the edge, fumbling for the crutches that were at his bedside. It felt like years the time it took for him to fall into the chair nearest you, his hand stretching for yours. 

You moved pathetically against the sheets but in your weakened state you couldn’t grasp his hand. “Freddie,” You croaked, eyes filling with tears in frustration. You’d thought him dead and now you couldn’t even move a damn blanket to touch him, to make sure this wasn’t a dream. 

“I’m here,” He reassured, moving the sheets on your side gently until your hand was free and you could tangle your fingers with his non-broken hand. 

“How?” 

“I’ve been telling you for years now, you’re my tether. Just when I thought I was going to cross over, I heard you. All the promises we made, and all the chaos we have yet to make, all the things I haven’t said,” Fred’s bottom lip trembled as he brushed his thumb over your scabbed knuckles. You were faintly aware of a needle in your forearm, attached to an IV but all that mattered was the warmth you felt from Fred. 

“You could break them all and I’d still be counting my lucky stars that you’re here,” You cried, falling into a coughing fit. Fred was quick to press a still cold glass of water into your hands and help you sit up even from his place on his chair. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” He promised, hand remaining at the back of your neck as he settled you against your pillows. That genuine not-smile was back and you chewed on your lip to keep from crying again. You still weren’t sure he was here so any reminder that it was really him had you at a breaking point. 

“Can you make me one more promise then?” You caught his gaze but found you couldn’t hold it, the intensity making your stomach swoop and your heart pound against your rattled ribcage. 

Fred had yet to move, his hand steady behind you and his face close. Your noses were nearly touching as he said, “Anything.” 

“Don’t scare me like that ever again,” 

You chanced one more look at him, eyes wide and pleading. You were going to make him promise on everything in him but the rest of your words were lost when you stumbled over the loud adoration in his eyes. As if on autopilot, you removed your hand from his to brush your fingertips against a gash on his cheek. 

“Never again,” He whispered, frozen in place. He didn’t dare move when you let your movements wander over his lips, taking your time before you let your hand fall against the junction of where his shoulder met his neck. Beneath the collar of the hospital gown you could see garish bruising that only served as another reminder you’d almost lost him. 

That was enough to remind you that there was much unsaid between you and the man you loved. You could feel his shaky breath, his hand squeezing yours just enough that you felt the reassuring pressure. When you took your third look at those eyes, you knew. 

You moved at the same time, in tune to one another in a way you always have been. It was with a sigh that your lips met, frightened and curious and wonderful. You were careful of his head would as you played with the hair at the back of his neck and he made sure not to move you anymore than tilting your head to slot your lips against his at a better angle. 

Fred pulled away when his smile dared to take over his face but you couldn’t complain about the loss when you could feel his pulse beating strongly against your fingers, his chest moving steadily with life. 

“I’m just as tied to you as you are to me,” You laughed softly, in disbelief. 

Fred looked surprised for all but a second before he was placing his lips against yours, cautious but deliriously happy. 

Waves swayed with the moon, plants flourished with water, and you were never far from Fred Weasley. Each were tethered to their counterpart and nothing could change it.