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weretheones · 2 years ago

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All You Got | Part 7

Part 7: Burning Out

Plot: Daryl Dixon hadn’t known much beyond anger and loneliness his whole life, until he found family at the end of the world. Everything he grew to care about was ripped away the day the prison fell; so when he recognized you, an enforcer of his loss, hiding in that cabin, he almost pulled the trigger. But after you end up saving his life, he couldn’t find the indifference to leave you for dead, even if you’d been on the Governor’s side. (Mid-Late Season 4)

Series Masterlist | AO3 Version

Paring: Eventual Daryl Dixon x Reader Word Count: 5k Warnings: description of injury, infection, and other typical twd content. mentions of death. A/N: oh hi <3 im happy to be back with a new part for you guys. definitely needed that break. I had my last class of university this week and I've just been a bundle of feelings lately. thank you for being so patient and for all the lovely comments lately :) mwah! enjoy

These last few years, the fight had been constant— to find shelter, to defend a friend, to get your next meal. Each day was like a knife at your throat, leaving you to wonder when the blade would finally pierce and bleed you dry.

It was an oddly empty feeling when there was nothing left to do. A gnawing in your gut, like you'd been doing to the raw skin of your thumb the last half hour, as if there was an answer you were forgetting.

You ran through the list for the ninth time. The last of that antibiotic cream. Dressings coated in a layer of honey— Daryl taught you that one. A damp cloth over his forehead. As much ibuprofen as you could give him. You’d done it all. Now there was nothing left to do but wait for the fever to break.

It was miserable.

The room was dark, lit by a single candle. Sometimes it flickered with your occasional sigh. Otherwise, it cast a gentle glow across the small bedroom. You sat in a cushioned chair by the door, five feet from Daryl’s bedside. It had been in the living room until you dragged it in here yesterday, falling into the same routine as you did now. Chin resting in your palm and a lazy stare at the sick man ahead.

It’d gotten bad since that first day. Infection came— of course, it did— and without much more than that antibiotic cream and the rest of the drugs you'd used for your leg, Daryl was forced to fight through it. That meant long, feverish nights like this one.

Waiting.

“Ya jus’ gonna stare at me all night?”

You sat up. His eyes were narrowed into a slit, but open. With only the low flicker of the candle beside you, they almost looked black.

“You’re awake.”

“Guess so,” Daryl mumbled. “Hot as hell in ‘ere.”

He was already stripped of his vest, that flannel he wore on cold nights, and his boots. Yesterday, in one of his steadier moments, you’d dug a simple black t-shirt from the dresser and made him change. It took him a couple of minutes, his shoulder still stiff and swollen with infection. It gave you time to wash his usual sleeveless button-down as best as you could, though a litter of blood stains still dried across the fabric.

As you stepped closer, flickering candle in hand, you could see the damp mark of sweat around his collar, but if anything, the room was cool.

“Your fever’s getting worse.”

You grabbed the cloth from his forehead. It was tepid on the edges, warm where it rested against his skin. Puffy eyes met yours, scanning your serious expression. He’d been asleep for hours. You’d only managed to get a few with that anxious pit in your stomach waking you up, over and over.

“Feel like shit.” He adjusted his spot, sitting up against the pile of pillows behind him with a low groan. You passed him his bottle of water and placed it back after he’d had a few sips.

“How long I been sleepin’?”

“Most of the night.” You sat by his legs. The bed was bare of its thick blanket; you’d torn it off him when his skin started to burn. The top sheet was thin enough that you let him keep it when the chills hit. He kicked it down when the first hot flash came. “You woke up a couple of times.”

“Don’t remember tha’.”

“I figured. You’ve been pretty out of it.”

Daryl nodded, eyes as tired as they’d looked at sunset. Yours must’ve been similarly drained.

“Ya got any sleep yet?”

“A bit,” you said. “I’m fine.”

“Ya don’t look fine.”

You gave him a playful, lopsided grin. “You sure know how to make a girl feel special.”

Daryl huffed, eyes falling to his lap. But your tease had done what it meant: to distract away from the bloom of purple that was, no doubt, forming under your eyes. Those sickening worries about Daryl’s health were already suffocating. You didn’t need the weight of your well-being piled on top.

“You hungry?”

He hummed yes. That was a good sign, you thought, before drifting out of the room.

Dawn was still a few hours away. You walked the dark halls of the house you’d come to know, and a few minutes later, that same candlelight welcomed you back into the bedroom Daryl stayed in. You had a bowl of steaming chicken soup and a half-eaten package of crackers in hand. It was a good thing you’d gone for the bag, after all. If you hadn’t, it would’ve been just another thing to worry about.

His appetite was low, but better than it’d been the last couple of days. There were still three crackers he hadn’t touched and a quarter of soup left, but he seemed adamant about having the rest later. Food was often in such short supply that he wouldn’t dare waste a bite.

“Thanks,” he muttered.

You placed his bowl of leftover soup and the half-eaten package of crackers on the dresser you’d raided for cloth, towel, anything that could be boiled sterile and made into a bandage when that roll of gauze finally ran out after his second dressing change.

Back at his side, you gave him a small smile. “Still feel like shit?”

He chewed his lip. “Shoulder’s throbbin’ somethin’ awful. Head too.”

There was a small bump in his hairline left from that day. He hadn’t caught a concussion, but the fever had been giving him a wicked headache.

“There’s another hour until you can take the next round of painkillers.” You dipped the cloth back into a small bowl of water. Rubbing your thumb along the inches that had become warm, you waited for the fabric to cool. Droplets trickled down as you rang it out, causing ripples to catch in the faint light. It was the only noise in the air, save Daryl’s slow, heavy breaths.

Until you turned and he caught that dispirited expression across your face. It must’ve been particularly obvious; the candlelight barely reached your face at this angle. As you stepped closer, the glow curtained you in delicate gold. An easy warmth that looked quite special painted across your gentle features, even if they were hinted with regret.

The closer you got, the harder his head pounded. No, his heart. Which seemed to echo in his head.

His eyes shifted away when you found that spot next to him again.

“Should save ‘em anyway.”

“No. This is what they’re meant for.”

He huffed as you placed the cloth on his head. As your fingers inched closer to his skin, he blinked rapidly. It wasn’t quite a flinch, but you felt the resistance all the same.

“Still. Might need ‘em later.”

“You need them now,” you challenged. “We’ll have time to find more when you’re better.”

When.

“Guess you’re the boss.”

You scoffed. If anything was in charge, it was that fever.

“Is there anything you can think of that could help? Another pillow or…” You shook your head, not even sure what else you could offer.

He rolled his good shoulder back, biting back a groan as he found a comfortable spot against the bed. “‘M alright.” He nodded, even sparing you the smallest curl of his mouth.

You gave him a bittersweet smile back, fighting the urge to brush his bangs behind his pinkened ear. His cheeks were flushed too, even if he seemed to be retreating back into the warm bed. Perhaps the hot flash was nearing its end.

“You should drink some more. It’ll help.” You handed him the water again.

He took small sips.

It wasn’t until a few minutes later when a distant thump came from the other side of the house, and Daryl didn’t jump up, that you realized just how out of it he was. Thick in the fog of fever and pain, his senses were dull. On the contrary, the twitching in your muscles had started hours ago, a cruel mix of exhaustion and restlessness. It made you more jumpy than sharp, but demanded your attention for every small creak in the house the same.

Your shoulders tensed, and your head snapped to the side.

Daryl noticed that.

“Wha’?” He grumbled.

A gun sat on the small table next to your chair, next to the book you couldn't read well enough under only candlelight. You stood up and grabbed it, weighing the heavy handle in your palm. You made a mental note to keep your twitching finger off the trigger.

“Stay put. I’m serious,” you told Daryl with a quick stern glance and closed the bedroom door behind you.

The wooden floors whined even under the slowest, steadiest steps you could manage. The hallway was thin, drywall stained with cigarette smoke. There were two doors ahead, one on the right leading to a small linen closet and one on the left that passed into the kitchen. Quietly, you made your way to the general area where the noise had come from, near the kitchen, while raising the gun Ross gave you. The exit to the back porch was there and, fuck, what if someone had snuck in? What if they had a gun and cruel intentions and what if you had to—

Deep breath.

You hovered in the same spot for a second longer, waiting for the drum of your heart to slow. It wasn’t much, but at least you were able to open your eyes without that dizzy fog suffocating you again.

It was only a few more steps to the kitchen’s doorway. With your back to the wall, you reached the hallway’s end and peeked around the corner.

Good thing you only peeked.

A figure caught under the moonlight. It shuffled past the small window, looking out to the side of the house. Shadows cascaded onto the cheap tile floors. Two— three— four walkers stumbled past the wrap-around porch. It reminded you of that first night after the prison fell. How Daryl stood watch all night with nothing but his bow as a herd of the dead moved through the street, surrounding the house he'd dragged you into. All night, you sat on that couch, nursing your hurt leg, watching the dance of their shadows along the walls, and avoiding Daryl’s abrasive stare. Waiting for the moment they finally knocked down the door and took you into their cold fingers first.

This herd didn’t seem as big. Maybe a few dozen. You could only guess from the noise of bodies thumping carelessly into the house’s siding.

Carelessly— that was good. It meant they hadn’t realized you were here yet. Best keep it that way.

Delicately, you snuck back to the small bedroom. The thick curtains were already drawn, and that single candle was soft enough that you weren’t inclined to race back and blow it out.

You opened the door again, and, well, should’ve guessed Daryl would’ve been out of bed, knife in hand and about to open the door himself. The gun slipped into the holster at your belt, and your eyes sought out his. They were uneasy, red-rimmed with dilated pupils.

“It’s just a group of walkers passing by,” you said in a hushed whisper. “Get back in bed.”

“How many?”

“Maybe a couple dozen.” You gently pushed him back toward the bed, twisting the knife out of his grip as you did so. “They didn’t see me, so we can just wait it out.”

“Ya can’t take ‘em all on.”

“That’s why we're gonna stay here and be quiet.”

“You should go.”

You blinked.

“What?”

“If those assholes get in ‘ere, you run,” he said. His voice was hoarse and his accent thicker. “Don’t worry ‘bout me.”

Your brows furrowed. Your whisper was soft, even if pitched with confusion, “Daryl, they don’t know we’re here. They’re not coming in.”

There was a fog in that usual bright blue. It wasn’t from the dim lighting, either. He was dazed.

The back of your palm landed against his forehead. Hot. Then dropped to his chest, just below his collarbones. Your hand laid flat against that black cotton, stretched over the broad expanse of his chest, and felt that same burning underneath. Daryl hadn’t flinched, he seemed to give up that impulse when the fever took control, but his eyes did flicker down to your touch.

You shook your head. “You’re burning up. You don’t know what you’re saying.” Your hand hadn’t fallen off him yet, a lingering touch as the rhythm of his heart became a soft pulse underneath your palm. Gently pressing him back toward the bed, you hushed, “Lie back down. Relax. We’ll be fine.”

He listened. Whatever that outburst had been about seemed to slip away with the cushion of an old mattress underneath him. It felt like a new weight lifted off your shoulders; you weren’t sure if you could sit through a lecture about how you should leave him for dead. After all he’d done, all you’d done, that just wasn’t an option.

You sat beside him again. “Here.” You held a pill in the same palm that’d landed on his chest.

“Thought it was too early?”

“One more isn’t gonna kill you.”

The fever could.

He glanced down at the small blue capsule. “How many left?”

You almost laughed. Feverish, incoherent, and still stubborn.

“Enough. You need them.”

If you told him there were only three more pills in that bottle, he’d refuse. You held your tongue and he tossed them into his mouth. Swallowed, leaned back, and groaned.

“Water?”

“Elderberries,” he muttered. Your brow furrowed, and he gave you a weak shrug. “Hershel used ‘em for the fever, ‘fore we got back.”

Hershel.

You remembered that name. Of course, you did. The Governor had called it out right before he used him as a bargaining chip. Hershel, the man with the long white hair. He’d kneeled in front of that fence, tan shirt damp with sweat and hands tied behind his back. Even tried to reason with the Governor. It was his neck that poured blood, him that inched his way around the cars you were hiding behind when the bullets started flying.

Until the Governor cornered him. Chopped into his neck three times before his head finally rolled across the bloody grass.

The memory made your skin pale, your breathing pause.

A second later, when your vision focused again, Daryl’s eyes were closed. His chest raised and fell with deep breaths, his heavy exhales tickling your clammy skin.

After you’d had a moment to regain your composure, you asked, “‘Got back’?”

You weren’t following his train of thought. It seemed to go beyond the weeks the two of you had shared, reaching into his time spent at the prison. That part of his life had been mostly out of bounds for you. Blocked from the casual conversation you sometimes fell into.

The fever seemed to tear those boundaries down.

“The vet college. We had to— to get the meds for the sick ones,” he muttered under his breath.

The cloth sitting on his forehead had fallen onto the bed, presumably when he’d gotten up to follow you. Your boundaries seemed to slip away, too; you finally brushed away the damp mess of bangs on his forehead, tucking a few strands behind his ear.

There was a part of Daryl that never seemed to let up. It went deeper than stubbornness. He was strong, innately, even when his body was failing him. You knew it took a lot out of him to try and follow you out, and had probably brought on some kind of dizzy spell that was making him spill his guts now.

“Elderberries,” you repeated. “I think I remember. If you make tea, they can help bring down a fever.”

“Mhm.”

“Smart man,” you said under your breath.

He still caught it. Fever and all.

“He was.” Daryl nodded slowly. His eyes seemed to glaze over again. “He was a good man.”

A lump caught in your throat, stealing your voice. That old feeling of guilt sunk into you again.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “He didn’t deserve it. None of you did.”

“Should’a kept lookin’.”

It was overdue, you thought. Daryl didn’t seem the patient type, not when it came to his own body, at least. Give him a long hunt, he’d be fine. A wound that kept him bedbound? He was itching for something— anything— to do. The worrisome fact that his family was still out there couldn’t have helped.

You sighed, “We will—”

“For the Governor.”

Oh.

“Maybe if I wouldn’a gave up…”

He sunk deeper into the pillow, mouth moving as incoherent whispers slipped past.

It dawned on you that Daryl was perhaps his most vulnerable right now. Maybe even more so than when you first cleaned his back. In this moment, that surly, reserved man slipped away to leave someone who… who seemed lost. Guilty, like you. His words left you confused, filling in the gaps in his story, his regrets.

He’d been looking for the Governor. If you had to guess, which you did, you’d assume after he killed Merle. Daryl had issues with his brother, no doubt, but he’d proved time and time again to be fiercely loyal. To his brother, his people, even you. Why he’d give that up, you couldn’t say. But Daryl didn’t seem irrational, or disinterested. There had to have been a reason— something— to pull him back.

There was an undeniable part of you that ached to hear more, to let him bare himself to you in ways he hadn’t dared before. Curiosity could prove to be a dangerous thing. The trust between the two of you was fresh. Delicate. Leading him on with questions or letting him ramble in the midst of a daze, could rip it to shreds.

You refolded, then placed the cloth back on his forehead.

“Elderberries,” you whispered again. “I’ll look in the morning.”

The walkers outside were still too close.

It was quiet for a while. Daryl drifted off to sleep quickly and the dead passed thirty minutes after. You curled in the chair again, chin perched in your palm, leaning over the armrest. There was still that gnawing feeling in your gut. Still that worry that you could be doing more— should be.

But exhaustion had dulled caution when the dead passed that half hour ago. Your blinks slowed, moments of darkness stretching into seconds, then minutes, and it became nearly impossible to keep your eyes open.

The last thing you saw was a thin ray of early morning light, slipping between a gap in the curtains. Barely noticeable, until it had landed across Daryl’s face.

It seemed as good a sign as any, you thought, before drifting to sleep.

—

The fever broke the night of the herd. Cups of elderberry tea helped subdue the few symptoms that lingered, and the stream of puss from his wound seemed to reach an end, after all. Four more days passed by and with them, the constant stress and anxiety that plagued you those late nights.

A few more hours of sleep under your belt and life had become calm. Idle, even.

The wind was lazy, its soft huff could barely rustle the fallen leaves. Hues of red, yellow, and anything in between scattered the woods, stretching into the backyard. A sharp crunch under your boot. There was a bite to the air, but the new berries you found had lasted through the weather’s turn.

All those chilly mornings and early sunsets were not in vain; autumn was here, and winter was nearing, too. Though the cottage had been good enough while Daryl healed, it wasn’t suited to become a permanent stay. Certainly not a home. The surrounding trees were too dense, the walls too thin, and it didn’t matter how many strings of cans you set as alarms since the herd passed that night, you couldn’t sleep without one eye open.

Even if it hadn’t been for his people still being out there, you’d have to leave.

With the small bag in one hand, you pulled the first alarm string above your head. It chimed in the wind until it steadied again. It was an effective system; Daryl was opening the back door before you even had a chance to break through the tree line.

You passed into the backyard with a smile.

“Hey,” you said.

“Hey. Find anythin’?”

“Just some berries.”

The morning’s sun had drifted away within the last ten or so minutes. It wasn’t much of a shock to find the sky had darkened with heavy-looking clouds.

“We should go in, looks like it's gonna rain,” you said, sliding between his frame and the door.

It didn’t take long to place those buckets around the porch, just past its cover. A couple of empty, uncapped water bottles sat next to them. It didn’t take long for the rain to start, either.

Inside, the small table in the kitchen was homemade. Shoddy work, but it could balance the few candles you’d found in the basement when night came. You picked the berries clean of their stems while Daryl confirmed the findings of your foraging were, in fact, edible.

Maybe at the start, when your brother had found that survivalist book, you would’ve been able to tell. But that got lost a mere month after he found it. Since then, you’d only stuck with the basics. What you knew was safe, without a doubt. That meant you spent a lot of time scavenging abandoned buildings instead of the woods.

Daryl, on the other hand, seemed to know the forest better than anyone. You could assume from that deep accent and the fact that he never cringed at mud on his skin that he wasn’t a city kid. No, he probably grew up in the sticks. The middle of nowhere. In this world, that kind of experience was invaluable. You’d spent many hungry nights, staring at a bush of unrecognizable berries, wondering what could’ve been if you’d had it, too.

By the time the two of you were done, a damp cold settled along the walls. The rain had been pouring down for some time. It wasn’t as harsh as it had started, but the cool, moist air was sinking in. The temperature of the usually feverish sun dropped, hidden behind grey clouds.

Daryl started a fire with that wood you’d found a couple of days ago. The pile was dwindling faster than expected; the nights had been cold. The short flames reached up to the bottom of a pot you’d positioned. You poured some rainwater inside, then tossed in a couple rags to sterilize, and waited for it to reach a boil.

By the time Daryl heard those bubbles begin to break the surface, you had wandered back to that back door, standing with the heat of the fire to your back and the cool breeze brushing across your face.

You heard his steps approach behind you.

“I like the rain.”

Daryl stood at your side, quiet.

“I always loved that smell, too.” You inhaled a deep breath, staring beyond the porch. “Do you remember what that’s called?”

“Nah.” Daryl shook his head. “Jus’ called it rain.”

You grinned. “Well, regardless. I always liked it.”

He watched the rain come down. It soaked the fallen leaves and dampened the soil. The breeze was slow, weaving its way through dripping trees. The roof was a weak material, something cheap and old, and echoed a low patter of rain. It made everything feel softer. Muted.

“Me too.”

You glanced over your shoulder, that grin slipping into a tender smile, kind and sweet. Daryl met your look, felt that bloom of familiarity in his chest, and gestured you to come back in. The cold would become bitter again and inside was warm, so you followed.

He sat by the fire, arms wrapped around bent knees. He’d peeled off his vest, then his flannel, and finally pulled down the left sleeve of his shirt. Just like the first day you checked his wound. You sat behind him, a small pillow under your knees and the freshly boiled rags sitting in a clean bowl to your left.

That little routine the two of you had fallen into— you’d come back to Daryl, who’d help deal with whatever you scavenged that morning, before you cleaned his wound, then ate— came easy. He’d gotten less tense every time you had to face his bare shoulder again. Which was frequent, unfortunately, since the exit wound had proved more troublesome than the smaller entrance.

That heavy pit in your gut at the thought of those scars and their cruelty hadn’t alleviated much though.

“How’s it feeling today?”

“Better.”

You nodded and unwrapped the bandage. The fever had been the height of that infection that hit him a few days ago. During the worst of it, his wound had swelled and reddened, leaking a trail of puss that reminded you why you could have never been a nurse like your brother. Today, the swelling was gone and the redness cleared. It was improving.

“It looks better, too.”

“About time,” Daryl huffed.

On the other hand, his attitude hadn’t improved.

You sighed, “It’s only been a couple of days.”

“’S been a week.”

“You were shot.” You passed the rag along the few dried bits of puss, careful to leave the growing scab undisturbed. “It takes a while to heal from that.”

“We don’t got a while.”

“I know.” Your jaw tightened.

Daryl was becoming more agitated with his rest as the days dragged on. Cabin fever, maybe. It must’ve been especially bothersome for a man like him, someone who seemed to feel more comfortable in the woods than four walls and a roof, to be trapped here. Especially when neither of you had forgotten the whole point of running house to house in the first place— finding his friends.

“But we agreed. You need to let this heal as long as it can before we leave.”

“Trail could’a gone cold by now.”

Even with your eyes on the back of his neck, drifting down the outgrown strands of dark brown hair reaching to the cuff of his shirt, you could almost see him chewing his lip. It turned out that Daryl’s unease had become mixed up with yours some time ago. By now you could feel that stiffness in his muscles, as if it was in you, too.

“It could’ve.” You dropped the last strip of clean cloth back into the bowl. “It could be fine, too.”

Daryl glanced back at you over his shoulder. It made you freeze— he hadn’t offered any attention other than the small talk you shared while you patched him up. Not until now, when those narrow blue eyes burned into you, demanding your attention.

It was almost instinctual, that warm smile you offered. Still, you were sure he could notice that somber look in your eye. The one that remembered the fear and urgency you felt while in pursuit of your brother— before it ended the way it did.

He seemed to notice every hint of emotion that slipped past your grip.

“Dwelling on it won’t help us find them any faster,” you said.

You glanced over his expression, almost leisurely in your inspection. His lips were parted slightly, jaw slack. Though he wasn’t angry, there was a heaviness in the pretty blue of his eyes. Lately, you were realizing that might be permanent.

While it was sweet, your smile didn’t do much to soothe his urgency or frustration. He turned back.

“I can’t keep doin’ nothin’.”

You swallowed, bandaging a clean strip of cloth around his shoulder as the tone shifted.

“Four days ago you could barely get out of bed.” you firmly stated. “And two days ago, you could barely lift your bow.”

“‘M fine now,” he snapped.

“You’re still healing.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t care.”

The cloth reached its end and you paused. Going in circles with him was exhausting. It made your stomach flutter with anxiety, too. This routine the two of you had fallen into, something idle and restful, was comfortable. He was comfortable.

Maybe even a friend.

“Well, I do,” you replied. “I guess I like you too much to risk you getting hurt worse.”

Daryl glanced at you from the corner of his eye. Subtle enough that you almost hadn’t noticed.

“Thought we didn’t have to like each other,” he retorted in a lighter tone from his previous.

“It makes things a lot easier, don’t you think?” You smirked. “And if you can’t aim that bow, you’re kinda stuck with me anyway.”

You, like anyone else nowadays, knew what it was like to lose a friend. You certainly didn’t want to lose Daryl— whatever it was you had with him— from perhaps a curse of your own overprotectiveness. It was hard to let someone go back into that dangerous world after you learned how bright their blood ran, but this thing you two shared was fragile. Trusting. If Daryl said he was ready, you had to be willing to give him a chance.

So, with a cautionary glance at his new bandage, you gave in an inch.

“One more day.”

His mouth opened, but you snapped before he could, “It's bad enough we’re leaving while you’re still hurt. I’m not doing it in the middle of a storm, either.”

The rest of the day Daryl was still tense. Emotionally, at least. He practiced picking up his crossbow, balancing the weight in his hands. You packed both bags, boiled and bottled all the water you could carry, and hoped this was the right thing to do. The rain didn’t let up until long past sunset.

When morning finally came and the sun broke through grey clouds, you followed through on your word. Backpacks stuffed full, your boots landed across that empty road and the two of you finally left that little house for good.

-> part 8

A/N: slower part, but I think they need that right now. it can't all be fighting and running and shooting and blah blah. I love these little interactions between them as they grow closer <3 I hope u do too!

if you’re reading this, thank you! I hope you enjoyed this chapter. please feel free to leave feedback, it helps so much and I love to read it. have a lovely day <3

#daryl dixon #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon fanfic #daryl x reader #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon series #daryl dixon / you #Daryl Dixon / reader #daryl / you #daryl / reader #twd daryl #twd #the walking dead fanfic #twd fanfiction #the walking dead #norman reedus

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geniusboyy · 16 days ago

Text

Covenants and other Provisions

Chapter 24

Melt

Ford woke abruptly, unexpectedly, the sting of frigid air stealing his breath and dragging him into consciousness. The sharp nip clung to his skin and had seeped deep into his muscles, pushing goosebumps to the surface. His heavy breaths plumed like smoke around his face as the coarse hairs covering his body prickled, catching against the flannel sheets as he shifted. He blinked a few times, adjusting to the jarring shift from the dream the cold seemingly forced him out of.

He groaned, drawing the blankets tighter in a futile attempt to preserve warmth—The furnace must have burnt out—And what terrible timing. Bill had only just been clinging to him. His skin was warm, his nails scorching Ford’s back as they curled and dug into his flesh. He’d had been making that face, the one where his lips parted in reverent gasps, his eyebrows tilting upward, eyelids fluttering—fuck, Ford loved it when Bill looked like that. He liked to savor it. It was that point just before Bill would begin shouting his name—But the moment had been wrested away, replaced with a cold that felt personal in its intrusion.

“What the hell happened..?” Bill’s now disembodied voice breathed impatiently into Ford’s ear, equally exasperated and perhaps even more frustrated. “And why is it so cold?”

Blindly, Ford’s hand reached for the nightstand, his fingers fumbling against the cluttered surface until they found his glasses. Slipping them on, he blinked the room into focus. He turned his head, his eyes falling on the snow-laden window; outside, the drifts loomed high, suffocating the landscape in icy silence. The pre-dawn light spilled across the horizon, its pink hue casting a false warmth through the frosted panes.

Ford sat up, rubbing his face as he exhaled heavily, the air sharp against his lips. “Furnace must’ve gone cold,” he muttered, his voice rough with sleep. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet recoiling slightly against the icy floor. “I forgot to fill it last night.”

He stood reluctantly, the cold creeping into the marrow of his bones, each step a test of resolve as he prepared for the bitter task ahead.

Ford’s body sagged as Bill groaned, the petulance in his tone sharp as the ice. “Go fill it and get back in bed,” Bill demanded, voice taut with impatience.

Ford rubbed his hands together, trying to summon some semblance of warmth before Bill’s voice cut through the frigid stillness again.

“Hurry.”

Ford rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I’m going,” he said before muttering indistinctly. He reached for a sweater lying in a heap on the floor, tugging it over his head, its loose, worn fabric coarse against his bare skin. His hands fumbled with the sleeves as his feet slipped into his boots—he didn’t bother with socks, didn’t even bother tying the laces.

He trudged through the house, each heavy step echoing dully on the wooden floorboards. His untied boots thudded against the planks, loose and clumsy, the soles scraping with each shuffle. He grabbed an old barn coat off the hook by the door, the canvas cold and stiff against his body before his hand closed around the door handle. He gave it a sharp push. It didn’t open.

“Of course,” he grumbled, tightening his grip. He braced himself, grunting as his shoulder slammed against the wood. With a sudden crack, the seal of ice gave way, and the door flew open.

The drift fell on him in an instant, clinging to his hair, burrowing into the spaces he hadn’t bothered to cover in his groggy haste. Fine, powdery flakes found every crevice—slipping into the gaps between his boots, dusting his exposed neck, stinging his face. He sucked in a sharp breath, the cold biting against his lungs as the snow settled against his ankles, its wetness sharp and immediate. Shaking his head, he sent a spray of icy flakes scattering, his breath sharp and visible as it escaped in a string of curses.

Bill's laughter followed. “Smooth move, Poindexter.” he crowed with amusement.

“Oh, shut up,” Ford muttered, brushing snow from his shoulders as he trudged into the freezing knee-high drifts. The scene around him was pristine, otherworldly—a blank, frozen expanse that swallowed every sound and color. The air was so thin and brittle it felt as if the whole world might fracture; but all Ford could think about was getting this over with, getting back to the warmth of his bed, back to the dream, back to Bill.

He made his way around the cabin, only a few more steps until he could go back inside. Hunkering down to the woodpile, he brushed away the layer of snow with stiff fingers, the cold biting into the tender skin of his palm. His heart sank when he saw it: only two narrow strips of split pine, barely enough to stoke the fire, let alone sustain it. Frustration flared at the sight, and for a moment, the thought of storming back inside, cold be damned, was all too tempting. But he didn’t. Couldn’t. Instead, he grabbed the wood and squared his shoulders against the cold.

He stood and took them to the furnace mere steps away, but through the snow—which had begun to melt and was now seeping through his fleece pants—made each step feel miles longer. He swung the small door open with a sharp pull, the metal hinges groaning in protest. The pathetic strips of kindling hit the interior with a hollow thunk, tossed inside with more force than necessary. His hands fumbled as he scraped around the base, searching for the container of weatherproof matches buried under the frost.

When his fingers finally closed around the box, he clicked it open with a snap, striking one against the grain. The flame sputtered to life, the phosphorus hissing as the tiny flame flickered against the frosty air. He tossed it under the wood and shut the door. He stood, shivering, his joints stiff from the unforgiving chill, but began the trek toward the shed anyway. Each step through the dense drifts was a deliberate, slow push against the weight of the snow pressing back on him.

Once he arrived at the stump beside the shed, he stomped and packed the snow around it, creating just enough space to work. He selected a heavy chunk of wood from the top of the pile, its bark coarse under his fingers, and placed it carefully on the chopping block before grabbing the axe from where it leaned against the wall. He gripped the handle tightly, the ice laden wood biting into his palms.

He drew the blade back slowly, the pull of the motion stretching his stiff, frozen muscles taut across his shoulders. With a sharp exhale, he swung. The impact reverberated through his body, a visceral jolt as the axe cracked the wood cleanly. He jerked the handle and pulled it free, adjusting his stance, and swinging again. The sharp tang of fresh pine mingled with the icy sting of the morning as he worked, each repetition becoming its own meditative rhythm: the heft of the tool, the arc of the motion, the clean separation of wood.

Sweat beaded along his temple, freezing almost as soon as it formed, same as the droplets that clung to the tips of his dark curls. Yet, the simple act—force meeting resistance, action meeting result—was a small rebellion against the frost tightening its grip on him, a way to coax warmth from the frozen world.

Another sharp swing and the blade sliced through the grain cleanly, plunged deep into the stump beneath. He yanked it free, pausing briefly to catch his breath, the air searing his lungs. He placed the one of the halves back on the block, angling it with precision, before hefting the axe again.

As the rhythm continued, the snow melted against his scalp and trickled down his temples, only to refreeze in delicate crystalline patterns, damp strands of hair began to hang in his face from the weight of ice. He could feel the wetness soaking through his fleece pants and pooling at his ankles, but he pressed on, letting the repetitive motion absorb him, his only defense against the cold.

He exhaled sharply through his teeth, the cloud of his breath dissipating in the frigid air as he swung. The blade stuck its mark with a satisfying crack, reverberating through his arms and down his spine. Another swing and follow through, and the wood split cleanly in two. The axe sank into the stump when it sliced through the log, its edge buried deep in the grain.

Ford felt the familiar hum of Bill beneath his skin, a low, persistent vibration that pulsed through him as he worked. He could feel Bill watching him, a lingering gaze that felt predatory in its quiet hunger. “You’re awfully good at that,” Bill remarked with a hint of amusement, his tone thick, almost languid. There was something undeniably magnetic about watching Ford work under the harsh conditions—the determination of his action.

“Glad you’re enjoying the show.” Ford replied, feeling Bill thrum and coil inside him along with the provocative observations as he brought the axe down again with a throaty groan, halving the wood in a single strike.

“Oh, my…” Bill drawled, his voice a teasing murmur in Ford’s ear, pulling his focus inward even as his body continued its work. “Wrap it up, Sixer, I’m not sure how much more of this I can take.”

Ford smirked faintly, adjusting his grip on the axe. “This doin’ something for you?” he asked, his tone amused as he swung again, the grunt that accompanied the motion escaping before he could stop it, further punctuating his words.

Bill practically purred at the sight. “Well, had we not been torn away from that lovely dream we were having, maybe it wouldn’t be so poignant, but—” A pause, deliberate and sultry, savoring the way Ford’s chest heaved as he caught his breath. “I suppose it… does something for me, yes.”

Ford chuckled, though the sound wavered, caught somewhere between the fatigue of the task at hand and a sharper, more insistent ache—the jarring interruption of a crescendo left incomplete, lingering in his body like an unresolved chord. He wiped a clump of snow from his lashes with stiff, clumsy fingers, sniffling as the wind bit at his exposed face. “I don’t think I’ll be able to fall back asleep after this,” he admitted finally, the words tumbling out on a foggy breath, but his tone carried the faintest trace of amusement.

“Tease,” Bill crooned, his tone saccharine and lilting, the word heavy with what had been left unfinished—indulgent and insistent.

“Sorry.” Ford shrugged, his tone playfully contrite, the corner of his mouth twitching into another involuntary smirk, tossing the axe to the ground. His hands moved automatically, gathering the freshly split wood into a crooked pile against his side, his body still thrumming faintly with Bill’s discontent. “Didn’t mean to get ya all hot and bothered,” he said casually, as if we were throwing the words over his shoulder.

“I’ll be back tonight, my muse,” Ford assured as he straightened, his voice softening just slightly. There was something both teasing and sincere in the way he said it.

“Tonight?” Bill whined, drawing out the word. “That’s ages from now,” There was something so absurdly theatrical about the way Bill said it—just enough genuine disappointment to make Ford laugh.

There was a flicker of something—pride, maybe—in the way Bill wanted him back so badly, enough to whine about it, enough to make it obvious. It made the cold feel less harsh, the ache in his fingers less sharp, though it didn’t take away the fact that he was still soaked to the skin, still trudging through snowdrifts, still carrying the weight of the morning on his back. But at least the weight wasn’t entirely his own.

“I owe you one,” he replied, the words coming so easily that he was startled by them. He still wasn’t used to this—being wanted so openly, so insistently. And yet, there was something oddly comforting about the way Bill’s voice lingered in him, clung to him. “Besides, I have an opportunity to do some important work today and I don’t want to waste it.”

Ford made his way back to the cabin, his boots crunching through the frozen trail he’d carved moments earlier. The cold was sharper now, slicing through the damp layers of his clothes as the wind picked up, but he barely felt it. His attention snagged on the glow of the cabin window, the pale light spilling outward into the muted dawn. He stopped mid-step, his breath curling in thick clouds around him as his eyes fixed on a silhouette behind the glass. Fidds.

Ford hesitated, his chest tightening as the memory of the night before clawed its way to the surface. Now, in the quiet clarity of the freezing air, guilt settled over him like a second coat—heavier, harder to shrug off. The argument had been building for weeks, months maybe, and he’d let it erupt with all the finesse of a wrecking ball. He’d meant his words, of course, but the way they’d spilled out of him—raw and cutting—still gnawed at the edges of his conscience.

His gaze dropped to himself, to the sorry state he was in: his soaked pajama pants, his coat streaked with ice and snow, the too-thin sweater clinging to his shoulders. He looked every bit the fool—unprepared, disheveled, and as unfit for the tasks he assigned himself as he felt for the role he had taken in Fidds’ life. A leader, a necessary presence, but never—not truly—a good one.

When Ford looked up again, Fidds was still there, his face indistinct but unmistakably turned toward him. Ford hesitated, unsure of how to bridge the chasm the argument had left between them. Slowly, awkwardly, he raised a hand, his fingers unfurling into a still wave.

To his surprise, Fidds waved back. Not a perfunctory gesture, but a loose, almost comical motion—his hand whipping side to side as if it really were nothing, as if the night before had evaporated like smoke.

The sight of it made Ford’s guilt twist tighter, sharper. Fidds’ ability to endure him, to forgive him without hesitation, even after all these years, felt like a kindness Ford hadn’t earned. He stood there, the cold biting at his exposed skin, and let the weight of it settle. What he had said came from an honest place. Fidds’ divided focus—the impossible balance he tried to strike between this life and his family back in Tennessee—had always been a quiet strain between them. It was unsustainable; they both knew it. But Ford also knew that withholding certain truths—from the repressed to outright unbelievable—about himself, about why he pushed so hard, what they were doing, was its own kind of cruelty.

Fidds’ silhouette shifted, his hand falling back to his side as he turned away. Ford exhaled and started forward again, the cold seeping deeper into him with each step, but not quite enough to numb what churned inside him. As the cabin loomed closer, so did the ache—knowing that when he stepped inside, Fidds wouldn’t bring up what had passed between them. He never did. And that silence would be both a relief and a condemnation.

Once Fidds turned away from the window, Ford pressed on, trudging the last few steps towards his goal. He rounded the side of the cabin, where the furnace sat just as he’d left it. The effort from earlier had cleared some of the space around it, though not enough to spare his knees from sinking into the icy ground as he knelt in front of the metal door. The furnace’s breath was warm, a faint orange glow seeping out into the blue-gray of the morning.

The embers inside flared faintly in response to the rush of oxygen, their glow catching on the soaked leather of his boots and the damp fabric of his pants. Ford reached for the split logs tucked under his arm, watching them tumble and settle on the glowing embers of the two he’d placed earlier. Ford grabbed the poker, stirring the pile until the fire roared back to life.

He leaned closer to catch some of the warmth before shutting the furnace door with a decisive clang, sealing the fire inside. He stood abruptly, brushing snow from his knees as he turned toward the front door of the cabin, grateful the ordeal was finally over.

The front door burst open, and Ford stumbled inside, trailing chaos in his wake. He looked like something out of an old cartoon, caked head to toe in a haphazard layering of melted and refrozen snow, chunks of it tumbling to the hardwood floor as he stomped and shook himself off. His boots came first, stiff with ice, and he pried them loose with impatient fingers. Relief swept through him the moment his pruned, frozen feet met the warmth cycling through the vents along the baseboards.

Next came his coat, heavy and sodden, the fabric stiff as he wrestled it off and flung it onto the hook by the door. He ruffled his fingers through his hair, sending a careless spray of ice pellets onto the floorboards and along the walls. He eyed his pajama pants—soaked through and clinging to his skin—and considered stripping them right there. But then his gaze flicked toward the couch in the living room, and he caught sight of Fidds sitting there by candlelight, bent over something in his lap.

With a small sigh, Ford resigned himself to tolerating the damp fabric a little longer. He adjusted the waistband, trying to keep it from sticking, and carefully stepped into the living room, feeling oddly self-conscious about his approach.

“Hey,” Ford said, his voice tentative as he came to a stop near the entryway.

Fidds looked up at him, his face breaking into a smile that was warm and easy, seemingly unbothered by the tension. “Hey,” he said back, his tone light, his hands still fidgeting with whatever he had in his lap.

“Cold one this morning, huh?” Fidds continued, gesturing vaguely toward the window. “Don’t worry, I’ll take the second shift. Should’ve probably thought to stock the log pile before the storm, but, you know…”

“Yeah,” Ford replied with a breathy chuckle, his voice carrying a hint of relief that Fidds wasn’t dwelling on their argument—or worse, acting distant because of it. He leaned against the archway, picking at the ice still caught beneath his nails. “Labs gonna be out of commission until the power’s back, so…” he trailed off, shrugging. “Guess we take it easy until then.”

Fidds nodded, looking out the window for a moment before his gaze flicked back to Ford. “Way ahead of you. Could use a little down time.” His tone was light, but Ford couldn’t help but wonder if there was something unspoken beneath it, some trace of the frustration or resentment.

Ford shifted on his feet, glancing around the room, searching for something to fill the space between them. But Fidds didn’t seem bothered by the silence, didn’t seem to hold the same weight Ford felt pressing down on him. And so Ford let it hang there, just for a moment longer, before exhaling and turning his attention to the window.

“Yeah,” Ford said again, softer this time, the word settling between them like a tentative truce. He shifted, pushing off the wall and moving toward the back of the house. As he reached the next doorway, his hand brushing the frame, he stopped. The words had been circling his mind all morning, lingering in the space between his thoughts. Before he could second-guess himself, he cleared his throat. “Hey, Fid?” he said, glancing over his shoulder.

Fidds tilted his head back up toward Ford. “Hm?” he hummed, his tone casual, but his face attentive.

Ford hesitated, his lips pressing into a thin line as he searched for the right way to say it. But there was no clever phrasing, no way to soften it. He pressed his palm flat against the doorframe, chewing his lip as he let the truth tumble out.

“For what it’s worth,” Ford said, his voice quieter now, almost shy, “I… I am really happy to have you here.”

There was a brief silence and Fidds’ face shifted, his expression softening into something unguarded. At first, there was confusion—his brows knit together slightly, his lips parting in surprise. But as the statement settled, the confusion melted away, replaced by a quiet understanding, and acceptance.

Fidds smiled, small and warm, his eyes shining faintly in the low light of the room. “Thanks, Ford,” he said simply, the sincerity in his voice unmistakable. “Happy to be here.”

Ford nodded, the motion brisk but not dismissive, and turned toward his room. He didn’t look back, leaving the moment of vulnerable kindness behind him.

—

Ford sat at the small, cluttered desk in his bedroom, the surface illuminated by the faint, uneven glow of a single candlestick. Beside him, a heap of discarded clothes sat in a darkening puddle, the melted snow soaking into the floorboards—but he paid it no mind. He had meant to dress properly, but somewhere between drying off and pulling on a fresh pair of socks, his mind had wandered back to the problem—the problem—and so he had settled for his robe, its belt loosely knotted in his haste.

He sat back in his chair, one arm folded across his chest, bracing him, while the other held the cigarette that he brought to his lips every so often, the motion automatic, thoughtless. His eyes stayed fixed on the pages scattered in front of him—a chaotic sprawl of calculations, half-erased corrections, and stubborn variables. The lines of ink seemed to ripple under the wavering light, teasing him with a logic just out of reach. He rolled the cigarette’s filter absently across his lower lip, his gaze moving methodically across the mess, chasing the elusive marriage of quantum uncertainty and the deterministic fabric of spacetime.

The room was silent save for the murmur of the wind beyond the walls, the sporadic cracks of the cabin settling, and the faint creak of his chair whenever he shifted—and at the center of it all lay the same section he always got stuck on. Ford’s gaze remained fixed, unwavering, locked on the chaotic intersection of manifolds where everything refused—stubbornly—to stabilize. It infuriated him. No matter which way he approached it—how he twisted the problem in his mind, how many frameworks he imposed—there was always a fundamental inconsistency. The boundary conditions wouldn’t align, the intersections of the manifolds dissolving into gibberish the moment he accounted for higher-dimensional variances.

He leaned back in his chair, tipping his head slightly and closing his eyes, willing himself to tune in to the discordant melody. Each thread of logic rose like an arpeggio, only to falter on a sour, dissonant note—a jarring inconsistency that set his teeth on edge. It was maddening. How close it seemed, yet so wholly unattainable. He had worked through every known theorem, reshaped all assumptions until they bent and splintered under their own weight, but the fundamental incompatibilities remained, mocking him.

“So,” Bill’s voice came sardonically. “This must be the very important work that's got you wrapped up today?”

“Hush,” Ford droned passively. His brow knit tighter as he leaned over the desk, the faint glow of the candlelight catching the sharp angles of his face. He bent closer to the page, his eyes narrowing as they traced the jagged trail of calculations. His hand tightened around the pen before he scrawled several adjustments to the coordinate mapping, attempting a new configuration for stabilizing the intersection space. The cigarette bobbed faintly between his lips as he wrote, his fingers threatening through his hair. For a fleeting moment, he thought he might have it—but the variables unraveled almost immediately, collapsing the sequence once again.

Ford cursed under his breath, tossing the pen onto the desk. It rolled and clattered to the edge, but he didn’t move to retrieve it. Instead, he sank back into his chair again, taking a long drag and holding the smoke in his lungs for a beat before releasing it slowly through his nose. The bitterness of it lingered, cutting through the heavy air, but it did little to soothe that familiar frustration twisting in his gut.

The cigarette burned down to its final length and he stubbed it out in the ashtray with a sharp, almost violent motion as his other hand reached for his pen, moving absently across the desk. But in his distraction, he clipped the edge of the candleholder. It toppled to the floor with a dull clang, the flame extinguished as hot wax splattered across his hand and then bare foot. Ford jerked back instinctively, a sharp hiss escaping his teeth. “Fuck!” he barked, shaking his hand to soothe the sting. He looked down, grimacing at the red streak of quickly drying wax on the top of his foot. “Fuckin’ klutz—can’t catch a break today,” he muttered under his breath, swiping his hand over the mess.

Before he could move to retrieve the fallen candleholder, something stirred—a sizzling sensation that started in his chest. Subtle at first, then spreading outward, tendrils of heat creeping through his arms, reaching all the way to his fingertips.

The next moment, his arm twitched, moving of its own accord. Ford gasped, his body shifting forward as if pulled by an invisible string, his hand darting down to seize the candlestick off the floor. “Bill—hey!” he sputtered, his voice caught between surprise and frustration as the rest of his body followed the motion, bringing him to an awkward crouch.

Ford’s grip tightened involuntarily as he stared at the candle now clutched in his right hand, a familiar golden glow flashing faintly at the edges of his vision. “What are you doing?” he asked impatiently.

“Relax, Foureyes,” came the drawl, curling into his ears with a lazy sort of ease, syrupy and smug. “You’ve piqued my curiosity. That’s all.”

Ford exhaled harshly, the sound halfway between a sigh and a growl. “Cut it out,” he snapped, trying to shake his arm as though he could dislodge the presence clinging to him. His fingers twitched slightly, but ultimately nothing budged. Then, without warning, his left hand moved—smoothly, deliberately, in a motion that wasn’t his own. It smacked down onto a pack of matches, dragging them across the desk toward him. “Bill!”

“What an invigorating feeling,” Bill mused, ignoring Ford, his tone light, playful. “Gave you a little jump, too, didn't it?”

“It was an accident,” Ford said stiffly.

“An accident.” Bill’s voice tilted slyly, the amusement laced with something darker. “Sure. Just like this morning was an accident, right?”

Ford chuckled, though the sound was tight, forced. “Still hung up on that, are you?” he retorted, shaking his head. “So, what now? A game of keep-away?”

“Actually, I was thinking payback.” he purred, striking a match using Ford’s hands. “After everything you’ve pulled today. Even now, Parading yourself around like that—awfully reckless.”

Ford swallowed, caught for a moment on the flame dancing on the tip of the match, recognizing the mischief in Bill’s tone—he wasn’t sure how to feel about where this was going. “B-Bill, come on—“

“What is the correct configuration for this equation, Ford?” Bill’s voice slid through the air, unhurried, a velvet tease that carried the sharp edge of expectation. The wick caught with a soft hiss, and the candle sprang to life, casting a flickering halo of gold across the dim room. It wasn’t just a question; it was a declaration, a challenge. Ford’s breath faltered, his gaze snagging on the molten pool of wax gathering at the base of the candle’s flame, but it wasn’t the light that held him—It was the implication. Bill wanted to play a game, and Ford knew better than to resist.

“Integrate over the boundary,” Ford started, his tone clipped, almost defensive, as if he could beat Bill at his own game. “Applied to wave functions, t minus x over y… second derivative with respect to x over…” He paused, the equation fracturing in his mind, its symmetry teasing him with infinite possibilities. There was a solution, he knew that, but it hovered just out of reach.

“Careful,” Bill murmured, his tone rich with a satisfaction that prickled at Ford’s fraying composure. “This approach is… naive at best.”

“Let me think,” Ford snapped, his voice tight, his patience thinner than he wanted it to be. “Second derivative with respect to x over y—ow!” His yelp broke as the first splash of wax hit his forearm, dripping down the crook of his elbow.

Bill made a soft, disapproving sound, his tongue clicking against his teeth. “No, I don’t think that’s right,” he drawled, giving Ford just enough space to stew on the sting. “Your denominator collapsed. Give it another shot, Specs.”

Ford stiffened as Bill guided his left hand to the collar of his robe, tugging it loose and baring more of his chest. His heart thudded against his ribs, but he pressed forward, unwilling to give Bill the satisfaction of watching him falter. “With respect to t…wait, no—” His words fractured into a gasp as the wax splattered across his skin again, this time at the hollow of his chest.

“See it now?” Bill murmured.

To his own surprise, he did. The tension that knotted his mind unraveled in that rush, the segment snapping into focus with an almost blinding clarity, the solution unfurling before him like a revelation. Bill was right—Ford’s approach had been off all along.

“A Ricci scalar should account for curvature,” Ford said, barely registering where his hand moved next until his fingers brushed against the fabric that draped over his leg. His grip tightened around the soft material and began to draw it aside, inch by inch, exposing more of his skin.

“You think that’ll settle the variances?” Bill’s voice came, smooth and sharp, slicing cleanly through the fractals spinning in Ford’s mind. The faintest hint of amusement curled at the edges of his words, a challenge as much as it was an invitation. “Let’s see it.”

Ford shivered a bit, the equation forming as Bill guided his hand in slow, deliberate circles over the bare skin of his thigh. The soft, repetitive motion grounded him just enough to keep him speaking, though his nerves sparked with every flicker of the candle still clutched in his other hand. “Delta squared times the wave function plus… R squ—”

He never finished. The movement came swift and precise, a tilt of the wrist, and then the wax spilled in a molten arc across the sensitive skin of his inner thigh. The sound he made—a low, strangled thing, trapped somewhere between a whimper and a groan—scraped raw against the back of his throat as it escaped, his hips jerking forward on reflex, twitching slightly, the cotton of the robe dragging against him in maddening ways as he tried to catch his breath.

“It’s better,” Bill remarked, his voice cool, calm, infuriating in its composure. “The geometry’s right this time, but you’re missing the higher-order effects entirely.”

Ford’s lips parted, his breath a trembling exhale as he fought to regain his footing, though the ground beneath him felt hopelessly unsteady. His body shifted, the robe slipping from one shoulder and pooling at his side to reveal flushed skin that glistened faintly in the candlelight. He felt feverish, caught in the crossfire of the numbers and symbols cycling wildly in his mind, and the weight of Bill’s presence, pressing in from every direction, suffocating in its intensity.

“Go on, Sixer,” Bill coaxed, his tone dark and velvet-smooth, laced with a quiet edge of danger. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

Ford’s back arched sharply, a reflexive movement that sent the chair beneath him creaking in protest as the wax spilled again. This time, it landed on the sensitive peak of his nipple, the pain searing and immediate. His cry rang out, the sound cracking halfway through as his body twisted instinctively. “Bill, please—”

“Ah-ah.” Bill’s voice sliced through the plea. “No begging,” he said, the words curling around Ford with an unnerving intimacy, as if Bill’s mouth were right against his ear. “You’ll take it until you get it right.”

Ford’s breath hitched. “And if I can’t?” he asked, his voice trembling with something closer to a confession than a challenge, as if he were admitting the fragility of his resolve, the limits he knew he couldn’t surpass. But the candle tilted again anyway, wax splattered onto his other nipple. The pain bloomed bright and sharp, stealing the air from his lungs. His body twisted, but the chair held him fast, leaving him nowhere to go, nowhere to hide.

Bill’s laughter followed—a low, rich sound that crackled through Ford’s mind like a spark catching dry tinder. It was electric, laced with wicked delight. “Then I guess you’re in for a long night,” He replied, his tone almost gleeful in his certainty. His voice dropped lower, rougher now, steeped in a dark encouragement. “Come on, Fordsy,” he commanded. “Show me those genius calculations you’re so proud of.”

Ford’s mind was a battlefield of fragmented thoughts, each searing jolt scattering variables across his vision like shattering glass. Bill held him in that agonizing balance—a pressure sharp enough to keep him off-center, deliberate in its timing, as if he wanted him to stumble, anticipating every misalignment.

Ford began again, his voice brittle at the edges, catching on the syllables. “I-Integral over the manifold boundary, uh… Laplace-Beltrami times wave function minus—”

The words dissolved into a fractured gasp, the equation crumbling in his mind as another drop of wax fell scalding the tender skin at his ribs. He knew better—knew the boundary was unstable, the solution already flawed. His breath hitched in stuttering bursts, the words slipping through his grasp as he twisted against the invisible force holding his arms in place, instinct clawing at reason.

“Stop squirming, Sixer,” Bill mused, his voice curling through Ford’s mind like smoke, clinging like tar, each word suffused with lazy dominance. “You’ll only make it harder for yourself.”

Ford swallowed hard, his belly heaving with each uneven breath. The tension twisted in his gut, filling every space, crowding out thought until there was only the unbearable awareness of Bill’s control—unyielding, absolute. “My muse—this isn’t—”

“Isn’t what?” Bill cut him off sharply, his tone edged with venomous amusement. “Isn’t exactly what you deserve? Don’t sell yourself short, Foureyes. You’ve been difficult today.”

A shiver rippled through Ford as his free hand began to move again, driven by that unseen thread. It skimmed over his chest, grazing the throbbing planes of skin where the wax had burned him. The touch was cruel in its softness, a deliberate contrast to the sharp sting of heat, leaving his muscles twitching in its wake—Bill savored every reaction, drinking them in like a predator toying with its prey.

“Your variances are aligned,” Bill continued. “But they’ll collapse under feedback, and you know it.” He paused, letting the silence stretch, heavy with expectation. “You need a stabilizing factor. Think, Ford.”

Ford’s chest heaved against the invisible weight pinning him, his breaths shallow and ragged. “I—I’m trying,” he managed, the words tumbling out in desperation. “But the fluctuations won’t adjust!” His voice cracked on the last syllable, rising into a tremble as the candle in his hand tipped again, spilling the wax lower on his stomach.

“O-Okay, okay…” Ford heaved. “What if… we converge the wave function, um… account for density and a higher-order derivative—” The sentence shattered on a strangled cry as molten wax cascaded onto his other thigh. The pain hit hard, chasing a line of fire across his skin. Ford’s head fell back, his groans dragging from his throat with each labored breath, every sound torn from him by force.

“You’re neglecting the dynamics between intersections,” Bill teased, the mirth in his tone palpable.

Ford thighs pressing together in an attempt to soothe the mounting ache between them. It was humiliating, the way he lost control so easily, how his body trembled, his teeth sinking into his lower lip so hard he thought he might draw blood. Bill commanded his left hand, hovering over the knot at his waist—the last fragile barrier concealing his modesty. “Here, let me give you a hand,” Bill purred, and Ford felt his fingers move, puppeteered by Bill’s will. Slowly, almost agonizingly, the knot began to loosen, the fabric slackening with the pull.

“My muse…” Ford rasped.

“Come on, Sixer,” Bill said, his voice low, teasing, but laced with a quiet authority that rooted Ford to the spot. “We’re not even at the hard part yet.” he murmured, a note of mockery hidden beneath the practiced nonchalance, as though the equation was an afterthought, a lull in the storm. The knot gave way and Ford could feel the faint pull of gravity as the fabric slipped, the front of his robe parting completely.

He flinched instinctively, his chest heaving as the cool air hit all of his skin. He couldn’t bear to look down, but he knew what Bill could see: the streaks of red wax marring his body like careless brushstrokes, clinging to the hairs where it dried, but the real attraction was further down. His cock—stiff and glistening—pulsed against his stomach, a thin line of precum already smeared along his skin.

Bill gasped dramatically and laughed, and the sound was almost guttural, cutting through the tension with a jagged edge. “Look at you! Naughty boy.” he teased. His tone was biting, laced with that hunger that made Ford’s throat tighten. “You’re getting off on this, aren’t you?”

Ford shivered, his cock twitching at Bill’s attention. He wanted to argue, to snap back with some clever retort—but Bill was right. Every stinging drop of wax, every biting word—The degradation of it all. It didn't help that his indulgences had been exclusively confined to dreams as of late, leaving his waking body untouched, neglected and sensitive—Now, he was paying for that oversight.

“Account for behavior of spacetime feedback,” Ford muttered, giving himself a moment to steady his breathing, desperately trying to ignore the wiry pulse of arousal. His voice was shaky, the words a struggle. But then, as though from the depths of that chaos, another burst of clarity emerged—like a splinter of light through the fog. An angle he hadn’t seen before, a piece of the puzzle slipping into place. “A Lagrangian density should be introduced to the second-order.”

“Interesting,” Bill responded, the word dripping with amusement, as though Ford had finally begun to entertain him. He didn’t let Ford’s hand rest for long. Without warning, he began to guide it downward, slowly, torturously, toward the aching length of Ford’s cock. “Elaborate,”

Ford’s mind fought to stay tethered to the equation, even as his thoughts became more fragmented, more feverish with each movement. He tried to push the rising tide of arousal back, willing himself to focus on the numbers, the logic, the safety of equations. But his body rebelled, a distant hum of need making it impossible to ignore the way that touch moved with him, guiding him, controlling him.

“Integral over M…” He pressed on, his voice shaky, desperate for the relief that the right answer might bring. The words came in broken bursts, each one a small victory against the overwhelming pull of desire that was clouding his mind. “Accounting for energy-momentum interactions”

Bill’s breath caught slightly, intrigued. “And that would be?” he asked, hanging on the sequence as it came together.

Ford’s eyes flickered to the candle still hovering over him, but they were drawn back to his other hand as it continued its descent. A shallow gasp left his lips when his fingers slipped below his abdomen. His hips tilted up against it, moaning lightly as it caressed the sensitive skin around his twitching cock. “F-Fuck, uhm…That would be…g root μv..?”

Bill hummed, letting Ford hang for just a moment. “That would make the slope curve too soon.” He said simply before he pulled the hand away and tilted the candle, letting the wax fall just where it had just been teasing him. Ford’s grunt was involuntary, his body arching and shuddering as the molten heat collided with his skin. His breath hitched, his chest heaving. He was so close—so close to losing it. “It’s unstable under perturbations. Run it again,” Bill commanded, his voice unwavering.

Ford whined, sweat beginning to bead on his skin, his abdomen tight with the need to finish. He wriggled slightly in his seat, his mind scrambling as his thoughts threatened to scatter. “Account for interplay between energy and momentum—” He gasped, his entire body jerking when the wax hit his skin again, hotter this time, a searing trail down his thigh. “A-And curvature…” he stuttered, the addition slipping from his mouth.

“That’s it.” Bill whispered.

“Assuming energy-momentum is equal to—to…” Ford trailed off, his eyes rolling back when Bill made his hand wrap around his cock. “O-Oh, Bill…” he gasped, his hips bucking up into his grasp. The calculations blurred and swirled in his mind. His lips quivered before he spoke again. “Partial M over nabila squared…”

Bill’s voice was a low, approving purr. “There you go. You’re doing beautifully, Ford. Keep going.”

“Lambasa η over delta v…” Ford muttered, brows drawn together as Bill made him stroke himself, coaxing another series of soft moans from his lips. The equation felt close now, just out of reach, but the pressure was building, suffocatingly so.

“Yes.” Bill encouraged. “Keep the parameters tight.”

“P-Partial root zeta sq-squared over wave function—” Ford choked and sobbed when the wax hit the base of his cock, its heat trailing down with the force of gravity.

“Those terms are out of order. Do it again.” Bill commanded, his tone a velvet whip.

“Partial over w-wave function squared…” but as it left his lips, he knew he’d mixed up the signs. “W-Wait—aha!” His voice cracked, it was too late. More wax hit the same spot, igniting a fire inside him, sweat dripping down his body in rivulets as his hand jerked faster.

“Again.” Bill growled.

“Delta o-over wave function, zeta minus g—” His head fell back, eyes fluttering closed, chanting the numbers into the air with a desperate fervor. Bill focused the wax exclusively between Ford’s legs now, spilling it with every spoken string that led to a collapse of the manifold. Now, Ford's body trembled so hard the chair legs chattered on the floor beneath him, shaking and wobbling as every possibility for the equation burst behind his eyelids like fireworks.

Around and around they went, running the sequence. Ford had unraveled completely, lost in the rhythm of the equation and the searing pain that accompanied it. A writhing mess of flesh and mind, caught between brilliance and madness, at the mercy of his own desires. They danced, a twisted duet, drawn out by the pull of science and the desperate need to push Ford past his breaking point—everything was a test, a trial to determine which would break first; him or the math.

Then he felt it—a faint brush of heat—a disembodied tongue dragging languidly up the curve of his ear, leaving a slick trail of sensation behind as the feeling of more hands curled around his legs, holding him steady. “You’re so close.” Bill purred, his phantom hands sliding upward, dragging tortuously along the trembling muscles of Ford’s thighs. Ford choked on a sob, his body shaking, and Bill’s touch added to the torture, feeling like a brand on his skin. “Partial over what? Come on, Ford.”

Ford’s gasp tore from his throat. “Partial over… partial… part—“ He trailed off. “Oh g-god…” he breathed as the candle tilted one last time. The wax spilled in a hot, unrelenting wave, splashing across his skin, the sting tipping him over the edge. His back arched violently, his body convulsing, each nerve firing at once.

“Finish it.”

“D-Delta! Delta—delta!” Ford’s mind fractured as he repeated himself, the words coming out in frantic gasps, each one punctuated by his body’s violent spasms. He couldn’t stop, couldn’t control it any longer. His body jerked in the chair, hot ropes of his release shooting across his chest and down his stomach, the pleasure and pain blurring into one excruciating mix, his body spasming in the chair as he shouted in broken cries.

“Good boy, very good boy…” Bill murmured into Ford’s ear, his vaporous hands bracing Ford’s trembling body. Ford’s head spun, the intensity of the release washing over him in waves, leaving him breathless. His unfocused eyes remained fixed on the ceiling, lips moving in broken murmurs, caught in the lingering rhythm of what had just unraveled. Bill’s simulated touch ghosted along his sides, feather-light, grounding him as he spiraled downward, his body twitching in the aftermath. “That was it, Sixer. You got it,” Bill whispered, the approval in his voice warm, indulgent.

Ford slumped against the chair, his muscles giving way as the tension ebbed out of him completely. His arms fall loose at his sides, heavy with exhaustion as Bill releases his hold over them. The candle, now forgotten, tumbled to the floor with a faint clatter, its flame sputtering out, plunging the room back into darkness. Ford shivered uncontrollably, his body fighting to readjust to the silence, to the absence of that searing heat.

Bill’s hands remained steady, ghostlike fingers dragging along Ford’s sides in soft, soothing strokes. The sensation was a maddeningly tender contrast to the torment he had so carefully inflicted. “Bill…” Ford finally croaked, his voice rough and barely audible, as though dredged up from the depths of him.

“Shh, Sixer, it’s alright.” Bill’s voice was soft, affectionate, and it wrapped around Ford like a blanket. Ford leaned weakly into the comforting sensation, the words echoing in his mind, pulling at the thin threads of his thoughts. He let them settle, let the quiet praise anchor him as he returned to awareness.

“Don’t think this means you’re off the hook for tonight.” Bill teased after a moment. “Now, you owe me two.”

Ford chuckled lightly, a lazy smile spreading over his face, reaching his tired, half-lidded eye.. “Yes, my muse.”

#billford nation #how we feeling after this one?#had covid all last week and wrote most of this while fighting sleep off cough syrup #so the shadow man is technically the cowriter #and man #that guy is a freak!#billford #stanford pines #bill cipher #gravity falls #covenants and other provisions #billford fanfic #my writing

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witchamajigit · 2 years ago

Text

Morning Routine

Mornings at Greyskull keep were often the quietest hours one might hope to find there. It was some of the few times that the inhabitants couldn’t be heard shouting, fighting, singing, or setting off explosions. It was these few, precious quiet hours that Percival did his best (and often only) work of the day.

The resident gunslinger was roused early by the first few rays of the sun streaming through the window, alighting the dust motes floating in the air as well as his shocking white hair to soft, pale gold. The light cast across his face, coaxing open a single pale blue eye. With a soft inhale and a stretch, he sat up in bed, reaching up to rub the sleep from his eyes.

Pushing away half-remembered dreams and the whispers of things in the dark from his mind, he sat at the edge of his bed, willing the tiredness from his limbs with a stretch. His hand reached for his glasses automatically, though waited to put them on. Percy was fairly nearsighted, though hardly blind without his specks. He was dressed in soft blue flannel pajamas, his feet bare, his hair mussed from sleep. The young man rose from his bed and shuffled his way over to his dresser, where he splashed his face with the cold water from the porcelain basin, thoroughly waking him, before he began to slowly get dressed for the day.

Percy’s room was east-facing in the keep, so always brightest in the mornings, the dawn light shining over the first place he had called ‘home’ for a long while. He had made the room as comfortable as he could, dropping a hefty portion of his gold on furniture and comforts. His dresser, bed, and side table were all heavy, dark wood, the quilt and sheets white and pristine, a warm rug spread over the stone floor. His desk sat on the opposite side of the room, full of plans, tools, and notes from the long night before.

The gunslinger finished buttoning his plainest waistcoat, a soft grey wool, and rolled up the sleeves of his crisp white buttoned shirt. He left off his cravat and his signature blue De Rolo crest coat hanging on the hook. There was no point in dressing in his full attire when the day was planned to be spent in front of a burning forge. Lacing on his heaviest boots, he stood and he glanced at himself in the full-length mirror beside the door, making minor adjustments. The golden light was brighter still, illuminating his form in a halo, making his light hair and clothing nearly angelic. He nearly snorted, thinking of the irony.

Forgoing his weapon which lay beside his bed, Percy padded down to the kitchens quietly, passing by rooms where the snores of the inhabitants echoed in the hall. Knowing himself well, he knew if he did not eat now, he would more than likely forget for the rest of the day, completely engrossed in his work. The embers in the hearth were still warm, making it an easy thing to reignite the flames with some new tinder and dry wood. Soon a roaring fire was cheerfully crackling and Percy was able to set the kettle on.

The keep was drafty and cold in most areas, built more for defense and necessity than comfort. Still, the kitchen was cozy, the heart of the adventurers’ unlikely home. His keen eyes grazed over the surroundings as he waited for his tea, noting all the little details that told of who his friends were. There was a lute left on the low bench against the wall beside a pile of sparkly violet cloth, an enormous tankard tipped on its side left on the table, with more empty ale barrels beside the back door. A garland of ever-blooming flowers and vines grew around the archway and along the ceiling, circling the room, while a heavy black cloak hung from a hook by the door, the glint of metal tools just peeking out of the pocket. On the counter, having no business there to begin with, was a collection of arrows and snapped bow strings, a half-full quiver set on the floor, beside a collection of armor parts and various potions, religious items, and books. Percy shook his head, fighting the annoyance at the messiness of his companions. Instead, he turned his attention to his tea.

The sound of familiar footsteps from the hall caught his attention as he was pouring the kettle into the teapot, so he immediately reached for another mug to add to the table, as well as the sugar dish, just as Keyleth entered. Her smile was bright as she noticed Percy. “Good morning, Percy! You’re up early, even for you.” She kept smiling as she came to sit at the table beside him, Percy sliding her a mug of tea and the sugar.

“Good morning to you as well. I have a busy day today, I wanted an early start,” the man explained, sitting down and blowing over the teacup. Keyleth hummed to herself as she tipped two spoonfuls of sugar into her own cup. They fell into comfortable, familiar conversation as they drank their tea. It was strange, Percy thought, how much he and Keyleth got along despite their extreme differences. In some ways, the gunslinger saw her as one of the sisters he so desperately missed. His cool blue eyes cast over her face, taking her in, smiling slightly into his teacup as she talked. The ashari was always the readiest with her kindness; the soft touch of her hand on his arm, a quick side hug, a teasing poke, absently petting his hair as she would walk past. The casual affection she doled out soothed his charred soul in ways Percy couldn’t begin to express.

“I’m heading down to the market soon, once Pike wakes up. I wanted to get some herbs and potion supplies, we’re running kind of low, and if we are heading out next week, I figured I should stock up. Pike said she needed to head to the smithy, something about replacing some part of her armor and looking at chain. Do you need anything? We could pick it up for you.” Keyleth continued, getting up to bring them over a basket of fruits and a plate of cheese. Percy reached behind him to the counter for the rolls of bread they kept there. The two absently began to hand each other food, trading butter or jam, slices of apple, and grapes. Percy took a bite of apple, considering the offer for a moment.

“I could use some metal from the smith. I have some but I am working on a new project and I wonder if I should experiment with something else. I could also use more black powder and a few other bits, though I would have to look at them myself,” Percy listed aloud, his eyes slightly unfocused and wandering as he pictured his tinkering in his mind. Keyleth smiled at him, noticing his focus, biting back a giggle. Percy was always so serious and it was nice to hear him be so animated about his work, something he seemed to always be excited about. “I suppose I will just accompany you. The forge will take a few hours to heat anyway.”

“Oh! I could help with that! I have been working on the control of my fire spells, I definitely could start it and get it hot for you in no time!” the ashari offered, clapping her hands together in glee. The gunslinger gave her a weary look for a moment. Keyleth was extremely powerful and good with her magic, however at times she got overly zealous. Still, she looked so hopeful in that moment, Percy only hesitated a moment before nodding his consent. Keyleth let out an excited squee, happy to help, especially the usually stoic and quiet Percy who never asked for anything.

Percy noticed the excitement immediately and decided to cut in with a precaution. “But you must promise me you will be careful and gentle. The equipment I use is very sensitive, it could very well explore or melt or disintegrate should you…er…over do it,” he warned with a weariness in his voice, only to be met with enthusiastic nodding.

“I promise to be careful, I swear,” Keyleth vowed as she stood up and began to clean up their breakfast plates. She paused when she noticed he had barely touched his plate. “Percy, eat your breakfast. You know how you get, you’ll pass out before you realize you haven’t eaten all day,” she scolded gently, pushing the plate back at him, echoing his own thoughts from earlier. He gave her a look but sighed, relenting, and took a few more bites until the elf seemed satisfied he wouldn’t keel over from hunger. “I’m going to go get my things and get Pike. She’s probably in her temple by now, but they were drinking a lot last night.”

“They always drink a lot,” Percy quipped, making Keyleth laugh again. He gave her a small smile and watched her walk away before turning his attention back to his own thoughts. ‘Well,’ he thought, ‘I will be needing my coat after all.’ The morning was now fully on him, nearly the hour of eight according to his pocket watch. Before heading back to his room for the rest of his affects, Percy went out the back to begin his forge. Keyleth may be lighting it, but he still needed to prepare the space.

Around the back of the keep, Grog had been working on a stockpile of good firewood, kept near the kitchen for ease, and just across from Percy’s workshop. Percy grabbed the small cart and began to pile on pieces, taking care to choose which pieces would work best for his purposes. He felt the warmth of the early morning sun on his neck and arms as he worked. Satisfied with his selections, he wheeled his way across the courtyard to the shop.

This workshop was of his custom design, something he had never had before, and as he entered through the door, the gunman felt a sense of ease and familiarity with the space. Every surface was covered in tools, parchment, blueprints, bobbles, springs, and metal scraps. Among those were empty cups of water or tea, left by a preoccupied mind. He looked around and sighed. It was common for him to make such a mess when in the throes of a project but new projects meant he needed a tidy space to think. Resigned, Percy began to task or organizing the chaos into neater piles, stacking cups near the door to be brought in later, scraps back into the bin, papers carefully stacked away from any errant flames.

It wasn’t perfect but there was a clear space to work now. He turned his attention then to the forge. It was a massive stone structure, much finer and capable then the forge he had snuck into to build his original pepperbox. Large windows were now propped open to allow air to flow and keep him from suffocating from the fumes and heat. He set to stacking the interior of the kiln space with hardwood, meant to burn hot and strong, and prepped the tinder.

It felt… good. Good to be occupying his mind and performing normal tasks for the sake of doing.

Percy rarely allowed himself a moment of contentment since… Well. A cold bead of sweat rolled down his back, making him shiver. Shaking it off, he focused his mind back on the task, pushing down his demons, figuratively or otherwise. It was a beautiful morning and he wasn’t about to ruin it with dark thoughts. That’s what his nights were for.

“Perc! There you are. Are you ready to go?” called a familiar voice from the door, startling him slightly as he had been lost in thought. Percy turned and his eyes met with the short blond gnome, grinning at him. Pike. She was dressed casually for once, in a tunic and trousers instead of full-plate armor. “We should go. I have a bunch of shit I need to get and I have a bone to pick with that blacksmith. I’m still not convinced he didn’t sell me pig iron gauntlets!” Pike said as he tossed the rest of the wood on the pile, coming to walk back inside with her. Her easy chatting continued even as they were met by Keyleth back in the kitchens. The elf was now dressed in her usual green dress and had a satchel over her shoulder.

“I apologize, I was setting up my workspace, I must have lost track of time. Let me fetch my coat and pepperbox, I’ll meet you out front.” The gunslinger headed back to his room, the light bright and cheerful still in his room. He glanced at himself in the mirror just to check for soot, rolled his sleeves back down, slipped his pepperbox holster through his belt loops, shrugged on his coat, and grabbed a satchel. He felt a little naked without a cravat now but so be it. Not wanting to keep his friends waiting, Percy headed back down. It was now half past nine. How had the early morning slipped away from him so soon?

Percy met the ladies out front and the trio started off into the town center. They considered taking a cart but the weather was fair and a walk sounded fine to all of them. From an outside perspective, the quieter members of Vox Machina might have looked like a curious bunch, but the three fell into comfortable step together, familiar and perfectly matched. There was amicable conversation as they walked, Keyleth looking up into the trees at the birds, Pike more interested in having him inspect her gauntlets for quality metal as they made their way into the Emon center market.

It was bustling at this point in the morning. Stalls selling all kinds of things; food, herbs, spices, trinkets, clothing, housewares, and weapons. Emon, of course, was an enormous city so it’s market reflected the needs of its subjects. The trio wove their way through the crowd, stopping here and there to look at things or pick up a piece. Percy snagged a set of magnifying glasses and a pouch full of metal pieces from a dwarven clockmaker while Keyleth picked out herbs and magical plants from a craggy old woman (likely a witch but who was to say). Pike had steamed ahead to the smithy, where Keyleth and Percy found her arguing with an enormous human man, clearly the disgruntled blacksmith.

After some more arguing and haggling, Pike and Percy were able to acquire what they came for without too much fuss. Keyleth snuck away during this and came back with a treat of fresh strawberries, honey, and whipped cream in cups for them all. Percy accepted his with a look of surprise, which Keyleth just laughed at. “It’s so nice out, I figured we would have a snack in the gardens before we headed back! The spring flowers are all blooming right now, it’ll be so nice,” the druid said, pushing her companions up a path and away from the market. It was half past ten at this point.

The group made their way closer to the palace and entered the gardens surrounding it, greeted with warm sunlight and bursts of color from all the blossoms. Keyleth grinned ear to ear and looked over all the blooms as they passed, pointing out favorites and their names in Elven. Pike flopped down under a large tree, studded with beautiful white apple flowers, Keyleth settling just beside her. It was beautiful, Percy had to admit, and it was a lovely morning. With a slight sigh and a silent apology to his work, he also settled down under the tree and tucked into his treat. He listened to Pike and Keyleth talk about healing magic and methods as they eat. The sun streamed and created dappled patterns over their skin through the leaves and blossoms of the trees, the white petals occasionally falling with the breeze. A feeling swelled somewhere deep in his chest as he gazed up into the sky, the taste of berries and honey still on his tongue.

“Well, I guess we should head back. The others are probably wondering where we are, if they’re up. I also promised Grog I would make our favorite stew for lunch,” Pike suggested, stretching as she stood. Percy and Keyleth followed suit, brushing petals and grass from their clothes. The gnome cleric led them back through the town, taking a meandering pace. Percy chanced a look at this watch. Eleven twenty. He rolled his eyes slightly, chastising himself internally for being frivolous with his time.

Back at Greyskull keep, the three separated, Percy winding his way back to his workshop. He shrugged off his coat and pepperbox, then rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, turning his attention back to the forge. Keyleth seemed to have forgotten her agreement to help and he didn’t feel like going out to look for her again. Resigned, the gunman reached his matches and began the long process of lighting the forge. As he struck the second match to light the tinder, a knock on the door startled him into dropping it.

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I was hoping you could take a look at something for me. These stupid cuffs have been giving me an issue and I think you would know how to fix it,” came the slightly amused tone of Vax from the door, holding a pair of leather and silver cuffs in his hand.

Percy glanced at the clock on the wall. It read ten past noon, morning having slipped from his fingers. His shoulders drooped and his green eyes looked up to the ceiling, a sigh escaping his lips before he could stop it. His gaze turned back to Vax, who was looking at him hopefully, a cheeky smile playing on his lips. Percy pinched the bridge of his nose before reaching out for the cuffs.

“Let me see them…”

“Great! Thanks, Freddie. Also, Pike is making lunch, you should come have some. You know you forget to eat when you’ve been working,” quipped Vax, having absolutely no clue how Percy’s morning had gone.

Well, there was always tomorrow morning.

#tlovm #Vox Machina #the legend of vox machina #critical role #cr #critical role campaign 1 #campaign 1 #fanfiction #fanfic #percy de rolo #Percival Fredrickstein Von Musel De Rolo III

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forever-rogue · 4 years ago

Note

Omg Congrats my beautiful baby!!! So happy for you and its well deserved!!!!

I am going to request with Frankie: prompt list 1, #11 “be my wife” and prompt list 2, #163 “fuck me”

ILY! 💋❤️💋💋

I think its time Frankie got some love 🥺💕🥰

Frankie Morales x Fem!Reader ; warnings: mentions of pregnancy

Frankie Masterlist

»»————-　♡　————-««

As soon as Frankie walked into the small house you had made into a home, he was hit by the smell of delicious cooking. A smile tugged on his lips as he pulled off his work boots and set them in the small rack you'd placed by the door when you'd moved in. He'd never thought about such a thing before, but once you'd brought it in, he realized how much he liked it. It was just one of the many touches you introduced that made him feel truly at all home.

As he hung his jacket on the coat rack, he heard you singing softly to Isabella, as much played in the background and you shuffled around the kitchen. He slowly walked in, making sure to make as little noise as possible so he wouldn't interrupt your sweet moment.

His heart instantly melted at the sight, and he could feel a flush of warmth was over him. You had her in the high chair, turned towards you as you worked on dinner and sang to her. She was giggling and cooing at you, waving her little fists around. As you cut a piece of carrot up, you handed one to her before taking another piece and eating it. She followed suit as you praised her, "see, you're so good with your vegetables! You're going to grow up so big and strong, my little love!"

Frankie's heart melted at the sight of you with his daughter. She might not have been biologically yours, but she was yours in every other sense. You'd met Frankie when she was only a few months old and he had just finalized his divorce. His ex wife wanted nothing to do with him or her and had been more than happy to hand over sole physical and legal custody, even choosing to dispel her visitation rights. Not that Frankie minded; sure, being a single father was hard, but it was better than having her around a parent that couldn't care less.

You'd quickly come into his life, and had fallen in love with him and her like it was nothing. And now she was almost two, and you weren't planning on going anywhere. Frankie and Isabella were your forever. As far as you were both concerned you were her mother - one day he even hoped to make it legal. There was just one little thing he needed to do first, that'd he been dying to do for some time. He just...never could, often getting too lost in the moment.

"Yes, of course," you promised her, almost as if you decipher her question through her mouthful, "we'll tell Daddy tonight! How does that sound?"

Frankie's brows knitted together in question as he wondered what you were possibly talking about. Before he could get too lost in his line of thought, Isabella looked around and spotted him. Her face lit up with excitement as she leaned towards him. Frankie couldn't help himself as he came in and picked her, snuggling her tightly to his chest, "hi Izzy! I've missed you, baby girl!"

"Hello, my love," you grinned at Frankie, pleasantly surprised by his sudden arrival. Everything already felt so much better and livelier now that he was home for the weekend, "I didn't hear you come in."

"I didn't want to interrupt," he put his free arm around your waist as he pulled you close. You grinned before leaning in and kissing him softly. He made a small, contented sound as he beamed at the two of you, "I missed you, Honey Bee. And Baby Bee."

"We missed you too," you promised as Izzy laughed before wrapping her chubby little arms around his neck as best as she could, "little missy has been excited for you to come home all day. Well...so have I. We made your favorites for dinner and dessert!"

"Tell me what I ever did to deserve this," he touched Izzy's cheek gently before giving you another kiss. This was… everything and more than he could have ever dreamed of or believed he deserved. But you constantly reminded him how much you loved him, how good of a man he really was. And for the first time in his life, since you'd been by his side, loving him, supporting him, he believed it.

"Hmm," you mused thoughtfully, "a lot of things. But I have a big favor to ask of you now…"

"Anything."

"Take the Baby Bee here and get yourselves cleaned up for dinner," you gave both your loves a kiss as a flush of pink tinged his cheeks, "it'll be ready soon."

"I can handle that," he agreed as he tickled Izzy's side and she giggled with joy, "alright baby, time to get clean before Mama yells at us both!"

»»————-　♡　————-««

As Frankie cleaned himself and Izzy up, your stomach was in knots as you worked up the courage to tell him your news. You could hear the two of them laughing and giggling upstairs, and you instantly felt better. You were excited about this - and you knew he would be too, but still...it was going to be a huge change.

You plated up the food, making sure to cut Izzy's into smaller pieces before setting the dining room table. Every second that passed had you growing more nervous.

Shit - how were you going to tell him? There were a ton of different ways, and right now none of them seemed quite right. Maybe after dinner, after you'd put her to bed you could tell him.

"Here we are," Frankie exclaimed as he made his reappearance, clean and changed, right along with your daughter. You smiled at them, still finding it hard to believe just how much alike they were. She had his gentle eyes, with those wild, dark curls, and that singular dimple that appeared when she smiled. She was almost a carbon copy of him - especially right now as she supported matching little flannel pajamas to his, "we decided to get comfy already! Do you want to go and change, Honey Bee?"

"I'm okay," you promised as he sat her down in her high chair before pulling out your own chair, "what a gentleman."

"Anything for my girls," he said with a wink as he sat across from you. You nudged his leg gently with your own, offering him that smile that never ceased to make him melt, "how was your day, honey?"

"Nothing too exciting," you swallowed the lump in your throat as you pushed your bite down. You'd been to the doctor that morning, having made an appointment to confirm your suspicions and make sure everything was okay. Naturally, you'd brought Izzy with you as it was your day off and you always spent those days with her. Afterwards you'd taken her for ice cream and a trip to the park to feed the birds before tending to stuff around the house. The whole day was spent trying to figure out how to tell Frankie your news, the grainy black and white photos tucked in with the mail serving as a constant reminder, "just the usual stuff. We went to the park and Izzy fed the birds, huh baby?"

"So many duckies and their babies!" she agreed excitedly as Frankie listened to her try and recount her adventures. Your heart melted as she rambled on, but then… "the babies were so little and yellow. Like Mama's baby! Its like a...kumq...kum.."

Your eyes widened in surprise as she easily spilled the beans without even thinking about it. Of course she had no idea that this was a big secret or she shouldn't say anything...you just hadn't expected her to actually say anything. Frankie laughed lightly at her struggle to name the fruit, watching her little brows furrow in struggle, "kumquat? Is that the one?"

"Yeah," she grinned before scooping up another bite and shoving it into her mouth. Frankie affectionately ruffled her hair before chuckling. You were frozen in horror as he didn't seem to put two and two together, but soon enough it seemed that the gears in his head were grinding away.

"Wait...what do you mean Mama's baby?" he looked between the two of you as Izzy nodded and pointed to your still non-existent bump. A look of confusion crossed Frankie's features as he turned to you, his eyes soft and the corners of his mouth tugging upwards, "Honey Bee...what is she talking about...what's going on?"

"Surprise," you said nervously as you set your fork down, trying to keep your hand from trembling with nerves, "you're going to be a daddy again, Francisco."

"What?" his voice was soft as his chest rose and fell deeply, trying to comprehend the news you had just dropped on him. Your eyes stung with tears, both of joy and nerves, as you molded with a gentle smile, "Bee, are you serious?"

"Yeah," you whispered as a few tears rolled down your cheeks, "we're having a baby, Frankie!"

"Fuck me," his own eyes were glossy as you laughed in amusement before pointing at Izzy who was busy playing with her food, "we're having a baby!"

"Yeah," you stood up and quickly rushed to the mail stack, pulling out the sonograms you had gotten earlier and racing back over to him, eagerly holding them out to him, "I wasn't sure...I thought so and went to the doctor to confirm today. That's our baby, Frankie."

He delicately took the sheet from you and examined them, looking at the small bean that was your baby. His eyes grew misty as he traced over one before looking back at you, "holy shit...we're having a baby."

"I know...its all so surreal," you whispered as he stood up and wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into a tight hug, burying his face in your neck, "I love you, Frankie. I know it wasn't planned or anything...but I'm so happy."

"Me too," he agreed softly, pressing a few kisses to your shoulder, "you have made me the happiest man...you are everything. You, Baby Bee, and now Baby Baby Bee. I couldn't ask for more."

"Frankie, the two of you...well the three of you, are everything I could ever want," you promised as you pulled back and pressed a kiss to his lips, "nothing could be better than our family."

"I love you so much," he beamed at you, "I...I have-"

"Ask Mama! Daddy ask Mama!" Izzy was excitedly grinning at the two of you before making grabby arms. You raised a brow at him before going over to pick her up and bouncing her gently on your hip.

"What was Daddy going to ask?" you asked excitedly as his cheeks flushed a bright red. You reached over and touched his cheek, brushing your thumb over his skin.

"I...umm...I was going to…" he paused for a moment, swallowing nervously before blurting it out, "be my wife? I umm...Honey Bee, will you marry me? Finally...I mean, I know we're basically married already, but I want to make it official."

"You want to marry me?" you looked at him with wide eyes as he nodded fervently, as if saying of course, "yes, a million times yes. Of course I want to marry you. Nothing would make me happier."

"I-I-I have a ring," he stammered as he looked around, quickly dashing to the living room. Izzy giggled as you made a silly face at her, before he returned with a small velvet box. He opened it and displayed the gorgeous ring to you, "will you marry me, Bee?"

"Say yes, Mama!"

"Yes," you grinned at him, "nothing will make me happier than to officially be your wife."

He pulled the ring out and slipped it onto your finger, "perfection. Just like it was meant to be…"

"That's because it was, my love," you kissed him softly, "I love you - our whole little family so much. You are all my everything."

"Yes," he agreed with a gentle sigh, "my always and forever. My Honey Bee, and our Baby Bees. I love you all more than anything."

»»————-　♡　————-««

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#frankie morales #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x fem!reader #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #triple frontier #forever-rogue's follower celebration

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lightjenvlp · 4 years ago

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I’ve Got You (Dean Winchester x Reader)

Summary: You’re on a solo hunt and experienced a young boy die in your arms. You call Dean and when he shows up, you’re in the motel bathroom panicking. He takes care of you and helps you fall asleep.

Warnings: blood, vomiting, crying, small mentions of child murder, body insecurities(?)

Word count: 1,315

~ ~

“Dean?” Your voice wavers through the phone, just on the edge of panic.

“Y/N, what is it? What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” Dean worriedly yells into his phone, already moving around in the bunker.

“Can-can you come, pl-please?” You faintly hear him moving around at the bunker, already trying to get to you as fast as possible.

“I’m coming right now, Y/N. Just hang on. Tell me where you are.” The impala door whines open and you hear Dean slam it shut as he gets behind the wheel.

“G-Glasco. Motel 6.”

“Okay, just hang on and I’ll be there as fast as I can.” He says before hanging up and starting the impala, headed your way.

—

Someone knocks on the door of your motel room, you can faintly hear from the closed bathroom door you’re behind. You don’t get up to answer, not even to see if it’s Dean. You’ve gone into shock from the last four hours. The worst four hours of your life.

“Y/N?” It is Dean. “Y/N, open up please.” You can just barely hear his concerned voice through the two closed doors. After a few seconds you hear the motel room door open. He most likely picked the lock. You hear the door shut back and Dean’s heavy footsteps across the hotel floor, searching for you. He reaches the other side of the bathroom door after not finding you anywhere else. His knuckles rap on the door twice, striking the cheap wood.

“Y/N? Are you in there?” Worry coats his deep voice, and you can imagine his facial expression. Concern filling his green eyes, his eyebrows furrowed while he listens for a sign of you, anything. Mouth in a slight frown as his anxiety only increases.

You don’t respond. You don’t know how. The little boy’s dried blood caked on your shaking hands has made you sick with guilt and you can’t find words for Dean. Your mind flashes through what happened only four hours ago and you feel tears start to pool in your eyes quickly, falling as the fresh tracks replace the old, dried ones.

“Y/N?” He calls again, voice wavering. “I’ll break the door down if I have to. Please answer.”

His plea pulls a choked sob out of your throat and you bring your hand to your mouth to try and quiet your crying. But your hands. The blood.

It sends you into a panic for the second time that night, and you cry out.

“Dean.” You need him, so much if aches. The door squeaks open on its hinges and your eyes are now level with Deans favorite pair of worn out brown boots, faded blue jeans tucked into them. Your eyes travel up his body to his face, concern etched over every inch of it. He quickly crouches next to you, and moves his hands toward you only to stop before he touches you, not sure if you’re injured.

“Y/N, sweetheart, are you hurt?”

You can’t find the words. Your stomach is churning, the sight of the blood finally catching up to your brain after so long. It’s dried on your hands, falling off in flakes. You shake your head and it makes your vision swim. Bad idea. “What hap...ed?” Dean’s voice goes in and out of your ears. Your hand moves to rest on your stomach. You can’t concentrate on anything. Dean sounds so far away. Bile starts to rise in your throat and you have to try to get to the toilet a few feet away. Dean’s hand rests on your arm, warm to the touch.

You let out a whimper and try to move toward the toilet, but you’re weak from crying and your bones hurt from sitting on the hard floor for so long.

“y/n what is it?” Your face pales, as the puke rises in your throat. You lift a shaky hand and point to the toilet with urgency. Dean helps you move across the floor, and as soon as the lid comes up, the sound of liquid hitting porcelain fills the small room.

You’re stomach is clenching and tears are burning your eyes as they fall. Dean’s hand rubs your back, tracing circles.

“Let it out, sweetheart.” He whispers. “It’s okay.” You’re so tired.

“Damn, you’re shaking bad.” He mutters as you finally stop puking. “Here, darling.” Wiping your mouth, he throws the toilet paper away and flushes your sick down the drain. Moving around your weak form, he finds a washcloth and soaks it in warm water, before kneeling back next to you.

“y/n can I see your hands?” You wince and hold them out, they’re still so red.

“It’s okay, just close your eyes for me, yeah?” Dean says and you shut them, leaning your head against his shoulder.

Gently taking your right hand, he holds it with one of his own and uses the other to wipe away the caked blood. It mostly comes off in flakes onto the washcloth, and when he’s done, he moves to your other hand, repeating the same motions until they are only slightly pink.

You’re not sure how much time has passed, but you’re exhausted. You so badly want to go to sleep against Dean’s neck, smelling his cologne instead of the iron stench that filled your senses before.

“All done, y/n. Think you can get up for me?” He sets the dirty cloth on the counter and takes your head in his palm as he moves you off his shoulder. You’re having trouble keeping your eyes open.

He gives you a sad smile, and starts to get up, careful not to jostle you too much.

“I’ll get you some water and new clothes.” Picking you up, he moves into the other room and lays you gently against the headboard of the queen size bed. Dean removes your hunting boots, socks, and flannel, leaving you in your jeans and T-shirt. He moves around the room, filling a plastic cup with tap water and pulling your sleep shirt and shorts out of your duffle near the door.

“I’m almost done sweetheart, lift your arms.” You shy away and his eyebrows furrow. “It’s alright, I just want to help.”

You comply and he pulls your dirty shirt over your head. Before replacing it with the clean one, he moves behind you and snaps your bra clasp, helping you take it off and pull the new shirt over your head. Placing a small kiss on your hair, he moves back to facing you before starting to unbutton your jeans. Gently, he pulls them down your legs, and tosses them in the discarded pile on the floor. After helping you into your shorts, he pulls back the covers for you and helps you lay down against the pillows. Turning off the light, he sheds his own clothes, leaving him in a black T-shirt and navy blue boxers.

He lowers himself into bed next to you quietly, resting his head on the extra pillow.

“y/n?” He whispers, wondering if you’re asleep already.

You turn to face him and he hears the sheets shifting. In the dark it’s hard to make out your figure next to him.

Your hand searches the air, making contact with Dean’s shoulder. You rest your palm there and he moves his hand to your waist.

“Come here, sweetheart.” He says, gently pulling you towards him. “I’ve got you.” He whispers as you grasp the back of his T-shirt with your free hand and rest your head on his chest.

Holding you close, his soft breathing lulls you to sleep, and your body shuts down after such a traumatic day.

“I’ve always got you, y/n.”

#dean winchester imagine #dean winchester x reader #spn #supernatural imagine #spn imagine #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester #jensen ackles #dean x reader #supernatural x reader #dean x you #dean x y/n #supernatural x you

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daaedoodles · 3 years ago

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Building walls (just to tear them down) | 2, Memories

A/N, TRIGGER WARNING for semi-graphic descriptions of self harm and anxiety.

Cloaked in the darkness of night, the urges come again.

She knows she shouldn’t do it.

She knows she shouldn’t hurt herself anymore than she already has.

She knows she shouldn’t throw away all of that progress, all of the good in her life.

But she does.

That feeling is intoxicating, the quietness and the sense of calm that passes over her - a promise for a release in the pain she causes herself, a way to escape, to feel better - Sarah Reese can’t find the strength in herself to refuse.

It tempts her with every birthday that comes and goes, with every time she's taken the backseat, watching a past version of herself wandering through the endless halls of her childhood home.

She’s suddenly 18 again, standing in the kitchen staring down at a stove she once remembers being so much taller that despite her 10 year old self’s best efforts at tippy-toeing could hardly see the top of. Dragging the pads of her fingers against every wall of the house and memorizing each and every bump and dent beneath her fingertips. Sitting at the foot of the tiny bubblegum pink bed that was hers once upon a time.

The image of a little girl, a shiny rainbow party hat sitting on top of her lion's mane of curls that frames her chubby cheeks, catches her eye from across her bedroom. She’s sitting before a massive cake that’s at least twice the size of her head with the biggest smile on her face, flashing a missing tooth. Carefully piped clouds of white cream surround the words ‘Happy Birthday Sarah!’ piped in a pink, messy scrawl she recognizes as her own mother’s, atop the cake. Tentatively reaching out, she picks up the photo frame. A lump rises in her throat as she studies the photo with intent, feeling the grime of the dust that’s collected on it over years of never being even looked at. Thumbs sweep across the glass thoughtfully, hot breath shuddering against her cupid’s bow. Her father is grinning too, bending down to the left of the young girl as he reaches out with a flickering flame in his hands to light the number ‘5’ candle that’s stuck haphazardly by tiny hands into the chiffon. Her mother is at her other side, an arm slung around her shoulders as she draws her close to her chest. It’s the only memory Sarah can begin to place as the last time she or her family were genuinely happy.

Because come her sixth birthday, her father is gone.

He’d simply packed his things and left without a word.

She remembers her mother’s voice, screaming and shouting protests through broken sobs. They paint the walls of a home she once loved in the dark blues and purples of the pain in her every cry. She remembers her father, his silhouette through the cracks of her bedroom door, grabbing fistfuls of her mother’s shirt. She can’t tell whether it’s the floor beneath her feet or her that trembles with every thud that reverberates through her home.

Then, silence.

The next morning, his study has been cleared of every book that lined his walls, his half of the closet is suddenly empty and the photos of her family that hung in the living room are on the ground- cherished memories, now shattered beneath the glass of broken picture frames.

Even then, aged five and three-quarters, she knew things would never be the same again.

Sarah Reese isn’t a sentimental person. There isn’t much sentiment to spare for the things in her life. They’re empty and hollow, she tells herself, nothing but painful reminders of the memories she could have made if things were different.

Despite every rational thought in her head pleading with her not to, she’s removing the backing of the photo frame and removing the photo that was affectionately placed for display all those years ago. She holds onto the foolish hope that after being let down so many times, she’d be ready to let go. But she stuffs the image in her pocket and packs her memories hastily into cardboard boxes. They’re crammed and shoved desperately into the back of a U-Haul, a last minute addition to a boot packed to the brim crisp, white boxes, full of more brand new things that could ever use.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be there Sarah.” Her mother’s voice crackles through the speaker, the cold screen of her phone pressed against her ear. This time, she doesn’t feel her heart sink into her stomach.

Although, she can’t help but hope - that her mother might still come home and scoop her up in her arms like she’s five again, tears tracing down her cheeks as she places lipstick-stained lips against Sarah’s forehead in a goodbye. She knows better now than ever that it’s nothing but wishful thinking.

“I want to make sure you have everything you need.”

She’d convinced herself months ago where she’d go.

Chicago, thousands of miles away from Amsterdam. Thousands of miles away from all of it, maybe she’d finally be free of all of the haunting memories, of all of the silly hopes and pain.

But it isn’t so different after she leaves home and the dread that she’ll never escape begins to close in on her.

Sarah was alone on her 19th birthday, like the year before and the one prior and pretty much every birthday she could remember; left only with her thoughts that easily filled every inch of her apartment. They hang thick, full of grief as she mourns the loss of hope in the way the whiskey seems to coat every inch of her mouth and burn as it makes its way down her throat. Grief, a bitter companion in her isolation that refuses so adamantly never to leave her side.

She can’t tell how much she’s had to drink, too out of her mind to even think straight because suddenly the air is too thick to breathe and she feels like she’s choking, her chest tightening as she feels her heart begin to race. Her skull feels like moments away from exploding, the thoughts in her head too loud and too quiet all at once. Sarah can’t stop herself as her hands scramble, clawing desperately at her skin and pressing her face into her knees as the scraping of her fingernails cuts through the noise, a scalding heat spreading across her entire scalp. It’s the only thing she can focus on at that moment. The sensation of her fingernails digging into her skin, the strange dampness that begins to stick to her fingers and the harsh smell of metal that hits her nose. It doesn’t even register in her brain what she’s done to herself until she’s scrubbing her hands and fingernails of her own gore.

When it happens again, she finds herself subconsciously beginning to scrape at her skin, sending shocks of pain throughout her body under her touch.

It became a crutch that she found herself relying on more and more over time as things grew hectic with the turn of 20.

As the competition between her classmates grew tighter at 21, it wasn’t enough anymore.

So completely blind and oblivious to it - the way her entire life tears away at what was left of Sarah Reese by 22.

At 23, she was nothing but a terrified girl who’d learned to pin every last hope on her own self-destruction.

She’s 24 now. Sarah grew to appreciate the brief moments when that crushing feeling she’s lived with all of her life releases it’s relentless grip on her, where she smiles and laughs and then the weight on her shoulders suddenly lifts, in the memories of quiet comfort she holds close to the heart that she’d collected over the years in Chicago. It’s an absolute relief while it lasts.

But just as quickly as they come, they leave. It becomes easier to hate the good because those fleeting moments of freedom only begin to hang over her head, pointing at her, taunting, mocking, laughing at her.

25 and she finally feels like for once in her life, things might turn out okay. It’s still hard, every single day is a struggle because that hurt never truly goes away, no matter how badly she wants it to. She falls into the cycle of throwing her feet over the edge of her single bed in the cold winter mornings, wandering through her apartment with her mind still cloudy with sleep, slipping her flannel pajamas off her feet and into her work clothes then catching the bus to Gaffney Chicago Medical. In the ED, that girl realizes a warmth, a genuine sense of comfort and belonging in her colleagues and the companionship. Sarah Reese is exhausted and she can’t help but feel like she’s found a home, even a family, in these people. There’s a part of her that wants so badly to push them away so she can never get hurt again but she’s too comforted by the way her heart swells in their company, with what she can only discern in joy, to listen to it. Now, there’s a reason to fight and she doesn’t know if she wants to give up anymore.

Near 26, her pale skin.once a blank canvas was left brutally scarred and damaged in hues of purples, reds and whites. Scars layered on top of one another as she’d run out of space in places easy to conceal, easy to hide from people. There’s a sickening feeling of guilt that fills her each time she sees the damage she’s done to herself.

In the moment, she's too far gone to care. She’s lost count of just how many there are, just how many times she's found herself frantically trying to patch herself up, just how many times she's woken up to blood on her sheets and scabs under her fingernails.

Her thoughts barely come back into focus only as she’s shakily pressing the adhesive of the bandages around her wounds. It’s absolutely silent, her mind foggy and clouded with pain - the panic, fear and anger have passed - and she’s focused on nothing but the heat of the blood pooling at her skin and the darkness seeping and spreading across the white gauze. Sarah’s vision flickers in and out of focus, eyes hazy and heavy, begging for rest. As the adrenaline too begins to fade, just how exhausted she is becomes apparent as she falls back onto her bed, greeted by a pitch black when her eyes fall closed despite her willing them to stay open.

Sarah's jolted awake when her phone buzzes on her bedside table. Through her foggy vision, it's lit up with a brand new notification.

She groans, reaching for her phone and pressing fingers blood encrusted onto the power button. It flashes on, the time displayed in bold in the foreground of an image of herself caught mid laugh as she's surrounded by the people in the ED who are donning cheap Christmas hats and silly expressions, the ward around them decorated with paper ornaments on the glass of each bay in some attempts to brighten the place against hospital policies. Beside her is Dr Charles who has a hand raised and stroking the fake Santa beard strapped onto his chin. Halstead is directly behind her with sparkling red tinsel wrapped around his neck that extends its way down the row of Dr Manning, Connor and Choi.

The memory of the banter and laughs shared that Christmas Eve rises in her head and she feels lighter already.

She's staring blankly at her superiors and the tinsel that hangs off their shoulders with enough left over on either end to fall to a heap on the ground, brows furrowed and lips pursed. "Found it at Party City," Maggie announces nonchalantly, motioning from her spot where she's kneeling with the rest of the nurses, April on her left turning to face the younger girl with a tinge of concern in her eyes.

Sarah blinks, shaking herself out of her thoughts, eyes wide as she looks at the Head Nurse. "They sell Christmas decorations?"

Maggie laughs, "Never been Reese?" She queries, earning a shaking head in response. "They sell just about damn near everything."

She's dismissing the memories from her mind as she taps the text notification that pops into her vision.

It's from Dr Charles.

As her eyes scan the words, Sarah feels her lips begin to tremble as they turn upwards in the tiniest of grins.

‘Happy Birthday Reese :).’

It's funny how just three words could mean so much to her - how just a simple text could make her heart shatter into a million pieces and so carefully piece it back together again.

It’s a bittersweet feeling.

For the first time in years, she's not alone anymore.

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howrry · 5 years ago

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when you need me pt.2

a/n: its 4 am, i just got back from a SUPER lit house party, i'm lowkey dying, here’s part 2 of wynm. part 1 here. don't think i can write anymore of this because it just makes me hate y/n more. also this is my 10th piece yaaay! enjoy <3

w/c: 3.4k

warnings: smuuut, mild dub con

***

Lit homework had to be one of the biggest wastes of time Harry’s ever partaken in.

He’s a psychology major, for crying out loud! Why does blocking and typecasting and the use of the Stanislavsky system matter to him? It doesn’t! But his uni required him to take the class, and if nothing else, he could appreciate it for being a GPA booster.

The only sound in his dorm was the squeaking of his mechanical pencil on the homework and his roommate Ashton’s music softly beating out of his Alexa. He was playing some soft XXXtentacion, which repulsed Harry. Just because his songs were good doesn’t mean it excused the rapper’s behavior—but he digressed.

God, Harry and Ashton were so different, it’s insane how his school’s roommate matching algorithm put them together. At this point, he wonders if he’s even enrolled in the university—he’s never seen him study or go to a class. It’s not like Harry’s a purist or anything; he loves a party and a good beer like any other college student, but Ashton was just buck wild. He even tried to hit on Gemma when she visited for a weekend, but that was shut down when H threatened to castrate him.

"I'm going out," Ashton announced on his way to the door, checking in the hall mirror to see if his hair was up to snuff and fluffing out the collar of his coat.

Shocker. This didn’t even warrant a glance up from the homework. "Where?" Harry didn't really care, but it wouldn't hurt to pretend he did.

"Y'know Meghan from Kappa?" Ashton asked, twirling his keyring around his fingers.

"Yeah?"

"I'll be at her place," he explained simply.

This got Harry’s attention. "But isn't she dating that rugby player? Matthew, or whatever?"

Ashton laughed and clicked his tongue. "So naive! Cheat or be cheated on, Styles. What's that phrase about not hating the player?" He shot finger guns at his roommate and bounced, slamming the door behind him without turning off the music.

Gross.

“Alexa, turn that shit off,” H mumbled, and the robot obeyed, not bothered by the profanity.

So that's how Harry ended up in his dorm alone for the night. Once he was finished up with his lit homework, the raw boredom really kicked in. He supposed he could go out, but he wasn't really the solo type and finding someone to go with him was more trouble than it was worth. At one point he even eyed the Tijuana cigar box Ashton kept under its bed, thinking that he could probably raid its contents for a night and Ash wouldn't notice, but the risk of an RA busting him wasn't super appealing.

He accepted defeat, and decided to simply call it an early night. He changed into flannel pants to sleep in and was brushing his teeth when his phone started buzzing. It was Y/N.

Questions started flying through his brain. Why was she calling him? And at this hour? His anxious side flared up as a million nightmare scenarios flooded his thoughts. Once he’d rinsed the toothpaste out of his mouth, Harry scrambled to swipe his finger across the screen and brought the phone to his ear.

"Y/N?" he tried to hide the urgency in his voice.

"Harry!" she blurted.

"Is everything alright?" he asked, not waiting for her to explain herself.

"Fuck, Harry I'm sorry," she started, "this is so weird to ask of you but I need your help."

A pit formed in his stomach. "What's wrong?"

"I'm in your city right now and my car broke down. Triple A is on their way and they're gonna fix it up tomorrow, but I totally don't have a place to stay. Can I crash at your place?"

Relief washed over him. Yeah, this wasn't exactly an ideal situation for her, but it was better than the kidnapping and murder scenarios he'd already painted in his head. "Of course. Y'know how to get to campus?"

"I've got a phone, don't I?"

Harry's eyebrow shot up involuntarily. Okay, bold. "Settle down, pet. I live in Taylor Hall, room 208."

"Taylor, 208," Y/N echoed. "Thank you so much, H. You're a lifesaver. I'll be there in 15 or so." She hung up without waiting for his goodbye, and Harry was left in his now-uncomfortably quiet room.

He scrambled around the dorm trying to hide any evidence that two boys lived there. Ashton was a bit of a disaster, but fortunately had an aversion to mold and other gross things so it was more about tidyingthe room than it was cleaning. Harry shoved dirty laundry into Ashton's closet and struggled to close the door on it before making both of their beds. He figured he could muss up the sheets after she left in the morning to avoid any taunting from his roommate. He practically broke a sweat struggling to make the room presentable, and managed to finish just in time before two solid knocks landed on his door.

"Harry! Long time no see!" She wasted no time stepping up and throwing her arms around his neck. He was taken aback by her affection, and paused for a minute before snaking his hands around her waist. "You sure look a lot better than the last time I saw you," she cheekily noted once she pulled back.

"Probably because m’not runnin’ around getting my arse kicked anymore," he bantered nervously. She looked great as well. Her face was a bit pink from the weather, and she seemed so much older despite it only being a year since he'd last seen her. Her black trench coat cinched gracefully at her waist and her jeans were tucked into also-black heeled boots. In all the years he'd known her, he couldn't think of one time she wore heels before now. What's changed?

Fortunately, she laughed at his awkwardness. (Since when did he feel so apprehensive around her?) "That's probably it." Y/N shrugged off her coat and hung it on one of the hooks by the door, leaving her in a plain red t-shirt. She fluffed her hair out and turned to him. "I thought ahead and grabbed some pajama shorts out of my car before the insurance people took it to the mechanic. Now I don't have to sleep in jeans." Sure enough, she pulled thin pair of shorts out of one of the coat pockets.

"Yeh just keep pajama shorts in your car?" he asked dubiously, sitting on his desk chair and rubbing his cold hands on his thighs.

"Yes! I keep plenty of spare clothes in my car for a situation just like this one!" she defended. "I'm gonna change real quick." She dipped into the bathroom and emerged shortly after wearing the shorts. Judging by the ball of clothing she haphazardly tossed in the corner, she'd taken off her bra, too.

Harry eyed her from his spot at the desk as she comfortably moved around the room, like she’d been there a hundred times. "Why are you here?" he asked suddenly, making her jump a little.

Her arms lifted to tie her hair up. "Have you already forgotten? You're a real nut, H. Car troubles? Ringing any bells?"

"No, no," he rubbed a hand down his face. "Why are yeh not at your own uni? Why are yeh in my city?"

"Oh." She hesitated before answering, climbing into his bed. "I'll be honest, it was a booty call. I called the other guy first when my car started acting up, but another girl answered. Figured he must have accidentally overbooked his evening and I remembered you go here, so here I am." Y/N sat cross legged and rested her chin in her palm, dazedly staring at Harry.

"Oh, wow. Sorry to hear that," he awkwardly mumbled.

She snorted. "I'll be okay. S'not like I had feelings for him."

This made something twist in Harry's stomach for some reason. Quiet, sweet Y/N that he'd known for years was just looking to get fucked and didn't care about feelings. This was a totally different person from the girl he grew up next door to. Who was she?!

"Either way, I really owe you one. I'll buy you a meal in the morning, but for right now, I'm exhausted." Y/N stood up and stretched an arm over her head. "Do you want me to take that bed?" She pointed towards Ashton's only recently made bed.

"No!" Harry barked suddenly and her eyes widened. "God only knows what's livin' in those sheets. I worry about what m’roommate does there when I'm not layin' in the same room next t'him."

"Gross," she responded around a laugh.

"My thoughts exactly. You can have my bed, and I'll just sleep on the floor," he decided, going to look for another blanket to lay on the ground.

Y/N scoffed. "You'd rather sleep on the ground than get in your roommate's bed?" Harry simply raised an eyebrow at her as an answer. "Again, gross. I wouldn't feel right kicking you to the floor. Are you trying to avoid sleeping with me?"

The wording threw Harry off, and he unfortunately stammered over his response. “I—no! I just—”

“Then we can share a bed.” She was matter-of-fact and didn't seem like she'd take no for an answer. It's not like he would've declined anyways, but she didn't even give him a chance before making herself right at home in his bed and patting the space next to her for him to join. He chortled and shut off the lamp, making his way in between his sheets by the light of the moon.

"Oh, and I'm a bit of a cuddler. Warning you now," she whispered with a wink before nuzzling into the pillow and falling fast asleep.

He couldn't complain.

***

Harry woke up in the middle of the night from the discomfort of not being alone.

It wasn't that Y/N was a bad person to sleep with, of course. He just was used to having the whole bed to himself and having a second human in his space made it hard to totally expand and take over the whole surface. Once he remembered specifically whowas with him, though, he didn't feel as bothered about not being asleep.

Y/N was tucked up closely to him, clearly having no problem making herself comfortable. He laid on his back, and she was on her stomach halfway on top of him. Her cheek was comfortably nestled on his chest, and her hand softly rested a few inches from her face. One of her legs was thrown over his own, and her mouth was popped open just a bit, breath fanning across his body. The two were laid up like they’d done it a million times. He smiled a little at how cute she was when she was sleeping; he couldn't help but gently rub a hand up and down her back. He was so cozy, he probably could've slipped right back into his doze if it weren't for her starting to talk.

Yes. Sleep talk.

"Harry," she drawled, almost whispering the name.

In his sleepy state it took a few seconds to make the connection that she was actuallydreamingabout Harry. In her defense, she was in his bed and called him for help after a mildly stressful situation, so it wasn’t totally weird that he’d be paying her a visit in her REM cycle. Regardless, a strange feeling swirled in his stomach at the mere thought of what was happening.

His ears were pricked up on full alert and his eyes snapped open to stare at the ceiling fan. He was too afraid to reply, and thus waited for her to say something else before he even dared breathing. "Let's... go," she finally finished.

He chuckled, chest rising a bit but not letting his gaze move from the fan. "Go where?" he whispered, humoring her sleep talk.

"I... I don't know. Wanna..." followed by a deep exhale.

Harry found this quite endearing. He allowed her to continue softly babbling little snippets of sentences, trying and failing to piece them together into coherent thoughts. Again, he almost let himself drift off again until one of her words had much more conviction than before.

"Please."

He could feel her lips ghosting across his body where her head lay. This felt different than her previous mumbling-- she knew what she was trying to say in her dream.

"Yes, Y/N?" Harry got out softly, eyes fixed steadily on the ceiling.

"I need--" She's still not super great at finishing her sentences while sleeping, apparently. "Harry, please."

Then talking just wasn't enough for her- she started to move. First her fingers dug into his chest a bit, nails intending to grip him but not quite enough to be felt through the cotton of his shirt. Then her lower body shifted where the apex of her legs was pressed against his hip, moving up and down ever so slightly without ever losing contact. Her breathing became heavier until it turned into an unabashed, shameless moan. A moan!

That's when it clicked. She was grinding on him, and the spot where the two of them were connected sent sparks through his entire body. "I-- Y/N, are you having a dirty dream about me?" he asked dumbfounded, even though he already knew the answer.

She let out a whine at the sound of his voice. "I need you," she said, dragging her nails down into his skin even harder than before. Her pathetic hip movements sped up as well. "Please touch me."

What the fuck? Is… Does… Would this even be ethical? She’s asleep! Can she even give consent? Does it matter if she’d already started grinding on him? Was this something she really wanted or was it just a snippet of her dream making its way into reality?

"I-I can't," he confessed. What the hell was he supposed to do? Not only did their relationship go too far back for this to not be weird, but his mum once told him something about not waking someone while they sleep walk or talk or it might give them sleep paralysis. He chose to stay stone fucking still, simply lying there and watching one of his childhood friends using his hip to make herself cum.

It was sloppy and desperate, her hips rocking against him. She stopped scratching to brush her hands against the swell of his chest muscles, separated only by the thin t-shirt. "P-pull my hair," she begged.

And he was fucking torn. Of coursehe wanted to give into her request, but what if he woke her up? How could he explain what he was doing, or the hard-on he was sporting? His lip was trapped between his teeth, gnawing away as he thought it over.

Screw it-- he could pretend to be asleep if she stirred. Harry creeped his hand up and threaded his hand into her hair, tugging at the roots and almost lifting her head. "Like that, baby?" he cooed. A porn star moan slipped from her lips and her movements faltered for a second. He feared he'd pulled too hard and stayed completely still, leaving his fingers bunched up until she slowly got back into the swing of her pitiful thrusts.

"Fuck… me harder," she whimpered, and Harry thought he was going to fucking die.

Honestly, he was a little pissed. Where the hell did she get off thinking she could kick him out of her home after kissing her, only to show up at his doorstep a year later and dry fuck his leg in her sleep? The audacity!

His thoughts were interrupted by her choking out a "g'na cum," and he pulled at her hair again. Oh right, this is where she got off.

"Yeah pet? G'na make a mess for me?" he spurred on. He knew he shouldn’t be doing this, and he’d probably feel like garbage about it in the morning, but that sounded like a problem for morning Harry. He had to see what she looked like when she finally got her release.

She lost her smooth rhythm again and was now scrambling to hit her high—all he could do was watch. When she finally did cum, it was mesmerizing. She cried out his name before cutting herself off and freezing for a moment. Once the peak hit, her legs trembled as she continued dry humping him until she'd fully ridden out everything.

It was, without a doubt, one of the hottest fucking things Harry had ever seen. Her nails dug into him once more as she let her heart rate settle down. Eventually, she sighed and nuzzled her cheek into his body.

As if all of that wasn't torturous enough, she had to top that entire performance by mumbling out a soft, "Thank you... daddy," and Harry almost let out a fucking groan. Her breathing soon evened out as she drifted back into a dreamless sleep, and he guessed there wouldn't be any more speaking for the night.

So much for falling back asleep.

***

The next morning, Harry was perfectly content with pretending that the events from previous night had never happened.

By the time he’d woken up, Y/N had retreated to her side (well, not really her side—it was a twin sized bed, so more like her “corner”) and was facing the wall. She wasn’t asleep for much longer than that, as she soon stirred and moved to climb over Harry.

When she was fully straddling him, he froze and made awkward eye contact with her. “Settle down, tiger, I’m just getting up.” He almost laughed at the irony. If only she had any idea what she put him through the night before.

Y/N changed back into her jeans in the bathroom and swished some of Ashton’s mouthwash. Harry watched her fluff her hair in the mirror with his arm tucked behind his head.

“I want pancakes, thoughts?” she suggested, coming back in the room and plopping down on his desk chair.

Oh right. She’d offered to buy him breakfast last night. Harry wasn’t sure he could be around her any longer without things become suffocatingly awkward. “Oh, yeh don’t have to do tha’ for me,” he countered, shaking his head and getting out of bed.

She watched him scramble about the room, focusing on everything except her. Her eyebrows shot up when he shamelessly dropped his flannel pants to the ground and shoved on some dark jeans from his drawers. He couldn’t care less, though; the events from the night before had erased any modesty he may have felt in her presence. “Really? You’re gonna give up free breakfast just to kick me out?”

“I’m not kicking you out!” he protested, though she had no room to talk. Their last encounter ended with her literally slamming a door in his face. Before he could even argue with her, he was interrupted by keys in the lock. Fuck.

Ashton sauntered in with the confidence of a king, hair mussed and shirt obviously on backwards. “Hello, London, how are we doing this fine mor—” he stopped his weird greeting (a la Harry’s accent) when he realized his room had more occupants than just his roommate.

Harry wanted to crawl into a hole and die. Ash’s eyes drifted from Y/N in the chair, to Harry untimely zipping up his pants, to his own made-up bed, and everything clicked in his mind. The pieces didn’t go together but they made a puzzle nonetheless. A slow smile curled up on his face as he made a beeline for her and stuck out his hand. “Well hello, I’m Ashton, Harry’s roommate.”

“Y/N, charmed,” she deadpanned, extending out her own hand and grinning at Harry when Ashton kissed it. “I’ve heard plenty about you.”

“All bad, I hope,” he returned, making Harry snort.

Y/N stood up and retrieved her coat from the hooks near the door. She shrugged it on and tossed the hair that got stuck under the collar. “I’ll catch up with you later, H. It was nice meeting you, Ash.” She politely nodded to the boys and was out before Ashton could say a “likewise”.

The second the door slammed, the onslaught started. “I didn’t think you had it in you, Styles. I was almost starting to think you were a eunuch or something, but apparently not! She’s cute too, is she blind? Or did you pay her to come here?” Ashton poked and prodded at H as he undressed and went to take a shower.

Harry’s phone buzzed, and the text he received made his roommate’s taunts sound like rushing water in his ears. It was from Y/N.

Next time, don’t pull so hard.

#harry styles #harry styles fan fiction #harry styles one shot #harry styles writing #harry styles smut #harry styles masterlist #permanentcross #majorharry #jawllines #harryforvogue #haroldloverboy #:~))

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sugarfreecapsicle · 6 years ago

Text

country mile - part two

moodboard by the impeccable @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan

bucky barnes x reader

southern!au

warnings: nsfw in later chapters (will be indicated), ptsd, angst, fluff, lots of pining and details about generic southern united states area, mentions of war

summary: Even years after coming home, Bucky Barnes still feels out of place in the humid farmlands of southern Georgia. But he’s not the only prodigal to return back home.

if anyone is interested, I do have an (embarrasingly) long spotify playlist I’ve created as I’ve worked on this - let me know if you’d like the link! I cherish and covet any feedback on all my work. Thank you so much for reading!

If anything had changed in Beulah, you couldn’t find it on your drive into town. Main Street had its triangular banners pulled between streetlights, the courthouse and post office were still connected and the First Baptist Church stood proud despite needing a fresh coat of white paint and a few shingles replaced.

Your destination remained a few streets over in a quiet nook closer to the long stretches of farmland - a little green house with a white porch and mottled brown roof. Gravel spat from your tires as you pulled into the driveway and under the aluminum car port. Releasing your keys from the ignition, you and your car sighed in relief - it’d been years since you’d driven so far.

The radio now off, you could hear passive nature. Birds in the distance called to one another, speaking different languages perhaps. Wind kissed the fields of crops, the tall grass, the lush trees. You grinned upon hearing the faintest song of wind chimes.

Your key, the one with the sliver of paint that matched the kelly green exterior, still fit in the lock. A deep breath in and out, and then you entered.

Furniture was covered with an array of mismatched flat sheets - flannels, florals, solids. Your wrist covered your nose as you surveyed the old living room, wood creaking and groaning beneath your steps.

“Well, I declare.”

You pivoted on your heel, wrist holding its protective barrier at your nose. A smile broke through your grimace caused by the afternoon sun bearing down.

“Hey, Mrs. Wilson,” you answered cheerfully. The older woman had changed about as much as the town in the past decade or so, dressed to the nines for no reason other than she could and coiffed immaculately. She met you on the front porch with a hug warm and tight enough for you to have believed she was your mother.

“It’s so good to see you, baby girl,” she cooed in your ear, a hand at the back of your head with fingers threaded in your hair. “It’s been so long! And you’re so grown - nobody in town is going to believe it’s you.”

She holds you at arms length and assesses everything she can take in about your appearance. The overjoyed smile never leaves her face.

“You been taking care of yourself, honey?” A tenderness shifts into her excitement, her hand running the length of your arm shoulder to elbow. You nod once, and Mrs. Wilson tucks the loosened strands of hair behind your ear.

“About as best I can.” You barely get the answer out before she’s following up with more fussing.

“How long are you here?”

The question makes your stomach lurch, and the subsequent stammering you rattle out isn’t helping the obvious discomfort. “Until I can figure out if I want to sell the place or not. Part of me wants to, but-“

“Don’t you worry about a thing, honey,” she pats both your arms this time. “We’re all going to take good care of you and this place. We always have, haven’t we?”

It’s rhetorical, you're sure, but it feels half doubtful. When you left, it wasn’t on the best of terms, and the whole town knew how messy a burned bridge could be.

“You come on over for dinner tonight,” she offers, returning on her walk home. “I know Sammy is going to shit a brick when he sees you!”

Mrs. Wilson scurries off, and her offer for dinner won’t be ignored. The whole town loved her cooking so much, she opened up a small eatery that had won awards from a few regional publications in its first year. Summer meant barbecue - one of Mrs. Wilson’s most famous dishes and a personal favorite.

You turn to face the doorway again, the interior darker and foreboding to your sensitive nose. A trip to the pharmacy was in order for Benadryl before you could truly settle in for the night.

Part of you expected more of the town to be out and about their daily routine, but the heat was nearly unbearable. With an aging town, weather affected even errands.

The small bell above the pharmacy door chirped happily as you swung the door open. Refreshing cool air engulfed you, your body’s tension slacked and dissipated like spilled water in the parking lot. A familiar head of salt and pepper hair popped around a corner.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Bruce laughed heartily, leaning his arms over the tall drug counter. “The last time I saw you, you were flipping off the whole teaching staff at County.”

You smirked. “I promise I’m still as behaved as I was then. How’ve you been, Bruce?”

He shrugs, straightening to stand upright. The platformed area behind the counter gave him a few inches of height over you, but it became clear he would be at eye level if he stepped out to the sales floor. Crows feet had settled heavier at the corners of his eyes, but the warmth of his gaze hadn’t faded in time.

“Can’t complain. What can I do for you?”

Bruce wasn’t good with small talk, though it had never meant he didn’t care. You remembered fondly how abrupt he would be in class when your English teacher begged him to elaborate in his written work.

“I’m cleaning the house out, so I was hoping I could stock up on anything you had for allergies.”

He holds an index finger up as he walks with purpose among the pristine shelves. Bruce disappears behind a set and returns with a small bottle.

“Take it with plenty of water and something light on your stomach,” he orders, making unwavering eye contact. “And make sure you’re drinking plenty of water after, too.”

You nod with a nostalgic grin. “It’s good seeing you again, Bruce.”

He can’t deny you a friendly nod and smile. “You, too.”

The general store across the street has its ceiling fans on the porch spinning lazily. Rain had stained some of the exterior, maybe in part with age, but the sign held strong and beautiful as ever.

A red-haired dog laid outside, gazing over as if to monitor for danger or new arrivals. It couldn’t be, could it?

You jogged over, the newly acquired pills rattling in the bottle. “Commando?”

The dog raised his head at your voice, ears pert and tail thumping against the old wooden flooring. He was irresistible to you even now, years later when he was clearly no longer a small pup. Your nails scratched behind his ears and along his collar, giggling as his rear right leg began to kick under your ministrations. With his tongue lolling out, he rolls over to give you ample real estate of his belly for rubs to which you oblige him.

The rickety door opens and snaps shut beside you, worn brown boots turning towards you.

“Y/N?”

You turn, and your reply catches in your throat like a dagger.

“Bucky, hi.”

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes drabble #bucky barnes imagine #my fic

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fxck-dixon · 6 years ago

Text

Almost Dying- Negan

Masterlist

Prompt List

Prompt #2

Warnings: little bit of making out

“Remember that time we almost died, but then we didn’t? It’s gonna be like that.”

You had your hand clasped around your mouth trying to quieten your breathing. Your heart was pumping in your chest, adrenaline surging round your body.

“Little pig little pig let me in” a deep baritone bounced around the room sending shivers down your spine. Your hair had stood up on edge, you were hiding behind a large stack of boxes in the corner of the warehouse.

There was only a small gap for you to see through as you were laying on the floor, you could see the bottom of shelves and the only exit from the warehouse.

You were screwed.

You could feel your knife pressing against your abdomen as you sunk lower to the floor. You kept your moves slow and precise, so you didn’t bring any attention to yourself.

You held your breathe again as a pair of black boots stopped a few feet away from you. They started towards you.

“I’ll huff.”

A step.

“And I’ll puff.”

And another.

“And I’ll blow your house down.”

The boxes around you fell and you jumped to your feet. Grasping your knife and swinging it towards him. He grasped your wrist and span it round behind you back keeping it in a hold.

“Good luck next time sweetheart. The big bad wolf has got you.” He whispered in your ear.

“Seriously Negan. I thought I had you then.” You laughed leaning your head back against his chest.

“You can’t pull a fast one on me baby, I’m the master at hide and seek.” He chuckled letting go of your wrist.

You pushed him against the wall and thumped him in the arm.

“That’s for calling me a little pig.” You smirked turning away from him.

He grabbed Lucille and swung it over his shoulder and grabbed your hand. You opened the door but swiftly closed it as at least 30 walkers tried barrelling into the room.

Your heart leapt to your throat as you pushed the door back. Both you and Negan leaning against it using your weight to your advantage.

Both of you were scanning the room for possible exits. The room was cluttered with shelves and boxes, a few forklifts and a small crane. You were staring at the crane with narrowed eyes.

Negan was grunting next to you.

“If you’re thinking of a plan hurry up Einstein we don’t have all fucking day.”

“I have a plan.” You exclaimed, pushing back harder against the door.

“Oh please, enlighten me.” He grimaced sarcastically, gritting his teeth as the force of the walkers was starting to get to him.

“Remember that time we almost died, but then we didn’t? It’s gonna be like that.”

“You want me to dangle off a crane?!” He shouted his eyes widening in disbelief. “Last time that happened I had walkers biting at my fucking feet. And you almost fucking dropped me. Sorry sweetheart you’re gonna have to think of something else!”

“What happened to Big Bad Wolf Negan eh baby? Scared of a little height?” You smirked.

Something flashed behind his eyes and he pushed against the door again.

“You have roughly two minutes sweetheart before I can’t hold on any longer.”

You ran off and quickly got to work. You ran to the box and started pulling out plastic wrap and cutting out large squares. You quickly glanced back to negan who had dropped Lucille to the floor.

You stripped off your coat and flannel and stayed in your tank top and jeans. You shoved them in your bag.

You ran to the crane and pulled down on the hook. You had to think something that would keep there attention so you two could escape. Using Negan wasn’t an option, even though it was fun to see him dangling like a fish.

You looked around the building towards a large freezer.

“I hope there’s something in here!” You whispered to yourself, pulling open the door.

A pungent smell wafted out making you heave onto the floor. You held your arm to your nose and mouth.

A large pile of rotting pig carcasses were dangling from small hooks from the wall.

This would do. You ran to the crane again and pulled out the dead walker you had killed an hour before.

You spilled its guts onto the floor. You pulled on your backpack and then the plastic sheets do grabbed handfuls of the rotting corpse and smeared it all over yourself. In one hand your grabbed the plastic wrap and the other you grabbed as much flesh as you could.

You ran back over to Negan, he had drops of sweat running down his face and into his beard as he struggled with the door.

You threw the plastic wrap over his head and smothered the flesh all over him. You looked at him quickly and flashed him a tight lipped smile. You grabbed Lucille from the floor.

“Right Negan there’s dead pigs in there. That smell should occupy them. And this one-“ You gestured to your soiled bodies.

“-and this will throw them off if they do see us. Now let’s go.”

You grabbed his hand and pulled him away from the door and hiding behind a shelf.

He was pressed up against your back. His solid chest pushing against your back. You felt something else against your lower back.

“I hope that is your knife and not what I think it is.” You whispered watching as the walkers swarmed the building and towards the freezer.

“Can’t help it sweetheart. Seeing you in charge just-“ he sucked in a breath.

“Hot.” He whispers into your ear.

You grabbed his hand and pulled him out of the warehouse and shut the door behind you both.

There were at least seven walkers left outside, easy pickings.

You pulled off the plastic wrap from your body and dropped your pack to the floor and pulled out your knife.

You swung your arm and embedded the blade into the forehead of one and ripped it out and buried it in the back of another’s. You could hear Negan swinging and bashing Lucille into the skulls of the unfortunate walkers.

You turned round ready to put the knife in the head of the last one when you came face to face with Negan.

He too had stripped off his plastic wrap and thrown it on the floor. His chest was rising and falling at a quick pace.

You grabbed the back of his neck with one hand and pulled his lips to yours. Your lips met with passion and desperation.

He dropped Lucille to the floor and gripped your waist with his hands. Pulling you closer to him. Your tongues fought for dominance and he won. He pulled away from you and stared at you.

“You are one hot Einstein.” He laughed, and bent down to get Lucille.

“And we didn’t die again!” You grinned wrapping an arm round his waist.

“And we didn’t die.”

-tagged-

#the walking dead #negan x oc #negan fic #negan imagine #negans thirst squad #the walking dead negan #negan x reader #twd negan #negan

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thiswaycomessomethingwicked · 6 years ago

Note

21. "Volunteers to investigate the strange noises" for Napoleon and Wellesley?

Thank you so much for the ask! So sorry it’s taken so long to answer. I’m slowly getting through the back-log of prompts. :D

—

One of the stranger parts of having an illegal, illicit, immoral affair with the former emperor of France who has had, by some ill-luck, been conferred with the curse of being a mazzeru is that you wake up and he is asleep but then you see the dream version walking around.

The first time it occurred Arthur very calmly and respectfully panicked. He made no apologies for it later when teased by Napoleon. It is, he maintains, the only rational response to seeing two forms of the same person in a room and then one of the forms proceeds to walk through a wall.

–

A scene:

Napoleon: I explained how being a mazzeru worked, Wellesley.

Arthur: You did but you didn’t mention the walking through walls bit.

Napoleon: About that-

Arthur: And I just assumed you were explaining an elaborate form of sleepwalking.

Napoleon: That’s your fault, then. For not listening properly.

–

Perhaps, Arthur had conceded that point. Perhaps it was his fault for not listening properly. Or reading too much of his own Englishness onto something that is decidedly not English. Napoleon had patted his cheek and said he forgave him for being a brute about it. Which Arthur hadn’t been but he hadn’t pressed the point.

All of this to say, Arthur is awake and can hear a strange noise coming from the closet. He looks around to make sure there is no dream version of Napoleon loitering. Although the dream version, much like the waking version, tends to take itself on long ambling walks through the countryside. So perhaps Napoleon is only half here.

Arthur sits and listens. The noise is that of scratching. Claws on floor. He shivers. He knows that sound well for it proceeds fairies and magic and occult horrors of all kinds. He waits for the inevitable insect hum that comes with the presence of magic and fairies but it has yet to arrive.

Napoleon, apparently disturbed by the sound, wakes up. He lies there and stares up at the canopy then whacks Arthur’s arm.

‘Make the noise stop, Wellesley.’

Arthur purses his lips. It is probably unsavoury, he remarks. It is probably a fairy.

‘Well,’ Napoleon pulls the covers up to his nose. ‘Good think you’re the Minister of Occult Affairs. Right man for the job.’

‘Scared?’ Arthur asks.

‘Cold and tired more the like. Go on, fix it.’

Arthur rolls his eyes. The room is cold. It is an early December night and he should be dressing and sneaking back across fields to the Arbuthnot’s but the thought of going out into that hoarfrost and wind palls. He gropes for stockings which are on the floor and a robe discarded on a chair. Wrapping it around him he steals one of the extra blankets from the bed and drapes it over his shoulders.

‘It’s not that bad,’ Napoleon says from the confines of the warm bed. Arthur turns and glares. ‘You’re just seeing what’s in the closet.’

‘You’re still in bed so I beg you not to comment on what is necessary and what isn’t for outerwear.’

‘I’ve got two pairs of stockings on,’ Napoleon replies, evidently pleased with himself. ‘And a flannel.’

‘You should be the one up then, you’re better dressed than I am. I’ve only got my shift and your old robe.’

‘Don’t insult my robe. It’s been with me for many years and through many dangers.’

‘Yes,’ Arthur mutters. ‘The patchwork attests to that.’

He stands before the closet door. Winter moonlight slices across the floor and makes shadows cold and long. The scratching continues. He decides he should probably be armed if facing a fairy so takes up a poker from the grate.

‘Could you perhaps be more useful?’ He mutters at Napoleon.

‘I’ve got a pistol but I don’t think you want me firing it in close quarters.’

‘Not useful then.’

‘I plan to chuck it at the offending creature should it pose you any harm.’

Arthur looks over his shoulder with despair. ‘You’re truly me saviour. A knight in shining armour,’ he mocks.

‘Warm flannel armour.’

Arthur complains under his breath about useless Frenchmen and one in particular who is the bane of his life; always getting him into difficult scraps with horrific creatures; ridiculous man who is too charming by half &tc. &tc.

He continues complaining as he nears the door, poker ready should the creature attack. Flinging the door open he stands back and looks for his opponent. For that monstrous spectacle that was making such noise. For the strange, chilling fairies who have such teeth.

There is only dim closet filled with odds and ends. Clothes, stacks of books, memorabilia of a life. No creature. Arthur prods the coats and peers into the corners but there is nothing.

‘Strange,’ he says. ‘Nothing.’

Napoleon joins him now, large blanket around his shoulders, he shuffles forward to investigate the closet as well.

‘Strange,’ Napoleon hums.

Deciding that there is little to be achieved by standing in night-shifts in the cold they return to the bed. Settling back down and trying to sleep they are soon disturbed by a return of the scratching.

Arthur opens his eyes and looks at Napoleon. Napoleon stares back.

‘Your turn,’ Arthur says.

Napoleon grumbles and rolls out of bed, stalks over to the door and wrenches it open.

‘What?’ He asks the closet.

There is no response. Then, a scurrying noise by the boots towards the back. Napoleon kneels and pulls a pair of boots out and reaches to the back of the closet. A second later he pulls out a small kitten. Covered in dust the cat squeaks at him as if offended.

‘Look what I found,’ Napoleon says holding it up.

The cat squeaks again and wiggles. Getting up Napoleon drops it on the bed.

‘How did it get in there?’ Arthur asks.

‘No idea.’

The kitten is all black save for a white patch on its side and waddles around on the bed, disinterested in the two men looking at it.

‘I’ll give it to one of the Bertrand children in the morning,’ Napoleon says. ‘They’ll be pleased. I believe Hortense has been asking for a pet.’

‘She informed me she wanted a large dog that could hunt trolls.’

Napoleon blinks. Of course she would. Well, she’s getting a small, disruptive kitten. The creature should be bestowed an appropriate name. Napoleon inspects the animal. Picking it up he turns it around then plunks it back down on the bed.

The kitten makes its squeaking meow.

‘It’s a girl cat,’ he says. ‘So perhaps Penelope or Antigone.’

‘Shouldn’t you let Hortense name it?’

‘What? And let the creature be saddled with something like Madam Midnight? Absolutely not. Minerva? It doesn’t seem elegant enough for Minerva.’

‘It’s a kitten,’ Arthur states.

‘It’s rather squat and fat.’

Arthur attempts to pet the kitten but it trots away from him towards the edge of the bed. He scoops it up and places it back in the centre. Napoleon continues to list possible names for the animal. He has digressed from classical to biblical now suggesting options such as Esther and Abigail.

‘Madam Midnight seems fine to me,’ Arthur grumbles when it becomes evident that Napoleon is intent on choosing a name at this exact moment. ‘It’s late, either we sleep or I leave.’

‘You can go, then.’ Napoleon snaps. ‘What do you feed kittens?’

‘Milk I shouldn’t wonder.’

‘Antigone,’ Napoleon declares with satisfaction. ‘That’s her name. We should procure milk for her.’

‘We? I thought I was being turfed out.’

‘It’s your decision.’

Arthur huffs. ‘Fine,’ he snaps. ‘I will watch the kitten–’

‘Antigone.’

‘Antigone while you fetch milk.’

Napoleon, satisfied with this, steals back his robe and takes up a blanket to ward off against the cold as he wanders down to the ground floor in search of milk.

Arthur flops back into the bed and contemplates the myriad and questionable life decisions that ended with him, here, in this exact predicament. Rolling over he checks the time and finds it has gone four. He really ought to be leaving before servants wake both here and back at Woodford Hall. Keeping an eye on the adventurous kitten who is currently prowling under the sheets he dresses himself enough to get home.

‘Oh, you’re dressed,’ Napoleon says entering with a bowl of milk. ‘I suppose it’s late.’

‘Gone four.’

‘Has it? Then yes, you had best be going.’ He sets the bowl on the floor then pulls back the sheets to find Antigone. Scooping her up he places her by the bowl. ‘Go on then you stupid cat, drink the milk.’

‘You don’t like cats do you?’ Arthur observes.

‘Lazy, useless creatures. The only good cat is one who knows its duty which is to live out its beastly life in the kitchens catching rats.’

Arthur doesn’t disagree but does say that the kitten has its appeals. It clearly is adventurous and has a bit of a personality. This means it could be rat-catcher Napoleon is after.

They both watch the kitten eat.

Once content Antigone waddles off under a stool by the fire and falls asleep.

Arthur decides it is beyond time for him to take his leave and does so as discreetly as possibly. Napoleon sneaks him out the garden door in his library and watches him disappear over the garden wall and down the lane towards Woodford Hall.

As he is up Napoleon decides that he might as well remain up and goes up stairs to retrieve Antigone so she does not make a mess in his room.

Stoking the library fire he places her down by it with a pillow and returns to the settee with a book. At some point he falls asleep with book half pressed against his face.

If, as his mazzeru form pulls away from the sleeping form, his dream self notices a small black kitten curled up on his sleeping self’s chest it is not something that is remembered upon waking.

#napolington #ask #writing #napoleon bonaparte #napoleon #reply #anon #duke of wellington

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imagineclaireandjamie · 7 years ago

Text

Through My Veins - Part 2.

@yasminl

More. , pretty please. How often are the new chapters going to be published? Looking forward to this story. 🙏🏼😍❤️❤️

A fair question, yasminl. The answer is: I just don’t know, but I’ll try for once a week. I usually start writing the next chapter once the first has gone out, but as I’m sure you all know - they then take a while to perfect. Hence why some haven’t updated in a few weeks. But I am working on them <3 Mod MBD.

Dinner had gone on well into the night, so shattered, her eyes barely open, Claire made her apologies and left Ellen, Brian and Lamb laughing and joking at the table. Dragging herself off to bed, she crawled under the covers leaving all of her clothes on. She had no energy to change into her pyjamas and was asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.

As always, her dreams were sporadic - the heat of the Nile permeated her skin as she tossed and turned beneath the sheets. Instead of the soft cotton of her Lallybroch bed, she was now lying beneath the tarp of her thin tent, the sun glaring through the coarse fabric. Kicking her legs, Claire tried to rid herself of the taint of it, the sweat rolling down her spine as the eerie figure passed along the left side of her temporary abode.

She remembered it well. The scent of him as he crawled through the narrow entrance to her tent, his shirt abandoned in the midday heat as he crawled along her legs and curled himself around her.

Shocked awake by the force of the dream, Claire shot bolt upright, her chest heaving as she tried to regulate her heartbeat. With her hand resting over her left breast, she climbed out from the bed, undid her - no uncomfortable - jeans and shimmied into her flannel pyjamas. Rubbing her eyes she snuck, her feet narrowly avoiding the creaky old floorboards.

“Jesus...H,” she muttered, cupping her hand under the tap as she tried to tame the mass of curls that had somehow managed to migrate to the left hand side of her head during the night.

Abandoning her attempts to get it flat again, Claire peeled off her clothes and climbed into the shower - using whichever miscellaneous shampoo she picked up first. Massaging the foam through her hair, she rubbed her scalp in a bid to soothe the stress from her skull downwards. The water was nice and warm, not too hot but nice enough that she felt more relaxed than she had done in a while.

Not wanting to put her sleep-stained clothes back on, Claire grabbed a clean towel from the warmer and wrapped it around herself. She hadn’t even looked at the time when she’d woken so was caught off guard when she came back into the corridor to find Jamie awake - and shirtless - waiting outside the bathroom door.

“O-oh…” she stuttered, the breath catching in her throat as she took one cautionary step backwards. “I didn’t expect anyone else to be awake yet.” She whispered, glancing around, expecting to see Brian -at least- and feigning shock when he appeared to be alone.

“Ach, no, they are’na,” Jamie said, not hiding the amusement in his voice, “they had a late night. As ye ken. So I told da that I’d get up and do the milking - let him and yer uncle catch up.” Quirking a brow, Jamie ruffled his hand though his already mussed up hair and covered his mouth as he yawned. Scrunching his nose he smiled as he stepped closer to the bathroom. “Do ye want to come and help? Since yer up…”

Taken aback by his offer, Claire opened and closed her mouth as she held the towel tight across her chest.

“I don’t think I’m particularly well equipped for...milking, Jamie.” She replied. “I don’t even have wellies with me.”

“I dinna think that’ll be a problem, lass.” He said happily - his joyful demeanour infectious as he spoke. “We have plenty of supplies. I think mam is about the same size as ye, aye? You could wear her jacket and dungarees. Ye’ll be fine. If you want to, of course?”

“A-alright,” Claire stammered her eyes locked with Jamie’s as she walked backwards a little. She could see his shoulders roll, the top of his pectoral muscles tensing as he smiled widely. She couldn’t look downwards, even the suggestion of his bare chest made her mouth water. But his age -the reminder of it at least- made her hands tighten into fists. He was just trying to make her feel welcome and she was misconstruing his kindness for flirting. Though she swore she could see a slight glint in his eye as she nodded and turned slightly.

“Challenge accepted, then?” Jamie whispered, dipping his head and winking quickly.

“Oh,” Claire said - more confidently now, “it was a challenge was it, Fraser?”

“Aye, of course. Yer an archaeologist, are ye no’? I want to see how good you are at getting yer hands dirty. So, o’ course it’s a challenge.”

“Fine. I’ll get dressed. You just wait and see.” She said stubbornly, raising her chin in defiance. Shimmying backwards a touch, Claire felt the metal of the door divider against her bare feet and turned to hide herself safely in her room. Her head spun. Had she just agreed to milk cows with Jamie Fraser? Shaking her wet hair, she glanced over at the clock which read 4:30am. The bright red digits of the old analogue clock flickered as the dim glow of dawn began to illuminate the fields beyond her windows.

With dawn fast approaching Claire quickly dried her hair and pulled on some leggings and a thick jumper. She could have just put her pyjamas back on and fallen asleep again, forgetting Jamie’s offer completely. But that felt cowardly and really, if she could help him out and learn something new at the same time, then she was up for it. Realising she was mostly excited more than nervous about going out milking, she plucked her waterproof coat from the chair where she’d dumped it last night and - as quietly as she was able - crept downstairs.

Jamie was already waiting, a spare pair of wellington boots and some thick looking industrial dungarees in his hands.

“For a moment I thought ye’d chickened out and gone back to bed, sassenach.” He said, the Scots colloquial term for an Englishman sounding more pleasant on his tongue than the last time she’d heard someone say it. It felt more like a term of endearment than a shady term used against her fellow countrymen.

“I’m studying for my doctorate, Fraser,” she returned playfully, “I’ve slept in my own sweat out in the desert for weeks, peed in a bottle because there were no flushing toilets. Getting up early, walking through mud and assisting you out there doesn’t make scare me, buddy. I’m immune to your teasing. So,” she said with some finality, “are we ready?”

“Ye need to put these on.” He replied, holding out the waterproof equipment to her with a friendly grin on his face.

“Excellent.” Claire said. Taking the large-ish trousers and sliding them on over her leggings.

“Much better, lass. Ye actually look like yer ready for the heavy duties of a Scottish farmer now, aye? No’ just a bystander.”

“Bystander!” Claire scoffed. “My arse.”

By the time Claire had hooked the last cows up to the milking machine the sun had completely risen and the barn they were currently in was lit from the inside out, the wooden beams lighting up bright red as if they were on fire and Claire couldn’t help but think of Cairo.

Before she’d travelled to Baltim on the coast, Cairo had been her home for a month whilst they researched their dig sites around Burullus Lake. It was always bright, the sun seemingly redder and hotter than anywhere she’d ever been before. Probably because it was further inland than any of the other campsites on the continent, but something about the place told her its position on the earth brought it closer to the sun by some ecological or geographical madness.

“Claire,” Jamie said, patting her on the shoulder and bringing her out of her daydream in an instant, “I brought the flask wi’ us, we canna do anything more now, the machine does the rest. Would ye like a cup of tea while we wait?”

“Yes, that would be wonderful, thanks Jamie.”

Sitting on the ancient small milking stools that Brian had stored in the corner of the barn, Claire and Jamie shared the hot beverage using the one small cup from the top of the Thermos. Passing it back and forth between them they sat in an amicable silence, the sound of the pulsating pressure canisters funneling milk from the cows into the vat that sat on the outside of the building the only noise. It was loud enough now that neither of them felt the need to compete with it and it was nice to just sit and take in the heat of the morning before the clouds rolled in.

“So, did ye always want to travel the world, Claire?” Jamie asked as they packed away the equipment, freeing the fresians from their morning duties. A chorus of moos went up as they stomped, shook and settled themselves so Claire waited until they were quiet again before she answered.

“I really don’t know,” she said honestly, “I think I just saw uncle Lamb as some sort of God when I was little. I always wanted to follow in his footsteps. And when I got to eighteen, my A-Levels over, and I still didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life -truly- I just went for it. I did my BA. I didn’t hate it and I knew that if I actually wanted a proper career I’d eventually have to do my Masters and then my PhD. The travelling part just sort of...came with the territory.”

“And now?” He pressed, his fingers rising to brush a stray piece of straw from her shoulder as he tipped his head to the left, allowing his hand to linger for just a moment too long. “Yer no’ too far off finishing your doctorate are you?”

“I don’t know about now, Jamie,” she whispered, ignoring his last question completely.

All the air had left her lungs and she felt unable to string together anymore words without collapsing under the pressure.

Jamie’s touch had unleashed something inside of her that she couldn’t quite explain. She was a scientist. A logical creature who saw the world for what it truly was. She loved unearthing the past, describing in monumental detail the marks and patterns that released previously unknown secrets about people who walked the earth all those years ago. Frank had been of similar ilk. She had pursued him, thinking his continued support and affection was an accurate portrayal of a healthy and stable relationship - especially in her line of work where they were never in one place for too long.

But even he had proven that stability was a myth. Though maybe he was just a product of his career and once Claire had returned home he hadn’t deemed it logical to assume she’d be back any time soon, out of sight out of mind.

So, although her head rebelled against the idea that one touch could spark a romantic involvement, her heart was quite keen on the idea ...and as his mouth touched hers, all rational discussion in her mind - about Jamie’s age, about her studies, about the fact that they were stood in a barn surrounded by cattle. Instead she focused on the soft taste of tea that lingered on his lips as he pressed himself closer to her, pushing her up and against the panels of wood on the only freely exposed part of the barn.

He was gentle, incredibly sensitive as he placed one hand by the side of her head whilst using the other to run along the underside of her jaw. She almost forgot that he was nearly a decade younger than her. Almost.

“Jamie,” she whispered against him, sighing gently as he used the opportunity to lap his tongue languorously against the inside of her bottom lip, “you’re--”

“If ye dinna want me to kiss you anymore, Claire,” Jamie interjected, punctuating his words with small, sweet kisses, “then I’ll stop and I willna mention it again. But otherwise, please dinna tell me it’s because I’m too young, aye? It isna illegal.”

“No,” Claire said softly, “it isn’t. But what you’re doing with your tongue should be.”

#;Mod MBD #Through My Veins AU #jamie x claire #Younger Jamie #Older Claire #Slow Build

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connorpilmanwriting · 4 years ago

Text

short horror: step

My father was an addict and an abuser. An unquenchable well of addiction and violence ran so deeply to the core of him that the foundation was cracked long before I came along. She’ll never admit it, but I know my mother hoped my birth would calm him down. Though, it didn’t. And she’ll never admit it, but I know she resents some part of me for that. But she loves me more than she resents me and would never put such an unreasonable weight on her own child. She wanted what was best for me, despite her shortcomings. My father, however, wasn’t as reasonable a person.

Around one-thirty in the morning on a weekend in early October I heard pounding on the front door of our new apartment. My mother was working the graveyard shift. They’d been separated for seven months. It couldn’t have been anyone else at this hour, rapping on the door with such force. He’d handled marriage and fatherhood poorly, and forced bachelorhood wasn’t treating him well either. Without my mother to reign him in during his sudden and random bouts of lucidity, my father had slipped off whatever edge he thought he was skirting and was now at the bottom of his own lonely well.

It was a prison of his own making. Drinking, drugs, abuse. Choices rippling into other choices. That’s what I was thinking when I opened the door, phone in hand. My father usually recoiled at the sight, since communication meant exposure; he was essentially black mold to my mother’s sunlight. But not today. Whatever coursed through his veins gave him more courage than he ever had sober. I barely opened the door when he charged with force, knocking me into the wall parallel to the entrance.

“Get up,” he said, waltzing past me and into the apartment. “We’re going on a trip.”

“Where?”

“Disneyland. Get packing.”

His words weren’t slurred. The syllables didn’t sound strung together with tar like they so frequently did. He was clearly on something, though I couldn’t tell what. I didn’t want to get close enough to look at his pupils. Whatever it was gave him an extra edge, instead of dulling his preexisting one. He was as cognitive as he could be while still under the influence. This was my father at his most dangerous.

In the brief moment I was given to pack, I grabbed the first clean items I could find. Extra underwear, a bra, a flannel and some jeans were all thrown into an empty garbage bag. He started yelling when I stopped in the bathroom for toothpaste and tampons. He even took my phone. With the clothes on my back and a garbage bag filled with the barest necessities in the bed of his old pickup, we sped off into the dark of night.

He blared music, old cassettes that were already outdated by the time he was my age. Bygone country and swing punctuated our drive into the black autumn wilderness that started just south of town. I knew about these woods. If I went missing here, I wouldn’t be the first. Maybe that’s how they’ll get him after I’m gone. That was the closest thing to hope I felt as the dark of rural night pulled us into its gaping maw.

Once civilization was well out of our rearview, my father pulled onto a path so decrepit and hidden I jumped thinking he was veering us into the tree line. A near unrecognizable dirt road lead us deeper into the forest for far too long. “I used to bring girls out here. Back before you. Before your mom. I’d sneak off on school nights to see girls with nothing more than a six-pack, this class ring, and my baby blues. They did the work for me.”

Whatever boyish charm he supposedly had was long gone, pillaged by years of self abuse. Now he looked 15 years older than he was and smelled like a broken air conditioner that ran on cigarettes and cheap booze.

“But now,” he started. “Now, I just…I don’t know. She wasn’t supposed to get pregnant so young. I thought I had a few more years left of something more alive.”

It stung to hear, but only for a moment, like the half second before you react to your hand getting too close to an open flame. If I truly cared what he had to say, it might’ve actually stayed with me. But the words were already fading when we pulled up to a secluded patch of empty grass nestled deep in the woods.

“Set up the tents,” he barked as he poked at the fire pit with matches and sticks.

I did as he said. I worked quickly and quietly to assemble two single-person tents. I was surprised he even brought tents. Some part of me just assumed he was going to kill me here and now. The night’s still young, I thought to myself.

Once I was finished, my father had gotten a fire going and was slumped in a folding chair in front of it. His feet were propped up on an old stereo playing his outdated cassettes. Whatever uppers he was on must’ve run out since he was nursing a bottle of brown liquor, his trademark. I sat on the cool ground, opposite side of the fire, glaring at him through the flames.

“Why are we out here?” I eventually asked, fed up with silence.

He stared into the fire for a long time. Seemed like minutes.

“Your mom got a restraining order on me. I just wanted to spend time with you…”

“You’ve never wanted to spend time with me,” I muttered.

He heard this and leapt over the flame, towering over me. He kicked up his foot, hitting my shoulder with the flat heel of his boot. I was on my back when he stepped closer, further towering over me.

“You don’t know,” he said with a long paused before spitting, “Get more wood.”

I struggled to my feet and stumbled off, tears welling in my eyes. A numbness had kept me composed up to this point. It was wearing off and the panic of logical fear was seeping in. I was stumbling through black brush, uncaring of my direction or destination. I just needed to get away, I thought to myself. I’d never felt so doomed.

Two big red eyes in the brush, glinting in nothing more than moonlight, seemed to glow brighter than everything else. Normally, I would’ve been afraid. I would’ve ran or tried to make myself bigger or something, anything. But now I just stood there, pondering what would be quicker: death at the hands of my father or at the hands of a wild animal? Fear was back in the city. Despair was the only thing out here in the woods.

“Just do it,” I said to the eyes as if they understood, “Just get it over it over with.”

I took a step closer and it remained unflinching. I could hear something akin to whimpering as I approached. When the gap between us became less than ten feet, it huffed slightly and retreated with impossible speed. I sighed, disappointed.

The ground was wet from a cool rain earlier in the day but I nonetheless filled my arms with as much tinder and firewood as I could find. I should’ve known better.

“What the fuck is any of this?” he spat, every syllable soaked in booze.

“It rained, this is the best I could find.”

Wrong words. Wrong wood. Wrong everything. I barely evaded the bottle he threw at my head. It shattered against a nearby tree. In an effort to dodge the incoming projectile, I inadvertently dropped my collected firewood into the still-burning hearth, smothering most of the flame in damp logs and twigs. I don’t know if he was still mad at my words or if ruining his fire had refreshed his rage, either way he charged at me like he did at the apartment. This time there was no door between us to dampen the force.

This is how it ends, I thought.

I rushed to his truck, hoping for the measly snub nose he often kept in his glove compartment. And there it was. In my hand. Despite its paltry size, the dense metal it was built from made it heavy in my palm. The grip was faded. The whole thing was coated in a sooty grime. It simultaneously seemed overused and untouched. I pulled the hammer back with my thumb and swung around to aim at my father.

Logic, for the first time all night, made an appearance in the form of a flashing realization in my father’s eyes. He was standing at the rear of his truck, watching me. I hated him. I hated every inch of his being. Everyone I knew hated him. Who cared if I did him in? Would the police even notice? He had a rap sheet so long and slimy his death would be a relief to the justice system.

“Stay away from me.”

“Or what? You’ll shoot me?” he laughed, spit dribbling from the corner of his crooked mouth.

“Yeah.” I could feel the tears in my eyes. “I will.”

“Sure thing, kiddo.” He smiled. “And if you don’t, you’re gonna wish you did.”

It was a single step he took towards me. That was all it took. I couldn’t see clearly through the tears but I pulled the trigger nonetheless. He didn’t deserve precision. He deserved as blunt and as slow a death as this snub nose could give him. I closed my eyes when I pulled the trigger. The sound startled me. I kept them shut, expecting to shortly be floored by my father. But he never reached me.

I opened my eyes and he was laying on the ground. His eyes were wet now, tears shared between father and daughter. He was still there, still alive. The bullet laid him out. A red patch was forming on his abdomen. He tried speaking but only wheezed and coughed. Good. You don’t deserve any finals words, you piece of fucking shit. Then I became angry. Angry he wasn’t suffering more and angry he wasn’t already dead.

A few steps and I was towering over him. I pointed the barrel at his head. I was so angry. The things he’d done and said, my whole life. The amount of blood, sweat, and tears spilled because of this leech. My mother and I will be physically and mentally scarred for the rest of our lives because this… filth. What did he think all this abuse would amount to? My father must’ve thought he was luckier than I was fed up. His mistake. I pulled the trigger.

I stood there for… a while. Only the rustling of a nearby large animal was able to pull me back to reality. Something big lurked nearby, drawn by the blood, no doubt. So I fired another shot, startling whatever was in the shadows. And then I started thinking.

I had till morning to sort this out. If the cops ask why I didn’t come sooner, I was in shock. And I was, after all. Shocked that I was finally free of this wretched fucking man. But after more thought, I realized I didn’t want to deal with the cops. I wanted him to stay in these woods, baggage and all. He didn’t get the right to haunt me further. It ended here and today.

So I took a shovel from his truck bed and started digging. The dirt was cold and hard but I didn’t stop digging, not for hours. Once it was wide enough and deep enough, I kicked him into the small pit. Then I filled the hole, not just with dirt but everything he had with him. Everything I didn’t need to get back into town. His hands were the last thing I saw, the fading moon catching one last glint before being hidden way under the topsoil.

When I was done, I was too tired to move or do much of anything. I found half a bottle of whiskey under the passenger seat and sipped it until my cheeks became flushed and I found myself comfortably disoriented enough to sleep.

As I wrapped myself in blankets inside my tent, another approaching animal crept into campsite. I was too drunk and too emotionally drained to care. It was probably more interested in the freshly-spilt blood. I stayed still so I could listen to this bear or big cat dig at the ground. Eventually the sound of cold dirt was replaced by strange cloth shifting. Not moving, not digging. Like it was taking off a particularly difficult jacket or something.

Eventually that particular noise ceased, replaced by the sound of animalistic devouring that echoed off the trees. The last thing I remember before slipping off into drunken sleep was sinew wetly crunching just feet away from me. Good riddance, I thought as I drifted off for the night.

∆∆∆

I woke with the most intense fight-or-flight response I’d ever experienced in my life. Somebody was here, and they were making breakfast. I gripped the snub nose that had foolishly rested under my pillow throughout the night. Slowly, as slowly as I’d done anything in my life, I unzipped the tent.

Startled, I fell back into my tent. For a second I didn’t recognize him but he was sitting there, in front of the fire, making breakfast. Clean shaven and freshly dressed, my father poked at sizzling bacon in a pan over the fire pit. He noticed my pratfall, and when he looked up at me I pointed the gun at him.

He set the fork back in the pan and raised his hands slowly.

“Can we talk?”

I panted, anxious this was some nightmare.

“I know last night was bad. It was the worst. I realize that. I’ve realized a lot of things. And I want to make them better. I want to make them right.”

“I killed you. Shot you. In the stomach.”

He slowly lifted his clean shirt, revealing a bandage wrapped around his abdomen.

“Fished it out with a screwdriver and a butter knife. Stings like a son of a bitch, but I deserved it.”

“I shot you in the head. I buried you.”

“You had a lot to drink last night, huh?” he asked, gesturing to the empty bottle in my tent. “I don’t blame you. I really put you through the wringer.”

“I killed you.”

“Almost. And you had every right. And that’s what I want to talk to you about.”

I said nothing so he continued.

“Last night was awful. And when you shot at me, something changed in me. I’m your dad but I treated you so terribly you literally wanted me dead. No daughter should feel that kind of anger or fear because of her parents. There is no forgiving or forgetting what I did. And if you finished me off, here and now, I wouldn’t blame you. I really wouldn’t. But I want things to change, for the better. You and your mom deserve better than me. I can’t promise much, but I can at least be there as your dad.”

I reacted at the mention of my mother.

“I called her this morning. She was really upset, obviously. But we talked, for a while. And she’s still really upset, but she’s giving me the benefit of the doubt this one time to get you home safe. Just this once, can I ask you the same?”

Gun still pointed at him, I let my father squirm for minutes as I contemplated my answer. I could still taste the whiskey in my mouth. It left a cotton feeling in my mouth.

“Thirsty?” he asked, pointing at a case of plastic water bottles at his feet.

As he knelt down, I straightened my arm aiming at him. “No.”

“Okay… So what do you say?”

“To what?”

“A second chance.”

I looked at his hand. I’d spent a long time staring at his ring as I buried him. Now it was gone.

“Where’s your class ring?”

“That old thing? I ditched it. Some things are better left in the past.”

I looked at the patch where I buried him. It had been dug up again and replanted, flatter and cleaner than I ever would’ve.

“Let’s try again. It’ll be different this time, I promise. Okay?”

The sun had just began to peek over the horizon, streaking low hanging light across the woods. Beams of early morning light broke through the trees, fragments of the incoming day illuminating our campsite. One beam in particular hit my father’s face, catching the slightest, most familiar red glint in his eye.

I set the gun down.

“Okay.”

For the first time in my memory of linear time, I trusted what my father had to say. Even if he wasn’t really my father.

#short fiction #horror

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witchamajigit · 3 years ago

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Sorry for the formatting, posted from mobile. Just really wanted to write some fluffy found family for our favorite possessed boy.

It felt… good. Good to be occupying his mind and performing normal tasks for the sake of doing.

“Let me see them…”

Well, there was always tomorrow morning.

#the legend of vox machina #percival de rolo #percy de rolo #critical role #Vex #Vax #Keyleth #Pike #Grog #Scanlan #fanfiction #fanfic #fluff #friendship

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starkbarnes-lovechild · 7 years ago

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I Can’t Take My Eyes Off of You

Steve takes a deep, fortifying breath as he looks at himself at the full-body mirror. He fiddles with his cufflinks, turns to one side then another, checking if anything’s amiss. He smooths his hands down his torso, straightening the already polished shirt.

Today’s the day.

He’s buzzing with energy, with anticipation, with nerves. Everything’s going to be perfect. It has to be.

Steve was sleep-deprived, like he always was whenever he got into a painting binge, as Sam and Bucky liked to call it. He has been awake for probably three days now. He knew he looked like a zombie, but there was no coffee at his apartment. Food was missing, too, but at the moment, coffee was more important.

He walked absentmindedly to his favorite coffee shop a few blocks away. He didn’t bother to change his paint-smeared clothes; the baristas were used to it by now.

He didn’t know how he managed to order and pay for his coffee, but the next thing he knew, he was staring dumbly at his spilled coffee on the floor and a muffin he may or may not have bought sitting sadly on top of the mess. His chest felt wet and warm, probably the coffee but he just kept on blinking owlishly down at his poor, poor coffee and that pitiful muffin.

“…buy you a new shirt, too…” someone’s frantic voice finally snapped him out of his stupor. He looked up and saw big brown eyes framed by long, thick curly lashes.

“Are you okay?” the same voiced asked, worry tinting his slightly high-pitched voice and focused on the face. Gosh, he’s pretty was his only thought.

The other man looked young, probably in his late teens or (hopefully) in his early twenties. He was clean shaven and his face was still slightly rounded with some baby fat. His lips were full and pink and looked like they would taste good.

“Sorry.” Steve muttered as rubbed his eyes. “No sleep since Wednesday.” He tried to suppress a whine, but he didn’t seem to be successful, as he stared sadly at his fallen coffee, because he heard an amused snort.

“I’m Tony.” The other man reached out a hand, which Steve took with a mumble of his name in response. “Let me buy you lunch and a new shirt for the trouble.” The other man—Tony—added with a shy smile.

Steve knew he was a goner by then.

Steve flips the sheet of paper once more as he paces around his hotel room. He has memorized every word but rereading it is somewhat calming.

Tony, from the moment I met you, I knew I’d love you for the rest of my life. Your smile captivated me, still does, to be honest. Your laugh, a soft melody which never fails to enchant me, a siren luring its prey. Your eyes twinkle bright, stars in the night sky lighting up the dark.

“If I kill Obie, would you help me escape jail?” Steve was startled out of his sketching by the sound of Tony’s voice as the younger man plopped down by the seat across from him.

(Tony was, thankfully, twenty-seven when they met, making him only five years younger than Steve. That was two years ago.)

“Oh. Hi, Tony. Yep, I’m fine, how ‘bout you? Oh, I’m currently working on a new project for another show in a few months.” Steve replied dryly with a smile, closing his sketchbook and putting his art materials away, as Tony gave him an annoyed huff and an eye roll, nibbling on the burger that has been waiting for him for almost an hour now.

“So.” Tony started once more, prompting Steve to raise an eyebrow at him. “Will you help me escape? I’m too pretty to be in jail.”

Steve scrunched his brows lightly, humming as he pretended to think about it. “I don’t know, Tones. If you’re in jail, it means there’ll be less days when I’ll have to tolerate you.” He teased, making Tony squawk indignantly.

The younger man pointed a piece of fries at him, eyes narrowed as he said, “Stop kidding yourself, Rogers. You love me and you know it.”

Steve simply smirked and started eating his own food as Tony whined, “No love! Absolutely no love for me around here!”

He ducked his head and let his smile soften, knowing Tony’s aware how much he loves him.

Steve leans back by the window, the light from outside illuminating his words more. He rubs his thumb gently back and forth on the paper, the words lightly faded from how often he’s done it before. He smiles softly, tilts his head back and lets it rest on the windowsill, his eyes closing.

I will remain as the ear you need for all your woes, the friendly face you yearn for when your lost and will never abandon you, even when the world is against you—against us.

The first time Steve saw Tony in women’s clothing was only a month after they met. He was surprised, yes, but only because he almost didn’t connect the beautiful raven-haired woman in front of him with Tony.

(Tony was wearing a black see-through cropped-poncho over a black crop top with some writing on it. His skirt, which was probably six inches above his knees, was a dark red at the top with a flannel-like pattern which then fades to black at the bottom, flaring out over his slim thighs. He was wearing long, black socks, roughly five inches below his knees, with large stripes at the top and black combat-like boots.)

Steve was in a club with Bucky, Sam and Clint when he saw Tony, sitting on a barstool as he talked to an African American man.

At first, it was just an odd feeling, as if he was compelled to look at the beautiful woman by the bar. Then their eyes met. The realization hit him hard as he saw the panic as the woman—as Tony—scrambled off the stool, leaving the man he was talking to.

Steve didn’t think, he shot up and ran after Tony. In the back of his mind, he vaguely registered Bucky calling out to him. Tony was more important, though.

When he finally caught up with the younger man, Tony looked like he was about to cry, but he could still see the determination and fire in those brown depths.

Tony was wearing light makeup, all neutrals as eyeshadow, hazed on the outside, giving his eyes a sultry look. The bottom rims of his eyes were lined with kohl while both his top and bottom lashes were coated with quite a thick layer of mascara. His lips were a blood red—dark and sharp, making his lips appear plumper while his black hair (probably a wig) which fell down to the bottom of his exposed collarbones, curled softly, framing his face well.

Steve has never seen a more beautiful sight.

“Are you disgusted?” Tony’s voice was rough, defensive, snapping Steve out of his musings.

“What?! No! Why would I be?” Steve exclaimed, shocked Tony would think so little of him.

“Because I dress like a girl and I wear makeup.” The younger man responded, as if quoting the words from someone else.

(That was when he discovered how protective Howard and Maria Stark were as parents. He found out they sued a group of rich students who stole all of Tony’s makeup and his feminine clothing, then burned then right in front of Tony and a crowd of other MIT students. Obviously, the Starks won the case.)

“There’s nothing wrong with you.” Steve growled, startling both himself and Tony. He’s had this conversation with Sam a thousand times before and hated people who bullied his friends, people who made them feel like they were less than other people, simply because they were different. “My friend’s genderfluid. Sometimes we call her Samantha.”

Tony stared at him for quite a while, which started to make him feel awkward. “Do you, uh,” he started, trying to break the silence, “do I call you something else, or…” Steve trailed off, not knowing what else to say.

“Natasha.” Tony suddenly blurted out, startling Steve.

“What?”

“Natasha Antonette. I—I’m Natasha Antonette. That’s. My mom said she liked that name.” Tony—Natasha—looked up at him shyly, his lashes fluttering, most like unconsciously. Even with the three-inch heels, Steve was still taller than her. “But you can still call me Tony (i), but with an ‘i’.”

“Okay.” Steve simply smiled and led her back to the bar.

I will cherish you for all time, love you unconditionally and accept you for who you are—for who you want to become.

A knock on the door snaps Steve out of his daydream. The door clicks and Sam pokes his head inside. “Hey, man. It’s time.”

He carefully folds the paper once more and puts it inside his jackets breast pocket. He follows the other man out the door and to the garden where they decided to hold the wedding.

Its winter and there’s still snow on the ground, giving the place a serene atmosphere. All the guests are on their seats as he walks down the aisle with Bucky, Clint and Sam towards the makeshift altar. He sees Tony’s mom right in front with a big smile on her face while his dad simply looks content, waiting for his only child at the back to walk Tony down the aisle.

(Steve knows, no matter how intimidating Howard Stark may look, Tony is one of the most precious beings in his life.)

Tony is Toni today, so Steve knows she’ll be in a wedding dress instead of a three-piece suit. Nobody but Toni and Maria knows what her wedding attire looks like today.

He stands by the altar with his friends as they wait for Toni to make her entrance and walk down the aisle.

When Toni finally appears, Steve’s jaws drop, his breath catches. Just when he thinks Toni can’t get any more beautiful, he’s always proven wrong.

Toni’s shoulder length hair falls with soft curls, a braid on one side pinned by a clip with a white rose design on top. Her dress is a ball gown which tapers nicely on her waist. The upper part of her chest has a flower pattern of sots which goes up to her neck, giving her an elegant look. The sleeves were cut directly in level where the pattern begins. She has white, translucent gloves up to her wrist while she holds a small bouquet of white roses.

She looks like an angel is the only thought running through Steve’s head.

Toni practically glides down the aisle, her arm loops around her father’s. She’s smiling so widely it looks like it will split her face. Her makeup is natural and soft, giving her a more ethereal glow.

When she reaches him, she pauses, lets go of her father and wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him down for a tight hug, her bouquet resting at the back of his neck as she whispers, “Thank you.” He returns the hug tightly, never wanting to let her go.

When they pull apart, her eyes are glistening with unshed tears and he knows he isn’t much better. He takes her bouquet and grasps her hands in his as she loops her arm through her father’s once more. Together, they lead her to Bucky’s waiting arms.

He looks at Bucky as he puts her hand in his, saying without words, take care of her and, since they have been best friends since they were kids, he receives a determined nod in return, with all my heart

I will never leave your side, I will strive to make you happy, even if it’s not with me.

The man who will love you for eternity,

Can also be found on AO3.

#my winteriron #winteriron #one-sided stony #steve rogers pov

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