#if he can’t be tacky as all hell he’ll DIE. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

marblemoovt · 2 years ago

Text

Secrets - Eddie Munson/Chrissy Cunningham

Masterlist

Rating: Teen

Word Count: 5.2k

Warnings: Mostly angst with a happy ending. Hurt/Comfort. A pinch of fluff.

Summary:

Chrissy's hiding something. Eddie can't help but doubt her when Jason presents him with physical proof of her lies.

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The smile on Jason’s face tightens, and his jaw clenches. “I’ll use simpler language, something you’ll be able to understand.” Jason pulls out a note from his jersey. The paper is a light lilac, with vines and flowers curling around the border. There’s only one person he knows who uses this kind of paper. “Chrissy is lying to you as she did to me. Sooner or later, you’re going to find out that she doesn’t really love you, and then she’ll dump you for someone else.” Eddie blows a raspberry at the absurd idea. Jason only shakes his head sadly, “Chrissy is wicked, and wicked women will suck up all the resources of a man before moving on to the next one.”

Note:

This is for an ask I received. The document has been sitting for 2-3 weeks on my computer, nearly finished. I just never found the motivation to finish it/fill in the remaining spots. It's honestly been a while since I wrote some proper angst, so I hope I remembered well enough lol.

Happy Reading! ヾ(•ω•`)o

─── ⋆ ｡ﾟ☆: *. ☽ .* :☆ﾟ｡⋆ ───

Eddie pulls into the school parking lot, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel to the guitar riff blasting in his car. The rings on his fingers glint in the sunlight. He’s wearing the one Chrissy bought him. There’s an ‘86’ engraved on the inside of the band. Eddie can’t shake the grin off his face. This year he’s definitely going to graduate; Chrissy’s been helping him with English. He’ll finally be rid of Ms. O’Donell, though part of him will miss terrorizing the old bat.

Parking his van, Eddie slings his bag over his shoulder and walks to the entrance. Chrissy’s waiting for him like she always does before first period. Her pastel blue sweater clashes with the Metallica t-shirt peeking underneath. He was wondering where that shirt went.

“You’re on time,” Chrissy praises, clapping slowly. Eddie bows in different directions, waving and thanking his imaginary audience. It works as intended, and Chrissy’s laughter soon follows. He grins and brushes wild strands of hair out of his face.

“It’s terrible manners to leave a princess waiting. The aristocracy would have my head,” and Eddie tugs an invisible rope around his neck, glancing at the crowd of popular kids huddled to the right. It’s been three months, and these people still haven’t figured out that it’s rude to stare. So Eddie likes to interpret it as an invitation to a staring contest, and he always wins.

Chrissy plays with the frayed ends of his denim jacket.“I’ve got to head to math. I’ll see you at lunch?”

“Yeah. See ya at our spot,” Eddie agrees. Chrissy stands on her toes and presses a kiss to his cheek. He can feel the tacky stick of her strawberry lip gloss and the sweet scent of her perfume curls around him. She smells like pure sugar, and it makes his mouth water. He can’t eat cotton candy anymore without thinking of her. Eddie watches Chrissy walk away. Correction: he’s watching her cheerleader skirt sway as she walks. Damn thing nearly kills him every time.

“So she’s got you whipped, too. Didn’t think anyone could tame the freak.” A hand claps his shoulder, and Eddie recoils.

“What the hell, man?” Eddie grunts, adjusting the straps of his backpack. Jason Fucking Carver is standing beside him. He eyes Jason warily, waiting for the wolf to tear off its mutton disguise. The smile on his face is too nice, too perfect. A wide curve and all teeth. Friendly. Suspicious. “What do you want?”

Jason tsks and looks at Eddie with pity. That tut of sympathy and the soft crease of his brows—did somebody die? Maybe his ego finally kicked the bucket, and now the entire school is mourning the loss of Jason’s fragile masculinity. Eddie steps back when Jason reaches out to him. The universe will implode before Eddie consents to physical contact from laundry basket losers. Ok. They’re probably not all bad, but Eddie hates this one in particular.

“Just wanted to warn a fellow man about feminine wiles,” Jason says, raising his hands in surrender.

Eddie hates the condescending tone blanketed with faux concern. The day Jason Carver worries for Eddie will be the same day Hell freezes over. An invasion of mutant aliens from another dimension would be more believable. The arms reaching out to embrace Eddie tried to put him in a headlock on numerous occasions. “Whatever you’re preaching, I’m not buying. Try your little sales pitch at one of the houses down the street. Underappreciated housewives might be more your type,” Eddie suggests.

Eddie flips him off. “You’re full of shit.”

“Am I? Or am I looking out for a fellow man?” Jason notices the falter in his sneer and shortens the distance between them. “You’ll see. Eventually, you’ll start to notice the small lies. And they’ll get bigger and bigger until you realize you’ve been played for a fool.” Jason shoves the note flat against Eddie’s chest, and he hates how his hands instinctively grasp at the paper, eager to unfold and read the words hidden inside. “Do what you want, Munson. It ain’t my heart on the line.” Jason stalks away and disappears into a sea of green and testosterone.

Eddie crumples the note, stares long and hard at the trash bin by the entrance, and stuffs it into the pocket of his jeans. He enters the school and goes to first period, gnawing on the end of his pencil until his tastebuds shrivel from the taste of wood. The teacher is on a tangent about some story from their adolescence. Big props to the student who managed to waste half a period.

The ball of paper forms a lump in Eddie’s pockets. He can see it when he glances down, can feel it burning a hole in his jeans. Spitting out his pencil, Eddie finally takes out the note and smoothens the wrinkles to no avail. The writing is warped by creases and lines, but he manages to read it.

I can’t believe I was dared to date the Freak, but at least the weed is free! I’m tutoring him in English, and no wonder he’s failed twice already. He’s literally so stupid; it takes him forever to understand what I’m saying. That’s not the only thing he’s slow at. Can you believe he hasn’t touched me yet? How pathetic. I bet he’s a virgin. I’ve seen the way he looks at my legs when I wear my cheerleading uniform. Poor guy looks like he’s going to cream his pants! Worst of all, he thinks I actually like him. As if! :P

“Mr. Munson, back in your seat,” but Eddie ignores the teacher. He grabs his bag and exits the classroom. The bell rings before he can be reprimanded further. Students rush past him, hurrying to their next class. Eddie is a rock at sea, enduring the waves, trying not to let the ebb and pull of the tide erode him away. He already feels like he’s underwater. Can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can’t hear.

“There you are!” Chrissy’s voice pulls Eddie out of his daze. She’s standing in front of his locker. A lighthouse, shining its beacon amid a stormy ocean. Or a siren beckoning him closer to sink his ship. He stumbles toward her, and a dull ache lingers in his chest. If the titanic had feelings, is this what it would have felt when approaching that iceberg? To veer towards destruction, knowing that the collision will leave you permanently wrecked and in pieces. Eddie leans against his locker and brings a hand up to his pocket. He should just ask her. All this worrying will accumulate until he explodes into an anxious mess.

Chrissy wipes her chin with the sleeve of her sweater. Eddie notices that her lips don’t sparkle like they did this morning; most of it is gone. He can’t control his expression. His eyebrows draw tight together, and his lips pull into a snarl. Eddie can feel the venom on the tip of his tongue, so he walks away before he accidentally sinks his fangs into her.

“Eddie?” Chrissy calls after him, jogging to keep up with his long strides. “What’s wrong? Did something happen in class?” She reaches out and grabs his shoulder, but Eddie shrugs her off.

“Leave me alone. I can’t look at you right now,” Eddie spits, doubling his pace. Chrissy stutters and halts, dumbfounded behind him. He doesn’t look back. Because he knows that if he turns around and sees her large blue eyes swimming with tears, he’ll cave. Then she’ll have him wrapped around her little finger again.

Eddie doesn’t go to second period. He hides in his van and gets stoned out of his mind. Ignores how the scent of sugar cuts through the weed. Pretends to not see the scrunchie sitting in one of the cup holders. He smokes, reads the note, cries, then repeats the process. At least he can bawl his eyes out, and no one would question the redness. They’ll chalk it up to stoner antics. Who would believe that Eddie the freak Munson is sobbing instead of puffing a joint?

Eddie stuffs the note back into his pocket. He is so stupid. A fucking moron. Why did he think this would be smooth sailing? This isn’t one of those cheesy romcoms Chrissy begs him to rent when it’s her turn to pick a movie. Get the girl; get the degree; get the hell out of this shithole. Eddie has none of those things. A sharp blade jutting out of his back is all he got.

A bell signals that it’s lunch, but Eddie doesn’t move. He knows that Chrissy will be in the forest, waiting for him. Unease crawls around his stomach—or is that the munchies? Either way, the idea of leaving her alone out there doesn’t sit well with him. What if a customer ignores the system he’s set up and finds her there? God forbid one of the jocks comes across her. Eddie opens the back door of the van, waving away the evidence of his afternoon smoke. He stumbles out and walks toward the treeline, shoving his hands in his pockets. The crumpled ball of paper rolls between his fingers. He passes another trash can and ignores it.

Eddie stops a few feet away from the picnic table. He presses up against a tree and peers around the trunk. Chrissy’s sitting there, painted nails tapping away at the wood. Her eyes dart everywhere, looking for him no doubt. Eddie can see her knee bouncing from this distance. A heavy weight sits on top of his chest. It compresses his heart until every beat pulsates and batters his ribcage. He doesn’t know how long he stands there, only that Chrissy withers as time passes. Eddie glances at his wristwatch. 20 minutes since lunch started. It’s going to end soon—has she eaten yet?

A choked gurgle surprises Eddie. He almost crashes into a pile of twigs. His eyes pinpoint to Chrissy, and her face rests against the table, shoulders heaving with silent sobs. Eddie takes a step forward, but the paper ball in his pocket weighs him down like an anchor. She doesn’t care about me. She’s just upset she got caught. So he stands there, listening to her tears rise into wails.

Eddie closes his eyes and leans his head against the tree. He pretends that he doesn’t care. The wet heaves and sputters do not bother him. His skin is not crawling with bugs—oh look, there’s actually an ant crawling on his arm. Eddie shakes off the insect and cringes when he makes out his name between broken hiccups. The ice in the pit of his stomach is because he skipped lunch. A sharp cry stabs his heart. Eddie still can’t move, rooted to the ground by nothing but his own insecurities and fears. Eventually, it dies down to quiet sniffles. He watches as she wipes her eyes when the bell rings, smooths her clothes, reties her hair, and walks away. The strawberry blonde ponytail sways out of sight; green and blue are swallowed by foliage and wood.

Eddie leans against the tree, digs his fingers into the cracks and crevices of the bark. He doesn’t know what to make of this. Could Chrissy be genuinely upset over him? But then Eddie remembers the countless campaigns he’s been through. Betrayal is often committed by those closest to you. But he doesn’t have magic. He can’t cast a spell or roll a die to see if she’s lying. All he can do is entrust her with his heart and trust she won’t stomp on it.

And clearly, she’s decided to stomp on it.

Screw school. Eddie skips the rest of his classes and hangs out in the theatre room. The drama teacher is kind and doesn’t question his presence, only asking if he��d like to help with the upcoming play. So Eddie picks up basic lighting theory and learns that yelling stage directions and script lines give the same rush as running a campaign.

The rehearsal ends, and Eddie doesn’t feel like curling into a ball and praying for the ground to swallow him whole. The drama teacher packs up and reminds him to lock up when hellfire is done. Eddie grabs his gear from his van. He sets the figurines back in their previous positions according to the scribbled stickmen on his notebook.

When the door clicks open and all his little sheepies enter, Eddie is gone. Only the Dungeon Master remains.

The campaign goes off without a hitch—for him, anyway. Dustin roars in outrage when his character nearly plummets off the cliff for trying to sit on a rock (using a sleeping golem as a chair is not advised). Mike and Lucas are cursed for neglecting a tiny gremlin which imprinted on them in the last session (parenting is hard). Gareth, Jeff, and Grant have more experience dealing with his trickery. But no one is safe from the Dungeon Master.

Gareth’s ex reappears, and a whole groom-napping arc happens. Jeff and Grant must pass off as orcs to rescue their friend before the wedding ceremony ends. (Did Eddie forget to mention that orcs mate for life? Well, they do now.) The problem is they’re only big enough to pass off as children. So Jeff disguises himself as the ring bearer, and Grant is stuck with the job of flower girl. The entire reception is gobsmacked when two orc children run away with the groom.

Laughs echo, tears spill, and Eddie continues to forget about the ball in his pocket. He focuses on the notebook in front of him, hiding his smirk behind the divider as he reads ahead to the next point in the campaign. The party ends at a cliffhanger tonight. The golem, gremlin, and orcs combine forces. As the saying goes: the enemy of my enemy is my friend. A tiny gremlin riding a golem, and leading an army of orcs, is not bullshit, Dustin. Eddie’s campaign, Eddie’s rules.

“You guys got a ride home tonight?” Eddie asks. Everyone responds in a chorus of ‘yes,’ much to his surprise. Though it’s probably for the best. The adrenaline from DnD is starting to wear off. His fingers itch to dig through his pockets. Instead, he clenches them around his notebook and divider. Rising from his throne, Eddie is the last person to leave.

A voice springs at him from behind when he exits the school. “Eddie,” and manicured nails grab onto his sleeve.

“Chrissy,” Eddie nods, but he doesn’t turn around to look at her.

“Did… did I do something wrong?” Chrissy asks, and the laugh that leaves Eddie’s chest is hollow. He can hear the final boss music playing in his head. No more running like a coward.

“I don’t know. Did you?” Eddie tugs his arm again, but it remains trapped. “Isn’t there something you’re hiding from me?” He hears her sharp intake of breath and shakes his head. “So there is,” he says with a bitter chuckle.

“I was going to tell you when I was ready—” Chrissy starts, but Eddie cuts her off.

“And when would that be? A couple of weeks? A few months? A year? How long were you planning on keeping it from me, huh?” Eddie feels her grip slip and manages to jerk his arm free. A force slams into him from behind. He glances down to see blue sleeves locked around his waist. “Was it fun watching me be ignorant?” he whispers.

“I’m sorry, Eddie. I don’t like hiding it from you, but it’s not something I can tell you right away,” Chrissy mumbles into his back. Eddie can feel her trembling against him, and his shaky hands aren’t faring any better. He bites his lip and tells himself it’s chilly outside. He’s shivering from the cold. His fingers don’t itch with the need to embrace Chrissy and pepper her with kisses. But Eddie craves her affection—he’s addicted to it. His stomach cramps and he readjusts the sweaty grip on his notebook. He’s so close to that precipice, teetering on the edge of relapse.

Eddie scoffs, “Cause I would have left?” His fingers dig into the folded-up divider in his hands, squeezing so tight it brands a welt across his palm. He takes a deep breath to relax, but the lump in his throat swells.

“Yes—maybe—I don’t know,” Chrissy stutters and sighs. Eddie wheezes out a breath. Being a cheerleader must make you freakishly strong. “I was afraid of what you would think,” she confesses.

“What? That Cheer Captain Chrissy isn’t as perfect and preppy as everyone thinks she is?” Eddie feels her flinch against his back, and he bites his lip. Fuck him and his big mouth. Wait, no. Fuck her. He couldn’t care less if he hurts her feelings when she’s been toying with him.

Chrissy swallows thickly. He can hear the click of her throat echo in the deserted parking lot like the safety of a gun being turned off. He waits for her to pull the trigger and splatter the pavement with the remaining pieces of his heart. “You don’t understand the pressure—”

Eddie whirls around, and Chrissy jerks back at the sudden action. “Is that what I am? A way to relieve stress? Someone you can hang out with for a good time and leave once you feel better?” His voice rises steadily. The irritating sting at the corner of his eyes smothers the smouldering flames in his chest. “You’re just like the rest of them. You lie and use me. Then when I’m no longer useful, you conveniently disappear.”

Chrissy steps forward, and he flinches. Her brows furrow together, and the wobble in her tone makes him weak in the knees. “Eddie? When did I ever say that?” He hates how convincing her performance is. She almost sounds confused. If it weren’t for that goddamn note, Eddie would still believe she cared about him.

He sneers, “You’re a terrific actor, Cunningham. I hear the drama class is casting for their play. You should audition.” Eddie takes the crumpled note from his pocket and slaps it into her hand. “Take your lies elsewhere. They have no place with me anymore.” He gauges her reaction, shifting his weight between his feet when he notices her lost expression. It will only hurt him to stay, so he continues to his van.

Chrissy blinks owlishly. “What?” She unfurls the paper, and her eyes zip along the lines. Footsteps pound against the pavement, approaching him with breakneck speed. “Eddie, I didn’t write this,” she cries.

Eddie stops, and she crashes into him. He whirls around and grabs her by the shoulders, staring into her glistening eyes. He shouts, trying to drown her voice with his own. “Enough with the lies! You got caught; own up to it,” he finishes softly, waiting for her to stop the crocodile tears and laugh at him. Does she plan to deny everything until the very end? Does she plan to drive the knife until the blade lodges between his ribs? To slice him open so her hands can reach in and crush his barely beating heart herself? Eddie smiles dryly. Fuck, he basically described prepping a chicken. He’s a chicken.

Chrissy shakes her head, ponytail whipping frantically. “No, I would never write anything like this. Don’t accuse me of something I didn’t do.” Fat tears roll down her cheeks, and Eddie is transported back to fifth grade when some kid’s lunch money was stolen. Martyrized because of a last name. To stand in the centre of a room and not have a single person believe you…. Eddie shakes his head, trying to dispel the overlap between his younger self and Chrissy.

“It’s a page from your notebook,” he says.

Chrissy looks at him with wide eyes. “I told you last week that I lost it. It disappeared during chem,” she reminds him.

Eddie chuckles. He can’t believe she’s still denying everything. “That’s just another layer to your elaborate scheme in case this note ever circulated back to me.”

Chrissy stares like a deer caught in headlights. She’s so fucking guilty. The tears dripping down her chin tug at the small amount of guilt in his chest, picking at it like a festering wound. “This is ridiculous. That isn’t enough proof I did this,” she cries.

“What’s your proof that you didn’t?” he counters. Eddie can’t wait to see what bullshit excuse she comes up with.

“I didn’t do this because it’s cruel and reflects nothing of how I feel about you.” Chrissy jabs a finger at his chest when he scoffs at her words. “Don’t you shake your head at me, Edward Munson. I would never do such a thing because I love you!” Her confession rings in his ears, brain buffering to process it all.

“...You love me?” Eddie whispers. The words roll off his tongue like molasses, thick and heavy. They stick to his teeth like candy as he struggles to enunciate his thoughts.

Chrissy smiles and wipes underneath her eyes. “You and your thick skull,” she adds with a sniffle.

Eddie knocks a fist against his head. “Gotta protect the goods, y’know?” She laughs, but it sounds choked and phlegmy. Her chest wracks with coughs, and he immediately pulls her into his arm, firmly patting her back. “Christ, Chrissy. I’m sorry. I love you more than anything, and when I thought you didn’t feel the same—.”

“Eddie?”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up and kiss me.”

Chrissy tastes like salt and strawberries. Her lips are so soft and pliable; he wants to nibble on them. The scent of her perfume is dizzying at this proximity. Eddie rests one hand on the nape of her neck, pressing her closer to him. He kisses her like it’s the last time, swallowing her quiet gasps and cute little noises.

They pull away, panting. Eddie swipes a thumb across her swollen lips, smeared with lip gloss. He can’t resist kissing her again when the blush on her face is absolutely adorable. This time, he strays from her lips and trails kisses along her jawline to her earlobe. Eddie nibbles on the cartilage and hears her laugh.

Chrissy playfully pushes him away. She rereads the note, turning and rotating it. “Who gave this to you?” she demands. Eddie shudders at the venom in her tone.

“Jason—oh. He. He set this up.” His brain lags and takes a few seconds to connect the dots. Eddie runs a hand down his face and sighs. He should have known Jason was up to something. The guy barely said a word when Chrissy and Eddie started dating. Something stunk, and it wasn’t the overwhelming amount of cologne Jason wears.

“Angel, why would you believe anything he tells you?” Chrissy asks, wiping a stray tear from Eddie’s cheeks.

“He may have hit some sore spots and unearthed my childhood trauma with freakish accuracy,” Eddie mumbles.

Chrissy brushes his hair out of his face. “Next time, talk to me,” she says, smiling gently.

He nods. “I promise. No more running away.” Eddie bites his lip as the entire day plays through his head in fast forward. God, he was such an ass. “I’m really sorry, Princess.”

“No, it’s ok. I understand. Sometimes I worry about what you see in me.” Eddie has to pick his jaw up from the floor. Chrissy doesn’t think she’s good enough for him?? He makes a mental note to unpack that later. Something has been nagging at him in the back of his head.

“Wait. If you didn’t write this note, what secret were you talking about earlier?” Eddie asks.

Chrissy avoids his gaze and fidgets with her necklace. “Can we talk about it inside your van? I’m cold.” Eddie shrugs off his leather jacket and hangs it over her shoulders. She pulls the material tighter around herself.

Eddie shifts his DnD gear and holds her hand. “C’mon, I also got a pair of sweatpants you can wear.” They walk through the parking lot, and Eddie tosses the note, scoring a three-pointer in the bin. Once they’re in the van, he cranks up the heater. “So about that secret?” Eddie asks.

Chrissy stops playing with her necklace. Her hands drop to her lap, and she turns to him. “You know how I’m seeing Ms. Kelley?” Eddie nods, and she continues her story. “Well, I see her for a reason,” she says, wracking her brain for the best explanation. “...I’m under a lot of pressure. Mostly school and my mom. I want to get into a good school, so I’m trying to get straight ‘A’s for scholarships. Juggling that with being cheer captain is a lot of work.” Eddie winces. And on top of all that, she’s still making time to tutor him so he can graduate.

“And your mom?” Eddie asks. The frown on her face worries him. Unconsciously, he scans her face and legs, wondering if her clothes hide any marks on her skin.

Chrissy glances at her stomach. “My mom has certain… ideas about what I should look like….” She tugs at her sweater, and Eddie notices for the first time that it’s a few sizes too small and not short on purpose. He recalls how happy Chrissy was when he told her she could borrow anything from his closet. The hoodie swallowed her, but she thanked him as if he gave her the world.

“...Is that why I never see you eat?” Eddie asks, his voice barely above the hum of the heater. Chrissy looks at him like she’s being seen for the first time. He promises right then to never let her feel invisible again, not while he’s around.

“You noticed? God, you must be the only one who does. It’s always ‘Chrissy, that’s bad for you,’ or ‘Haven’t you had enough, Sweetie?’ My least favourite is when she sighs and tells me my uniform has gotten too tight around my waist, even though she cinches it tighter weekly.” Chrissy tugs harsher at her sweater. He can see the stitches stretch, and he holds her hands before she tears the garment apart.

“That’s fucked up, Chrissy.” He wants her to know that. He needs her to understand that none of this is acceptable, that she doesn’t owe her mom jack shit.

Chrissy barks out a laugh. “I know! That’s why I have to see the school counsellor. But even with her help, my mom is this unrelenting force. Kinda like those monsters in your campaigns.” A wry grin etches across her face. “Then I met you. And for the first time in my life, Eddie, I wanted something. I wanted something so bad it hurt.” Chrissy takes a deep breath, and Eddie squeezes her hand tight. She flashes him a watery smile, and he thinks she looks beautiful in the dim fluorescent lights. “I wanted you, Eddie. Every time you flirted back, it boosted my confidence. Until I was strong enough to break up with Jason.” Chrissy chuckles, and her nose scrunches up. “My mom yelled so much. She was too angry to care about the neighbours hearing her. I told her to date Jason if she likes him so much.”

“Laura Cunningham can suck it,” Eddie says with a grimace. The woman is a complete terror. He’s surprised she doesn’t burst into flames every Sunday when she steps foot into the church.

“She probably was,” Chrissy admits with a shrug.

Eddie groans, “Gross, Chrissy. I don’t want to think about your mom and Carver together.”

“You’d be surprised by the rumours that float around the school,” Chrissy says. He didn’t think she’d have a penchant for gossip. The sly grin on her face tells him she has a treasure trove of secrets stashed away in her beautiful mind. He’ll have to pick her brain later for the latest news.

Eddie snorts. “And I thought I had mommy issues.” He shifts gears and pulls out of the parking lot. “Am I dropping you off at home?” he asks.

“No, I told my parents I’m staying with you tonight.”

The van jerks and Eddie sticks out an arm to prevent Chrissy from smacking into the dashboard. “They didn’t say anything?” His voice pitches high, and the apples of his cheeks tingle.

Chrissy grins. “Oh, my mom had a lot to say about it, but what can she do?” Her face scrunches up as she recalls the memory. “My dad didn’t say much, actually. He only asked for your number and address. Told me to call him when I arrive and in the morning.”

Eddie applies pressure to the gas pedal, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “You said your mom doesn’t let you eat much?” He remembers that he wasn’t the only one who skipped lunch today.

“Yeah, why?” Chrissy asks.

Eddie ignores her question and replies with another. “When was the last time you had a hamburger?”

Chrissy huffs a sigh, lips trilling. “God, not for ages,” she answers, and there’s a distant look in her eyes, a faraway memory of a diner. Before she was forced to wear itchy training bras. When she spent more time outside than in the bathroom and the sour aftertaste of bile didn’t linger in her mouth.

Eddie does a U-turn, barreling down the empty stretch of road. A wicked grin overtakes his face. “We’re gonna stuff ourselves tonight with burgers, fries, and milkshakes. I’m not taking no for an answer. You don’t have to eat all of it, but you can eat as much as you want. Anything you can’t finish will go into the human trash disposal,” and he pats his stomach.

Eddie can’t see, but he can feel the weight of Chrissy’s gaze. “Eddie?” Her voice is meek. He’s ready to turn around and give Laura a piece of his mind.

“Yeah, Princess?” and he lowers the stereo.

“I love you,” Chrissy says. Her long lashes flutter against her glowing cheeks. The moon drapes her in its ethereal light, and Eddie swears he’s driving a goddess in his van. Her eyes glimmer in the darkness like the stars in the night sky. She looks at him with a warmth that rivals a supernova.

Eddie suppresses the urge to whoop, not wanting to disrupt the tender moment. Instead, he feels his cheeks ache as he grins wide. “I love you too, Chrissy.”

“Can I have pickles with my burger?” she asks in a whisper, fingers fidgeting in her lap. Eddie reaches over and places one hand on her thigh, squeezing gently.

“I’ll order a whole jar if that’s what you want,” he replies.

─── ⋆ ｡ﾟ☆: *. ☽ .* :☆ﾟ｡⋆ ───

End Note:

Life has been busy lately, so I haven't been able to write much. Now that this is done, I'm hoping to finish some of the other fics I started for myself.

I hope this tore out your hearts and then smushed the broken pieces back together. *Holds out a box of tissues* For those of you that need some.

I'll see you guys at my next hyperfixation! (。・∀・)ノ

Reblogs are appreciated!

Taglist: @lovecats123451

#eddie x chrissy #hellcheer #edissy #stranger things fic #stranger things #eddie munson #chrissy cunningham #No Upside down AU #Love me some infuriating miscommunication #I loved writing the little bits about Eddie's day #Got a bit carried away with DnD #I can imagine Eddie admiring her eat a burger #His heart swells at how her cheeks resemble a chipmunk #Eddie actually does order a jar of pickles #Much to Chrissy's horror #They bring it back to the trailer like a souvenir

5 notes · View notes

gyupinkys · 1 year ago

Text

MR. J

WC: 1.5K

People need to stop telling Joshua he's crazy. You just make him do crazy things. Like stealing one of Seungcheol's helicopters to break you out of jail, but what was he supposed to do? Leave you in there to die? He could never let his love be out of his hands for too long.

WARNINGS: guns, death, mile high club?, slight exhobitionism, unprotected sex, degradation, joshua being a little shit while fucking you.

“Seungcheol is actually going to kill you.”

“If you keep your mouth shut he’ll never know.”

“JOSHUA YOU STOLE HIS FUCKING HELICOPTER AND LIKE 20 OF HIS GAURDS.” Vernon exclaims trying to not yell too loud at Joshua over the phone.

“Shhh you’re being loud.” Joshua whispers

“Where are you even going?”

“You know exactly where I’m going.”

Honestly, Joshua just acted in the spur of the moment. He should've been sensible and made a plan but he can’t just let you sit in a prison cell and rot. He doesn’t know where to go from here and it’s not like he can ask Jeonghan for help since he’s so caught up in that fed turned stripper turned mafia wife. Now he’s on his own trying to figure out how to be a good partner. God, sometimes he misses the days before he met you, when he was still a gentleman, still sane; now he’s genuinely lost it. You bring the crazy out of him.

“Josh, just be careful.”

“I’ll be fine.” Joshua says and hangs up.

He might not be fine, but he’s gotta get you out of there. He has no idea how you even winded up in jail, let alone maximum security. Only if you knew how to keep your mouth shut and not try to fight everyone. You're too feisty for your own good.

“Mr. Hong we’re here.”

“Great, I need you guys to get me in, I don't care how.”

“Yes sir.”

Joshua gets himself ready for what he knows is going to be a battle. He picks up a multitude of guns and sling them in the holders along his pants along with an assault rifle. He puts on his face mask as the walls of the prison explode and the helicopter lands. His men start piling out clearing the area and Joshua walks in behind them. He ignores the bodies around him dropping; his guilt about killing is long gone; his only focus is getting you the fuck out of here. His guards plow through the prison, clearing a path for him to walk through with no sweat. After opening the multiple cell doors he finally finds you. Sitting in a straight jacket with your legs chained to your bed and a muzzle.

“Damn baby, I’m sure you gave them hell.” he smiles as he goes to cut you out of this shit. When he cuts the chains he sweeps you into a deep kiss.

“Took you long enough Mr.J” you say with a giggle.

“I hate that nickname baby. I’m not the Joker”

“You might as well be with your crazy ass, let's get out of this shithole.”

You two walk out of the prison without a sweat, and board the helicopter back to the house.

“Baby, how did you get yourself in there?”

“You know they have a heavy bounty on my head. Some fuckers drugged me and picked me up from my apartment and dropped me off at the prison.”

“Don’t worry my love, I'll find out who.”

“I want in when you kill him.” you smile as he buckles you into the helicopter as you take off.

“Wait, how did you convince Cheol to let you use this thing?”

“Anyways…”

“Shua!” you gasp and hit his arm.

“We can deal with it later.”

“We? This is all you.”

He gasps back. “I thought we were a team,” he pouts.

“Not when we're going against Cheol, you’re on your own my love.”

“Sir, they called for backup.” one of the guards interrupt.

You both look at the tactical units piling in on the ground dressed in full gear. This looks like something straight out of call of duty.

“I was hoping this would happen” he smiles as he unbuckles himself and gets up to the side pushing the large red button on the door. Two machine guns rise out the floor just like in the movies.

“Holy shit”

“I know right, when Vernon suggested we add these I just couldn't say no.”

“It’s a bit tacky, but I guess its a great idea”

The cops below you start firing at the helicopter to which Joshua starts firing back, laughing like a mad man as the bodies begin to drop.

“Wait, I want a turn” you pout, unbuckling yourself and standing up.

“I don’t know baby,I’m having so much fun.”

You walk up to him and slide under his arms so he’s holding you. You put your arms on the gun and start spraying wildly, missing most of the targets but having the time of your life. You start giggling when you see your bullet land straight into the gas tank of one of the cars instantly making it explode.

“Oh shit baby. You seem to know what you’re doing.” he laughs. Your helicopter has gotten far enough away that the bullets are barely hitting and the targets become too small to see. You release a sigh, looking up to Joshua for him to release you.

“Baby, let's go sit down.” you say trying to escape his hold.

“I don't think so.” he says in a low voice.

“Joshua we are not fucking on a helicopter.”

“Hmmm?” he hums as he slides his hands to the button of your orange jumpsuit.

“I think you look great in orange.” he smiles, pulling your hips into his own so you can feel his hard cock.

“Josh, you're insatiable.”

“I haven’t had this sweet cunt in ages.”

“It’s been three days” you groan, feeling your will crack and your desire for him break through.

He begins to unbutton your clothes, sliding his hand to your breast and squeezing.

“God, baby, I missed you so much.” he groans in your ear, grinding his hips into your ass. It feels like his dick is getting harder by the second.

“I can feel you throbbing Josh.” you moan.

“Let me fuck you baby. Please.”

“Oh, you're begging?”

“I can take it if I want it, we both know that. Be grateful I’m giving you a chance.”

You feel your pussy clench, god you love this man.

“So take it.”

He rips the rest of your clothes and flips you around, pressing your back to the wall of the helicopter, completely ignoring everyone else aboard. He starts to kiss up your throat and he drags his hand to your pussy, rubbing you over your underwear.

“You know, the first thing I thought of when I got arrested was; “what am I gonna do without this perfect cunt wrapped around me every night.” he groans

“Is my pussy all I’m good for?” you ask breathlessly.

“Don’t ask me stupid questions baby.” he slides two fingers in your soaking wet pussy. “With a cunt like this it should be all your good for. You don't need to do anything when your cunt is this warm and tight. I could fuck you a million times and it’ll always be the same.”

You moan as he starts dragging his fingers in and out of you. “That's not nice Shua”

“I’m not known to be nice am I? Especially to whores.”

“I’m not a whore.”

“Really? You gave it up so easily for me, didn’t even put up a fight.” he unzips his pants just enough to pull out his hard cock. He rubbed it through your folds. “I bet you'd let me do whatever I wanted to you, hmm?” he asks as he slides in.

“Fuckkkk.” you groan.

He grabs your hair and pulls your head back. “Answer me.” he says as he begins to pound into you, purposely thrusting hard enough so you couldn't speak. “Why are you not listening, love?” he says as he speeds up his thrust making your knees weaken. “Are you too dumb to answer? Dick too good?” He gives you an evil smile. “I think I know a way to wake you up.” He puts you on your back and slides you to the edge of the helicopter, hanging your upper body off the edge. This sure does wake you up.

“HOLY SHIT, JOSHUA I SWEAR TO GOD.”

He just laughs and thrust back into you, fucking you harder than he ever has. Blood is rushing to your head and the fear in your body is driving you insane. “Joshua stop” you groan. It's becoming too much.

“Are you scared? Think I’ll let go? Let you fall?” he smirks.

“You’d never. You can’t live without me. I know I’m all you think of, all you dream of, all you want.” you smile giving him a challenging look.

“Oh really?”

He begins to push you closer to the edge to the point only your ass is on the floor, the rest of your upper body hanging in the sky. You didn't know you were such a masochist, the moment he let his grip slip a little you came, the orgasm making you squirt all over him. You squeeze him so hard it forces him out and he pulls you up to his body, holding you through your orgasm.

“Fuck baby, that was so hot.” he groans, jerking himself until he cums in his fist and over your stomach.

“Don’t you ever do that again you motherfucker.” you say pointing your finger in his face.

He just laughs at you, pulling you into a heated kiss.

“I love you too baby.”

“This is why I’m leaving you on your own against Cheol.”

#seventeen smut #svt smut #joshua smut #joshua hong smut #joshua fanfic

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elenarodriiguez · 3 years ago

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day 3: blood loss | k.b. & j.h.

summary: routine operations never do go smoothly.

pairing: kim burgess x jay halstead

cw: major injury, blood, gun violence

word count: 1168

read it on ao3

After all of this time: all of the warzones, all of the patrols he’s been on, the undercover work, the arrest attempts, the sound of a bullet hitting someone is still the most jarring noise Jay’s ever heard. It crosses a line from jarring to horrifying when he sees his partner collapse in a heap on the floor, blood seeping from her thigh. He doesn’t hesitate to put a bullet in the shooter’s skull, grabbing his radio and calling in the shooting and an ambulance for his partner.

His eyes dart over to the body of the trafficker, blood pooling from the wound on his head, and once he’s sure he’s dead, he falls to the floor, unbuckling his belt and tying it around her thigh. She groans loudly at the makeshift tourniquet, and whimpers when he pushes down on the bullet wound, and apologies tumble from his lips as she tries to squirm away from his hands.

Jay can’t hear any sirens blaring in the distance, and as the blood dries tacky on his hands, he tries to utter reassurances, telling her that she has to stay alive. Her hands cling to his wrists, begging him to stop, telling him he’s hurting her, but he ignores her cries despite how much he wishes he could alleviate all of her pain. As her skin turns paler, and her grip grows weaker, he begs her to stay awake, using his free hand to rub her sternum to try and rouse her, just like Will had taught him to do.

When he can’t get her to muster as much consciousness as he’d like, he radios back in, asking for an ETA and cursing loudly when they tell him that all ambulances had been diverted to a major car pile up on the other side of town. Determined not to let Kim die, he radios back that he’ll drive her to med, tightening the tourniquet with his teeth and his spare hand before tearing the bottom of her t-shirt to pack the wound.

Hefting her into his arms in a bridal carry, he sprints to the squad car, laying her down in the backseat and putting a seatbelt over her limp form. He speeds through the streets of Chicago, blaring his sirens and constantly asking her questions to try and keep her awake, praying that she makes it. Knowing that the ambulance bay is going to be hell, he parks in front of the hospital, hoisting Kim up out of the car, calling out to Ethan who is standing outside and presumably enjoying a brief break.

Jay preemptively answers all of Ethan’s questions, about what had happened and her medical history, placing her on a gurney as she’s rushed to Trauma Three. Maggie gasps at the sight of the both of them, dragging him over to the staff room and telling him in no uncertain terms that he needed to wash the blood off of his hands, holding a spare scrub shirt for him to wear in place of his own blood soaked one. He begs her to go out into the ED and check up on Kim, scrubbing at his hands over the sink to appease the stern charge nurse.

She smiles sadly at him, handing him the shirt when his hands are clean, scrubbed raw but clean, leaving him with a squeeze on the shoulder and a silent promise to keep an eye on her. He shucks the top on, fumbling for his phone to call Voight and let them know all that he knows right now, pacing around the staffroom and lingering every so often by the door frame, staring out at the trauma bay, terror coursing through his veins every time he sees a nurse sprint out of the room.

When Voight picks up the phone, he tells Jay not to worry about coming back into the precinct, asking him to keep watch over Kim while they close the case. He sees Ethan and Connor walk out of the room, pulling blue gowns off and shoving them into the hazardous waste bins. He jogs over to them, wringing his hands together as he peppers them with a million different questions.

“Hey Jay, calm down man.” Ethan says, reaching an arm out to stabilise him. “I won’t lie to you, she lost a lot of blood, but we’re going to take her up to the ICU, just a precautionary measure because of the blood loss, but she’ll be okay. We’ll take you up with her now, let her get settled in, but she’s going to be okay.”

“Thanks man, I really appreciate it. Can I?” Jay asks, motioning to the room she’s in.

The doctors nod in agreement and Jay heads in straight away, grabbing onto her cannula-less hand and squeezing on tightly. Her eyes flick over to him, a soft smile tugging at her lips as soon as she recognises him. She traces her fingers on his palm, not-so-subtly checking him over for injuries of any kind.

“Hey, hey, Kim I’m okay. I didn't get hit, Thompson didn’t get a chance to get me, he’s dead.”

“I’m sorry Jay.”

“Hey, don’t apologise, it’s not your fault. Voight texted me about half an hour ago, saying they managed to shut down this sector of the ring anyways.”

“Still, feels a bit shit, don’t even get to take credit for it.”

“Please,” he barks out a laugh, “you got a bullet for this case, I’ll personally see to it that you get credit for this. Besides, I’m pretty sure Trudy would kill Voight with her bare hands in the precinct if he tried it, we all know you’re her favourite.”

She smiles proudly, winking at him cheekily despite the trauma of today. Jay looks around the trauma bay, and when he sees the nurses coming over to move her, he lets go of her hand, letting them organise the leads to transport her up to her room on the ward. It takes no more than five minutes, with Connor popping by to let her know that he’ll check in on her later, and once they’re alone in the privacy of the room, Kim holds out her hand for him once more.

He ducks his head down to press a kiss to her forehead, then kissing her on the lips, smiling as she smiles back into the kiss. Tangling her free hand in his hair, she rests her forehead against his when their lips part, smiling up at him and counting the freckles on his cheeks.

“I’m okay Jay. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I know that, it’s just, I love you Kim, I’m in love with you. And I can’t stomach the thought of losing you, ever.”

“And you won’t, because I know you’ll always be there to protect me Jay.”

She pauses for a moment, pulling her hands away to place them on his cheeks.

“I love you too Jay Halstead, I’m not leaving you, not now, not ever.”

#febuwhump #febuwhumpday3 #one chicago #chicago pd #burgstead #kim burgess x jay halstead #jay halstead x kim burgess #kim burgess #jay halstead #chicago pd imagine #chicago pd oneshot #daisy writes

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angry-geese · 3 years ago

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Alien Blues

Gojo Satoru x Reader

Warnings: none! sfw. romantic/platonic(interpretable). mainly fluff. mentions of overworking and death, but nothing graphic. gn!reader

Notes: touch-starved Gojo

Word Count: 2.3k

Gojo doesn't get a lot of downtime in his line of work.

It comes with the job. Sorcerers don't exactly work a 9 to 5. This line of work is far from a normal one. Curses don't exorcise themselves, nor do they pick convenient times to show up. He usually has his hands full; be it taking down curses, or dealing with his students. A guy like him really can't take a vacation.

Despite going to the same school—and being only a year younger than him—you didn't meet Gojo until well into your adult life. After graduating, you went off on your own. The typical way of life for sorcerers wasn’t for you. You really didn't want to work with—or under—any of the major clans. At that point, you just wanted to do your own thing. To hell with the school; you’d be fine on your own. And you were.

You spent much of your time exorcising curses across the world, traveling from place to place, not staying in a single town for very long. A lot of it was freelance work. Such jobs were typically frowned upon, or at least looked at strangely. But it really didn't bother you. On your own you were powerful, and an impressive fighter, but you were working in a world that didn't accept you.

So you said to hell with fitting in.

Doing your own thing was the best decision you’d ever made. To this day you’ll stand by that. The jujutsu world is meant for people like Gojo. It demands so much more from you, and in return gives a whole lot less. It demands perfection from you—maybe even more—while he’s the set standard for this perfection. You hold no ill will towards him for it. He didn't make things this way. But it's hard not to envy him at times.

When you came back to the school, you were first assigned a teaching job.

Although you were a talented sorcerer, it was clear from the beginning you weren't meant to be a teacher. Your teaching style was viewed as a bit harsh, as you tended to just throw your students into a situation and let them figure things out for themselves, correcting them where needed. Overall you weren't a bad teacher, but your students got sent to the infirmary often. And by often, it was nearly every day. You just wanted them to be capable. You wanted your students to be prepared. To be the best of the best. How are they supposed to improve if they don't have experience?

To be fair, your students were some of the best in their grade.

For the most part you substitute if needed.

Upon first meeting, he was too eccentric for your tastes. Really, you found him annoying. Your first impression of Gojo was that he was full of himself and out of touch with the world around him. His first impression of you was that you were stuck up and a bit of a bitch.

There wasn't one thing that changed. Maybe he wore you down to the point where you tolerated him. He likes to think it was because of his charming personality. You know otherwise. His charms rarely work on you; if ever. Over time you found yourself less and less repulsed by him. The two of you bonded over harassing Nanami. On your own you weren't much trouble, but when paired with Gojo, Nanami learned to stay out of your way. If you let him. Usually you tracked him down. Your sweet tooth was just as insatiable as his. When you first took up baking, he was always nearby, wanting a taste. You’d drag him along to see new movies or shows or anything you’d think he’d like. He likes co-existing with you. The two of you don't have to even be doing anything. He can sit for hours with you by his side, doing absolutely nothing.

You've gotten to the point in your relationship where you show up unannounced. It's payback for all the times he’s come to your apartment, claiming he has some work for you, only to stay and raid your fridge, conveniently forgetting what he had to tell you. Yes you have scared the absolute hell out of Megumi on several occasions. In Gojo’s defense, he likes your cooking.

He’s not used to having you stay in one place for so long. You’re not used to it either. It feels strange sticking around Tokyo for so long. You hate feeling trapped more than anything. Maybe that’s why you moved around so much. Maybe you’re getting sentimental the older you get. For the first time in years, you feel truly at home. Gojo is one of your closest—if not your closest—friends, and there’s not much you wouldn't do for him.

You guess this is home. The end of the line, or whatever. You don't see yourself leaving for a while.

It's well after dark by the time he gets home.

The place was empty when you got here. Megumi must be out with friends. He's a strange kid. Strange circumstances lead to strange adults—or almost adults in his case. You try not to judge him too hard. You don't have a whole lot to say on his… situation.

He notices your form curled up on the couch, your face illuminated by your phone screen. The tv plays some horror movie you’ve long stopped paying attention to. Your face lights up when you see him.

His hand briefly touches your head, messing up your hair. He looks tired. There's dark circles under his eyes. He was gone for a while this time.

“I brought takeout,” you say, gesturing to the fridge, “I wasn't sure when you’d get home so I put it in there.”

“Did you eat already?” He asks. He makes a note to pay you back for the food later.

“No, I wanted to wait for you.” You say.

A bit of guilt hits him. You really didn't have to wait for him. You know his habit of being chronically late. He says he’s fashionably late, to which you reason he is never fashionable ever. He actually seemed a bit bothered by that one, which only made you tease him more.

Momentarily he disappears into the kitchen, returning with your food. You have his order memorized. There's only a handful of things he’d get anyway. He’s not a picky eater, and usually gets what you get. Pick one of about three things and he’ll probably eat it.

The food is still good even while cold. Gojo talks about his recent job while you eat. He says it was nothing special. But he called Nanami for backup, so you know that’s a lie. He hardly touches his food. Since when doesn't he want to eat? The guy has a pretty impressive appetite at times. Seriously, he could eat you out of house and home.

“Are you done?” He asks.

You nod.

He clears away the empty takeout containers from in front of you, returning the leftovers to the fridge.

When he returns, he sits next to you, throwing his arm over the back of the couch. The leather is an ugly shade. You’re sure if it weren't for Megumi, he would have bought something much worse. His taste—in everything, really—can be tacky. You make sure he knows this. Always have to keep him on his toes. Nanami is right about some things. You never take Gojo’s side for too long.

“You were gone for a while this time.” You say.

A smug looking grin spreads across his face. It's almost enough to make you roll your eyes and groan. “Sounds like you were worried about me.”

Really, you could worry yourself sick thinking about him. It's hard not to. Everyone has their limits, and you constantly wonder when he’ll hit his. Strongest or not; he’s human after all.

“Of course I worry.” As much as you hate to admit it, you care about him. You won't say it. It feels like bad luck to say it out loud.

He knows. He feels the same way. Over time he’s grown jaded and angry with the way things are. He tries not to worry too much about you. This life isn't an easy one, but you can handle yourself. He knows that. Years on your own have proven you're not only a capable sorcerer, but a talented one. The strongest doesn't need to worry about himself, so much as the people around him.

In a weird way he’s proud of you.

You open your arms, instinctively he goes into them.

You pull his head to your chest. He does little to fight against you. Hell, he practically leans into your touch. You take his glasses, setting them on the table beside you. His eyes close when your hands move to his hair, gently pulling it out of his eyes. He’s not quite sure what to do with his arms. Eventually he settles on resting them at his sides. One snakes around your stomach, coming to rest on the fleshy part of your hip. You're awfully comfortable to lay on, he notes.

Your movements are familiar, and oddly comforting. He makes note of the way your heartbeat suddenly drops off, before picking up in pace. From the smell of your shampoo, to the sound of your breathing. He can only describe it as home.

Lots of people will die in this line of work, but he has faith you’ll always be around. You’re too stubborn to die.

Touch in a sense like this is almost foreign to him. Touch in a non fighting context is just bizarre. He never de-activates infinity long enough to get hit. He's had his fair share of one night stands. Hell, he could have anyone he wants. He’s had everything and anything in between. Men and women across the world either want to be him, or be with him. But this—intimacy like this—is strange. The others get kicked out the morning after. But you’ll always be around. He likes to think he’ll be around for you too.

Maybe he’s more touch starved than he thought.

He’s Satoru-fucking-Gojou, a man like him doesn't get touched starved. He feels a wave of shame at his reaction. His face burns. His pride won't allow him to admit how much he enjoys this.

It's the first time you’ve held him close like this. The action is so oddly intimate and it’s not even in a sexual way. Your movements are familiar. He fits so nicely against your chest, he notes.

He practically purrs in delight as your fingers brush a sensitive spot towards the back of his head—where his neck and shoulders meet—sighing softly. Goosebumps rise along his exposed flesh. You take note of his reaction, and focus on that spot more, dragging your fingers across his skin. Your nails are getting long, and feel nice against his scalp. His eyes close as he leans into the crook of your neck.

"Do you want to watch something different?" You ask.

His heart nearly stops when your hand moves to cup his cheek. His face is warm. He's a wimp when it comes to horror movies. He says they don't scare him. They do. You’ve spent plenty of night sitting next to him, watching his body tense with terror.

He wasn't paying attention to the tv until now. He shakes his head, but his eyes remain fixed on the ground and not the screen.

"This is fine." He says.

"You sure?"

He nods.

He fights sleep as long as possible, but eventually he'll have to give in to it. You’ll be there long after he’s fallen asleep. Maybe even after he wakes up. His head nods, his eyes struggling to stay open. His breaths even out, his chest rising slowly.

You're not really sure what to do once he falls asleep on you. Your position isn't the most comfortable, but you suffer through it so as to not wake him up. If he’s fallen asleep on you, then he definitely needs the rest. He’s a light sleeper anyway. Any movement would be sure to wake him up.

It’s not long after that his body heat—and the sound of his steady breathing—lulls you to sleep.

You wake up to a blanket haphazardly tossed over the two of you. The tv is off. Two glasses of water are set out on the coffee table, condensation collecting on the outside. Megumi must have come home. Gojo's drool collects in a small pool on your collarbone, which is a bit gross. You use the corner of the blanket to wipe it away. It’s a bit odd seeing him so at-peace. It's rare he even lets his guard down. You rest your chin on the top of his head. His hair is soft, and tickles your neck. The sight of him makes your chest swell with affection. The intimacy of it all is enough to overwhelm you. It's been a while since you’ve cared so much about someone.

It's nice having him home.

He stirs, stretching out a bit like a cat. You card a hand through his hair. He grumbles something in response. Probably a weak “what?” Your joints are a bit stiff from staying in the same position for so long.

“Do you want coffee?” You ask.

He sleepily mumbles an answer—one which you don't understand. It's just as legible as the first. His eyes don't even open. You take it to mean he wants to go back to sleep. You pull the blanket up around his shoulders, tucking it under his chin. The sun is still barely up. You’re not in a rush to get up. You don't have anything to do today anyway, work can wait. If Nanami calls, you’ll just ignore him. You could stay in all morning if you wanted.

And you just might.

Come hell or high water, you’re staying on this couch.

In a bit you should get up and start breakfast. Most of the food in the house is for Megumi, but there should be enough to make something small. Pancakes sound nice.

#jjk x reader #jujustsu kaisen x reader #gojou satoru x reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojo x reader #gojou satoru #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jujutsu kaisen fluff #gojo fluff #sfw #fluff

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 4 years ago

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72 Hours In Montreal [Part I]

A/N: Many moons ago, the incomparably lovely @im-an-adult-ish pitched a Montreal concert fic idea (jokingly, I think), and quite a few of my followers fell in love with it. They were even kind enough to vote on which Queen member should be the love interest, and there was a clear winner: John!

I couldn’t get the idea out of my head, and at last, here is the first of three chapters of this new mini-fic. I’m going to tag some of my past readers, but I WILL NOT TAG YOU AGAIN unless you ask me to. Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy. 💜

Series Summary: John Deacon is a rock star at a crossroads. Y/N is a world-weary employee at a Yankee Candle shop. They’ll only ever have three short days in Montreal together...or will they??

Chapter Warnings: Language, sexual content (not graphic).

Word Count: 6.8k.

Other Chapters (And All My Writing) Available: HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii @bramblesforbreakfast @culturefiendtrashqueen @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark @escabell @im-an-adult-ish @queenlover05 @someforeigntragedy @imtheinvisiblequeen @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhyee @deacyblues @tensecondvacation @brianssixpence @some-major-ishues @haileymorelikestupid @youngpastafanmug @simonedk @rhapsodyrecs @joemazzmatazz @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhyee @namelesslosers @inthegardensofourminds @sleepretreat @hardyshoe @sevenseasofcats @jennyggggrrr @madeinheavxn @whatgoeson-itslate @herewegoagainniall @anotheronewritesthedust1 @pomjompish @allauraleigh @bluutac @johndeaconshands

The obnoxious British men are still laughing. The one with the mustache, suspenders, and illogically tight red leather pants is standing on the tiptoes of his equally red Adidas shoes to paw candles off the top shelf so he can sniff them. The blond one has no less than eight jars balanced precariously in his wiry arms. Journey’s Don’t Stop Believing is billowing through the shop speakers.

“Oh my god, he’s gonna break something,” you moan in a whisper, covering your eyes but peeking through your fingers. Your apron is suddenly too tight around your waist; your cheeks are roaring with blood as you envision the inevitable confrontation: Sir, unfortunately you ruined some of our giant tacky overpriced candles and so now you have to pay for them. So sorry. Paper or plastic? We take Mastercard.

“Who?” Kevin asks. He’s holding a broom in one pudgy, pinkish hand and a dustpan in the other. He has surrendered.

“That one. Suspenders and moustache guy. Red shoes guy. Dorothy without Toto.”

Kevin cracks a smile. “That is frighteningly accurate. He is rather whimsical, isn’t he? Maybe he’ll click his heels and disappear back to London or wherever.”

“We aren’t in Kansas anymore,” you mutter in commiseration. Actually, to be perfectly literal, you’ve never been to Kansas in your life.

“Wait, I think I might have met that guy before somewhere.” Kevin squints with great concentration. “He looks oddly familiar…”

“Hm.” You check your eyeliner wings in your reflection in the cash register screen. From what you can tell, they’re every bit as tragically asymmetrical as you remembered. Spectacular.

“Staring won’t make it better,” Kevin notes, very unhelpfully.

“I know,” you reply, miserable, toying with your bangs so you can hide behind them.

“How does that even happen? The right one is practically a 90-degree angle. The left one looks like you drew it on with a Sharpie.”

You groan. “I’ll try to scrub them off during my break.”

“If you’re not too busy helping me sweep glass off the floor, sure,” Kevin says. “I told you, I took an electrical engineering class as an elective once. I could totally take a look at your bathroom.”

“I thought you said you failed that class.”

“No, I said I got a D in that class. Ds aren’t failing.”

“Well now you’ve convinced me.” You scrutinize your reflection again, frowning. You rent a rather dilapidated one-bedroom apartment above a bakery just a few blocks from the Yankee Candle shop. The apartment always smells like powdered sugar and baking bread, which you like. What you don’t like is everything else about it: the peeling paint, the low water pressure, the windows that you can’t wrestle open, the occasional mice, the shoddy electrical wiring. On any given day, there’s an approximately 27% chance that the bathroom light won’t turn on when you flip the switch. This morning you had been on the losing side of those odds, and with the only mirror in the apartment being the one mounted over the sink—and the overcast November skies outside offering painfully little natural light—you had haphazardly guesstimated your way through your makeup routine before dashing off to work. Your guesstimation skills, apparently, are not all that great.

“If he’s The Wizard of Oz...” Kevin points his broom handle from the snickering moustached man to the gangly, poodle-haired one who has been trying to decide between two candles—Christmas Cookie and Cinnamon Stick—for twelve uninterrupted minutes. He’s wearing a parka spotted with patches: a NASA emblem, a soaring rocket, a smiling green extraterrestrial face, Saturn and its rings. “That guy’s gotta be Star Wars.”

“Or Alien,” you suggest, clutching your chest and pretending to die melodramatically.

Kevin laughs. “2001: A Space Odyssey.”

“Close Encounters of The Third Kind.”

“What about that one?” Kevin nods to the guy who has large blue eyes and bleach-blond, fried tufts of hair sticking out in every direction and a grin that is simultaneously childish and foxlike. Under Pressure comes on the shop speakers, and the British men all start cheering and high-fiving each other, leaving their candles momentarily tucked under their arms or quivering precariously on the edges of wooden display tables. You are entirely mystified. “God, he’s gorgeous.”

“Bye Bye Birdie,” you decide. “Beautiful. Charming. Beloved by all. Perhaps a little dangerous. I can picture teenage girls sobbing themselves to sleep as he gallantly marches off to war.”

“You think he’s gay?” Kevin asks hopefully.

“I don’t think he’s dressed well enough for that.” The blond man is wearing a shapeless, polka-dotted sweater that has ‘NIVEA’ spelled across the front, for reasons that are difficult to fathom.

Kevin sighs, crestfallen. He suffered a nasty breakup with his boyfriend Patrick two weeks ago, and is enthusiastically on the hunt for a rebound to distract him. “You’re probably right. Okay, last but not least.” Kevin aims his broom handle at the fourth and final British stranger. “What shall we call him?”

You consider the man who has wandered away from the others. He’s wearing Levi’s, a black bomber jacket, aviator sunglasses, a mop of unwrangled auburn hair, thoughtful lines that break around the corners of his hidden eyes. He is browsing unhurriedly, perhaps even distractedly, through the fruit-scented candles. He picks up a jar of Macintosh Apple, sniffs a few times, then sets it back down precisely where he found it. He even spins the jar so it’s label-side-facing-outwards again. You warm to him immediately.

“One of the James Bond movies?” Kevin offers. “He seems…enigmatic somehow. Esoteric. Yet still clearly leading man material.”

“Casablanca,” you say, not tearing your gaze from the stranger. “I can imagine him waving off some old flame on a foggy, night-draped airport runway, breaking hearts with sparse words of wisdom. Can’t you?”

“Oh, that’s exactly right!” Kevin sighs again, dreamily, yearningly. And whether he’s yearning for his ex-boyfriend Patrick or Bye Bye Birdie a.k.a. NIVEA-sweater man or passion or sex or love or maybe just the ineffable high that accompanies the beginnings of things, you couldn’t say.

You peer at your reflection in the cash register screen once again, feeling more self-conscious than ever. “Maybe if I—”

“Freddie!” Star Wars cries, and you whirl just in time to see The Wizard of Oz, whizzing around and giggling and preoccupied with teasing NIVEA-sweater man, stumble into the six-foot-tall tower of Christmas Tree-scented candles and send countless jars crashing to the tile floor.

“I knew it!” you unleash in a rush of misery and exasperation, the biting threat of tears in your eyes and the back of your throat. And of course, it isn’t just about the mess on the floor, it isn’t just about having to tell your manager and hoping to God he doesn’t fire you. It’s about your derelict apartment, it’s about your fucked up eyeliner, it’s about everything that’s happened in the past eighteen months; it’s about the never-ending feelings of helplessness and inertia and predestined ruin, it’s about not being able to get fifteen meters down the street before life throws up another red light, another jagged sinkhole gaping like ravenous jaws. And none of that is these ridiculous British men’s fault; yet still, in that moment the fury you feel towards them is overwhelming.

“Jesus christ,” Kevin mumbles, stepping out from behind the counter to survey the damage, his hands still clutching the broom and dustbin.

“You couldn’t just mosey around and ask which candles are on sale and maybe sniff one or two like a normal person?!” you explode. “You had to come in here acting like goddamn animals and destroy like a third of our inventory?!”

“I’m so sorry,” The Wizard of Oz sputters, looking at you and Kevin with wide, profusely apologetic dark eyes. Star Wars and NIVEA-sweater man are helping him to his feet, albeit with very spirited chidings. Kevin is grudgingly asking if he’s alright. Casablanca is already trying to sort through which candles are broken and putting those that survived aside. And when he casts furtive glances from behind his aviator sunglasses, they’re directed not at Kevin or The Wizard of Oz but at you.

“Freddie, bloody hell,” NIVEA-sweater man laments.

“I’ll pay for them all,” The Wizard of Oz tells you. “I’m so, so, so terribly sorry, you’re absolutely right to be cross with me, and I’ll pay for everything. Here, let me get my wallet…” He digs around in the pockets of his preposterously tight red leather pants.

“Uh…sir…” Kevin begins uncertainly, not wanting to break the bad news.

“It’s going to be hundreds of dollars,” you inform The Wizard of Oz. “Maybe over a thousand. You’re really going to pay that? Or are you just going to wait until we start sweeping up and then sprint out the front door the first chance you get?”

“Hey,” Kevin warns you quietly. He wants you to keep this job probably even more than you do. You are, by his own admission, far and away his favorite coworker.

“No, no, darling, please, let her scold me, I deserve it.” The Wizard of Oz at last locates his wallet. He sashays to the counter, brushing nuggets of glittering glass off his clothes, and counts out two thousand Canadian dollars in hundreds. “Will that do? You can keep the change as compensation for the inconvenience. And we’ll help clean up as well, has anyone got an extra broom?”

As you stare down at the money, shocked into speechlessness, three hulking men dressed in black come barreling into the shop.

“Lord in heaven, Freddie, what happened?!” one asks. He has a thick beard and an Irish accent and closely resembles a grizzly bear.

“I made a complete ass out of myself and am now trying to win the affections of this marvelous creature,” The Wizard of Oz replies, flourishing a hand towards you. “Is it working, dear?”

“Kind of,” you admit, still stunned.

“Oh my god.” The broom tumbles out of Kevin’s grasp and clatters on the floor. He points at The Wizard of Oz. “I know where I’ve seen you before. You…you…you’re Freddie Mercury, right?”

In reply, The Wizard of Oz only flashes an enormous, toothy, dazzling grin.

“Oh my god,” Kevin says again, a starry, awed smile rippling across his round face.

“Please don’t make his ego any bigger,” Star Wars pleads.

“And you’re Brian May!” Kevin replies. “And you’re…” He turns to NIVEA-sweater man, snapping his fingers, trying to remember. “Robbie…no, Ronnie…uh��Ricky…?”

“Roger Taylor.” But it comes out like ‘Rogah Taylah.’ NIVEA-sweater man extends a hand for Kevin to shake, not the least bit offended. “It’s a pleasure. Sorry about the candles.”

“No problem, sir!” Kevin squeaks as he takes Roger’s hand, beaming. The men in black—the band’s security, you’ve gathered—have descended upon the crime scene, confiscated Kevin’s broom and dustbin, and are rapidly clearing glass and chunks of candlewax from the floor and discarding the mess in a trash bin that usually collects only chewed gum and unwanted receipts.

“So I guess I probably shouldn’t have yelled at you,” you tell Freddie Mercury guiltily, all the venom in your voice evaporated. You’re no Queen superfan, true, but everyone knows the words to Bohemian Rhapsody and We Will Rock You and We Are The Champions. And Another One Bites The Dust. And Killer Queen. And Crazy Little Thing Called Love. And Somebody To Love. Your thoughts are suddenly a racing, indecipherable blur. Your knees are boneless. You’ve never met a celebrity before. Well, not unless you count professional hockey players, which you definitely don’t.

“No, you absolutely should have,” Freddie retorts. “I was dreadfully discourteous. I’m positively mortified about it. I should be punished severely. Have you got anything behind the counter to whip me with? A riding crop, perhaps?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Not that I know of. I’m sorry I called you an animal.”

“I’m sorry about the candles. There, now we’re even. Wait, not quite yet.” He calls over to Kevin: “Darling, how would you and your friend like front row seats at our show tonight?”

The squeal that bursts out of Kevin is not human.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Freddie Mercury says, very pleased.

“This is really too generous of you,” you protest, although your heart isn’t in it; Kevin might legitimately strangle you if you screw this up, and you’re finding that you want to see Queen in concert too. It’s something to interrupt the powerless, unrelenting monotony; it’s like something that might happen in a movie or a dream.

“Nonsense!” Freddie announces cheerfully. Star Wars and NIVEA-sweater man—or, rather, Brian and Roger—are chatting with the security guys and nodding along as the bearlike Irishman reviews the day’s itinerary.

You peer over at Casablanca. Now that the floor is mostly clear, he’s migrating towards you and Freddie. You glance apprehensively down at your reflection. “Goddammit,” you mutter, manipulating your bangs again, wishing you could disappear. “I meet a rock star for the first time ever and I look like this.”

“It’s not that bad,” Kevin says, obviously lying.

“I like it,” Freddie tells you, propping his elbows on the counter and resting his chin on his knuckles. “It’s very goth raccoon chic.”

“My bathroom light wouldn’t turn on this morning and I was late for work and I guesstimated and that was clearly a poor decision.” Poor decisions are my expertise, you think instinctively, and feel a tug of something you don’t quite have the words for. Shame, grief, disappointment, a raw sting like a flame beneath your palm, a dread like a child who’s lost their mother’s hand.

“I’ve offered to take a look at the wiring!” Kevin exclaims. “I told you, a D is passing!”

“Kev, babe,” you reply. “I really, truly appreciate your enthusiasm, but you’ll probably just make it worse. And then my landlord will hate me and keep my security deposit and write me awful references and I’ll have to live in an endless string of ancient, hideous apartments until I die.”

“It’s an electrical problem?” Casablanca asks, pushing his aviator sunglasses up into his unruly hair. His unveiled eyes are a blueish grey—they remind you of one of the candles, maybe Beach Walk or Bahama Breeze—and very direct. He stares at you and you stare back, and at some point you realize that everyone is waiting for you to answer.

“Oh, uh, yeah, I guess so. Sometimes nothing happens when I flip the switch. That’s the extent of my handyman knowledge, unfortunately.”

Casablanca nods. “I could take a look, if you like.”

Not Beach Walk. Not Bahama Breeze. Warm Luxe Cashmere, maybe. “Now that really is too generous. I couldn’t possibly put a rock star to work on my terrible apartment.”

“John’s got a degree in electrical engineering, that’s right in his wheelhouse,” Brian counters.

“Yes,” Roger says, grinning, teasing in a way that has absolutely no malice in it. “He’s more of an engineer than a rock star anyway, isn’t he?”

“Seriously?” Casablanca—John, you mentally correct yourself—doesn’t seem much like an electrical engineer. But Roger’s right: he doesn’t really seem like a rock star, either. What John seems like is steady and abiding and perceptive, attentive, unflinching. He studies you like some people study paintings, like you once studied paintings; not in a passing-by-in-a-crowded-hallway type way but in a patient way, a methodical way, with the quiet that comes from knowing that vision in the frame is older than you will ever be and will still be hanging on that wall when you’re bones in a box somewhere.

Freddie lights a cigarette and puffs on it decadently. Smoking definitely isn’t allowed inside the Yankee Candle shop, but you aren’t about to snap at Freddie Mercury for the second time today. “Oh, let him tinker around in your flat, darling. It’ll make his day.”

“Is it far?” John asks you.

“No, really, Casa…uh, I mean, John, I appreciate the offer more than I could possibly express but I—”

“It’s just a few blocks north,” Kevin says, and tosses you a wily smile.

“How convenient!” Freddie trills. “When does your shift end, dear?”

“Not until 5:30.”

“She can take a long lunch break.” Another smile from Kevin. “Honestly, there’s not much to do around here now that the Great Candle Massacre of 1981 has been remediated.”

“Splendid!” Freddie says, radiant.

You shake your head, very slowly. “This is the weirdest day of my life.”

“Then you clearly haven’t lived enough,” Freddie quips.

“Fred!” Roger presses. “Are we going to the bookstore down the street or not? That was the whole deal, we suffer through your candles, you suffer through our books.”

“You didn’t seem to be suffering,” Brian says.

“Of course I’m suffering. That cashier over there almost murdered me,” Roger slings back.

Freddie sighs and rolls his large, dark, expressive eyes. “Yes, darling, of course, don’t give yourself an aneurism. We’ll go to the bookstore, John can rendezvous with us later.” Now he turns to you. “We’ll send a car to your flat at 7 to pick you and Kevin up for the show tonight. Don’t let John leave without knowing your address. Wear something deliciously opulent. Lots of sparkle. Maybe furs.”

“I make eight dollars an hour,” you tell him.

“Or you could just wear nothing.”

“Sparkle and furs it is.”

Freddie chuckles and turns to the men in black. “Chubby, my dear?”

The towering bearlike Irishman replies: “Yeah, I’ll go with John. Don’t wreck anything else while I’m gone. Don’t get yourselves deported before the show. EMI will have your heads on spikes.”

Freddie pretends to be scandalized. “Causing destruction? We would never.” He saunters towards the shop door, jingling the bells as he swings it open, and waves like royalty. “See you tonight, darlings!”

“Bye!” Kevin shouts after him. And then, after Freddie, Roger, Brian, and the two non-bearlike men in black have departed: “Oh my god I just met Freddie Mercury and he’s amazing and he knows I exist and he spoke to me and tonight he’s sending a car to take me to a concert and I’m going to have front row seats and what if he invites me to have a drink afterwards oh my god.”

John, evidently unaffected, prompts you: “So your place is just a few blocks away?”

“Yeah. Just let me get my coat…”

The man in black—Chubby, as Freddie had introduced him—fetches your coat off the rack by the door and holds it up so you can slip inside it. No one has ever done that for you before.

“…Thanks…?” You button your coat, feeling a little like royalty yourself at the moment.

John pulls open the door, the tiny metal bells jangling, and gestures out into the streets of downtown Montreal. He’s wearing his aviator sunglasses again; the November wind gusts through his hair. You catch threadbare ghosts of cigarette smoke and cologne that the breeze lifts from his skin like pages of a book. And he smiles, just barely. “After you.”

You walk north together along the path of the sidewalk with your hands in your pockets, your breath fog in the cold, weaving through the bustling crowds of tourists and holiday shoppers, Chubby trailing not far behind and displaying his talent for keeping watch while not letting on that he is. To even your own horror, you can’t seem to shut up.

“John, this is so kind of you, this is completely unnecessary, you really shouldn’t feel like you owe me anything because Freddie already paid for the candles twice over and I was totally unprofessional for yelling at customers, even annoying customers, and Kevin and I are already getting a free concert tonight and so—”

“Okay,” John says firmly. “You have to talk about something else now.”

“I can’t talk about anything else. All I can think about is how ridiculous this is.”

“Have you lived in Montreal long?” he asks, very casually, as if you’re strangers in line next to each other at Starbucks.

“My whole life.” Minus a little over three years, but you don’t need to get into that. “My parents live over in Verdun, right on the St. Lawrence River.

“Sounds scenic.”

“It certainly is.” You’re trying not to look at John, because every time you do it’s hard to stop. You look at the cars rolling by instead. “This is super embarrassing, and I don’t mean to offend you, but what exactly do you do in Queen?”

He’s not offended; he thinks it’s hilarious. “I’m the bassist.”

“Oh, that makes sense.”

“Does it?”

“Yeah, bassists are quiet and reliable or whatever. Bassists don’t terrorize Yankee Candle employees.”

“You’re not a Queen fan?”

“I’m a casual and appreciative listener, but I wouldn’t call myself a fan. I couldn’t pick any of you out of a lineup, clearly. Roger is the drummer, right?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Drummers are feral, almost universally. Which means Brian must be lead guitar.”

“And what do you think of lead guitarists?”

“Word on the street is that they are brilliant yet micromanaging egomaniacs, but I don’t want to bash your friend or anything.”

John chuckles, like there’s some joke you aren’t in on yet. “No, please, bash away. So you prefer bassists.”

And finally you do look at him, and you regret it immediately; because now you’re caught in the thoughtful crinkles around his eyes and the barely-there stubble of his cheeks and the playful curve of his lips and how the wind ruffles his auburn hair the same way it steals leaves off of slumbering trees. You almost walk right past the bakery. “Oh, wait, we’re here.”

You lead John and Chubby upstairs to your chronically irritating apartment. John removes his sunglasses, inspects your bathroom light switch, then asks if you have a specific kind of screwdriver. You bring him the toolkit that has lived beneath the kitchen sink since before you moved in and he roots around, finds what he’s searching for, and unfastens the light switch plate from the wall.

“Please don’t electrocute yourself,” you fret, as Chubby meanders around in the living room and tries not to intrude. “If you die your groupies will never forgive me.”

“Who says I’ve got groupies?” John replies, amused.

“I just assumed all rock stars do.” Your eyes flick down to his hands as he fidgets with the wiring; and you notice randomly—or, maybe, not all that randomly—that he’s not wearing a ring. You’re still ruminating over that when he returns the light switch plate to the wall, secures each of the four screws with a few deft twists of his wrist, and performs a test flip. The light turns on immediately.

“Mission accomplished,” John says mildly.

“What?! No, no way, no freaking way.” You flip the switch again. The light turns off and on obediently. You try it at least five more times. Perfection. “…How?!”

“Just a few loose wires. No great hardship.” He tucks the screwdriver back into the toolkit.

You gape at him. “That took you…like…two minutes.”

“Aren’t you glad my band wandered into your candle shop and almost demolished the place today?” He rests his hands on his waist; his sturdy, skillful, ringless hands. “Anything else I can fix for you?”

“Definitely not.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

He stares at you. You stare back.

“Stop looking at my fucked up eyeliner.”

John laughs. It’s a delightfully clear, disarming sound. “That’s not what I was doing.”

“I should fix my makeup and go back to work now. And you should probably go help your friends burn down the bookstore or blow up a Starbucks or do whatever else is on your agenda for today.”

“Soundcheck and dinner, actually,” John says. He slides the toolkit back beneath your kitchen sink, meets Chubby by the front door, and pauses there to give you one last lingering, laden gaze. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“In my best furs,” you purr in your most convincing Freddie Mercury impression.

“Or nothing at all,” John suggests levelly. And then he’s gone.

~~~~~~~~~~

It turns out better than you thought it would. Your tan, knee-high suede boots are celebratory without being too uncomfortable. Kevin brings you a faux fur jacket that he stole from Patrick during the breakup. You find a glittery black dress in the back of your closet that you once loved, then couldn’t stand to look at, then forgot existed entirely; but tonight it’s like you’re seeing it with brand new eyes. It fits even better than you remember. In the mirror, you look like a stranger and a hauntingly familiar acquaintance and yourself all at once.

Chubby arrives in a black limousine at precisely 7pm, parks along the curb next to the bakery, and honks the horn twice. You and Kevin dash down the narrow steps and climb into the backseat, finding complimentary cigarettes and bottled water and chilled champagne. As the limo rolls though Montreal under changing traffic lights, Kevin prattles on about the band, their history, their albums, their tours…and John in particular. He tries to tempt you. You resist valiantly…for the first fifteen minutes, anyway.

Finally, you sigh in capitulation. “Okay. Fine. I get it. What do you know about him?”

“I know he’s divorced,” Kevin says, wiggling his eyebrows. “I saw it on the cover of a tabloid a while back. Very contentious, spicy stuff. He’s got like eight kids.”

“He does not have eight kids!”

“Okay, maybe not eight. But he has a lot,” Kevin insists.

You rearrange your hair with deliberate flippantness. “What do I care if he’s divorced?”

Kevin grins. “You know why you care.”

“Stop,” you plead.

“Look, all I’m saying is that he definitely likes you. And you like him. And I haven’t seen you like anybody, ever, in the…wait, let me count…the nine whole months that I’ve known you. When was the last time you even had a boyfriend? When was the last time you got laid? Oh my god, it hasn’t been nine months, has it?! That’s way too long to go without sex. No wonder you’re so serious all the time. It all makes sense now. You poor thing. You’re in dick withdrawal.”

“Assuming that’s my problem—which it isn’t, by the way—if I wanted to get laid there are far easier ways to accomplish that.”

“Sure,” Kevin says. “But you don’t want just any dick. You want British bassist dick. John Deacon dick. Casablanca dick.”

“This friendship is terminated.”

Kevin cackles, pouring himself a glass of champagne that bubbles over the top and spills onto the limo floor. “I’m really glad you’re here with me. I’m glad we can do this together.”

You fill a champagne flute with bottled water and clink your glass against his, smiling. The limo is turning into the parking lot of the Montreal Forum. “Me too.”

~~~~~~~~~~

The backstage room that Chubby escorts you and Kevin to after the show is full of chatter and heavy smoke and roadies and fans and musicians and journalists, trays of hors d'oeuvres, wine and Stella Artois and vodka and tequila and rum, the electric promise of things that will go unmentioned in the morning. There are stacks of stereo speakers in the corner rumbling out Another One Bites The Dust. You and Kevin camp out on a green velvet couch—making small talk with each other to avoid making it with anyone else—until the band arrives.

John is still wearing his concert outfit: blue pants, blue shirt, a black leather jacket that gives him an edge like a knife. He passes out a few polite nods; but Freddie and Roger are undeniably the suns in this room, and the guests their planets. Freddie is soon surrounded by a constellation of followers and whisks Kevin away with him. John, meanwhile, comes straight to where you’re sitting on the couch and stands in front of you with his messy hair and his veil of cologne and his mystery-candle-blue eyes.

“Can I get you anything?” he asks in that calm, measured way that you’ve learned he has. “Rum and Coke? Moscow Mule? Hurricane? I’ve been on a mojito kick recently.”

“I don’t drink.” And you wait for the inevitable awkwardness that usually follows that sentence, when he says why? or seriously? or maybe just oh in wilted disappointment.

Instead, what John says is this: “No problem. Rum minus the Coke?”

You smile up at him. You can’t help yourself. “That would be perfect.”

There are innumerable drinks already poured on a table, dark carbonated liquid trembling in red plastic cups as the bass from the stereo speakers quakes through the crowded, droning, smoke-hazed room. John moves from cup to cup, taking tentative sips before shaking his head and putting them back down on the table. After each attempt, he casts you a rueful smirk before continuing on to the next cup. At last, he finds two unadulterated Cokes and brings them to the couch: one for you, and one for him. He sits beside you with one of his legs crossed over the other, a lit cigarette in his right hand, a red plastic cup of Coke in his left, and his eyes on you in a way that isn’t hungry or arrogant or restless but merely, benignly contemplative. You find yourself thinking of paintings in museums again, you even start to feel a little like one; and you wonder what colors he sees in you, what types of brushstrokes, what signatures scribbled in the corners of the canvas, what shadows painstakingly penciled in to mimic the angles of the sun.

You tell John about growing up in Montreal, about autumn strolls along the St. Lawrence River, about snowfalls and Mont-Royal and Chinatown and the Notre-Dame Basilica, about the exhilarating turmoil of the Summer Olympics in 1976. You tell him about how Kevin is in his last year at Concordia University and works part-time at the Yankee Candle shop for money to invest in his hair gel and travel fund. You tell him so many things he doesn’t notice all the parts you leave out. In return, John tells you about himself; not about John Deacon the bassist of Queen, but about the understated man who likes cars and electronics and the Beatles and tea in the evenings beside a roaring fireplace. And when his arm comes to rest on the back of the green velvet couch, and then across your shoulders, and then around your waist, it doesn’t feel strange at all. You lean into him as you exchange stories and clandestine giggles until you’re nearly in his lap, and that doesn’t feel strange either. And you haven’t had a drop of alcohol—you haven’t in almost a full year, in fact—but you feel a little drunk tonight, because your cheeks are hot and the room is blurry and the world is brimming with a pure, rose-gold, uncomplicated happiness.

The other band members periodically stop by to say hello, clutching their drinks and making stilted pleasantries as you and John smile drowsily up at them, looking nothing like the soberest people in the room. Chubby and the rest of the men in black are simultaneously omnipresent and scarce, which you are beginning to think is a requirement inked into their job description. Kevin, having been fully absorbed into Freddie’s entourage, is beaming and flushed and extremely, blissfully tipsy. And they all watch you and John not with scandalized sideways glances but with warm approval swimming in their gleaming eyes.

“I don’t think I’ve properly thanked you yet,” you tell John when you are alone again. “For improving my dreadful apartment. So thank you. You really didn’t have to do that. I hate that I marred your time in Montreal with unpaid labor.”

He shrugs it off. “I like fixing things. It’s what I’m best at.”

“Besides being an internationally acclaimed rock star, you mean.”

“I’m honestly not so sure I’m cut out for the rock star life.”

“You are, though. I saw you. I watched you all night.”

John just stares at you, and then he leans in even closer, inhaling deeply. You can feel the heat of his breath on your collarbone, your shoulder, your neck; goosebumps spring up across your skin like stars at twilight. “What the hell is that? Perfume? Lotion? Shampoo?”

“It’s probably sugar and baking bread, because I live on top of a bakery.”

“Does Yankee Candle make anything that smells like you?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “They definitely do not.”

“They should,” John murmurs. And with the rough whirlpools of his fingertips he turns your face to his so he can kiss you.

It should be kind of humiliating, right? Making out with some guy you just met on a green couch in front of thirty strangers, your hands getting tangled in each other’s hair, your lips meeting again and again, taunting darts of the tongue and quick painless bites and stifled moans and grasping tugs at clothes that you’re starting to wish weren’t there at all. It should feel embarrassing, you should feel overexposed, here in this land of unfamiliar expectations and accents and faces. But no one seems to be watching too closely. This must be so tame in the world of rock stars, it occurs to you; almost wholesome. And you can’t remember a time you’ve ever felt more at peace.

“There’s a pool table in the next room,” someone says, startling you, and you break away from John to discover Roger perched on the arm of the couch, grinning coyly as he sips his emerald glass bottle of Stella Artois. “I mean…you know. If you’re into that. John’s got all sorts of moves, we played for days at a time at Ridge Farm. You could challenge him to a round or two. Place bets. But be warned…he’s a total pool shark.”

“Is he?” you ask mischievously, clasping the lapel of John’s leather jacket. Even if you freed him, he shows no indication of retreating. He’s raking his knuckles back and forth along the length of your thigh that your little black dress leaves exposed, never venturing above the hem.

Roger winks. “Just thought you might want to know.” Then he hops off the couch and disappears into the crowd again.

John is trying to keep his eyes locked on yours, and no lower. He’s trying to not be even vanishingly forceful. He’s trying not to sway you. But you know exactly what he wants. “Do you…?”

“Show me how to play pool,” you whisper. And you lead him through the shuffling bodies and boisterous, increasingly intoxicated laughter and cumulus clouds of cigarette smoke to the door on the other side of the room.

Beyond the threshold you find a pool table and not much else. It’s terribly unceremonious; it’s absolutely perfect. You can hear Blondie’s Call Me playing back in the packed room where the rest of the band is still reveling, the bass crawling through the walls to radiate in your eardrums, your bones. You lock the door and reach out to flick off the harsh florescent lights, but John stops you. You don’t have to ask him why. He wants to be able to see you. He asks if this is okay—again, wordlessly, with the forthright blue of his eyes—and you nod. And then he kisses you as you drag him in, breathing in his cologne and nicotine, tasting the virgin Coke on his lips that he drank just for you.

John tears off his leather jacket. You toss the faux fur that Kevin lent you to the floor. You climb up onto the pool table, and John follows you. You yank off his shirt, link your suede boots around him as he positions himself between your naked, down-soft thighs. And then John stops.

“Look, I have to be honest,” he says. His hands tremble as they cradle the small of your back, just barely. “I’m newly divorced, and I’m really out of practice, I mean really out of practice, and this is not at all my usual way of doing things, and if I’m total rubbish or only last like thirty seconds or something I just want to apologize in advance and swear that I’ll do absolutely everything I can to make this worth it for you. Because I like you. I really, really like you.”

“I’m a little rusty too,” you confess with a small, sheepish smile. But he doesn’t need to know exactly how rusty you are, or in how many ways, all those layers of blood-hued ruin that spin webs from the skin down to the marrow.

John seems relieved. “Then maybe we’re even.”

You’re not even, you’re nowhere close; but it’s comforting that he thinks you could be.

John kisses you again. His hands find the zipper on the back of your dress, and then the tiny metal clasp of your bra, and then the black lace of your panties…and then everything else as well.

~~~~~~~~~~

Afterwards, you return together to the green velvet couch in the next room, not with bashful swiftness but with your hands entwined, your eyes satiated and calm, your clothes unapologetically rumpled. The partying is winding down. The song pouring through the stereo speakers is In The Air Tonight by Phil Collins. And now you and John don’t talk very much at all; you just sit there with fresh cups of Coke, your head resting against his chest, his left arm draped around you, watching the rest of the universe spin on like a carousel as your feet stay rooted to the earth.

“So you’re the smart one,” you say eventually. “You must be, with an electrical engineering degree.”

“You’d be surprised. We’re rather erudite, as far as rock stars go.” He smiles drowsily down at you. “Freddie’s got a degree in graphic art and design. Roger has one in biology. Brian has the better part of a PhD in astrophysics. He might even go back to finish it one day. He probably will, just to be able to lord it over us.”

“Wow,” you reply, distantly, suddenly feeling very small.

“What did you study?” he asks you.

In truth, you never finished college; but you aren’t going to tell John that. “Something useless.”

John is intrigued, and perhaps a little concerned as well. His brow furrows with grooves like lines of fortune in an open palm.

“I wanted to be a painter,” you explain, smirking at the absurdity. “But the world doesn’t need painters anymore. They have pictures and videos that are just as clear as real life. They don’t need my fantasies or interpretations. They have reality.”

“I think we still need painters,” John disagrees, his calloused fingertips tracing lazy circles around your bare shoulder.

“Really?”

“Yeah. For when reality requires improving.”

You let a few moments of silence tick by. And then you put on your faux fur jacket, finish the last of your Coke, stand and find your balance on the low heels of your boots with exhausted, shaky calves.

John jolts upright, somewhat alarmed. “Hey, you don’t have to—”

“This was great, John. This was the best night I’ve had in a long time. So thank you for that. But I have to go home now.”

“Okay.” He studies you, processing. “Okay, okay. I’ll have Chubby drive you.”

“That’s really not necessary, I can get a cab…”

But John has already waved Chubby over, and the massive man appears serendipitously with an impossible degree of stealth. Kevin finds you, staggering, babbling breathlessly about all of his adventures, showing you where Freddie and Roger and Brian signed his chest with a black Sharpie, repeating the same stories on an identical loop every few minutes. As you leave, you offer John a brief parting wave; and he returns it, like a reflection in a mirror, but he’s wearing a pensive frown and eyes dark with thought. Then again, maybe you are too.

Chubby leads you and Kevin outside to the waiting limousine. You slip into the backseat, ply Kevin with bottled water, open the sunroof so moonlight and cold, reviving November air can flood in like a river.

Kevin is coming down now from the high of the champagne and the concert and the carousing with Freddie Mercury. He blinks, soaking you in, really seeing you for the first time in hours. “Wow, you had a good night with Casablanca. You had a really good night.”

“Yeah,” you reply softly, resting your head against the window and watching the stars and streetlights pass by above like seasons. “And it will never happen again.”

#queen fic #john deacon fic #fic series #72 hours in montreal

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theseshipsshallsail · 3 years ago

Link

There’s a new club in the Village - Infinity emblazoned in bright, neon letters - and naturally, the building is jam-packed with society’s outcasts on its opening weekend. Oliver grimaces, pressing his third beer to the side of his face, yet the condensation does nothing to soothe his overheated skin. It’s like a furnace of writhing bodies, and with every bead of sweat that bisects his neck to soak into his collar, he can’t help but wonder why he ever agreed to come in the first place.

“Drink up,” Vanessa says, brandishing a bright amber concoction as she slides into the booth opposite him. “You look like you need something a little stronger.”

Oliver raises an eyebrow as he returns the bottle to the table, then plucks the wedge of orange peel from the rim of the proffered glass. It’s been three years since he tasted a negroni, and the potent combination of gin, Campari, and vermouth sends his mind reeling in directions he usually fights tooth and nail to avoid.

“Remind me again why you brought me here?” he asks, trying not to wince at the bitter aftertaste. “This isn’t exactly my scene.”

Vanessa scoffs. “Well, if you ever left your study...”

“I’m up for promotion!”

“You’ll be up for an ulcer if you don’t slow down. Besides, you deserve to let loose after... you know.”

You know, meaning his divorce, and the eighteen month shit-storm that preceded it.

Vanessa has the office next to his, and in between general grousing about University politics they’ve become close friends. It helps, of course, that she understands his situation all too well, and even though her parents never tried to strong-arm her to the altar, she and her girlfriend still have to hide their relationship from the rest of their colleagues.

Oliver sighs as he takes a second sip of his drink. “It’ll take more than a one night stand to loosen me up,” he tells her, and the filthy smirk that curls Vanessa’s lips has him tempted to bang his forehead against the table.

“Whatever tickles your pickle, Professor.”

“Why do I put up with you?”

“Hell if I know.” Slurring somewhat, she taps their cocktails together, and Oliver laughs as she leans forward, poking him in the chest. “Listen, Ollie, you and Micol did a spectacular job of making yourselves miserable, but at least you stayed faithful ‘til the end. Why not enjoy yourself, yeah?”

“Why not indeed?”

He’s aiming for sarcastic, yet his tone falls somewhere short of exhausted. She’s right, he realises, but Oliver hasn’t had much interest in men or women for a while. He’s not so deep in denial to admit his heart still belongs to another, and being hopelessly in love with someone he can’t have has done a real number on his libido.

“Damn! This place is heaving!” Simone says, slumping in her seat when she returns from the bathroom. Slinging an arm around Vanessa’s shoulder she drops a quick kiss to her cheek, and Oliver averts his eyes, the casual intimacy leaving him yearning for the impossible. “A few too many student-types for my liking, though. Makes me feel like I’m back in the theatre department.”

“Makes me feel like I’m pushing thirty,” Oliver mutters, painfully aware of the significantly younger crowd as he tugs at the cheap material of his shirt. Too many curries and not enough exercise has made him self-conscious of the few extra pounds at his waistline, and depressingly, twenty-eight feels ancient in comparison.

“You wanna call it a night?” Vanessa asks, and Oliver nods absently as his gaze catches on a couple in the middle of the dancefloor.

Caught in a world of their own, they make a striking picture. The taller of the pair is bleached-blond and athletic, his arms wrapped tightly around the slim waist of the man in front of him in a surprisingly protective gesture. Oliver can’t see his partner clearly from this angle, but his skin is pale and shimmering as they move to the beat, dark curls falling in a tousled mess. Whether it’s by artful design or sweat-damp from dancing, he can’t quite tell, yet Oliver is hypnotized by the way they bounce as he loses himself to the music, obscuring his vision until the other man reaches forward, gently brushing them away.

The bass pounds in his rib cage, and Oliver’s throat feels constricted as he watches the brunette link his hands behind his lover's neck. Profile half in shadows, he raises up on tiptoes to whisper in the shell of his ear, and Oliver experiences a crisis of tenderness when he butts their temples together. Something squirms in his stomach. Something raw and envious. Memories flare, unfair and brutal, and he immediately blames the burning of his retinas on the relentless assault of the strobe lights surrounding them.

“Oliver? You okay?”

No.

Definitely not.

The jostling crowd causes the blond to alter their position, and Oliver’s head spins from more than just the alcohol as his blood runs cold in his veins.

“Elio…” he murmurs, vaguely aware of Vanessa’s stifled gasp when she tries to get a better look.

“Your Elio?”

He wants it not to be - wants his eyes to be deceiving him - yet there’s no denying the truth. All that he’s forgotten - all that he’s clung to - coalesces in a rush of unslaked longing, and between one blink and the next, Oliver remembers everything.

“Not anymore,” he whispers, but then, why would he be?

Elio was seventeen when they first met, and Oliver isn’t naive enough to think he hasn’t fallen in and out of love many times since then. He’s beautiful, intelligent, talented beyond measure. Was he really so arrogant to imagine he would still be single? Pining for him, maybe? Saving himself? And for what? A six week romance one too-hot Italian summer? Something his cowardice cut short with a long-distance phone call?

He was, wasn’t he?

Arrogant.

And so very stupid.

“Of all the gay bars in all the world…” Vanessa takes a swig of her piña colada as he continues to spiral. “I thought you said he lived in Italy?”

“He did,” Oliver replies, picking at his thumbnail. “He moved here for school.”

“And you didn't contact him?”

“To say what?” His ears ring from the shrillness of her tone. “Hey, Elio. Remember that time I broke both our hearts ‘cause I’m a gutless schmuck? How about I buy you a coffee to make up for it?”

“It would’ve been a start.”

“It would’ve been selfish,” he says, tearing his eyes away. “He has enough on his plate with Juilliard. I’d only get in the -”

“Juilliard?” Simone’s low whistle interrupts his self-reproach. “Impressive.”

“Son of a professor,” Oliver explains. “I always knew he was a genius.” He gathers himself with a quiet huff. “Though he’ll probably say he knows nothing.” The spark of nostalgia is crippling, and it takes everything he has not to break down on the spot. “I should go,” he says, draining the remains of his drink as he rises to his feet.

“Oliver -”

“Why don’t you come back to ours?” Vanessa offers, making to follow, but whatever expression is on his face causes Simone to catch her by the wrist.

“We’re here if you need us, alright?”

“I know,” he says, eternally grateful for their support as he pushes some cab money into her hand. “Get home safe. I’ll call you in the morning, okay?”

“You’d better,” Vanessa tells him, obstinate in her concern, yet all he can focus on right now is leaving.

The swirling thoughts inside his head are all-consuming, but Oliver is determined to reign in his emotions for a little while longer. Ignoring the way his shoes stick to the tacky vinyl flooring, he grits his teeth as he snakes his way through the crush of humanity. He needs space. Fresh air. Hell, a damn time machine wouldn’t go amiss. He has nobody to blame but himself, and he’s halfway to the exit sign when his pace grinds to a halt, his masochistic streak unable to resist one last glimpse.

A flash of irrational panic makes him breathe in deep - hold it for a count of three - and when he turns to scan the roiling bodies that fill up the dance floor, he finds them immediately. The shock doesn’t lessen, and if Oliver thought his heart had broken when they’d clung to one another on a train station platform, it’s naught compared to when Elio tips the other man’s chin up with the same fingers that used to play his body like a finely tuned instrument. White noise fills his ears as he ghosts a kiss to his lips - two chaste pecks at first - and then harder. Hungry. Mouths open. Tongues swirling. Deep and dirty.

Just the way he likes it.

Fool that he is, Oliver doesn’t turn away. But he’s not the only one. Their bawdy display has garnered a small audience of the jealous and horny, and when the cat-calls eventually die down he notices a clearly disappointed red-head stalk past them on route to her table of friends.

Time has not domesticated him, it seems, and Oliver feels like crying as the world returns frame by frame - the oscillating pulse of the dance track. The lightning burst of colour from the laser system above. An innate sense of powerlessness floods through him - the depths of which he hasn’t experienced since Elio sobbed against his chest in an attic bedroom - and a heavy weight settles in his belly as he recognises the cues and rituals that were once directed at him alone.

Elio has obviously flourished in his absence. His body language is looser, more relaxed, assured in a way his younger self could only dream of, and Oliver allows an almost-smile as the couple laugh for a moment before turning to walk away.

His fingers itch for a cigarette - a habit he’s struggling to waive - and the next thing he knows he’s taking a seat at the bar, a double shot of bourbon in his hand he doesn’t remember ordering, and a screaming admonishment from his better judgement to not do anything stupid.

All I had to do was find the courage to reach out and touch, Elio said once, rife with self-mockery, and Oliver’s advice was to try again later. Was this it? Their later? And if not now, when? Because whatever his feelings of bitterness - whatever his misguided envy - if he lets this opportunity pass him by, he will always wonder. Always look.

In truth, he already does.

Ever since Samuel mentioned Elio was moving to the States, he’s carried the idle fantasy of crossing paths in some random book store, eyes locking across a busy street, a name - his, theirs, both - shouted across a bustling coffee shop. Of all eventualities, though, he hasn’t prepared for an Elio who might not be happy to see him. Who might dismiss him. Cast him aside like some ill-fitting chapter in the editing process. The context is all wrong, and for it to happen like this is akin to being plunged into the icy waters of the berm.

“Accidenti!” an achingly familiar voice says from somewhere behind him. “Are all Americans incapable of taking a hint? Or is it just an East Coast thing?”

“It’s the accent, mio amico. Fries their brains.”

“Never mind their brains,” Elio replies in the same lazy drawl. “I think you’ve sprained my tonsils.”

There’s a snicker to his left, and like a moth to a flame, Oliver peers up into the mirror behind the bar, only to find his living nightmare mere meters away, sharing a cigarette. Elio’s still wearing the same bracelets he did that summer, and three years of sleepwalking collapses around him as Oliver hunches over, palms sweating.

“Seriously though,” the blond continues. “Look at this place! Wall-to-wall entreés, and you won’t so much as skim the menu. You’re spoiled for choice, compagno.”

Elio scoffs as he brings the filter to his lips. “Didn’t I tell you choice is an illusion?”

“As is time, according to Adams.” The man slings an arm over his shoulders. “And here you are, free as a bird, wasting the perfect opportunity.”

Elio flips him the middle finger. “Stronzo,” he says, leaving Oliver more confused than ever as he studies him over the rim of his glass. “It’s a curse.”

“Self-inflicted, maybe.”

“So what’s the answer? And don’t say forty-two.”

The guy chuckles. “Variety,” he says, signalling the harried bartender. “Things didn’t work out with the violinist - I get it. È la vita! You’re not in the mood for pushy red-heads? Fine. But don’t sell yourself short. Trust Fund Tina’s not the only one checking you out.”

“Perhaps.”

“What perhaps?” A knowing smirk shoots in Oliver’s direction. “See for yourself.”

It’s like experiencing the first tremor of an earthquake. Elio was always a force of nature, and bracing for disaster, Oliver feels the fault lines buckle beneath him. He thought he was done letting fear and shame dictate his life, yet even now, at peace with his true self, he can’t bear to witness the seismic shift between past and present. Instead, he falls back on avoidance, tearing strips off a frayed beer mat until the hair prickles at his nape.

He can feel it - the instant his fate is sealed - and taking a deep breath Oliver returns his eyes to the mirror, meeting Elio’s stunned features. Dark brows climb towards his hairline as the happiness on his face shifts into something else. Something measured. Unrecognisable. A blank slate, almost. For a moment, Oliver fears he’s going to ignore him completely, but then Elio straightens his spine, offers the half-smoked cigarette to his friend, and with a few whispered words strides forward with purpose.

His daring is a law unto himself, but the look he’s giving him now exudes superiority - omniscience, almost - as if he can read every thought that’s going on inside Oliver’s mind, and has already deemed them wanting. It shouldn’t be such a turn on, yet his heart skips a beat regardless. Then another. Every instinct in his body tells him to reach out, to hold Elio’s hand, tuck those wild curls behind his ear, but it’s no longer his place - if it ever really was to begin with - so Oliver takes a deliberate sip of his whiskey, scared and aroused simultaneously, before swivelling towards him.

“Oliver.” His name on Elio’s lips - three smooth syllables - and he feels reborn. “Long time no see.” Hesitating, he offers up a pack of Luckies. “Fumo?”

“I shouldn’t,” he says, dragging trembling fingers through his hair. “I told myself I’d quit. God knows it won't take much to -”

“Tempt you?”

Heat rises to Oliver’s cheeks. “Yes,” he admits, and Elio’s smile is a shallow, brittle thing.

“Well, you know yourself,” he says, returning the cigarette carton to his pocket. “Don’t let me ruin your good intentions.”

His flippancy is like a red rag to a bull, and Oliver’s hackles rise as he sets his drink on the counter, irritated enough by Elio’s calm exterior to try and provoke a reaction. “Is your boyfriend not the jealous type?”

All he receives is an eye roll. “Bruno’s not my boyfriend.”

“Could’ve fooled me. From what I saw earlier.”

“You saw nothing,” Elio replies, defensive. “We’re friends. Roommates.”

“Roommates?” Rising from his stool, Oliver takes a step towards him. “That kiss -”

“Is none of your business. Not anymore.”

It hits him like a punch to the gut. Oliver’s lips part, but no sound passes between them. He’s being irrational, he’ll accept, but old habits die hard, and through sheer force of will he quashes down his guilt, knowing better than to use it as a weapon.

“Of course,” he says, chastened. “You’re right.”

“I usually am.”

“Elio…” This isn’t how he wants the conversation to go. “I know it’s too much to expect your forgiveness, but please don’t be angry with me. We were friends, once. Before anything else.”

“I’m not angry.” A beat. “Not anymore.” Tipping his chin, Elio folds his arms in front of him. One more barrier despite the brush-off. “I’m processing.“

“Processing?”

“Yes, processing. Originates from the Old French proces. Related to the Latin processus, and from the verb procedere in Middle English.”

“Wise ass.”

“Sempre.” Elio shrugs, watching him openly. “What are you doing here, Oliver?”

“My friends saw the flyers,” he says, bypassing the here, specifically, when Elio’s attention drops a few inches lower, and he realises he’s staring at his ring finger.

At the white line that’s all but vanished since he signed his way to freedom.

“You’re…”

Oliver clears his throat. “Divorced,” he manages, shuffling his feet. “Almost three months now.”

“Divorced?” Elio’s mask slams back into place, the distress in his voice palpable. “Why?”

And there are so many things he could say to that - the stress of his job, money, differing expectations - but this is Elio. His first love. His forever love. He, above anyone, deserves the truth.

“I think you know why.”

“Do I?” That same phony indifference. “What the eyes see, and the ears hear, the mind believes.”

“The truth is never that simple.”

“Not for us, it seems. Not in this world.” Elio gives his head a small but firm shake, blowing out a frustrated breath. “You know, tonight was supposed to lower my stress levels, not raise them,” he says, granting them a temporary reprieve. “But then, you always were hazardous to my blood pressure.”

“Trust me. The feeling’s mutual,” Oliver tells him wryly. “Might I recommend some deep breaths?”

“Deep breaths?” Elio rocks back on his heels. “If I had any peaches I’d be using my right hand.”

It catches him unawares, and Oliver can't help it. He snorts. Overcome by relief. Then he laughs - a weak sound, and damn near helpless - but a laugh, nonetheless. Cupping a palm to his mouth. Moving it to his eyes. Feeling the tears he’s been fighting since this whole debacle began.

“My God you’re incorrigible,” he mutters, the sharp stab of regret cutting him to the core as he glances over his shoulder, and the blond - Bruno - shoots him a wink. “When you said I saw nothing...”

The hesitant curve of Elio’s smile lights a fire in his chest. “There was a girl on the dance floor who wouldn’t take no for an answer. Lucky for me, Bruno’s never been shy about putting on a convincing performance.”

Oliver winces. “Well, I bought it.”

“Mission accomplished, then.” Elio edges closer. “I could’ve said the same for you, once upon a time.” The air between them grows charged. “Do you ever miss it?” he asks. “Italy, I mean?”

“Every single day.” Oliver finds himself captivated by the smattering of stubble along Elio’s jawline. The touch of smudged kohl beneath his lashes that turns his gaze smouldering. “Do you?”

“In a way.”

“Just a way?” He’s not entirely certain they’re talking about the same thing, and Vanessa’s advice seems all the more pertinent. “Let me buy you a coffee?” Oliver asks, and Elio frowns.

“What? Now?”

“If you like.”

“It’s gone midnight!”

“Tomorrow, then. Whenever you’re available.” Suddenly desperate, he closes the gap between them. “I can’t excuse my actions, Elio - I know I can’t - but at the very least I owe you an explanation.”

“Oliver...” This time it’s Elio who reaches out, his usually steady hands uncertain as they entwine with his. “I was young, not stupid. What’s there to forgive? You left because you had to. You married because -”

“I was weak.”

“Cazatte!” The tension in Elio’s body snaps back like a coil. “My father would have carted me off to a correctional facility,” he murmurs, squeezing his fingers tightly. “I’ll never forget those words.”

“I’m sorry...”

“Don’t be!” Elio sounds furious on his behalf. “Weak, you say? No. Control over others is the true weakness. Coercion. Conformity. All it does is breed hatred. And that’s not you. Not my Oliver.”

“Am I still?” he asks, laying his cards out on the table. “Your Oliver?”

“I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”

Oliver swallows thickly. “I guess we will,” he says, dropping his forehead to Elio’s crown.

He’s braver at twenty-one than Oliver could have dared imagine, and for the first time in years the dull ache beneath his ribs is replaced by a different sort of craving. The way they fit together so easily, like no time has passed, fans the banked passions within him - the desire to press his lips against Elio’s neck, to nip his way along countless freckles until he can fist those unruly curls and guide his mouth back to where it belongs.

Flush against his.

Devouring.

But not yet.

This isn’t leading to sex. Not tonight. This is about reconciliation. Reassurance. Redemption.

“There’s a late-night diner on the corner…”

It’s a whisper against his cheek - so quiet he barely hears it - and Oliver leans down, pressing his face to Elio’s collarbone, breathing him in. He knows this won’t be easy - knows there will be dark clouds before the dawn - yet here they are, older and wiser, and three years might as well be yesterday as the parting crowds provide a temporary island in which to weather the storm.

#cmbyn roll the dice challenge #fanfic #oliver pov #elio and oliver #cmbynrollthedicechallenge

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janiedean · 3 years ago

Note

crack prompt inspired by all the tvd talk on your blog: damon, jaime, tony stark all walk into a bar alone and end up drunk oversharing ~~

(if you wanna include ships in it anything with delena/dalaric/bamon; brienne; pepper/bruce/strange/rhodey is okay lmfao so pretty much anything goes, i just want them being each other's therapist because the timeline collapsed for some time and their universes interacted somehow lmfao)

*spins the wheel* AAAND hello anon we can absolutely try that u__u

ten years on tumblr anniversary prompt post | buy me a coffee | commissions open

Well, now I really did bite off more than I could chew, Tony thinks as he shakes his head and hopes that he and Bruce didn't fuck up the entire fabric of reality.

Well.

He's not in New York and he wasn't in the span of five seconds since they got the machine turned on, but - but well. Bruce isn't here, so hopefully he'll figure out where the fuck he ended up. Maybe we should have been sober when trying to work out that whole different timelines and multiverses thing.

Now, damage control. He should probably try to not go anywhere, but in case he actually just... teleported somewhere, maybe he should just ask where he is. He glances at his back. He's in front of a bar named Mystic Grill, which... okay, shitty name, but he could be anywhere in fuck-all-middle-of-nowhere Idaho for all he knows. He takes out his cellphone, and there is zero reception.

Bad news.

He sees a blonde kid with a police badge coming up the road, so he clears his throat and stops him.

"Uh, officer?"

"Hello," the kid says, "I don't remember seeing you around here."

Yeah, because I'm not from this world, most likely. "Eh," Tony lies, "I was driving my car but it broke down outside town and the way I got in, there wasn't a sign. Would you mind telling me where exactly I ended up?"

"Mystic Falls," the guy says, "I didn't know the damned State of Virginia now took us off the maps, too." That was sarcastic, Tony can hear it, but.

He's sure that there is no such place where he comes from.

"Right," Tony says, "I'll, uh, be out to find a mechanic then."

The kid gives him instructions to reach one, Tony thanks him and lets him go. Well, he can't certainly go anywhere now, but at least it seems like they fucked up just his -

"What the fuck," he hears from his left side -

Just in time to see a blonde guy wearing a white armor and a white cloak fall through a portal just the same as his own, that disappears a moment later. The blonde guy has green eyes, Tony notices, is lacking a right hand because he has a rather heavy golden prothesis on it that looks tacky also for his own tastes and looks completely out of his depth as he moves to his feet.

"Uh," Tony says, "I imagine you aren't from... here."

"Certainly not," the guy says, sounding... near hysterical, as he takes the surroundings. "What - what are those things anyway?" Cars. Oh fuck, he's looking at cars. "How are you dressed? What - what are these houses?"

"Er," Tony says, "humor me a moment. What's your name and where do you come from?"

The guy rolls his eyes. "Jaime Lannister, and I come from Westeros, thank you very much, now where the hell am I?"

... Great, Tony thinks, now it's not even someplace where the USA exist. "Er," Tony says, "in another world. Listen, it's my fault, I, uh, sort of caused it, and my colleague will most likely fix it, but it's really better we don't go anywhere so he can locate us more easily. Tell you what, can I buy you a drink while we wait?"

"Another world?" The guy blurts, and then - then he stares at Tony, then at his surroundings, then rolls his eyes again.

"You know what," he says, "I've had a shit long day. What can this be on top of fucking undead Catelyn Stark? Buy me the fucking drink."

I'm not doing drunk science anymore, Tony vows to himself as they walk inside the place, and he really hopes he can spin some story as to why the guy with him is wearing bonafide armor -

"And who the fuck are the two of you now?"

So: Tony had not taken into account that there would be just one person in the bar and that this person would be of course not human because no one human could pin the two of them to the wall in a split second and hold them there with such strength, and that's how he finds out that pretty guy with blue eyes, dark hair, pale skin and homicidal face is a damned vampire.

Except that the moment Tony explains it - Jaime or whoever he is is just keeping his mouth shut, wisely - the guy stares at them, and then more, and then -

"With everything I've seen in the last years," he says, "honestly, that's not even the most fucking stupid. So, you just want to lounge around until your friend shows up to fix whatever the fuck you did?"

"Er, yes?"

"Whatever. I'm Damon. I can cover your drinks and compel the bartender to forget your face. I sorely fucking need some myself."

He lets them go, but then - "Get that armor off," he tells Jaime, "this isn't New York City."

"I can't just leave my armor around!"

"Just leave it in the bathroom and take it back later," Damon shrugs, and then nods towards what's most likely the bathroom.

Jaime shrugs and goes, muttering something about maybe having drank too much milk of the poppy, and Tony doesn't want to know whatever the hell that is.

"Listen," Jaime says later, wearing an attire that's still obviously Middle-Ages-like but at least doesn't stand out too much, sipping at the bourbon Damon shoved at them, "I'm choosing to think I'm making this all up, but if I'm not, how long will it be before I can go back where I come from? Because you dragged me away from a rather fucking delicate situation."

"No idea," Tony shrugs, "but he's good at his job. And he was less drunk than me. We might get you back at the point you left."

"And what would that delicate situation be?" Damon asks. "Entertain me."

"And why should I tell you?"

"First, I bought you that alcohol and you're definitely enjoying it. Second, this is my town and I could tear your throat open if I wanted to." Fuck. He just showed fangs at the both of them. What the fuck. "Also, my murderous former girlfriend who is the cause of all my problems just finally fucked off this planet for good after possessing my current girlfriend who looks like her but really is the whole contrary and my best friend just came back to life after being dead for a whole lot of time and it's a complicated situation and I need a distraction or ten."

"That... sounds like something," Tony mutters, sipping at his alcohol. It's good, at least.

"Believe me, it is. So, what's the poison from Middle Ages here?"

"Ah, fuck that," Jaime says, takes a drink, and starts talking.

Half an hour later, Tony thinks that he and Damon are equally staring at the guy with the same disbelieving face.

"... Was that the undead woman that got you like this?" Jaime asks, blinking. "Considering that he seems like he's some kind of living dead, that's a tad hypocritical."

"No," Damon says, "that's the least of my problems. How haven't you frenched this Brienne person already?"

"I frenched?"

"Dude, he's from the Middle Ages," Tony takes pity on him. "He means put your tongue in her mouth."

"I - what - she's not - I'm not -"

"Listen," Damon cuts him, "I've been there. I mean, thinking I couldn't live without an arse who didn't give a fuck about me, which you admitted. But you do realize you spent at least five minutes of your charming tale describing us exactly how this Brienne of yours is ripped and has pretty eyes and was about to die for you?"

"Yeah, uh," Tony says, "let it come from someone who had the right people in front of him for ages and didn't let himself go for it, you really don't wanna drag it any longer."

"That's - she's a knight, that's not -"

"Oh, sure, all knights are shit where you come from, you said that, but suddenly someone would rather hang than kill you and you're here jittering because you got sucked here while she's dealing with a zombie that wanted you dead but I have to think you don't wanna french her?" Damon rolls his eyes again, pours himself another drink and honestly, Tony has cut down on the alcohol lately but he's gonna just make a damned exception. "Please."

"He's right," Tony says, "and also, let it come from someone whose dad was loaded on money and fairly shitty and still way better than yours, whatever he said about you is wrong."

"How do you know -" Jaime starts, half-blanching.

"Told you," Tony shrugs, "loaded on money, shitty father, at least I missed out on the shit sister. Honestly, man, just fucking drop her like hot coal and follow your gut. And let it come from someone who's fucked around a lot to get distracted, if you wanted to bone her in that bath then you're into her."

"I -" Jaime goes red in the face, finishes the drink, "it's not like it ever happened with anyone else before, it was a mistake, most likely -"

Damon gives him a look that looks halfway worried.

Tony thinks he just matched it, except even more worried.

"My vampire friend," he says, "are you thinking what I am thinking?"

"I'm afraid so," Damon says, and then looks back at Jaime. "Newsflash," he goes on, "if you get hard looking at a naked woman most likely you find her attractive. Also, you can find more than one person attractive in your life. And let it come from someone who's been there in the sense that I thought I could only love fucking Katherine, you really don't want to keep on doing it."

"I didn't say I wasn't done with Cersei," Jaime replies, somewhat weakly.

"Good," the two of them reply at the same time, and Tony has to snort.

"Look at that," he says, "for once I'm the one with the healthiest relationship history sitting at a table. Who'd have thought?"

"Fuck this," Damon says, "I'm getting more bourbon."

"Please," Jaime says, and - well. Seems like when Bruce comes to collect him, Tony won't be sober.

"Wait," Jaime says, "wait, wait, wait, she possessed your girlfriend?"

"Yeah, well, as if," Damon shrugs, "honestly, sometimes I think I should have just run away to New York after deserting."

"You deserted what?" Tony asks.

"The fucking confederacy," Damon shrugs. "Well, what are you staring about? I'm a vampire, I've been around ages, I'm from fucking middleofnowhere Virginia, you think I got drafted with the unionists? But I disagreed and I hated it and I never wanted to go, so I fucking deserted. I hope you aren't here judging me, or -"

"Please, I used to build weapons for the army and stopped when I realized it wasn't what I wanted to be, and honestly, that just means you have a conscience, so -"

"Wait, you did what," Jaime says.

"Deserted. An army. Back in the day. Risked my neck for it, and I came back and met Katherine and honestly I should have just gone North, but -"

"Hm," Jaime says, drinking, and then - "you don't regret it?"

"No," Damon says at once, "best decision I ever took. Why, you want to do that, too?"

"Sure he wants to," Tony says when Jaime doesn't immediately reply. "Let me guess, not just your army. You want to desert the whole shebang, don't you?"

"I don't know what a fucking shebang is, but yes. So what?"

"Well, if you want my been there done that advice, do that," Damon shrugs. "From what it sounds like, your entire world is collapsing because of zombies anyway, what do you have to lose? Your sister? You're better fucking off without."

Jaime stares down at the glass, then knocks it down. "Can I have another?"

"Sure," Damon says, and generously tips it.

"So what," Tony says, "now that your best friend you had a thing with while your girlfriend was with your brother is back to life you're having trouble adjusting?"

"She also hadn't been possessed by my murderous ex until then," Damon shrugs.

Jaime just looks at them, then drinks some more. "Who am I to judge on that anyway," he says, "but that sounds like a lot of work."

"You wouldn't believe," Damon shrugs, knocking down some more of his bourbon. "Never mind that Stefan won't get over brooding instead of fessing up to the girl he is in love with now, but it's not like I hadn't expected it."

"Tell him to," Jaime says at once. "I let my father fuck things up for my brother once and I hate that I ever did, just - don't."

"This is getting fucking eerie," Damon says.

Tony, who is currently feeling very thankful he doesn't have siblings, takes another sip. Then -

"Man, if it's complicated just date the both of them. If they both like you and aren't the kind of super monogamous people that can't handle a threesome once in a while, they won't have a problem."

"... And what do you know?"

He shrug. "Well," he says, "my steady girlfriend was in front of my eyes for years. Took us a while to get over ourselves. The guy I was doing drunk science with, well. Was an instant hit and I didn't let myself drag it in the centuries and guess what, we have a nice lovely arrangement where I'm with both of them, they commiserate about how much of an idiot I can be and sometimes we all occasionally have sex. It's grand. You should try it."

And I really hope Bruce shows up soon.

"Huh," Damon says, "maybe it has merit. For me. Not for you."

Jaime sputters. "I said nothing!"

"You shouldn't even think about threesomes. I can see it in your face you're not the type. And certainly not including your sister."

"Fuck you," Jaime replies without meaning it, "I was not considering that." Huh. Now he sounds offended Damon implied it. Maybe he really will fess up to the other one when he's back.

"Then it means this enlightening talk has enlightened you," Tony grins. "Mind telling us more about that hand?"

"And why?"

Tony shrugs. It's not like he doesn't have time to waste. "What if I could help you with that thing?" He says, nodding towards Jaime's stump, and then - well. Time to test if he can summon the armor here, too.

"God," Damon says a while later, "I'll have to compel that poor bartender so hard, but fuck this is something."

Sure it is, Tony grins. "Hey, I managed to fuck with quantum reality, I'm not the first idiot that passes by."

"Seven Hells," Jaime says, "I have no idea what it is you're putting on me but if it works half as well as that thing you have, I'm going to show back up in King's Landing just to show my sister who has the useless hand now. If she didn't get herself killed."

"Well, now that is one reason I could approve of," Tony laughs, "and don't fucking move."

Sure, building a prothesis from the rests of whatever nonfunctioning electronics the bartender had lying around is... somewhat a challenge, but as stated, he has time to waste and it's not like he's wanted anywhere soon.

"By the way," Damon says as he watches him tinker around with the toolkit he found him in the backroom, "do you need advice in the whole I fucked up and want my brother to forgive me department?"

"What if I do?" Jaime replies through his teeth. "Because now that would distract me from how much this entire thing is fucking hurting."

The more they talk while he tinkers, the more Tony decides he's absolutely glad he was an only child and that his father only fucked one son up.

"You're doing this while not even being fucking sober?" Damon knocks back more bourbon. "You sure you don't wanna stay here and turn into an immortal? You'd be useful."

"Thanks but I like my life as it is," Tony snorts. "But if you need tech tinkered with, you can ask while I'm here."

Jaime is just staring at the steel-colored hand coming to life while Tony puts piece after piece together, his throat working up and down.

He drinks some more. "Fuck, if only I had such a thing when I realized what the fuck Aerys had turned into."

"Wait, who's Aerys now?" Damon asks.

He hadn't told them that part in detail.

When he's done and Tony is at the fourth finger, he kind of wants to hurl, but mostly -

"Do we really have to stay here," Damon says, "or you think we could sneak him to a VA? I can compel them to just hear that he's talking about Vietnam or something."

"He's not old enough for Vietnam, but you know what, I think we could risk that."

"What in the Seven Hells is a VA?"

"Someone I really could have used in the nineteenth century," Damon sighs, and then just as Tony moves to the last finger -

"Tony, what the hell is this?"

Turns out, where Bruce comes from it took him two days to figure this out. He also immediately spots three different improvements Tony could do to that hand, and when he hears the entire shebang he raises his hands and says that he can send Jaime right back when he left at any point and he and Tony, too, but he supposes that if they want to compel the VA before they leave it's not like he's in a hurry, and wait, vampires?

Damon ends up asking him if the threesome thing is really working out as well as Tony says.

While he does, Tony manages the finishing touches on the sort-of-steel-and-iron-hand he cobbled up together, and thank fuck Bruce showed up because he had been the one studying how Barnes's arm worked, back in the day, and gave Tony the pointer he needed to make sure the entire thing was... well, connected to the nervous system without needing to rip Jaime's wrist open.

"Right," he says, "try to move the fingers."

Jaime holds them in a fist.

It works.

"Seven fucking hells -"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm a genius. Just keep it out of too many lines of fire, but if you're from the middle ages it should withstand most stuff. You're welcome. And go french that knight of yours instead of waiting, really."

"I think in between him and you, you've made a case. Uh, thank you, I -"

"Nonsense, I was the reason you're here, I might as well have helped out. Hey," he says, "so, what about a last round before we drag him to the VA and Bruce here settles everything?"

"I'm so down for it," Damon says.

"Do I even have a choice," Bruce groans, but then he does sit down at the same table and lets Tony fill his glass.

"Oh, don't look like that," Tony says, "after all I didn't destroy the universe and made some friends, it could have gone worse."

"Wouldn't know about that, but I could have done worse, too," Damon says, and orders more bourbon.

"I sure as the fucking Seven Hells will never manage to explain this to anyone," Jaime says, "but I guess I'm not too disappointed, either."

"Tony," Bruce groans, "did you manage to somehow end up with two people with - never mind. Of course you did. We're never doing drunk science again, hear me?"

"Maybe so," Tony agrees, though... well.

Maybe he will want to check on them, once in a while.

But he can think about how to convince Bruce to make sure they can later.

For now, he'll enjoy his last round.

#tony stark #jaime lannister #damon salvatore #ten years anniversary promptfest #... this was LONG #jaime x brienne for ts #my fic #god idk what happened anon but i hope you enjoyed this mess #tvd for ts #anti jaime x cersei #only slightly less toxic than chernobyl's ruins #anti katherine pierce #my stuff

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trashmenofmarvel · 4 years ago

Text

Branded - Chapter 41

Pairing: Demon!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Your captor begins to grow impatient.

(This is a fan AU of Falling’s Just Another Way to Fly by araniaart . Please check out this incredible series for all of your demon Bucky needs.)

Chapter Warnings: Fear, mild horror

AO3

You knew you had to stay as healthy and strong as possible, but you still couldn’t bring yourself to eat much after that. Whenever the man returned, he stared at your untouched meals and said nothing. Maybe he thought it wouldn’t matter because Bucky would arrive soon.

But the man realized something was wrong when, according to your own tally marks, the third day had passed. The loud noise of the wooden door banging open woke you from your fitful sleep, and you raised your head to find the man standing before your cell.

You grabbed the blanket around you and pulled back as far as you could. He wasn’t particularly large in height or weight, but the dark way he glared at you made the back of your neck prickle.

“Call him.”

“What?”

“Sergeant Barnes.” His voice was still soft, but it held an unmistakable warning. “Your bond allows you to alert him when you are in danger. Send out your distress to him. Call him.”

You returned his frown, making sure it was meaner than his.

“No.”

He stared at you for such a long moment, you shifted uncomfortably.

“If you don’t, you’ll die. That mark on your shoulder will end your life if you do not fulfill your end of the bargain.”

Your hand cupped your shoulder as if to protect yourself from his words.

“Yeah, I know how it works,” you snapped. “I’m still not going to help you.”

Instead of making him angrier, the man peered at you closer, a glint of curiosity in his eye.

“Your intentions shouldn’t matter; Sergeant Barnes should be drawn to you on an irresistible tether. So… why has he yet to arrive?”

You met his eye unwavering and said, “I don’t know.”

You couldn’t tell if he bought the lie or not. He only continued to appraise you as if you were a mild nuisance.

“Perhaps he needs a little persuasion.”

Before you could ask what the hell that meant, he raised his hand and snapped his fingers. A puff of black smoke poofed into existence, clearing to reveal the Alp standing hunched and timid at his side.

The man stared straight at you as he commanded his demon.

“Feed.”

Your heart leapt up your throat, and you scrambled back against the wall as the Alp stepped forward. It seemed to step into the shadows and slipped between the bars, which should have been impossible, but there it was, in your cell, glowing green eyes so bright they case a light in your dim cell.

“No, no, no, stay back!”

The man ignored your pleas and turned, walking out of the room and closing the wooden door with a resounding thud.

The demon also ignored your warnings and advanced on you, and you threw up your hands, stuttering in your panic as you cried, “Wait, wait! He’s gone, just wait a second! Can we talk first? Please?”

The Alp paused, tilting its head as it gazed down at you. It seemed mouthless and noseless when it had its face closed like this, but it was still absolutely terrifying to look at.

And then you looked closer, noting more details from the short distance. There was a telltale pentagram carved into one of its shoulders, but there was something else. It had looked… different when you’d seen it in your bedroom Halloween night. It had seemed larger, healthier, with more body mass. Now with the way its dark furred skin was pulled taut over what seemed to be bones, it seemed almost… starved.

“Look,” you said, trying to catch your breath. “If this guy gets what he wants, I doubt either of us are going to make it out alive. You understand that, right?”

The demon said nothing, but he didn’t launch his teeth-mouth-face at you either.

“I’ll… I’ll let you feed on me. You look like you could use it.” You winced, but the situation was desperate enough that you were willing to bargain. “Not that you have a choice, right? You try to disobey, it hurts. Right there, on that mark. I know from experience what that’s like.”

It took a step toward you and you lifted your hands as if to hold him back for just one more minute.

“I’m-I’m going to lie down now, okay? You don’t have to-to paralyze me. I promise I won’t move.”

You were terrified, trembling, every nerve in your body screaming to run because there was a big predator only a few inches away, one that was quite literally going to use you as a meal.

It waited, glowing eyes watching, so you hastily laid flat against the stone bench, trying not to shudder in fear. It shouldn’t hurt, if what you remembered was correct, or at least there wouldn’t be lasting harm, but holy shit waiting to be fed on by a giant monster-parasite wasn’t exactly something you could talk yourself through.

As the demon loomed over you, you spoke, voice slightly trembling but clear.

“Go to New York. Find the Sanctum. Tell Doctor Strange where I am. Do you understand? He can help you too; he’ll find a way to free you from this asshole.”

The demon tilted its head as if pondering your words, and then the petals of its mouth opened, revealing rows of sharp teeth. You shut your eyes tight, using every ounce of strain you had not to turn away. Or scream.

A puff of warm, sweet air washed over your face, and you instantly relaxed, muscles going slack and limbs becoming boneless. There were points of pressure around your face, from the teeth was your guess, but they didn’t hurt like you thought they would. The struggle to stay awake was quickly conquered; heavy drowsiness flooded your limbs as you slipped down into the darkness.

“Should have figured you’d get into trouble.”

You opened your eyes, blinking in confusion at the familiar room and the warmth encircling your waist. You turned your head to find Bucky staring back at you, a half-smile brightening his face.

“How did we get here?” You looked back to search your childhood bedroom for an answer but found none.

“Hello to you, too.” He chuckled, turning your face toward him and brushing the hair out of your eyes. “Thought you’d be glad to see me.”

“I am! I’m just… really confused.”

Your bedroom looked exactly the same as when you’d left it weeks ago, but the room was dim, and through the curtains it seemed to be twilight. You turned back to Bucky, your questions arrested as you took in his face. He seemed so real. Was this truly a dream?

“It is,” he said, answering your unasked question. “But that’s all right, isn’t it? It still feels nice. Feels real.”

It did, but… there was something you had to tell Bucky, you were sure of it. Something extremely important, balanced on the tip of your tongue. But you couldn’t remember, and it made you suck in a breath in frustration.

“Hey, now. What’s with the look?” He pulled you closer, planting a kiss on her head as he stroked your back. He was wearing the dark windbreaker and jeans that you loved, one wing draped over you while his tail was wrapped securely around your knee. It was familiar, comforting, and unfortunately, distracting.

“Bucky.” You frowned, trying to search your mind, but it was filled with a thick fog. “Something’s wrong.”

He didn’t say anything but continued to pet you, lulling you into the sense of security and safety you craved so badly. You buried your face into his jacket, gripping him tightly, hoping if you held on tight enough it would chase away the fear.

“Why can’t I feel you?” you asked in a choked whisper. “Something is wrong. I can’t find you, and I’m scared. I don’t know where you are.”

“I’m right here,” he said, soft. “I’m always right here.”

“You’re not.” You shook your head, eyes stinging as you were confident in your words. “Not this time.”

He pulled you back far enough to meet your eye, carefully stroking one cheek with his armored claw.

“I will be. You just have to hold on a little while longer.” His eyes were so blue, so gentle, that it hurt to look at. “Can you do that for me, sweetheart?”

You would try. You would do anything he asked, but you were so scared and alone and cold. A kind of cold that seeped into your bones and made you forget what it felt like to be warm.

“I know.” He bent his head closer, the breath that wasn’t really there ghosting across your face. “It won’t last forever. Be brave.”

His lips touched yours, chastely at first, and then he deepened the kiss into an all-consuming fire that burned away the chill.

You tangled your hands in his hair, tried to wrap yourself around him, but suddenly you were holding on to air, the pressure against your lips vanishing and you opened your eyes to darkness.

No, not darkness. The dreary light of a cell. You sat up, gasping as your tired muscles were forced to move. You were uncomfortable, your clothes tacky with cold sweat, and your head pounded in time with your heart.

But you were awake; you knew that for sure this time. Only reality could feel so barren of warmth and hope.

You pulled your knees up to your chest and wrapped the blanket around your shoulders. To keep the despair at bay, you recalled the dream. How loved and safe you felt, wrapped in Bucky’s embrace. It had been so wonderful, a breath of oxygen after suffocating in cold, dark waters.

And there was something else, a tidbit of information you remembered from your initial research into demons. The Alpen usually left nightmares in their wake. This one had left a dream of the one person you wanted to see most.

Burying your face into your legs, you allowed the small kernel of hope to blossom in your chest. If you were interpreting the demon’s actions correctly, you weren’t as alone as you thought.

You might have an ally.

Next Chapter

#branded #bucky barnes x reader #demon!bucky barnes #demon!bucky x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #my writing #my fanfiction

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choco-mark · 5 years ago

Note

I know request are closed and I don’t wanna bug you but when reaction request open again can you write how would nct dream (0t7) react to you calling them when your in danger. And can I be 💞 anon? I really adore your writing and I look up to you so much!! I’m not ready to reveal myself just yet. Heehee 🥺💞

hey hey!! requests for small reactions and mlts are currently open, so you’re good sweets! and, yes ofc you can be!!

reaction: nct dream reacting to you calling them when you’re in danger

mark

you call him on your way to the dorms with a shaky voice telling him you think someone’s following you, and your thought is right, someone is

freaks out but tries to calm you down while putting on his shoes and bolting out the door before running back inside and putting on a mask to make sure no one recognizes him, even though you told him it was too dangerous for him to leave

his heart is literally beating out of his chest as he goes running out of the building to the street your on, which is currently dark and empty as he looks for you

you end up going into the convenience store at the end of the street to try and lose the person, but it doesn’t really work because they follow you inside

he eventually finds you wandering around with like a basket of like thirty ramen packets which was ‘in case you needed to smack them’ and he knows his y/n is back

‘i’ll buy a car and i’ll drive you everywhere so you won’t have to walk anymore’

‘baby...you don’t have a license”

renjun

you call him in the middle of a choreography lesson three times in a row even though he tries to ignore it and picks it up to scold you but hears you sobbing

you’re a chemistry major and there was a huge fire in the lab while you were working; in short, you were injured and in the hospital

it wasn’t even that bad of an injury to be honest, thankfully it was only a first degree burn, but it scared the shit out of you and yeah, you scared the shit of renjun too

literally leaves right then and there with only a word to jeno as the instructor is like ‘wot’ but you’re first priority!!!

gets to the hospital all worried and about to explode when he sees you like in tears and kind of just hugs you

tells you to give up chemistry and do something like...safer and you’re like ‘not the time, babe, kinda just got set on fire’ but he’s just worried for you

ends up taking you to practice with him in the end, but y’all are traumatized from the risk of your field of study

jeno

you call him in the middle of his fourth round of some game which causes him not to answer, but he picks up after a second time in case you got mad but your voice is just trembling

instantly leaves the dorm when you say someone’s pounding on your apartment door and it’s like 2am but he goes to you anyway

is trying to calm you down but he himself is worked up from how you sound like you’re about to burst into tears but everytime he talks he makes it a little better with his voice

the person that was pounding on the door stopped after a bit, but then you heard your front door open and you die a little inside

but it’s just jeno, who finds you locked inside of your bathroom, sitting in the tub with the curtains drawn and you’re sobbing when he holds you

you two never really find out who tf that was but jeno keeps trying to get you to move in with him ever since that happened

donghyuck

you call him in the middle of the day while you’re at uni, and you’re pretty traumatized since these two guys had been following you and your friend after lunch and you don’t know what to do

hyuck thinks you’re trying to pull something on him, but he can’t call it fake when he hears one of the guys vulgarly catcall you

goes on a searching spree (in broad daylight, by himself, with no manager) down to where you kept informing him of your whereabouts

he’s more scared than you and your friend combined because he’s basically running back and forth trying to look for his girlfriend and is about to start sobbing

eventually finds the two of you as you’re running into him, and the two guys behind y’all are like ‘whoops gotta go’

hyuck just holds you while you just heavily breathe while your friend looks like she’s about to cry, and a huge weight drops from his shoulders when your arms go around him

‘you scared the hell out of me”

jaemin

you were going with jaemin on the dreamies’ tour and you were in the bathroom when a group of girls come in while you’re washing your hands

not group of girls, more like group of sasaengs that start grabbing onto you like you’re some kind of on sale item and you’re freaking out

it’s actually one of the girls that finds jaemin’s contact in your phone and calls him, and he knows what’s going on from the moment he doesn’t hear your voice, also, sir is literally not that far away trying to enjoy tacky airport food

storms into there with a bunch of staff and his manager with the literal most—you couldn’t even say angry, he was beyond angry, and it was scary as fuck—and gets really worried for you

you didn’t get hurt (thank the kid because jaemin might’ve committed murder if you had), but he just sticks to you the entire rest of the traveling from country to country

‘jaems, you can’t come to the bathroom with me’

‘i can convince people i’m a girl, now let’s go’

chenle

‘lele, i’m scared’

just hearing you say his nickname with the most frightened voice on the planet had him sit up straight in an instant at the dining table

in short, you’re being followed on your way to uni and you have absolutely no clue what to do, and you just shakily call your boyfriend though you don’t want him to come

you send him your location while you’re still walking as fast as you can towards a more public area, but the street is too far away and the person was getting closer

but chenle’s ahead of you, already in a car being driven to the street you were on while he continues talking to you, you swear that the way he sounded so concerned, he was gonna burst into tears

a car comes up next to you on the street and chenle literally yanks you in (the guy probably thought you were being kidnapped), and you watch as the guy looks confused

asks you if you’re okay four times in a row while you say you’re fine but it’s not enough so you give him a kiss to shut him up

‘my personal driver will drive you to school from now on, i don’t want you to walk anymore’

jisung

you call him around 9pm literally in half sobs as you’re just whispering into the phone and he’s so worried from the moment you say his name

you came home to an empty house without your parents, but almost an hour later you realized that there was someone else inside the house that wasn’t your parents

you already called the police, but you were drowning in fear as you slowly said words to jisung while sitting in your locked room, he freaks out when he hears the intruder call out ‘who’s there’

begs his manager to let him go to you, and is kind of on the verge of breaking down but they take him to your house anyway right when the police had already arrived

sees you outside with a blanket wrapped around your shoulders as your face is puffed from fear, and he just drowns you in his arms for the longest time

ends up staying over for the night because your parents were out of the country and doesn’t let go of you the entire time, like you can’t even shuffle a little bit away, he’ll pull you right back

he was just so worried for you, poor babe

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adhdeancas · 4 years ago

Text

@hell-is-where-the-party-is you convinced me.

This is: Dean tries to give himself top surgery in a motel bathroom.

TW: gore, performing surgery on yourself, dysphoria, mild suicidal ideation

Disclaimer: DO NOT DO THIS. THIS IS A HORRIBLE IDEA DO NOT DO THIS. (I am not a doctor so I don’t even know how bad of an idea this is, I used my imagination and some research.)

For the record, Dean knows this is a bad idea. He does.

"Okay, okay shit. You can do this. Fuck." he mutters, shaking his hands out and hoping some of the nerves will go with them. They don't, which is just his fucking luck. He shoves his jeans to the floor with his socks and hesitates. Okay, boxers stayed on. He can afford to ruin a pair of boxers. Better that than be totally exposed when he does this.

His first top layer comes off easy, the second less so, but he takes it off too. Then he pulls off his sports bra, wincing a little at the tenderness. When you wear a sports bra all day every day, no matter how comfortable it was when you first put it on, it cuts into you like your own personally molded armpit knife after a while. And then he is shirtless, and he is actually doing this.

"You can do this, Dean." he doesn't even wanna look down. "A little bit of pain, and then you never have to do it again. Flat chest. How it should be." he lets himself imagine it, just for a second. Opening his eyes and leaning in to look in that dusty mirror and lifting up his shirt to see smooth, flat skin looking back sat him. Fuck, it's a dream. "Okay, damnit."

Dean crawls into the tub and braces his back against the grimy wall. He'd done all the boring-ass research he could, the musty medical textbooks suddenly seeming a whole lot more interesting with a goal in mind, sanitized all the surfaces even though there were decades of motel living caked under the alcohol coating. A swig of whiskey for luck, a belt in his mouth so he doesn't bite his tongue (or scream, he can't wake Sammy up), and he starts.

"Lidocaine spread to all affected areas," he chants to himself quietly. His voice is too fucking high. "All affected areas," he corrects with an artificially lowered tone, squeezing his eyes shut. He can do this. Hell, he's helped his dad hunt, he's seen dead bodies and he's done his share of patching up his dad's injuries. He can do this. He waits until he can't feel the poke of his knife against his skin, then takes a breath. "A few minutes of pain and then- and then- you're fucking free."

Dean plunges the knife into his skin. It hurts immediately, the lidocaine not enough, blinding fuckin pain, but he tears across with his knife before he can think about it, a jagged line on his left. The blood pours down his stomach and soaked into his boxers, and Dean is crying like a little girl. He can hear his own sobs through the belt, but he keeps going, because he started this. A similar line on the other side, and more blood. Dean isn't one to get woozy at the sight of blood, but seeing so much come out of him makes him feel like he is going to die in this dingy motel bathroom. He digs the knife in and saws, feels himself biting into the cheap leather of the belt. Better to die having tried to live.

What medical textbooks can't tell you is how the fat grips onto the skin, onto the muscle, and tearing it away isn't like sawing it off a piece of raw chicken, because every pull tears at your core like you're ripping your chest to ribbons. His chest fights to stay on him, and he fights to cut it off.

"Dean?"

Dean swears and blinks the tears out of his eyes so he can see. He's not done. He's not close to done. "If you gotta pee, do it somewhere else!" he shouts, voice muffled from the belt hanging from his lips.

"Dean, are you okay?"

Sammy sounds so small. Dean swears. He can't die in this filthy-ass tub. He can't do that to Sam. He can't leave him with their dad and the memory of finding his big brother in the tub with one tit lying in the drain. "Great, fucking, go-" he tries to take the next chunk off while he's still talking, to distract himself from it. It doesn't work. He faints. It's only for a few seconds, but a few seconds are all Sam needs to get worried enough that Dean can hear his stupid small little feet running on the thin carpeting.

"Dean!"

Dean doesn't know what Sam expects him to do. He doesn’t know what he thinks is happening in here. "Sam, I'm fine, please don't-" his voice is too weak to reach across the three feet to the door, let alone beyond.

He knows he's only got a few seconds before he blacks out again. He can see it building on the corners of his vision, black spots turning to clouds. So he rips at his flesh viciously, like it's something that's not him, because it's not, and because he can't live with it anymore. It's a tumor and it's clinging underneath his skin and his tears aren't because of the knife but because of the desperate need to get it out.

"Dean," Sammy gasps. He's jimmied the lock because of course he has, and he's standing there with his spindly pre-teen body, eyes big as the moon. "What did you-"

"What does it look like, Sammy," Dean mutters weakly. The black threatens to overtake him, but he tries to stay above it for Sammy. He winks out once or twice, but he tries.

"Dean, we gotta- we gotta get you to a hospital." Sam breathes, worry seeping through his every gesture. He tugs the knife out of Dean's hand, which lets go too easily, and he prop's his big brother's head up. "Dean, look at me. Look at me. You're gonna be okay, okay? We're gonna go to the hospital and they're gonna fix you up-"

"No, Sammy, please, we don't have the money, and Dad doesn't have the- the time, we'll get CPS called on us, no Sammy, no hospitals,"

"Dean, you've lost blood. You, you're cut up pretty bad." Sam's voice shakes. He tries to take in the damage.

"What if they… what if they try to put it back?" Dean whispers, his voice creeping into the high register he hates as his throat closes up in fear and tears. "Sam, please, I can't,"

Sam's crying too now. The kid's fucking terrified. "Okay."

"Just- gimme, gimme the knife." Dean hates to say it. He doesn't want the slick knife back in his hand or the roiling pain back with every saw.

Sam doesn't give him the knife. "You're in too much pain."

"Well no shit, I cut my fucking chest open!" He tries to sit up to take the knife from him and gasps so hard the belt falls from his mouth.

"Dean, this isn't working. You'll never get through it," Sam's voice takes on that hard tone that a 12 year old just shouldn't have, the one that reminds Dean he's more capable than he or his dad give him credit for. He's problem solving. He lays the knife down on the tile and pushes himself to his feet. "I promise no hospitals, but you have to let me sew you up."

Dean shakes his head. It makes him dizzy. "No, I'm not done."

"This won't work, Dean! Fuck!" Sam covers his face with his hands. Now that he's cussing, Dean knows he's serious. "Bobby. We'll get Bobby to help. He's dug bullets out of Dad before."

Dean bites his lip. A bullet in a shoulder is a lot different than fat out of a chest, but to be fair, Dean's had even less experience. And to be honest, no more pain sounds pretty good right now. "Promise?"

"We'll start driving tomorrow."

John's still a state over on a hunt, and he's alone, which means he'll spend at least three extra days there getting drunk off his ass. It could work. "Okay."

Sam lets out a relieved breath. "Okay good."

"Then hand me the bottle on the counter."

Sam picks up the white pill bottle, any prescription long since rubbed off. "What is it?"

Dean grins a nervous lopsided grin. "Percocet?" Pretty easy to get on the road, if you knew who to go to. And hunters always did.

Sam just shakes his head and throws it at him. He leaves and comes back while Dean dry-swallows the pills, holding floss and their stitching needle. Dean silently thanks any sorry Greater Power out there that he doesn't have to sew himself up with the fishhook he'd snagged for the occasion. "Hold still." he commands, and it's dumb the way he's so young and so demanding at the same time. Dean would make a joke but he for once doesn't feel like being a smartass, so he just leans against the tub and focuses on the feel of the plastic at his back, tacky with his sweat.

Sam helps Dean shower after that, letting him lean on his shoulder as he stands next to him full clothed and lets the water wash the blood down the drain. It's only when he's putting Dean in bed that Dean actually talks again. "Hey bitch," he mutters, flapping his hand. Sam returns to his side, still eyeing the stiches to make sure he doesn't rip them out. So far, they've held. "You'd make a pretty good nurse."

Sam rolls his eyes and squeezes Dean's hand. He knows that's his way of saying thank you. "Shut up and get some sleep, jerk."

"Yes, ma'am."

It's the only time Sam can remember in his whole childhood that Dean lets him drive Baby without even trying to argue that he can make it to Bobby's himself.

#my writing #trans dean #dean winchester #ficlet #tw: gore #tw: suicidal ideation #tw: dysphoria

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dragynkeep · 4 years ago

Note

Qrow/ Tai/ Hazel for the character thing

it’s going to be too long to do all of these in one ask so feel free to send the other two in separate asks ! ♡

meme, accepting.

my top three ships for the character.

fireball ( qrow / taiyang ) — i live for the implicit history with these two, even if canon has done very little to capitalize on that. i don’t think they were super duper romantics in love, especially after the consecutive losses of raven & summer, but they’re all they have left & i think qrow appreciates that even when everything else is gone, he always has that home with taiyang if he wants it.

snowbird ( qrow / winter ) — on god, shipped this since day one. i just love the dynamic of cocky asshole & uptight uptown girl, it’s like crack to me. & this was done so great in volume 3, especially with their first confrontation & the chemistry the voice actors had. they killed it & the fanworks have kept me hooked where canon has let me down.

omens ( qrow / blake ) — idk man, something about this ship just really has me by the throat, & i’ve never been a stranger to age gaps. i think there’s a lot of relatability between them & with both of them going on that self discovery & uplifting arc in volume 7, there was a lot of comparability between them. i just think the matching motifs is neat !

my three least favourite ships for the character.

fairgame ( qrow / clover ) — while i agree they got fucked over hard by rooster teeth & the team queerbaiting them, the intial obnoxiousness from the shippers back when it was just them talking to each other turned me off. the writing of the characters themselves also did, i just don’t understand the appeal of shipping a character with what is essentially their self help book, feel good cum rag. not for me.

hummingbird ( qrow / summer ) — again, the obnoxiousness of the shippers & also the proximity of this ship to that stupid “ qrow is ruby’s father ” fanon have majorly turned me off this ship. really i can only ship them together if it’s a thrupple with tai in qts. otherwise? nah.

ironqrow ( qrow / ironwood ) — now this is only in v7 onwards but it really felt that qrow had just ... taken james for granted? & already made his mind up about someone who was supposed to be his friend & was struggling heavily, being the last member of the podsquad to actually be doing anything substantial while qrow was off travelling the continent for like two volumes. the contrast of qrow getting help & support vs james getting help & support really soured me & iq was dead in the ground when v8 started & qrow was crying about how he wanted to kill him to avenge the boyfriend that his dumbass got killed in the first place.

my biggest criticism for the character.

he has become such a whiny, self entitled toddler & it’s driving me mad !! qrow was an asshole in the earlier volumes but at least he was a competant asshole, most of the time anyways. now all he’s done is blame james for actually doing something, give ruby a pep talk, make googly eyes at his boyfriend, quit drinking with no repercussions, get said boyfriend killed & then spent the majority of v8 in a cell. i hate how much of a whiny, pathetic little bitch qrow has become; it’s annoying as all hell & i want him to regain his spine, please & thank you.

my favourite thing about the character.

i appreciate a lot of his ingenuity & strength, if qrow can’t do something, he will damn well find a way or die trying. that perseverance was obviously a quality that made ozpin pick him, but it’s also just really nice to see in a character that really has had the cards stacked against him supposedly since the beginning. he’s going to survive & it’s going to be out of spite & honestly, good for him.

a headcanon i have about them.

qrow became hard of hearing in his right ear after a close call when he was still in team strq, he knows some preliminary sign language from the four kingdoms but really, he’ll just pretend to be fully hearing as best he can so he doesn’t give away that weakness.

what i would change about them if i was making a re-write.

definitely his alcoholism arc. i think it’s downright offensive in just how it’s portrayed, that he just quits cold turkey with none of the repercussions & is now only teetering back on the edge because his boyfriend, who was his “ only motivation ” for going sober, has died & it was his fault. i know mkek may not have wanted to approach their friend who has struggled with these issues for his perspective but there are still plenty out there & they could’ve done research. also selling shot glasses with an alcoholic’s emblem on them? tacky. very tacky.

what i think of their character allusion and what (if anything) i would change about it.

i really like both of his allusions ! his scarecrow one is a little wishy washy but i can appreciate it for what it is, especially with the clever pun on his name; but i really enjoy the huginn & muninn allusion & while i used to be of the more popular theory that he was muninn, after hearing @spectralscathath‘s thoughts, i completely understand their idea of him being huginn instead.

#rwby #qrow branwen #owl.txt #answered #q #Anonymous #character ask

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grumpyhedgehogs · 4 years ago

Text

lord, consecrate this ground (if you can't consecrate this love)

Summary: On the run as everyone they know and love are turned to vampires or die in the process, Padmé and Obi-Wan search for a safe haven. They are followed by a shadow with unfinished business.

Notes: Vampire AU. Blood, injury, fire, death, manipulation. Canon-typical violence. Codywan and Anidala. Open ending. I have no excuses for this.

AO3

“Stay with me, Padmé.” Obi-Wan shuffles her arm further up around his own shoulders, choking on the hysteria rising in his throat. He has taken most of her weight on himself already but her knees are beginning to become unwieldy. “You must stay awake.”

Her voice is faint, wavering and thin. “We’re not going to make it.”

She is almost certainly right. She’s lost too much blood; thick rivers of it trickle from her throat into Obi-Wan’s collar as they stumble toward the church courtyard. It will dry tacky on both their skin, if Padmé even has that long. Anakin nearly ripped the meat from her shoulder when he bit down. “We’re almost there.”

“I’m not going to make it,” Padmé rephrases, and then says, stronger, “But you might. You should--”

“I am not going to leave you behind.” Obi-Wan interrupts, steely. He ignores the shivers running up and down his spine, the stickiness of his own blood smeared across his jaw, stuck in his beard and hair. Padmé had been too far gone by the time he’d arrived to notice his injuries on top of her own. If Ahsoka had been with him, maybe Obi-Wan would have made it out unscathed--but Ahsoka has been gone for weeks.

She’d left with Rex, promising they’d find a cure. Their ranks have been dropping like flies ever since. Obi-Wan wonders if the same thing that happened to Cody happened to Rex, too. If one night Ahsoka woke him to go hunting and his eyes had been yellow. If, like Cody, he’d grunted and cried out in pain before his teeth elongated and his voice turned into an animal snarl. If something in his blood, like the blood of his brother, changed him overnight. If Rex, like Cody, disappeared within seconds. What would Ahsoka have done if Rex had lunged at her like Cody had at Obi-Wan? Would she have fought back? Would she have had the strength to end it, the way Obi-Wan did not?

Cody’s hands had been so tight when he’d gripped Obi-Wan close. The touch was not unfamiliar; Cody's saved him from monsters a dozen times over, held him when he bled, and called him back from the dark when things were bleak. Obi-Wan hadn’t even realized what was happening at first, distracted by Anakin’s disappearance on his last patrol route as he had been. He'd though Cody had noticed a threat Obi-Wan had missed and was protecting him from it, like Cody always did. It wasn’t until Cody had slammed Obi-Wan‘s head against the wall to make him pliant that he’d understood.

The creak of the gates to the courtyard shrieks through Obi-Wan’s skull. There are eyes in the darkness beyond them. How many vampires followed them here? How many are hunting them for sport?

How many of them used to be their friends?

Padmé’s legs give out a few feet from the church’s front steps. Obi-Wan, weak from his fights with both Cody and Anakin, goes with her when she folds to the earth. Her skin is so pale it’s nearly translucent, veins standing out blue under her eyes. It makes the gaping redness of her wound all the more sickening. She whimpers when Obi-Wan shifts to secure her in his arms.

“It’s--it’s no use, Obi-Wan.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Listen to me.”

Obi-Wan, heart in his mouth, collapses back from where he’d been trying to lift them both. If he has to, he’ll drag her body over the threshold. He’ll crawl his way to salvation. He’ll lie here in the mud and the blood and let them take him if he could just save Padmé. If he could just save someone, just anyone.

Padmé looks like hell but she will always be beautiful anyway. Even with blood matting her hair to her neck, her eyes blaze with fire. “I’m going to die. One way or another.” She shakes his shoulder when he goes to disagree. “Listen. I’ve lost too much blood. We both know it.”

“We’ll stop the bleeding. If you last until dawn, just two hours, we can get to a hospital--”

“He didn’t leave enough blood for me to survive, Obi-Wan.” She sounds tired, resigned, the way Qui-Gon had when Obi-Wan had pulled the vampire Maul off of him. He’d been the first person Obi-Wan had lost to the monsters. Maul had been the first vampire Obi-Wan had ever fought.

Qui-Gon had told him, after he’d dispatched Maul, exactly what Obi-Wan would have to do to a bitten victim who wouldn’t survive the night. His voice matched Padmé's tone, regret and determination but no fear to be found.

Obi-Wan’s stomach turns, dropping straight to his toes. Bile rises and he swallows it back. The ashes from the fire he’d set to keep Cody off of him as he ran clog his nose now. His skin feels gritty, grimy, tacky. The blood welling at his own puncture wounds is slowing.

“He planned it,” Padmé tells him, gentle as a lamb. A breeze picks up around them, blowing the smells of musty pews and incense towards them from the church’s waiting doors. They are ajar, just a little. Last night Obi-Wan and Cody had taken off for the nest Anakin had pointed out to them rather recklessly. It has only been a day, just twenty-four hours. It feels like a lifetime. “If I don’t want to die, I have to drink from him to survive. There’s no choice.”

“He didn’t have the time.” obi-Wan protests even as some small part of his mind begins to scream louder and louder. “Anakin could only have been turned for perhaps a day, he couldn’t have planned so well for--” For your murder, he does not finish. Padme’s empty smile, thin and bloodless, tells him she understands perfectly.

“My Ani has always been a quick thinker.” She shakes her head and for the first time Obi-Wan realizes tremors are running through her body where she lies limply against him. “It’s no use, Obi-Wan.”

“Cody--” He coughs, throat suddenly too dry. The ash from the factory he’d lit must be blowing towards them from miles away. He is surrounded by it, drowning in it. “He turned too, before I got to you. He--I think he wanted to do the same thing to me. He tried.”

Cody had been violent, yes, but only enough so that he could contain Obi-Wan. He’d tried to restrain Obi-Wan’s arms rather than break his bones. He’d pushed in close--Obi-Wan can still feel his lips moving, whisper soft, against his skin. Then the teeth had broken through and Cody had clamped down. The air had tasted of despair and victory and Obi-Wan couldn’t quite tell which had been worse. Cody’s fingers had been so careful where they twined into his hair. Cody’s mouth had been so wet and so red when Obi-Wan had flung him back with a cross pressed to Cody's chest.

“We’re all alone,” Padmé whispers. “Oh, Obi-Wan.”

Anakin’s eyes had matched the yellow of Cody’s when Obi-Wan had pulled him from Padme’s side. He hadn’t been hard to track down once Obi-Wan had shaken Cody from his trail; Obi-Wan had just followed the bloody footprints. Anakin had been wild, feral, an animal rather than the man Obi-Wan called his brother. Somewhere beyond them, as they fought, Obi-Wan could hear Lord Sidious’s cruel laughter. He’d called his new vampire beautiful, said he would become the perfect killer.

Anakin won’t be so beautiful now, Obi-Wan realizes with distant regret. Not with the scars from the holy water Obi-Wan had splashed in his eyes.

“You might survive--”

“I won’t. You will. You need to get inside--consecrated ground--”

She’s losing consciousness. If Padmé goes, Obi-Wan really will be alone.

“We’ll both go.”

“You can’t--even--lift--yourself…”

“We just need to last until sunrise in the church. Then we can get to the hospital. And Ahsoka might have found something to change Anakin back…”

Padmé does not answer. When he looks down, her eyes are closed. They remain that way even as Obi-Wan shakes her. His own body is weak and weary; he stumbles when he lifts them both up but gets his feet under himself all the same. Every step towards the church feels like a league. His bones are made of lead.

Obi-Wan perseveres.

They collapse into one of the pews nearest to the arched doors. Sluggish as he is, it takes Obi-Wan more than five minutes to arrange her comfortably on the hardwood. Her eyes stay closed, but her chest still rises. It is more difficult than he’d like to take comfort in the sight.

"Padmé,” he tries, knowing it is no use. She just has to survive until dawn. “We’re safe now, Padmé. Consecrated ground.”

She does not move. It’s alright. Obi-Wan tells himself, tells the swirling fear and worry in his gut. Let her rest. She will need her rest.

He must be more dazed than he’d realized, because only a light scuffing footstep on the church's stairs makes Obi-Wan jerk back to himself. He pulls Padme up further against his chest, pillowing her head as he listens. The barriers of the church will stop anyone will ill intent from entering, but the doors are open and if Obi-Wan just cranes his head around he can see--

“Obi-Wan.”

No. Please, for the love of all that is holy, no. Don’t let it be--

But it is.

Cody’s smile is bright white against the night. His yellow eyes gleam. Obi-Wan’s blood still drips from his chin. “Obi-Wan. Be a dear and come outside with me.”

“You’re not Cody.”

The man--what was once a man--sighs and spares a look over his shoulder to the cloying blackness of the courtyard and the street beyond the gates. “Anakin will be here soon, after he’s finished wrecking your home and all you love dear for what you did to his face. I’m sure when he calms down we can all have a nice long chat. Family therapy, maybe?”

“He is not Anakin any longer.” Obi-Wan repeats, “And you are not Cody.”

The thing wearing Cody’s face shrugs. “Maybe I’m not. Maybe I am.”

“No.”

That striking smile widens and Obi-Wan feels sick. Padmé’s breath barely stirs the hairs on his neck as he clutches her close. “Maybe I am what Cody has always been and you were just too blind to see it. Did you think of that yet?”

Obi-Wan grits his teeth. Faint spots have started to rim his vision. He won’t spend his last few minutes on Earth arguing with a monster pretending to be the man he loved.

“Did you wonder if I always wanted to do this, Obi-Wan? Have you asked yourself if all those moments alone, stolen chances and gentle touches and longing looks, if during all of them I wanted to do this to you?”

His resolve breaks. “Stop. Cody would never harm me.” I loved him, he doesn’t say. Cody loved me too much to hurt me, he doesn’t say.

“I’ll admit ripping your throat out is such a pleasant idea,” Cody continues conversationally. His light, airy tone contrasts so badly with Padmé’s rapidly cooling body pressed to Obi-Wan’s that it makes him retch. “The change happened so fast and I was so hungry and you--oh, Obi-Wan, I always hunger for you the most.”

“Stop.”

“Ah, don’t be like that. It makes a poetic kind of sense, doesn’t it? Me being the one to turn into a vampire and kill you? After all, you’ve spent your entire adult life killing my kind and now you love one. It'd be a fitting end for me to tear you to pieces.”

“Stop it!”

“But then…” The vampire trails off and Obi-Wan cannot tear his eyes away as not-Cody shifts his weight, affecting a thinking posture that is an exact copy of Obi-Wan’s own. Cody taps his chin and smiles again. His fingertips come away crimson. His incisors are so long, so sharp. Obi-Wan knows they are serrated like a blade. They sawed into his flesh and he had screamed. “Then you got interesting. You had to play dirty and you did it so wonderfully. I like that about you, Obi-Wan, I always have. But you couldn’t end it--not with me and not with Anakin. You’ll fight and claw and scream but you won’t hurt us, not in a way that matters. Not in a way that lasts. You love too deeply for that, sweetheart.”

The truth stings, cleaving into Obi-Wan’s heart. He has always been too weak. “Stop,” he whispers, so soft he can barely hear himself. “Please just stop.”

“It was that exact second I realized it would be much better if I could keep you. I do, after all, love you.”

“How could you?” Obi-Wan snaps even as he feels his resolve leech away like the warmth from Padmé’s heart. The wind outside roars around the church's walls and Obi-Wan could swear he hears scratching at the stained glass of the windows, like the tap tap tap of razor sharp claws searching for a way in. “How could you love me, you monster?”

“Come and let me show you how I love you, Obi-Wan,” the monster who used to be Cody coaxes. His teeth are very, very white. “Step out of the light and let me show you.”

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luninosity · 4 years ago

Text

Time for @whumptober2020 prompt 8!

The theme today is “Where’d everybody go?” - specific prompts: abandoned/isolation.

Content/warnings: Bucky trapped alone underground, starting to be afraid no one’ll rescue him this time; eventually Steve does, of course, though Bucky’s kind of shaken...minor warnings for some minor injury (broken legs), not too gruesome.

They’re in France, picking their way carefully through enemy territory, when Bucky triggers the trap.

He’s on his own, covering Steve with his rifle as those ridiculous red-white-and-blue shoulders pick their way through an abandoned Hydra base. They’d been meant to raid the place; someone must’ve known they were coming. The self-destruct’s recent, only a couple of hours old, but impressively fireball-laced.

Steve had wanted to search anyway, to look for anything useful to bring back, any scraps of information, any references to prisoners being held. Bucky had said nothing to that last one, though Steve’s eyes’d cut over to him; he’d only nodded.

Hell, all the Howlies’ve been prisoners. Bucky’s no different. Not special.

He’s here at this vantage point up on the low rise because he doesn’t trust Hydra not to’ve left a few foot soldiers behind, knowing Captain America’s on the way; someone needs to keep an eye out for threats Steve doesn’t see. Bucky’s watching the whole scene, the rubble, the dwindling flames. Might be some suspicious sparks. An evil gleam of metal coming out of the trees.

Dum Dum says something to Morita, holding up a piece of lab equipment; they confer. Steve moves, steps behind a broken building, ducks out of sight.

Bucky mutters a curse or two under his breath. Pushes himself up. Starts to adjust his position.

He hears a sound. Almost a sound. A click or a catch—

Steve, is his first thought; but it’s not Steve in danger, no, it’s the hillside vanishing under Bucky’s own feet, dropping away and dropping him—a goddamn Hydra booby trap, and he walked into it, he heard it but not fast enough, even as he dives for the too-far side of the crumbling hill—

He falls. Fast, and hard, and far.

He lands wrong and badly, and a series of sickening snaps burst through his body, his head. And the world goes black.

He wakes up, gradually, agonizingly.

He’s cold. And in pain. Those’re the first two realizations.

He’s cold and in pain and alone in the dark—hurting and trapped and taken away from Steve and his men because of Hydra, all over again—and he can’t breathe, can’t make himself inhale, lungs not working, throat making small frantic airless sounds, heart slamming into his ribs—

No, he shouts at himself. No. You’re Sergeant James Barnes, you’re in love with Steve Rogers, you’ve got a squad of good men and Captain America himself. You’ll get out of this. It’s not the same. Not like before.

Memory whispers across his closed eyelids: his voice, raggedly mumbling, and a sharp needle sliding under his skin.

He forces himself to breathe by thinking of Steve. Of himself, back home in Brooklyn, kneeling on the floor at Steve’s bedside on a vicious winter night. Counting Steve’s breaths: in and out, in and out.

He does it for himself now. In. And out.

He opens his eyes. Tries to look around.

Everything’s dark and dim, nearly black. Bucky in fact has a vague sense that it should be all black, that he shouldn’t be able to make out the distant edges of mechanisms or tree roots. He thinks he might be able to see in the dark a little better than he used to.

He chalks that up next to maybe a broken toe shouldn’t heal that fast and I haven’t gotten even a cold, not even when the rest of the Howlies caught that bug and were puking up their guts, ever since that room and that table on the list of things he hasn’t told Stevie and probably should. Sometime. No rush. Wouldn’t want Steve to worry.

His rifle’s come down with him, which is good. The hillside appears to’ve sealed itself over above him, which is bad. He guesses Hydra doesn’t care too much about captured intruders running out of air. The idea’s most likely that—if the base was still operational—they’d come pick him up for interrogation or else simply let him die.

He shouts, “Steve!” He doesn’t expect the sound to carry far, and it doesn’t. He’s pretty far down, twenty feet at least, and that’s an ominous metal plate up above.

He’s avoided looking at his legs, so far.

He catches his breath as pain washes over him. Steve knows his approximate location. Someone’ll come. Someone’ll notice the trap and release the catch and find him. Steve will find him.

He lies very still, staring up at the blackness above, waiting. The pain comes in waves, building, cresting, ebbing.

No one’s coming, not yet. He feels something sticky on the side of his face; he touches his temple. Blood, he thinks: a smoky smudge over his fingers in the dark.

When Steve comes for him, he’ll need to be in shape to be rescued. It’s that thought that makes him struggle to sit up. To confront the ruin of his legs, snapped white bone and mangled flesh. The left one’s worse than the right; he’d landed harder on that one.

He’s feeling dizzy. He closes his eyes again. Maybe some sort of splint, something—his jacket, his belt—

It won’t be enough. It won’t be enough, because his legs are—and he’s bleeding so much—and when Steve finds him, he won’t be able to get up, he’ll be a liability—

Bucky, alone in the dark, can’t quite force back the sob. Fingers pressed into dirt. Digging in, futilely.

When Steve finds him—

If. If Steve finds him. The possibility swims up out of the shadows along with silent mocking laughter. It inquires, all friendly malice: you think he’ll guess what happened? He can’t hear you. No one can hear you.

“Shut up,” Bucky snaps, aloud.

Do you think, asks the dark, that you deserve a second miracle? That you have any right to be saved again? After you’ve already needed it once, sad little useless toy soldier that you are? Pathetic.

It has Zola’s voice. Bucky bites his lip hard enough to taste blood there too, copper and iron as opened-up earth.

The pit murmurs silkily: you think Steve will be happy to rescue you another time? Over and over? When he has better things to do, he’s meant for more, he’s Steve Rogers and you’re Bucky Barnes?

“No.”

It says: You know you keep dragging him down, holding him back. You know he resents you for it. How could he not, when you’re so needy, so helpless, so desperate to stay with him?

“He doesn’t,” Bucky whispers. “Steve’s not—Steve’s not like that. Steve’s…”

Gas, he wonders. Some hallucinogen. Some trick. Noises in the pit. Blood loss. This isn’t real. It isn’t true. Steve cares about him.

Steve does care about him. Steve loves him, though they rarely say it—twice that Bucky can recall, never when anyone else can hear, always careful—they say it in touches, glances, Steve’s brush of fingertips over the back of Bucky’s neck or a sketch of Bucky napping in lazy summer sunshine on their old sagging sofa…

The two times they’ve said the words, Bucky said it first. Once the night before he shipped out, the two of them entwined in bed, both of them thinking about the cold grey light of dawn. Once the first time Steve slipped into his tent after saving him the last time, and Bucky’d felt so shaken and raw and unlike himself, and he’d just needed to say it, to cling to Steve and say it as Steve held him and made him feel good and reminded him how to feel good…

Steve had whispered it back, into his hair, holding him.

Steve’s never said it first. Only when Bucky needs it—when Bucky needs him, needs saving…

What if Steve doesn’t come for him now?

Steve will want to, he believes—Steve doesn’t abandon people. Against the law of that big golden leonine heart. But that doesn’t mean Steve will come.

Steve might not find him. Might give up. Might have to make a tactical decision, if there’re other booby traps around. Might not keep trying.

Steve might finally, this time, at last and inevitably, consider this an acceptable if painful loss, and move on.

Bucky’s fingers are cold. He’s cold all over. He doesn’t know how long he’s been down here, in the dark.

He whispers, “Steve?” And then he whispers the names of his squad, he shouts their names, all of them, one by one: but no one answers. Nothing changes.

His legs still hurt but something’s starting to feel different. He doesn’t look.

He tries to think. To plan. If no one’s coming, what can he do? He’s got a rifle and his coat and spare ammunition and some field rations in a pouch, enough for a day, or four if he stretches them out. He knows that the pit’s mostly dirt with some metal gears and slabs, covering the roof and part of the sides, making them too slick to scale.

It’s not an insurmountable problem, surely. He’s good at angles and aim and calculations. He can figure this out. He can get back to Steve, and go right on watching Steve’s back, and nothing has to change.

He eyes the walls. Is digging possible? Under or around the metal?

Hydra would’ve thought of that. Anyway, moving’s tricky.

Shooting something, a gear or lever? Maybe. Might bring the whole place down, though.

He pictures being covered by an avalanche of metal and dirt, being buried by it and smothered slowly by it; and then he has to stop thinking about it and make himself breathe again.

His right knee itches. He scratches it absentmindedly.

His fingers come away tacky with blood, and for a split second his stomach lurches and he’s afraid he might be sick, but then he makes himself stop and take it in.

His knee looks like a knee. A little misshapen, twisted, smeared with dull red under the shreds of his pant leg, but healed over. Closed up. No bone visible at all. The shape of it shifts more as he watches: closer to normal, less bent.

He swallows hard. Forces himself to look more.

His lower leg’s healing too, putting itself back together. He can see it; he stares, fascinated in a gruesome way. Bones and muscles and veins knitting, repairing, weaving. Blood pumping. It’s almost pretty, in a churning awful way. The left leg’s doing it too, not fast but obviously on its way.

So, he thinks, half-hysterically; so, I was right about the whole not getting sick part, look at that, look at me; and he laughs helplessly, and then he puts an arm over his face and lets himself cry, quietly, coming apart as his body fixes itself.

He stops crying at some point. He curls up in the dark with his rifle, because he can do that now, he can move, though his legs feel weak and won’t hold him yet.

How long’s it been? Minutes? Hours? Days? Enough time that he’s got ankles again. His head doesn’t hurt, either, at least not physically. It probably should. His hand had been very wet, earlier, touching there.

He shuts his eyes and sees the table, the injections, the self-satisfied cruel curl of a smile—

That was then. This is now. He’s not there. He’s here.

But here is there, here is right back in a Hydra trap, here is knowing he’s been changed somehow, he’s something different somehow, and no one’ll save him and no one’s coming, because why would they? Even if they could find him, why would they want him back? Someone altered and made different, someone with this secret…even if they don’t know the secret, he’s still a problem, in need of care and rescue…

Steve looks at him sometimes as if afraid, as if worried, as if Bucky’s fragile and damaged…and of course Steve’s right, of course Bucky’s not good enough…but that’s always been true, Bucky Barnes’ ordinary little loves of comics and science fiction and sunshine in Steve’s hair could never be enough for the real Steve, Steve who would take on the world if he could and make it better through sheer force of will…

But Steve’s needed him, sometimes. Once or twice. A shot defending Steve’s six. A scouting mission with important information. That’s mattered, hasn’t it?

If he can get out, he can get back to Steve. He can try to go on being useful. He can lift his rifle and protect Steve and love Steve, silently, hopelessly, and that’ll be enough, if he’s allowed that much. He’ll take it. Please. Just that. He won’t ask for more.

He can sit up easily now. He can stand, with one hand braced on the wall of the pit. He hobbles around it, pacing, testing. He thinks the light’s dimmed even more; nighttime, maybe?

He eyes the dirt, and the metal panes above. If he can gouge some handholds into it—

Something shakes. Dirt moves. The metal above wobbles.

Is someone here? The Commandos, or Hydra, or—Steve? Someone?

Bucky sucks in air, yells, “Hey!” and scrabbles around for a rock. Throws it, hard and accurate, a fastball. It clangs off metal and drops back.

More shaking happens. Excitement. Voices? Maybe? Indistinct, they’re hard to make out. They move away and return.

A whole lot of dirt starts sliding in. Walls collapsing. Whatever they’re doing up there, it’s making his pit unstable.

“You’re not helping!” Bucky yells upward. They kind of are, though. At least they’re trying.

Metal creaks and groans. Being battered. Bending under an onslaught. More clanging sounds boom, the kind made by angry apprehensive vibranium being wielded by angry apprehensive muscles.

The top of his pit screams and shrieks and breaks open. A metal sheet and half a tree clatter downward; Bucky swears and dives out of the way, and narrowly avoids snapping a reconstructed ankle in the process.

A whirlwind of heroic passion plunges down through dirt to land beside him. “Bucky!”

“Oh, hey,” Bucky manages, coughing, through dust and the strange aching sensation in his own chest. Maybe that’s only breathing. Oxygen. Fresh air. “Nice of you to drop in.”

“Bucky—” Steve’s hands reach for him, but falter; Steve’s eyes are wide and blue and abruptly scared, raking over his body. “Bucky, don’t move, don’t—you’re hurt, you’re bleeding—how bad—” He cuts himself off to shout up, “Throw us a med kit, something, anything, but hurry—” Back to Bucky: “That’s—there’s so much—don’t try to move, Buck, don’t try to get up—your head, your legs—”

Steve’s hands shake. Steve’s voice shakes. Steve’s face is pale, horrified, trying not to panic. “Don’t look at it, Buck, don’t look down, just look at me, keep looking at me—”

“ ’M fine.” Bucky pushes himself up. Sees Steve’s expression snap from terrified to uncomprehending. “Really, Steve, I swear. Just kinda bled a lot.”

“You…” Steve’s hand hovers over his shoulder. “You’re…okay? But—you look…”

“Head wounds,” Bucky attempts, “they get messy, Steve, you know that.” His hip’s sore because he landed on that; he rubs it gingerly as the soreness drains away.

The sky’s dark blue, not black, and speckled with stars and ringed with trees, above. Only about an hour, then. Not longer. Just a small amount of time. So small.

A medical kit and a rope come flying down, and worried Commando faces appear at the rim of the pit. They cheer, seeing Bucky’s wave. Steve waves up too, belatedly.

“So,” Bucky tries, “want to get out of here? Hey, how’d you know where to look?”

“I knew you were up on that hill.” Steve’s eyebrows have that tight furrow between them, the one that means he’s trying to work something out. “And then you stopped answering. And when I got there the ground looked wrong. We guessed it was some kind of trap, just had to work out how it opened and where the weak point was. Are you sure you’re—”

“I’m great, except for the whole bein’ dropped into a pit part.” He starts to get up; Steve dives in to steady him, arm going around him. Bucky doesn’t admit to being grateful for the touch, the anchor, the reality; he doesn’t cry, either, just says, “It’s okay, Stevie, I’m okay, let’s go before Dum Dum decides to throw anything else at us—oh, grab that med kit, we shouldn’t leave it—”

“Bucky,” Steve starts, but then shakes his head: practicality first, getting them out first. “Come on, here, I got you…”

They make it out, courtesy of ropes and supersoldier muscles and a shield for leverage. They make it back to their camp, gingerly: Bucky has to reassure everyone that he’s fine, that he’s not hurt, that he’s willing to joke and laugh and take goodnatured ribbing about being a sniper who can’t see a trap under his own feet. He nods and grins and takes steps on his rebuilt feet, which none of them know about, under the stars.

He jokes along. He laughs. He accepts the teasing.

Steve stays at his side as they walk. Steve looks at him as if wanting to say something, as if uncertain, as if not knowing how. Bucky’s never known Steve to be afraid of jumping into messy situations before. But Steve is now, because of him.

He’s not really hungry, even though there’s Morita’s stew. He makes himself eat a few bites, being there, being part of the squad. He listens to a summary of what they’ve found—some equipment, some notes, stuff they’ll send back for study—and nods along. He wants to change; he’s wrapped in a blanket because his clothes are likely unsalvageable. Those don’t appear to be self-healing.

He’s trying to figure out how to tell them all he’s tired and could use some rest, when Steve’s hand lands on his shoulder, and Steve says, “I know you’re okay, I just kinda think I should make sure, y’know? Want to let me take a look?”

Bucky’s bones hurt, not physically. He’s exhausted, empty, whittled down to nothing. But it’s Steve, so he says sure, the way he always will if Steve needs reassurance.

The Howlies, rather surprisingly, only nod and grin and elbow each other but don’t say much. Bucky’s not sure whether they’ve guessed he’s in love with Steve and they just don’t mind, or whether Steve’s impressed them all enough that they’d follow him regardless of anything. They’ve never mentioned a word about him and Steve sharing a tent.

The firelight brushes his back, as he moves away from the heat.

In their tent the world’s quiet and lamplit and anxious. Steve’s set out bandages and cloths, but hesitates. “You don’t…need much of this.”

“No,” Bucky says hastily. “No, Steve, I’m good.”

“I just…” Steve exhales. His shoulders droop a fraction. The shield’s leaning on his pack, in the corner where he’s set it down. “Can I at least…help clean this up? Some of this…” His fingers touch Bucky’s temple, Bucky’s neck.

Bucky, who’d sort of forgotten about the head injury, has to remember; and then nods.

A muscle in Steve’s jaw jumps; but he only finds a cloth and some water, and comes back over. “Tell me if anything hurts, okay?”

It won’t and it will. Bucky nods again.

Steve flinches as if the nod’s been a blow, and squares his shoulders. Picks up damp cloth, and touches it to Bucky’s temple.

Slowly, gradually, under low golden light, the blood washes away. Under Steve’s touch. Cleaned from Bucky’s skin.

He strips off his jacket and shirt and even pants when Steve asks to see him. He stands laid bare and exposed because Steve’s asked. He glances down and over to the side, where he’s set his torn-up boots. They’ll need stitching.

Steve’s hand draws back. The water in the bowl’s pinker and grittier now, from red and dirt. “Bucky…”

“I’m okay,” Bucky promises immediately. “Nothing’s hurting, Stevie, I swear.”

“Would you tell me if it was?”

“You asked me to, right?”

“Yeah, but…” Steve’s eyes do that complicated wince again, some sort of tangle of summer-storm emotion. “Buck…oh, Jesus, Bucky. I can’t—I just can’t—God, I couldn’t find you and I thought—”

“It’s okay.” Bucky puts both arms around him. “Hey, punk, I’m still here, you came and got me.”

“How many times…” Steve’s voice cracks. “How many times do I have left? Before someday I can’t—before it’s too much, before you hate me, before I can’t save you enough and I’m not there when you need me—so much blood, Buck, when I saw you, it was—I thought you were—”

“I know what you thought.” Bucky rubs his back, the way he’d done when they were kids, when Stevie was small enough to hold and fierce enough to punch anyone who wasn’t Bucky for trying it. “I know, Steve. But it wasn’t that, okay? It’s not.”

“I can’t lose you,” Steve whispers. His face is buried in Bucky’s hair, words landing against Bucky’s ear. “I can’t do this without you. Don’t go. Don’t leave me alone.”

“I won’t. I never will. I promise, Stevie. You and me, right? To the end of the line.”

Steve lets out a broken half-sobbing sort of noise and clutches him, and then pulls back to look him square in the eyes, and says, earnest as a vow, “I love you, Bucky.”

Bucky, shocked, can’t answer. That’s not real. Is it?

Steve’s expression crumples. Despair tattering all flags and banners. “I love you, and—and sometimes I think—you wouldn’t even be here if not for me, you could’ve gone home, you could’ve been safe…how can you even look at me, Jesus, everything I ask of you…everything, since we were fuckin’ kids, and I know it’s not fair to you, it’s never been fair…just keep hoping maybe if I love you enough it’ll make up for at least some of the shit I’ve dragged you through, but it doesn’t, it never does, it’s not enough, is it.”

“You…love me,” Bucky repeats.

“You don’t believe me.”

“I do. I just—” He can’t think. He presses fingers between his eyes. “Of course I fucking love you, Steve. I’m head over goddamn heels in love with you. I’m sorry, my head’s fucking splitting in half.”

Steve swears, short and self-castigating. “Shit—sorry—of course you should rest, come here, lie down—you want water, something—”

“No. But could you…” He breathes in, gathers courage. For himself, for Steve. “Stay with me? So I can touch you? Hold onto me, kinda.”

“Oh, Buck.” Steve’s voice wobbles. “Yeah, of course—of course I will, I’m here.” And he does: stripping off his own shirt, grabbing a blanket, lying down right there with Bucky, gathering Bucky close, folding their bodies together. “This okay?”

“Good,” Bucky answers automatically, and then thinks about that answer for a minute. Steve’s large and solid and real. Steve’s imperfect and scared and afraid of not being enough. Bucky’s also imperfect and scared and afraid of not being enough, so maybe they’re on the same page with that one, like a mirror image, sort of.

Steve’s hands are warm against his skin. Steve’s heartbeat’s fast and concerned and audible where Bucky’s head’s come to settle against his chest. The bed’s uncomfortable in a familiar way, the way they both know. The tent’s hushed, and lamplight’s found its way into every corner, banishing shadows for the moment.

They’re both here. Whatever else happens, whatever comes, they’re here. They’re not alone.

He doesn’t want to be alone, to feel alone. He wants Steve here with him.

He doesn’t mention uncannily healing injuries, or seeing in the dark, or the way he can’t quite find equilibrium, as if something’s shaken out of true, made unrecognizable deep inside. If he’s off-balance Steve can be his balance; if Steve needs an anchor Bucky can be that.

And they won’t be alone. Right?

He whispers, “I love you, punk. Just makin’ sure you know.” He’s got an arm around Steve’s waist, where they’re clinging to each other: still mostly dressed and. He tightens the hold. “Not going anywhere.”

“Good,” Steve mutters into his hair. “Good…so…okay. Okay, I’m not either. You’re here and I’m here and I fucking love you. Jerk. Bucky. Don’t fucking disappear like that, ’cause I can’t—just don’t, all right?”

“Blame Hydra and their love of dumbass supervillain booby traps. You’ll find me, anyway.”

“Always,” Steve promises, “always, Buck, I’ll always come for you,” and Bucky holds onto him, holds him, and lets himself listen to the words.

#whumptober2020 #no.8 #where did everybody go #abandoned #isolation #stucky #steve/bucky #fic #fanfic #my fic #injury tw #not too graphic though

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