#i will rip what little hair i have left if i hear another hozier song in my entire life

[el3ctraaa]

When will Spotify finally understand that I would rather DIE than listen to mother mother

[comfyswitcherblanketfort]

Grunge-Metal Geralt

Hi, im fucking trash for the idea of Geralt being the front man for a Five Finger Death Punch type band and my brain wouldn’t shut the fuck up about it. This music genre is my bread and butter and I think Geralt’s repressed but highly emotional ass would fit right in. Yes im using another Hozier song, no i dont wanna hear anything about it. I’m a basic bitch and ive made my peace with it

Warnings: i honestly have no idea, its a little horny, little emotional, but theres no actual character interaction?, its at a concert venue? idk yall.

_________________________

Jaskier was… out of his comfort zone.

It’s not that he didn’t like the grunge-metal music, he just hadn’t listened to much and he was not used to the energy. People were yelling and screaming and the opener hadn’t even come on yet. He didn’t feel unsafe, far from it. Several people had checked to see if he was okay, seeing as he was the only person in the entire arena wearing a sweater that wasn't ripped or faded to hell. It was just a far cry from the shows he was used to. 

He played folky-blues. This was nothing like his shows. 

When the lights went down the crowd was deafening, all moving as one to rush the front of the floor, not giving a single fuck about tickets. 

The openers were exciting, and Jaskier was surprised by some of the concepts and messages behind the music. It wasn’t what he’d expected at all and he found himself searching them up on Spotify to listen later. 

Then came The Witchers. 

Eskel and Lambert made their energetic entrance, followed by Aiden calmly walking to his drums and sitting as if he were walking into a college class. But Geralt was nowhere in sight. The one person Jaskier had actually come to see. 

He’d seen a video clip from a previous concert where they covered one of his songs, and he was praying they’d do it again. It was lovely in a haunting-almost-threatening way, and the expression in Geralt’s posture alone was enthralling. He had to see it live. 

But Geralt was still absent as the band started to build a song. First Aiden with the beat, then Eskel’s bass, then Lambert with a melody on his electric guitar. It built and built and built to a fever pitch, taking the crowd with it. People were already jumping and screeching. Jaskier had to stand on his seat to see the stage clearly. 

Geralt’s voice echoed through the venue, low and closer to a growl than singing, but he was still nowhere to be seen.

Jaskier thought he’d been prepared, but his whole body was covered in goosebumps. He briefly wondered if this was what his friends were feeling when they listened to ASMR.

Geralt remained hidden for the whole first verse, getting the crowd even more excited than Jaskier thought possible, only for the band to go completely silent for a whole measure. When the crowd's screams reached their absolute loudest, Geralt dropped from on top of one of the jumbotrons, landing on one of the horse-sized speakers before launching into the chorus. 

Oh fuck, he was even more beautiful in person. 

He was… well he was a beast of a man. Jaskier really didn’t have another word for the way his muscles bulged and how lithe and powerful he looked springing from the speaker to join his bandmates on the main stage. His thighs filled out his black, tattered jeans and there were clear faded spots where his muscles strained the fabric too often. The thin black tank he wore did nothing but pretend the man was semi-modest. It was so tight, the only thing left up to the imagination was tan lines and the color of his nipple piercings. 

Jaskier was most entranced by his long, white, wavy hair falling past his shoulders. As the show continued and he started to sweat, a lot, it got curlier and curlier at the root. Jaskier wanted to give him a mask and some curl cream, but only after a, uhm, rough night of getting to know each other. He’d heard rumors about Geralt from hitting arenas not long after they’d left. He was quite sure they’d have a great time.

As he focused on the lyrics more and more, he was more inclined to want to wrap Geralt up in a hug and worship every part of him until he felt whole again. 

Either he’d been shown the shitty side of the genre, or The Witchers were exceptions to the rule of content. Jaskier was almost moved to tears a few different times.

Finally, about an hour into Jaskier mindlessly feasting his eyes on the front man, Geralt leapt onto another speaker and sat down, breathing hard and grinning from ear to ear. 

“You still with us?”

The unholy screech from the crowd left no doubt they were just as excited, if not more so, than when they’d arrived. 

“Good! Good..” he trailed off, chuckling as he lowered the mic to take a breath, “We’re gonna slow it down for a minute,” he leaned forward and held the mic away as Eskel shouted something up at him to which he laughed and flipped him off. 

“As I was saying, we’re gonna yearn for a minute or two and do a cover. Song by Jaskier called ‘Talk’.”

The crowd lost their shit again, various pride flags popping up throughout the stands. 

Geralt chuckled and raised his combat boot, showing off the bi flag colored treads, earning another round of screams. If this is what the grunge-metal scene was like, Jaskier had been missing out his entire life. Sure his fans were sweet and supportive and loving when he’d come out. But this was electric and feral and completely addictive.

Lambert struck the opening chord to Jaskier’s song and the crowd settled to a gentle hum, setting the tone immediately, as if they all knew exactly what was coming. 

Geralt closed his eyes as he tapped his thigh with one finger, keeping time before his rumbling baritone hit Jaskier like a freight train. 

“I’d be the voice that urged Orpheus when her body was found…”

Jaskier could have collapsed right there. He knew he was staring like a lovesick idiot, but hell, everyone around him was too. When the chorus hit and Eskel came in with a heavy bass line he nearly fell off his chair. Geralt’s intensity raised with the addition of the backup but he didn’t move. He stayed seated, swaying slightly, with his eyes closed as he crooned out the words Jaskier had sobbed as he wrote, broken hearted and miserable. 

It was surreal. 

Sure he’d seen other covers. Sure they’d been lovely. But he wanted to listen to this and only this as he fell asleep for the rest of his life. He’d never play it again if he could only hear it one more time. 

After the last verse Lambert launched into a guitar solo while Geralt jumped off the speaker and meandered to the center of the stage to slot his mic back in it’s stand. He gripped it like a lifeline when Lambert held one last note for as long as his instrument would allow and only started singing the last chorus when it was almost silent. 

“I won't deny I've got in my mind now all the things I would do

So I'll try to talk refined for fear that you find out how I'm imaginin' you

I won't deny I've got in my mind now all the things we could do

So I'll try to talk refined for fear that you find out how I'm imaginin' you”

His expression looked hopeless and utterly desperate as he crooned out the last two lines. He let his hair fall to cover his face and Jaskier could just barely hear his panting breath over the sound system as the crowd exploded. Geralt tipped his head back and took two deep breaths before straightening up and getting on with the show but Jaskier was stuck. 

He was vaguely aware of someone taking a picture of him, but he really couldn’t care less. The fact that Geralt moved right on to a song called ‘Burn Motherfucker Burn’ didn’t matter either. 

Jaskier jumped down from his arena seat, whipping out his phone and sending the band a tweet, because apparently that’s what musicians did now?

“Record it. Please. It’s either that or sing me to sleep every night. You choose.”

He stayed for the rest of the show and walked to his car in a haze. Before he backed out of his spot he checked his phone like always and his heart nearly stopped at the two top notifications. 

One public reply: “Both? -G”

And one direct message: “If you’re still here and want to grab a drink, I’m just backstage.” 

[matchamorphosis]

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ 𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐲𝐬𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐞, 𝐦𝐲 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐝𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐞

𝐦𝐲 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐤 | ღ | 𝐦𝐲 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 || what seems to be a normal rich summer morning with the women who lives across the honeysuckle boulevard from his cottage lies something else. a buttery rich feeling that spreads deep within Bucky’s heart as he takes his neighbor, alongside Alpine to the farmers market for coffee.

𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞 || fluffy fluff! ➳ part one

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 || retired!bucky barnes × neighbor![black//woc]reader

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 || 3K ➳ 𝐝𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐭 || @firefly-graphics

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 || if you think long walks with bucky and alpine in the sunny countryside are warnings then so be it but there is lots of food mentioned. ღ also reader owns a flower shop, not a warning thought just some info!

𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐬 || this version of cherry wine by hozier ღ this version of mystery of love by sufjan stevens ღ

𝐰. 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 || eeeeep!!! so this is my first bucky with alpine fluff and i’m very glad to have it be the first for my fluffy mini series that i’m doing for this month! ღ I don’t describe reader too much throughout the story but what is clear is that I don’t specify on skin tone but yes the person in the moodboard is a woc! ღ anyways I hope you cherubs enjoy reading! ღ

+ p.s || do not repost, republish or plagiarize my work on any other fanfic platform such as: wattpad, ao3, tumblr, etc or steal my work all together. do so and i will rip your spine from your scumy asshole and shove it down your talentless throat. ♡♡♡  

it was a lavish affair when Bucky found himself tangled with you in the bed of a million perennial petals.

clothing falling and bodies twisting themselves against each other in not lust but emotional apprehension. the soft petals of rose, carnation and violet keep pouring like blissful rain, entangling in his hair and in the crooks of your body.

enough to suffocate but enough to make him feel enveloped in the fantasy- the divination of you you you and only you.

for you are butterscotch benevolence that he will let pool like ambrosial nectar in the cavernous hollows of his collarbones. your tears of seventh heaven euphoria trickling onto his skin forming constellations- like the paint speckles on the forlonged artists canvas of his naked soul.

you are honey sunlight oozing from the basin of the candy floss sky, lacing with the shedding petals that continue to powder in their divine scent and morality. his fine pink sheets soft and silky as the rose petals of Heliogabalus, he’d sigh in heavenly pleasure to be buried alive in petals if she was drunk of the love he has for her.

he sees her playing, singing, dancing and bringing her virtuous spring song deep within the glossy shine of her honey hive eyes. love seeping in the melancholy streams leaking through the old creeky floorboards of his home and straight into the chambers of his heart.

so promising yet so grandeur as he feels his chest warm with her very touch, the ivory bow encased in the virtuous flowers of her emblem garden in his hands- he’d think that he was Cupid but oh how he’s been struck by his own arrow in great surprise. straight into the once extravagant chamber of his heart.

the spiraling golden arrow destined to pierce and rip through the tender muscle of breast to the beating vessel that writes a tragic tale of eternal ravishment in the movements of lyrical beats. muttering with languor-glazed lips, he’d keep her love like a an old locket against his chest for it’s what reminds him of home whenever he feels the cold element on his skin.

there are pieces of you scattered in the wonderous arteries of his heart.

nestled in the folds of the beating muscle, take heed.

for that is his home.

y/n is his perennial feelings left unsaid, exquisite pain yet ethereal serenity. his soft bed of roses and his deadly golden arrow, all meant to give his heart hope.

that he was- however it seems the bed of roses and all the lovely elements it holds have come to a staggering pause.

now as the sun hits the past super soldiers eyelids that dream of flower petals and the heavenly vision of you disappear. they flutter open to meet the single stream of sunlight that has slipped past the slit of the sheer bedroom curtains. brightening up the somewhat clustered space of the room with its single golden string.

Bucky sighs in defeat, this is the fifth dream he’s had of you in a month and he was barely pushing past the second week of May. before he didn’t mind the dreams, they calmed his mind while he layed in slumber during the thunderstorms of April but now they were resilient. it wasn’t no regular thing to dream about the women across the boulevard in the haven of flower fields and maple trees.

Bucky knew this but he couldn’t help but not treat these dreams sweetly. they were the definition of sweet torture, you never hurt him in those dreams as he did to himself but it was a pain to know that you probably don’t think of him the same way. for goodness sake ever since he and Alpine moved the only interactions he had with the maiden were just acknowledgments as they passed each other on their daily errands.

he shouldn't be this infatuated with someone who he's only met.

the soft hum of a purr finally awakens Bucky, his cats paw brushing against the half covered skin of his fleshed bicep. it takes a pat or two to make Bucky open his eyes to find Alpines blue hues staring back at his and he gives his furry friend a crooked smile. a chorus of meows welcoming him to another sunny morning in the peaceful and harmonious countryside.

“morning pal, ya slept well?” Bucky smiles as he lazily lifts his hand to scratch the right spot behind Alpines ear.

stretching out of bed till his feet touch the cool wood flooring, following the simple path from the bedroom to the kitchen he pours Alpine his dish of cream and gets started on his own breakfast. whisking hen eggs his neighbors from afar gifted him the day before and toasting the freshly baked loaves of bread he bought specially from the market yesterday.

Bucky normally didn’t take any gifts from anyone, he wasn’t that type of person to feel comfortable with those sort of things but as the days gone by the cheerfulness of the communities welcoming energy towards him has soften his doubt.

eating his simple breakfast paired with coffee, Bucky bites into his buttery egg toast whilst quickly scribbling down his to-do list for the day. of course there isn’t any tasks that the hundred and ten year old man has to get done but there were things that Bucky did look forward to ever since he settled in a month ago. the country was a lovely peacefulness he had forgotten about ever since he was a boy.

traveling to his grandparents farm away from the city for memorable childhood summers in the sun and fields. turning his head to meet the white linen sheets that draped over the kitchen panels, Bucky can see the herd of brown and black spotted cows from the distance. tapping the pencil against the shiny polish of the kitchen table he bites his lip on what else to add on.

his head lifts up to see through the other window that casts its lovely light against his paper. blue eyes meeting the toffee cobblestone path that led to her cottage, hidden amongst the shrubbery of acorn trees and flower budded bushes. hearing from lots of locals in the cobblestone village near the sparkling sea that she owns a little orchard of peach and cherry trees, a few strawberry patches amongst the vegetation.

it made sense why he sometimes finds a large wooden basket of those ruby fruits at his doorstep from time to time. a card inviting him over for some tea that he would agree to yet he would always call you the next day a stuttering mess canceling it over some important errands. nonetheless it made Bucky's heart swell how understanding you were, sweet just like the ripe fruits you pluck for him on Sundays.

Bucky would make copplers and sometimes pies out of them and if he wasn't so scared of the possibility of being too attracted to you he'd head over to your place so he and him would eat them in your gazebo. but of course he can't do everything his heart implores him to do. was it bad to want to get to know you and imagine what it would be like to befriend you?

maybe do lots more than just befriend you...

sometimes he would find a glimpse of your form in the distance as he headed for the lake neat the lavender fields up north to fish something for dinner. humming while you cared for your flowers, singing to them as you danced along the vintage radio. Bucky could see himself singing and dancing alongside you. caring for your precious tulips, primroses and other beautiful flowers that you sold.

those pretty flowers sweet and divine just as her lips and voice when the two first met, when he arrived in the too expensive car that stood out amongst the scenery. arms occupied with bouquets upon bouquets of trimmed flowers that practically shielded her face, his body ran straight into yours when he got out of his car. flower petals falling with the impact and him apologizing one thing led to another and he helped her with her bouquets all while being stricken when he got a clear look at her.

a clear look at you.

lovely in your sundress that flowed beautifully against your bodies soft planes, there was something about the sparkle in your eyes that made him start to stutter. something about you that made his heart bloom in a recherché flower he still can’t understand because he can still hear the velvety tone of your voice speaking your own name when giving each other’s your introduction.

from there on out a glowing ember of clustered stars burned in the pit of his belly when you spoke his name and he spoke yours. it was soft and innocent as the flowers in your arms but the introduction was cut off far too short for Bucky's liking but he promised you a coffee when he was completely settled in. having to do something so he could see you again cause oh how he wishes to hear you speak his name again and again and again till the flowers sprout, bloom and decay with each coming season.

maybe he should pay you a visit and bring up that coffee...

the music from the radio filling the bright cottage kitchen sweetly alongside the birds singing their song outside. Alpine takes his seat across from him, yawning over the new day that brings nothing but lazy laps and baked fish treats. forking a few honey drizzled raspberries in his mouth, Bucky walks to the front door and just in time the daily paper plops down on his feet from the passing paper boy whipping through the grassy roads on the shiny steel of a ringing bicycle.

bending down to retrieve the newspaper, he passes through the sidewalk of petunias and violets till he reaches his mailbox. the wood creaky and the metal rusty but the daisies that sprinted around the opening was a pretty site to see before Bucky grimaced at people from the outside world wanting to invade his privacy. grabbing the letters before smelling the sweet daisies, Bucky looks through the letters one by one. ripping some that had no use for to be used as fire food for his fireplace, grunting that even though he’s away from the tabloids and cameras there are still people eager enough to want something from him.

a soft voice from the distance pulls him out of his annoyance, it makes his eyes lift from his dreaded mail to the women a mile away singing her song as she reaches her mailbox. Bucky can’t help but look at her from afar; and maybe Alpine knows this to as he watch his lovesick owner admire the maiden from the kitchen windowsill.

with some obscene fortune he notices you checking your mailbox as well. heart pacing in his chest, he wishes he didn’t go outside before showering and at least brushing his hair for your waving to him from the distance.

“hello hello Bucky!” your sweet voice exclaims and it just adds onto the heaven that is the morning it makes his cheek hurt from how much he’s smiling.

“hello hello to you y/n. how is the shop coming along?” Bucky shouts and his heart sinks when you wave him over to you.

despite his mind telling him to not pursue closer his heart makes him walk his way to you standing next to your Valentine shaped mailbox. his worries slipping away when there's a underlying comfort in your posture and aura, alluring like the bees are to the flowers. welcoming and warm and he can't help but feel that way every time he's near you.

speaking of you, its reassuring to also know he wasn't the only one to wear pajama's out since your still in your blue silk nightgown. matching silk slippers adorning your feet, you sip from your tea cup as you read what he believes to be a Cosmopolitan.

“it’s coming along great, thank you! a bit slow the first week but that’s how any business starts but I just received my tenth loyal customer and i’m more than certain i’ll be selling lots of flowers today.” you spoke as you smiled to yourself then up at him.

checking your mail, Bucky’s surprised that you have quite a handful of letters and boxes. all written in lovely cursive and packaged nicely, almost like love letters and gifts. it makes Bucky’s heat sink, knowing that he might not be the only one who’s fallen head over heels for you. by all means you probably have the whole village under a spell with just the way you smile alone but he wants to see that smile the most.

he wants to be the reason for that smile.

“that’s sounds wonderful y/n, maybe I could stop by and pick a pretty bouquet or two," you only smile wider upon those words and much to his excitement you even brush your hand against his.

"oh really? have a special someone in your life who needs some loving?" you perk as you open an envelop but the question makes Bucky's throat dry on how he should answer.

you seem like the type of maiden who loves an honest man- yes, he should be honest.

"well... there is this one special lady." Bucky lingers and that makes you snap your attention away from the letters in your hands. voice dying in your throat at those words and heart beat hitting pause.

"I always thought Alpine was gonna be the only one to get to my soft spot- we sleep in the same bed together," he stops to laugh a bit, rubbing the back of neck with his metal arm and you laugh along with him.

"how is Alpine? i'm noticing he's getting into a routine with sleeping in my chamomile beds in the afternoon," you smile and bring your tiny tea cup to your lips. "would you care for a cup Bucky? this just so happens to be chamomile,"

"Alpine is doing good and thank you for bringing that up I was beginning to wonder where that rascal has been leaving for. will have an important talk to him once I get home and- I was going to ask you something," Bucky speaks while admiring how your thick lashes curtain your honey hive hues as you sip the steaming golden liquid.

no one should look that beautiful just drinking tea yet here he is, breathless on the simple action. if he truly wanted a cup he'd wish to drink from your tiny cup, to press his lips upon the porcelain rim where yours once brushed against. drink the sweet sunshine to experience the closest thing to your honey kiss...

"don't worry it's alright! I love looking over at him when I have tea at the back patio, he's quite a lovely guest. very well mannered, and yes Bucky is there anything I can help you with?" you cannot deny that your heart is practically skipping beats in your chest, fast and lively like the flutter of a butterfly wing.

Bucky runs his fingers through his hair, for someone who has done the simple thing of asking someone out for couple hundreds of times a hundred years ago from now it’s a disappointment that he’s lost his touch. however you don’t seem to notice or care but that doesn't mean he should give up. not when you're right here glowing in your morning dew radiance, anticipating the next words to slip past those lips.

it's now or never.

"h-how do you feel about that coffee I promised? today? I have a few errands to run in town and I was wondering if you would accompany me- on my errands... if that doesn't bother you,” Bucky rambles to a stop and he's thankful you're still smiling that closed lip grin against the porcelain of the cup.

"yes Bucky I would love that! there's a coffee cart near the shop I work at but what about your lady? she wouldn't mind us going out for coffee, would she?" you speak as you gather your letters in your arms. glancing up at Bucky to receive some conformation and Bucky bites his lips.

"I don't think she'll mind. in fact... I think she would love me to go out once in a while. I have a habit of only going out when necessary, coffee with you wouldn't hurt,"

"that's perfect, i'll see you at twelve then Bucky. you can help me open shop to," you smiled and Bucky returned an even warmer one back.

filling your heart with a rush of liason, like a tea cup filling with tea. something meant to be full and warm, embraced with someone's touch and lips as they drank each fluttering honey glazed sensation they have for one other.

something that seems to be happening right now before they break their strong eye contact, wiry- crooked smiles still embellishing their sun-freckled faces.

you wish you could kisses each one off his clean shaven cheeks right now, slightly rosy but oh how it would feel like peach skin against your lips.

Bucky wishes to kiss yours, the shine of your lips the form of heart shaped clouds and he just can't seem to get his head out of the amorous blue you cast him into.

"i'll be seeing you in an hour Bucky," you draw before walking away with a cheeky wink, your eyes still locking with his before you get to the rosy sunflower porch.

"and i'll be waiting for you doll,"

♡♡♡ thank you for reading part one! ♡♡♡ pretty please like, reblog and/or comment what you think and if you enjoy this join my taglist to be notified of my future works! ♡♡♡

𝐫𝐨��𝐢𝐞’𝐬 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 || @cloudystevie ღ @steebsbabygirl ღ @honeychicana ღ @afriendlyblackhottie ღ @chrissquares ღ @denisemarieangelina ღ @hevans-angel ღ @drewsbuzz​ ღ @assoftheamericana ღ @gracechristo ღ @little-baby-vixen ღ @sohoseb ღ @quxxnxfhxll ღ @peachesofcolour ღ @abschaffer1 ღ @sea040561 ღ @afriicanhoe ღ ღ ღ

𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 || @burninmatches ღ @lovesguiltypleasuress ღღღ

[fics-not-tragedies]

In a Week: Chapter 6 🌲

I could quote half of Hozier’s songs right now and it would fit as a brief description for this piece of fanfiction. Oh, how I love their story!

Words:  3778; Warnings: none, unless you want a warning for smoking, then you have it; Summary: Both being absolutely hungover Andrew and Flo eat a breakfast together.

Hozier tag list:

@letoursilencebreaktonight​​​​​​​​​​​; @angelpeachamber​​​​​​​​​​​; @sgt-morgan​​​​​​​​​​​; @julessbrown​​​​​​​​​​​;

Monday, 9am

Flo woke up feeling like she was run over by a huge truck, that then had reversed back over her just to be sure. It wasn’t the kind of morning which you embrace slowly, the light drifting around you until your eyelids gradually fall open and you see the whole world in all of its grace. Instead - she was asleep and then she wasn’t and it felt truly horrible.

The curtains were wide open, but the light cascading over the bed was more of a disturbance than a joyful moment. She had no memory of the view from her hotel room. She had the sense she was dreaming of something important, but it was too hard to hold onto and just like that - the dream was gone. Flo rolled to the side of her bed away from the brightness, her mouth hanging open in a groan and scrambled for her phone to check the time. She had to squint a little at the screen, her head pounding incessantly as she tried to puzzle together what she was doing the night before.

Her mind was still foggy thanks to the alcohol which taste was still in her mouth, but as she blinked through it, the night came back to her in moments, snapshots and each one was bright and vivid, images she would never let herself forget.

Malibus. A well lit bar. The warmth. The patterned corridor carpet. The stars. Shake It Out. No underwear on. A baby grand piano. Painful heeled boots. The reflection of the moon on the water surface.

And just when Flo began to retrace her steps fully, put the remaining events into order, she realized that she’d missed one crucial part out.

Andrew, Andy, Hozier. “You can call me any name that you think suits me.”

The memory of him hit her harder than she braced herself for and she rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling as she tried to remember him exactly, knowing somehow that her mind could never replicate him in a way she’d be satisfied with. If she focused just long enough she could remember tiny pieces of him - the fluffiness of his slightly unkempt beard, his pointy nose, the way his eyes shone under any light - but it was never a complete picture, never enough for her.

Andrew was unexpected and complicated. He had pushed her further out of her comfort zone than she has ever been. And if Flo was honest with herself, last night she just completely lost herself in the idea of him. It was exciting and vulnerable in a way she couldn’t put her finger on. And she knew it was all that when she looked into those sparkling eyes, when she was pressed so close to his body in the creek, when she watched his fingers dance over the keys of the piano - she’d have done anything for him. She was wrapped so tightly around his little finger and she knew it.

Flo felt a nervousness, a maddening insecurity building inside her. She reminded herself that she didn’t have his number, knew such little about him and that they both were drunk enough last night not to care at all about each other now that it was light outside.

“...I think that you’re too worried about the future…”

In an attempt to shove the obnoxious self-consciousness down, Flo flipped herself over and screamed into her pillow like a teenager, giggling like a little idiot she was, at the situation she found herself in.

At last, with a mighty sigh, she dragged herself to the bathroom to stand in front of the mirror. She combed her matted hair uselessly with her hands then resorted to standing under the shower until she felt somewhat new again, the steam energizing her in ways that she couldn’t quite understand, but was thankful for that nonetheless.

After drying her hair and applying the most natural makeup she could find just in case she bumped into the perfect stranger from last night, Flo dressed herself in a hurry fueled partly by hunger. She pulled on a pair of blue jeans over her black underwear, thanking her past self for grabbing a pair that actually fit her well, rummaging through her clothes to find something that would make her feel comfortable. Settling on a much oversized gray jumper which covered her comfortingly, Flo grabbed her room key, leaving her phone behind again, praying that the day would have more than enough to keep her occupied without it.

Monday, 9:10am

Having made her way downstairs, Flo ordered her breakfast at the bar, asking for pretty much everything she could because everything smelt so good. She subconsciously checked for Andrew, but knew that she’d sense and see him straight away if he was here, the man being like a tall roman column. A little disappointed, she took the same seat by the window she had chosen last night, and eyed every plate that drifted past her, hoping it was hers. The restaurant was emptier than she actually expected, but still somehow noisy enough to annoy her and she wondered if she was the only person with a raging hangover this morning.

Monday, 9:15am

Andrew woke up alone, of course, but the thought of Flo was there with him, keeping him inexplicably warm in the first cringe of morning. Rubbing his eyes and blinking away the immediate sleepiness to sit up in bed, he decided confidently that she probably looked gorgeous when she woke up, her  soft skin and rosy cheeks making frequent appearances in his mind since he left her on the hallway by her room. He rubbed his nose and cursed himself audibly for not making a solid plan with her today or asking for her number at least.

He didn’t want to admit it, but he was paranoid this morning and combined with his throbbing head, he knew he was in for a rough start. Andrew had an enormous fear that she already found out who he was somehow and that she’d think differently about him now, change her mind for the worse. Being an international star wouldn’t work its usual tricks on her and Andy told himself that she was sure to run in the other direction. It didn’t help that they both were quite drunk, both been lonely and he knew there was a part of him that knew he was just simply void filler to her.

His mouth felt dry, the summer sun was too bright and everything seemed to ache. Andrew was feeling simply dreadful and his tendency to over analyze wasn’t helping, but he wouldn’t allow himself to sit on that feeling for too long, fueled ultimately by the thought of seeing her again. He followed the usual routine that he usually did after night of heavy drinking - have a smoke, take a cold shower and have a smoke.

The first cigarette was to wake him up, ironically get his body working again and he stood on the balcony taking long and desperate drags in nothing but his pants in which he fell asleep. He coughed a little, telling himself that perhaps it was the final time to give up smoking. Andrew knew it’d probably be good for him if he could quit and that it’d slow down his ageing but he also knew that he didn’t possess the self-control needed to give up nicotine for good. Plus, smoking made him look cooler than he felt and he needed that sometimes. He stubbed it and yawned on his way back inside.

Then, though he decided he didn’t smell as bad as he’d imagined he would, he took a cold shower and raked expensive smelling shampoo through his hair, enjoying the sting of the water. He dressed, picking another flannel shirt from his wardrobe, pairing it with really old and worn out jeans he loved too much. His hair was fluffy and unmanageable and it took longer than he liked to tame all of that frizz. His second cigarette was to calm him down, turn his nerves off so that he could focus on just surviving his hangover. He finished it quickly, shoved a pair of sunglasses onto his nose to cover how dreadful he looked and headed down to breakfast, another yawn violently ripping through his body.

Monday, 9:25am

He was real, he hadn’t been a dream. And he looked fucking good.

Flo watched Andrew enter the room dazed and she tried to meet his eye as he ordered his breakfast, all the while struggling not to act too eager. He requested coffee, lots of coffee with toast and though she couldn’t quite hear his voice, she could certainly read the languid movements of his lips. But he hadn’t noticed her. He took a seat across the room, drumming his fingers on the table. His hair was still slightly damp, insanely curly just as they were last night. His outfit was like the last night’s, a flannel shirt and some jeans. She was annoyed at him for wearing glasses, black-toned ones - not only because he was indoors and somehow still managed to pull it off, but because she couldn’t see his eyes and she didn’t care how tired or hungover he was, she simply missed the muddy shade of them. He looked so deep in thought.

Monday, 9:30am

Andrew was far away, had zoned out somewhere else in both time and space like he often did when he was alone and it needed the arrival of his waiter with the coffee he requested, so he could to come back to life. He poured himself a large steaming mug, black, and drank it before the man even had a chance to offer the milk. The waiter moved away to the next table and that’s when he saw her at last - her hair all shiny and slick, face glowing like an angel, those emerald eyes just killing him.

It was like looking at a different girl from the night before, a much softer version of the one who had walked into this very room and had commanded his undivided attention and he struggled to think of anything but how happy he was to see her. Of course she still looked fucking exquisite covered up completely in a pair of jeans and a knitted jumper and Andrew was only a little aggravated by not being able to see what was underneath. Even with all the clothes on in the world, everything left to the imagination, he was aware of how ridiculously attracted to her he was and he knew that he would take any opportunity he had to be with her in the ways he dreamt of last night.

Now she was looking at him too, that wild, bright blush creeping over her cheeks and he wanted to kiss them both, press his lips to every inch of her face until she knew how wonderful she was. He raised an eyebrow at her and she did the same back, failing to replicate the seriousness of his gaze and she erupted into laughter. Strangers from nearby tables were turning to look at her, but Flo didn’t even notice. Andrew found her giggle so pure and unfiltered that he just wanted to make her laugh that way again for the entire day, over and over. That was his new mission. He felt the entire room fall away from him. He could smell coffee, make out the material of the linen tablecloth under his calloused fingertips and then it was just her, only her. But before he could process everything that was bubbling under the surface, she had stood and was walking towards him, her hips swaying naturally, her chin held high.

“Are you expecting someone’s company?” she asked, stopping behind the empty chair just as he had, badly mimicking his voice and first question from the night before. Andrew looked up and shoved the glasses up into his hair to see her better, his lips quivering as he spoke.

“Only you, my love” he replied. His eyes were blinking in a sleepy manner and he tried to keep his focus as she beamed at him, her smile quite literally making his day. Until this point he was  pretty sure how he felt about this one, wanting to be certain before he did anything stupid, but that’s when he was able to confirm it.

Fuck.

She was so far from being just another drunk, pretty girl at the bar and he had fallen for her completely. It didn’t matter if he was drunk or sober, if it was the morning or late at night, if he was feeling his best or his absolute worst - Flo Hayes had him so good, even if she hadn’t been trying.

Monday, 9:35am

She sat, not needing to be prompted twice and they began eating instantly, as if they ate breakfast together every morning without fail. She was hit with a wave of his cigarette smoke and could tell he recently went outside, probably not his first of the day, but there was still something so homely and musky underneath. As they both ate, Flo noticed that something about him was slower this morning, blunter, less alert and she tried to learn his new movements. Andrew chewed on his toast and struggled to think of something to say, his confidence severely knocked now that he was sober.

“Did you sleep well? Beds are, em, quite comfy.”

“Yes, yes” she replied quickly, thankful he figured out an ice breaker after the uncomfortable silence, “I didn’t woke up once” Andrew nodded, carefully dissecting her every word, “And you?” She added in haste before shoveling a forkful of scrambled egg into her mouth.

“Yeah, I slept like a really tall baby.”

Flo giggled again, a lower sound only held back by her own sensitivity to noise. He blinked repetitively back at her, the muddy greens of his round eyes more prominent whilst the longing for sleep had him engulfed. He spoke much more softly, was so much tamer than he had been last night and it felt like an honor to see this Andrew. She watched as he hummed to himself quietly, a tune he often found bouncing in his head recently, but one that hadn’t quite made it’s way out yet. She wondered how many people had seen this version of him and then realized that she knew nothing about him - nothing about him except what he carefully chosen to show her. He was a complete mystery and she was too curious, wanted to know more of this man.

“Andy?”

“Mhm?” He mumbled, picking up another slice of toast, his voice barely audible.

“Why are you here?” Andrew stopped chewing, afraid to look her in the eyes because of what they’d do to him. Though he could barely focus on anything, he was alarmed by the inevitable questions coming, the very thing he was terrified of the whole morning. He tried to brush it off at first, pretend he was clueless.

“At breakfast?”

“In the hotel” Flo pushed quietly, his plan not fooling her for a second. Andrew toyed with his answer in his mind. The truth was fairly simple, that he was off tour and needed to relax, regenerate, sort through some stuff before he had to come home. But he was still wary of admitting who he was to her and that’s what telling the truth would mean. He knew the questions wouldn’t stop because Flo was too easily intrigued to only ask one. It wasn’t because he didn’t trust her, because he somehow did and it wasn’t that he was ashamed as such of his career, it was just that he didn’t want to taint the week already, didn’t want the anxious man he in fact was to show up and spoil it all for him.

“I just, em, needed some time all by myself” he uttered, his voice low and quiet.

“But why here?” She sighed at his impossibility.

“It’s, em, a cool place” he squinted between phrases, his head throbbing and the nerves begging to build, “I just simply, em, like how it looks.”

“Are you from here?” Flo asked as soon as she digested his vague answer, relentlessly trying to know him.

“You ask if I’m Irish? Yes I am, ma’am” there was an awkward pause as Andrew scratched his nose. Flo could sense the tension, not immediately clear where it came from, but wishing they could retrace their steps, “What’s with, em, all of those questions? It feels, em, like some sort of, em, interview…”

“I’m just trying to get to know you, Andy” she mumbled, embarrassed now. He looked at her long and hard for a moment, his fingers tapping nervously on the edge of his plate with the same tune that had been in his head moments ago and then he sighed, a long and frustrated noise escaping from between his lips.

She furrowed her brow, lost in the rawness of seeing each other again this morning and he hated seeing her this way. The tension in her shoulders that he worked so hard last night to ease was back again. Andrew untangled his sunglasses from his hair and stuck them into his flanel pocket.

“I’m sorry, Flo” he said softly, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin. Flo watched him carefully, as he reached to comfort her with his free hand, mesmerized by the way his lips moved and she felt instantly at ease again, the loveliness of him just melting her. He didn’t move his hand much once he felt her soft skin relax over his, but she had met him halfway and it was important nonetheless. This was the first time he touched her after what had felt like forever and he almost forgot to breathe - she quite literally took his breath away.

“It’s alright…” she replied, trying to keep her focus, “I’m being a nightmare this morning.”

“What do you want to know then?”

“Anything really” she said, pushing forward on her elbows to be somewhat closer to him as he let go of her hand, “What shampoo do you use, favorite TV show, do you sleep in socks?”

“Herbal Essence, Peaky Blinders, no I don’t sleep in socks” Andrew replied, quick fire, a small smile back on his face. The silence wasn’t awful this time because they were both sort of thankful for the it now, “Sorry, love, it kinda, em, hurts to think this morning” he rasped, lolling his forehead onto his palm and squeezing his eyes shut as he spoke.

“Oh me too” she sighed, relieved he was feeling just as foggy as she was. She clutched her head in a similar way as she washed the last of her breakfast down with apple juice. He cupped his coffee with two hands, steam rising from the top and took another big gulp, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed.

“Are you, em, having any plans for today?” He asked quietly, his half-lidded eyes equally adorable and frustrating.

“Haven’t figured it out yet” she announced at an equal volume, finishing her mouthful, “Was gonna head to the woods, have a walk and pick up what’s left of my stuff that’s still left there.”

“Ahhhh, okay.”

“You’re welcome to join me” Flo added quickly, her smile part of the offer, “I need a guide and it feels like you’re the man of the woods.”

Andrew looked up at her again to make sure that he heard her offer correctly. From the way she could barely look at him, he guessed that she was thinking of the exact same thing he was. He knew he ought to say something, respond somehow to her words, but his mind was beginning to spiral down the rabbit hole of lustful thoughts, his eyes groping at any inch of her skin they could stumble upon. He wanted her, she seemed like the perfect hangover cure. He cleared his throat, louder than he actually intended to.

“Well, we need to get your shoes anyway” they both exhaled.

“Right” she nodded, burying her embarrassment in her drink, stifling a small laugh.

Monday, 9:55am

As guests and staff moved around them, the world moving at an alarmingly scary pace, Andy and Flo enjoyed the simple company of each other for a while. There was no rush this morning, they had nowhere to be and it was blissful. Flo went for pushing the alcohol out of her system with enormous amounts of apple juice and Andrew drank more coffee, feeling his moodiness slip away with each sip.

Flo laughed every time Andrew flinched at loud noises, her own hangover fading much quicker than his was. She we amazed by how picturesque he was. His face was sculpted so carefully and though she was more than sure her drinking had exaggerated his handsomeness she realized now that he was just as gorgeous in the headache inducing brightness of morning. He was so alive, so vivid even when he was at his worst - the creases around his eyes and nose flickering each time the corners of his lips pulled upwards. He radiated the kind of warmth of a sunset that couldn’t be captured on a camera.

Andrew grinned every time Flo spoke and even though he felt like living death and knew he probably looked like it too, he kept his sunglasses out of his face just so he could see her better. He watched her pick at her nail varnish, watched her fiddle with her hair, watched her pretty lips as she chewed and desperately held himself back from saying something stupid, something he’d regret. Every thought that came to his mind when she looked at him was too inappropriate, too forward, too much for right now. He just hoped he’d get to tell her soon.

They had both worried that last night was the end of their story together, frightened that their reunion would be cold and difficult, unsure what a new dawn would bring. Would it change things? Had the alcohol merely enhanced their infatuation for each other? Had it all been rushed for the idea of a perfect adventure?

But being together now, neither of them could deny that there was still an immediate longing to be close to each other, to learn each other. Yes, the spark was still there, maybe even greater than before, which had to mean something given their current state. And now there really was no rush, the unspoken promise of last night’s sequel hanging in the air.

[beckzorz]

Blood Bank (one-shot)

Pairing: Winter Soldier x f!Reader Words: 8007 Warnings: Death, blood, needles, murder, swearing, mentions of past torture... And angst, in case all the other warnings didn’t give it away. Summary: Your captors ask you your blood type. Your answer changes everything. A/N: Written for @connorshero​’s song challenge! My song was “Take Me To Church” by Hozier, I was particularly inspired by these lines: “I'll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife / Offer me that deathless death / Good God, let me give you my life.” Thank you so, so much to @prettyyoungtragedy​ and @jewelofwinter​ for beta reading at different points for me :3 So much appreciated! I hope you enjoy :3

There’s a rattle at the door. Low voices hissing, arguing. You know those voices. They’re the voices of the people hurting you.

You groan and force your eyes open. Who is it now? Another bout of torture? Another round of tests? More foreign substances pumped into you? The last pills they gave you made you hallucinate for three days straight. You’ve only been clean—as clean as one can get in a place like this—for a few hours.

Unless the whispers are hallucinations, too.

At least you know the cell is real. It’s small, dark, the same it’s been since you were first thrown in. It’s not too cold right now, or at least, you’re not shivering despite the fact that your only protection is a thin gray jumpsuit. You don’t even have socks, let alone shoes. But still, you’re not cold.

Is it daytime? It’s not like you can tell. The whispering has ceased, but you can hear the key sliding into the lock with its customary grind.

The guard who barges inside is breathing heavily, his eyes wide and face pale. You cower into your flimsy mattress, but the guard—Vasilyev? Vasilev?—doesn’t grab you just yet.

“Your blood type!” he barks. It’s not a question. You answer anyway. He sighs, his shoulders slumping in relief. “Thank fuck.”

He storms out, slamming the door behind him, but it doesn’t catch.

You sit up slowly.

The door is open?

Is this freedom?

You leap to your feet, head spinning, heart pounding. Before you can take even a single step towards freedom, Vasilyev bursts back in. You throw your hands over your head with a whimper, waiting for the inevitable blows, but all Vasilyev does is grab your wrists and drag you out into the hall. You stumble at his brisk pace, limbs aching in protest. His grip is too tight, and after three days in your tiny cell your legs are sore.

He yanks you along. The concrete is rough against your bare feet, more so when you stumble again, feet dragging on the ground.

“Keep up.” Vasilyev’s voice is rough, but there’s an edge of panic to it that leaves a long string of question marks in your hazy mind.

What’s going on?

You haven’t been imprisoned long. It all happened less than two weeks ago, the man in black and the blood and the blindfold…

In that time, they’ve taken you around their little complex, but it’s all been with a lazy interest that’s sent shivers down your spine every time. Nothing they’ve done to you is important, not really. Whatever they’re testing aren’t things they need. Experiments, not necessity. They’ve barely scratched the surface in the torture department, at least in your opinion. No pulling fingernails, no American handcuffs, no brands in your skin.

But the panic in Vasilyev’s voice is different. It’s new. You’ve never heard him so unnerved before, not like that. The only other time was when you got your hands on an empty syringe, and were about to jab it into your skin—

You’d gotten a beating for that, before they injected you with hallucinogens. Even now, there are bruises on your thighs. But they hadn’t hurt you enough to break anything. Or even break you. Not really.

The second turn clues you in to where Vasilyev is taking you. The infirmary is the only place at this end of the building, at least that you’ve been to. You assume the dark room across the hall is a morgue.

Maybe they’re bringing you there.

But no, Vasilyev thrusts you through the swinging infirmary doors shoulder first. The same nurse, doctor, whatever, from your syringe escapade jumps up from his seat and rushes towards you.

“Here she is. Where do you want her?” Vasilyev’s grip is bruising, but for all that you can still feel his trembling.

“What’s going on?” you blurt.

“Strap her down, over there,” the nurse says, ignoring your question entirely as he points towards two gurneys sitting side by side. “It should work.”

Vasilyev drags you to the closest gurney and pushes you down. You bounce on the thin mattress; the bruises on the back of your thighs are so tender you cry out.

“The other one, you idiot,” the nurse says. “What, you want me to stab his left arm?”

“Shut up, fuckface.” Vasilyev drags you around to the other gurney and slams you down so hard you see stars.

By the time your vision clears, your hands and one foot are strapped into cuffs hooked to the railings. You kick at Vasilyev with your one free leg, but he grabs it easily, strapping it down just like the others.

“Now keep still, or else.”

Vasilyev jabs his fist into your stomach. You wheeze, doubling up as far as your bindings will let you. Your eyes burn, and even after the initial pain fades to a dull throb, you can’t keep the tears at bay. The nurse is busy at his station at the other end of the room, the tinkle of instruments and the sloshing of liquids all sending fresh shudders up your spine as you collapse flat on your back.

Your mind reels. What is happening? What could possibly be so urgent? Why are they stabbing someone’s arm—is someone else being brought in? What are you doing here? It had all started with Vasilyev asking for your blood type.

Blood, needles, arms, liquid—rubbing alcohol?

The nurse hurries over, his steps light and quick and the little cart squeaking against the floor until he wheels it to a stop at your left side, between the gurneys. You lift your head, heart racing, but all you see is a syringe hooked to a tube.

Arms. Needles. Blood.

“Come here, Vasilyev, hold her down.”

Vasilyev grumbles, but he obeys. He leans across you, holding your left arm down in a bruising grip at the wrist and shoulder. You hiss, try to shift, but you’re weak and he’s too strong. He smirks down at you, but there’s still worry lurking in his eyes.

You swallow, almost ready to ask, but then the nurse swipes the inside of your elbow with rubbing alcohol. You tense.

Blood.

“Please,” you beg. “Please just tell me what’s going on!”

“Relax your arm,” the nurse says. He wiggles the syringe by your face. “Otherwise this will hurt.”

You try to relax. You really do. But the needle is thicker than you’re used to, and Vasilyev’s weight digging into your arm is already giving you pins and needles, and you’re more scared than when the walls started crumbling around you during your hallucinations, and—

A scream rips from your throat as the nurse slides the needle in. It burns; it’s like a whole knife shoved up your arm.

“Oh, please,” the nurse scoffs. “Calm down, won’t you? You’re giving me a headache.”

Vasilyev snorts.

Your scream dissolves into sobs; every one exacerbates the ache in your stomach, but you’re powerless to stop. The nurse tapes down the needle, pats your shoulder, and starts to hum off-key. Vasilyev lets go of you at last. They leave you.

You lie there, shudders racking your body as you slowly come back to yourself. Every movement of your arm shifts the needle, shooting fresh pains up and down your arm. You hold as still as you can.

Arms. Needles. Blood.

A commotion starts in the corridor, silencing the nurse’s humming. Echoing shouts, bangs… Vasilyev and the nurse jump to their feet; Vasilyev rushes out into the hall. The nurse inches towards you, pale. You twist your head to look at the door, brows pinched and neck twinging.

“What’s going on?” you ask.

“Time to do our part,” the nurse says with false cheer. “We mustn’t make our little outpost look bad now.”

The door bursts open; the nurse skids back. Two guards, led by a stony-faced Vasilyev, are supporting a third man dressed in black whose feet drag along the floor, leaving trails of blood in their wake.

“Oh my god,” you breathe.

The man in black’s head is lolling on his neck, his chin tucked against his chest. His clothes are shiny with blood. Behind his curtain of matted dark hair, a long scrape along his cheek is dotted with blood too.

The guards are breathing heavily. The man in black is barely breathing at all.

“Stand up,” Vasilyev barks, but there’s a hint of fear behind his order.

The two guards step gingerly away from their—prisoner? He has to be a prisoner, the way Vasilyev is barking and the way the blood is just leaking out of him. The man groans as he rights himself, barely able to lift his head.

Vasilyev slaps him.

You flinch. The man doesn’t react at all, except that his head falls to the side, giving you the first clear view of his face. He hasn’t spotted you yet, but he’s white as a sheet behind the blood.

“Get on the gurney,” Vasilyev orders. He shoves the man, who stumbles and barely catches himself.

At a look from Vasilyev, the two other guards help lift the man in black onto the gurney. He’s tall, broad; he takes up more room on the gurney than you were expecting from his pathetic entrance. He’s oddly quiet now; has he fallen unconscious? No—he shifts under their prodding hands, hair falling around his face to reveal a chiseled profile and barely parted lips. Vasilyev pushes one of the guards aside and starts to strap the man in. He works fast, too fast; his fingers slip on the second cuff and he swears.

The nurse, puttering around, sniffs with disdain.

“He’s lost too much blood to be a threat, Vasilyev,” he murmurs. “Just look at him.”

“You spend too much time at this godforsaken outpost. Trust me,” Vasilyev says, strapping the man’s chest down with a grunt, “he’s always a threat.”

Always a threat? You stare at the man beside you as Vasilyev adds yet another strap, this one across the man’s black-clad thighs. Who is he?

All he does is moan.

Now that the man is strapped down, the nurse steps between the gurneys. He’s holding another syringe, but he hesitates.

“Should we remove the sleeve, perhaps?”

“Don’t waste our time,” Vasilyev snaps. “Get to it!”

“I can’t get to it if I can’t find a vein.”

Vasilyev positively growls. He yanks a knife free from his belt and none too gently slices up the thick sleeve, baring the man’s arm to the elbow and nicking a fresh cut on his upper arm. A drop of blood wells up against ghostly pale skin. “Happy?”

“Mm, it’ll do.”

The nurse doesn’t bother to clean the other man’s elbow before he presses the needle in. That, at last, is enough to prompt you to speak.

“What about the alcohol?”

The nurse sighs. He rolls his head along his shoulders until he’s giving you the most bored look you’ve ever seen. “Do I tell you how to do your job?”

You tug against the cuff on your right hand, the one that won’t move the needle. Vasilyev takes a step towards you, a warning. You go still, but the nurse is still watching you expectantly. You glance at Vasilyev, but he rolls his eyes and gestures for you to answer.

“Yes,” you tell the nurse. “You told me to calm down.”

“Ha. So I did.” He slaps his knee. “Good advice, if I say so myself.”

“I don’t know,” you say shakily. You turn your head further to your left and flinch.

The man beside you is staring at you with blank blue eyes. His rapid, shallow breathing fans the few hairs caught on his lips. Tears sting your eyes. What have they done to him?

“Did they kill your family too?” you whisper.

Not softly enough.

Vasilyev and both other guards storm your gurney. You pull your limbs as far in as you can, but there’s no curling into a ball now.

“Lighten up, boys,” the nurse says loudly. The three guards come up short, Vasilyev’s hand inches from your throat and the others shoulder-to-shoulder at your feet. “She won’t last, he’ll be wiped, what’s it matter? Let them talk.”

The guards back away as the nurse turns back to you, fitting a clear plastic tube to the syringe lodged in your left elbow.

You won’t last?

The man beside you is frowning now. His mouth moves, but no sound comes out. A tear leaks out of your eyes. Poor soul; he looks half a corpse. Is he going to be fed whatever they’re about to put in you?

What do they mean, wiped?

Suction in your veins draws your eyes down to the needle in your arm.

“Whaa?!”

The nurse moves away, and suddenly you can see. They aren’t putting anything in you.

They’re draining you dry.

“No no no no no no no!”

Blood is being sucked out of you through the needle into the tube; you shake your head, terror clamping down your throat, as you follow the path of the snaking blood through the tube hanging in the empty air between the two gurneys.

The man beside you hisses as his right arm sucks up your blood. His eyes squeeze shut; the veins on his neck stand out in sharp definition over his collar even with the streaks of blood painting his skin. You look down, pulse racing, and rattle your left arm, but the syringe is taped down too tight, and every bend of your elbow sets it further in.

Scant feet away, the man’s rapid breathing eases. You whip your head back to look at him, shudders racking your whole body.

“Who are you?” you whimper.

He meets your eyes again, but his expression is as blank as before.

Enough. If he can’t answer with words, what’s the point in talking to him? You tug at three of your bindings, keeping your left arm still, but there’s not enough give to do anything more than sit halfway up. You glance back at the man, but he’s not looking at your face anymore. His gaze has landed on the plastic tube dangling between the gurneys. Just as you had moments before, he follows the trail from your arm to his.

He frowns. Looks back to you. You’re still shaking. Will you ever stop shaking?

You close your eyes and take deep breaths until they’re almost smooth. Then you look back at the man, bypassing his confused face to study the rest of him. There’s the ruined sleeve, baring a pale, muscular forearm. Blood dotting his uniform…

Uniform?

You suck in a breath, eyes wide as you finally grasp the whole picture. He’s armed. Armed to the teeth, or he would have been, if all the holsters criss-crossing his body had been full. Most are empty, but you know what’s missing. Pistols. Knives. Instruments of death…

As it is, the wide holster against his thigh is still sporting a knife. Your eyes snap back to his. His gaze wanders almost lazily down to his leg; he runs his fingers along the hilt of the knife at his side as he looks back to you.

Why have they left him armed?

“Who are you?” you rasp.

Confusion clouds his face. He licks his lips, blue eyes struggling to focus. When they finally do, his expression clears. “They took you.”

What?

You open your mouth, but the question lodges itself in your throat. The knife… The guns, the black uniform, the fact that he’s armed—that he knows they took you—

“Oh god!”

You try and scoot away, but the bindings on your arms and legs only let you go so far.

“You—you killed them! My family, they’re dead!”

He just stares. There’s no remorse in his eyes, no denial.

“Oh god…”

Your eyes burn, your stomach quakes. You jerk harder with your arms and legs, rattling the gurney and doubling up as much as you can against the wave of nausea. The gurney skids inches across the floor, the harsh squeal of locked wheels against cold tile echoing through the infirmary. The needle taped into your elbow shifts; you cry out, but you don’t stop. How can you stop? You’re literally being forced to give life to the man who killed your family.

“Hey!”

Vasilyev bears down on you, brandishing a scalpel.

At that, you freeze.

“Keep still or I’ll pin you down!” he growls. He jabs the scalpel next to your head, yanking hard until the fabric tears, the sound unnaturally loud so close to your ear.

“I’ll have to clean that now,” the nurse says drily. “Isn’t the whole point to not waste her blood?”

Vasilyev snorts. He pulls the scalpel free and pushes you even closer to the other gurney than before. The man—the murderer is within reach, even with the cuffs. You bite your tongue to contain your whimper, but the man beside you makes no move in your direction.

All he does is look.

You can’t hold his gaze. Your eyes fix on the tube connecting you. There’s a break in the bloodstream from your struggle. It oozes along, slow as molasses, until it’s sucked into him.

You close your eyes.

Are they dragging this out on purpose? Is this ever going to end? You crack open an eye, but the nurse is lounging on a wheeling stool, the picture of inaction. The guards are huddled in easy reach, but too far for you to make out their hushed conversation. The room is cold now, colder than before. Goosebumps break out along your arms.

Meanwhile, the man beside you is regaining color. His breathing is steady; yours is a mess. Your stomach is more curdled than sour milk. Bile rises in your throat as you stare at your family’s killer.

“Why did you do it?” You swallow hard. “What did they do?”

“They were in the way of freedom.”

“What?!” you gasp. “They were fighting for freedom!”

You know what your parents were up to. They’d always left you out of it, but you knew. You’d known all along. Your hands were always clean, but you’d never been ignorant. Of their methods, perhaps, but you knew what the pamphlets were for, even if you never had a chance to read them before they were whisked out of sight.

No, you were never involved. But here you are, strapped to a table, giving life back to the man who took everything from you.

“What about me, then?” you ask, voice and hands shaking. “What did I do?

“You?” His eyes dart around, but they don’t land on anything. After a heavy moment, he shakes his head. His brow darkens. “You know what you did.”

“Do I?” The laugh that comes out of you isn’t recognizable. It’s painted with horror. “The worst things I’ve done—they don’t merit this.” You shake your left arm at him. The plastic tube wavers in the air.

“What did you do?” he asks, voice low. His gaze flits to the doctors, but they’re ignoring you still. “Tell me.”

Your stomach churns. You’ve never told anyone… But this is it, isn’t it? This is your last chance.

“I stole from my parents. I burned a flag. I tried to kill someone, once.”

His face contorts with shock at that. “You?”

You can’t blame him for his incredulity. What a picture you paint now, with sweat beading on your brow and your hands shaking, rattling the cuffs against the metal railings. But you’d been alive once, really alive, with as much vigor and feeling as anyone.

“Who?” he asks.

You swallow. The guards and the nurse are watching impassively.  One of the guards leans over and whispers something in the nurse’s ear; both of them snigger. Hot anger surges in your breast, and you fix the man beside you with a harsh stare even as you shiver.

“Someone who tried to hurt me.”

The man frowns. “Is that all?”

“Wha-what else do you want?” You laugh weakly, but it quickly turns into a cough. Every hack jolts your aching head and sets your stomach roiling.

The man’s blue eyes slide around the room. His fingers glide along the knife at his thigh. You whimper.

“Enough,” the man says, loud enough for the guards and nurse to hear.

“We’ll see about that,” the nurse says, hurrying over. He pushes the gurneys farther apart and stops the flow of blood, leaving the needles in. He turns to examine the man behind you. The nurse hums as he looks the man over, seeming satisfied with what he finds. “Alright, he’s stable.”

The nurse takes the needle from the man’s arm, taping down a gauze pad to stop the bleeding. He does the same for you. The second the hole in your elbow is taped up, you curl your sore arm as much as you can. You hiss. God, it hurts. And every bone feels like a hundred pounds. Your arm collapses back to your side, bouncing on the mattress.

“Well, soldier, what’s the damage?” the nurse asks.

Soldier? Is that what he is? He isn’t dressed like the others, who wear uniforms with red berets like normal soldiers. The man beside you is dressed like a shadow, or a ghost.

Like a murderer.

Vasilyev looms over you, his eyes sharp and mouth pressed in a thin line. You roll your head aside, away from him. Your skull is throbbing hard now. Vasilyev’s hands are hot on your skin as he undoes the cuff on your right arm. If you had the strength, you’d try to hit him. As it is, you’re as helpless as a rag doll, your gaze fixed on the man lying beside you. He’s watching you, something like sorrow in his blue eyes as the nurse prods at his ribs.

“No more,” you whimper. You don’t know whom you’re pleading to. “Please.”

Vasilyev ignores you as usual. The other cuffs are gone in seconds. He forces you to sit up, but the second he lets go of you, you topple back with a wheezy grunt. Your head pounds from the impact.

“For fuck’s sake,” Vasilyev groans.

The nurse tsks. He swivels on his stool to look you over. His acrid green gloves are stained with blood. “What did you think was going to happen, Vasilyev?”

“No more,” you repeat.

The nurse pats your cheek. “There, there.”

Blood clings to your face. You glance to your left again, eyes wide and wet. The soldier’s lips, pink now, part as he takes you in. Your blood is in him, and his blood is painting your skin.

“Make it stop,” you beg. “Please, soldier.”

His mouth sets in a line. His blue eyes harden.

“Just use the gurney,” the nurse tells Vasilyev, and then he turns back to the man at your left.

The soldier drives his knife into the nurse’s gut. The nurse freezes, gurgles. The soldier yanks the knife across the nurse’s belly; blood spurts out of the wound, splattering the soldier’s black uniform with a fresh coat of red.

You gape. Your weak pulse pounds in your ears.

The soldier sits up, the bindings across his arms and chest tearing as though they were butter. The nurse topples to the ground. Vasilyev is shouting, pulling out his gun; the other two guards rush over, but the soldier twists to his left, toppling his gurney. Vasilyev’s first bullet pings against the metal frame; the second tears through the mattress, but the soldier’s already rolled away. Four more bullets whizz through the air, inches from you, but none hit their mark.

Your heart skips a beat. Is this freedom? Bullets, blood, bile in your throat—is this freedom?

Vasilyev drops to his knees at your side as the soldier carves his way through the other two guards. The air moving past you sparks a fresh burst of goosebumps. Vasilyev props his gun on your knee, taking aim.

“Don’t move,” he warns.

You freeze. Your heart sinks. Not freedom, then.

Every shot sends shudders recoiling along your leg, and you clench the gurney’s handles in an attempt to keep still. There’s an empty ferocity on the soldier’s face, one that doesn’t dissipate when his eyes pass over you.

Fresh blood is spattered on his cheeks.

Are you next?

Vasilyev swears. He reloads his gun, but before he can take aim, a bullet whizzes through the air over your legs and hits him square in the forehead. Vasilyev topples backwards, gun soaring through the air.

Only then does the soldier turn back to you. He’s not even panting. The work of barely a minute—four men dead, himself freed from bondage—hasn’t winded him at all.

Vasilyev’s gun clatters against the floor.

“No more,” the soldier says.

Your words, in a quiet, thoughtful baritone. Your words, in his mouth?

Is that better or worse than your blood in his veins?

You don’t know. All you know is that lying helpless and freezing on a gurney, your family’s killer standing over you, half your life sapped away to fuel his—none of it feels like freedom.

The soldier tucks the stolen gun into one of his holsters. His blue eyes rove across your prone body, from your face to your bare arms to your bare feet. You curl your arms across your chest. Your left elbow is sore, but the scratchy gray jumpsuit is far too little protection. Under his intense gaze, you feel exposed.

His inspection complete, the soldier kneels over the bodies of the dead men littering the floor. You don’t have the energy to lift your head to look, but you can hear rustling, and the jingle of a keychain. Is he going through their clothes?

A thump at your feet makes you flinch. You finally prop yourself up on your right elbow and stare at the pair of military boots at your feet. Two footwraps come next.

Oh.

The soldier is stripping the bodies.

Why? You can’t imagine. Everything is foggy.

You can hear the dull sounds of the soldier moving the bodies around. Is that an arm hitting the floor? A leg? You close your eyes and lie back down. Closing your eyes does nothing to shut out the sounds of the dead.

Your body feels so heavy.

“Here.”

You open your eyes. The soldier is standing over you again, holding out one of the dead guard’s jackets. You can clearly see where the knife had gone in, come out. There’s a dark patch of blood around the tear in the fabric.

The soldier shakes the coat at you. You push yourself up, breathing heavily from the effort. He grips your shoulder in his left hand to help right you, and you stare in shock.

His left hand—is metal?

“Here,” he repeats impatiently.

You tear your eyes away from his hand, mind reeling as you look back at the coat. It’s for you? Are the shoes for you, too?

“Why?” you ask.

“It needed to stop.” His face is passive, save for a tic in his jaw. “Wasn’t—” He cuts himself off, but he’s said enough.

Tears well in your eyes. Somehow, even though he thinks your parents had deserved death, you don’t.

What would your parents think of their killer saving you?

You sniff, and nod. It doesn’t matter now, does it? Whatever comes next, you’re too helpless to go on alone. And you know perfectly well there are more people here than the four lying dead on the ground.

He drapes the coat over your shoulders; you stick one arm through, then the other. It takes an eternity, and by the time you’re done the soldier has torn the ripped sleeve off his uniform, baring his sculpted pale arm, and you’re exhausted again. The extra weight of the jacket is no comfort against the chill. Your chill is from inside, not out. You clench your knees tightly, locking your elbows to keep yourself upright.

“They drained me dry,” you whisper; it’s as loud as you can manage.

The soldier doesn’t answer. He grabs the footwraps and boots from the end of the gurney and kneels at your feet. You stare down at his blood-matted hair as he wraps your feet—in another life, you might have laughed at the sensation of someone else’s hands there. Right now, all you can do is watch. Your arms shake a little; the left one is still too sore to keep perfectly still.

The boots slide on easy—whichever guard they’d belonged to had bigger feet than yours, apparently. The soldier stands.

“You can’t walk?” he says. It’s barely a question, but you shake your head anyway. The brief movement makes your head spin. He steps back, looks you over. He does a button up on the jacket, near your collarbone.

Then he slides his left arm under your knees, the other around your back, and hoists you into his arms.

It’s a painful jostle. Your arm aches in protest, and your limited energy means you can’t even shift to find a more comfortable position against the myriad straps over his chest. And while your upper body is protected by the army jacket, the thin jumpsuit pants are no barrier at all against all the blood yet to dry on his uniform.

The soldier strides out of the infirmary, pushing the swinging doors open with a well-aimed kick and ducking through.

Voices ahead.

He pauses.

“You need to hold on,” he says, voice flat.

You wriggle your arms around his neck. Your skin is too clammy to get a good grip, and you end up gripping your covered elbows instead of your wrists. If you’re choking him, he makes no comment. All he does is pull the stolen gun out.

A gun in his hand, grim determination in his eyes, blood splattered across his face—is this how he’d looked when he’d killed your family? You hadn’t seen the face behind the mask, but now…

You shudder and bury your face in the crook of your shoulder. Whatever comes next, you don’t want to see. If you’re about to die—

Well. You’ll die without giving anyone else the satisfaction of seeing you frightened.

What comes next is a blur of movement and gunshots. Something pings off the soldier; is that his metal hand, deflecting bullets?

How much of his flesh has been replaced?

You just hang on around his neck and let him swing you around as he dodges and moves through the corridors, bending here and there to grab a fresh gun. Time moves slow as molasses, but in the back of your mind you have the strange sensation that things are moving all too fast. You adjust your grip, and for the first time your face brushes his skin.

It’s scorching. You suck in a harsh breath in shock; you’re still so cold. Are you so cold? Has he got a fever? Or did he just take all your warmth?

You don’t lift your head until you feel fresh air on your face. It’s dusk—or dawn? You’re not sure. But the light is gentle, and the air is cool, clean. Fresh. There’s a few cars parked near the door, but beyond that is a forest. Birds chirp, bugs chitter, leaves rustle—

Tears stream down your face. It’s beautiful.

Freedom never felt so sweet.

The soldier pulls out a keychain and heads for a black van. He opens the passenger side first and sets you down. It takes a moment to unwind your stiff arms from around his neck. Your left elbow aches, but at least you’re free to move it. If you can muster the energy.

The soldier pulls the buckle across your chest. He’s quick but careful, polite—not groping, or harsh, or leery.

“Thank you,” you murmur.

The soldier pauses as he finishes strapping you in. His haunting blue eyes fix on yours from inches away. Your breath catches.

Despite everything, despite the blood on his face, despite what he’s done to you, what he did to the four dead men in the infirmary just minutes ago and however many others in the corridors, you’ve never seen anyone so beautiful.

Maybe it’s just that you’re free now. Everything is beautiful in this half-light, even a murderer.

In this half-light, the murderer might almost be a man.

You grip the seatbelt and swallow. His eyes dart across your face. Your heart thumps in your chest.

In this half-light, the man might almost be your hero.

A harsh caw shatters the quiet. The soldier pulls back and slams the door. In the space of seconds, he’s in the driver’s seat beside you, keys in the ignition and engine rumbling to a start. He doesn’t look at you as he drives into the woods, but you can’t take your eyes from him. You’re on his right again, just like before. His dark hair hides the scrape on his cheek. Your eyes train along his bare arm. It’s so still you might mistake it for a sculpture, but then he turns the wheel and the illusion breaks.

He’s real. He’s very real.

“What’s your name?” you ask.

His hands tighten on the wheel. The plastic creaks in protest. He lets out a low breath.

“Dunno,” he says.

You open your mouth to ask, to protest, but then think better of it. What use is it, to ask a man about things he doesn’t know?

How much of him had they taken away? His hand, his identity, his freedom…

His freedom?

You bite your lip. Is he as trapped as you had been?

“Are you… free?” you ask.

He frowns. “Dunno.”

Your parents had kept you out of their politics. You don’t understand their caution now. Surely they’d realized you’d be at risk no matter what. Risk or no risk, your politics aside, you know what freedom is supposed to be.

“If you don’t know, then you aren’t.”

He doesn’t answer. All he does is set his jaw, his shoulders.

You look away from him at last, gut clenching. How can he have done so much yet know so little?

How much of him had they taken away?

You lean against the window, the glass cool against your clammy skin. The trees whizz by; the road is gravel and dirt. It’s jostling. You’d been too caught up to notice before.

Strange. Fifteen minutes ago, you’d been desperate to get away from him.

Not anymore.

You turn to gaze at him again. For the first time since he’d gotten in the car, he glances your way. There’s nothing of the monster left in him. He’s just a man now. Yes, he’s done terrible things, but all for reasons. Not his own, it would seem, but there’s a logic to it nonetheless.

If he really was a monster, you’d never have gotten through to him. He would have let them kill you. He might even have killed you himself. As it is, he’s taking you… where? Even if he’s saved your life, he’s still a stranger, still a ghost.

“Where are you going?”

“Hospital,” he says.

“What for?”

“You need a doctor.”

That’s certainly true. You twine your cold fingers together and sigh.

“What about you? What do you need?”

“I need to finish my mission.”

Your blood—what little is left—runs colder than ever.

A mission?

Is that what your family had been? A mission?

You shift closer to the door and squeeze your stinging eyes shut. “You don’t need to finish it.”

“I have a mission,” he snaps, brow drawn low and mouth set in a hard line. “That’s what I know. I’m going to see it through.”

“They’ll kill you!” Your eyes pop back open. You grab his shoulder; he stiffens, but otherwise doesn't react. “What you did—you killed all those people—”

“They weren’t doing a good job anyway,” he says drily. His expression softens. He doesn’t shrug your hand away. “They’ll understand.”

“Will they?” you challenge.

“Yes.” His tone brooks no argument.

Even so, you don’t believe him. What had Vasilyev said? Always a threat? Is a threat worth forgiving? Worth understanding?

He’s a threat to you, though, whatever his current quixotic impulse and whatever your strange, sudden fascination. How fast had he turned on the nurse, the guards? Your words had pushed him to save you then. Would the wrong words now push him to kill you instead?

You don’t know.

You let your hand fall from his shoulder. You don’t dare touch his bare skin, much though you long for the warmth. You’re still too cold. You press your trembling hand to your chest; the phantom feeling of him lingers.

How long has it been since you touched someone of your own volition? Fifteen, sixteen days? Two weeks, give or take. Is two weeks a lifetime? It might as well be.

Your head tips forward.

“Hey,” he says. He reaches out and adjusts your head until you’re leaning against the window. His hand is warm on your face. “You okay?”

“No, soldier,” you answer. You close your eyes and huddle into the jacket. The only warmth you have left is what lingers from his hand. “I’m not.”

—

Long before you open your eyes, the road evens out. The car is zooming now. A highway, maybe?

Even behind your eyelids, you can tell it’s getting darker. You sigh, and let true darkness claim you.

—

A hand shakes you awake.

You cry out, flailing at the unexpected touch, but someone gathers your hands in their own, gentler than you’d expected.

“Hey, hey, calm down.”

Your eyes focus at last—the soldier is still sitting beside you in the driver seat, the dried blood flaking on his face but his expression unthreatening. It’s safe. He’s safe.

You’re safe.

The car is stopped on the side of a main road god knows where, but there’s little traffic. You’re between streetlights, the car cast in shadow and the blue of his eyes barely visible. There’s no one else on the street, save for the shrinking headlights of a car already passed by. For all intents and purposes, it’s still just the two of you. You relax your hands into his hold. Your fingers tremble, but it’s outside your control. He seems to understand. He folds your hands together, then lets them go.

You clasp your hands to your chest. God help you, but you wish he hadn’t let go.

“Can you walk?” he asks.

You look around more closely. “Wh—where are we?”

“By a hospital.”

Your heart drops. None of the buildings look like hospitals…

“Where—”

“Around the corner.” He’s unbothered, looking at you almost blankly, left arm propped on the steering wheel so he can face you. “Can you walk?”

You test your limbs. Your left arm is still sore, but the fitful rest had conserved a little strength.

“Maybe.”

He frowns, glances at the street as another car zooms past. There’s no one else on the road, but he clenches his fist. He’s not calm anymore. Tension is building—in the set of his shoulders, his jaw.

“You have to walk.”

“What if I can’t?” you counter. Your heart is racing, pumping too-little blood through your veins. It sounds hollow in your ears.

“You don’t have a choice.”

The soldier reaches across you and opens your door.

“Get out.”

You gape at him. You clench the seatbelt still securing you in and shake your head.

“I—no!”

He yanks your hands away from the seatbelt and unbuckles it. “You don’t have a choice.”

“You can’t make me!” Your voice rises dangerously. Tears well in your eyes; panic swells in your chest. For the first time, you grab hold of his arm. His skin is hot, smooth. His muscles clench under your desperate touch.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he snaps. He shakes his arm, but you don’t let go. His metal fingers tighten on the wheel. The plastic creaks; he swears under his breath and lets go, leaving an imprint of his hand behind. He glares at you, angry and confused. “You gotta go!”

“Not without you!”

The words burst out of you without thought, and the sudden admission leaves you staggered. The soldier’s eyes widen; he’s more shocked than you are. The anger melts from his face, less so his confusion. There’s something strange in his eyes now—an echo, maybe? You don’t know. You don’t know. All you can do is stare into those blue eyes, heart racing.

Why did you even say that? How could you? This man—he’s not your friend. He killed your family! He killed all those men at the base without a second thought. You haven’t seen an ounce of regret for any of the murders.

Not that you regret the deaths of the men who tortured you, and all the others there who took part in whatever wicked work they were pursuing. Knowing they can’t come after you—it’s a relief.

But the soldier, the man beside you, he’s part of that wicked work too. He killed your family! He killed them, not even knowing them, not even knowing himself…

You shut your eyes and press your forehead against his shoulder. Tears roll down your cheeks. The soldier stiffens, but he doesn’t pull away.

The work of a few hours has transformed him in your eyes. Monster and murderer to your only hope. To your savior. The murders haven’t gone away, but there’s more to him now—more, less, you don’t know; how much doesn’t he know? His own name, taken from him…

Like your family was taken from you.

By him.

It’s a sick circle. But he’s the only link back to them, and to the weeks you spent imprisoned for no good reason at all. He’s the one who believed you, who freed you—all that death, just for you.

To save you.

And now he wants you to walk away, so he can go back to murdering innocents. Even now, with your body half-drained, your mind is sharp enough to know the wrongness in letting him go.

How can you let your savior become a monster again? How can you let the man whose life you saved with your own blood go back to whatever hell he came from? Even if he doesn’t know the wrong in what he’s done…

You do.

You take a deep, shaky breath. The metallic scent of blood and his own smell flood your senses. The reminder of his realness is an instant comfort. You run your hand down his arm until you can bring his hand to your cheek.

Forget the morals. Forget the monster. Beneath it all, you’re terrified of being left alone.

You press a kiss to the back of his hand.

“Please don’t abandon me, soldier.”

You lift your head from his shoulder, still holding tight to his hand. As tight as you can, at least.

The soldier lets out a breath that hisses between his teeth. He studies you, eyes flitting over your face, from your shining eyes to your quivering chin.

“Alright.”

You stare at him, lips parted and heart pounding. There’s a resignation in his face, but he’s serious. He—he’s serious. You let out a little cry and litter kisses on his hand, on the back of it, over his fingers curled around yours.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

The barest hint of a smile ghosts across his lips. He takes the keys out of the ignition, carefully untangles his fingers from yours, and gets out of the car. You’re practically bouncing in your seat.

He saved you, and now you can save him. Together, you can find freedom.

You take a deep breath to compose yourself before he comes around the front of the car. He offers a hand to help you out.

“Can you walk?” There’s a dry humor to his question, and you smile.

“If you help.”

The soldier tucks an arm under yours as you step down from the van to the sidewalk. With his support, you feel light as a feather.

He locks up the van and starts to walk.

“You can’t give them your name,” he says, voice low and fast. “Pick a fake one, or don’t give one at all. And don’t tell them where you’ve been. Just tell them you were lost in the woods.”

“That hardly explains all the lost blood,” you retort.

He pauses, looks down at you. His eyebrow goes up. “Right… well, then forget everything. Don’t hint at it.”

“Okay.” You laugh breathlessly. “Like you.”

He flinches.

“Maybe we can get new names together,” you continue, gentler.

The soldier doesn’t respond.

He leads you around the corner. There’s the hospital, the sign dim but bright light spilling out onto the walkway halfway up the block from the doors into the emergency room.

That light is freedom.

You grasp the soldier’s hand, your throat tight. A lifetime ago, you had always hated hospitals. But now, that stark light is heaven.

You quicken your steps, surprised at your sudden burst of energy but not questioning it for the world. The soldier keeps up without trouble, and soon enough you’re on the walkway to the hospital.

“Remember,” the soldier murmurs, breath warm on your ear, “forget everything.”

You nod, jaw set. “I remember.”

“Good.”

The automatic doors slide open. You pause and turn to say one last private thank you.

Your thanks die in your throat.

The soldier’s face is in stark relief in the bright light. He looks dead. He looks terrible. Like the wrath of god.

“Soldier…?”

He lets go of you—you stiffen in surprise—and shoves you through the open doors.

You cry out, sprawling to the floor inside the emergency room. Your teeth rattle in your skull with the impact. You catch a glimpse of a few people jumping to their feet from stiff chairs, a woman rushing around a desk, sterile walls.

But you ignore it all. You surge to your knees, twisting to stare outside.

“Sold—”

The path is empty.

He’s gone.

“No!”

You collapse back to the ground, sobs tearing from your hollow chest. The woman from the desk runs to your side, calling for a nurse. You barely hear it. You’re dizzy, head swimming. All the warmth that had settled from his arm around you vanishes.

“No,” you whisper.

He’s left you. You’re alone—abandoned.

Why?

You spread your hands flat on the floor. The cool tiles feel miles away. All you can feel is the emptiness of the soldier’s absence. He stole your blood, and now he’s stolen that unnameable piece of you that had settled with him.

Gentle hands cradle you, sitting you up.

“Miss? Miss?”

You blink through your tears. The room is spinning around you. Nothing is clear, except what you’ve lost.

Forget everything.

Your heart squeezes painfully. No, soldier, I can’t.

A nurse's face clears in your vision. She’s got a hand on your face, checking for a fever.

“Miss, what happened?”

The soldier’s face is branded in your memory, but his final direction rattles through you. However impossible forgetting will be, you know you can’t tell anyone here what’s happened to you.

“Please help me,” you gasp. “They did things to me—I’m just so cold, and scared, and I don’t know—I don’t know—”

“Shh, shh, it’s okay,” she reassures you. You hiccough, swipe away your tears with shaking hands.

“I don’t know,” you say again.

But you do.

Within the hour, you’re being fed back more blood to make up for what was taken from you. The nurse and doctor seems to believe your fragmented tale, even with so little detail. Trauma, they say, can make a person forget. And it’s not like people hadn’t disappeared and reappeared before, shaking and traumatized and mind—memories half-gone.

But you remember. You remember blue eyes, a thick needle in your arm, blood on your skin. Death, a metal hand, burning skin against your face. A monster, a man.

You remember.

You always will.

Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think :3

[thepinkcar]

Hi!! I love your writing so much! Would you be able to do a part 2 of Love in the Dark? Thank you so much!

By popular request, why not!

—

Two Ghosts

pairing: reader x timothée

words: 1K

Part 1

Two years moves fast once you find yourself again. The feeling is a comfortable weight as you sit in your local bar’s makeshift backstage. Usually performances had you jittery and chatting with the band, exchanging laughs before tumbling out onto the small stage. The hobby turned side gig had only been a part of your life for a little over a year now. After you had walked away from Timothée almost two years ago, you found yourself picking up writing again. Before you knew it, your small poems became full fledged songs, you started to play your old guitar after letting it collect dust while traveling the past few years, and you were getting sporadic bookings for shows around your city. You even released a homemade EP that was met with an overwhelming amount of commercial success that sparked the interest of some bigger name labels. 

But there was no way in hell you were ever going anywhere near the entertainment industry side of things ever again.

Tonight’s gig was a little different than usual since you’d decided to do a few covers before being on your way for the night—you owed the manager a favor. As the time approaches, you and the band settle yourselves on stage while the manager bounds up giddily to introduce you.

“How’re y’all doin’ tonight?” he hollers, overly gesticulative. You bite back a laugh at the familiar energy while the bar crowd gives an equally energized hoot. “Now this young lady over here is a real treasure, let me tell you. And she’s giving us the pleasure of hearing her play some songs tonight!” The crowd cheers and you grin humbly, bowing your head.

“Are y’all ready?” you say smoothly, resisting the urge to cringe at your own drawl. With another round of cheers, the drummer starts the beat as you launch into your set. The setlist was laidback with folkier tunes—ballads from Hozier, melodies from the Lumineers, and the always-welcome authenticity of Kacey Musgraves. It wasn’t until the last song that you felt your heart constrict. 

“This is our last song for the night. A song that’s meant a lot to me the past couple of years, a kindred spirit to my own music. This one is Two Ghosts.” The drums tumble in as the guitars and bass follow. You take a breath and let your eyes close, singing the first verse earnestly. “Same lips red, same eyes blue, same white shirt, couple more tattoos. But it's not you and it's not me.”

It takes every thing in you not to cry around the chorus, all the feelings of months ago coming in a rush. Your eyes open again and you see in the corner of your eye a new group of people crowding around the bar. They’re rowdy young men, attempting to whisper in a way only drunk people do. You can only make out one of their faces, forest eyes watching you like he had seen a ghost. You pull away, playing your guitar solo before turning your attention on him completely.

“We're not who we used to be. We don't see what we used to see. We're just two ghosts swimming in a glass half empty, trying to remember how it feels to have a heartbeat.” You see Timothée finally return from his shock, his shoulders tensing as he stands straighter. You turn your attention back to the rest of the bar as you croon the last to lines, the final chords hitting their ears. As your met with applause you wave goodbye, following your bandmates off stage. You try to ignore the itch of Timothée’s presence along with the slew of questions bouncing around your brain.

-

“I almost didn’t recognize you. Your look is so…different.” You snort, giving yourself a once over.  The ripped jeans and flowy button up paired with golden chains and multiple rings on your fingers was definitely edgier than the a-line dresses and Mary Jane style heels you used to wear when you were with Timothée. This felt more like you.

“Well you haven’t seen me in awhile.”

“With reason,” Timothée says lowly. You raise a brow, taking a sip from your drink. You had decided to join him at the bar instead of hiding in the shadows until he left with his entourage and out of your life once again. There was something satisfying about his restless state; for once he was the lost one in the crowded room.

“What are you doing in Jersey, T? What’s for you here?” Your voice is even but cold. Timothée shrugs.

“Visiting old friends. I didn’t know you’d be playing tonight, if that’s what you’re wondering.” You hum, satisfied with what seemed to be honesty. You watched him more closely, taking in the familiar mess of curls and lanky figure. His face had matured but he was still lacking in the facial hair. A grin tugs at your lips.

“Well, was I at least any good?” you joke, taking another sip. Timothée smiles, relieved at the lack of interrogation. 

“Absolutely phenomenal. I was blown away. You have a calling or something,” he says earnestly. You roll your eyes and wave your hand dismissively. 

“Definitely not. I’m not going anywhere near industry people ever again.” He laughs bitterly, his smile becoming more of grimace. You take a longer sip.

“Y/N, I’m sorry. Genuinely. The way I treated you—“

“Timmy…”

“No, let me finish!” You jump when he raises his voice. “Sorry, but I need you to understand how absolutely awful I feel about how things ended. I never meant for things to go the way they did. I love you so much and I should have never put you through the pain of making you doubt that.” His jade eyes watched you intensely, but you could see his nose begin to tinge pink.

“I never doubted you loved me. I just didn’t think it mattered.” You see a rollercoaster of emotion read across his face until he crashes into heartbreak. You feel a lump form in your throat. “Don’t you get it? That’s what made it worse. You loved me and you still hid me away like I was shameful or something. I couldn’t do it anymore. I was sick of feeling like I was never really enough for you.”

“Stop that.”

“Stop what! It’s the truth Timothée! You can’t just—“

Everything sped up and slowed down all in one swift motion as he pulled you close, lips catching yours. A slow tender kiss to compliment the rapid beat of your heart and his jittery fingers. You pull away, blush heating your cheeks. Timothée appears equally shocked.

“I, uh, I still love you. I know it’s too late to fix things and that things have changed but I need you to know that. You’re perfect to me and I’m sorry I was such a fucking idiot but I’m absolutely crazy about you still,” he says breathlessly. You stare at him in bewilderment, a smile growing on your face. Before you can stop it, your cackling. Timothée looks at you curiously and grins, allowing himself to chuckle hesitantly.

“You’re such a drama king, Timmy, “ you snicker, finishing your drink before getting up. You see a flash of fear cross TImothée’s. “You’re lucky that I love you so much.” He beams, sitting up straighter.

“You still love me?”

“Always. But I need more time. We both do,” you answer softly. Timothée nods slowly, pausing for moment. You begin to walk backstage again. You need to get home soon, especially now that you have a lot to think over.

“Y/N?” You stop, turning back.

“Yes, T?”

“Two Ghosts, is that your favorite?” he asks. You’d almost swear he sounds melancholy.

“Sweet Creature. Sweet Creature’s my favorite.” 

[hermannsthumb]

hey idk if u take prompts like this but I love ur work; there’s a line in Hozier’s song Talk that says “so I’ll try to talk refined, for fear that you’ll find out how I’m imagining you” where hermann overcompensates for his dirty thoughts about newt by being exceptionally proper

newt’s Himbo energies in this one are off the charts..... (warning for 18+ content later on)

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The first thing Hermann says upon walking into the lab one ordinary Friday morning, half-asleep, travel coffee mug in hand, most comfortable sweater pulled on, is “What on earth are you doing?”

The first thing Newton says, down on his hands and knees on the dirty lab floor, and peering under Hermann’s small bookcase, is “Looking for my contact lenses.”

This is not what Hermann expected to hear. He deposits his mug on his desk and frowns at Newton. “You don’t wear contacts,” he says.

“It’s something new I’m trying,” Newton says. “I break my glasses a lot, you know. And lose them a lot. More, uh, cost effective.” He swipes his hand under the bookcase and curses.

“You lost these, too,” Hermann points out.

Newton pops up for a brief moment merely to scowl at Hermann. Or, really, to scowl in Hermann’s general direction. He’s squinting in a way that makes it quite clear he can’t actually see anything. “I’m aware, Dr. Obvious.”

Hermann takes a sip of coffee and settles in against his desk. “It’s Captain Obvious.”

“I was making a joke, you dick,” Newton says. Hermann watches, mildly entertained, as Newton swipes fruitlessly beneath the bookcase a few more times before crawling over to feel under the kitchenette. “I had no fucking clue how to put these bitches in. They just--popped right out. Ew.” He lifts a moldy crust of bread up, squints at it, and tosses it over his shoulder. It bounces off Hermann’s shoe.

“Newton,” Hermann scolds, kicking it away.

“Newton,” Newt repeats in a mocking approximation of his accent. He gropes his way over to Hermann’s desk and comes to a stop in front of Hermann’s shoes. “Do you mind--?”

“What?” Hermann says. “Oh.”

Feeling a bit warm under the collar at Newton’s uncomfortably suggestive position, Hermann parts his legs. Newton dives between them to peer under the desk, thighs jostling either side of Hermann’s ankles, rear stuck out. His shirt is riding up his back. His sturdy back. If he turned over, Hermann would get a glimpse of his stomach, the sparse bit of hair that--or so Hermann presumes--trails down to his waistband. Hermann grows warmer. “Do be careful,” he says, swallowing hard. He taps at Newt’s boot with his cane. One false move and Newton could send him tumbling. Distantly, dazedly, he thinks he ought to move.

“Mmhmm,” Newton says, rear end wiggling, grunting loudly with effort, then, “Oh!” He wraps the fingers of one hand around Hermann’s calf to steady himself as he sits back on his heels and presents a single dusty contact lens with the other. “Got one.” He squints at it, pink tongue poking out between his lips, as if attempting to asses the damage.

“Fascinating,” Hermann says, hoping, vaguely, that Newton doesn’t attempt to cram it back into place without washing it. Newton’s shirt is still rucked up his chest; he’s not let go of Hermann. His hair is a mess. It would be very easy--almost too easy--for Hermann to thread his own fingers through that messy hair, to draw Newton closer, to press that pink tongue and lips to the front of his trousers and hear him make more of those lovely little grunts. Hermann taps his cane against Newton’s boot again. “N--Ah--I have to. Newton. I left something in my quarters.”

“Huh?” Newton says.

“Dr. Geiszler,” Hermann chokes out. “Ah. My quarters--”

Newton releases Hermann’s calf quickly, his eyebrows creasing in obvious confusion. Not without reason. Hermann has not used his full title since the early days of their correspondence. “Right. Sorry.”

“Jolly good,” Hermann says, and, fumbling with his cane, half-sprints away.

Newton’s reverted back to his standard eyeglasses when Hermann ducks back into the laboratory thirty minutes later, his problem taken care of, so to speak. “Failed experiment of the day,” Newton declares. He makes a show of flicking both--filthy--contact lenses into the trash bin, and then following them up with the box of the rest of them. Hermann wonders if Newton waited for him to get back to do that. He also wonders why, if Newton had his glasses on hand, he didn’t put them on before writhing around on the ground. “Oh well. It was worth a test run.”

He has dirt from the lab floor staining the knees of his skinny jeans. Forcefully dredging his mind from the gutter (Newton, scuffed jeans hiding bruises from where he’d kneeled for something else entirely, and something entirely for Hermann), Hermann nods stiffly. “Certainly. Of course.”

“Glasses suit me better, anyway,” Newton says, and tugs them off his face to wave them around.

"Indeed,” Hermann says.

This is hardly the first time Hermann has been caught embarrassingly off-guard by Newton’s ability to inject a healthy douse of sexuality into even the most innocuous behavior. Newton eats with his fingers and moans when he’s really enjoying his food. Newton has never managed to not stick his ass out into the air when he drops something and bends to pick it up. Newton sucks on the tips of pencils when he’s deep in thought, cheeks hollowed, lips puckered and spit-slick. It drives Hermann mad, frankly, sends him spiraling into completely inappropriate arousal in the middle of the laboratory or mess hall or restaurant every time; he’s long-since developed a routine on how to deal with it. Act proper. Act professional. Newton will never know.

It’s hardly the last time today, either. Hermann is around ninety-percent certain he’s imagining it (fantasizing unintentionally, perhaps) when, three hours later, he hears Newton emitting those same little obscene grunts as before, which is why he ignores it at first. Then they grow louder. Then--

“Hermann?” Newton says. A little squeaking huff. “Hey, dude, can you help me with something?”

Hermann drags his glasses off with a little sigh and sets down his chalk. “What is it?”

Another grunt. “Uh. I’m having--a little problem reaching something.”

When Hermann finally turns, it’s to find Newton leaping and swiping desperately at the cupboard above the kitchenette. Just out of reach for someone of Newton’s height. Not out of reach for someone of Hermann’s height. “We really ought to get you a step-stool,” Hermann says, but clacks over nonetheless. He’s not sure what could possibly be in that cupboard that’s so urgent that Newton needs it right away. They never use it.

Newton has not stopped swiping at the cupboard when Hermann comes up behind him; in fact, he’s only struggling harder. Evidently he’s not heard Hermann. “I almost--”

He grunts against as his fingertips graze the metal handle, deep and exertive, just as Hermann chooses that unfortunate moment to take a step forward to attempt to steady him; Newton falls back with a loud oof!, stumbling, ass rubbing fully against Hermann’s crotch, at the same time Hermann reaches out to catch him, on instinct, and ends up with a hand up Newton’s shirt and a grip around Newton’s soft left side.

Newton stares upside-down at him, eyes wide, glasses askew, pink blooming across his cheeks. Hermann stares down at Newton.

“Whoops,” Newton laughs. “Uh. Sorry. Thanks for--” He wriggles out of Hermann’s grip and turns, awkwardly, to pat his arm. Hermann jerks away.

“Of course,” he says. Too loudly. He pushes past Newton and pulls the cupboard door open so hard it nearly snaps off its hinges. “What--ah--what did you need?”

“Box of disposable gloves,” Newton says.

Hermann grabs it and thrusts it at Newt without even looking. He had not expected Newton’s skin to be so soft and warm to the touch. Obscene fantasies come, unbidden and fast: Hermann stroking both hands up that shirt and over that soft, warm body, Newton making those same little grunts and squeaks, perhaps, even, allowing Hermann to grip his waist and bend him right over and rub against him, rock his hips against him-- “Right,” Hermann says. “Well. Ah. Here you are. Newton. Dr. Geiszler.”

Newton’s tongue flicks out over his lips. He smiles. Innocent, and a little confused. Hermann feels a rush of guilt. “Hey, thanks!” Newton says. He rips open the top and pulls out a pair, teeth worrying at his lower lip for a flash of a second in concentration and leaving behind a tiny dent. He snaps the gloves on. “I bet a stool would count as a business expense.”

“Mm?” Hermann says. He cannot tear his eyes away from the dent. He could leave some of his own on Newton--kiss him until his lips are red and swollen, perhaps. Bite at them until Newton comes apart with a cry under Hermann’s fingertips. Until Hermann can taste blood.

“A stool,” Newton says, and Hermann wonders if all of him is as warm as his chest. “I said we could request a stool on our next supply requisition form.”

Hermann shakes his head. His heart is racing. “I suppose,” he says. He tries to push past Newton. “Ah. Yes. Pardon me, will you, I--”

“I can see your boner, Hermann,” Newton says.

Hermann freezes in his tracks. “Excuse me?”

“I can see your boner,” Newton repeats.

“No you can’t,” Hermann splutters, going beet-red, “that is to say--you cannot, because I do not have one.”

Newton points to the front of Hermann’s trousers; Hermann quickly blocks the view with his cane. “Yes you do,” Newton says. He takes a step closer, one hand settling to rest at Hermann’s waist, and flutters his eyelashes. “Is that for me?”

Hermann’s breath catches, and, for a moment, he considers confessing it all, the fantasies, how wild Newton drives him; then Newton’s face splits into a grin. Mortification surges within Hermann. “This is an entirely inappropriate conversation to be having in--in the workplace,” he spits, pushing Newton off and backing away, “as are your--your jokes. Completely unprofessional. Please refrain from--”

Newton catches his arm. “Listen, man,” he says. “Sorry. I’m not joking. Do you want me to blow you or not?”

Hermann blinks at him. “...Are you certain you’re being serious?”

“Well, yeah,” Newton says. 

“Alright,” Hermann says, happily.

[lokishornns]

Sedated

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masterlist

mcu masterlist

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pairing: loki x reader

type: @lokissoul 1k Writing Challenge – sedated, Hozier

rating: pg13

summary: You two were addicted to each other and sober for far too long.

word count: 3,358

warnings: alcohol, not necessarily depression but some sharing symptoms, a lot of angst, curse words, implications of smut

notes: I have been trying to write this for ages because I feel like nothing will really be justice to this song, but I finally decided to finish it. I’m actually pretty happy with this, sorry for getting to it pretty late!

—

Just a little rush, babe

To feel dizzy, to derail the mind of me

“Fuck,” Loki groaned as he rolled away from you, his breaths heavy. Your chest heaved as you stared at the ceiling, your previous actions clouding your mind. Loki falls onto his back next to you. You both knew that this night would either go forgotten or ignored based on the heavy stench of alcohol and sex in the room. The music from the party still pounded on the walls and dizzied your mind, but you two had long left the loud get together, both drunk and in need of a stress reliever.

You pushed up from the bed, your legs shaking from the fall from the edge of pleasure. You sit on the bed for a few moments, your eyes trained on the bare wall. You stand up after a few seconds, stumbling over to the pile of clothes on the ground that had been torn off in a frenzy. You slip into the small dress that you had come in, threading your fingers into your heels in the process.

“Where are you going?” his voice comes tiredly from the bed and you close your eyes, your back still facing him.

“It’s a lot easier leaving drunk than hungover,” you say, biting your tongue at the end. Tears prick at the back of your eyes, all too familiar with the feeling of leaving this room in this state. Both of you fall silent, breaths still louder than thoughts for now. You hook your arm into the strap of your clutch, shoving it onto your shoulder.

“Stay,” his voice comes strained and soft, prompting you to freeze, your hand resting on the handle of the door. Your breathing softens as a tear rolls down your cheek. God, you were so stupid.

“You know I can’t do that. This is the last time,” you promise, knowing that it’ll fall through eventually. Soon enough, one of you is going to be pissed off and come running to the other, needing some way to rid their frustration. Or maybe another party will happen, the alcohol feeding into the hormones and the clothes ridiculously attractive, leading to your demise. You leave quickly, escaping through the door and into the dark hallways.

Just a little hush, babe

Our veins are busy but my heart’s in atrophy

You grab the glass tightly, throwing your head back, the liquid running down your throat, leaving a trail of burning nerves. You slam the glass onto the counter grimacing at the taste of the liquor. You groan, resting your head in your hands.

“You alright, doll?” you hear a deep voice next to you, smiling lightly when your eyes meet Bucky’s. His eyes are filled with concern as they look at your hunched figure at the bar. You turn your attention back to the bar, dropping your head down to the counter. Bucky looks to Natasha, the acting bartender, who only motions to a crowd of people all engaged in a conversation.

Bucky looks over to the group, almost freezing when he notices the god, his arm wrapped tightly around his new plaything. His stomach rolls as his eyes travel up and down the young blond who’s practically melting into the raven-haired man’s embrace. Loki had found himself a new girlfriend, spending most of his free time away from the tower at her place. When you had first found out, you didn’t respond very well, locking yourself in your room and diving into new missions that were long and far away, hoping to escape reality.

You lift your head up from the counter, tears trailing down your face. You look to the assassins, your mascara leaving dark lines behind them. You choke back a sob, your hand hurriedly going to wipe away the makeup, only smudging it more. Both assassins were frozen in shock, watching you carefully. They knew you cared about the god, but they had never seen you cry. You had the reputation of being the opposite of soft. You prided yourself in your tough shell. To make you cry took a hell lot of effort.

That’s when they both realized, you loved the god.

“Hell, doll,” Bucky’s voice is as soft as a cushion on Stark’s couches, filled to the brim with pity and frustration. Natasha hands Bucky a napkin, who soon uses it to brush away some of your tears and makeup. He bends to your eye level, his fingers trailing gently on your cheek. Your eyes look at him, sadness and exhaustion prominent. “Come on, let’s get you to bed,” he sighs, straightening up.

Any way to distract and sedate

Adding shadows to the walls of the cave

You swirled the ice in the glass, closing your eyes as the frozen liquid bounces against the solid. You wash the remaining liquid down, not even daring to flinch from the burning sensation it provides. You set the glass down gently, your hands shaking slightly. The bags under your eyes tell more than enough of the sleep that you’ve been getting recently.

“Hey, lady, we’re closing soon. Do you want me to call a cab or do you have anyone you could call?” the man behind the bar asks, his voice almost irritated. You look up, your eyes freezing on the phone behind the bar.

“Can I just use the phone?” you ask and the man seems almost surprised by how sober you appear. He nods hesitantly, just then taking in your distressed state. You stand up, walking around the bar slowly, reaching your hand up to the phone. You press in the numbers to the tower’s phone, praying somebody picks up. A voice registers through the phone, your brain hazy and unable to place it.

“Hello?” you sigh in relief.

“Hi, is this Thor? Whatever, it doesn’t matter. I need a ride back to the tower because I’m just a little drunk. I had a lot of margaritas, they’re pretty good. But yeah, can you get like Bucky to grab me? Don’t tell Steve, he’ll kill me. I’m already in trouble,” you mumble through the speaker, your head resting on the wall.

“Yeah, sure,” it responds and you hum in satisfaction.

You don’t really remember waiting. Or hanging up the phone. All you really remember is the amount of anger and frustration that ripped into your body at the sight of the person at the door. You knew you had let out a sob of what you could only assume as shock once you spotted his dark hair and rough jaw. You remembered the look of despair in his eyes once he saw you, hunched over the bar.

“Oh, Odin,” he had sighed once shooting a thankful look to the bartender, receiving only a concerned nod. “Love, what have I done to you?” he asks, a hand dragging over his face. He bends down, his hands grasping at your frame. You don’t resist, letting him pull your body into his embrace.

You and I nursing on a poison that never stung

Our teeth and lungs are lined with the scum of it

Loki’s hands carefully set you down, unbuckling and pulling off your heels gently, attempting to not wake you as he throws them somewhere near the door. You only grumble and turn into the comfort of your mattress in your unconscious shake. Loki tugs on the comforter, pulling it over your body, tucking it underneath your chin. He sighs at your state, pushing his hair back.

He pulls away from the bed, turning back to the door. He freezes once meeting face to face with two very concerned and very angry looking assassins. He looks between the two, before attempting to pass by, only to be blocked.

“Loki, we need to talk,” the red head spoke, her voice soft as to not disturb you, but an underlying threat was held in the air, all three sensing it. Loki nodded stiffly, glancing back at your sleeping form. The two figures start walking, not waiting for Loki to close the door to your room before moving. They enter the kitchen, the lights remaining off. They sit silently at the table. None of them want the lights on.

“What do you want with her?” Bucky sighs, his flesh hand threading through his hair, pushing it out of his face. He looks as the god stays silent, barely moving. The only sign he receives of Loki hearing his question is a clenched fist. “Please, Loki. This isn’t something that we would usually get involved in, but,” Bucky trails off, his voice hanging as if tied onto a thread. All three know why they have become involved.

“We’re just really worried about her. When she’s not working, she’s drinking, and when she’s not drinking, she’s working. I haven’t seen her smile in weeks,” Natasha spoke delicately, but with precision. She knows how to use words to her advantage and she’s damn good at it. She watches as Loki’s facial expression tightens in the slightest at her words, a sense of satisfaction washing over her. She knows how to torture in all ways possible.

They don’t speak for a while, all three sitting in the darkness of the kitchen with only city lights to illuminate them. But they know an answer is coming. They know Loki needs to talk and they especially know he won’t leave without the last word.

“I,” Loki’s voice falls, the silver tongue no more. He stumbles, his mouth opening and closing, stuck in time as if unable to speak. “I don’t know,” he says, honestly. All three are shocked at his response, questioning when the last time he said that phrase was. The assassins exchange uneasy looks before continuing.

“Do you want to hurt her?” Natasha now asks, taking note of Loki’s jaw ticking as he looks away, his attention focused on the glass. When he looks back, his eyes have a sheen over them, one that tells too much of pain.

“I don’t know,” he says more assuredly this time, his voice cracking.

“What do you want with her?” Bucky repeats, his voice still soft and careful, knowing he should tread lightly on this topic.

“I don’t know,” Loki bursts out, his hand coming to pound once on the wood. His breaths are loud as all in the room stills. “Ever since I met her,” he swallows thickly, his throat suddenly feelings like sawdust. “Ever since I met her, I don’t know anything. I don’t know why I feel like this all the time or why the fuck anything she does or I do matters. It never did before, so why the hell should it now? I thought, you know, maybe it’s just the fact that she’s really fucking good at sex. But it’s not. I don’t know what it is, I don’t know where it came from. The only thing I know right now is that I want her. Oh, gods, you have no clue how bad I want her,” he grits his teeth, his voice breaking and his eyes slamming shut at the last phrase. “I want her more than anything I’ve ever desired, and it’s even worse that I can’t have her. That I can’t tell her anything I want to say or I can’t do any of the things for her that she deserves.” The pair don’t respond for a while, just surveying the situation silently. They watch how Loki’s figure has gone from stoic and collected to a trembling and uneasy mess. This was not the Loki Odinson they knew. He had been brought down by a woman with no more than words.

Somewhere for this, death and guns

We are deaf, we are numb

Free and young and we can feel none of it

“Why can’t you have her?” Natasha finally asks, her voice breaking the tension. Loki laughs, the sound hollow and humorless. He looks back between the two.

“Isn’t it obvious? One of us is going to die one day. This job isn’t over and it won’t ever be over. No matter if I go and build a farm out in the middle of nowhere and start a family. The end of this all hasn’t happened yet, but it will. And it’s a hell lot easier leaving with no strings. If she ever comes to find out that I’m anything more than the man I seem, and if she ever somehow decides I’m worth anything, that’ll hurt her more than anything else and I can’t hurt her anymore,” Loki looks between the two, either ignoring or not noticing the tears that have escaped his eyes.

“You’re such an idiot,” Bucky grits out, his metal hand now clenching as the plates on it whir. His eyes are dark and narrowed, only rage evident. “She’s already decided you’re worth more than anything she’ll ever know. She’s wrecking herself right now because you’re making it impossible for her to ever be in your life. You may be right that leaving is a hell lot easier with no strings attached. But what you don’t realize is that it’s worth it. That she’s worth it. She would kill herself before she let anything even touch you, but I don’t know if you would do the same,” Bucky finally chokes out, the silence following filling up the space like a wall.

“If I ever am the reason she gets hurt,” the god starts. “If anything ever happens to her out there, and if it’s ever my fault, oh fuck,” he stops, his eyes going back to find the skyline.

“When will you get it through your thick skull that something already has happened? Loki, she’s killing herself. She’s drinking and working herself to death. The last mission she was on nearly killed her and had her in the medical ward for a week. Don’t pretend you didn’t know about that,” Natasha spits, a dangerous mixture of venom and worry lacing together.

“What do I do?” Loki asks, burying his head in his hands, his elbows digging into the table.

“We’re not going to walk you through this. This is your doing and you’re smart and capable. But, for starters, be there for her. You owe her that at the very least,” Bucky says, his eyebrows furrowed together, his metal hand now relaxed.

Something isn’t right, babe

I keep catching little words but the meaning’s thin

You groan, your eyes squeezing tighter as a wave of pain greets you. You try to roll over, only grunting once met with more pain. You pry your eyes open, expecting to meet an eyeful of sunshine, surprised to see your curtains closed. You glance around the room, ignoring the waves of dizziness that run at you. Your eyes land on the chair in your corner, a much too large figure propped uncomfortably in the chair, his eyes closed and breathing deep.

“Loki?” you ask, your voice scratchy and burning. Your voice isn’t loud, but its enough to wake the sleeping figure. He stirs, his eyes slowly opening, trained on you. “What are you doing here?” you ask, grumbling as you flop back down on the bed, regretting your actions as a fresh wave of pain rushes to your head.

“I,” he stops himself, eyes glancing around the room yet avoiding you. He sighs, his head drooping and his eyes succumbing to your figure. “I was worried about you,” he whispers and your breath hitches slightly, not expecting the honesty. Maybe a tired Loki is an open book.

“What happened last night? I don’t really remember much,” you mumble, closing your eyes tightly. You rub your eyes with your fists, regretting that quickly as the crustiness of your mascara makes you shiver in disgust.

“You drank. A lot. You called and I picked you up. We had sex,” he says and you roll your eyes, grabbing a pillow and chucking it the best you could at his figure.

“That’s the one thing you can’t lie about. I know how big your dick is and what that means afterwards,” you laugh softly, your heart clenching once hearing an equally soft chuckle emit from the god’s throat. The corners of your lips tug upwards a bit. This was nice. As much as you hated to admit it and as much as you probably should be complaining about your head, you couldn’t help the thought. You loved this moment. Laughing quietly in your room, nothing to disturb you. No lust in the air; just content.

I’m somewhere outside my life, babe

I keep scratching but somehow I can’t get in

“She wasn’t you,” he says after a while of silence and you furrow your brows, knowing exactly what he was talking about.

“Please, don’t,” you almost whimper and you want to slap yourself for seeming so pathetic. “I don’t think I can handle it.”

“I tried to find you. I tried so badly. I thought maybe you would be in her somewhere, but you weren’t. You were so far away,” his voice is barely audible, and you hate the familiar prickling of tears that now fills up behind your eyes.

“Loki, stop, please,” you begged, your voice cracking. You missed the content. You missed the past.

“I miss you, dear gods, I miss you. You have no clue how much I want to be yours and how much I want you to be mine,” he says and your eyes open, staring at the ceiling, salty tears trailing down your temples. You want to sob, but it won’t come. You’re out of sobbing.

“You don’t,” you say, your voice trembling.

“Yes, I do-”

“Loki, you don’t want me,” you hiss, sitting up abruptly, ignoring the overbearing amount of pain that washes over your consciousness. “If you wanted me, if you even cared about me, you wouldn’t have done this. You wouldn’t have. I don’t blame you, I really don’t. Please don’t make me hate myself anymore,” your voice is pleading and breaking at every chance it gets. Loki’s eyes are no longer those of a god. They’re sad, overwhelmingly sad. They’re more mortal and penetrable than anything else you’ve ever seen.

You both stay silent, watching each other, tears mixing with tension that flies between you two. You look away first, somehow feeling like you’re losing this game. Like you already handed the competition over to him.

“I am not what you deserve, nor what you believe me to be. I’m not a god and I’m not a man. I’m not a Jotun. I’m much weaker than those. If I wasn’t so weak, I would take this away in a split second. But to be honest, I don’t know how. I don’t know anything anymore. I just know you,” a sob tears its way out of your chest. “I know what you look like when you’re exhausted. When you’re angry or happy. You’re smile makes my stomach hurt and I don’t know anything else. I know exactly how you like your tea, or your coffee. I know when you’re feeling down by just a look. I know what socks you wear whenever you start your cycle. I know how long you could go on and on about life, and how wondrous you find the little things. I know exactly what song you play whenever it’s far too late in the night and you’re just feeling off. I know you. And I don’t know anything else. Every single time I see you, I swear, nothing else exists. It’s only you. And I’m sorry I can’t be the same for you,” his voice is cut off by your lips attaching onto his, a salty but warm taste filling your mouths.

You’ve kissed before. So many times, most lost in passion and alcohol late at night. And to be fully honest, this wasn’t all too different from the others, but something felt a little more matured. A little more welcoming.

Something a little less sedated and a lot more like home.

So we’re slaves to any semblance of touch

Lord we should quit but we love it too much

[perfectcreaturerarelyseen]

The Fate of the Fae | 06 (M)

Pairing: Andrew Hozier-Byrne/Unknown Female

Genre: Fantasy, Modern, Romance, Smut, Fluff, Angst. Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut

Words: Chapter 6: 2,003

Summary: Andrew Hozier-Byrne unknowingly searches for the woman that pulled him from the bog 3,000 years ago. Unknown to either of them that in this modern world their souls are still intertwined from the life they shared long ago. She is unavailable, he’s not giving up. Will the woman that inspires his music be wooed by his songs or will he lose his chance? That’s Wasteland, Baby!

Note: A/N: This is a story requested by my best friend to be written about her favorite musician. I have been inspiried by his songs and specific lines. Any reference to his music is used in the name of inspiration and creating art. I do not own any of his music. Any reference to Hozier in this story is fictional and used by the author in the name of crafting art. I want to thank all who read it. I have fallen in love with writing this story and would love to hear from you. It will be written in installments. The finished story will be at the very least over 50,000 words. Enjoy

The Fate of the Fae: Chapter 6

He’d told them he was no savior.

Still when he returned from the woods silently, not meeting their eyes, the clan scoffed. Some Forest Father indeed, they thought to themselves as he trudged past.

They ignored the thick stream of silver blood that ran a steady river from his upper bicep to his fingers. It stained the ground leaving a sparkling trail behind him as he made his way back to the village.

The dirt pathways that dissected the town, creating a makeshift road between the impermanent buildings were choked thick with the smoke of burning fae. He pulled the collar of his shirt up over his mouth.

Skirting his way around the burning funeral pyre he finally caught a glimpse of Willow Woman, now Madison as he called her in his mind, helping to carry limp bodies and heaving them onto the flames. The fae had sickness of their own and it was dangerous to leave so many dead in the open. Plus the scent of that thick silver blood attracted the monsters. Whether it was dried or fresh the sickly sweet scent of it drew them in like nectar to a bee. It was dangerous. Everything about this village cloaked in the stench of death was dangerous. He yearned for nothing more than to grab Madison and drag her kicked and screaming back to the safety of his cabin.

He’d settle even to live like nomads on the land. Camping out at the edge of the woods. He’d even let himself believe that she wouldn’t fear the trees. That she would plunge herself deep into the woods with him at her side. They could live, deep in the darkness of the forest, away from all of the evil of this world. She was pure of soul, the woods would accept her. He knew it in his featherlight bones. She was the light to the darkness deep within him. The light of this world was as bright as his willow baby. The night’s were as dark as the world of his baby but they were half as beautiful too.

He was half tempted to stalk towards her, throw her over his shoulder, and leave this place. She could bang her fists against his back and scream until she was hoarse but he was determined to get her away from here. Anywhere but this cursed place.

Andrew quickly realized that he was standing in the middle of the village intensely staring at the back of her form as a pool of his blood gathered at his feet. He shook himself and ran his uninjured hand through his hair groaning. The bite hurt like a bitch and he wasn’t happy about it.

He had made little progress in the forest. Barely getting a few feet into the woods one of the monsters had jumped him in a blind attack. He’d lifted his arm to cover his face and thus earned himself a wicked bite. The smell of his blood had attracted so many that he knew there was no chance of making anymore progress into the woods. He was looking for the leader not the lackeys. He’d landed one booted foot in the chest of the beast and heaved with his long limbs. It’d gone flying.

Before any of the others could get some fangs into him he’d turned intense eyes on them. There was a moment of complete silence as the entire forest paused. He knew he couldn’t hold them for long, not this many, still the Forest Father commanded their attention. He was the damn Forest Father for fuck’s sake they would bow under his gaze.

There was a chorus of growls but slowly they sank to their haunches. Quietly and smoothly he exited the woods still holding his gaze upon them. When he’d cleared the tree line the spell broke and he heard baying howls.

This place was cursed. This place was fucked.

Willow Woman as if sensing his pain or simple sensing him turned. She had a wet cloth tied over her mouth to help with the smoke. Without seeing her mouth he could not read her expression. Her eyes looked wet but whether from the smoke or something else he wasn't sure.

A small woman almost the size of a child laid a hand on her arm. The woman had long dark hair and olive skin. She turned to see what Madison was looking at and locked eyes on Andrew. She narrowed her eyes but still he couldn’t read her expression either with the cloth covering half of her face. She gave a small almost enthusiastic wave. Andrew gave a small lift of his hand in response. He realized then that her eyes weren’t narrowed but instead crinkled with a smile. She placed a hand on Willow Woman’s arm and leaned over to her ear to be heard over the fire. The blaze ate her words but Madison shot him another look before nodding.

She turned from her work and made her way to him. Pulling the cloth down from her mouth he could see that she was frowning. Her look made a knife twist in his stomach. It was the first time she didn’t look happy to see him. They stood for a moment staring each other down not saying a word. Finally her eyes locked on his arm and a look of tenderness passed over her face.

“You’re hurt.” It wasn’t a question. There was fire in her and he loved when it came out.

“It’s only a bite.” She sighed and rolled her eyes. It made him smile and when she saw him smiling she smiled too.

“What shall I do with you Forest Father?” She asked with a sound of fake exasperation in her voice.

“Andrew.” He supplied and she looked at him surprised. Then a feeling of warmth spread through his chest as her face lit up. “And...Madison...” He tested her name on his tongue. She didn’t protest at the use of her name so he continued. “You can do anything you want with me.”

OoOo

Alexis threw Madison’s door open to find her curled up on the bed her phone clutched to her chest. She clucked her tongue at the sight and moved to the window throwing open the curtains. Madison groaned from the bed and covered her eyes with her arms.

“Up, up, up. It’s almost noon. You’ve slept far too long.” Alexis opened the window letting fresh air flood the room that smelled of staleness.

“I was up late.” Madison complained still covering her face.

“Your point being?” Alexis leaned her head out the window staring up at the bright blue sky, cloudless for once. “Where is Tom?”

“Tom?” Madison asked sounding groggy.

“Yes. Tom as in Tom. The red breasted robin. He’s usually here by now. Tom!” She yelled out the window.

“Not so loud for goodness sake!” Madison harshly whispered at her. “Bates will hear you.” She hissed.

“Oh your ‘betrothed’” Alexis said the word sarcastically before continuing “...left with The Snake a few hours ago. We’re in the clear for all types of mischief and fun. Now seriously where is Tom. Tom!” She shouted out the window again. For such a small woman she could make so much noise.

“I can’t believe you named the bird Tom. It’s so generic. Why do you need him anyways?”

“What was I supposed to call him? Balthazar? I want to know where Bates has gone.”

“Why?”

“Because I have a scandalous idea that will get us both in some very deep shit. We’ll be fine as long as I can keep tabs on that idiot you’re supposed to marry.” Madison refrained from pointing out that Bates registered on the spectrum of genius because she’d called him worst names than that before.

Alexis was almost always too kind about him. She was too kind about anyone really. She was the only fae from her previous life that Bates had allowed to stay with Madison. Ripped from her village, her mother, and everything she knew Alexis had demanded to come with them. She was small but she was scary. Not willing to start a fight over something so petty Bates had allowed it. Alexis with her uncanny ability to talk to trees and birds came in handy. Not to mention she was Madison’s best and only friend.

“What idea is this?” Madison asked cautiously.

“Remember that beau you fell so hard for last night?” Alexis asked looking at Madison finally. She registered the fat lip she was sporting from The Snake’s hand but said nothing. “Oh don’t look at me like that. The elm on Main Street told me about it.” Madison rolled her eyes at Alexis but they both smiled.

“Yes, I remember. What about him?”

“He’s playing a concert today and we’re going.” Madison wanted to argue. So many words came to her mind but she couldn’t bring herself to say any of them. She desperately, oh so desperately, wanted to see him again.

“What’s the plan?”

“Oh girl you should know me by now, there’s no plan.” Alexis grinned with pure mischief burning in her eyes. Madison swallowed hard a ball of nervous energy having nothing to do with her husband finding out forming in her stomach. Still she didn’t argue as Alexis went to her large freestanding oak wardrobe and began throwing outfit choices on the bed.

OoOo

Staring down at his phone for the hundredth time he typed another text trying to sound cute instead of crazy and incomprehensible. He quickly deleted it and began texting again. Finally he sighed and leaned his head back against the wall he was sitting against. He gently bumped his head against the painted cement but his wild mane of hair absorbed most of the pain.

Why? Why couldn’t he come up with anything to say. His long legs cramped from being in the same position for so long. He stood and began to pace the hallway. The sound check had gone well and he was already pumped for the upcoming show.

They’d be letting the crowd in soon and already he could feel their energy like a low thrum through his body.

He wanted her.

He groaned and tore his hand through his curly hair. In this light it looked alight like a blazing fire. It matched the way his brain was burning searching fruitlessly for words.

He wrote songs. He was a king among thieves when it came to clever phrasing. Yet, he came up with nothing.

He thought again of his dream. Her sweet skin salty with sweat as he ran his tongue over it. The little gasps that escaped her with each thrust. He felt completely out of control inside of her. Like he would lose himself in her.

With another growl he typed furiously. His finger hovered over the send button. With a shaky breath he hit send and almost immediately flung his phone across the hallway. He refrained instead sitting once again, wrapping his long arms around his knees and resting his head on top.

OoOo

She glanced down at her phone and her heart leapt into her throat.

...Wasteland Baby, I’m playing a concert today, will you come?...

She knew who it was from even though she didn’t recognize the number. Madison typed back with vigor never hesitating.

...Oh baby, I will most definitely come...

OoOo

He took a deep breath and glanced at the text. He read over the words several times before smiling. He practically leapt up. He had a bounce to his step that he usual reserved for when they rocked out “Jackie and Wilson” in front of the crowd.

She’d come. Oh would she come.

OoOo

She escaped her gilded cage for a moment.

A modern Cinderella with wings.

The forest king awaited her arrival.

Unknown royalty among winglessly winged.

The glass slipper awaited to be shattered.

The bond grew.

As did the danger.

Such was the fate of the fae.

OoOo

[lordsister]

Better Love (Aizawa Shouta x Reader)

A/N: It's probably impossible not to love Aizawa. As always, I don't own My Hero Academia, any of its characters, or the song "Better Love" by Hozier. Enjoy!

italics-flashback

regular text-present day

(y/n)-your name

(e/c)-eye color

A sliver of moonlight peaked through the slight gap in the curtains, dimly illuminating the couple embracing sweetly on the bed. Wrapped in the safety of your lover's arms, you slept peacefully, your figure still and serene. Shouta, on the other hand, lay awake, watching his lover's chest rise and fall with the soft breaths of sleep. His fingers reached out and brushed a few stray hairs from your cheek, careful not to disturb you. Fingertips lingered on your skin for a moment, soft and worshiping.

He confessed, there was a time when he had dreamed of a love deeper than this, a better love, but that had been the foolish musings of a man who hadn't truly known love before. In the deepest blackness of the night, his arms wrapped around you with no intention of ever letting go, he felt a greater certainty than he had ever known before. There was no better love than this.

A gentle sigh escaped his lips as memories spun lazily through his sleepy mind. Even when he had been blind to the true meaning of your presence in his life, you had been his.

A tired sigh left his mouth as he collapsed at his desk."It's too early in the morning to think," he muttered under his breath, immediately regretting it when Hizashi's loud voice sounded over his shoulder.

"What's wrong, Shouta? Not get enough sleep again?" The black-haired boy in question only groaned and buried his face in his arms, hoping Hizashi would go away if he ignored him. Naturally, with Hizashi being Hizashi, it didn't work, and the chatty blonde continued to ramble away about who knew what.

"Hizashi, class is going to start soon. You should probably sit down." Shouta sighed in relief as your calm voice brought Hizashi's to a halt.

"Oh, your right. Seriously! That's our (y/n)-chan!" You responded with a small giggle and a sweet smile, winking at Shouta when Hizashi wasn't looking.

Shouta didn't really have an opinion of you. You were kind and friendly, your sweet personality  making you a popular student and a promising future hero, but he wasn't particularly close to you despite your many attempts to reach out to him. He didn't have any great interest in you so he didn't see the point in reaching back. He was content with his life separate from yours.

A small smile appeared on Shouta's face as he reflected on his past foolishness. He had spent so long apart from you, when he could have been by your side the entire time. Another recollection entered his mind, a memory of when he had first experienced your hidden darkness.

Everyone holds a degree of darkness within them, Shouta knew that, so why didn't he think that rule applied to you? Was it because you were always so happy and cheerful at school? Because your quirk was connected to light?

Or because he simply didn't wish to believe you had any darkness?

It was supposed to be a simple patrol, nothing much. The streets of this city were relatively peaceful and the hero agency you and Shouta worked for had thought nothing of sending two newbies out for a late night patrol before going home.

It had happened so quickly. Shouta hadn't even seen it coming. One moment, you and he had been walking along, alert but not overly aware, and the next he'd been impaled in the shoulder by a spear made of bone, pinning him to the brick wall of a nearby building. It wasn't long before the shock wore off and pain seared through his body, ripping grunts and shouts of pain from his throat. He tried to activate his quirk, but the villain who'd just attacked was clever, and remained out of sight, cloaked in shadows.

For you, with a quirk that functioned best during the day, the fight was an unfair struggle. Your quirk allowed you to manipulate and summon light, and although you tried to illuminate the situation and locate your target, the villain always remained just out of reach, striking bloody blows across your back and arms and darting away before you could counter.

As the one-sided encounter raged on, Shouta could see you weakening. With each strike, more blood accumulated in the puddle that was quickly forming around your feet. He tried to remove the spear from his shoulder to no effect. The tip was embedded to deeply in the wall behind him.

At this rate, you were going to die, and all he would be able to do was watch. The thought sent a wave of desperation through Shouta as he renewed his painful efforts to remove the spear from his shoulder. He didn't know what he would do afterwards, he was just as badly wounded as you were, but he had to do something. Giving up and letting you die was absolutely not an option.

He was just about ready to pass out from the pain when he heard something that sent shivers down his spine. You were...laughing? Is that what it would be called? Maybe cackling would be a better word for it.

Bubbling from your lips was a joyless laugh of anger and vengeance. Even the villain seemed to be surprised, the attacks abruptly stopping. Slipping in your blood, you almost fell from the force of the laughter that wracked your body, catching yourself at the last minute and sending more blood dripping from your wounds. Shouta held his breath as you spoke.

"Stupid villain, you really thought it would be this easy, huh?" You wiped a bit of blood from the edge of your mouth, your lips forming a feral smile. Shouta could only stare, mouth hanging open, as the sweet person he'd spent his high school years with gave way to something much more dangerous. "This is what you get for underestimating me," and the blood around your feet began to boil, turning into bright, burning beams of light. Was this your quirk too?

A spot of light appeared to your left followed by blood-curdling shrieking. There was no running from the light your blood was producing, the villain finally exposed. A small, ugly thing, it's skin was dark purple and it's face, twisted in agony, was that of a rat. Apparently some of your blood had splattered it, burning holes through cloth and skin like drops of the very sun itself. It wasn't long before the villain dropped, alive but unconscious, charred skin smoking where your blood had come into contact with it.

Shouta's vision began to blur, the pain and blood loss taking its toll. Distantly, he could hear the sound of approaching sirens. It seemed the pros had finally showed up, though his vision was already beginning to darken around the edges, unconsciousness dispelling the pain of  the spear still in his shoulder. Focusing on you, he faintly realized you had turned to him. The glow from your spilled blood was easing, bathing you in a soft light and illuminating your features. The darkness that had shadowed your lovely face had vanished, the person he had known for years returning and giving him a look of pure concern and shame. The last thing he saw before passing out was you take a few shaky steps towards him before falling to the ground, following him into blackness.  

He woke up, several hours later, in a hospital bed, you sitting next to him. You were covered in even more bandages than him and he suspected you weren't supposed to be out of your own matching bed, but you spoke before he could, explaining everything.

The light that had emitted from your blood was an effect of your quirk that could only be activated when you were angriest. Shouta was silent after you finished and he saw you shift uncomfortably under his stare.

"That's it? Why are you so nervous?" You looked up, stunned at his nonchalant tone.

"Huh!? I mean...this is my darkness, it's not necessarily something I like to show to people."

"You should know that that doesn't matter to me, (y/n)." He didn't mean for it to sound so intimate, but he was strangely glad it had when you threw your arms around him and gave him a hug he was, oddly enough, enjoying.

He still didn't realize it at the time, but you were his.

Shouta's eyes opened slightly, observing a single star through the gap in the curtains, before another, more serene memory entered his mind and he tightened his arms around you.

How had you convinced him to leave his comfortable lair in the middle of the night and stargaze with you? Even he couldn't say what had compelled him to pick up the phone, your smiling picture lighting up the screen, and join you outside. But here he was, laying on a blanket with you in the middle of a park, the stars and moon the only witnesses to how he moved closer to you just the slightest bit.

Though the two of you were alone, conversations were carried out in low murmurs, topics ranging from how annoying Hizashi could be to recent villain activity. The night was peaceful, but his body was humming with an unknown thrill. He had been feeling differently around you lately. Little things about you jumped out at him and you were suddenly the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. His arms itched to reach out and hold you and his heart screamed at him to protect you...love you.

It was that night, beneath the stars, that Shouta realized what you were to him.

He loved you, and when he turned to look at you he found that you were already looking at him, the stars reflected in your (e/c) eyes. Acting on instinct, he cupped your cheeks and brushed his lips softly against yours. His eyes looked into yours for a moment before they slid shut and he pressed his lips to yours once more, harder this time.

The rest of the night had been spent in the embrace of new love, better love.

Shouta's eyes moved back to your sleeping face. He loved your kindness, your beauty, your darkness, everything. Someone as bright as you might deserve better than an exhausted, disinterested underground hero, but he had no plans of ever letting you go because he knew you loved him.

You were the better love he didn't know he needed and he could only hope he could be that better love for you.

[perfectcreaturerarelyseen]

To Fall for the Fae | 02 (M)

Pairing: Andrew Hozier-Byrne/Unknown Female

Genre: Fantasy, Modern, Romance, Smut, Fluff, Angst

Words: Chapter 2: 1,796

Summary: Andrew Hozier-Byrne unknowingly searches for the woman that pulled him from the bog 3,000 years ago. Unknown to either of them that in this modern world their souls are still intertwined from the life they shared long ago. She is unavailable, he’s not giving up. Will the woman that inspires his music be wooed by his songs or will he lose his chance? That’s Wasteland, Baby!

Note: A/N: This is a story requested by my best friend to be written about her favorite musician. I have been inspiried by his songs and specific lines. Any reference to his music is used in the name of inspiration and creating art. I do not own any of his music. Any reference to Hozier in this story is fictional and used by the author in the name of crafting art. I want to thank all who read it. I have fallen in love with writing this story and would love to hear from you. It will be written in installments. The finished story will be at the very least over 50,000 words. Enjoy.

To Fall for the Fae: Chapter 2

The bog was cold, dark, freezing, but oh so sweet. So beautiful to be in that delicious darkness after the red hot burning of the fever.

It had swallowed him whole. Body, heart, and soul. It owned him now. Completed him. His long limbs suspended in the soft sweet feel of mud and peat.

They laid him down into the earth that had greedily accepted him, little did they know that he had not been fully dead. His heart stuck in atrophy, paused for a moment. A breath between beats. Still they had packed him into that stiff box cut from the very trees he had loved.

They’d buried him alive.

They had not cared for him to continue living in the sinful life of drink. It had been a month he’d disappeared. A month they had waited for the father of the forest to return. To quell the wildness of the forest that ever threatened to consume them.

They had been wrathful when he’d appeared half dead, wild, scared and collapsed on the steps of the porch of his cabin. He mumbled something over and over again. Unable to calm him they’d placed him in bed. Watched him suffer. Then gave him as a ritual sacrifice to the very epicenter of the wilderness to keep it calm. To keep it quiet.

No longer did they need to fear what lay in there. The beasts that the forest father had seen, had killed, had lulled with his music. They had fed him to them. It was done.

It smelled of that sharp coolness of wet earth. It could not be explained, could not be described, it simply was.

His heart began to beat slowly, reluctantly. It hurt to feel the slow drumbeat in his chest. It ached, it yearned, it wanted her.

He’d rather it’d stayed paused.

The weight of the mud pushed on the lid of his simple coffin. It threatened to submerge him. Fill his nose and lungs with it. Line his teeth and lungs with it.

It wanted to consume him.

She wanted to save him.

Yet, still he waited alone.

A fleeting thought one of the few to cross his mind in this makeshift grave.

Oh to be alone with you.

Such was the fate of the fae.

OoOo

He’d never felt too good in crowds. They made him feel claustrophobic. Bodies pushing against him, sucking the sweet cool air from his lungs. It felt like the crowd was trying to overtake him. Consume him. There was a fleeting thought in his mind when they pressed against him. A thought like cool darkness overtaking his senses. It felt like his heart stopped as they tried to swallow him whole. It felt familiar though from when and where he didn’t know.

They played their music loud. They bayed like creatures along to it. Screaming out lyrics of hate and violence. It beat against his eardrums until he wanted to cover his ears to block out the sound.

He resisted the urge and pushed past another bar. Nameless, faceless he let his long legs lead him along the street as the man who identified himself as Larry led him to the bar.

Andrew almost turned back. Something in his conscious, his intuition told him that tonight something big would happen. He was too tired for big. Too sick of this world for his entire existence to rocked from it’s foundation.

The night crackled with electricity. It was ready. It was waiting. It wanted him.

Larry led him towards something monumental and more than once he stumbled as his feet wanted to turn and run.

Many a heart he had broken, never with clear intent to, but broken they had been none the less.

Yet, his heart remained pure. Hardened and turned black with the bitterness that consumed his soul whenever he thought of her and failed to find her. It beat on though, no cracks allowing what little light left inside of it to shine out.

It was armored. He wanted to keep it that way.

Larry approached a bar that was lightless, dark, dank. There was an air of cigarette smoke wafting from inside. The music was slow, sensual. The drumbeat matched his heart. It beat like the wings of a hummingbird.

He faltered at the entrance. The entrance to her. This bar. This bar that played the music of the winglessly winged creatures. They played the music of the Fae.

He felt powerless in that moment. There were moments when he stood on stage, his voice fiercely crying out the words to “Nina Cried Power” as the entire stage erupted in fire, where he felt invincible. Thousands of faces singing along, shouting those words, his words, her words. He conducted them but they met his music punch for punch with power. In those moments he was something else, something else.

Andrew couldn’t force his feet forward. Something was in there. Someone was in there.

For a moment his heart stopped. Just for one beat it ceased it’s movement.

“No.” He whispered under his breath. A beg. No. Don’t send me her. I am not ready yet. Not worthy yet.

His thinking mind couldn’t comprehend what was going on as he tried to force his feet into action. Into movement. Larry watched him quizzically.

Madison his subconscious cried like a battle song. It chanted her name over and over again. It could not stop.

He tried to turn on his heels and stalk back to the relative safety of his hotel room even the tiny bunks he shared with the rest of the band. Anywhere but here.

His subconscious screamed her name. Then it took it upon itself to propel his feet forward whether he wanted to go or not.

He walked woodenly into the bar his hands thrust into the pockets of his pants.

Andrew didn’t want to go. He wanted to go. He wanted to run. He wanted to tie himself to bar to keep from leaving. He didn’t want this. He needed this. He was desperate. He was desperate. He was desperate.

He took a seat at one of the few cliched stools at the bar. Ordered a whiskey, it was decent like Larry had promised, and lit a cigarette.

He drank his whiskey. He smoked. He waited.

Always he waited.

He knew better than to fuck with fate.

This was Wasteland, baby.

OoOo

He was several drinks in. Enough that he felt his world beginning to tilt. He could handle his whiskey, don’t get that wrong. Tonight though he wanted that tilt. He wanted to remove the fear he felt fluttering in his chest. Like a shrike trapped in his rib cage. Slowly eating him from the inside out. Thrusting him upon a thorn then ripping into his flesh.

His thoughts got darker the more he drank. Sometimes his best lyrics came when he was so deep into the swill that there was no pulling him out. Simply let him slowly claw his way out of the dark hole he’d dragged his limp body into.

Damn his thoughts were getting away from him.

Then the hair on the back of his neck stood on end.

Like a bolt of lightning coming down from the sky he was struck with electricity. His body lit up like the Vegas strip. Something was happening.

He didn’t feel sober but the world stopped spinning. It was like his senses were on overdrive. Sharpened.

He fought it as long as he could though he still didn’t know why. His rational mind could not comprehend all the things rushing through him. It didn’t understand what he was. What was hidden inside of him. Those wings that never unfurled. He saw himself as ordinary. It was only through the lens of his fans did he even being to comprehend that he was complete extraordinary.

He took his drink and spun around on the stool. He was too tired to fight with himself.

His eyes dry and red from too much nicotine. Too little sleep. Too much heartache looked with laser focus for what it was his brain wanted him to see.

He scanned the bar. His eyes falling on person after person.

He focused on the makeshift dance floor that was shrouded in a cloud of smoke. His eyes glanced through the men and women dancing oh so slow and sensual on the floor.

Then his eyes fell on something. Someone. A profile of a woman. Dancing real slow, all by herself, as if passing the time until her lover found her.

His heart stopped this time for more than a moment. It jerked. Spasmed. Then stopped.

Andrew took a stuttering breath trying to restart it and slowly it did. It beat until it was matching the movement of her hips.

She danced like a bird of paradise. She moved lithely like the bough of a willow tree.

Her dark brown tresses move hypnotically as she danced. Falling over one shoulder then the next. It looked like a wave of water. Rippling darkness.

Though she moved slowly he could sense in her something wild. Something feral.

This was a woman who could not be tamed. Not by anyone.

She could be loved, oh could she be loved.

No one would ever possess her though.

He wanted to love her.

He wanted to slam her against the wall and crash his mouth onto her.

He wanted to sink his teeth into her neck, biting and sucking gently until he left a mark on her. A love bite. Something that reminded everyone that she was his.

He wanted her.

He needed her.

“Madison” he called like a prayer but the word was swallowed up by the crowd and she didn’t hear him.

OoOo

A man tall as a tree sat hunched over a glass that his shaking hands held ever so delicately. If given another moment he would drop that cool smooth glass and it would shatter to the ground. Breaking into a million pieces. It was foreboding. It was the potential of what this beautiful creature rarely seen could do to him. To his heart of darkness.

She was oblivious to his plight. Oblivious to those around her. She moved her hips in figure eights, a dance of veils from long ago that no one could remember. She danced in a way that she had never been taught. A way that drew the men in around her. They kept their distance. She gave off a vibe, a deep one, that said no one can touch me, no one can know me, no one but him.

He looked at her and knew instantly that no one fucked with his baby.

His fate was sealed.

The fate of the Fae.

OoOo

[perfectcreaturerarelyseen]

To Fall for the Fae | 08 (M)

Pairing: Andrew Hozier-Byrne/OriginalFemale Character

Genre: Fantasy, Modern, Romance, Smut, Fluff, Angst

Words: Chapter 8: 1,953

Summary: Andrew Hozier-Byrne unknowingly searches for the woman that pulled him from the bog 3,000 years ago. Unknown to either of them that in this modern world their souls are still intertwined from the life they shared long ago. She is unavailable, he’s not giving up. Will the woman that inspires his music be wooed by his songs or will he lose his chance? That’s Wasteland, Baby!

Note: A/N: This is a story requested by my best friend to be written about her favorite musician. I have been inspiried by his songs and specific lines. Any reference to his music is used in the name of inspiration and creating art. I do not own any of his music. Any reference to Hozier in this story is fictional and used by the author in the name of crafting art. I want to thank all who read it. I have fallen in love with writing this story and would love to hear from you. It will be written in installments. The finished story will be at the very least over 50,000 words. Enjoy.

***Adult Language This is Rated M for a Reason***

To Fall for the Fae: Chapter 8

She hadn’t said it. She’d held the words in. It had killed her but the part of that clung to the traditions of her people wouldn’t let her.

He may be the Forest Father, that didn’t mean he had a clan.

She was daughter of the Elder. She was high born. He was of the outcasts. To love him was to throw herself from her mother and her clan. It meant turning her back on everything she ever knew. It meant becoming a traitor.

Did she love him enough to do that?

The answer was a resounding yes. Without a doubt.

Her bravery, however, faltered.

There was a breath between them. His lips were next to her ear, the long fine strands of her hair swaying slightly as his hot breath tickled her ear and sent shockwaves up and down her body. Everything was on fire with electricity. Her clit throbbed, she felt herself clench with the need to be filled by him.

He waited for her to say something. It seemed like the longest moment in his long life. His heart jerked with the pain of feeling her rejection. Still he waited desperately. The Forest Father waited for nothing; this time he did. The Willow Woman, Madison, had that much control over the fae who previously couldn’t be controlled.

When she said nothing, he pulled back from her. It was the deepest cut he’d ever experienced. Worst than any bite that had torn into his skin and ripped him open.

This was a cut that couldn’t be carefully sewn shut with turquoise thread. It was a cut to the soul that would not heal.

He drew himself back and stood to his full length. Tall like a tree. Then he turned and made his way to leave.

“Wait,” her voice was quiet. Like the whisper of the wind through a willow branch. He paused ever so slightly. His legs wanted to keep moving but he jerked them to a stop. He didn’t want to hear what she had to say. He knew it wouldn’t be what he wanted to hear. Still he listened.

“I...am not ready to say that. You know, I know you know, what will happen to me if I do. I need...time.” Madison stood and came to him. She let her fingers trace up his uninjured arm.

His body was alight at her touch. His lips parted in a contented sigh at her touch. He needed her. Craved her body. His cock twitched ever so slightly and he could not, though he tried, pull his body back from hers. His hands trailed up her arms. To her neck. He touched the hollow of her throat and let his fingers draw a line down her body, dissecting it in two until his finger rested over her heart.

“We can kiss and touch, lass, as much as we want. We can be with each other’s bodies. Baby, mine calls to you like it has called to no other. Love, until you can say the words, we will never be together as our souls call to each other. That is all I have to say...Madison.” Her name was like a prayer on his lips. It was on the very verge of being a beg. He righted himself and pulled away from her. It was like ripping off a piece of flesh to wrench himself away from her grasp.

He tried desperately to ignore the tears in her eyes as she watched him back away. They fell soft like petals from a cherry tree.

“Damn it, lass. Why? Why must you do this to me?” His voice rose for the first time with her but it was with frustration, not anger. He couldn’t help it. He came to her and she fell into his arms. They melded together. He kissed her cheeks, tasting the salt and kissing away her tears.

“How can I show you? How can I show you that I care for you?” She begged, the words falling like her tears.

“I don’t know. Fucking kiss me, for a start.” His voice was lilting and light. Lyrical, like when he sat on his back porch and serenaded the trees. It was a joke. She laughed.

Then she crashed her lips to his.

OoOo

She stood feeling awkward a few feet from where the meet and greet was happening. She picked at the hem of her full skirted dress with the teal color and small white flowers over orange, similar to calico blankets.

Her mind drifted to those nights. Her legs wrapped around his waist as he drove into her. He could make sheer force feel gentle as they made love and fucked and owned each other’s bodies in the night.

The sheets always got wrapped around his legs, long like a bird’s. He’d growl and tear them away so that he could be free to move again. She lost quite a few sets of sheets in those days.

Andrew always stared deep into her eyes every time their bodies were intertwined. His deep hazel eyes gazed deeply into her emerald pools. It was intense and oh so deep. In those moments she felt connected to him soul to soul.

His mouth was tender. Soft. Yet, the things he did with it were anything but soft. He devoured her. Left love marks on her neck, her breast, her thighs.

He was wild.

She fucking loved it.

She fucking loved him.

Her chest ached and it felt like the air was knocked out of her as she looked at him standing there. Towering over the women who lined up to meet the Forest Father. Who had fallen under his spell just as she had.

She hated waiting there. She should leave. She couldn’t.

Why did she have to be plagued with the memories? Why could she not be like him? Happily oblivious to all they had shared 3,000 years ago.

It was bullshit.

She fumed.

Then as the last fan wandered away, the feeling of a hug still warming her heart, he turned his million watt smile on her and she melted.

Fuck.

“You wanna get out of here? I don’t know this city but...” He started to say, coming over to her. He was wrapped in a black hoodie and he stuffed his hands into the pockets as he made his way over to her. He looked sweet, a little dorky, and utterly adorable. She was right back where she didn’t want to be. That dreaded L word hung on her lips. It rattled in her mouth. It twisted her tongue. It wanted to be let out. She cut him off.

“Do you like fish and chips?” Madison managed to get the words out without spitting the word love in the middle of the sentence.

“Love them. Is there a decent place around here to get some?” He brushed his hair back behind his ear and she wanted to run her fingers through that tangled mass of curls that was full of tangles.

“More than decent. Come on, I’ll treat you right, baby.” She made the last sentence a joke, still he lit up at the word.

She turned and began to walk away from him, but with his long legs, he was easily able to catch up.

They sauntered together down the street, both of them with their hands stuffed into their pockets, trying desperately to keep those treasonous hands from reaching out to touch the other person.

OoOo

He was lost in thought staring at her. She kept her eyes averted from him and it made him curious. Why was she so willing to spend time with him, yet seemed so icy towards him when they were alone? Oh to be alone with her. There were people in the restaurant. They might take offense if he threw her down on the table and took her there.

A piece of fish hit him squarely in the face. He pulled himself from the daydream, confused.

“You’re staring,” she pointed out, tossing another piece of fish at him.

This time he caught it and stuffed it into his mouth.

“I always stare when there’s a beautiful woman sitting across the table at me.” The charm came easy but wasn’t false. He meant it. He also wanted to see how she would react. She said nothing and turned back to her food.

He picked up a French fry and tossed it at her. A smile grew on her lips as the fry hit her in the cheek.

“I will hit you you know,” she said with mock venom. He laughed and so did she. The feeling of distance between them grew a little shorter.

“If you do, I won’t take you on the second date to the catacombs then.” He shrugged sitting back and tossed a fry into his mouth.

“That would be a tragedy. I would be an utter delight in the catacombs.” Everything she said had a laugh to it and it warmed his heart.

“Say the word and I'll have us on a flight in an hour.” He gauged her reaction. He was joking, kind of. If she said yes he’d pull his phone out and whisk her away to Paris in an instant.

“I don’t think you’re joking.”

“Does that scare you?”

“Nothing about you scares me, dahling.” She drawled the last part and he laughed. Andrew noted that she had not denied that they were on a date when he had joked about the second one. Everything he said was a test. He was trying to figure out this enigma of a woman. The only way he knew how to do that was to talk.

“I have some very scary qualities,” he replied, reaching for the darkness that was deep within him. With her there, it was like someone had turned on a nightlight in the dark room deep within him.

“I’ve seen the darkest part of your soul, baby doll. There is no part of you that scares me.” She said it deadpan and there was no joking in it. It chilled him to the bone to hear her say that. It rang true, though how she could know the deepest parts of him, he didn’t know.

“Do you wanna get out of here?” Madison asked, pushing her food away. It was mostly untouched other than the parts she had thrown at him. She felt perfectly comfortable with him but the idea of Bates knowing where and what she was doing made her stomach twist. He perked up at her words.

“I’d follow you anywhere, babe.” She knew it was true. That’s what made it so dangerous.

They both rose from the table and he directed her from the building with a hand on the small of her back. They both tingled at the mild touch.

Neither of them said anything about the familiarity, the easy use of pet names, any of it.

They were too scared to burst this small bubble of happiness, wafer thin, just waiting to be popped.

“Forest Father.” She whispered under breath as they hit the air outside. Thick with the fumes of the city. So different from the clean air they’d once breathed.

“Willow Woman.” He answered in like though he didn’t know why he said it.

They didn’t hear each other.

However, their souls did.

OoOo

Like calls to like.

Forest Father was oblivious.

Or was he?

Did that magic of the fae awaken in him once again?

Willow Woman was twisting in torment.

She could not bear the weight of her knowledge.

They were in agony.

Neither would admit it.

Such was the fate of the fae.