#it’s an old familiar aching grief and I honestly don’t know what to do with it even as an adult

[theeminentlyimpractical]

I’ve been on a Remus/Sirius fic memory hole speedrun for the past 3 days and jesus christ no wonder I was so depressed in high school I was basically injecting USDA grade A angst directly into my veins for like 3 years straight there.

[bg-brainrot]

WHaBFHtLA - Astarion x GN!Reader - Chapter 4: In this Lifetime

Pairing: Astarion x GN!Reader (Elf!Tav)

Genre: Reincarnation, Angst, Mystery, Slow burn

Rating: Explicit, 18+

Tags: Gender-Neutral Pronouns, POV Second Person, Canon-Typical Violence, fluff, grief

WC: 2k words, 4/?? chapters

Summary: Now 99-years-old, you've managed to ignore your worst impulses to run off to Baldur's Gate. One night's reverie finally breaks you.

Ao3 | [Ch3][Ch5] | WHaBFHtLA Masterlist

You hear it over and over again in your life, the advice passed down from your elders, from so many before you. Meeting people from past lives is never a good idea. It never goes the way you want it to. ‘This one is different, our bond was so strong.’ That's what they all say.

So for decades, you’ve been a good child, listening to your parents and keeping your interests purely theoretical, focused on research and nothing more. But your dreams are making it more and more difficult to keep to books…

Your reveries of the Hero’s life have begun to include more of what happened after the events of Baldur’s Gate. Of a life with a certain roguish vampire, going into the Under Dark, helping the spawn there. They’ve included adventures to Avernus, Waterdeep, a settlement on the outskirts of Reithwin where refugees started a new life. You encounter familiar friends, make new ones, lose friends along the way. The memories were full of laughter, hardships, and love– like a good book, the life pulled you in intimately.

So with every day that passes, it feels like the memories from the Hero’s life only grow more immersive. You feel engrossed in a way you haven’t felt with any of your other lives, to the point where your current life feels like someone else’s, not the other way around.

Naturally, you’ve researched this. It wasn’t an entirely uncommon occurrence to have such intense reveries of a past life. It seems to happen when your most recent life was, well, turbulent to say the least. Scholars were of two minds on the subject: either these memories are meant as a severe warning, an attempt to warn you away from making the same mistakes twice, or they are meant as a way to grieve a great loss, if you had lingering regrets that you couldn’t quite reconcile.

You’re honestly not sure why your past self is hellsbent on these intense memories, but you do know how they make you feel. As the years pass, you feel more and more of an abject loneliness, down to the very marrow of your bones. Now at 99 years of age, you wonder if that feeling will ever come to pass.

Tonight, as you lay your head down to rest and enter your trance, you feel that ache acutely. You feel like something is missing, and you hate it.

That’s why, when your eyes open to a pair of ruby red eyes, you’re not sure if the contented sigh that escapes your lips is coming from your present or your past-self. “Astarion,” you hear your past-self say, their voice as familiar as your own at this point. “What are you doing?”

“Oh, nothing much darling,” he says, eyes focused on you quite intently. “Just memorizing every detail of your face so that I never have to go without.”

“When do you go anywhere without me?” you retort. You both are laying in a large, lush bed. You’re unable to tell what time of day it is, as the curtains are drawn tight, but by the way neither of you are dressed and Astarion’s hair is in a beautiful disarray, you think you’ve just woken up.

He wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you toward him. “I wouldn’t even dream of going somewhere without you. However– regrettably– I do have to blink on occasion.”

You laugh, and find yourself going along with your past-self’s actions once more. It’s odd being this in sync, but you don’t mind it. “Ever the charmer, love. I thought you’d have had plenty of my face after so many years.”

“Impossible,” he scoffs, running his available hand through your hair in gentle, repeating strokes. “After only a hundred years, my dear? You’ll have to ask me again after another few hundred.” His tone is playful, goading you to challenge his resolve. 

Your past-self hums happily, but your present-day mind is somber now. You know that, no matter how lovely this moment is, they don’t get another couple hundred years together. That, in order for you to be alive, witnessing this very moment, this domestic bliss is well and truly in the past.

Luckily, as Astarion’s lips meet yours, your past-self’s emotions overtake you, drowning out the building sorrow, melting away the concerns. All you can think is about him, the feel of his lips gently breaking yours apart, the playful lick of his tongue, his fingers squeezing your side firmly as he pulls you even closer.

It’s a lovely sensation to lose yourself in, a welcome one. So when your past-self pulls away from him, you want to smack them. At least give me this, you think. But no, Astarion was in their arms, not yours. Astarion lips were pressed to theirs, not yours. This was their ardent love, not yours. It leaves a bitter feeling in your mouth, as it did every time you’d been forced to remember the reality of it.

“You joke, but that’s something that’s been on my mind,” you say after catching your breath. “We really should have this discussion about… well, us.”

Astarion ignores your words, kissing your nose, trailing kisses along your face, down your neck. Your body warms under his loving attention, your hands move instinctively to run through his hair. Your fingers play with a few strands of his hair, soft as goose down when there’s no pomade in it, before they give a soft tug.

“Astarion,” you say, a stern tone to your voice. In this moment, you’re confused by your past-self’s feelings. They want to give in to his doting affections, that much is clear, but there's a little thorn of worry that won’t go away. 

“Mmm?” he asks, moving up to nip at your ear. “What’s that? You need me to ravish you? Gladly, my–”

“It’s been more than a hundred years together, Astarion,” you say, stopping his playful nibbles right in their tracks.

He pulls away from you, red eyes clouding over as he takes in your expression. “Is this the part where you say you’ve grown bored of me and tear my undead heart from my chest?” His words are joking, his face is anything but.

“Of course not, my beautiful, melodramatic love,” you say with a sigh. “Quite the opposite. I may not look it now, but I’m aging, will continue to age. I just want to make sure, before I grow too old, collect one too many wrinkles–”

“No such thing,” he says, silencing you with a glare.

Your eyes roll, but a smile still finds its way to your face. “Fine, let’s say you lose interest in me for some other reason–” 

“Impossible.”

“Astarion,” you say, pleading now as you grab his face between your hands. “I know you don’t want to have this conversation, but please just listen.” He nods silently in your grasp, eyes suddenly taking great interest in your shoulder. “Thank you. I just… I want you to consider what you want your life to look like. I won’t be around forever and you…”

“I will be. Forever sounds miserable when you put it like that,” he continues, a look of distaste on his face.

You shake his head in your hands. Even your present-day self wants to shake him, how dare he treat his life so flippantly? “Forever will be fantastic. Because you will be in it.”

“So what do you propose,” he starts, an edge creeping into his tone. “That I find another vampire to steal away with?”

You shake his head again. “No, you could never make it work with a vampire. You’re far too interested in my body heat.”

He laughs and it sounds hollow. “You make it sound like I'm nothing better than a needy cat.”

Both of your bodies shake with laughter at that and you release his head. “Well, if the paw fits.” You ignore the angry look he shoots at you and continue. “I guess I’m just asking if you want to set a limit to this? It’s very likely that an elf in their 700s would be too elderly for you to find, erm, interest in.”

“Darling, have you forgotten? I’ll reach 700 before you do,” he replies, looking at you as if you’d suddenly told him one plus one did not equal two.

“I know that, Astarion.” You think he’s being willfully ignorant at this point, and from the frustration you feel from your former-self, they likely think the same. “But you won’t look a day older than you do now, and you shouldn’t have to feel obligated to stay with someone who will.”

The pale elf looks at you, his red eyes scanning your face, much like he did when you first entered the memory. “I honestly could not care less what you look like, love. As long as it’s you.”

Your heart clenches at that, and you have trouble telling which of your bodies is the one reacting to his words. “Truly?” you ask, and the word comes out quiet, fear catching in your throat.

“Truly,” he repeats. “Besides, if the burden of being eternally magnificent falls upon me, I will gladly bear it for you.”

You lightly smack him on the chest at that, and Astarion catches your hand deftly in his. 

“In case it needs to be said,” he begins, before placing a single, soft kiss on your temple. “I will always love you. Whatever you look like, no matter how many wrinkles end up on your face. In this lifetime and the next.” When he pulls back to look at you, his eyes are filled with so much warmth that you are certain he means it.

His next kiss is slow, deliberate. It may have been your hundredth kiss or your hundred-thousandth for all you knew, but it was every bit as meaningful. As your arms wrap around him and he sets his mind to ravishing you, you’re not sure where your past-self ends and where you begin.

When you awaken from your trance, you feel so very loved. Not the you of the past, but you, right here, right now. He said he loves you. It warms you like a hearth on a cold winter’s day, it fills a part of you that you didn’t realize was missing. The world looks brighter, sounds sharper, feels as if it is an entirely new realm to explore.

You know what you must do now. He has always been the reason that your past-self has been so insistent, and now you understand why. You must find him. 

Of course, you’re not yet an adult. And you don’t have an established life away from your parents yet. And you have no clue what you will do if you don’t find him. All very valid concerns fighting for answers you don’t yet have.

Naturally, your parents vocalize them to you, even now, as you pack your bags, past the point of any logic.

“Enough,” you say, with a strength that stops your parents in their tracks. “This isn’t some childish whim. I have thought long and hard about this for nearly a century, and if I think any longer when I could be doing, I may as well burst into flames.”

They remain quiet for a moment. Your mother then asks you the question that you’ve been trying to avoid asking yourself, “Do you… love this man, the one from your dreams?”

You look at her for a moment. You’d practically lived an entire lifetime’s worth of important moments from the Hero’s life, certainly more of that life than any others. But it’s not just time spent in reveries, it was how this man invaded your every waking thought, compelled you to him unlike anything you’d ever felt before, unlike anything you’d learned in your studies. So you answer truthfully, “Maybe. I certainly won’t find out unless I find him.”

So you leave. You’re not certain where Astarion is yet– Nothing as helpful as an address came up in your reveries nor your studies– but you know where to start. 

Taking a teleportation circle to Baldur’s Gate, you remember the name you wrote down in your notebook so many decades ago, the very same elf who helped start the settlement in the outskirts of Reithwin. Halsin.

[s-brant]

Baby Names

(gif: @mishellejones) (SERIES MASTERLIST)

Summary: Y/N gets frustrated while putting the crib for her and JJ’s baby together and finds herself missing her dead brother more than ever.

Word Count: 2.2k

Warnings: Fluff and minor angst.

A/N: Asks and ye shall receive, here’s a little blurb about what happens after Tokens! You don’t really have to read the other parts to enjoy this fic if you don’t want to, but I do recommend it for some backstory. This was slightly inspired by this fic by @cognacdelights, so go give her stuff a read! Let me know if you liked this. Have fun!

Y/N Routledge thought she got over her brother's death long ago.

Though you never truly "get over" losing a loved one, though there will always be a small part of you, however small, that aches for their presence again, she thought she moved past the tragedy to the best of her ability...until last week.

To say that the pregnancy was a surprise would be the understatement of the century. She and JJ were both on the same page about children when their relationship began, and that page was that neither of them wanted them yet. Sure, the idea of it in the future stirred their hearts with fond emotion, but considering that they had yet to graduate high school and barely scraped by on their own, they weren't jumping headfirst into that aspect of adulthood.

They were meticulous about safe sex. They couldn't afford another mouth to feed, she wasn't sure she could handle the emotional trauma of having an abortion, and, underneath it all, he had some reservations about being a father. It wasn't that he didn't envision a future with kids in their relationship, he did, but the topic of fatherhood always took him down a dark path within his mind.

So, she went on birth control once they started dating and they went along with no scares for the next six years as they graduated and started figuring out what the next step for their lives was going to be.

Y/N could get lost thinking about it, honestly, but she tries not to get too swept up in the minor mistake that led to this.

"You, my friend, need to stop moving around in there," she whispers down at her protruding belly with a hand cradling the heavy weight of it, "I'm trying to get your crib set up without JJ yelling at me for not asking for help, and if you don't stop kicking me, I'm not gonna get anything done."

She's sprawled out on the floor in the living room of the Chateau with her legs stretched comfortably in each direction while she hunches over to read the directions of the Ikea furniture. The sugarcoated description makes her want to hunt down the company CEO for sport, because for how "simple and easy!" the construction of it claims to be, she is at her wits end.

The last thing she needed after having her grief over John B's death reignited by their decision to name their kid after him last week was to stress herself out over something as stupid as this, but she won't quit. With how much JJ has been coddling her the further into the pregnancy she gets, she wanted to prove that she could do something for herself.

Whenever she brings in the groceries from the car and goes to lift the bag of dog kibble out of the trunk, he rushes up behind her back and scoops it out of the trunk before she dares to touch it. It always ends with her hollering after him that it's under twenty pounds, the upwards limit of the weight she's allowed to carry according to her doctor, but he refuses to hear any of it.

Inside of her, she feels a sharp sensation of something hitting her right in the ribs in response to her comment, and she groans in frustration. It's as if he did it because he knows she wants it to stop, the feisty little fucker.

"You're definitely your daddy's son, aren't you? It's already enough having one of him, the last thing I need is a JJ clone."

Their three-year-old Rottweiler rescue huffs a sigh from where he lays, frog-legging it, on the floor next to the unboxed crib pieces she can't put together to save her life. His drooping jowls produce a puddle of slobber on the her favorite carpet that is past the point of saving from his constant wear and tear. After a year of having him, she decided to stop trying to prevent him from ruining it. There’s no point.

She smiles at him as she leans forward to read through the directions for the billionth time, saying, "I actually think he'll be a lot like his uncle, but that's just me. If he isn't, I'll feel a little stupid over the name situation."

John Booker Routledge-Maybank.

Hell of a name if you ask her yourself, but for every internal struggle it reopened inside of her, she couldn't help but love it as soon as JJ casually proposed the idea on his way out of the door for work one morning.

Going on without John B has been a learning experience in every aspect. Any time she wanted to turn to him for advice or tell him something about the recent events in her life, she had to walk out back to their dying magnolia tree and sit under the shade to talk to the wind. Then, once the tree finally died and they were forced to cut it down, she took to sitting on its stump and doing it there.

It got easier as time went on, but she can't keep herself from wondering what it'd be like if he didn't die ever since she saw the results on the pregnancy test six months ago. Whenever she does something like going to her OBGYN appointments or, case in point, setting up the crib, she pictures him there.

She can see him here now, petting Bowie's shiny coat until he falls asleep with his head propped onto John B's outstretched legs. He'd be twenty-three years old by now with his life barely starting to blossom to its full potential, yet here they are. Correction, here she is, and he's off somewhere at the bottom of the ocean, already decomposed to the extent that not even his bones can be salvaged anymore.

Her chest sinks in another sigh, and she flips through page after page of the instructions with increasing aggression.

"This crib is so fucking—"

"What are you doing?"

The sound of her yelping in surprise at JJ's voice coming from the door is enough to make him laugh to himself, though his amusement is buried partway by what he's walking in on. He specifically asked her to wait for him to put the crib together, knowing damn well it wouldn't be the easy task she thought it was, but he should've known she'd do it anyway.

She looks over her shoulder with a mixture of guilt and frustration painting her features as she throws her hands up in the air and gestures vaguely to the unassembled crib. Her eyes are shining with the rapid onset of hormone-induced tears.

"I can't put this crib together 'cause the instructions aren't right, all the pieces are labeled wrong, your son won't stop kicking me, and I miss my brother so much right now," she spews the words with no pauses to breathe until the very end, when she stops short to suck down a breath as soon as she gets the last part out.

It leaves JJ standing at the entrance to the house with this stunned expression.

There's no amusement to be found anymore. Once she turned and flashed those wide, teary eyes that never fail to spark an ache in his heart at him, his tired smile vanished and his feet started moving before he could say anything to her.

The floorboards creak beneath his half-laced boots on his way across the room to her. It prompts Bowie to pop his head up from around the side of the coffee table to catch a peek of whoever it is that's approaching his emotionally distraught owner. Upon seeing JJ's familiar face, the dog relaxes back into his lounging position atop the carpet and tracks JJ’s movements until he's seated next to her.

"This is about John B?" he asks.

Her cheeks are flushed in embarrassment at her sudden outburst, and she can't bear to meet his gaze right now. Despite him being her closest friend and husband, she feels as small and vulnerable as she did six years ago when she first learned of her brother's death from Shoupe. Time might as well be shaped in the form of a never-ending circle for them, directing them back to their seventeen-year-old state of mind every time things turn sour.

Y/N finally lifts her hanging head to look over at him after another few seconds and thinks she might crumble at the look on his face. He hates watching her cry.

"I guess," she says through a sniffle, "It's about the crib too, but I've been thinking about it a lot more since we picked the name. Our baby’s gonna grow up never knowing who his uncle was..."

With that, JJ takes it as his cue to pull her closer.

He scoots up behind her and lets his chin rest on the curve bridging her neck and shoulder together as he twines his arms around her body. It's a closeness that's as natural as breathing for him, so natural that he can hardly remember the years before it became normal for them to take part in little moments of intimacy like this. The warmth of their bodies cohabitates in the blurred line distinguishing where she ends and he begins, and he feels her relax, sagging in his embrace in appreciation of his miraculous ability to make her feel better no matter how worked up she is.

One of his hands rests on the swell of her bump in an absentminded effort to calm him too. Even though he isn't consciously thinking of it, he knows that her distress must upset the baby too. The contact steadies her, keeps her grounded to the moment rather than allowing her to slip away into the current of her negative thoughts, and she clings to every word he has to say.

He says, "You and I both know that isn’t true. He's gonna grow up seeing all the pictures you have of John B and ask about him all the time. And we'll tell him all the stories"—there's a pause of contemplation as he recalls a few particularly non-PG memories of his best friend—"Well, maybe not all of them, but you know what I mean."

This draws a soft bout of laughter from deep within her chest that he feels with how her body shakes ever so slightly with it. It seems so wrong to laugh with tears in her eyes but she can't help it. Her emotions have been scattered in every direction since the pregnancy began, and it has only gotten worse the further along she gets.

"If you ever tell him about the kief incident, I'm never giving you a bl—"

His free hand smushes over her mouth before she can say the rest.

"Don't even think about finishing that sentence.”

It's said so frantically, it makes her erupt in laughter hard enough to tickle her abdomen muscles with the aching sensation of it. The vibration of it under his palm makes him drop his hand a second later with the need to hear the beautiful sound. After seeing her cry, it's a welcome shift in mood, even if it's at his expense.

Her head is thrown back on his shoulder, mouth parted into a smile with the gleeful giggling filling the room. His stomach churns with butterflies at the sight of her. Even after all these years, he has the same reaction to her laughter every time. It makes him smile to himself and watch her in quiet reverence. It makes him ache with the same inklings of longing he felt for the first time when he was much younger.

Her laughter begins to die down by the time she can draw enough breath in to murmur a soft, "Sorry, angel," to him and reach down to hold the hand he rests on her belly as consolation for her joke.

They remain this way for another few minutes, tangled up in each other's arms on the floor of the living room with Bowie snoring a few feet away, before he manages to convince her to let him be the one to set up the crib instead. It takes a good five minutes of playful back and forth before she concedes under the condition that he'll let her paint the nursery by herself when the time comes, and that's all it takes for her to abandon the task in favor of finding something to snack on in the fridge.

In her defense, the crib is actually quite difficult to put together.

JJ doesn't consider himself an expert handyman by any means, at least not with anything outside of his area of expertise as an electrician, but he likes to think he knows enough to put together a "no assembly required" Ikea crib without wanting to bang his face against the wall.

In the end, it gets finished by the two of them in the middle of the night over a box of cold leftover pizza from the previous day. It takes them two hours of struggling before they get it fully assembled and placed where they want it in the room that'll soon belong to their son.

He pretends not to notice her sneaking back in to tie John B's old bandana around the wooden railing before they go to bed.

Tag List: @gabiatthedisco, @fangirlvoice, @black-syren, @apparrio, @particularcth, @planetdemon, @idk-ijustworkhere, @krisphann, @astrydis, @k-k0129, @zarahsloves, and @stilesflannels.

[celestialarchon]

Coming Soon

The Celestial Archon: Remastered

A/N at the bottom!

WARNING: Spoilers ahead about the story and archons. Spoilers for most story quests!

*******************************************************

The Archon war had finally ended and the eight victors came forward to claim land across Teyvat as their own. Seven regions were formed, shaped by the individual god whom would reign. One such god, did not claim territory, telling the remaining Archons that they would not be tethered to the land below but to the sky above. The Celestial Archon claimed the sky above and the dreams of Teyvat’s people.

Each Archon would come to celebrate their victory in their own ways, inviting the eighth archon to join them. However, the god of the stars merely smiled and waved them off. Barbatos and Morax especially hounded the ethereal and mysterious archon, they had the closest friendship to her of all. Even the adepti that served the geo archon had become quite attached to the lady of the stars. For the rest of their immortal lives, Teyvat’s seven archons would be overwhelmed by feelings of guilt and regret for not chasing her harder.

Eight days after the archon war ended, the eighth archon disappeared into the night never to be seen again. Barbatos the god of freedom was haunted by the loss of another friend and his grief was a secret he would hold onto. His people could never know how hypocritical his title truly was. Morax made a contract with himself that he would do whatever it takes to find his old friend. Each electro archon was blessed with a curse of eternity and preserving it at the despair of losing the goddess of stars. How could Schneznaya know love when it was ripped away from the cryo archon right after the war was won?

With the loss of the goddess of stars, many hardships came. Teyvat was in it’s golden age but suffered terribly from her disappearance and the circumstances behind it. Every shooting star gave the gods hope and every time they were let down again. Hope would only resurface after centuries at the hands of a gifted astrologist and a strange outlander.

“When a storm of stars falls upon Teyvat, ancient powers will rise again. A new era of celestial bodies is lead by Teyvat’s greatest ally or greatest foe.” Mona’s premonition was ominous and mysterious, shaking all those in Liyue and Mondstat to the core.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Earth 2021

“You’re an adult now. You can’t do this anymore, this daydreaming crap is really getting out of hand,” My best friend’s voice was stern.

I let my eyes focus on the ground, refusing to meet their eyes. Once again, I had zoned out and missed something important. They call it maladaptive daydreaming, I call it coping. Life sucks and reality sucks, why would I ever want to stay in it? Is it really wrong to hate the life I live? I’ve always hated this world. It feels wrong.

“I know I have an escapism problem,” I sighed and rested my chin on my hand, “But, I don’t know what else to do. It’s like I long for something far away from this world or plain or whatever you’d call it. I don’t know if I belong here.”

My friend sighed, “You really worry me sometimes. I can’t tell if you’re okay or not.”

“Is anybody okay?”

“That’s not what I mean,” They clicked their tongue at me, “You’ve always been different. Sometimes when I look at you, you look so far way. I just want to make sure you’re safe.”

I let my hand drift to theirs, wrapping my pinky around theirs and chuckled, “Don’t be stupid. You know I always make it through, I always do end up okay, don’t I?”

I could tell my words didn’t truly reassure my friend and I honestly couldn’t blame them. The pandemic had probably only made my usual odd habits worse. I loved that friend dearly, but when they left I was flooded with relief. That feeling was only temporary of course as their words settled in. I began to wonder if they were right.

That night, my head was foggy like a bad horror film. I pulled the blankets over myself and sighed. Normally, I would’ve spent the next few hours daydreaming but their words echoed in my head. I leaned over my bed and grabbed my switch, my heart pounding in my chest as I wiped the device of animal crossing and breath of the wild. I set it down and fell back into the sheets sighing. I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of my favorite game yet. That would have to wait till morning.

As I lay there, tears began to well up in my eyes and my heart ached. For some reason, the thought of deleting Genshin Impact genuinely hurt me. The characters and graphics were so beautiful but more over they felt familiar. My friends words about maturity echoed in my head as I slipped into unconsciousness, strange dreams of a place that felt more like home than the home I had made came and left.

I was sleeping so peacefully but then that terrible feeling came over me. You know the one where you’re falling? Yeah, that. Suddenly I felt like I was falling in my dream, except this felt less like a dream and more like reality. I had been falling for a long time, I wondered when I would wake up.

And then I heard his screams. My eyes fluttered open and suddenly I realized I wasn’t dreaming. I was falling from the sky and something was very wrong yet also very right.

My name is (y/n)(l/n) and this is the story of how I was cursed and blessed all at once.

A/N:

HELLO!!! I decided to redo this story in a way that I originally had it planned out combined with the storyline and plot I had before. I am returning but updates will be slow. A master list is in the works but I was in the hospital and going through a lot of health stuff as well as having several close friends that passed away which is why i’m an anemo character. I love all your support and will be finishing up requests and answering asks that i’ve missed. love you all so much.

[tamakissimp]

B.K/I.M- save the bunny

𝕤𝕦𝕞𝕞𝕒𝕣𝕪: What are you supposed to do when you’re dead friend is suddenly standing before you?  𝕨𝕒𝕣𝕟𝕚𝕟𝕘𝕤: cursing, someone getting hit, mention of murder? 𝕨𝕠𝕣𝕕𝕔𝕠𝕦𝕟𝕥: 2008 𝕒/𝕟: not my best work but o well....yeah also there’ll probably be part 2 to this

This wasn't how Bakugou wanted his Friday night to turn out. He was supposed to come how to a quiet place. Silence and tranquillity enveloping him as he let himself fall onto the plush cushions of his couch. Maybe there would be a warm meal waiting for him if he was lucky. He could finally let his worn-out muscles take a break from the constant stress they're under.

Something must have gone wrong somewhere. Or else he wouldn't be here, standing before a mocking bunny mask. Floppy fabric ears and blood-stained cheeks staring back at him. The sewn-on grin seems to scream 'punch me'.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" he snarls. He grits his teeth while trying to keep his explosions at bay.

The bunny simply tilts their head as they stay silent. Their long limbs seem to move spiderlike as their body turns. Bakugou's eyes following their movement.

No. Shit. Fuck. The bunny tilts his head towards the other side as they snag a photo frame from the coffee table. Pointy fingers glide over the glass, lingering on a specific person in the picture.

Bile starts to rise in Bakugou's throat. Its acidic bitterness only seems to light the fire to his aggression even more.

"Who the fuck are you?". It's useless, he knows. Like hell, a villain like 'The Bunny' will just give up their identity. The silence is killing Bakugou. His nerves on edge and his muscles rippling as he struggles to constrain himself.

He lifts his hands, an explosion already blooming out of his palm. He is ready to blast whoever this might be into bits.

"That's no way to treat your friends," a distorted voice says. Great, so this bastard can speak. Bakugou opens his mouth, about to yell their ears of but a simple word shuts him up.

"Kacchan.". His hand drops to his side his mouth hangs agape. He had dreamed of this moment. Fantasised about the moment he could apologize and hug his friend. He had planned out exactly what he would say. What he'd do, how he'd act. But this wasn't in the plan.

The bunny's pointy fingers come up to its face before ripping the mask off. A mop of green hair springs out from underneath. "Cat caught your tongue?" he asks mockingly before running those same fingers through his hair.

"How..". Bakugou's throat fails on him. His voice stops working. Is he crying? He wants to tell himself he's not but he's honestly not sure anymore. Knees buckling underneath him yet he still manages to keep himself standing up.

"How am I still alive?" Izuku finishes for him. He casts the mask aside, throwing it on the floor before letting his body fall onto the couch, the same couch Bakugou planned to rest on. He lazily drapes his arms over the top of it.

The casualness of his movements mocks Bakugou. As if he isn't Japan's most wanted criminal sitting on Japan's number one hero's couch.

"Everyone always asks that, you know?" he says he glances down at the picture frames he's still holding. "It's getting old.". He lazily runs his finger over the glass.

"You died. I buried you. Inko fucking mourned you, she still does," Bakugou says. His voice wavers and he hates himself for it. He's showing weakness.

"You'd be surprised how easy it is to fake a death," Izuku says.

Bakugou's red eyes bore into his green ones. A silence hangs between them. It feels almost surreal to Bakugou. His mind hasn't caught up to the fact that his friend, or rather ex-friend, is sitting before him and isn't six feet underground.

While Bakugou's movements are ragged and forced, Izuku almost seems comical. His body has seemed to adapt to his villainous life. A theatrical elegance laced into his movements.

"I don't see you as a friend anymore," he breaks out. Izuku's eyes grow for a second and so does his smile. He straightens his back as he silently urges Bakugou on to speak.

"I buried my friend," he says. "You're not him. You might think you're him but you're not. He isn't this pathetic." He grits his teeth before lifting his hands again, getting ready to swing at him. Izuku quickly jumps up from the couch.

His eyes glint in mischief as he takes in the sight before him. "Oh, looks like you still haven't dealt with your anger, Kacchan.".

The nickname sets him off. He storms towards the green-haired man, fists raised and palms crackling from explosions. That is until he hears a familiar sound.

Both of them look towards the front door. Bakugou's face slacks with shock while Izuku's lights up with excitement. This isn't supposed to happen. Why is this happening?

Izuku quickly moves the kick his mask underneath the couch before he places the picture frame back. Bakugou eyes linger on the picture for a second. It's one of the three of you. Bakugou squished in between you and Izuku, his fingers raised behind both of your head to give you bunny ears. Oh, if he could just turn back time.

"'Suki?" you call out. Bakugou fears for his life, or rather, yours. Who knows what the crazed psychopath standing before him will do. "I thought I'd swing by and-".

Your words stop as you walk into the living room. The bags in your hands drop. Soup spills out of the containers you so meticulous packed. Bright orange curry stains the spotless carpet beneath it. The hot liquid splashes up against your leg, most likely burning your skin though you don't care.

You try to speak, mouthing opening and closing like a fish. This must be a dream, one of those horrible nightmares Kirishima often gets. That is until a familiar wobbly voice reaches your ears.

"Hi, bunny," Izuku says. Within a second, he has closed the space between you. Your arms wrap around him instinctively. It's an awkward hold. You used to be able to rest your chin on his head. Now, his muscled body towers over yours.

"Y-You're...You're dead," you whisper against his chest while nuzzling your cheek into him. His body heat seems to bring you a type of peace you haven't known of in years.

"I know, I know," he says while running his hands over your back. Sobs break out of your chest as your emotions seem to flow over. Salty rivers running past your burning cheeks and dripping into Izuku's musky hoodie.

Your body shakes as you grab onto Izuku, painfully so. You're sure you're going to leave bruises on his sickly pale skin yet you can't bring yourself to care. The aching in your chest that you've suppressed for years finally seems to boil over.

Hot and heavy emotions spill into your mind. You aren't sure if the salty taste in your mouth is from biting your lip until blood gushes out of it or the tears streaming down uncontrollably. You're sure that you look like a mess. Tears and snot dripping down your chin.

Instead of trying to see through your tear-blurred vision, you burry your face further into your friend's chest.

He's dead or at least supposed to be. You buried him, cried at his funeral and went through grief for him.

Yet here he is, in the flesh. His voice still sounds the same. He still smells the same. But he is not the same boy you knew years ago. His smile isn't the same. And his scarred hands sure aren't the same. Everything about him is the same, yet slightly different, giving you a mental whiplash.

"You have some fucking explaining to do," Bakugou says. His voice breaks you out of your trance. You pull away from Izuku, your body immediately screaming in protest. You look up at him. It feels strange, you used to be at least a head taller than him

"How the fuck are you still alive?". Bakugou doesn't have time for nicknames or formality. Not when he knows that the man standing before him has the blood of at least a hundred on his hands.

Izuku steps away from you, unwinding his arms from your body. Bakugou quickly strides over and pulls you away from the offending man. He pushes you behind him while one hand still grips onto your arm. You want to ask him what the fuck he's doing but Izuku starts talking before you can.

"It's a long story," he says. "Can't tell you everything but, long story short, I had to fake my death. Some guys were after me but it's all fixed now!". The vagueness mixed with his eerie smile only makes him look more like a psychopath.

"All fixed? All-fucking-fixed?". Boiling anger rising to Bakugou's head, clouding his thinking. He taking quick steps up to his ex-friend. Izuku doesn't even flinch when Bakugou grabs onto his neck tightly. "You left. Fucking made us think you're dead and you think you can just come in and say that everything is fixed?".

Spit flies out of his mouth and lands on Izuku's cheek, a shiver of disgust running over his spine at the feeling. Yet the green-haired man can't stop the excitement from bubbling up at seeing his friend so rilled up.

"Bakugou, Jesus fuck, calm down," you say. This situation should probably feel more serious than it is. Yet the shock still evident in your body and the adrenaline clouding your mind makes you unable to properly process it all.

"Like hell, I'll calm down!". Bakugou finally lets go of Izuku's throat. A set of cough falls out of the green-haired man's throat. He smirks as he glances down at the aggressive blond.

"Come on, Kacchan, we shouldn't do this in front of our little bunny," Izuku says with a smirk. The gears finally seem to click in his mind. Suddenly, the bunny mask, the name, the costume, it all makes sense.

"You sick fuck!" Bakugou yells before landing a hit square on Izuku's jaw. He stumbles back a bit, taken aback at Bakugou's sudden outburst. The blond takes the opportunity to land another punch right on his nose.

A wet crunch sounds through the room. You cringe as you feel bile rise in your throat from the sound. "Izuku!" you yell out as you try to get to your friend or ex-friend, you're not sure.

Bakugou stops you thought, his arms wrapping around your body and spinning you away from the green-haired freak. You pound your hand on his arms pleading with him to let you go but your ministrations do nothing to the number one hero.

Izuku laughs as he wipes away the blood dripping from his nose, tainting the grimy grey of his hoodie with it. "You're gonna regret that, Kacchan," he says. Bakugou doesn't even give him the light of day as he makes his way out of his apartment with light speed

Your throat grows dry and painful as you plead Bakugou to let you. To let you go to him. "It's okay, he's gone," Bakugou says.

You shake your head violently as you claw at his back, trying to get his arms to loosen their hold. "I need to see him. I gotta-I gotta see him. Suki, please!". The hoarseness of your voice shoots painful stabs into Bakugou's heart.

But he doesn't let his mind linger too long, running down the stairs two steps at a time. All he can focus on is getting you away from that creep before he can touch you again.

"Please, I can't leave him again," you sob out. Bakugou simply lays on hand on the back of your head, pulling you even closer to him. Thankfully he doesn't see Izuku following behind him.

"Please, not again," you say before your voice bursts out in sobs again. Fuck, how much Bakugou wants to blast that fuckers skull in. He's sure his friends at the police force wouldn't mind turning a blind eye for him. But that'll have to wait until later. Now he needs to focus on keeping you safe, safe from him.

[phoebe-delia]

Deja Vu

Angst. MCD x2. Bittersweet ending though, trust me.

"Captirevero"

The spell settled over the Pensieve, causing it to glow for a moment before the light sank into the metal.

Hands shaking, Harry poured the vial into the basin, the cloudy substance stirring with the addition. Once it settled, he took a breath, closed his eyes, and let himself fall.

His younger body feels familiar, but a bit snug, like an old t-shirt that just barely fits but not the way it used to. His hands are in the pockets of his robes as he slowly paces around the Room, restless. He runs a hand through his hair before placing it back into his cavern of fabric, clenching both of his fists and grabbing at the cloth.

Finally, the door creaks open and Draco—he was still 'Malfoy' back then—steps into the room. Harry looks up with a start, forcing himself to stop walking.

He lets the other boy approach him, a wary look on his pale, aristocratic features. Draco swallows nervously.

"Thanks for meeting me," Harry said, hating the way his younger self's voice cracks.

Draco doesn't seem to catch it, or he does he doesn't comment; he just nods. "What did you want to talk about, Potter?"

"I'm sorry. For what happened today."

Draco's jaw clenches. "It's fine. You have to keep appearances, I understand."

Harry shakes his head. "No, Malfoy that's the thing. I didn't expect her to kiss me; I pushed her off a second after you turned away, really. It's my fault for not being clearer with Ginny earlier. It's over between her and me, for good this time, and I'm tired of keeping you a secret."

Something shifts in Draco's eyes; gods, they're just as grey as Harry remembers. "You don't have to do this, Potter," his voice is quiet, unsteady.

Harry feels himself smile softly. He reaches out and takes Draco's smooth hand in his own calloused one. "I know, Draco. I'm doing this because I want to."

And Draco's smile is as blinding as he remembers.

The scene shifts to him struggling to open the door to his flat while simultaneously balancing a large, heavy box in his arms. The aching soreness of his arms is familiar as he blindly reaches for the handle, only to meet resistance and a lock. He fumbles for the key but is unable to reach it properly in his back pocket without losing his grip on the box. Finally, he kicks at the door and calls Draco's name. Merlin, he knows he can't have lost it already. What is taking so long? Harry doesn't remember what's supposed to come next, but he's fairly certain that—

Draco opens the door and nearly runs into Harry, a look of surprise on his face falling into exasperation, laced with fondness. He steps back and lets Harry through, rolling his eyes.

"Harry, honestly, I told you to leave the door open when you got the next box. Why didn't you set it down first and get your key properly, at least?"

Harry puts the box down on the newly set up kitchen table and turns to Draco with a grin. He shrugs. "It was easier my way."

He revels in the familiarity of Draco's derisive, yet heatless scoff. "Merlin, you're impossible."

Harry smirks and walks up to Draco, taking him into his arms before he can protest.

"Mm, yes but I'm your impossible."

Draco gives him a strange look. "What does that even mean?"

Harry shrugs and nuzzles his face into Draco's neck, letting out a contented sigh as the ache in his muscles fades. "I dunno. Like you said, I'm impossible."

Draco huffs and strokes Harry's hair. "Yes, yes you are," he says softly. Harry smiles and closes his eyes.

With each new scene he enters, his nostalgia and joy become increasingly tainted by foreboding. He knows the irony of his smile when he and Draco promise to love one another in sickness and health. He watches the years of dinners and cuddles and bickering and fights. He is surprised by old forgotten jokes and can still recite every word of their favorite stories.

He recalls the terror when Draco is diagnosed and he is helpless to do anything other than hear himself repeat to Draco the same assurances of hope that he knows all too well are doomed. He is forced to watch as Draco lies in the hospital bed, unconscious and kept alive under a stasis spell, his outward self seeming anxious and sick with uncertainty while his inner self awaits the inevitable.

And anticipating the deep and intense sadness of watching Draco's casket get lowered into the ground doesn't make the experience any less painful.

The memory dissolves once again and Harry knows he's drunk.

He remembers this day as if it were yesterday: the dull ache of grief, that a hole had been ripped out of his heart through his chest, and how he'd tried to fill it with firewhiskey. He is sitting in the recliner in the living room and decides he is tired of living in the present.

He stumbles into the bedroom and opens the closet door, revealing the only thing that's been able to give him a reprieve from the pain over the last few months. The Pensieve sits, inviting and beckoning him to take a break from his mourning. And every time it's ended, he's always been more depressed than when he'd started, knowing the breath of air was over and the sensation of drowning would return.

But not this time. After this, he would be drowning no more.

He picks up his wand and casts.

Harry feels a sudden jolt, causing him to stumble back. He is still in his normal body, but this time he's at King's Cross. He waits for the eerie sense of dread to wash over him, but all he feels is peace, contentment. He sees a figure sitting on an otherwise empty bench, and the calm feeling dissolves and is replaced by anticipation twisting in his stomach. He clenches his fists and walks toward the figure, ready to have the confrontation with Albus Dumbledore he'd always craved, but his heart starts pounding as he starts to make out a lithe figure and white-blonde hair.

Despite his disbelief, he jogs toward the bench to confirm his hopes, his worries. His breath catches in his throat when the figure stands and turns piercing, stormy grey eyes at him.

"Hi Harry," Draco says. "Having a stroll down memory lane, are we?"

Harry nods. "Yeah, I...But usually it—wait, what are you doing here?"

"Love, do you know how long you've been here?"

Harry furrows his eyebrows. "Just a few minutes, right?"

Draco presses his lips together. "No, you've been here for the last ten years."

Harry's breathing grows shallow. "T-ten years? Am I...am I dead?"

"Harry, do you remember what happened?"

Harry shook his head. "I thought I was just watching our memories. I do that when I miss you."

Draco gave him a soft smile. "You've been reliving our memories over and over for ten years, love. You cast a spell on the Pensieve to pull all of you in here and to keep yourself in here until you caught up to where you left off. "

"So, I'm not dead, then," Harry knits his eyebrows.

Draco nods. "Correct."

"Then why am I here?"

"Because you have a choice. You see, you used a rare spell that allows the caster three options when the run of memories is over. You may return back to the real world and live out the rest of your life. You can stay in the loop of memories until the end of your natural life. Or you can come beyond the Veil."

Harry's breath catches. "You mean I can—I can go with you, now?"

A gentle smile settles on Draco's lips. "Yes, Harry, you can. If you want to, that is." Draco takes a deep breath, seeming to steel himself. "But you've got to decide."

Harry smiles. "I want to go with you."

Draco's mouth opens slightly in shock. "You don't have to do this for me, Harry, really."

Harry grins. He walks up to Draco and takes a smooth hand in his own. A sense of deja vu washes over him, the sensation welcome and warm.

"I know, Draco," he says. "I'm doing this because I want to."

And Draco's smile is as blinding as he remembers.

[calebdumes]

kanera prompt from @opalknight “Things you said at 18, 28, and 38″

( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

fandom: star wars rebels

relationship: kanan jarrus/hera syndulla

rating: n/r

word count: 1.4k

~

18 Years Old

"I can't do this." Hera said with a groan, rubbing at her temples. From across the holotable, Kanan smiled at her wickedly. She furrowed her brows and looked down, heat blooming across her cheeks. "You're cheating aren't you? There is no way you can win this many times."

Kanan leaned back in his seat, his teal eyes gleaming. "Just admit that I'm the better player."

Hera bit her lip to stop herself from smiling back at him, her stomach swooping pleasantly. Kanan had been a member of her crew for a few months now, proving himself to be more than just an extra hand to help out around the Ghost. He had a tactical driven mind that had saved her life more than once and was always ready to reassure her when the mission seemed hopeless. He was a shameless flirt but Hera was finding that it didn't bother her much. In fact, she was almost afraid to admit that his flirting was starting to make an impact. 

Kanan was handsome, there was no question about that, with his blue green eyes that sat beneath his thick brows and amber skin wrapped around lean muscle. But he was funny, and kind, and a bit of a dork and that had Hera's heart leaping in her chest whenever he walked in the room. But there was one thing that was becoming increasingly clear, Kanan Jarrus was a cheat. 

He was still looking at her with a cocky grin on his face, waiting for her to make the next move. She glanced down at the board in front of her. There was nowhere left for her to go. Any move she'd make would spell out her doom. So Hera leaned forward and flicked the table off, their game dissolving into nothing.  

"Aw c'mon!" He cried as she stood. "I was about to win!"

"You mean you were about to cheat to win." she huffed. 

"Honestly Hera I am both hurt and surprised that you would think that of me." He said with mock resentment.

"Then how do you explain winning five games in a row?" She asked, folding her arms across her chest. 

Kanan stood, towering over her as he leaned forward with a smirk and said. "I guess I'm just that good." 

Hera rolled her eyes and pushed him playfully in the shoulder. "Right and I'm blurrg's daughter."

Kanan captured her hand in his, his thumb stroking over the pulse point on her wrist. "Well then you are the prettiest blurrg that I have ever seen."

He was so close now, his breath ghosting over her flushed cheeks. All she had to do was lean forward just a little bit and she would have him. She wanted to - goddess help her, she wanted to - but she knew that the second she gave in, it would all be over and she wasn't sure she was ready for...whatever this was with Kanan. 

So she took a step back, her heart beating furiously in her chest. "I can't." she whispered. Kanan just smiled, giving her wrist a gentle squeeze. 

"Well next time you want to try again," he said, those brilliant eyes of his sparkling. "Just let me know."

He let go of her arm and walked out of the lounge. Hera bit her lip and wondered when she would be ready. 

~

28 Years Old

"I can't do this." 

She was numb, the world a grey haze before her. Distantly she could hear Chopper beside her, grumbling about something but she couldn't bring herself to care. They were gone. One moment she had them both in her arms and now there was nothing but empty air. 

Hera curled up on her bed and stared blankly at the wall. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. 

Ezra was gone.

Kanan was gone. 

A tear slipped down her face. Hera closed her eyes. 

When she opened them again, Sabine was crouched down next to her, concern written across her young face. Hera wondered when she would lose her too.  

"Hera." she said softly. "You need to eat."

"'m not hungry." she mumbled, hiding her face in her sheets. If she could just go away for a little while maybe when she got back, things would be different. They would be here and there wouldn't be a gaping hole in her chest where her heart should be. 

"I know you're not but the doctor said you need to." she paused, placing a hand on Hera's shoulder. "For the baby."

Another tear escaped the corner of her eyes. 

"I can't." she whispered. "Sabine, I can't do this without him."

Sabine pulled her close, her armor sharp against her arms. She let Sabine hold her as she cried. Tears she had thought had long since dried up came flowing out of her in raw, angry sobs. How could they do this to her? How could they tear this family apart? 

How was she supposed to fight without them by her side?

How was she supposed to raise her child without them to help?

How was she supposed to go on living when Ezra was missing?

And Kanan. How was she supposed to breath without Kanan next to her?

Sabine gripped her tightly, rocking her back and forth. "It's okay Hera, it's okay." she whispered. "I've got you. It's okay."

"I can't do this." she cried. "I can't do this without him."

"I know. I know." Sabine's voice was thick. "But we have to."

Hera tightened her hold, desperation lacing her words. "I can't."

"We have to Hera. I know it hurts but we have to." She pulled back, her hands still firm around her arms. "For them. For the baby. We have to keep moving."

Hera nodded mutely, her lekku falling heavy over her shoulders. With a monumental effort she took the bowl Sabine offered her and took a sip. The broth burned down her torn throat and landed heavy in her stomach. She did it again. 

Once the bowl was empty, Sabine left with a soft promise to return. Hera watched her go with swollen eyes. She sat there on the bunk resting her hand on the barely there bump of her belly. For just a moment she could feel Kanan's hand on hers. She held the feeling close to her chest. 

She couldn't do it. Not right now. But maybe in a little while, she'd find her strength to move on.

~

38 Years Old

"I can't do this." Hera threw her tool down on ground, wincing at the loud clatter it made as it fell. She sat back against the bulkhead and breathed deeply through her nose, trying to disperse her frustration. It was a beautiful day on Lothal, one of those perfect cloudless evenings that made the endless grassy plains shine like gold. She looked back at the underside of the Ghost's main dashboard and sighed. This just wouldn't be fixed today. 

She pushed herself to her feet, her knees popping with the motion. Goddess she was getting too old for this. Following a bright peel of laughter, Hera climbed down the ladder into the hold. Zeb sat at the foot of the ramp, his greying fur glimmering in the bright sun. Out in the little patch of land that sat behind their house she watched as Ezra tossed Jacen in the air without touching him, the Force keeping her son aloft. 

"I see Jedi training is going well." she laughed as she sat down next to the Lasat. 

"You know Ezra," Zeb chuckled. "Everything's a game to him." he paused looking down at Hera's grease stained hands. "You get the Ghost all fixed up?"

"I can't, not today. I'll have Chopper look at it when he gets back."

"You have any idea what Sabine plans on making?"

Hera groaned. "Not a clue."

Zeb echoed her sentiment before pushing to his feet. "Maybe I'll be too sick to eat tonight." He said as he shuffled back towards the house. 

Hera smiled. Her gaze drifted back out to the swaying field where Jacen was listening to Ezra with rapt attention. She saw herself in the dots of green on his skin, the hallows of his cheeks, and the arch of nose but everything else, that was all Kanan. Her heart ached with the familiar echo of grief but she blinked it away. 

"You would love this." she whispered softly. "I don't know if you can see it wherever you are but, he's so much like you. They both are."  

Off in the distance she heard the familiar whine of Sabine's speeder. She stood and called out, "Ok Master Jedi, training's over! Come inside and wash up for dinner please!" 

There was a chorus of groans from behind her as she stood and locked up the Ghost. She couldn't help the smile that pulled at her lips. Some things never changed.

[somekndofnature]

No Other Way #8

I've got a couple more for the @domaystic challenge today. I will not stop! Fair warning, this is a bit angsty.

Day 8: Coin Laundry

Fandom: Doctor Who

Pairing: Jackie + Rose; Jack Harkness + Rose

Rating: G

AO3

There's Waves That Can't Break

Rose watched the linens slosh back and forth inside the industrial washer, bored out of her skull. In a million years, she had never thought it would end this way. Since meeting the Doctor, she had imagined her end a hundred times. Rose had always hoped that it would be significant, saving a planet or species or…saving the Doctor. There was a time when she was so ready for that to be the way her life ended, as long as it meant she didn’t have to live without him. It was lucky that Rose didn’t know back then what she knew now; she would have been even more reckless. 

A familiar body squashed against hers in the plastic row of chairs. “You look just like him when you brood like that.” 

“M’not broodin’” Rose replied to her mother. 

Jackie laughed. “Sound like him, too.”

Rose just shook her head and crossed her arms over her chest. 

“I bet you never thought you would have to be back here,” her mother said with an almost wistful expression.

She snorted. “Yeah, you could say that.” 

“Watch that tone, missy. You’re not too good for the coin laundry.” 

Rose rolled her eyes and wrapped her arms around her knees, feeling all of nineteen-years-old when her mother scolded her like that. “I never said I was.”

She ignored her daughter’s comments. “I know you’ve seen all the fanciest parties and met kings and queens from different planets but don’t ever forget your roots Rose Tyler.”

Jackie was oblivious to her daughter’s shoulders bunching; anger and grief were flowing from the wound in her heart, a wound her mother’s words were ripping wide open.  

“I’m sure that ridiculous box of his had the finest laundry facilities in the universe but there’s nothing wrong with the machines here on good old Earth.” She leaned over and bumped Rose’s shoulder. “Mind you, I could use one of those fancy machines, these are gonna do a number on my delicates. Can’t believe the machine at the house croaked–”

“What the actual fuck are you talking about?!” Rose finally snapped, jumping to her feet.

Jackie’s mouth dropped open in shock for a second before she regained her senses. “You watch your mouth, little madame. I’m still your mother.”

“Then how can you say any of that to me?” she asked with tears gathering in her eyes that readily overflowed. “Do you honestly think I give a fuck about any of that?!”

“Rose Tyler, you're making a scene,” Jackie hissed, rising from her seat and glancing around the nearly empty laundromat. 

“I don’t care! I don’t care if I am,” Rose shouted.

“Rose.” Her mother’s outrage seemed to have petered out to concern as she took a step closer and reached for her. 

She held up her hands and backed away until she hit the wall of machines. “He’s gone, mum,” Rose said, throat aching with barely contained sobs. “I don’t give a fuck about meeting royalty or parties or fancy washing machines!” She wiped at the tears on her cheeks only for more to take their place. “The Doctor’s gone. I love him so much and I’ll never get to see him again or hug him or hold his hand. It’s like he’s dead.” She sucked in a shuddering breath. “And as we get farther away from that damned day on that damned beach, I keep expecting it to fade, to somehow start to hurt less, but it never does. Everyday I wake up and feel like I’ve lost a piece of myself, a piece that I will never, ever, get back,” she explained, sobbing as she slid down to the floor. “And I just have to keep going even though I feel empty, even though I’m incomplete.” 

Jackie wiped a tear away and sat beside her daughter, gathering her into a hug. “Oh sweetheart, I’m so sorry.”  

Rose didn’t even think about resisting. She threw herself into her mother’s arms and wept like a child. Jackie held her tight, rocking her back and forth on the tile floor, ignoring the dubious looks from passers-by. 

She kissed her daughter’s forehead. “You know, Rose, there was a time when I could fix everything for you. Any little problem or hurt you had, you would come to me and I would make it right.” Jackie swallowed hard. “But as you got older, as the problems became more complex, the less I could do for you. And now, here we are, I’m watching my incredible daughter, who has only ever tried to do good, hurt in a way I can’t heal. It’s frustrating and, half the time, I’m encouraging you to move on as much for my sake as yours.”

“I can’t just move on, mum. M’sorry,” Rose replied, wiping at her nose. 

Jackie was already nodding. “I know you can’t, luv, and I understand. I couldn’t really let your father go until, thanks to that mad alien of yours, he came back to me. Even saying the words out loud, it sounds impossible.”

Rose sniffled. “That’s what the Doctor does, make the impossible possible. Which is why part of me can’t believe this is how it ends. I promised him forever.”

“You listen to me,” Jackie said, rubbing her hand up and down Rose’s arm. “That Doctor of yours isn’t the only one who does the impossible. I have seen you do things that amaze me, Rose. If you don’t want this to be the end; don’t let it.”

“I can’t, mum,” Rose said, shaking her head. “The Doctor said it could destroy both universes if I tried to get back.” 

“So? You are Rose Tyler; you can find a way. I believe in you. And you know what?” she asked, giving her a gentle shake. “So does he.”

--------------------------

Rose was jerked from the distant memory, when Jack collapsed in the chair beside her. The laundromat was packed on the stifling summer day. If not for the scent of detergent in the air, the smell of body odor would be overwhelming. 

Both Rose and Jack were dressed in the last dregs of their summer wardrobe, which for Jack meant a white vest and loose pair of shorts. For Rose, it meant an uncomfortable day squirming in the tightest denim shorts she owned, trying to keep her too large knickers from peeking out the top. Thankfully, the oversized Beatles shirt that Rose had stolen from Ianto months ago was doing a good job covering any slip ups.  

Jack bumped her shoulder. “Sorry about this. I’ll get a guy over to look at the washing machine this week, I swear.”

“It’s not your fault; I could have done it, too,” she replied with a dismissive wave. “In any case, never too good for the coin laundry.”

“Yeah, but I told you I would take care of it.” He shook his head. “Too bad the Doc isn’t around. He’d have it fixed in no time.”

“Or blow the flat to kingdom come,” she said with a delicate snort. “And there is no inbetween.”

Jack laughed. “Yeah, I remember.” He went quiet, rubbing his palms together. “I’m sorry if this is bringing up bad memories.”

“What? Whaddya mean?” she asked. 

“You have that look on your face.”

“What look?”

“The one that says you’re thinking about him,” Jack replied.

Rose smirked. “Shows what you know. I was thinking about mum.”

He raised a skeptical brow that said he wasn’t really buying it and slung an arm around her shoulder. “He’ll be back for you one day. You know that, don’t you?”  

She nodded, leaning into his side. “I know, Jack. I know this isn’t the end. I won’t let it be.”

[sparklingchan]

Taste of Spring || Han Jisung (Stray Kids)

Pairing : Reader (fem.) x Han.

Word count : 2.4k+

Warnings : Cuss words, slight mentions of heartbreak, not proof read. .

Genre : Fluff, slight angst , best friends to lovers AU.

Description : For Jisung, the world is either black or white - friendship or love. You happen to find yourself stuck in the grey.

A/N: Haven’t written an skz drabble in a while so yeah, here it is(whatever this is lol) and I’ve had this in my drafts for a whole month now. Damn. Sorry, Jisung.

I hope y’all like it <3

Enjoy!

You had not seen your best friend in what felt like ages when in reality it had only been two weeks or so. But you often find yourself missing him at odd hours ,at the most random moments these days.

"I'll be back before dinner. Take care of my cat. Please." You call out to your sister who sits on the couch , sipping some cucumber induced water that apparently burns calories, and watching a very brutal, violent TV show that you wouldn't even want to ask her about.

"Say hi to Jisung for me." she replies with a quirk of an eyebrow, her lips curving into a sly grin. You roll your eyes but the heat has already tinted your cheeks and ears red by the time you exit your house and are walking down the street towards Han Jisung's abode.

As you continue on the road, you feel the taste of an incoming Spring in the air, sweet and full of love. You didn't know why or how or even if it were at all possible in the first place, but you could feel spring knocking on the door ,waiting to be welcomed in.

An old couple walks past you, hand in hand and eyes focused on each other and you inevitably catch yourself thinking about Jisung for some reason. You've both made a lot of fond memories during your spring breaks - you were both inseparable back then.

Even now you are inseparable but things are different.

He was your best friend and nothing more ,yet you find yourself questioning your true feelings towards the boy these days more often than not ,all whilst wondering when you had crossed over the line of wanting to be friends to something more.

"Oh,y/n! Come on in ,honey." Jisung's mother has been nothing but sweet to you throughout all 18 years of your life and you honestly blamed her for making you want to visit their place more often.

But then again, maybe it's not really the mother's hospitality that pulled you in, maybe it is her son's tooth decaying sweetness that brings out the deepest desires from your heart.

You walk into their house , a sense of familiarity washes over you just how it does whenever you walk into your own house too.

"He's in his room ,as usual. Go on. I'll send some snacks in for you." She adds, patting you softly on the shoulder.

Jisung's room is almost always a mess and sometimes one might even find the boy leaving a trail of garbage everywhere he goes, so you aren't surprised when you find a few crumpled piece of paper lying just outside his door. Clumsy little Han.

"Ji-" your words are cut short when you hear his voice from inside , as loud as ever, probably speaking to one of his friends who he also lovingly refers to as his babies(he sometimes calls you baby too ; on purpose or by accident, who knows?) But he seems very into the conversation right now - almost serious which you find rather unlikely for Han Jisung who has very proudly nicknamed himself as Comedian Han since eight grade.

It's the semester break and spring is around the corner - two things Jisung loves the most in the world so there should be no apparent reason for him to be having this deep of a conversation, especially early in the morning. However as his voice grows louder and more frustrated , you cannot help but wonder if there is actually something seriously troubling him.

Curious , you peek into the room through the small crack of the door.

"I know I'm being a coward Changbin but I can't do that to her. She's all I have ,man." he speaks into the phone , leaning down on his rotatory chair.

You freeze in your spot,your heartbeat resonating from every inch of your body. Who's he talking about?

"What? Are you out of your mind? I cannot tell her what I feel. That's the whole point of this damn phone call ,you fucker!" he yells.

You focus harder on their voices , trying to make out the gibberish Changbin replies with from the other end of the call.

Your body aches from standing so soundlessly, leaning half against the wall and half against the wooden door but you tell yourself to bear it for a little longer.

"No. No way. I can't. I can't do this to y/n!" Jisung hisses into the phone and then with a big pop, your bubble bursts -a bubble that you'd been building since you both were kids , designed carefully with dreams and hopes of a happy ever after with the boy in front of you. But you were weaving these dreams out of nothing but thin air. There never was anything to begin with and you always knew that.

Of course he has another girl in his life. He doesn't owe anything to you. You have no right to feel these strong emotions of jealousy and anger. You are just friends, right?

But imagining him with another woman was a poison you didn't put too much thought into until this very moment. You should have been prepared, really.

All hopes have left your side.

You turn around and walk out the same way that you came in , ignoring his mother's questions and concerned gaze. 

You want to be alone right now. Alone and away from everything that ever connected you with Han fucking Jisung.

***

He is a peculiar man, your best friend , loud yet calm , talented yet humble,his songs make more sense than his words ever could - but he intrigues you so much. It would take you a lot of time to figure Han Jisung out and you had only hoped to solve this puzzle before.. well , before he chooses to hold someone else's hand in the walk of life while you just watch from a far.

And now, you've finally run out of that borrowed time. Without even finishing half of the puzzle . The last tick of your time together has tocked.

That night, as you let the arms of grief and heartbreak pull you in , your cat(also called Snowflake) cuddles right beside you, staring at you as if it understood you.

Maybe it did. Because even you couldn't understand yourself anymore.

***

"Y/n, wake the fuck up! Come on,open the door." Your sister bangs on your door while simultaneously throwing words at you that were extremely inappropriate for an early morning conversation.

Annoying bitch. She's never cared to wake you up in the morning all your lives. Why is she changing her ways now?

You groan into your pillow, "Go away! I'll be out when I want to."

Your eyes barely find enough strength to keep themselves open. Your body aches and the bedsheet creases on your skin show evidence of a very good night's sleep in contrary to the misery you were subjected to just a few hours before that.

A heavy heart induces a good sleep , you conclude.

"I literally do not care about what you want ,y/n!" She yells against,her fist pounding against the door with more force now than from a while ago,"Come out. Right this instant."

Snowflake - who was chilling on the floor, playing with her toys - jumps on the bed ,pressing her fluffy body against your chest ,eyes glazed with fear.

"Fine. Fine. Can you stop yelling? You're scaring my baby." You reply, taking Snowflake into your arms as you run a soothing hand through her white fur.

Forcing yourself out of bed , you waddle towards the door.

"What do you want?" You unlock the door and with hooded eyes , yell at your sister, "Can you not be so fucking annoying this early in the morning?!"

Instant regret is what you feel the moment your sister steps aside, and you see the blurry figure of Han Jisung in front of your bedroom door.

Pure terror seizes you ,as your brain loses all its ability to form any response in that moment, “Hi, y/n. Can we please talk?" Jisung says, his mouth twisted into a sad smile and his puffy eyes looking at the floor.

Has he been crying? 

He wears his favorite black hoodie and a pair of grey track pants along with his SpongeBob flip flops. The bird nest on his head looks even more disheveled today, even so you find your heart beat fasten seeing this domestic look on him.

No matter what, Han Jisung is pretty.

Really pretty.

And if you were given a coin everytime you acknowledged it, you'd be a millionaire by now.

"Aw, Jisung honey, don't ask. Just walk into her room. I'm sure she's glad to see you too." Your sister replies in your stead ,sending glares towards you as if to say 'You better listen to him.'

And you're too shocked to react when he politely brushes past you and walks inside your room, settling himself at the edge of the bed. You make sure to shove a middle finger up in front of your sister's face before following suit .

Jisung's enquiries start the moment you step inside.

"I was so worried, y/n. You left my house without saying anything to anyone. Your phone was off. I wanted to come here but mom said you looked upset and that I should wait until the morning. " he sucks in a deep breath , "Y/n, baby, what the fuck happened?"

There's that word again. That damn word which has the ability to set your whole body on fire even on a cold morning like this one.

You hate the affect he has on you. You hate the affect his words have on you.

"Nothing." You mumble.

Snowflake wiggles out of your arms, and towards him.

Betrayer.

"Don't even lie to me. I am not that stupid." Jisung argues as Snowflake settles in his lap, "Y/n, have I not made it clear that I will be here for you, no matter what?"

You want to laugh. He really thinks you trust him so much that you'd tell him everything going on with you.

He's delusional - you can't possibly tell the boy you are in love with that he is the boy you are in love with. It's completely mental.

"I'm not in the mood for this conversation right now. Go home, Sungie." You say , sitting down on the bed, as far away from his warm body as possible.

Jisung sighs, "Not happening. You can call the police for all I care but I'm not moving my ass before you tell me what happened."

Snowflake snuggles into his tummy, Jisung's fingers giving her soft belly and ear rubs. 

So this is what your life has come down to - you are jealous of your cat who is getting more affection from your best friend slash crush (who is interested in someone else) than you ever did. Brilliant.

"I fucking love you , you dumb fuck. Why do you never notice! "

Jisung's lips widen into a smile. Of course Jisung knew. He has always known. Only a blind person would not notice your not very subtle efforts to win his heart and make him fall for you. Maybe it was you who was a dumb fuck because you never figured out how much Jisung loves you too even after being best friends for so long.

"You hear that, Snowflake? You heard what mommy said? She said she loves me! " Jisung's eye's glint with happiness as he picks up Snowflake, peppering her with smooches, "Your mommy loves me!"

You stare at him , confused beyond anything.

Jisung turns to you, his big signature grin fixated on his lips , " Is that why you ran away yesterday? Because God decided to punch you with the realization that you are in love with me?"

You scoff, "No, I left because you and Seo Changbin were talking about the other girl who you referred to as 'all you have '. I didn't want to know what else you refer to her as."

Jisung laughs , his shoulders vibrating with the action and his hands finding their way towards yours(Ha! How's that Snowflake!)

"You said that you heard me talk about some other girl so you must have heard some name too ,right?" He questions you , his fingers clutching your hand as if he were afraid of you running off again.

"Yeah, of course I did!" you clap back , "I heard the name - " Your heart drops as the crystal clear memory from yesterday flashes into your mind.

Jisung raises an eyebrow, a mischievous grin adorning his face, "Yes? What's that?"

Oh.

Oh.

"You had said my name." you whisper.

You divert your gaze from him and focus on your clasped hands and how perfect they look together - like the sole purpose of their creation was to hold each other.

Jisung shifts closer to you , your mattress dipping under his weight.

"Yes. I said your name." He tucks a few strands of hair behind your ears , "I said that I couldn't lose you because you're all that I have. And I didn't want my romantic feelings toward you to change anything between us."

Your breath gets stuck in your throat when he leans toward your face.

"So y/n, Will you please stop assuming things and be my girlfriend ?" Jisung asks.

You free your hand from his and slide them around his torso, hugging him.

"Yes, yes." you whisper, "A thousand times yes."

He engulfs you in the warmest hug possible, his hand rubbing your side comfortingly while he whispers sweet nothings into your ears.

"Sungie look, its a butterfly." You break away from the hug momentarily to point at the yellow and blue winged butterfly that settles down on top of Snowflake 's head.

Snowflake snarls at it , trying to chase it away with her paws while you and Jisung giggle. With arms secured around the other.

"Spring is on its way, isn't it?" He asks you ,"You know what it means?"

"More green vegetables?"

"Shut up ,y/n, you're so unromantic!"

You guys giggle a little more.

"No, but seriously ,what does it mean?" you ask , looking up at him from his chest.

Jisung presses a sweet, heartwarming kiss to your head , "New beginnings. Blossoming of New things."

Hs stares at you like he's trying to say something to you without using words and you like to be believe that you are able to get what he wants to say ; it's a new beginning for you guys.

Because you've finally crossed over this border line of friendship and stepped into the zone of no return, exiting the grey area you disliked so much.

And you know every second of it will be beautiful.

[wizardofrozz]

Prompt 5: Hell

Sam Winchester, Crowley, implied Dean Winchester x Castiel

Word Count: 2,082

Warnings: swearing, violence, grief, blood

Dean threw the church doors open, and his only thought was to find Sam. He did a double-take when his eyes caught Crowley in the fetal position on the floor, but he shook it away. He sprinted across the room, searching like a mad man through the discarded pews and destroyed confessionals for any sign of his baby brother.

           “Sam!” Dean screamed, throwing chunks of wood haphazardly. “No, no, no….” Blinding panic roared in his veins, his hands shaking so bad he couldn’t properly grab at anything. “Sammy!” Dean paced back and forth, kicking at stray pieces of debris, his hand moving to tug on his hair as tears welled in his eyes. “SAM!”

The decision to slam the gates of Hell had been an easy one for the younger Winchester; he didn’t care what it cost him if it meant millions of people would be safe. Just before finishing the final trial, Sam could feel it; he could feel the trials killing him, but he didn’t care. He found peace in knowing his soul would find happiness in Heaven, and one day his brother would join him. The final words rang out, loud and strong after Crowley’s last injection; Sam dropped to his knees, smiling at the ceiling despite the cell-deep agony tearing through him.

The first thing his brain recognized was the sweltering heat that seeped in the marrow of his bones. The agonizing wails were the next thing to register; the sound resonated in his head, making him coil in on himself, but his arms didn’t move. Sam tugged, but something was holding his wrists and ankles down, and that’s when the fear set in.

           “Well, well, well,” a throaty voice sang. “Someone’s coming around.” Sam’s eyes shot open, snapping around the dim room; his hazel eyes dropped down to the figure across the room. Their dark form shifted and twisted before his eyes, their face coming into focus the longer he stared. If it wasn’t for staring into Lucifer’s true face for hundreds of years, Sam was sure the demon’s face would’ve terrified him. Once the thought crossed his mind, realization slammed into him, forcing his eyes to open wider.

           “No,” Sam whispered.

           “Oh yes,” the demon hissed. “Did you really think you’d go to paradise after slamming the doors? Hm?”

           “Bite me,” Sam barked, lunging as far forward as he could.

           “Oh, darling, I’m going to do much worse than that,” the demon laughed, slithering across the room. The bottomless pits the demon called eyes trailed over Sam’s body, and he could’ve sworn the demon looked in awe. “I don’t know how I managed to get the Boy King on my rack, but I couldn’t be happier.”

           “I’ve been tortured by the devil himself,” Sam laughed bitterly. “What can you do to me?”

           “Whatever I want,” the demon snarled, its rancid breath curling around Sam as it loomed over him. “And nothing is stopping your soul from twisting and warping this time.” The demon’s manic laughter echoed off the wall, mingling with Sam’s screams as it made the first cut.

Cas would disappear for weeks, leaving Dean alone in the eerie silence of the bunker. He knew he couldn’t follow Cas to Heaven, but that didn’t stop the aching loneliness from settling around him like a thick fog.

           “Ah! Squirrel.” Dean jumped at Crowley’s voice, shuffling up to sit properly in his seat; he scrubbed at his face before looking in the direction of the ex-demon’s voice.

           “Crowley,” Dean grunted.

           “Feathers still off on his mission above?” Crowley dropped into the chair on Dean’s left; it was still unsettling to see Crowley in anything other than a three-piece suit, looking more human than ever.

           “Yeah,” Dean hummed, crossing his arms on the library table. “This is the last trip. If he can’t find Sam’s soul, it’s not in Heaven.” Dean tried not to dwell on the thought, but it was getting harder and harder to look at the bright side.

           “Are you ready to accept if he’s not there?” Crowley whispered, dropping his gaze. The hunter’s head snapped up, ready to tear into the other man, but he deflated when he caught the unfamiliar pained expression on Crowley’s face.

           “I don’t know,” Dean whispered honestly. If Sam’s soul wasn’t in Heaven, that left only one place it could be, and it made him want to blow chunks. The library fell silent, and every pop and groan of the bunker sounded like bombs going off; Dean’s ringtone pierced through the room, almost sending Dean tumbling out of his chair. “Heya Cas.”

           “Hello Dean,” Cas sighed. Dean could hear the rumble of Cas’ truck in the background and his heart sank to his feet.

           “He’s not there,” Dean mumbled absently.

In a desperate attempt to save the world from Abaddon, in between scouring the Earth for a way to find Sam, Dean shouldered Cain’s burden. The Mark of Cain was like an itch Dean couldn’t scratch; a constant ache under his skin that screamed for murder. Dean’s fingers spun the beer bottle on the table, the ring of condensation making it glide easily against the wood. The only indication that he didn’t hear Cas’ approach was a twitch in his finger; Cas’ warm hand cupped the back of his neck, nimble fingers massaging away the tension at the base of his skull.

           “I think I’ve found a way into Hell,” Cas whispered, his grip on Dean’s neck tightening.

Cas peaked around the corner, waving Dean on when he found the hall empty; the pair crept down the hall, their heads on a swivel.

           “Dean Winchester.” Dean jolted upright, turning slowly towards the voice, swallowing the sigh to match Cas’. He could see the outline of at least another 15 demons in the shadows at the end of the hall, and the Mark screamed, nearly pulling him down the hall.

           “Where’s my brother?”

           “Ballsy to demand answers when your outnumbered,” the demon snorted, crossing its arms.

           “Have you met us?” Dean huffed, spinning the angel blade in his hand. He didn’t waste another second, and Cas followed close behind; they bobbed and weaved, dodging punches and slamming their blades home. Dean ducked as Cas jammed his blade through the chin of a demon sneaking up behind him.

           “Enough!” The hallway fell silent, aside from Dean and Cas’ labored breathing, as the fighting came to an abrupt halt. Dean squinted at the figure moving through the shadow at the end of the hall; he glanced over at Cas, who only shrugged and turned back to the approaching figure.

           “And who the hell are you,” Dean snapped, straightening his shoulders. The figure stopped at the edge of the shadow, its head tilting slightly.

           “I’m hurt, Dean,” the demon chuckled. “I thought you’d recognize me.” Dean took a closer look, but their features were too dark to make out anything. The man looked relaxed; the lapels of his coat flared out where his hands were stuffed in his pockets; Dean’s eyes moved higher over the stupidly tall figure, stopping at his head. He could make out the swoops of hair around the man’s shoulders, but the most striking thing was the outline of a crown perched on the top of his head.

           “Alright, I’ll bite,” Dean sighed, rolling his eyes. “Who are you.” The man chuckled, lifting one left dramatically before stepping into the light of the hallway; his head dropped down to his left with a cocky grin twisting across his face. All the blood drained from Dean’s face, his body suddenly feeling too hot and too cold; Cas gasped from behind him, taking a step back.

           “Surprise,” Sam chuckled, lifting his head, black eyes staring back at them.

           “S-Sam,” Cas croaked, sniffling softly.

           “Ah, Cas,” Sam hummed, smirking at the angel, blinking his hazel eyes back.

           “Get out of my brother,” Dean growled, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed.

           “Dean,” Cas whispered. “That is Sam.”

           “No, no, that’s bullshit,” Dean stuttered, shaking his head violently.

           “Is it?” Sam snorted, tilting his head again. “I mean, I was destined to be the Boy King of Hell.” Sam’s smile looked more like a snarl, and it made Dean’s skin crawl; that wasn’t the boyish smile of his little brother anymore. “Since you’re here, I should probably thank you.”

           “What,” Dean stuttered, glancing at Cas again.

           “Well, you opened the gates of Hell for me,” Sam laughed, slowly wandering closer. “I didn’t even have to do anything.” Sam continued forward, his hazel eyes shifting back and forth between Dean and Cas; the demons still hovering nearby moved away. “On top of that, you even made my reign easier!” Sam smiled again, and it was so painfully familiar, Dean felt the ache of grief in his chest.

           “What do you want from us?” Cas snarled next to Dean’s ear.

           “You,” Sam replied, licking his lips. Dean spun on his heels when Cas groaned; two demons stood over the angel, holding him on his knees. The older Winchester turned on his brother again, his dull green eyes pleading, yearning for a tiny bit of the old Sam to still be in there.

           “Sam, please,” Dean cried softly, fight the tears threatening to roll down his face.

           “Oh, brother,” Sam cooed, stepping into Dean’s personal space. He flinched when Sam’s giant hand rested on his cheek, but his touch was gentle. “Do you really think I don’t know about the Mark?”

           “No!” “What about it?” Cas and Dean talked over each other; Cas struggled, but the demons held strong.

           “I originally thought you were going to be useless to me but now? Now I have something the kings before me didn’t,” Sam whispered, his thumb brushing against Dean’s stubble.

           “Please!” Cas cried, grunting and struggling against the iron grip on his arms.

           “I’m gonna have an angel under my thumb,” Sam started, glancing over Dean’s shoulder.

           “Cas will never work for you,” Dean cut in, glaring at Sam.

           “How cute,” Sam chuckled, patting his brother’s cheek. “You think he has a choice.” Sam nodded at someone over Dean’s head, and when he tried to look, Sam’s hand closed around his chin, yanking his head back to face him. “And on top of my angel, I’ll have my own personal Knight.”

           “Knight?” Dean managed through his puckered lips.

           “I wish I was surprised at how stupid you can be,” Sam sighed, rolling his eyes. “When you die, the Mark will bring you back as one of the most powerful demons: A Knight of Hell. Sooo, aside from bringing me an angel I can twist and shape, you gave me a Knight! Thank you, brother.”

           “Don’t do this,” Dean whispered, blinking hard at the burning in his eyes. Sam looked over his head again, and his face darkened, a twisted smile spreading across his face.

           “Sh, watch the show,” Sam whispered, turning Dean to face Cas. The angel was bucking and screaming, trying to whip his head back and forth away from the bleeding wrist of the demon looming over him. Despair flared up in Dean’s heart, tears steadily rolling down his face as he watched the demon jerk Cas’ head back by a fist full of hair; blood smeared across Cas’ lips as he choked on it, letting out a low distressed sound. The demon clapped a hand over his mouth when he removed his wrist, hissing something in the angel’s ear. Cas slumped back on his knees, his head hanging and his shoulders pitching up with each inhale when the demon released him.

Cas finally lifted his head, bearing his blood-stained teeth, and locking eyes with Sam over Dean’s shoulder. “Fuck you, Sam Winchester.”

           “I’ll pass,” Sam chuckled. “Wouldn’t want to make my brother jealous; you are his angel.” Dean slumped back against his brother, his expression broken and empty. Cas retched forward, crying out and panting, his body convulsing. “Don’t worry, Dean. I’ll still let you have your fun with the angel as long as you behave.” Sam’s breath puffed against his ear, and he felt his heart shatter in his chest; he didn’t even realize Sam had shifted behind him. “See you soon.”

Dean gasped when the blade pierced his back; he looked down at the angel blade protruding from his chest before shifting his gaze back to Cas. Steadily dulling blue eyes were the last thing he saw before everything went black and his body hit the floor.

Masterlist

Taglist: 

@marvelfansworld​ 

[floral-and-fine]

When Light Enters the Wound part 1

Sandor Clegane x female reader

Title inspired by this quote: "The wound is the place where the Light enters you.”- Rumi

Summary: When The Hound is saved by brother Ray, he meets the woman who brought him back from the brink of death.

A/n: So I suddenly had the urge to write my first GOT fic, mostly because I'm thirsty for Sandor. Thank you @ewokiee​ and @liamakorn​ for all the help!

*not my gif

Cracking an eye open, Sandor was greeted by a heavenly sight, a lovely woman leaning over him as the sunlight shone upon her, resembling a divine glow. The sky above her was a brilliant blue and there was a gentle breeze that tickled his face.

Sandor felt fingertips delicately skim across his cheek and neck, her touch was so light and feathery that it caused goosebumps to appear in its wake.

Surely, he was hallucinating, his mind playing tricks on him as his body bled out, or perhaps it was a fever dream caused by infection. Either way, there was no way in hell any of this was real.

Not able to keep his eyes open any longer, he allowed sleep to take him. Sandor would consider himself a lucky man if he died in his sleep dreaming about a beautiful woman he’s never met, it was far better than the alternative, to continue rotting slowly on this godforsaken hill.

But when had he ever been lucky?

…

Sandor furrowed his brow as he opened his eyes, he had expected to either be dead or still outside waiting for a wild animal to finish him off, not in some tent.

Sitting up, he was shocked to find how good he felt, his body was well-rested, free of any aches and sores. Rolling his shoulders he noted that the gash that had been giving him such grief was gone and his leg had healed.

Immediately, he started patting the rest of himself down, lifting up his tunic, searching for any bruises or cuts, but there wasn’t a single scratch on him.

“What in the seven hells?” He muttered lowly. No healer in Westeros was this good or thorough, he should be dead…

His attention was drawn away from his thoughts, as the flap of the tent was drawn back and an older man with dark gray curls and sympathetic blue eyes stepped in.

The stranger chuckled to himself. “It’s nice to see you awake,” he commented, with a smile. “Honestly, I can’t believe you survived.”

Sandor grunted in response, “you and me both.”

The man sighed, crouching down. “I shouldn’t be as surprised as I am,” he explained, with a shrug. “But you were so close to death, that even I doubted she could save you.”

Sandor’s eyes narrowed. “She who? Was this the work of some fucking witch?” He spat.

The man didn’t seem phased by Sandor’s aggression or accusation, actually having found it more entertaining than anything else.

“I don’t think she’s a witch,” he answered truthfully. “But I’m no expert on the matter.”

“So if you’re not the one who healed me, then who are you?” Sandor interrogated.

“Name’s Ray,” the man introduced himself. “I’m the Septon here.”

Sandor rolled his eyes, “course you are.”

“My flock and I have decided to settle down here in these parts.”

“Where’s here?”

The Septon smiled and gestured to the exit.

Sandor cautiously got to his feet, standing upright without any pain. How the hell had he been fortunate enough for some magical healer to find and save him?

He grimaced at the thought, he wasn’t sure what to think of it, seemed too good to be true, so there had to be a catch, some bullshit about the Lord of Light or The Seven.

Ray took a deep breath, breathing in the fresh air as he took in the sight. “Beautiful isn’t it?”

Sandor hummed half-heartedly, it was nothing special just hills, trees, same old shit he’s seen for months now since leaving King’s Landing.

As they walked, Sandor noticed everyone hard at work, women cooking, men building, children running and playing.

These people were the decent and simple sort, not the kind of people Sandor was accustomed to. People in the city were always looking for a way to screw each other over as a way to gain more power or gold. He had grown accustomed to being wary of strangers, never letting his guard down in King's Landing or while he's been on his own, it was all part of surviving in this world.

As the flock noticed him approaching, they kept their distance but were polite enough.

“They’ll warm up to you if you give ‘em a chance,” Ray reassured. “Doubt they’ve ever seen anyone quite as intimidating as you.”

Sandor didn’t give two fucks, either way, they already treated him better than most people he’s encountered over his life.

Suddenly, Sandor stopped dead in his tracks as he spotted a familiar face, he couldn’t believe she was real.

The woman from his hallucinations was sitting alone, washing clothing in a small stream. Her face scrunched in concentration as she scrubbed the linen against the washboard.

The Septon followed Sandor’s gaze and smiled, “that’s her, the one who healed you.”

Sandor nodded, swallowing thickly, he couldn’t tear his eyes off of her.

“She’s a good woman, remarkably kind... and forgiving,” something about the Septon’s expression indicated that he knew rather well just how forgiving she was.

“When we found you, I thought you were already dead and was ready to put you in the ground,” Ray recounted. “But she got down on her knees, and pressed her ear to your chest, and was able to hear the faint beating of your heart...insisted that we take you in.”

Almost as if she could sense the Septon speaking of her, her head turned in their direction. Her eyes lit up as she recognized her patient up and about.

Forgetting about the laundry, she stood up and made her way towards them, stopping just a few feet from Sandor.

“How are you feeling?” She asked, her voice soft and warm, a tone unfamiliar to Sandor as people rarely spoke to him before in such a manner.

“Fine,” Sandor grunted, looking away.

“I’m glad,” she smiled. “Never seen anyone in such bad shape before.”

“What can I say, I’m a big man and tough to kill.”

She laughed lightly, a genuine smile tugging at her lips as she looked up at him. “Do you have a name stranger?”

Sandor looked down, worried to reveal his identity, his reputation as The Hound preceded him. These were decent people who took him in, and they may not be too fond of having a murderer amongst them.

“Sandor Clegane,” he finally answered.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir,” she tilted her head. “I’m y/n l/n.”

Y/n, the name suited her, or at least Sandor thought so.

“Well, I better finish the wash,” she muttered, looking back at the basket and clothes. She waved goodbye, her eyes meeting Sandor’s before she sauntered away.

“Still think she’s a witch?” Ray teased.

It was odd to Sandor, neither y/n nor Ray behaved like the religious sort he had encountered in King’s Landing or anywhere else for that matter. Most of the ones he met acted like they were holier than the gods themselves, looking down at the common folk for living their lives, for just existing.

The Hound quickly found his place amongst the community, Although he kept to himself, he worked harder than any other man and did whatever work was needed.

He was breathing heavily, swinging the ax over and over again. The dull thwack of the ax splitting the wood was all he could hear.

These hills were quiet and peaceful, perhaps Ray was right and there was something beautiful about this place. Sandor hadn’t given it much thought, but it seemed that in comparison the city was cruel and chaotic and smelled like piss.

Since sunrise, Sandor had been working without pause, not even stopping for lunch. Even while working he seemed to keep his distance from the others, and the only people who ever came around him were Ray and y/n.

Hearing a twig snap behind him, Sandor, out of habit, swung around with the ax in hand, prepared to attack but immediately lowered it when he saw that it was y/n standing there.

“For god sake woman, don’t you know better than to come sneaking up behind somebody?” He complained, gritting his teeth. “It’s a good way to get yourself killed.”

Most people would shrink away from Sandor, especially after such an outburst, but y/n didn’t even flinch, and he was grateful for it. The last thing he wanted was for her to stop coming around.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” she laughed.

Sandor scowled, “you didn’t scare me, but we might need to get you a bell or something, so I don’t kill you by accident.”

She shook her head and smiled at him. “I brought you some supper.”  She held out the plate towards him. “Figured you were due for a break.”

He nodded, setting the ax down before taking a seat on a nearby log. Y/n joined him, sitting by his side just a few inches of space between them.

Typically, Sandor wasn’t one for company, but he made an exception for her. She was different, didn’t avoid him, and always looked him in the eye, never shying away. He wasn’t used to this kind of treatment, especially not from a woman.

Sandor had yet to figure out why y/n even bothered with him at all, why she brought him his meals and kept him company in the evenings, or why she even bothered to save his life.

“It’s a nice day,” she wondered out loud, admiring the sky.

Sandor shrugged, focused more on his filling his belly than the weather.

“Suppose we better enjoy while we can,” she noted, soon everything would be covered in a blanket of snow, that would last for years.

She bit her lip, thinking about how she wouldn’t mind spending a long winter with Sandor, surely he’d be able to keep her warm during the long nights.

A couple of men came rushing towards y/n and Sandor. “Lady y/n come quick,” one of them started. “Efran fell while working on top of the sept.”

“It looks real bad,” the other added.

She immediately got to her feet, lifting her skirts to keep up as Sandor followed.

When they arrived, the group of people surrounding Efran parted allowing y/n through.

The poor man was lying on the ground groaning, his leg was twisted and bone poking through. She crouched down beside him, then looked up. “We’re going to need to set the leg first. Someone hold him still please.”

Sandor stood behind the group, peering over their heads, he was curious to see just what y/n was capable of.

The man howled in agony as they held him down and y/n straightened out his leg, popping the bone back into place. “That’s the worst of it,” she said, trying to comfort Efran.

Laying her hand upon his leg, y/n closed her eyes, Sandor could’ve sworn that she was glowing, a gentle light emanating from her body. Several moments passed, all eyes were on her and everything was silent.

As she opened her eyes and lifted her hand, the gash and bone had healed, looked as good as new.

“Take him to his tent so he can rest,” y/n instructed, dusting off her skirts as she got off the ground.

“So how are you able to… heal others?” Sandor asked bluntly, now that they were alone again.

“Not sure,” she said, folding her arms. “I’ve never really been the religious type, I don’t pray or even know who or what to worship for that matter… Ray says it’s proof that there’s something, but I don’t have any answers.”

Y/n noticed the rough conditions of his hands, they were rugged and calloused from before, but she could see new blisters forming and small cuts all over his knuckles, most likely the result of all his hard work.

Reaching out she took his hands in hers. Her thumbs gently caressing over his skin. A warmth began to spread from her touch to his skin.

“Good night, Sandor,” she murmured, before letting loose of his healed hands.

…

The morning was still young when the flock had gathered to listen to the Septon's sermon.

When Ray started to speak, it wasn’t what Sandor expected. It wasn’t a lecture on sin or how the gods were judging them.

The Septon’s story hit a little too close to home for Sandor. He had always believed that the only thing he was good for was killing. For the king and for that shit Joffrey, he had committed horrible atrocities, he murdered an innocent child for gods' sakes.

Sandor’s eyes flickered down to y/n who was sitting in front of him as he stood behind her. He wondered how much she knew about his past. Would she still be just as sweet and kind to him if she ever saw what he was capable of?

Ray’s attention turned to y/n then Sandor, the older man couldn’t help but notice how Sandor looked at the healer of his flock. He recognized almost immediately how much he and the Hound had in common, and knew well what inner turmoils the man was struggling with.

“I was hired as a sword for a pretty damn easy job,” he sighed continuing his story. “Just had to kill a woman. I didn’t care why didn’t even question it, Figured it was as good as done.”

Ray ran a hand through his hair. “On my travels to the small village she resided in, I was ambushed by some bandits, they robbed me blind and left me for dead out on that road. I thought this had to be it, they took my money, my horse, cut me open… and then things went dark until I woke up in a small hut.”

“The villagers had brought me to their healer, a young orphaned girl... when she introduced herself that’s when I realized that this girl was the one I was sent to kill.”

“You’d think I would’ve changed my mind right then, and leave her be,” the Septon shook his head a distant look in his eye. “But I had just lost everything, I needed that gold, or at least that’s the excuse I made.”

“I bided my time, gained the trust of the village before deciding to act,” Ray looked down at his clasped hands. “On that fateful night, I took a knife from the kitchen, and was fully prepared to slit her throat as she slept… but as I held it, pressing the sharp edge against her skin, it hit me about how I was taking something good from the world, and how goodness was so rare to find. Who knows how much goodness I had already taken from the world, what right did I have to take more?”

Y/n smiled at the Septon, encouraging him to finish their story.

“For the first time in my life, I wanted to do the same to bring some goodness into the world, no more death, no more senseless violence… that wasn’t going to be my life anymore,” Ray wandered over to y/n, patting her shoulder. “Since then, I’ve changed my ways, and with the time I’ve got left, I plan to use it for good.”

Just as the Septon's lesson started to sink in for Sandor, three men on horses approached.

Ray tried to appease them, but still, their presence made Sandor feel uneasy.

It didn’t take a genius to figure out that these men were up to no good. Stumbling upon this community was like finding an unguarded vault, supplies, food, women, all for the taking.

Y/n joined Ray, a kind smile on her face as she tried to reason with them as well.

It didn’t escape Sandor’s attention how the man in the yellow coat was eyeing y/n, the stranger's intentions were anything but good.

Sandor’s fists clenched as they made eye contact, he should grab an ax or something and take care of them now.

But Ray seemed to urge against it.

“Do you really think they’ll come back?” Y/n asked once the three strangers had left.

Sandor’s shoulders slumped, “Aye, to them this is easy pickings… unarmed common folk with plenty of supplies and food.”

Y/n wrung her hands nervously. “I see,” she mumbled, looking back at the tents, these were her friends, her family, this was meant to be a safe haven. For the last decade or so, she and Ray had worked hard towards their goal, they were so close to it now.

Sighing, Sandor laid a hand over both of hers, “I’ll do what I can… just stay with me.”

She nodded, taking in a deep breath, “you’re a good man, Sandor.”

He shook his head, “I’m no such thing.”

“It’s a shame you don’t see it,” she said softly, now cradling his large hand in both of hers. “When I spotted you on that hill I saw so much potential, even covered in all that blood and dirt… the world needs you Sandor Clegane.”

For the rest of the day, y/n stayed by Sandor’s side, watching him work and helping when she could.

Deep down Sandor hoped his instincts were wrong, that those men would simply move on but when a shrill scream shattered the peaceful silence, he already knew it was too late.

Rage, as Sandor passed body after body, all he felt was rage. This community hadn’t done anything to deserve being slaughtered like this. They were innocent people, just trying to live their lives and do some good for the world. The monsters hadn’t spared anyone, not even the children.

This once-peaceful place, the place he was considering to call home, had now been desecrated by a massacre, completely destroyed.

‘Nowhere is safe.’ This tragedy solidified these words in his heart.

Sandor came to halt when the Septon came into view, feet dangling in the air as his body swung from the skeleton of the unfinished sept.

Y/n stumbled beside him, her sight blurred by tears, but it was her heart-wrenching cry when she saw the Septon that pulled Sandor from his stupor.

She fell to her knees, face twisted in anguish as she wailed, she had never seen such horrors in her life.

Grabbing her by the arm, Sandor yanked her to him, blocking her view of all the horrors that surrounded them, and wrapped his arms securely around her.

She buried her face against his chest as he held her close. Her fingers digging into his shoulders, as she clutched him as tightly, all the strength in her legs had given out.

As he comforted her, her pain only fueled his anger further, Sandor spotted an ax nearby, those fuckers were going to pay. He was going to hack them all to pieces.

He pulled away from her, his hands cupping her face, “we’re going after them, all of them.”

Stray tears fell from Y/n’s eyes and slid over Sandor’s hands. “Promise?” She whispered.

...

[oumaheroes]

WIP Extract- Breathe

This comes from my fic Reset, which is long and large and something that is most certainly impossible to read in a day.

The fic itself mainly focuses on England and France with FrUK as the relationship, but I enjoyed writing this interaction between Scotland and England and wanted to share. Context wise, England has been shot in the shoulder and has got himself into a bit of a political pickle- Scotland was called in to help dig him out of the very self-inflicted hole.

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Scotland did most of the talking. England was far too tired to argue or to properly conceptualise any next steps that were needed and the only emotion he found distinguishable from bone aching tiredness was deep gratitude. Now that everything was being handled by someone else, and someone else who England trusted to be competent, there was no panic or worry to keep him alert and he was finding it increasingly difficult to stay conscious, let alone remain focused on conversations enough to be able to provide intelligent input.

France was very much the same. He hadn't spoken much more since the motorhome, not even when North had laughed at him for his ridiculously baggy stolen clothes. The location of France's own things was a mystery- perhaps they had been abandoned at the care home or chucked out of the window as they'd driven here- who knew. Technically they were England's clothes anyway, so France wasn't too bothered.

The most France had done was rummage through Scotland's luggage before they set off and triumphantly pull one of Wales’ jumpers out from his suitcase to take for his own.

'If I ever insult the lovely Wales' fashion choices again, please remind me of this moment.'

It was a horribly garish thing, mottled with splashes of bright red and blue. It was entirely the sort of thing Scotland would also eye up and steal. Terrible looking though they may be, Wales' jumpers were, somehow, always the most comfortable and he was frequently annoyed with his siblings for taking them if he left them anywhere for too long, which he often did.

'We all know that as soon as you get back to your own clothes you will conveniently forget this conversation.'

France ignored England in favour of pulling the jumper over his head and giving a long sigh of contentment.

'Go on, hurry up,' Scotland pushed past him to the driver's door, causing him to stumble forwards, 'chuck England something to cover the blood and get in the car already. I'm leaving with or without you in five minutes.'

Although they now had the backing of the embassy to explain any erratic and untoward behaviour concerning the general public, England did look particularly horrific and it probably wouldn't end well if they waltzed in looking as they did. There was a high chance someone would panic and phone an ambulance which was the last thing anyone wanted- hospitals were always risky for their kind and drawing more attention to themselves at the moment wouldn't be wise.

Because of this, England before too long thankfully found himself in a hotel lobby wearing an extremely large green monstrosity he was most certainly not going to give back later.

Someone, probably not Scotland because the place was far too comfortable looking and Scotland was always the most careful (England preferred the word stingy) with money out of all of them, had arranged a hotel for them in Le Mans. It wasn't anywhere too extravagant or fancy but it was a bed each and that was honestly all England wanted right now. It wasn’t even that late in the evening but all he could think about was going to sleep somewhere and being left very much alone.

Sadly, he wasn't given that luxury. As soon as they'd checked in and avoided the suspicious eyes of the hotel staff, Scotland had bullied him into his room and through to the bathroom. He'd requested that the embassy bring additional medical supplies when they arrived for their nations to use and whilst England was pulling off the top most layers of clothing he unpacked them on his bed, picking out what he thought they'd need.

'It's not too bad,' England called out to him from the bathroom, giving up on his top completely and cackhandedly cutting his way free with a pair of medical scissors. In the room next door, he could hear the sound of a shower turning on- France must have jumped straight in, 'it'll be fine with a wash.'

Scotland returned with some bandages and antiseptic solution and placed them down on the counter, 'Sure.'

'Honestly.'

'Okay.'

'There's no point fussing, I can do it myself.'

England made a grab for the antiseptic but Scotland moved it back and away, out of easy reach, 'Christ, would you stop?'

'Just give it here, you go check on France or North.'

'No, England sit.'

There was a wooden chair in the bathroom and Scotland pulled it over and tried to push England into it. Too tired to properly fight him England sat, but reached over to the counter to grab for the gauze.

Scotland slapped his hand away and stood in front of them, blocking him.

'Scotland. Let me-'

'Bollocks to that, look,'

Scotland crouched down in front of him and England bristled immediately at the offense, 'Don't treat me like a child.' He wasn’t dying.

'I'm not, just,' Scotland made an exasperated noise, 'calm the fuck down.'

'I am calm, you are what is currently stressing me out.' England grit his teeth and forced himself to sound level-headed and somewhat close to polite. He really couldn't be arsed to deal with any more grief today and his tolerance for his brothers' particular flavour of annoyance was always low.

'No, hear me out for a minute,' Scotland put a large hand on England's good shoulder and let it rest there, heavy, and England tensed at the contact, 'breathe, for just one bloody second. Even before France came back you weren't feeling great and you've had a shit few days. Just breathe, and stop trying to take control of every damn thing.'

Scotland's eyes looked far too serious and, dare he say, concerned and England tried to shrug him off, 'I'm fine, I only got caught in the shoulder- it's nothing any of us haven't had before. There's no need for all of this,' England gestured with his head to the neat rolls of bandages and the bottle of antiseptic. They were modern luxuries to them; effective and modern medical supplies were only things that were easily to hand in the last century. England had received far worse injuries before, hell, had received far worse injuries from Scotland before- this truly was nothing worthy of any particular extra care or attention.

What he wanted was for Scotland to leave him alone and go and check on North, to make sure he was okay and let England pick at his shoulder how he wanted. Scotland wasn't usually one to provide any form of tender affection or coddling, whilst England had been growing up Scotland's method of child rearing at been a firm, rough bluntness that he now found oddly comforting and expected. This sort of behaviour usually came from Wales, so to see it from Scotland was incredibly unnerving.

'I'm not talking about the shoulder,' Scotland only tightened his hold and England tipped his head back against the wall in frustration, 'I can feel you better now that I'm close and you're putting me on edge.'

There were benefits to being in a political union. The UK was made up of four separate countries, four independent states with long, messy histories that intertwined yes, but were still very separate beings. However, under the United Kingdom they formed one nation, one political entity and that caused a strange blurring of self, sometimes. It gave them all a sort of fuzzy idea as to how the other members of the union were doing- how the English banks were faring, how the Welsh harvest was coming along, how much the tourism in Northern Ireland had swelled and boosted the local economy and how much the fishing industry was suffering in Scotland.

It was handy; it was extremely useful when it came to planning and understanding how to best move forward as one nation of 4 people, and it was also a pain.

It was a pain because England couldn't hide himself as much as he wanted to around his brothers these days, couldn't put on an entirely impenetrable mask of indifference as he would like because if there was something wrong then the other members of the United Kingdom would know about it, regardless of how much he tried to cover it up. He was used to this feeling of intimacy with Wales, who had been bound to him since 1301, but Scotland still felt somewhat new. They hadn't always had a peaceful relationship, their people had often been at very bloody war with each other, and at times it still felt odd for Scotland to read him so well, even after three hundred odd years together. Especially in moments when England wanted to come across differently to how he really felt.

It sometimes felt even stranger for Scotland to act upon England's vulnerability with kindness rather than take advantage, although England knew that he was being unfair to think that. He hadn't always given his eldest brother the opportunity to demonstrate anything other than what England had come to expect and a lot of that he knew in hindsight was self-inflicted.

As for right now...

England forced himself to meet Scotland’s eye, 'I'll be fine. I just need to sleep and eat something and get home.'

'Aye, I know,' Scotland gave his shoulder a brief pat before letting go, standing up to pick up the supplies on the counter, 'but you feel like you're gonna have a heart attack so until then, let someone else do something for a change. You don't have to do it all on your own.'

England closed his eyes and listened to the sound of the tap as Scotland washed his hands. Scotland was calm and healthy, his banks were strong, his people were happy and he felt steady and familiar- an old ancient lullaby and a well-trodden path to home.

Despite what he said, and even though he wouldn't never admit this even to himself, having Scotland nearby felt good and England had to concede that maybe his brother was right. He took a deep breath in and held it for a moment before letting it go, feeling the tension that he hadn't realised was there lift from his shoulders and jaw.

Scotland made a noise of approval and stepped closer, a calloused hand on England's arm to warn him about the incoming stinging sensation, 'everything is being handled. After this I'll go grab us something to eat, drag North in the shower, and you can go to bed.'

Belatedly, England realised that their entire conversation was being held in Brythonic and although a small part of himself was unamused that Scotland could trick and lull him into passivity so easily, he was mostly grateful for it. A shared history, a collective notion of stability, peace and default comfort wasn't something to take for granted. England couldn't quite bring himself to express this in words, but he hoped that his appreciation for it came across well enough by keeping his eyes shut and doing as he was told.

[sams-sass]

It’s All Coming Back To Me Now

Hello! I hope you guys like this one! Thanks for all the love and support!

Summary: You are falling for Sam until Swan Song happens, but there is something you don't know.

Pairings: Sam x Reader

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The grass was soft under your knees. There was nothing inside you left to give. You were completely and utterly hollow. Dean was next to you, also on his knees. His face was bloody and swollen, cracked and beaten flesh. You reached down and touched the grass, letting the blades run between your fingertips. An angry and broken sob left your mouth. Your body collapsed upon itself until your head touched the grass that just swallowed him whole. Your fingers clenched into the earth, dirt and grass digging under your fingernails. You felt a hand on your back as heavy and loud sobs wrecked your body. You looked up to Dean’s face, unbeaten and normal again. Cas stood in front of you, his body whole again.  

“I’m so sorry, Y/N.” He said, his eyes holding so much sorrow and grief. You didn’t trust your voice so you just nodded and wrapped your arms around yourself. He walked over to Bobby and touched his forehead, bringing him back to life. You let out a small breath of relief. Dean’s hand was on you again, you could hardly feel it. You turned to face him and wrapped your arms around his neck, sobbing into his shoulder. His arms circled you and pulled you tightly against him, his body shaking just as much as yours. Normally, hugging Dean brought you a feeling of happiness, but not now. Not after you had just watched the love of your life get swallowed up by the earth itself. Not after you knew the fate of him. Rotting in the pits of hell for all eternity. Your sweet, loving, and selfless Sam. Gone. Forever gone. Now, Dean’s embrace felt cold and crushing. His familiar scent made your nose scrunch. The tickle of his spiked hair only reminded you of Sam’s soft locks. You shut your eyes and pushed it all down. Everything you couldn’t handle. Everything you never got the chance to say. You buried deep within your gut, letting it fester and ferment into something else.  

You and Dean climbed into the impala, driving without a destination. The sound of the engine was making your skin crawl. The smooth leather seat was uncomfortable against your bones. The drive was quiet, too quiet. Neither one of you had spoken a word. There was nothing left to say. He was gone and so were you. Dean pulled into a motel and left you in the parking lot. You could feel his broken heart. See his cracked and mangled spirit hanging on by a thread. You paid for a room and threw your bag onto the floor. Your body sank into the lumpy mattress. You have no idea how long you stayed there, it felt like days, but you finally got up to shower. You couldn’t feel the warm water on your cold and aching flesh. The shampoo had no scent to you. Your body was caving into itself and there was nothing you could do to stop it. You laid down on the bed and stared into the abyss with unseeing eyes. Your chest was empty, you couldn’t hear your heartbeat. Couldn’t feel the warmth of the blanket. Couldn’t recognize the softness of your favorite socks. You felt yourself sinking deeper into the darkness. Your body was just a vessel now, there was nothing left inside you. You were a shell of the person you once were.  

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Two years earlier

The rotting wood was pliable and loud under your boots. Your hands were wrapped around your gun as you stepped through the house. You rounded a corner and held out your gun, aiming with precision. The witch was fast, but you were faster. She screamed when you shot her, her body falling against the wall. You stepped on her chest and took aim straight at her heart. The shot was loud in your ears, ringing against your skull. You slipped the gun into the waistband of your jeans and dragged her body out into the field to be buried. You were halfway through the dig when you heard it. A loud and throaty engine approaching the house. You swore under your breath and squatted in the half-dug hole you had made.  Two men stepped out of the car and went to the trunk, the shorter one looked around before opening it. You could see the display of weapons, rosery beads, and other items in the trunk. Your brow furrowed; no way, were these two hunters? You poked your head up higher and watched as they both took off, signaling to each other. You smiled to yourself and climbed out of the hole.  

“Excuse me!” You called to them. The shorter one spun around, his leather jacket moving with him. His pistol pointed directly at you. The taller one turned and immediately raised both his hands in surrender. You stifled a chuckle and crossed your arms over your chest.  

“Who the hell are you?” The shorter one said.  

“I’m the one who shot the witch.” You said, moving your weight to one hip. “Can a girl get some help digging the grave?” You asked before walking away and picking up your shovel again. You ran your forearm across your sweaty forehead and continued to dig.  

“What the hell man?” Dean asked his brother.  

“I don’t know.” Sam shrugged his shoulders, walking over towards you. He checked the body and saw that it was indeed the witch they had been hunting. He turned back to Dean and gave him a thumbs up, the corners of his mouth turning down in a “yup, she got it” expression. Dean rolled his eyes and walked over towards you and Sam.  

“I’m Dean Winchester, this is my brother Sam.” Dean introduced to you. You planted the shovel in the ground and looked up at them, a smile coming across your face.  

“Y/N. Nice to meet you guys.” You said, licking your lips.  

“Yeah, you too.” Sam smiled at you, his dimples giving a boyish charm to his massive figure.  

Two Months Later

“Hey.” His voice spoke behind you. You jumped slightly and turned around to face him, smiling softly.  

“Hi, Sam.” You spoke around your coffee cup.  

“Sleep well?” He asked, coming to sit on the table in front of you. When he was in front of you like this, his eyes level with yours and faces so close. It took everything you had not to wrap yourself around him and crash your lips against his. You swallowed and looked away, gathering your thoughts.  

“Eh, I’ve had better. You?” You bit your bottom lip.  

“Same.” He looked down at the floor, the left side of his mouth turning up into a smirk.  

“The life of a hunter, huh?” You said with a chuckle. You ran your ring finger over the rim of your coffee cup.  

“All glitz and glamour.” Sam joked back, his eyes meeting yours again.  

“It’s better as a team.” You said, watching him for a reaction.  

“I can honestly say, our lives have gotten significantly better since you came around.” Sam smiled at you. It wasn’t a flirty or joking smile, it was a genuine smile that lit up his eyes. Your heart skipped a beat and you had to remind yourself to take a breath.  

“Mine too.” You said and watched Sam’s smile grow even wider.  

Four Months Later

You shoved the rest of the burrito into your mouth and leaned back against the leather. The windows were open in the impala and guns and roses was coming out of the speakers. You closed your eyes and relished in the moment. Sam’s hair blew softly in the wind and you found yourself staring more than once. His green and golden eyes were glowing with the sunlight and you couldn’t stop from falling deeply into them. Sam had been acting different lately, he seemed strung out. Like when you don’t take enough butter for your bread. There were days when he was the old Sam, sweet and caring, but then he would change again. Dean was noticing too. The two of you saw him whispering on the phone, sneaking out into the dark. You watched his body acting like a drain upon itself. The dark circles under his eyes. The secrets he was clearly keeping. You tried to push down your growing feelings for him. Told yourself it would never happen, but then your eyes would connect and the hope would flood your soul again. You craved him. Your bruised and scarred skin itched for his. You licked your lips and leaned back against the backseat, the sunlight warming you.  

Three Months Later

You closed the book and leaned back against the uncomfortable chair. You rubbed your shoulders and moved your head around to stretch your neck.  

“Nothing?” Sam asked. His eyes connecting with yours.  

“Nope.” You mumbled and bent your legs under you.  

“It doesn’t make any sense.” He whispered to himself.  

“I know.” You leaned forward, your muscles relaxing finally.  

“It's like a vampire and a werewolf.” Sam said, his brow furrowed as he rummaged through the books again.  

“It’s a warepire!” Dean yelled from the bathroom, the toothbrush hanging out of his mouth. Sam rolled his eyes and shook his head at his brother. Your eyes moved in thought. Suddenly you sat up and slapped the book in front of you. Sam jumped at the loud noise, looking at you with wide eyes.  

“It’s a nachzehrer!” You yelled. “I remember reading about them one time, they eat flesh of the dead and also eat the hearts of the living. You kill them by beheading them.” You spoke with your hands as you put the pieces of the case together.  

“Y/N, you’re a genius!” Sam grabbed you by the shoulders and kissed your cheek. You stumbled back slightly, not able to contain your smile. “Really, great work.” He smiled down at you; his eyes were so gold in this light. He was beautiful.  

“Thanks, Sam.” You felt your whole-body melt at his touch.  

Two Months Later

Sam had chosen her. He chose Ruby. You understood that he felt like he was doing the right thing, but that didn’t stop the hurt from spreading through your veins. Dean was upstairs, pacing in anger and the bitter feeling of betrayal. You knew that this wasn’t Sam. Not your Sam. This was a man who had been taken at his most vulnerable state only to be beaten down even further. Until all he could do was listen to the only voice telling him he could fix this, but Dean couldn’t see that right now. You placed your elbows on your knees and ran your fingers through your hair, holding your head in your hands. You were so heavy and tired. You felt the tears sting your eyes. Your throat clenched. Your chest felt tight and your lungs burned from lack of oxygen. The tears came and they didn’t stop. You knew it wasn’t love, whatever Sam was doing with her, but the jealousy was still there. The penetrating envy that was burning deep in your heart, building and burning, hot and thick.  

The old and broken-down convent was dark in the night. You and Dean raced through the halls, Dean screaming Sam’s name the entire time. Your hands shook and your eyes moved frantically around the decaying building. That’s when you saw him. His back was to you. He was with her. Your heart was racing in your chest. The doors slammed shut. Dean was ramming his body into the doors. Your chest hurt from how heavy and fast you were breathing. You realized you were crying, choking on thick sobs that racked your lungs. The door finally opened and you saw him. He looked defeated. His face was twisted by confusion and it took everything in you not to run to him. Dean rammed the knife through her stomach, her face lighting as she died. Sam grabbed his brothers' jacket and your arm.  

“It’s him.” He whispered before the floor lit up as he rose.  

One Week Later

You were standing in the motel room, Dean at the table and Sam on one of the beds. Your heart felt heavy. None of you had spoken much since the apocalypse started and you were beginning to wonder if you should just leave. Pack it all up behind you and never look back. Then you looked at him. His green and golden eyes holding so much pain in them. His body was still the same, but he looked so broken and small. You could feel the ache in his heart as if it was your own. Dean didn’t trust him to even go out to get a soda. There was a part of you that understood, but you knew he was trying to do the right thing. He was always trying to do the right thing. Dean stood and grabbed his jacket, leaving the room with a nod in your direction. The silence was thick as it spread throughout the room. Your jaw tightened and you wanted to wrap him in your arms.  

“Y/N, I am so sorry.” He sounded so broken.  

“Sam, I don’t blame you. Please know that.” You walked over to him and knelt in front of him, not caring anymore.  

“I deserve the blame, Y/N. I did it. I let lucifer out of his cage.” Sam was angry now, his voice rising in volume.  

“Yeah, you did. I still don’t blame you, at least not only you.” You placed your hands on his arms, feeling his muscles clench under your touch.  

“What is that supposed to mean?” He turned towards you; his face hard.  

“It means it wasn’t just you! Dean is the one who broke the first seal, Cas let you out of the panic room, Ruby is the one who got you hooked on demon blood! Of course, some blame is put on you, Sammy, but you don’t have to hold this weight on your shoulders alone.” You placed one hand on his cheek, forcing him to look into your eyes. “You are a good man and I don’t think any less of you because of this.” By the time you were done talking, your voice was just above a whisper. His face was so close to yours. His hand touched your cheek, fingers twisting around the nape of your neck. His skin was so warm.  

“Thank you.” His voice was shaky and rough, holding in his emotions.  

Four Months Later

You closed the door behind you and stepped into the darkness of night. The cold air spread goosebumps across your skin and you wrapped your arms around yourself. At Bobby's house you could always see so many stars, the sky was so clear. The moon was bright and heavy in the sky, illuminating all around you.  

“Y/N?” You closed your eyes at the sound of his voice saying your name. You turned your head to look at him over your shoulder.  

“Hey, Sam.” You smiled as he came to stand next to you.  

“Couldn’t sleep?” He asked you, placing his hands in his pockets.  

“No, too much going on.” You said, your breath showing.  

“Are you cold?” He asked, already knowing the answer. You turned your head, looking into his dancing eyes and nodded. “Here. Take my shirt.” He said already taking it off his body and stepping behind you. His hands placed it on your shoulders as you put your arms through the holes. He slid his hands down the sleeves before stepping back to your side.  

“Thank you.” You curled into the soft fabric; his scent strong in your nose. He looked even bigger now, arms bulging in his t-shirt.  

“No problem.” He smiled down at you, his hair falling into his eyes slightly. You were suddenly on fire, it had nothing to do with his shirt and everything to do with him. The way he looked at you like you were the only person in the world. The way he listened to everything you said, hanging on every word. How he seemed to always know your feelings and never pushed you too far. You didn’t know the exact moment, but somewhere along the way you had fallen in love. Somewhere in the moldy motel rooms, the cheap diner food, the late nights and early mornings you had fallen hard.  

Three Months Later

“No, Sam. You can’t!” You practically screamed, tears running freely down your face.  

“I have to fix this, Y/N!” He yelled back, pointing at his chest.  

“You can’t let him in! He’s the devil, Sammy!” You grabbed his jacket, pulling him to you. At your touch, Sam melted completely. His muscles lost all the tension they were holding. All the air left his lungs and he folded against you. His arms wrapping tightly around you. You cried into his chest; he rested his head on yours as his hands rubbed your back.  

“I’m the only one who can.” His chest rumbled when he spoke.  

“Don’t leave me.” You pleaded. You felt his lips against the top of your head before he pushed you away slightly to kiss your forehead.  

“I’m so sorry, Y/N. Just know that you helped me a lot this year, you’re so strong. You can do this.” The tears were forming around his eyes as he spoke.  

“Sam, I-” You tried to express yourself, tell him everything you had been feeling.

“I know, me too.” He cut you off, his fingers digging into your arms, holding your even tighter.  

Two Days Later

You were standing next to Bobby’s body in the graveyard. Tears fell down your face. Your body crumpling against the agony that spread throughout your veins. Lucifer landed punch after punch to Dean, his bones cracking under the force. You shook and jumped at each one. Then in one moment everything changed. His hand loosened and his eyes changed. He was back. Sam was back.  

“It’s ok, Dean. I've got him.” He said. You covered your mouth and shook your head, knowing what was coming. Sam looked over at you and your eyes connected across the field. His shoulders fell and a deep sadness crossed his face. He mouthed “I love you” to you, his eyes holding so much in them. You grabbed your chest and broke down completely. He closed his eyes and spread his arms out wide, the winds of hell blowing his jacket and hair back. Michael jumped on him and he and Sam fell into the pit together. The earth swallowed them whole. Then, there was stillness once again. As if nothing ever happened. Your body crawled over to the grass that had just taken him.  

------------------

Present Day  

You moved around your apartment, tiding up and such. You touched the picture of you, Sam, and Dean. Your smiles were wide and happy. Simpler times when the world wasn’t cruel. When you were whole and there wasn’t an ache in your chest. The days were long without him, the nights even longer. It had been a year and half. A year and a half since he jumped into the pit. Bobby called you from time to time, but you never answered. You couldn’t answer. You couldn’t look back at that life anymore. You had died that day too, not able to feel since. Food did nothing for you. Wine tasted like water in your mouth. The warmth of the sun never seemed to be enough to thaw your cold skin. No matter how much you slept, you still felt tired. You went through the motions of your day, work, relax, eat, sleep. None of it mattered. You had been dead for a year and a half, just like Sam. A knock on your door made you jump. Your brow furrowed and you walked hesitantly toward the door. You opened it to see a familiar face. Dean stood in front of you.  

“Hey, kid.” He smiled, his green eyes holding yours.  

“Dean?” You couldn’t believe he was here.  

“Mind if I come in?” He stepped around you, making his way inside and sitting down at your dining room table.  

“What's going on? Why are you here?” You sat down at your table across from him.  

“Sam’s alive.” Dean said matter of factly. You felt dizzy, like you had just been punched in the gut. You couldn’t understand what Dean was saying. You shook your head and swallowed tickly.  

“What?” Your voice barley above a whisper.  

“He’s been alive for about a year and a half now.” Dean said, his face twisting. He knew you were going to flip out.  

“What! Why didn’t anyone tell me?! Dean! What the hell! Take me to him. Take me to him right now.” You screamed, grabbing your jacket and moving toward the door.  

“Alright, hold on. Look, there is a lot you don’t know. I promise to take you to Sam, but I need you to listen to me first.” His hand was on your arm, keeping you from bolting out the door.  

“Fine, tell me in the car.” You ripped your arm out of his grasp and practically ran down the stairs and into the impala.  

Bobby’s house

“So, he didn’t have a soul?” You asked, leaning against the door frame and staring at him on the bed. Dean shook his head, looking at you from the corner of his eyes. You couldn’t stop staring at him. His face peaceful in his deep slumber. You had missed him so much. Missed the small moments with him. He was your entire world and you were so happy he was back. This was going to work. You knew it. He would wake up.  

“He hardly cared about seeing me.” Dean said, running a hand over his face. He looked exhausted. You touched his shoulder, sending him a reassuring look.  

“How was your year with Lisa?” You smiled at the blush that ran across his cheeks.  

“Shut up.” He mumbled. You giggled and the two of you made your way upstairs.

About an hour later you walked down into the living room from upstairs.  

“Hey, Dean is he aw-” Your voice caught in your throat when you saw him. He was standing in the middle of the living room, alive and well. Your heart dropped and all the air left your body. Your stomach flipped in your gut and your eyes watered at the sight of him. “Sam.” You whispered his name.  

“Y/N.” He whispered back. You couldn’t control the sob that ripped its way out of you at the sound of his voice. His feet took him to you in two strides. He placed his hands on either side of your face and pulled you to him, his lips crashing against yours. You made a noise that was somewhere between a moan and a wail. For the first time in a year and a half you felt something. You felt him. His warm and soft lips on yours. His hands on your skin. Your mouth opened to him and the first thing you tasted was him. You had dreamed of this moment for months before he fell into the cage. It was better than you could have ever imagined. Dean cleared his throat behind you, breaking you and Sam apart.  

The rest of the day passed with food, drink, and laughs. You told Sam about your apartment and Dean told some stories of his year.  

“So, you settled down and got a normal job?” Sam asked you.  

“I tried to keep hunting, I really did, but I couldn’t. Even though I was all on my own before I met you guys, I just couldn’t do it anymore. After you....ya know, I felt like I had nothing left to give. I couldn’t go out there and kill monsters when I felt so broken and helpless. So, I made myself comfortable. Lived a boring life for a while.” You took a swig from your beer and shrugged your shoulders.  

“How was it?” Sam leaned forward on his elbows, interest in his face.  

“I just told you, it was boring as hell.” You smiled and for the first time in a long time you actually felt it on your face. Sam and Dean both laughed and you closed your eyes, hearing your favorite sound once again.  

That night you couldn’t sleep and you made your way outside, knowing you would find him out there too. His back was to you when you stepped outside. You touched his shoulder and your lips parted at the feeling of his skin against yours. His arms wrapped around you tightly. Your face tilted up to look into his face.  

“I love you.” He said, his breath mingling with yours in the pitch black of night.  

“I love you so much, Sam.” You whispered, looking deep into his eyes. His head leaned down and his lips captured yours once again. Unlike before, this kiss was full of passion and heat. You grabbed a fistful of his hair in your fingers and arched your back into him. He wrapped one arm around your waist and bent his knees, lifting you to him. Your legs wrapped around his waist as you moaned into his mouth. His tongue tasted every inch of you. His fingers twisted into your hair. It wasn’t until he pulled away slightly that you noticed you were crying. You sniffled, chucking slightly.  

“You ok, baby?” He put you down on the ground, his fingers wiping your tears away.  

“I’m just so happy. Sam, you have no idea how much I missed you.” You intertwined your fingers into his and stepped even closer to him.  

“Do you want to talk about it?” His voice was calm and light. You bit your lip and swallowed, nodding your head slightly.  

“After I watched you fall into the pit, I had nothing left. I felt empty and broken, there was this aching hole inside of me that I could never fill. I couldn’t taste food, my favorite song just sounded like noise in my ears. No matter how hot I made the water or no matter how long I sat in the sun, my skin was always cold. You are what keeps me going, Sam. When I lost you, I was overwhelmed with grief and sorrow. I was just a shell of the person I once was. I was gone too. Now though, your back. Here you are in front of me. Telling me you love me. I have waited to tell you that you are the love of my life for so long. Long before Lucifer and that damn pit. Sam, you are the love of my life. There is nothing else when you are by my side.” Your hands were running up and down his arms, your eyes looking directly into his. “I’m warm again, Sammy. I’m full again, and it's all because you are here.” You reached up onto your tippy toes and pressed your lips against his once again.  

“Y/N, you are everything to me. Do you want to know why Lucifer didn’t kill you that day? Because I wouldn’t let him. He tried and I fought with all my strength to stop him, because I couldn’t watch you die. You are the love of my life too, baby. Your mine and I'm yours. Forever. I'm never letting you go again.” His hands came around your face, holding you so close. His breath fanning across your skin. “It’s you and me for the rest of our lives. I promise. I don’t know what I did to deserve you, but you’re my whole world now.” He wrapped you into him, holding you tightly against him. You listened to his beating heart and closed your eyes. Finally, the world was right again.  

[msmarvelwrites]

The Winter Ghost - Chapter 17

Info: A Devastating car crash causes you to lose your memory and start over. The only thing left in the wreckage was the horrific nightmares which plagued your mind. If you knew what today would entail you would have just stayed in bed. But you didn’t and because of that, everything you knew was about to change.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Warnings: swearing, fluff, foreshadowing smut?

W/c: 2.3k

A/n: I know I know, it’s been quite a few nights since I last posted since I usually try to every few days... This week has been a whole long seven days. And honestly I needed to charge my battery and take a break from writing for a minute. Anyyways, thats boring, and this is not. Were almost done here, and I’m so excited to move onto some imagine’s I’ve been brainstorming! Hope you enjoy! 

Bucky’s breath fanned across your collarbone, drifting in and out of slumber. How he could even attempt sleeping after the day's events was, quite frankly, astonishing. But you didn't dare wake him, afraid you wouldn't get a chance to be this close to him again. 

It was easy enough to conclude how you felt about the past few days as confusion. Specifically speaking, you knew it went deeper than that. Your memories had kicked you in the teeth, reeling from the guilt and grief that Tommy was dead and it was all your fault. Yet in the matter of hours, you had fed him to Hydra. You knew exactly what they would do to him when they found out you had escaped. You also knew that when the team circled back to dispose of the Hydra base, or what of it was left, Tommy would be gone. For good this time. 

Bucky’s body shifted, leaning in closer to you. Your heart raced as a small sigh erupted from his chest, vibrating through you. 

And then there was that. You weren't sure when that feeling of butterflies had come back when Bucky looked at you, but nevertheless it had. Part of you thought you should be sorrowful after your ‘almost’ fiance ‘almost’ shot you. Maybe take a day for bereavement, and yet, the idea of pressing pause on Bucky, after all this time, felt impossible. More to the point, you were tired of fighting between what you thought was morally right about how your heart beated ten times faster when he was around.  

“Do you hate me?” He hesitated under his breath. The rest of the team had all taken their seats at the front of the aircraft. Even still, he spoke as though he was afraid they would hear your confession. 

Your eyes met his, looking for some sort of punchline, but none came. Silence hung heavy around his question, and you swallowed deeply. 

Did you hate him? There was a time not so long ago that you would have been an easy question to answer. He hadn't stolen the life you thought he had. No, Tommy did that all on his own.  He betrayed everything you had built together. He wasn't the man you thought you knew. Bucky, on the other hand, always had been. You knew about his past. He had spent countless nights wrapped in his arms dredging but old and broken memories about his time with Hydra. The only thing you knew for sure was he made you feel like you belonged in a world that you thought had written you off years ago.

 Maybe, if you hated anyone, it was yourself. How long had Tommy been lying to you?  How could you not have seen it? How many nights had you spent in your bed, giving yourself to him, trusting him, believing him? 

“Thats a loaded question.” He murmured before you could answer. “I just mean, I miss this… Miss, you.” 

You worried on your bottom lip, watching as he huffed out a breath and accepting your silence for an obvious answer. Before he could pull away from you, you took his hands in yours, starling him from the sudden warmth. 

“I- I don’t think I ever hated you.” You offered honestly. 

Bucky pursed his lips and looked you over quizzically. “Could’ve fooled me.” He chuckled, leaning back into you as his breath steadied again. 

“I know I never really got the chance to- uh, apologise...” You tried the word on your tongue, but it tasted bitter. How do you ask for someone's forgiveness after attempting to murder them? “I don't really know what to say…” You mumbled, feeling the walls you built around yourself behind to crumble. 

“That’s cause’ there's nothing to say. Listen doll, of all people you don't need to apologise to me for homicidal tendencies. I get it.” He teased. You appreciated his light hearted approach, but his words send a lump to appear in your throat. Was that what it boiled down to? After a long day of dark thoughts and murderous rampages, Bucky would be there to understand. You weren't sure if the sentiment was romantic or the plot to a Tim Burton film. 

“And besides, I kinda’ deserved the ass kicking.” He signed, smiling into your shoulder. 

“You kind of did.” You chuckled. 

Huh…?

Were you making light hearted joking about attempted murder? Is this who you were now? Honestly, it wasn't the worst thing you’d done. Besides, there was something so comforting about the way he accepted you. Flaws (and boy oh boy were they flaws) and all. 

“Okay. So I'm not sorry for putting you on your ass.” You specified. “But I am sorry. For what I said after. I don’t know where that came from. I don't really think those things about you. You’ve never given me a reason to before.” Bucky huffed, and you could physically feel him stiffen. 

“I lost control, Y/n. I gave you a perfectly good reason...” He noted. You didn't have the heart to tell him that ever since that fateful day in the hallway all you could think about was the aching in your core and how perfect his death machine of a hand fit around your throat. 

“It doesn't matter…” You spoke, running your fingers over his flesh ones, until they locked into his. “I’m fine. You're fine- ish, right?” You chuckled, motioning to his chest now dried with blood, “I don't blame you.”

He squeezed your hand and signed into your shoulder. Everything about this moment was perfect. The impending doom you had left behind was just that. It felt long gone as you stared into Bucky’s arctic eyes and breathed in his scent. Comforting, familiar, and something you weren't ready to comprehend. It sent shivers down your spine and made your legs clench together at the thought. But now, sitting in the back of the quinjet avoiding the loud stares of Wanda scrutinizing your every move was not the time. There was no doubt she was reading your loud heated thoughts, and so desperately, you tried to quiet your want. 

……………………………

When you landed, medical was at the ready, helping Bucky out of the aircraft and into the compound. Shuri tried to force you apart from the injured man long enough to convince you to go for a check up also. 

‘I feel fine. I’m fine’ you tried to argue, but it was no use. Her mind was made up and you were smart enough to know when that happens, there's very little one can do to change it. 

You sat in the small lab, letting Shuri pry and pron at you, asking question after question but your mind was distant. Distracted. There was only one person you wanted to be with, and right now he was down the hall, having bullets plucked from his body. 

The overwhelming need to be near him was sudden, but not unwelcome. Try as you may to push it away, it krept back in, startling you every time. You could play dumb all you wanted, but now that he was not next to you, youre only mission consisted with getting him back. Were you confused? 

Yes. 

Did you understand what you were feeling? 

Not entirely. 

How did Bucky make you feel?

Brave… Loved… Horny? All of the above. 

Yes, yes and yes. There was no denying it. As much as you wished it was more complicated. Your entire core was drawn to him like a magnet and your brain was just along for the ride. Heart stuttering and mind foggy. 

Shuri gives you a once over and taps on your shoulder, yanking you from your thoughts. “You okay?” 

The question was simple. And yet, the words wouldn't come. 

You cleared your throat, physically shaking your head and clearing your racing thoughts, “Yes. I’m okay. Do you think I can go?” 

Shuri smiles knowingly, a chuckle bubbling out of her small chest. “He’s fine, ya’ know. Doctors said they extracted the bullets easily. He’s probably all healed up already-”

Her words were cut off by your impatient foot, bobbing anxiously for the answer to your question. 

“Yes. fine you can go.” 

You practically jumped off the lab table, swinging the door open and shouting a thank you over your shoulder on the way out. 

When you entered Bucky’s medical room, it was quiet. Turning the corner you could see he was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring out the large floor length window that looked out to the rolling mountain of Wakanda.

You tried to step lightly, not wanting to alarm him.

“Can't sneak up on a trained assassin.” 

You jumped, clutching your heart at his sudden voice. He chucked, watching your panicked face melt into a smile. 

“Guess not. How ya’ feeling killer?” You smirked, taking a seat on the windowsill across from him. 

Bucky squinted, looking at you skeptically, “I don't know if you're tryin’ to be funny or-” 

“I'm not. That was a stupid joke….” You scoffed as you bathed in the awkward silence that followed. 

There were so many things you wanted to say. So many you wanted to do, and yet your body was frozen, staring at the floor unable to meet his intense gaze. You could literally hear your heart beating in your chest and your face growing warmer by the second. 

“So.” you finally choked out, forcing yourself with all your might to look up. His eyes were soft and full of reassurance. Something you so desperately needed at the moment. Maybe the old Y/n could convey her emotions, but the real one was a total disaster when it came to this sort of thing. 

But that's what you were doing wasn't it? This is what it had all led up to. The kiss, the midnight conversations, the unyielding sexual tension. This was it. 

“So…” He repeated your words, coxing your next ones. 

You chuckled dryly, clearing your throat and starting again, “So, about what happened back there.” 

“When I got shot or when we kissed?”

“Both I guess?” 

“You guess?” He quipped, amusement dripping from his mouth. He was loving this. Watching you fumble over your thoughts. Of course he did. Smug bastard. 

“Listen, I’m not good at this stuff. Obviously. So could you just tell me how it is. Was that some heat of the moment thing? Like before. Because if it was you just gotta’ tell me.”  You finished in a huff. 

Bucky signed, running his flesh hand through his hair. “It wasn't.” He finally spoke, “not then and not now. I was such an ass, pushing you away like that. I just didn't- I guess I still don't think I deserve something like you… Touching me like that.” 

You soaked in his words. Watching his lips intently as his tongue darted out and wetted the bottom one. In a breath, you crossed the room and took the open space beside him as an invitation to sit down. 

“Will you please let me decide what I deserve from now on?” You smirked, looking up  at him from behind your lashes. 

“Yeah, I think that's best.” he chuckled, leaning into you. 

“How’re you feeling?” You mumbled, listening to his breathing steady as he signed into the comfortable position you were both in now. 

“Better. Thanks for that by the way. Wanda’s never used her power on me like that. It really helped.” He spoke, softly, as you waved him off, motioning ‘it was nothing’. 

It felt like the first time in a long time you had spoken to Bucky without the nagging desire to murder him. 

Maybe this is what people talk about when they say you should ‘grow’ with your partner. You're sure that they weren't referring to homicidal rage… But still. 

You looked up to Bucky, watching as he softly bit down on his lip. Without warning or much thought for that matter, you swung your leg around, purchasing yourself on his lap. You would like to believe it was with agile and ease, but the motion sent Bucky back against the bed while you fell against him, straddling his hips.

“What was-” You shushed him with your palm over his mouth, coaxing a deep moan from the back of his throat. It sent a shiver down to your core, but that was a problem for a later time. 

“I want to try something.” You breathed, pulling your hand from his lips and swifting replacing it with yours.

He reacted instantly, his hands settling on your hips as yours pulled at his hair. You melted into his touch as his tongue softly traced the bottom of your lip, deepening the kiss. You could feel his pants tightening around him as he ground his thick member against your core. He was unrelenting as you gasped for hair, pulling away and resting your forehead on his. Had it not been for the room being made entirely of glass you were sure you would have lost your pants. Honestly, you were still considering it. 

“I just wanted to know what that felt like without my life being at risk.” You spoke over heavy breaths. 

Bucky chuckled, his swollen lips turning up into a smile. “And?”

“Eh.” You shrugged, causing Bucky to gasp and he flipped your over, gaining the upper hand. His icy blue eyes, now blown with lust. You're breath caught in your throat by the new intimate position, flexing your thighs shut hard and suppressing a moan. 

“D-did you get the ‘ok’ to leave?” You stuttered, feeling your body tremble under the radiating heat of his. He nodded his head, a few loose strands of deep auburn hair falling from his bun and onto your cheek. 

You bit down on your lip, watching his chest rise and fall above you, feeling the electricity that emanate around the room. The idea that this could very well be a huge mistake crossed your mind and maybe if you were stronger you would have listened. Maybe you just didn't care anymore. Or maybe, it was possible this was exactly where you needed to be. Where you belonged. And so, without hesitation, you slid yourself out of Bucky’s grasp and pulled him down the hallway towards his room.

.......................................................................

A/N: As always, thank you to @cutie1365​ for just being you! Thank you for all your help with this my friend! Were almost done! Like and reblog if you enjoyed! See ya soon! 

@projectcampbell​

@calwitch​

@kalesrebellion​

[aphroditestummyrolls]

Tagged by: @rhubarbdreams @cactusdragon517 @morallygreywaren and @ceraunos (I’m so sorry this took so long! Thank you for thinking of me, it is so flattering <3)

Rules: List the first lines of your last 20 stories (if you have less than 20, just list them all!). See if there are any patterns. Choose your favorite opening line. Then tag 10 of your favorite authors!

This was SO FUN. It was so nice to go through my old stories... I’m really proud of my writing. That’s something I never thought I’d say, and it’s something I’ve decided I’m going to do unabashedly from now on. <3 Happy almost April, everyone! 

Gaining Heart (Spartacus) 

The days following the defeat of Glaber had been a flurry of activity.

Agron found himself not only leading on field of battle, but leading organization and defensive strategy. Those fucking Romans had moved into the temple as if it was their own home, claiming all that they saw— but they had also brought much of their own. Food, wine, supplies— it was a gift from the fucking gods, and needed proper inventory.

Agron knew not how to do that. Nasir and Naevia were invaluable, cleaning each chamber of any evidence of battle, cataloguing lists and categorizing everything from barrels of grain to rolls of bandages.

Tangles and Roots (The Old Guard)

He was covering Andy.

The hangar was dark, shadowed by the last of the night while dawn crept up over the skyline outside. The plane was set to land any minute now, and Nicky’s eyes flicked from corner to corner, finger on the trigger of his gun and his jaw grinding hard. He could swear he saw shapes moving along the roof— the banks of high windows above them left eerie patches of weak blue light, flickering with little flashes of darkness.

It was probably just birds. He was out of practice— they had done nothing but sit around in the six months since Merrick, trying to heal the deep wounds left in their minds… and bodies, in Andy’s case.

Nicky swallowed, stepping that much closer to his friend’s side as they took their places in the shadows.

Still Awake? (The Old Guard)

He pretended to sleep. His eyes were closed, and his muscles were stiff, tying themselves into knots where he laid in his cot between Andy’s empty bedroll and Joe and Nicky’s snuggled up bodies. Booker refused to be comfortable— he refused to rest. The day had been rough, and the fighting had left a bone deep ache inside him, even while the physical wounds had healed.

All the Time in the World (The Old Guard) 

The first time Nicolo and Yusuf bathed together, it was by the river— he wasn’t sure which river. It had probably changed names and countries a hundred times by now. All he remembered was that, by the time they heard the steady rush of water and cleared the brush and trees to the bank, he was half mad with annoyance.

If that man made one more grumbled complaint— one more clearly telegraphed grimace— about the supposed smell of him, Nicoló might have to break their truce and run the bastard through.

Kissed by an Angel (The Old Guard)

Nicky felt his lips flicker into a private smile, setting the pot on the stove to simmer and turning to look out the window into the garden. Joe’s garden.

He was humming to himself— Nicky couldn’t quite hear it, but he could tell by the set of the other man’s jaw under his beard and the purse of his lips as he concentrated. The weeds wouldn’t rip themselves, the overgrown shrubs wouldn’t miraculously be already pruned and waiting for them.

They were finally back in Valletta. Finally home.

Patron Saint of Satisfaction (The Old Guard)

It had been a long, long few weeks.

Joe’s shoulders were tense and knotted, and his whole body still ached from the train ride he and Nicky had taken all that day. There was a stifling, choked sensation in his gut that would rise in waves, up his throat to the tip of his tongue until he was ready to scream. The whole way to their safehouse, he brushed shoulders with his lover— practically leaning on him— and let himself take refuge in the feeling of Nicky’s warm hand entwining their fingers.

Waking Dreams (The Old Guard)

At first, they could’ve been anywhere for all Joe knew.

There was nothing in the world but Nicky— his scent, his body, his quiet sleeping breaths. Joe felt himself hover on the edge of sleep and wakefulness, the familiar thrum of pleasure making up the backdrop of his thoughts.

He nuzzled into his Nico’s neck, pressing sloppy, half asleep kisses to the back of his neck.

Here There Be Monsters (The Old Guard) 

The morning had been blustery and hot. The scent of ozone made the sea air thick as it blew through his hair where they all stood, crowded around the lower deck. They all squinted against the bright sunshine, but Joe knew better than to trust the blue sky.

”If I’m getting in, I’ve gotta do it soon—“ he spoke up, cutting into some conversation that he hadn’t been listening to, “There’s a storm coming in from the East.”

Nile— still so young, so far from the American Midwest, and in her first field season— raised an eyebrow at him from behind her sunglasses.

He smiled at her bemused look, shooting his gaze over to Andy. Andy smirked, huffing a laugh. “If anybody knows, Joe knows.”

In Loving Memory (The Old Guard)

The wind whipped up off the water, cold and salty despite the way the sun beat down on them. It was alright, honestly— refreshing after all those stuffy hours in the car.

These immortals were highly resistant to normal modes of transport. Like a plane— a real passenger plane, not a Russian cargo plane full of drugs. It was all cars and boats and trains, low to the ground, literally under the radar.

Nile understood why. She didn’t want to end up strapped down to a lab table like the one they escaped all those months ago. She’d just rather take a nice plane from the closest airport to Provence and get to Valletta in a matter of hours, rather than drive through three countries and all the way down the Italian boot, just to bribe a fishing boat.

Feed My Soul (The Old Guard) 

Malta looked good on Nicolò.

Joe leaned on the railing of their balcony, looking down into their old, old walled garden where his Nico shuffled around in the herbs. He was looking for something particular, the bridge of his nose scrunching as he peered at the mess of overgrown pots.

Joe beamed, the familiar, all-encompassing warmth of loving that man filling him up and making him feel expansive and bright. There was a cathedral ceiling in his chest, airy and golden with the light of dawn through its tall, jeweled windows. There was a house of worship where his heart should be, and he traced the lines of the other man’s body like he was devoting a painting to him.

Sono Qui (The Old Guard)

Andy left Booker on the beach.

She felt his gaze follow her, but couldn’t bring herself to look back.

It wasn’t as if they had never separated before— as if the four of them had been constantly attached from the time they finally found the Frenchman, even after months and months of dreaming and searching. There were plenty of times where they spent months, or sometimes years apart. They took breaks from each other, they traveled. Just a year ago, Andy had declared that she needed a break— was that last year of being alone the thing that led Booker to betray them? Maybe they should’ve stayed together. She never should have left him. She understood how it felt to be alone in the world… to lose someone so precious that life loses its color.

Andy had left Booker plenty of times. It wasn’t something she liked to think about now, but she had… She had assumed he was handling it like her. Somber and drunk, wishing for some type of release. They’d talked about it enough times. But not like this.

Brother of My Heart  (The Old Guard)

Joe clenched his hands on the steering wheel, flexing his fingers to feel the stretch in the tendons, even though any injuries from the fighting had long since healed.

While driving away from the ruins of Merrick’s car, the adrenaline was still rushing in his veins, and all his self control was devoted to staying reasonably within the speed limit. The last thing they needed was to get stopped by some bobby cop while covered in blood and dust, with a bullet through Andy’s stomach.

Right now, they needed to blend in. So, Joe didn’t press the gas pedal into the floor.

Care and Feeding (The Old Guard) 

Nile couldn’t ever remember liking the cold.

Even at home in Chicago. Sure, her memories of warm Christmas masses, bright lights on the tree, and gently falling snow outside the kitchen window made her throat dry with that familiar, wistful grief. She wasn’t sure she’d ever get used to seeing pine trees or twinkle lights without thinking of her mom’s mac n cheese, or how early her brother would wake her up on Christmas morning.

But loving Christmas, and loving snow? Those were two completely different things.

Going Underground (Star Wars) 

Poe wasn’t sure what it was like when they broke through the atmosphere into Yavin IV. He didn’t watch through the Falcon’s wide front window as the familiar jungles passed by in a blur of green underneath them, and he couldn’t pick out the roof of home from the surrounding grasses as they came in for a landing.

The first thing he saw as he came to, bleary and aching, was Finn. They’d fallen asleep right where they were, pressed shoulder to shoulder at the holochess table, Poe’s head on Finn’s shoulder. It took him a sluggish moment to recall why his hand had its own throbbing pulse, and why Finn’s soft, dark skin was pockmarked with strange cuts, glistening with bacta.

The second thing he saw, swallowing against the rush of memories filling his fuzzy mind, must have been a hallucination.

STAR WARS VIII: The Battle of the Force (Star Wars) 

“General, I don’t know how much longer we can hold ‘em off—”

Poe’s voice crackled from the shoddy reception, nearly engulfed by the constant bombardment in the background.

“Commander, the Resistance depends on taking down this dreadnought.” Leia kept her voice steady and strong “Stand your ground.”

Beyond What We Can See (Star Wars) 

If he was being honest with himself, he supposed that he’d been feeling the Force his whole life. He’d always just brushed it off as basic intuition— he thought everybody felt this way. It wasn’t until he started seeing the way the Force was treated in the First Order—as a myth, a fearful, distant thing—that he realized how much he needed to keep his head down. Even though he only felt it in small ways, he was different. He buried the feelings, tried to ignore the nagging dread that said that he didn’t belong there in his platoon. That none of them did.

But that wasn’t something he was allowed to feel. The Force wasn’t supposed to be something any of the troops knew firsthand.

Like She Always Did (Star Wars) 

The first time she left was barely a memory. More of a dream. He didn’t remember the fight they had, but he knew in hindsight that they must’ve had it for much longer than the tail end that he saw. Maybe it was what got his little feet out of bed in the first place. Daddy’s eyes were rimmed with red and Mama was pacing out her anger into the sitting room rug. Poe’s eyes were wide as he watched from the threshold to the hall, his little hand gripping onto the pillow that he’d tugged along with him from his room.

Love Will Help You Heal (Star Wars) 

Every inch of him throbbed, the last dregs of whatever the interrogation droid had injected him with still pumping through his bloodstream. He was so tired. How long had it even been? Getting captured on Jakku felt like a hazy dream, as if it was weeks ago.

No one was coming for him. He knew that much—he’d probably be mad if they endangered the resources to try—but he couldn’t help but wish anyway. Death seemed so close, like a cold hand on his shoulder, by his side in the recirculated air of the Star Destroyer.

He wished they’d just hurry up. His drug-addled, sleep deprived mind didn’t know if he was asking for rescue or death. Maybe they were the same thing now.

Dying a martyr. At least it suited the image—Poe Dameron, Poster Boy of the Resistance.

Ghosts of Future and Past (MCU/Captain America) 

His head was throbbing. His back ached. Everything in him pulsed with agony like he’d been hit by a train.

A train. Bucky.

“Bucky is alive.” 

He could feel the winter cold at the memory, his eyes snapping open as the past few moments came flooding back to him.

There had been another Steve. Even without the mask, he’d looked just like him. It must have been Loki playing tricks again, it had to be.

Sweet as Honey, Gold Like the Sun (Stranger Things) 

Steve was drifting after high school graduation. He drifted right out of the halls of Hawkins High and into a desk job at his dad’s office. If he was being honest, he’d been drifting since the Gate closed— maybe even since Nancy broke it off.

He wasn’t mad. She was his best friend. He and Jonathan were even friends now. No, he hadn’t been mad for a long time— but he was lost. The kids were going to high school. Dustin would be getting his license one of these days, and Steve’s last function to his little gaggle of brats would become all but useless.

The idea of not serving a purpose left the bitter tang of anxiety in his throat. Once the kids didn’t need him— and Joyce and Hopper and even Nancy— Steve would be left behind. Again.

Okay... Some of these may have been more than just what is considered “Opening Lines”, but I can’t just leave something feeling unfinished, and I’m a little tipsy, which means I am bending the rules <3

**EDIT** i forgot to look for patterns and pick my favorite! I mean, I think all storytelling/creative expression (anything from developing a recipe to composing a painting to writing a story) follows a distinct formula. And the best way to establish the story is by starting it with the most important element front and center— I almost always start with my main character. A thought or a feeling, a situation or a sensation. They’re the focal point from which everything ripples out. Those first ripples (the 2nd, 3rd or 4th lines) are usually about building the setting. It’s an equation that works so well for me, and though I sometimes shake it up by adding immediate dialogue or flipping the positions of setting and main character, it has served me well ❤️ i think my favorite has to be Brother of My Heart. It’s the first really, immediately big story Ive ever had. So many comments, so much warmth, so many kind people— it grew my confidence and helped me make friends. It reminds me of how truly wonderful fandom can be, even just with the first few lines.

I’m going to continue to bend the rules by not tagging anyone immediately-- it’s giving me weird anxiety levels, so I’m gonna wait and do it later maybe. If, in the meantime, you see this and want to do it, write me down as the one who tagged you! <3 Feel frrrreeeeeeee! 

[neon-junkie]

Loyalty

Summary: Is someone here to steal your chickens again? Or is it a long lost lover who accidentally comes across you and your homestead?

Pairing: Javier Escuella x gn!Reader

Word Count: 1444

Rating: SFW 

Tags: Angst, Fluff, Happy ending, Pre-RDR1, Crying, Reunion.

Notes: Tumblr ate this anon’s ask sooo I’m posting this as a fic instead. Will be doing more of these :) 

It's been so long since the events of Beaver Hollow, since the Pinkertons tracked the gang down for the last time, since the standoff that tore the gang apart. The obvious choice was to stand beside Arthur and John, which is what you did, leaving your former sweetheart on Dutch's side.

That was the last time you saw them. Their broken heart visible in their eyes, tears refusing to fall since they just couldn't believe you were turning your back on them. You weren't, you never thought you were; you were just siding with the right side, the side they should have been on, the side they clearly wanted to be on.

You moved on. You had to. You had to escape the surrounding area and push as far as your horse would take you, over the river to West Elizabeth, down past the Great Plains, heading over to New Austin. You'd started a new life here, working on a ranch until you could afford a small one-person shack with a few chickens and your horse.

Season's changed. The leaves fell from the trees time and time again. Your former horse passed and you eventually got a new one. Your former lover never left your mind, despite how much you tried to shake them off. You'd tried to love again, tried to move on. You'd spend countless nights at the saloon trying to pick up anyone, trying to enjoy one night stands, trying to fall in love again, but nothing ever worked.

And here you are, currently feeding the chickens on a warm summers eve, the suns rays peeking from the mountains. You gaze at the sky, the red reminding you of all the blood that fell to the ground those many years ago. Most of the time, you ignored those thoughts. You were used to them by now, those feelings of grief and despair now turning numb and hollow. But tonight was different, tonight your heart ached for the first time in a while. Something felt off, despite everything seeming normal.

You retire for the evening after shooing the chickens into their expensive coop, locking the pen behind you as you left. You enter your cabin, locking the door and putting your coat on the rack whilst you kick off your boots. Dinner doesn't take long to prepare, re-heating leftovers from the night before, taking your time to eat whilst you write in your diary. You push the plate to the corner of the desk, giving you more space to write.

Something's telling you to go back through your memories, so you do, turning back through your diary, pulling your old one out from the set of draws built into your desk. There are pages and pages of camp stories, photos of the gang, small wrinkled bits of paper from where your tears had fallen as you'd written in the book when the gang was falling apart.

As you go over the pages, your ears perk up at the sound of your horse nickering, whining uncomfortably from their small sheltered pen. You get up to your feet, peering from behind the curtain that overlooks your horse's stable. They seem fine, nothing's there, they must have just gotten spooked from their own shadow. No surprise.

You go to sit back down but you hear the sound of your chicken coop gate opening, that distinct little clicking of metal from the lock on the gate. Somebody's definitely out there, probably attempting to steal your chickens. Unfortunately, you'd had strangers attempt to do this before.

You follow protocol, picking up your already-loaded shotgun, despite it not being fired in a while. After turning the safety lock off, you unlock your door, quickly slamming it open, cocking the gun as you raise it to your shoulder, ready to fire.

"What the hell do you think you're doin'?!" You bark, startling the stranger who's stood in the chicken pen, their hands about to reach down and grab one of the poor birds.

"No need for that," they reply, quickly standing upright and raising their hands. "I can leave," they tell you.

"I think that'd be wise, and don't bother coming back," You tell them, eye peering down the barrel of the gun. Something about them felt... familiar.

They shuffle backward out the pen, kicking the gate shut with their foot. They go to reach down to lock the gate but you cut them off. "Leave it," you order. Their hand returns to the air, continuing to slowly back away from your home.

Damn that large tree you had, despite it being perfect shade for your chickens, it's blocking the light from the moon, barely showing their figure, let alone their face. It isn't until they finally move back into the light that you feel your heart sink.

The beautiful shade of tanned skin, the shoulder-length black hair, the distinct facial hair. Either your former lover had an identical twin that he never told you about, or he's stood right in front of you, attempting to steal your chickens.

"Javier?" You softly ask, lowering your gun ever so slightly so he can finally see your face.

Javier's heart drops as fast as yours did, his mouth parting slightly as he realizes who he just tried to steal from.

"Amor?" He asks, his hands lowering from head height.

"It's you?" you question.

"It's me," Javier shrugs.

You're quick to prop your gun against the inside of the cabin, rushing over to him. Javier rushes over to you, in sync, removing his sombrero as chucking it to the ground so he can hug you properly. You've not felt a hug this tight in a long time, and you can't help the flood of tears falling from your eyes. Javier does the same, not holding back, allowing himself to whimper into your shoulder as he grips tightly onto you.

"I thought you were gone," you tell him through sobs, dampening the ends of his shortened hair as they brush against your cheek.

"I had to flee. And you..." Javier breaks the hug so he can cup your face, both hands on your cheeks. "...I thought you had moved away. Gotten married. Started a new life," he tells you.

You shake your head, your hands coming to rest on top of his. "I couldn't," you tell him.

"You've aged like fine wine," he smiles, tilting your head down so he can kiss your forehead.

"You..." you pause, finally taking a proper look at him through your tears. "...you look tired, Javi'. You look rough," you honestly tell him, noticing the bags under his eyes, the jagged way his hairs been cut, the weight he's lost.

"I am," he shrugs. "Too many sleepless nights without you," Javier tells you, moving his hands down to your waist so he can pull you back into a hug. Your arms wrap back around his shoulders.

The two of you hold each other for a few moments, enjoying the long-awaited contact, the touches you thought you'd never feel again. You move away, one hand coming up to cup his jawline, gazing into his eyes. He's really here. Your former love, your other half, the man you swore you'd spend your life with, is finally standing in front of you, his hands around your waist as he gazes at you with love-struck eyes.

"Come here," Javier whispers, moving his hands back up to your jawline, finally pulling your mouth against his. The kiss is gentle at first, shy yet so familiar. He feels different, but he still feels like he's yours. His mustache lightly tickles your upper lip, just how you remember. His nose slightly bumps against yours, just how you remember. His kisses are gentle and passionate, just how you remember.

You feel one of his tears run along your cheek, and all that does it make you cry more. "Javier, please, come inside," you break the kiss to tell him. It's not a question because you know he'll say yes. You know he'd walk to the other side of the earth just to see you smile, and you know he could never deny you of anything.

You take his hand, walking him back into your cabin, soon to be our cabin. He's quick to pick up his hat from the dusty ground, placing it on your coat hanger as he enters. You shut the door behind you, locking it, ready to spend the night crying and going over the years apart.

Javier's ready to stay by your side, this time promising to never leave, to never run, to stay loyal to what truly matters, and that's you.