#no editing we die like men you WILL hear me use the same handful of words many times

[daincrediblegg]

JFJ + to shut them up (please ily)

James loathed nothing more than a pause in conversation. It was an absurd anxiety, he knew, but he'd always tried to fill it. It became easier when he had a wealth of valorous stories to fill that silence with, ones that in good company would find amicable laughter, spark anecdotes from his peers (men and women, who in truth he never felt an equal to), but it never gave him long enough to think about what they must think of him. In his youth, a silence was the sound only of an elephant in the room, and more often than not, that elephant was his, carried it around like a dutiful pet, feeding it the more he told his stories, the more he held up his glorious existence on display. It never sated the silly thing, in the end. The quiet would always come after one way or another. But at least he alone would sit with it, and not another.

He felt lucky, when he realized he didn't have to hide that from you, from Francis, two of the precious few people he could call true friends to him. The silence was comfortable around you. Perhaps for the first time in his life there was a safety in the lull that found him in your company, in your knowing what hung over his shoulders. You didn't need to hear his acts of valor to love him, nor would the truth of him dissuade you from it. Either of you.

And years he never felt the need to don his mask, but on his return to England, it found him again all the same. It found him tonight, stuffed into his naval blue coat and pauldrons, medals and gold hanging off him and trapping him in it. And the need made itself known again. Helpless to recount "that damned sniper story" again, as Francis so liked to remind him. But somehow, the words didn't come as easy as they used to. He found himself pausing more often than not, the flare in his voice gone. But he pressed through, despite so desperately wanting to tell what came of the wound. What scurvy had done to it. But that wouldn't be very pleasant conversation, would it?

A hand on his shoulder pulled him from his train of thought. His head snapped to find a kind smile, and something of a knowing look in your eyes, peering up at him.

"James, may I borrow you for a moment? I'm afraid it's urgent."

Your eyebrows raised as you nodded towards the door. He nods his excuse to the party of invisible faces he found himself surrounded by, muttering a quiet "of course" before following you into another room, unoccupied, and dark, secluded.

"What is it? Are you all right? Is Francis-" is all he had the time to say before he was forcibly silenced by your quiet caring lips, slotting over them. He felt his heartbeat pick up a moment as your lips lingered, then as he settled into your soft embrace, felt it slow. Parting he found he could not produce another word for a moment.

"Shhh... it's all right James," you crooned, a gentle hand on his cheek, tracing his dimple with your thumb.

"You were doing it again. Looked like you needed saving."

He chuckled a little at that, half out of nerves, half from relief. How many times had you and Francis teased him for that damned sniper story? Too many to count by now.

"I suppose... I was," he sighs, leaning into your touch, close enough to touch his nose with yours. He breathed again, soaking in the blessed quiet, the faint chatter from the party outside feeling far away now.

"Thank you."

You nod, hand reaching to the back of his neck to pet the curls that draped below. He let your quiet reassurance embrace him, wrap him up and calm him, enough his eyes softly shut in contentment for a moment, and then a few more.

"We can leave, you know," you said once the time had passed enough, and James' eyes fluttered open to yours, doe-eyed and concerned and content. Now that was a thought. He'd been so wrapped up in his words, in his nerves, in truth, that he hadn't fully considered that as an option. He considered it seriously now, as you looked at him encouragingly.

"Shall we go?" you ask. James smiled. A sincere one. One that he'd only ever shown to two individuals in his whole life. He smiled and nodded.

"Yes. Please, I... I don't think I have the stomach for much more of this."

You returned his smile, and kissed his cheek again, soundly.

"I'll go get Francis. Get our coats and we'll meet you by the door."

He enjoyed how you gave orders. They always sounded so pleasant he couldn't help but widen his smile to know such care as this. He kissed his confirmation to the corner of your mouth gently, before withdrawing again.

"Don't be long."

"We won't."

Your hand grazed his cheek softly as you went, making its absence even fonder. He stood a moment, plucking up his courage from the floor where you had draped it, and made his exit a short moment after, heading towards the hall where a footman retrieved your coats for him to carry as he waited, already having put on his own.

He was only stood there a few short minutes before hearing the familiar sound of heavy footsteps approaching, and James turned to find you and Francis, walking arm in arm towards him. A great sigh left the older man's lips as he trekked down the hall to him, relief washing over his shoulders as he dropped the straightness in his back and square in his shoulders.

"Thank bloody Christ that's over," Francis groaned, eliciting a faint chuckle from his walking partner that made him smile.

"You can say that again," you replied, taking your coat from James' hands, wrapping it around your shoulders with grace and gloved hands. Francis reached next for his own, fingers gripping James' arm gently as he plucked his own coat, lingering a moment.

"All right, James?" he asks, his eyes warm, searching, concerned, glinting a warm pale blue in the candlelight. James nodded, soundlessly save the the small whimper that escaped him in the effort. Francis nods his understanding, a warmth renewing his grip before letting go to don his own coat.

"Home then?" Francis asks. James smiles with thoughts of fireplaces, and a shared warmth, and quiet.

"Yes. Home."

[banquetwriter]

Johnnie x reader and he’s just super loud during sex moaning and whining

୨୧ Deep moans ୨୧

pairing: Johnnie Guilbert ♡︎ fem!Reader

warnings: ୭̥⋆*｡ not edited we die like men, smut with heavy plot, panic attacks, sorta drunk smut, not safe sex, cum fingering lol, lowkey dom!r vibes

summary: ʚ Johnnies feelings for you cause him to freak out, luckily your there to calm him down •smut• ɞ

Words: 2805

An: HIIII YALLLL SOREY IRS A DAY LATE HHEEGE also this fic was inspired by the middle picture hehe

SUPPORT ME

Johnnie was scrolling away on his phone. Not doing anything useful at all. Just messing around on Twitter. He was supposed to go to a punk show with you tonight. Alone. Just the two of you. Jake being the supportive friend he was, tried and failed to set the two of you up.

You were pretty, and funny, and you made his heart race quicker whenever he was around you. Plus you smelled good. Which was a creepy thing to say but it was true. Tonight wasn't even supposed to be a not-date ‘date’. It was supposed to be you Scuff and him all hanging out at a show then maybe a bar after.

Lucky for him Scuff canceled last minute leaving the plans to the two of you. He assumed that meant the plans were off. He was mistaken.

You enthusiastically told him how much you wanted to go with him tonight. That didn't help his ever-growing feelings for you.

So there he sat on your couch awkwardly looking around as you finished getting ready. He could hear you walking around your room, your boots making enough noise to reach the living room.

“Ok ok, I'm ready,” you say, stepping out of your room. Fuck. You looked good as hell. He felt his cheeks heat up slightly looking at you quickly putting his phone away. “Took you long enough.” he joked, staring at you.

“Hey hush, it takes time for a girl to get pretty,” you murmur, flicking your hair back dramatically. “Oh, don't I know it.” Johnnie sarcastically flicked his dead hair back in the same dramatic fashion.

You both laugh at his joke. Your heart flutters watching his smile spread as he laughs. You quickly push your feelings down as you both sit in silence for a few seconds. Johnnie doesn't say anything just looking down avoiding eye contact of any kind.

“Ok let me call Uber,” you say quickly pulling your phone out. You type around and order the car looking at up Johnnie who is just sitting on his phone. “Hey don't look so bored,” you say putting your phone down.

He looks up from his phone with a small smile. “Sorry,” he mumbles, pushing his phone in his pocket. “I know we aren't going with a big group or anything but I promise I'm fun to be around,” you tell him walking up.

You were so close he could practically feel your breath. “I-I know that. I'm just like, anxiety blah,” he mumbles shrugging. He knows your ‘fun’. He was more worried about going to a show with lots of people.

That anxiety sat with him, in the Uber and all the way to the venue. It rested on his shoulder like a terrible angel as you both walked in after getting a stamp on your hands.

“I'm so excited Johnnie!” you squeal in his ear. It was loud and sorta hot at the place, which was to be expected. He just didn't know how to handle it.

He was already feeling anxious, but he was certain his heart was gonna leap out of his chest when you suddenly took his hand and led him to a good spot. Your hands were so soft. You went up behind someone who just didn't seem to want to get out of the way, Johnnie stood right behind you.

Your cold bracelets touching his hand were all too much input. Eventually whoever was in your way left and you found a spot upstairs next to the railing. “This is such a good spot!” you exclaim looking back at him. He looked down at you with a smile and, while still holding your hand, he looked out at the stage.

You were right, it was an amazing view. What he was more focused on was your hands still holding his hand. You pulled out your phone and let go. Johnnie feels ashamed at how much he misses holding your hand.

You pull up your camera app and hold it up to get both of you in it. “Here wait come closer,” you say, scooting back slightly. He furrows his brows slightly and rests his head on your shoulder for the picture.

You stick your tongue in the corner of your mouth and snap the picture. “Hehe thank you” you mumble uploading the photo to your Instagram story with a song from the band you were seeing.

You put your phone away as the show begins. Johnnie moves his body slightly watching you headbang to the music. He enjoyed metal music to a degree but he was mostly here for you.

As the night rolled on he had more and more fun as you forced him to dance. He smiled at you as you screamed for the new band that appeared on stage.

However, the beautiful bliss that the two of you existed in was shortly ruined as some people you knew from somewhere came up and said hi to you. Johnnie didn't know them and was subsequently left alone for a few minutes as you attempted to catch up with your friends.

He tried to focus on the band playing but he couldn't seem to as the anxiety creeped back into his throat. “Hey I'm gonna go get a drink at the bar if you want anything?” you yelled. “Yeah get me a Jack and Coke,” he yelled back.

Maybe if he got drunk this feeling would go away. He felt like he might throw up and die from the feeling that filled his bones. Some of your friends hung around the same spot as they waited for you.

Did they know you were with him? Were they judging him somehow? He was relieved when you appeared back about 10 minutes later with several drinks in your hand. “Ok, who got this freaky-looking blue one?” you ask.

One of your friends raises their hands and you step towards them, they take the drink from your arms as you look down. “Oh here is your Jack and Coke Johnnie,” you mumble, stepping towards him, he picks the drink up and immediately starts sipping it.

He doesn't have just one drink. He was surely gonna be hungover tomorrow. However, with the added alcohol, it was harder and harder to think rationally. He leaned against the railing feeling his heart breaking at your laugh with your friends.

He wishes he could be like that. He rubs his hands in the face. Cringing at how he feels. You were just his friend, someone who took enough pity on him to hang out. It felt like there were a million bees in his ears.

“Hey let's go ok?” your voice brought him out of his state. “What?” he asked, looking at you. “I called an Uber, let's go home ok? You don't look ok right now,” you yelled over the music. He could swear his heart stopped when you said those words.

He froze, not able to return to real life. “Come on.” you beckoned once again taking his hand and leading him out of the venue. You both get into the Uber, your hands not leaving one another.

In the same way, his eyes didn't leave you for more than a few seconds. He was so grateful for someone like you to be in his life. You made it back to your apartment, both of you drunkenly stumbling in.

“Sit down, I'll get you some water,” you said, making your way to the kitchen. He sat down taking the glass with a ‘thank you’. You say down next to him, moving your hand up to his face and adjusting his hair. He was certain he would burn a hole into you from how much he was staring.

You took the glass out of his hand and set it down. “What's wrong? You looked like you were gonna cry,” you asked him, your gaze full of nothing but worry. “I was just having a panic attack,” he told you, looking away.

You once again lifted your hand up and moved his cheek so he faced you. “Why? Did I do something wrong?” you ask. “No! No, you didn't I just-” he sighs, unsure of how to delicately tell you, that he was so in love with you he almost couldn't bear it.

That the thought of you with someone else was nearly enough to kill him. “Listen I need to tell you something, and before I tell you I want to tell you I'm so sorry. I don't want this to affect our friendship-” his mouth suddenly feels dry.

You don't say anything, you sit silently staring at him. “Mm fuck.” he mumbles burying his face in his hands slightly. You reach your hand out and pull his hands away from his face slightly, you scoot forward. You kept your hand on his eyes searching his.

This certainly wasn't helping. “I-I mmm fuck. I'm sorry. I've developed feelings for you, and I know that can ruin friendships, which is the last thing I want with you. I never meant for this to happen and I'm really sorry.” he braced for you to take your hand away.

But you didn't. You looked up at him. He couldn't tell what you were thinking. He was hoping you would say something, anything, to relieve an ounce of stress. But you said nothing, instead, you pulled him directly into a hug.

He reciprocates the contact, squeezing you close. “Did you seriously think I never liked you back?” you asked, pulling away from him. “Yeah,” he whispers, unable to get his voice much louder. “Sometimes you can be so dumb,” you mumble with a laugh.

“Sorry,” he says with a laugh looking at you. “Don't be. And I'm sorry you worried yourself sick over this, Johnnie since the moment I met you I knew I wanted to be with you. I wanted to tell you I just had to wait until I knew you felt the same.” you confessed.

Johnnie felt like a million pounds had been lifted off of his chest. “So what do we do from here?” he asked, looking at you. “I think there is only one thing we can do,” you whispered back to him. You closed the gap between the two of you. Your lips are crashing against his.

He feels his face heat up as you push his shoulders down slightly. He lays down on the couch as you start to crawl on top of him tasting the liquor on his breath. Your hips rest against his as your hands start to slide up his button-up.

You pull your lips apart for a second, you find his hands and guide him to your shirt. He gets the hunt and fumbles to lift it off your body. You aid him and it reveals your torso.

He stares slightly for a second seeing your tits spill out of your bra. You smirk at his staring, wasting no time unbuttoning the rest of his shirt. He shrugged his shirt off revealing all of his tattoos. His hands found your waist as you pulled him back into another kiss.

You used your hips to grind down on him, his boner resting nicely on your clit. Your pressure causes him to whine out. You pull away from him, moving your hands to unlock your bra.

“Take your pants off,” you instruct him. He is on his hands in an instant, you rip your bra off and sit up to take yours off as well. Johnnie's hands falter as he stares at your tits. “Don't get distracted.” you chastise. A grin spreads on his face as he feels blood rushing to his face and his dick.

You revel in his body, his tattoo-covered chest rising and falling. You lick your lips slightly as you walk back to where Johnnie is lying down on the couch. Your hand wraps around his jaw, lifting his head up and pulling him into a kiss.

Your other hand roams his body. He whines slightly into your mouth with the contact. His erection grew painfully with your attention.

His whining only increased as your lips moved to his neck, sucking and hitting on his skin. The marks left in your wake didn't leave for days after. Your delicate fingers slid up and down his torso.

“Mm fuck.” he whines wiggling his in anticipation. You notice his struggle and slide your hands all the way down to his bare hips. You pin him down slightly. That only encourages bucking. “You gotta hold still for me baby,” you mumble, bringing your hand down to his aching cock.

“Mhm,” he whines, nodding his head. “I can do that,” he whispered, watching your hand start to massage his hip bones. He sharply inhaled looking at your eyes as they darkened with desire. You turn and begin to straddle his lap.

He leans back on his elbows watching as you begin to place delicate kisses on the tip of his cock. He clenches his jaw in an attempt to hold back the moan that threatens to rip through his throat as you make your way down his cock.

His attempts fail as he lets out a high-pitched screech that he quickly attempts to conceal with his hand. “Oh that part is extra sensitive huh?” you coo batting your eyelashes before placing a lick up a vein.

“Jesus fuck you're going to kill me.” he whimpered. “Oh I don't plan on killing you sweet thing, but I'll get you close,” you whispered, against his neck. “Oh god,” he mutters as your hand slowly wraps around his aching cock.

His hands find their way to the dip of your back nearly drawing blood from his scratches. The combination of your grinding your cunt down on his side, your soft hand tightly fucking his cock, and your warm wet kiss spread out against your neck and chest he wasn't going to last long.

His cute little whimpers and moans only drove you further and further to your own end but you weren't going to get it simply from grinding your cunt against him. You let your ministrations stop pulling away from him. His worried eyes slowly grow excited as you reposition yourself above his cock.

You pumped it a few times before beginning to tease your clit and entrance with it. “Oh god.” he whimpered into the back of his hand as you teased his tip.

You decided to pity him and let yourself sink all the way down onto him. As you bottom out, we both gasped in sync. His hands found my waist as I slammed down on top of him. Unable to contain his sounds any longer, he let every pant, moan, and whine out.

Johnnie sounded like a bitch in heat as watched your delicious cunt swallow him whole. “Please don't stop holy fuck.” he mutters starting unable to see clearly as he feels the coil threatening to snap in his stomach. He tries to reach out and help you somehow.

You quickly swat his hands away, wishing to see his own pleasure rather than your own. His pretty whines and the faces he was making were worth it to hold off for a little longer.

And rewarded you were, with a particularly quick pump of your body let Johnnie finally unravel all the stress he had felt tonight. “Oh Jesus fuck.” his incoherent curse was lost in a sea of moans as he fucked himself into you shooting hot ropes of cum.

“Oh fuck oh my god,” he whined coming down from the high. You slow your pace to a stop watching him attempt to lift himself up. “Did you finish yet?” he asks, still panting.

“No, not yet.” you wander looking down at him. “Sit back,” he murmurs, gesturing towards the couch. You smirked but complied and sat down on the couch, Johnnie brought his fingers into your hair kissing you deeply. He brought his free hand down to yours and guided it to your clit.

You got the hint and started to pleasure yourself. He brought the still-free hand down and slipped a finger into your sopping cunt. After a second of pumping his finger in and out he slipped in two.

Your orgasim approached rapidly as it was your turn to moan. Johnnie swallowed every last one as he curled deep, hitting your g spot. “I'm gonna cum.” you warned as your legs shook.

Johnnie didn't stop his movements and let you cling to him as you rode out your organism. Your pretty moans felt like prayers to his ears. As you began to fall from your high he removed his fingers from you and placed a very loving and gentle kiss on the top of your head.

[sofmoth]

Do You Think of Me Too?

thank you as always to @strang3lov3 for your editing assistance♡

also posted to AO3 by me (@sofmoth), link here.

divider created by @animatedglittergraphics-n-more

tommy miller (the last of us) & reader. WC: 1.6k

this is the follow-up to Good Men Die Too and is part of a series.

18+ ONLY. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS WILL BE BLOCKED ON SIGHT.

HEED ALL WARNINGS:

DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT. all hurt no comfort, angst, no smut, failed attempt at intimacy, possessive/obsessive tommy, obsessive reader, tommy spekas spanish, reader is depressed, breakup, fictional crimes committed, discussion of fictional crimes, one year later, early 2000s no outbreak AU, reader is sentimental and keeps mementos, flight response reader/fight response tommy. once more for the cheap seats, DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT.

(deceptive ass picture of him ain’t it)

You tried for nearly a year to make it work with Tommy.

You’re not sure when you realized it, but at some point it occurred to you that neither one of you was actually in love with the other. You were both obsessed with each other, but you weren’t in love. You were okay with that for a while, but eventually it started to hurt. You couldn’t stay with someone who didn’t love you, he felt the same.

Your first morning together after homecoming, after you’d sent him on his way and your mother returned from her trip, she hmph!ed when you told her about Tommy.

“I don’t like that boy.” You didn’t dignify her with a response.

You’re sure your friends are sick of hearing you talk about him, he still preoccupies your every thought. You feel lost, and terribly alone. It almost feels like someone physically cut something out of your brain; whether it was a tumor or your frontal lobe, you’re not sure.

Your bedroom is dark without him occupying it. The ashtray on your nightstand hasn’t been emptied in months, and you haven’t even used it since the last time he spent the night. You can’t bring yourself to throw out the stale cigarette butts and piles of ash; you’d be throwing out the last of your Tommy.

— — — —

He had been distant for a few weeks before it ended, not staying over as much, picking up shifts and spending less of his free time with you. You practically had to beg him to spend the night the last time, and you could tell from the moment he set foot in your driveway that it would indeed be your last night together. You knew that he knew, and it was only a matter of guts being spilled.

You had picked Deftones, the volume from the CD player low as you both laid in your bed. You were only technically cuddling; Tommy laid on his back with his arm under your shoulder blades, your elbow rested on his stomach as you both smoked. You had barely even looked at each other. He finally cleared his throat.

“Can we talk?”

“Do we have to?” Your response came as a whisper you didn’t anticipate.

”No use dancin’ around it.” You sighed and rubbed your eye.

“Okay.”

“Can you be honest with me?”

“When have I been known to lie?”

“Have you ever loved me?”

His question gave you pause. You never expected him to ask you outright, maybe ask if you still loved him, but certainly not if you loved him in the first place.

“Can you be honest with me?”

“I’m trying to, right now.”

“Do you love me?” You knew, but to see his head shaking made you feel sick. “I don’t think I did either.”

“I think you know what that means, princesa.”

“Yeah.”

Tommy leaned over you, ashed his cigarette before wrapping his arms around your shoulders. You covered your eyes with your free hand, squeezing them shut behind it. He stroked your bare arm with his thumb, nose pressed into the side of your head behind your ear. You stubbed out your cigarette, reached up and brushed his hair out of his face.

“Can we at least pretend?”

When he kissed you it felt like love, but only for a moment before being quickly overtaken by a hunger so deep your bones ached. Still, you both managed to strip halfway before you placed a flat palm against his chest, pushing slightly as you covered your face with the other. He leaned back on his heels, held his head in his hands.

“Can’t even fuckin’ act like we love each other.”

“What’s that say about us?”

“We’re gonna end up in holes.” You slid your bra straps back up onto your shoulders as you sat up.

“Yeah.”

He held out a hand over his leg to you, you reached for him and laced your fingers into his delicately. Eventually you both shifted to cross your legs, still holding hands.

“Will you at least stay with me tonight?”

“Don’t be mad if I’m already gone when you wake up.”

You felt your face contort as you covered your mouth, your whole body moving as Tommy held you on your side with your back to his chest. You knew in your heart of hearts that you didn’t love him, and you couldn’t understand why it still hurt so much.

“I know you don’t wanna let go. Me neither.” His voice was a whisper.

“If we don’t, we’re dead. One way or the other,” you whispered in turn.

You had gotten up to some serious shit with him during the first half of your relationship. Stealing from the corner store, hotwiring scrap cars and outright robbing gas stations, but when things got dirty you flew; Tommy got rowdy and mean, he stayed and fought. You just didn’t have that kind of fire in your belly. Beyond that, you couldn’t bear to stand and confront an issue. You put literal distance between it and yourself, and sometimes the issue was Tommy. He backed you into a physical corner on more than one occasion, just to try and get an answer out of you. He never hurt you, you knew he never would, but when you finally broke and got into the argument, he had to have the last word somehow. Despite it all, you stayed, starving for the way he held you down after anything went south and he needed to let off steam. You were obsessed with the heaviness you felt in your chest as Tommy’s breaths moistened your skin in the wake of his warpath.

You knew he didn’t love you, but he was just as obsessed. You could feel it in the way he wrapped his arm around your shoulders as you walked down the hallways together, the strength with which he held you on his lap in the auditorium during assemblies, how he boxed you in against the lockers before classes started. It was evident especially when he fucked you. He held you like he owned you, like he wasn’t willing to let go simply because it meant someone would be taking his favorite toy away from him. You were okay with that. You did love that.

“I’ll stay tonight, but this is the last time.”

“I figured.”

“Maybe if we weren’t… who we are.”

“But we are. I’ve told you a million times, you’re the only version of you I’d want.”

He held you in silence until the CD ended, you got up to change the disc and he sat up.

“Can I say somethin’ fucked up?” You turned to look at him.

“You probably will anyway.”

“I… I don’t think I’ll miss this. I’ve had a lot of fun with you, but…”

“It was never anything special. Doesn’t mean I won’t think about it.” You closed the lid on the player, laid back down and pulled your covers over yourself.

Tommy kept his word, he stayed all night. He didn’t kiss you goodbye in the morning, simply dressed himself and gave you one last look before he pulled the door shut. You felt like he wanted to say something, but maybe his words got stuck or they were simply the wrong ones to say.

— — — —

The weather is cool today, 79° but sunny. You sit on the wood planks of your porch, smoking and painting your toenails. Your spaghetti strap falls down your arm and you tug it back into place, minding the burning end of your cigarette as you reach. You hear boots in the gravel of your driveway, removing the cigarette from your mouth as you look up. The strap slips down again and you can’t be bothered to fix it this time. Joel.

“How you been, kid?” You exhale, inspecting the filter.

“I’ve been. You?” Joel nods.

“Managin’. Listen, I know it’s been a while but that offer I made you still stands. You ever need anything, you call. Don’t let my damn fool brother make you think we won’t help you just ‘cuz—” he cuts himself off, clears his throat. “You can always come to us if you need.”

“Said it yourself, Joel. You know I can take care of myself.”

“But boy would I love to get a lick in, too.” You chuckle, recalling Joel’s threat to Tommy.

“Thank you, Joel.”

“Take care, kid.”

You can hear him mumbling to himself as he walks away, something in Spanish that you can just make out. Ese chico es un verdadero idiota. Of course Joel doesn’t know you had just as much of a hand in it. You sigh to yourself, replacing your cigarette between your lips and continuing painting your nails.

You finish and lay back flat, arm over your eyes to shield your face from the sun. You don’t fall asleep, but you lose enough time that eventually you hear the unmistakable sound of Joel’s daughter laughing in their front yard, followed shortly by the sound of her crying. It shocks you into sitting up, looking across the street to see Tommy picking her up and inspecting her hand.

“¡Ay, pobrecita! ¿Te lastimaste?”

You watch him comfort her, and it feels like you’re intruding. You stand, dusting off the ass of your jeans as you grab your things. You turn to look one more time, swallowing as you make eye contact with him. It stings a little, and you don’t bother to wave like you once would have. Tommy shifts Sarah in his arms, turns and walks up to his front door. His head cranes to look at you one more time, and you both enter your homes.

He looks well. You walk back to your bedroom, eyes landing on your ashtray as you put away your nail polish. You still can’t make yourself empty it.

[oblivi0nskeep]

The Lone Walk to Eternity

Within this Horror Unwaking

Louis laments the many regrets he has in life. Eternity is a long time to pass; the list of nightmares could only span so far, no?

[Chapter 1, Crossposted on Ao3]

To think that either path damns his dearest all the same.

The crew defeats the frenzied Silva, leaving the relics to take Luciel's body as their new host. Luciel sooner finds the new additions to his body twisting his very being from the inside—it is by Louis's intervention that the Queenslayer does not complete his rebirth as the Queen.

General Information.

Rating: Mature

Genre: Angst

Point of View: Third-Person Limited

Tense: Present

Fandom: Code Vein

Characters: Original Character, Louis Amamiya

Relationships: Louis/Protagonist

Tags: scantily edited; no beta, we die like... well.; heavy angst; hurt no comfort; emotional baggage; emotional constipation; guilt; regret; unconfessed love; crying; grief/mourning; repeated trauma; canon-typical depiction of blood.

Warnings.

❗ Spoiler Alert: "Heirs Ending" The following fanwork takes place directly during and after the bad end of the game. If you have not yet experienced it yourself and are looking forward to it, please refrain from reading any further.

⚠️ Triggering contents may be present within this fic. Please proceed with discretion. Vivid portrayal of grief and symptoms of PTSD ahead. Although chapter two is yet to be posted, the current draft and the final product for that will feature heavy gore and graphic mutilation. The tags will be updated accordingly to match the content that is already posted.

Author's Note:

guess who used angsty fanfiction as a medium to vent their disappointment of life again, as always 😁

THE SILENCE THAT ENSUES RINGS DEAFENINGLY CLEAR. Deep is the blue that spills forth in the wake of his resolve, his royal decree; the brand that sealed his deal with destiny. But what quality marks nobility, if not the sacrifice it demands of those who wish to stake their claim upon it?

The sway of indecision is a dead adversary by now. A gallant knight is he to renounce his own heart if only to avail his dismal duty: the leap that tears him of hesitance’s manipulative strings. A shambling fool no more, he finds his limbs moving with fluid ease as they bring his sword through flesh and bone and the wicked Queen’s then-beating heart. 

And like so, his prove to be the hands that ply the blade, that sever this world from the fount of its suffering.

From chaos delivered.

But what of this cold mask of stoicism when it finally lets up, cracks and melts?

Down with his verdict comes bitter tears unbidden like the storm that had rained for many nights before.

“Leave the rest to me,” is the meagre much Louis could mutter out. A gruesome conclusion attained in solace; a pathetic attempt thereof.

And the Queenslayer, oh, crushed as he is under the weight of his sanction, could offer naught a word in reciprocation.

Both men suspended in a static of their own pain, time grinds to a halt for them. The rest of the world is a distant abyss whereupon desolation’s forbidding knell descends—a shallow fanfare for a hollow victory. Shatter goes the Queen’s judgement thorns as they are called to resonate, swallowed up in the void harmony.

Louis could just hear how his blood sings in beat with his rapid pulse; mayhem blaring in his ears. It stings in his eyes, to be so rife than ever before with sentiments, each a contradiction of the other. Tears ripe to fall—bountiful fruits of his soul. What more can they (his eyes) betray?

Every next breath comes with a needle down his throat. Air sifts into his lungs in uneven chunks; so awfully thick they are that Louis could not help but to choke on them.

Every next breath grows shorter and shorter for the Queen in death’s waiting. Whatever awaits him on the other side? When the blade is withdrawn from his heart, what then, will become of him? How absurd it is that the question seems to weigh heavier in Louis’s mind than it does in Luciel’s.

For what else has he to worry about? To resent? To regret? As far as Luciel is aware, order will be restored upon Vein. Everything is proceeding in accordance with their initial plan. Naught falls outside of his foresight. Or does his silence bespeak of something other than acceptance?

No, for it is not Luciel’s heart that is in conflict. He has long since decided and is content to forever hold his peace.

Tick-tock; as precious seconds fleet away, Louis finds the steel chain that holds his will together coming loose. What paltry resolve he had garnered over the course of their journey as though evaporates; trickles to waste through old cracks that have begun to resurface all across his heart.

Tick-tock; the present moment he takes for granted in favour of questioning what could have been done differently. Yesterday’s regret was over his lack of strength to spare the previous queen from a fate worse than her already disgraceful demise. Today’s sorrow is brought forth by his overcoming of that weakness. How his heart yearns for another answer, asserting a different question: why, why must it come to this again?

Why was he not strong enough to steer fate away from this outcome altogether?

Tick-tock; even with much of it stolen, time has never made it to his hand in enough the amount. Though he had made the most of what he was given, regret finds him all the same, all too soon.

All over again.

Nada; the seconds have passed him by before he can string together a single conclusive thought.

The moment carries him worlds away that for a moment then, he is granted the clemency to forget his immediate plight. It really matters that little when Luciel’s body fails and falls before him, hanging limp on the blade of his sword.

As the light leaves his eyes—as he draws shorter and shorter breaths, so too does the sword become too heavy for Louis to bear. Even with both hands on the hilt and his entire strength put into the effort, life is still too hefty a thing for him to hold, to fit in his palms, to be taken in indifferent spontaneity.

A deep inhale steadies his trembling figure. With nary much else, Louis pulls out the sword in a single swift motion. Like a puppet bereaved of its strings, Luciel collapses onto the cold hard ground, sprawled as he welcomes death with arms outstretched.

The next spill to join the bloody mire and feed into the Gaol’s unquenchable thirst is the blue of Luciel’s own life essence.

Herewith does the Queen’s life meet its end—slain before the throne in the midst of his ascension by the very sword that had sworn him fealty. His was an abrupt birth that has found its true pair in an equally abrupt death.

Luciel tries his best to retain acceptance until the very end. He thought that mayhaps, it would make it easier for Louis and everyone else. That, maybe, he would have a better time fading from their memories if he were to go out without much commotion.

But as pain sets in and instinct overtakes, there is not much that Luciel can do about the way his body jerks reflexively in defiance of its shutdown; a desperate struggle that only serves to choke the last of his fight out of him.

Only then does he feel the agony of flesh sundered and he could not hold back the urge to scream from being crushed under the intensity of it all. Before even a drop of syllable could be given sound, however, Luciel has bitten down on his tongue, persisting to wallow in silence.

His eyes flicker, searching through the haze of his vision until they find their mark in those of Louis's. But faced with the terror and anguish alike residing within those crimson depths, Luciel stays his tears, his tongue gone still on its own.

“I’m sorry…” Luciel mutters only above a whisper. “…Thank you, for…” He breathes his gratitude—and weaker yet, he mouths, “…you.”

Louis does not spare himself any of the details. He witnessed it all; holding Luciel’s gaze until he was sure the latter had breathed his last. There is no harm in that, no? It is the least—the only measure of comfort that Louis could provide.

The rest of the crew gives him a wide berth. They turn a blind eye to his gleaming tears and a deaf ear to his unceasing sobs, pretending otherwise. They yet respect his vision of an infallible leader, even while every gulp of air crushes the tender swell of his heart in, while he bleeds himself dry with every breath.

“Louis…” calls a voice he is most familiar with. “We don’t have much time.”

Louis makes an attempt to answer, to voice his compliance, but all that falls when he opens his mouth is a slew of pitiful blubbers. He bows his head lower as though in sombre prayer, hiding his sorrow—hiding from his sorrow, for behold: the nightmare that had caused him many a sleepless night has reared into reality before him.

“We’ll help you take it from here.”

But Louis remains a trembling mess that he was. Having abandoned his speech entirely as it seems, his companions again afford him the peace to grief.

There is then the clamour of footsteps, closely followed by the Gaol’s ambient silence.

True enough, when Louis cast his gaze to take stock of his surroundings, there is not a single soul left in the vicinity aside from him.

And…

His gaze next sweeps over the soundly slumbering form of Luciel. At the sight, his feelings come at him once more, each and every at once. Finally does he buckle and yield under the bulk of his conscience after denying it for so long.

The coarse stone digs into his knees and shins. But Louis could not care less about it; the gnawing pain that creeps over to his palm as he haphazardly crawls closer to the revenant he so cherishes.

Louis turns the stiff body of Luciel over with care so as to not disturb his sanctity of death. How distraught is he to find that Luciel’s eyes remain unclosed postmortem, blankly staring back at him. Tears well upon those lifeless eyes, while some had run and formed trails down his face. Stilling his shaking hand, Louis brings it over Luciel’s eyes, gently dragging his lids down to a close.

Then, he wails. He throws his head onto the crook of Luciel’s shoulder and wails. He wails and wails, hollowing himself of the words he has lost the chance to speak, of the feelings he never before allowed to be known, of the ache in his heart that had broiled overlong. He wails at the top of his lungs; until his throat goes sore, so sore that his tongue could fall out.

Loud as he and his anguish are, the person he is calling for never stirs.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m sorry.”

I’m sorry; a litany of apologies he utters without end with what little voice he has left.

Author's Note:

Thank you for reading! This was actually my proudest work of 2023. I hope you enjoyed it! There will be a second and third part, but I regret to inform you that I may not be able to dish it out anytime soon (the perfectionist within me treats this fic like an Asian parent's firstborn son, it needs to be EVERYTHING; I would know). Please look forward to it still!

If you enjoyed this fic, please don't forget to leave a like and reblog!

[hellscape-halogens]

A recurring nightmare I've been having

Photo edit done by me

Photo source: Pinterest

it lingers like a ghost / when i'm dreaming at night / and i can tell it wants me most.

Trigger Warning: fear, guns, fictional hostage situation, religion

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So I've been having this recurring nightmare off and on this past week. It feels really familiar, like I feel like I've had the same nightmare before but I can't quite remember so I guess that it's not really important to tally all instances of having this nightmare.

Anyway. My partner had to comfort me after I awoke this morning sweating, back hurting, and feeling nauseous from how intense aforementioned nightmare was. It had never been this intense before.

In the dream, I remember being outside and the weather being quite hot so I was looking for a place to maybe catch some shade, and maybe find a cold thing to drink. I grew up in a small barely-suburban town full of self-righteous judgmental assholes God's people where everyone knew everyone, and despite that you could probably find someone who would spare a diet coke or sweet iced tea on a sweltering day.

I had gone to this one place I barely remember (and if I could tell you what it was, I would but the type of place leaves my mind almost the second I wake up). It had a front porch and a couple of old rocking chairs. I had climbed over the hand railing and sat next to someone I had mistaken for my father but it was just a guy. We made small talk.

Me: Hey.

Guy: Hey, how are you?

Me: Fine, thanks. You?

Guy: Oh I'm sweating like a sinner in church in this weather, man.

Me: Haha, yeah no kiddin'. This week's been crazy.

Guy: Ain't that the truth.

We spoke to each other sparsely as the hours dragged on, and I had not had the courage to up and ask the guy if he knew if I could get a cold soda or water inside because despite my pre-programmed social masking, I had and still have really bad social anxiety.

The guy seemed fidgety, and I didn't question it because I lived in meth country at the time so it wasn't any real cause for alarm for someone fidget unless they were too obviously tweaking or threatening to hurt someone.

I noticed out the corner of my eye something moving but didn't pay it any mind. I had nervously blurted out asking if there were drinks inside. He said yes, went indoors, and got a couple of tall sweating glasses of sweet tea.

As I'm sipping the tea and getting more comfortable talking to the guy, he sees something past my shoulder and gets scared. Suddenly two men in masks with handguns come up to us and make us get on our knees with our hands behind our heads and to look down at the ground. We complied because they had guns and we didn't.

One guy pistol whipped me in the head to get me to bow my head further- he didn't know that I have a bone deformity that makes it hard for me to do that. I was dizzy and crying. I got told to shut up. They both searched us- shirts, pants, underwear, everything. Even under our seat cushions.

One guy found something that I couldn't tell if he liked it or disliked it, but he took it out of my pants pocket. He'd asked me something I can't remember because my head was pounding and my ears were ringing from being hit so hard. He reiterated angrier and louder but I still didn't hear, my ears rang louder. His voice sounded like it was coming in through a water chamber.

He jammed his gun hard into my spine in my mid-back. It hurt. The metal was cold and his hand was very shaky so the muzzle or whatever was digging around and scratching my back and it really fucking hurt.

Finally my hearing came back enough to hear the masked man saying to me, "DO YOU WANT TO FUCKING DIE, BITCH?"

I started crying more.

I stated that my ears were ringing and I had no idea what he said.

My stomach dropped when I heard him cocking the gun.

"One more fucking time. What is this fucking shit I found on you? Whiny fucking pussy."

I started crying harder and shaking, and threw up from how anxious and terrified I was.

"I don't know, please let me go. I'll never tell anyone."

"TELL ME WHAT THE FUCK IT IS OR I'LL FUCKING SH00T YOU, BITCH"

"I SAID I DON'T KNOW, I SWEAR!"

"YOU HAVE THREE SECONDS."

"PLEASE!"

"THREE."

"PLEASE DON'T KILL ME!"

"TWO."

"PLEASE, I DON'T WANT TO DIE!"

And before the dream could find its conclusion, I had awakened in my bed next to my partner. I was half-dissociated, in pain, and still reeling and craving substances.

I was having a sort of adrenaline rush. I had woke my partner up gently and let him know I had a nightmare, but didn't tell him what it was about until after he had become more conscious.

I don't recall anything like this ever happened to me, and if anyone on here knows anything about PTSD and c-PTSD you'll likely know that both can give you nightmares that don't make sense to the trauma that you actually endured. However, I feel like this dream was a little too real and detailed to just be another random nightmare. And it wasn't lucid- I couldn't do anything, it just played out (not that all PTSD nightmares aren't lucid).

I don't know what the guy in the nightmare found in my pocket. But he seemed excited about it in a way even though he was threatening to k*ll me if I didn't tell him what it was. I feel guilty thinking about what it could have been. Maybe it was substances? Christ maybe it was a Rolex and he was upset because maybe it happened to be his, dreams are just weird like that sometimes. I don't know. I can't think too deeply about it for too long or else I start getting too deep into the trauma rabbit hole.

Anyway... I'm going for a smoke now. See you next time.

-Sal

[to-star-lake]

one & only

sanzu haruchiyo x f!reader { you're sanzu's one and only. }

18+ minors dni | murder, drug use, dark themes, rough sex, choking, toxic relationship, character death, bonten sanzu

a/n: sanzu's name { 三途 } is written the same as 三途の川 { sanzu-no-kawa, “river of three crossings” or “sanzu river” } which is the japanese buddhist version of the river styx.

sanzu doesn't call you his girlfriend. he'd never use such pedestrian language to describe what you are to him. soulmate is closer. but still, to take everything he felt about you and edit it down to a single word? it wouldn't be possible.

the best he could describe it is perhaps that you were made for him.

the day mikey introduced you to the other executives as bonten's newest advisor, sanzu stood in the back of the room, unconsciously biting his lip as he stared at your clean and crisp white tee shirt, tucked neatly into a pair of black slacks. your perfect skin. your shiny hair pulled back into a neat ponytail. your delicate hands. and the sharp glisten of your eyes. you looked so sincere.

a top scholar and graduate of the national university. your parents had been foreign diplomats. you spoke five languages. all this brilliance packaged neatly behind such a pretty face. oh, you were so perfect. so pristine. i'll make you regret playing with monsters, little princess. sanzu thought he couldn't wait to break you.

it didn't take him long to realize how wrong he was.

he'd stare at your hands, the ones he thought were so delicate, as they beat mercilessly into the skull of a traitor that lay limp beneath you. being a bonten advisor meant you never needed to get your hands dirty. but you didn't mind. and sanzu felt a trickling heat of excitement shimmy up his spine watching the blood splatter across your perfect skin, staining your clean shirt.

he'd listen in awe in the war room as your fingertips traced gracefully over blueprints of the city, and you'd describe plans for a new building downtown. a new shell business to run money through. a merger with a smaller, weaker gang simply as a means to procure disposable foot soldiers for mikey.

on one particular night, he'd sat back and watched you, transfixed, as he pulled the car up beside a dark tinted suv at a stoplight on a deserted street on the outskirts of shinjuku. you'd pointed your gun out the open window, so fast and precise on the trigger, taking out all the passengers in the car. he would've missed the shots with a single blink.

he couldn't recall all the details of the rest of that night. but he woke to find you in his bed the next morning, your naked body tucked comfortably under his sheets beside him.

his head pounded and he tried to remember what happened but all that he could recall were a series of blurred images. of the two of you leaving the war room together after receiving orders from mikey to take out the heads of a rival gang. a vision of your bare thighs, exposed under a short, plaid skirt as you sat in his passenger seat, and the quiet rattle as you attached a silencer to the end of your gun.

he remembered the sound of indistinct chatter and an image of you sitting across from him in a dimly lit restaurant. a vague recollection of a bottle of scotch, of him staring at himself in the restaurant's bathroom mirror as he wiped some white residue from his upper lip. of you, bent over the sink with a straw in your nose. a blurred reel of your legs wrapped around his waist, of him pushing you up against the mirror so hard the glass cracked and you moaned into his open mouth. you sounded as sweet as you tasted.

in the grey winter light here in his bed, he looked at the blotches of blue and purple bruises that lined your neck and chest. at the edge of your perfect lips, a little swollen and the skin a little cracked. at the indentation of teeth marks on your shoulder, red with coagulated blood under the surface.

your eyes fluttered open and for a moment he was afraid. afraid that the cold light of day would be too harsh for you. afraid that all that was mystifying and beautiful in the night would be destroyed by the light. afraid you would leave.

but you'd looked into his eyes for a moment, and your lashes fell closed and you'd snuggled into his side, languidly dragging your arm across his chest.

let's sleep a little more, my head hurts and we still have at least another hour before we have to go meet the others.

oh, your voice sounded so sweet, still raspy with sleep, a lullaby to his ears.

as bonten leaders, he knew a relationship with you was strictly forbidden. he knew what mikey would do if he or any of the others ever found out. and he knew you knew too.

but you simply shrugged your shoulders as you picked up your clothes that were scattered across the floor of his bedroom. like you knew what he was thinking, and said i'm not afraid of them. are you?

he'd laughed at himself then. just who was corrupting who? he wondered.

the time he had with you began to envelope his heart. and the love he felt for you; small, crackling embers at first, had grown into a fire so bright and wild and twisted it could not be extinguished.

you were his partner; his chosen one. he loved the way your knuckles looked when they were bruised and red; such a beautiful contrast against your delicate and soft skin. he loved the way your fingers graced the handle of your gun, the dead calm of your eyes when you pulled the trigger. he was intoxicated with the knowledge that you were watching every time he carried out his duty as executioner.

his infatuation with you burned in his chest when he'd glance up at you, standing in the distance, eyes fixed on him and you'd slowly drag the palm of your hand up your thigh; testing his willpower to not pin you to the ground and tear you apart right then and there in front of his men.

under the cover of darkness, the two of you came alive. going on sprees, speeding through the bright streets of tokyo, the lights around you a blurred spectral of color to your bloodshot, medicated eyes.

in the midnight hours, your bodies would be intertwined, and in your arms he found a sanctuary. your body was the most addicting drug of all. you made all the pain disappear.

the quiet hours of the early morning, when time teetered on the edge of night and day, he'd lay on your chest, and for just a little while, his world would fall quiet. the air around him felt still. he would be coming down from his high, and he could feel everything. but he didn't mind. these small hours of lucidity shone brilliantly in his mind. when he could hear your breathing. feel your heartbeat so vividly beneath your bones. smell the lingering and sweet scent of your skin on his.

he'd become so possessed by you, so possessive of you that one night when he had you laid out beneath him, your legs spread wide for him, and he thought you looked so beautiful like this. so perfect like this for him. your skin, slick with a layer of sweat, luminescent in the moonlight. your lips, parted and choking out shaky pleas for him, begging him not to stop.

he buried himself so deep inside you, nails clawing into your skin, so desperate to be one with you. and he thought no one, no one else would have you like this. he was so intoxicated by the medley of pills in his system, completely unhinged in the euphoria of being inside you, he'd reached for his gun on the nightstand and held it to your forehead, point blank between your eyes.

you didn't even flinch. he watched you knock the gun from his hands, and slide your fingers up his wrists, and pulled his hands to your neck, letting him wrap them around your throat. if you're gonna kill me, do it with your own hands, you'd said.

god, he loved you so much. he wanted you so much, he needed you so much. he'd closed his hands around your neck with the gentlest force and watched your eyes roll back.

say my name, he'd command. and when you did, he closed his hands more forcefully around your delicate neck so he could feel the vibration in your throat as you choked out his name over and over. you'd clenched down so tight around him and he came harder than he ever had, collapsing into you.

he'd slowly let go of you, chest heaving, and gently caress at the skin of your neck, red and starting to bruise.

y/n...if i died, would you die with me? he'd whisper into your skin.

mmh, yeah. you'd whisper back.

i don't want anyone else to have you. i want you to be mine forever. he'd kiss the corner of your lips.

he'd feel your fingers laced up into his hair, your legs wrapped around his hips, pulling him close.

what am i going to do with you...i might really kill you one of these days.

he'd lift his head to look at you. and your expression didn't change a bit. your eyes held the same resolve they always did, and you said, then i'll wait for you by the sanzu river.

this was what flashed through his mind when he walked into one of bonten's warehouses late one evening for a meeting of the executives, and he saw all of them standing in a circle around you, bound and tied, blood streaming from your hairline, your bruised body limp on the concrete.

he fell to his knees then, watching mikey shove the end of his gun against your temple.

did you think i wouldn't find out? mikey's thumb clicked down on the hammer.

he saw your eyes flutter open and find his. you smiled.

the muzzle flash was bright, and the shot rang through the dark, open space.

he stared at the blood pooling from the side of your head into the dust. he felt a single tear roll down his cheek. shit, am i really crying right now? he laughed at himself.

WHO ARE YOU LOYAL TO, SANZU?! mikey demanded.

i'll wait for you by the sanzu river. your words echoed in his mind.

mikey may have been his king. but you were the redeemer, his messiah, his salvation.

the choice was simple.

he pulled his own gun from its holster and held it up to his temple.

i'm on my way, love.

[shipsandlattes]

So I know everyone has already dissected this scene to its core, but it’s taken me a good 48 hours to digest this and I just needed to get it out.

I’m an aspiring actor, I’ve been training for a long time, with a lot of amazing teachers. I’ve watched a lot of shows and shipped a lot of couples. Some of them beautiful and canon, others, well, let’s just say waiting 22 years and counting for acknowledgement, closure, anything, it’s a damn challenge. I’ve seen a hell of a lot of will-they-wont-they’s, baiting, purposeful ignorance, deliberate fake outs, zero explanations, storylines that basically caused canon disintegration, the works.

In saying that, Dean and Cas were right up there on the list with the other “impossibles” because honestly, I didn’t think the writers would have the guts to do it, but I am so f*cking proud they did. It’s safe to say I’ve watched the scene a good hundred+ times already. 

I’ve seen a lot of “controversy” around Dean’s reaction/Jensen’s acting choices and whether or not Dean reciprocates Cas’ feelings, and obviously, I needed to add my own views to the mix.

Just work with me for a minute here.

Dean Winchester is an emotionally repressed trainwreck, and ironically enough, the one that is so full of emotion it hurts to watch. When Cas first starts his speech, he’s confused, really confused because why on earth would Cas start off on a rant now? Billie’s waiting to kill them, he just said he knew something that was more powerful than she was, something that could save them. That’s where he thought this speech was going.

The confusion turns to realisation that it’s a goodbye when Cas starts telling him how incredible he is, how his entire essence is love. Go back and watch the scene again, when Cas says “you’re the most caring man on Earth”, you physically see Dean look down, his eyes searching, he’s actively trying to make sense of what’s happening, he knows what’s coming and you can see him coming to terms with the shock of the words being said to him. He then looks directly at Cas. That look, that was pure shock.

Also, notice how he doesn’t stop Cas from talking? He doesn’t interject, make a joke, doesn’t talk about how there is no time for this now, they’ve got to at least try and stop Billie. He. says. nothing. He listens, he listens like I’ve never seen Dean listen before. Because it’s sinking in now.

When Cas really starts crying, when he says “you changed me, Dean”, you can actually see the pain in Dean’s eyes. He’s no longer in control of his emotions, he’s crying too. He’s never seen Cas like this, so raw, and vulnerable and human. This is the hardest, most emotional conversation they’ve both ever had. They are talking about the one thing that everybody knows, but is never addressed. When it wasn’t talked about, they could deny it, live in the lie. Once it’s said aloud, it’s real and they can’t turn back.

This above series of interactions is the part that kills me the most. The moment Cas says “because it is”, that’s the exact moment of realisation. Look at that last GIF, really look. He’s just worked it out, that he is Cas’ true happiness. He knows what’s coming before Cas even says it. Go back and watch the scene again, they pulled that off so well, the way the music swells at this exact moment. Jensen is giving us everything here, you can see what’s happening in his head - he is Cas’ happiness. He is the one thing on Earth Cas wants and thinks he can’t have. He is the reason Cas is about to die. He knows what Cas is about to say and he’s not sure he’s ready to hear it, not now, not like this. It’s almost a silent plea not to say it, because he knows. Of course he knows. It’s like he can’t quite believe Cas is really, after all this time, finally going to say it.

And because obviously Jensen decided that that wasn’t enough to break us, the loaded reaction when Cas says “I love you” has me nothing but convinced that it’s reciprocated. Because Dean knows. He’s always known. Those tears, that head tilt, that gulp. He’s so genuinely confused that they’re really having this conversation. It’s like he can’t quite believe that this is the reality before him because he’s been living in that denial, in that self-loathing and unlovable layer he believes to be true. He’s been under the ‘what if... but it could never be’ umbrella for so long. 

What also makes this real is that there isn’t anyone else around this time. When “I love you’s” have been said before, they have always been able to deflect it, with other people or other words. Now it’s just the two of them. No deflecting, no running away. Dean is forced to hear it, to absorb it, to realise it’s for nobody else but him.

Now, I don’t know if you guys felt this, but when Dean says “Don’t do this, Cas”, he wasn’t just referring to Cas sacrificing himself to the Empty, he’s telling Cas that he can’t just say this, not now, knowing he’s going to die, knowing that Dean won’t get a chance to think, to process, to say what he needs too. I keep staring at that GIF above, Dean is breaking down, I’m almost convinced that Jensen was using an “I love you too, please just stop this” inner monologue for this bit. Look at the way he’s looking at Cas before he realises the Empty has started materialising and turns around. That’s a look of pure heartbreak. Trust me when I tell you, it’s really hard to keep those inner thoughts inside if you’re so in the moment - actually, don’t just take my word for it, read any acting book, ask any actor, it’s so hard to keep that in and sometimes you don’t, and sometimes you do - it’s in both the resistance and the letting go that the gold happens. This my friends, is gold. 

Did anyone else hear “Cas, I-”, well, regardless of whether or not it was an “I” or a very sharp breath, the outcome is the same. Dean’s gone into immediate panic mode. The Empty at one end and Billie at the other, and all poor Dean wants to do is gather his thoughts on not what to say but how to say it. I don’t think he comprehended just how little time he had, he was so focused on what was being said that the reality of the situation caught him completely off guard.

Also, I know this post was about dissecting Dean’s reaction, but can we sidebar a minute to talk about Cas as he pushes Dean out of the way? He’s sobbing, he’s fully crying. That hit me really hard, I’ve never seen Cas cry like that, I’ve never seen Misha get to play that level of emotion before and it was the most heartbreaking thing to watch since The Doctor and Rose and Buffy and Spike, to which by the way, I find many parallels between those couples and this scene.

Speaking of crying, that brings me to this: Dean slumped on the floor, ignoring a call from Sam, sobbing his heart out knowing he’s lost everything. Dean-I’m-emotionally-unavailable-Winchester is sobbing. Maybe I’m wrong, but I don’t recall ever seeing Dean cry like this before either, the sobbing was so evident and piercing in that silence. The look around the room, the burying of his head in his hands, that is a classic writers romantic love trope if I’ve ever seen it, they really pulled out all the stops with this one.

So, to summarise, I think Jensen’s choices and Dean’s reactions were absolutely and utterly perfect. They both did it so well that it didn’t break from character that these two emotionally distant and repressed men are in love and finally voicing it. Jensen barely said two words and still managed to cause mass coronary’s across the fandom. That my friends is what you call a brilliant actor. I bow down to the talents of these two amazing human beings.

Before I leave this novel, I have to say there are now a few things I’m going to need from the powers that be to not screw this up, help me manifest this:

1. Dean gets to reciprocate his feelings to Cas in person. So, I’m gonna need Cas back and a very emotional Dean.

2. Dean to be actively dealing with heartbreak in the next episode (unless they decided to bring Cas back that soon, which I wouldn’t put past them at this point).

3. Sam to confront Dean about his feelings for Cas, because out of everyone, he’d be the one to hit Dean with the truth of his fears. Sam knows. Sam is supportive. Sam sees it all.

4. I’m gonna need some physical affection, cause after 12 years of nonsense, we damn well deserve it. A hug, and not just any old reunion hug, a proper, this is different now hug. A kiss because hello, in love out loud now. Forehead touching, handholding, really gonna need the works here.

5. A happy ending for the two of them, one way or another. We’ve never had one, it’s time.

Okay, have at it now, let’s speak these into existence please.

Note: GIFs are not mine, I did not make them, credit to owners who I’m not sure of, but they’re beautiful, thanks for making them. EDIT: I’ve just been informed that these gorgeous gifs belong to @michaeldean​ and @inacatastrophicmind​! 

[istumpysk]

"That, and more."

"Where? When? Will I die in battle?" His good hand opened and closed. "If you lie to me, I will split your head open like a melon and let the monkeys eat your brains."

"Your death is with us now, my lord. Give me your hand."

"My hand. What do you know of my hand?"

"I have seen you in the nightfires, Victarion Greyjoy. You come striding through the flames stern and fierce, your great axe dripping blood, blind to the tentacles that grasp you at wrist and neck and ankle, the black strings that make you dance."

"Dance?" Victarion bristled. "Your nightfires lie. I was not made for dancing, and I am no man's puppet." He yanked off his glove and shoved his bad hand at the priest's face. "Here. Is this what you wanted?" The new linen was already discolored by blood and pus. "He had a rose on his shield, the man who gave this to me. I scratched my hand on a thorn."

"Even the smallest scratch can prove mortal, lord Captain, but if you will allow me, I will heal this. I will need a blade. Silver would be best, but iron will serve. A brazier as well. I must needs light a fire. There will be pain. Terrible pain, such as you have never known. But when we are done, your hand will be returned to you."

They are all the same, these magic men. The mouse warned me of pain as well. "I am ironborn, priest. I laugh at pain. You will have what you require … but if you fail, and my hand is not healed, I will cut your throat myself and give you to the sea."

Moqorro bowed, his dark eyes shining. "So be it."

...

The iron captain was not seen again that day, but as the hours passed the crew of his Iron Victory reported hearing the sound of wild laughter coming from the captain's cabin, laughter deep and dark and mad, and when Longwater Pyke and Wulfe One-Eye tried the cabin door they found it barred. Later singing was heard, a strange high wailing song in a tongue the maester said was High Valyrian. That was when the monkeys left the ship, screeching as they leapt into the water.

Come sunset, as the sea turned black as ink and the swollen sun tinted the sky a deep and bloody red, Victarion came back on deck. He was naked from the waist up, his left arm blood to the elbow. As his crew gathered, whispering and trading glances, he raised a charred and blackened hand. Wisps of dark smoke rose from his fingers as he pointed at the maester. "That one. Cut his throat and throw him in the sea, and the winds will favor us all the way to Meereen." Moqorro had seen that in his fires. He had seen the wench wed too, but what of it? She would not be the first woman Victarion Greyjoy had made a widow. (ADWD, The Iron Suitor)

It's just my theory, that Victarion is already a fire wight. And he's just too stupid to have realized that he died.

@fedonciadale walks into my mailbox, and casually drops the bombshell that I'm probably lusting over a wight.

Awesome theory. Thank you.

Edit: Wait, does the chapter change to third person perspective? Hang on, reading.

[loving-barnes]

Vendetta - Vulnerable (10)

Pairing: Mob Boss! Bucky Barnes x Mob ! Boss Y/N Fox (Bucky Barnes x female reader)

Warning: talk of sexual assault and mocking, violence, blood, murder, alcohol - darker chapter

Autor’s note: Finally, you will get to learn more about Y/N’s past. I will be editing the chapter later today (there are not many mistakes, but there are some). 

Viewer discretion is advised. This story is for readers 18+!

Word count: 4900+

Chapter nine

Vendetta Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Vulnerable (10)

Bucky: Hi, have you seen Y/N? 

Yelena: No. I haven’t seen her or heard about her for days now. I’m worried. This is the first time she went MIA for more than two days. Luckily, I’ve seen some tracks she has left. That’s the only thing giving me hope she’s alive and working. 

Bucky: Can you tell me what happened? 

Yelena: That is not my story to tell, Barnes. You’d have to ask her but she won’t tell you. 

Bucky: Let me know if you hear something about her. Please. 

Yelena: Ha, you must really like her. 

Bucky: Just call me, alright? 

Yelena: As you wish, Wolf Boy. 

Y/N was on a mission for almost two weeks. Since the news about Killmonger was revealed, she wanted to put an end to this war – even if it meant her doing it all alone, with her bare hands and getting seriously hurt. Nothing mattered to her, only to bring her enemy down on their knees – the same way they did. She forgot about her family and the alliance. She stopped picking up calls and focused on getting the information she needed. Y/N didn’t want to be distracted by Barnes following behind her ass like a dog. 

The night before her father’s funeral, she finally got what she wanted. After hours of planning, she was able to get to one of the high-trusted men of Hydra – Ulysses Klaue. He was coming out of a strip club Hydra owned in Staten Island when she grabbed the opportunity and kidnapped him. 

It took good timing and a huge dose of opium to get him back to Queens into one of the warehouses she was no longer using. That idiot was all alone, therefore he became an easy target. The plan was to sell the place but there were times she used it to torture people there. 

“Ah,” Klaue moaned from pain as she kicked him back to the ground. He was already conscious, rolling on the cold hard wet surface. His fancy suit was covered in mud and torn in several places. “You fucking cunt,” he growled, trying to stand up on his feet. 

“You might as well start singing because, at the end of the night, you are still going to die,” she stepped closer to him and kicked him into his chest, making him fall down again. “Tell me everything, Ulysses. Be useful for once.” 

“I’m not telling you anything, Fox,” he cried. “If I die, might as well die with all the secrets,” he took a deep breath and laughed. 

She put a wicked smile on her face. “I’m going to make you sing, don’t you worry, Klaue.” She hit him straight into his face with her fist, making him spit blood and some teeth out. She knew how to throw a good punch. He rolled on his back and whined. The blood was all over his face and clothes. “Why did you hire Killmonger?” she asked him. 

He kept his mouth shut as he was lying on the ground, breathing heavily. Y/N got quickly annoyed and was ready to smash his face with her boot. As she was about to hit him, he grabbed her ankle and swiftly pulled her down to him, attacking her. 

Klaue managed to hit her face and tore her lower lip. Then got to sit on top of her, hitting her face a few more times. “Fucking little cunt,” he laughed, spitting blood all over her. “You think you can kill me? You are a weak woman.” He started to admire how her face slowly played with several colors. The bruising would become worse in a few hours. 

“Do you think you will be able to destroy Hydra?” he asked her when he grabbed both of her hands and pressed them above her head. His blood kept slowly dripping from his face. The droplets were falling onto her cheeks and nose. It made her gag. “No one can destroy us. We have the upper hand. We got rid of your pathetic father as well as the old Barnes and his wife. And soon, when we will get rid of you, no one will stand in our way to rule New York.” 

“What?” it slipped out of her mouth. They killed Bucky’s parents? It wasn’t an accident? 

He chuckled. “Do you think it was an accident? You are all such fools,” he said happily. “In this world, nothing is an accident. Rumlow and I made sure they wouldn’t come out of the car alive.” She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Hydra killed Bucky’s parents and he didn’t know. “Their death allowed us to mess with James. That idiot believed everything we told him. And we got him where we wanted… until you had to meddle into everything, you fucking cunt.” 

The anger inside her was about to blow like a volcano. She managed to push her body forward and roll him over her. He didn’t expect the move and suddenly, she was the one who was sitting on top of him, beating the shit out of the man. 

“You piece of shit!” she screamed at him, not stopping to hit his face. When the man was almost unconscious, she got off him and stood up, wiping the blood off her face with the back of her hand. 

Y/N quickly ran to her car and took out a rope and a baseball bat, ready to use it on that fucker. From the old office, she brought a rustic chair into the middle of the warehouse where she forced him to sit on it. He was a heavy motherfucker and it was a struggle to put him on the chair. Once seated, she tied his hands, legs, and torso to the chair. 

“Fuck,” she breathed, tired from carrying all the weight. “You heavy swine.”

“Let-me-out,” he mumbled, barely able to communicate. His head was wobbling around. “You’ll pay for this.” More blood escaped his mouth.

She glared at him and swung the bat over her shoulder. “I already did.” She stopped in front of him and put a sweet smile on her face. “Tell me, Klaue, why have you hired an assassin? Is Pierce scared to do the job himself?” 

Before he could reply, she hit his right knee with the bat with all force. The sound of crackling bone could be heard around the empty warehouse. He shouted from the top of his lungs as a new wave of pain hit him. “Fuuuuuuck!” 

“Aw, don’t cry, darling,” she stood behind him and put a hand on his shoulder, massaging it. “Just breathe through your nose,” and she laughed. “Such a pussy.” 

“Fucking, crazy bitch!” he kept whining. “Are you fucking out of your mind?” 

“Am I?” she asked back. The bat was back in her hands, aiming at his hand as if she was practicing baseball. The difference was that his head became the ball. “One move and you are dead, Klaue. Well, if I successfully hit the right places around your head. Imagine staying paralyzed for life. Now, tell me everything.” 

He kept breathing through his nose, exhaling with his mouth. The sobs kept escaping his mouth here and there. Y/N put the bat down and went back in front of him, leaning closer. His eyes found her face that kept that wicked smile on. “You know what’s funny, Fox? Hydra knows your weakness. Hydra knows what happened a few years ago when you joined the military.” 

Y/N tried to keep her face straight, not giving him any emotion. But the smile faded. Her stomach turned upside down and her palms started to sweat. How could they know? 

“Do you think it was a coincidence we hired Killmonger?” he asked rhetorically. “We’re not that stupid, little girl.” 

Without thinking, she reached for the knife she had in a holster on her thigh and stabbed it into his left leg, straight in the middle of his thigh. Another set of screams and sobs came out of the man’s throat. The blood was dripping down his thigh and onto the ground. 

Once he calmed down after a few minutes, he opened his mouth again. “Tell me, Fox, did he fuck you good?” he grinned at her, showing her his bloody teeth. “He told us how he had a great time with you. How he fucked you with his friends. You kept screaming for help and no one came,” he continued. “He told us how he abused your virgin little hole. It sounded like a lot of fun.” 

Her hands started to shake wildly. Listening to how he knew about everything that happened a few years ago, made her stomach twist in pain, making her nauseous. Those words triggered her and suddenly, she felt as if she was back there, that night when Killmonger and two of his friends raped her. All those hands were back on her body, taking off her clothes while she struggled to fight back. They crawled up her body and squeezed her throat, stopping the oxygen.

“He told us everything, dove,” he laughed triumphantly. “He told us how they used every one of your holes for their pleasure.” 

She couldn’t listen to him anymore. He knew too much and he deserved nothing more than to die. His voice was suddenly muffled and she couldn’t hear him anymore. The only thing she was able to register was the sound of her beating heart that wanted to escape her chest. And then there was a loud ringing in her ears. It reminded her of the screams that escaped her mouth that night. 

Y/N screamed at the man and threw herself on top of him, plunging taking the knife out of his thigh and plunging it deep into his chest. His warm, dark blood started to splash out of his body, covering them both. With the deep growl that kept coming out of her chest, she kept stabbing him into the chest, not giving a shit that he was already dead. All the rage caused her to stab him at least twenty times. The last stab was right into his eye. She twisted the knife from side to side and left it there. 

Such masterpiece.

She looked at the dead body, admiring the art she had created. Klaue was dead, she was sure of it. No one would be able to survive an attack like this. She rolled to the side from the lifeless body and curled up into a ball, crying. Those words were still ringing in her head. Hydra had the biggest advantage of all time. They knew about her trauma and they would be able to use it against her. 

She kept crying on the ground for ten minutes until she couldn’t anymore. Her face was hot, her eyes were burning and she kept gasping for breath. Even the snot came out of her nose but she didn’t give a fuck. 

With one last breath, she slowly stood up and fixed her clothes. It was done. Now, it was time to get rid of the body. Y/N went to her car, into the boot where she had heavy iron chains. She wrapped one end around the car and dragged the other end to the body where she secured it around the dead man. The second chain was wrapped around the legs of the chair, just to be sure the man would sink down in the sea. 

Y/N threw the bloody bat back into the car and got inside, starting the vehicle. She brushed the remains of the snot against her bloody jacket. Slowly, she drove to the edge of the warehouse where the bay was. The water was at least seven meters deep there. As she was approaching the edge, she sped up and drifted before the end of the ground. It helped her drag the body over the ground and get it as close as possible to the water. 

When she unwrapped the chain from the car, she wrapped the rest of it around the body. He was starting to smell terrible. It took her a few minutes until she managed to roll the chain-wrapped body into the water. When it hit the surface, she exhaled with relief. Her eyes kept watching the bubbles that were coming to the top as the body kept sinking down. 

“One down,” she said to herself. 

Her hand reached into the back pocket of her jeans, taking out her phone. It had a cracked screen but it luckily kept working. Unlocking the phone was difficult. She made a mental note to buy a new one. 

Y/N’s eyes locked on the photo she had on the main page. It was her and Yelena during summer when they spent a week in London. She was the only person Y/N could trust. She was the last real family that she needed to protect at all costs. 

After almost two weeks, she opened her messages. The inbox was filled with texts from Yelena, Wade, Scott, Peter, and even Barnes. They were all worried about her. No wonder - she’s been MIA for almost two weeks, not communicating with anyone. 

When she ran away from Yelena’s apartment, she quickly headed back home where she started to plan a solo mission to get anyone from Hydra. After over a day she realized she had some glass stuck inside her feet and it made it difficult to walk. It was a bitch to take it all out. When was the last time she forgot about everything and focused on one goal? 

Heading back to the car, she hardly typed Yelena a short message. I’m alive. I’m going home. 

She started the car and left the warehouse, leaving some anger and fear behind. One important member of Hydra was gone. Y/N realized that his death would only bring rage out of Hydra. But they were the ones that started the war. 

The drive to Yelena’s old place took about half an hour. When she parked the car, she noticed the light was off – no one was home. Maybe Yelena thought she was heading back to the mansion. Y/N couldn’t consider that place as home anymore. 

Slowly, she dragged herself up into the apartment. When she walked in and turned on the lights, there were several dirty wine glasses on the coffee table as well as the kitchen counter. It seemed that Yelena had visitors while she was gone. 

Y/N opened the refrigerator door and found one last bottle of rum. She took it out and brought it with her to the rooftop of the building where she could stare at midnight in New York. She didn’t mind the blood all over her body. It seemed as if she forgot about it. 

Some idiots kept honking the car horn, shouting profanities. It was happening several streets away and yet she was able to hear them as if it was happening close to her building. Y/N sat down, bringing the bottle to her lips, ready to drink the liquid until she noticed she hadn’t opened it yet. 

“Fuck,” she hissed and opened the bottle, quickly gulping down the rum. It burnt her throat but she didn’t mind. Alcohol seemed like the only way to get rid of her memories. As if it was the solution to all her life trauma. She kept chugging on it as if it was lemonade. 

Here and there, Klaue’s face kept popping in her mind, still hearing his last words. That fucker knew what happened to her – hell, they all knew. As much as she tried to hold back the tears, she couldn’t do it for long. Some were able to escape, falling down her bloody cheeks. 

“Y/N?” she heard Bucky’s voice behind her back. Was she imagining it? No. She didn’t turn around; rather put the bottle to her lips and took another few sips of the alcohol. “Holy shit,” his steps came closer to her until he stopped right beside her, gasping. “What the fuck happened?” 

She didn’t look at him. Her eyes were fixed on the streetlamps and the skyscrapers in far Manhattan. But that view was suddenly blocked by Bucky’s face. He sat down opposite her, his hands immediately on her blood-covered face and his eyes were mapping every detail. He could see the torn lip, the bloody temple, and even the bruising forming on her cheek and eye. He waited for her to speak. Still, she kept her mouth shut, not saying a word. 

“We’ve been worried about you,” he said after a minute when his eyes checked the rest of her body. Whose blood was it? He kept shaking his head in disbelief. She looked as if she was in a massacre. One thing he knew for sure was that most of the blood didn’t belong to her. Y/N had some wounds on her face, but they wouldn’t produce that much blood. “Please, look at me,” he whispered and put both of his hands back on her cheeks, making her look at him. 

With a sigh, she said: “I killed Klaue.” 

Bucky’s eyes almost popped out of his head when he heard the news. “What?” he had to ask, not sure if she was trolling or not.

“I killed Klaue,” she repeated without any emotion. 

Bucky quickly took his phone out of the jacket and typed a message to Yelena, informing her where they were. He knew he’d need her help. “Alright, I need to know more,” he said calmly when he put his phone back and his hands landed on her shoulders, stroking them. “Is that his blood?”

“Yep,” she said and drank the rum again. 

He noticed how much was already missing from the bottle. Did she drink it all alone? He remembered that bottle – Yelena bought it a few days ago when they were in the apartment, trying to track down Y/N. They never got to it. “Was it you who kidnapped him?” he asked. When she took another sip from the bottle, he made her put it down. “You should stop drinking, Y/N.”

“He’s swimming in the ocean, making friends with the fish,” she laughed and put the bottle back to her lips. Bucky stole the bottle from her hand and threw it behind him, not caring that most of the content of the bottle spilled over the ground. “What the fuck?” she shouted at him. “Fuck you, Barnes! How fucking dare you?”

“Y/N, you’ve been gone for almost two weeks,” he raised his voice at her. “Everyone has been looking for you. Yelena put a lot of your men around the Queens to find you. Even Stark and I helped. Everyone was worried about you.” 

She scoffed. “Please, don’t pretend you care, Wolf.” Her eyes turned darker and she frowned at him. “You don’t care. No one cares about me, alright? Everybody pretends they care but the truth is no one does. They only pretend for the money.” The alcohol kicked in. She didn’t give a single fuck about anything or anyone. She needed to shut down the voices running inside her head. 

He shook his head in disbelief. “That’s not true Y/N. Yelena cares about you – she hasn’t slept in days, worried sick about you. Wade cares about you. Fuck, even I care about you, doll. Just, please believe me when I say-“

“Believe you?” she raised her brows. “W-Why should I believe that you care?“

His hands gripped her shoulders and he shook her body a little. “I fucking care about you. You may not believe me, but I really do.”

She frowned at him. “Why do you care about me? You don’t even know me. You know nothing about me, Barnes. Until a few months ago, you didn’t even know I existed.”

Bucky sighed and shook his head. His eyes never left hers.  Something was in them and she couldn’t quite know what it was. They softened and seemed sad. “I want to know you, Y/N. If you’d let me in, I would like to know more of you,” his voice was now barely a whisper. “I’m not your enemy. I never wanted to be one,” he admitted. 

There was silence between them. Bucky kept holding her shoulders, absentmindedly stroking them with his thumbs while their eyes kept staring at each other. Both were breathing simultaneously and neither of them wanted to let go. 

Y/N’s mind was running wild. Everything was too confusing. She didn’t know who to trust; she didn’t know whether he was telling the truth. At the same time, she didn’t give a single fuck. What her mind could focus on were his lips calling her to taste them. Where did that thought come from? 

Now you have the opportunity of a lifetime, said her inner voice. When was the last time she kissed a man? She thought about it for a second. It was over a year ago when she was in LA and met with the Asgardian clan. But now, Bucky was in front of her – the boy she used to be in love with. Used to, right? 

Before she knew it, she leaned closer to him, capturing his lips with hers in a soft kiss. Her drunken mind wanted to know how his lips felt against her. She wanted to know what he tasted like. They were soft, as she imagined, and he didn’t move away from her. 

Bucky closed his eyes, enjoying the kiss. He was taken back by the action but he would lie if he said he didn’t enjoy it. Both his hands moved to her neck and pulled her closer to his body, deepening the kiss. Bucky didn’t want to stop but he knew it was wrong. She was drunk and murdered a man not long ago. Her mind was all over the place and he didn’t want to use her vulnerable state. Back in the day, he wouldn’t give a fuck. Now, he wasn’t able to do it to her. 

He pulled away from the kiss. “Stop, you don’t want to do this,” he whispered, still keeping his eyes closed. 

Y/N looked at him, her face stoic. This was the first time a man didn’t want to proceed even though she was offering herself willingly. She took a deep breath through her nose and let him go. Her legs felt like jelly but she managed to stand up and walk to the bottle on the ground. There was still some alcohol left. 

She picked it up and drank the rest of the liquid in one go. Afterward, she threw the bottle back down on the ground, breaking it. 

“Y/N,” Bucky said her name softly. She ignored him. 

As she was walking away, Yelena appeared at the door, breathing heavily. “Holy shit,” she gasped when she found Y/N covered in blood with a bruised face. “What the fuck happened to you? Are you alright?” she approached her and put both her hands on her cheeks. 

The woman shook off her hands and took a step back. Why did everyone have to touch her face tonight? “I killed Klaue,” she informed her, still lacking any emotion. Then, she bypassed her and went to the door, leaving the roof. 

The blonde kept staring at the Wolf boss, not believing what she just witnessed. “What the fuck?” her voice shook. “What happened to her? Did she really kill Klaue?” 

Bucky slowly stood up from the ground and swiped off some dirt that was on his pants. “It seems she actually did,” he replied. 

“Did she say more?” she approached him. 

He shook his head. “She said he’s making friends with the fish, which means his body is swimming somewhere in the sea. Judging by the way she looked, it must have been a massacre. Shit,” he sighed. 

Yelena checked him from head to toes, confused as to why he was covered in blood. “What about you? Have you been there too? You have bloody clothes and something is also on your face,” she pointed at his cheek. 

“Uh,” he quickly thought about his answer. “She had a moment and leaned against me, that’s why I looked like this,” he pointed at his bloody clothes. “You should go to her. She’s drunk and kind of out of mind, to be honest. I don’t mean it bad, it’s just… she needs you.” 

She nodded, agreeing with his words. “Will you come tomorrow for the funeral?”

“Yes, I am. Usually, if a Mob boss dies, the rivals would come to the funeral either out of respect or out of pure mockery,” he explained. 

“Which one are you?” she asked. 

It took him a good minute until he replied. “A bit of both, to be honest,” he smiled a little. 

Yelena frowned at him and put a finger to her nose, thinking. “Do you- Do you think that Pierce might attend the funeral?” 

“Uh…”

“Think about it,” she continued. “Both Stark and you will be attending. There is a high possibility that those fuckers will come too,” and she took a phone out of a pocket, quickly texting Peter. She asked him to look into it. “I have to go. See you tomorrow,” she waved a hand and ran down into the apartment, not waiting for any response from him. She needed to be with Y/N. 

When she entered the apartment, she was met with a pacing, irritated woman that found another bottle of alcohol from somewhere, chugging it like water. Y/N didn’t bother to take off any of the clothes. She smelled like metal and a rotting body. 

“Y/N,” Yelena approached her carefully. “Tell me what happened tonight.” 

The woman looked at her friend and waved with the bottle. “They know,” she sobbed. “They all know what happened to me in the military,” her voice was shaking, as well as the hand that held the bottle. 

“Who knows?” Yelena didn’t exactly follow. 

“Hydra – everyone from Hydra knows that fucking Killmonger raped me back in the military,” she grunted. “Klaue told me before I had decided to kill that motherfucker.” She took another swig and burped. “But, oh boy, did I enjoy killing him.” 

Yelena grabbed the bottle out of her hand which only made Y/N frown at her. “What the fuck is wrong with everyone? Did you all decide to steal the booze from me and touch my face? The fuck?!” 

“For fuck’s sake, Y/N, sit your ass down on the couch and breathe, alright?” Yelena pushed her to the couch and watched her take a seat. “Let’s take this step by step, shall we?” 

Y/N shook her head and covered her face with both of her palms, crying silently. “I can’t take a breather, Yelena. It’s all becoming too much.” 

The blonde wrapped her arms around her dirty body and sighed. “It’s because you are doing almost everything alone. You can’t do that to yourself, Y/N. You can’t do it all alone. It’s going to destroy you.”

“H-he told them the details of that night,” Y/N mumbled. “They know it all. They-“ she stopped talking and pushed her body away from Yelena, quickly running into the kitchen sink where she threw up all the content of her stomach. 

Yelena made a disgusted grimace but ran to her boss, stroking her back and holding her hair. “Let it all out,” she goaded her. “It’s all going to be okay. All you have to do now is to let people help you.” 

“Lenka,” Y/N took a deep breath once the vomiting stopped. “I am the boss. I have to fix this shit if we want to live…” she didn’t finish the sentence. She rather turned on the water and cleaned the sink from the contents of her stomach. It was mostly alcohol and acid. “It’s all too much. Tomorrow is the funeral and I don’t even want to attend it.” 

Yelena grabbed her hand and took her into the bathroom. “Undress and take a shower. We have to clean the clothes or destroy them. Plus, you smell really bad. A shower will make you feel better.” 

Y/N chuckled and the tiny smile remained on her face. “I will.” Before Yelena left her alone, Y/N asked, “what happened while I was MIA?” 

The blonde leaned against the door frame and crossed her hands over her breasts. “Well, I was in contact with Barnes a lot, actually. He was looking for you.” 

“Wow, I don’t know what to say.” 

Yelena laughed. “That’s a step. Usually, you would bitch about it. Now, go take a shower and I’ll prepare some clothes for you.” 

“Thanks.”

Y/N peeled off the clothes of her body once she was left alone in the bathroom. Suddenly, she felt disgusting and wanted to wash away everything that happened that day, even the moment of weakness when she kissed Barnes. Why did I do it?

It didn’t matter. It didn’t mean anything, and she did it because the emotions mixed up together, causing chaos in her head. No wonder, she had the two tough weeks behind her. As she closed her eyes and enjoyed the water, she could still feel his lips on hers. He didn’t push back immediately. Why? Fuck, he even deepened the kiss. Did it mean anything? 

Shaking the thought away, she finished her shower and wrapped her body into the soft towels Yelena owned. The blood from her body was gone. When she looked into the mirror, she could see how bruised her face was and where some of the wounds were. 

Yet somehow, she felt more alive than ever.

Chapter eleven will be out on May 20, 2022. 

Tags: @lethallyprotected , @memeorydotcom, @valkyrie418

[randalsgrave]

Sweetness and Light: Part One

IT'S HERE IT'S HERE IT'S HERE AHHHHHHH

I gotta be honest, this first part takes off with all the grace of a baby pilot (which is to say none) - I was enlisted during my time in the navy and had little to zero access to what fancy people in planes do, and it shows a bit in this first part. I did as much research as I could, but past a certain point, I just winged it and hoped that it sounds sort of like the communication you'd hear between flight ops and a pilot. If there are any fancy navy people (officers) that would be willing to help a former enlisted peasant be sort of on the money with this, PLEASE LET ME KNOW, I will love you forever.

ANYWAY. THIS THING IS LIVE!

It's about as normal of a day as it gets for Lieutenant Katie 'Sand Trap' Garland, until it isn't.

BobxFemale!OC. F/C: Kacey Rohl

Word count: 1.6K

WARNINGS: Colorful language (it's the Navy, come on now); not beta-read (we die like men); minor editing

A/N: Name of this story comes from the song 'Sweetness and Light' by Lush. If you haven't heard it before, I highly recommend giving it a listen; lyrically and atmospherically, it encompasses everything I imagine Katie and Bob's relationship to be. <3

Enjoy!

***

The air is home and god, is there no place like it. 

For Lieutenant Katie ‘Sand Trap’ Garland, it’s the single best feeling in the world. Fly once in an F-18 Super Hornet or fly a million times, it’s always the same when she’s up in the air: euphoric, exhilarating, comforting. 

Freeing. 

It’s a sunny, balmy Tuesday in July, any given day in Norfolk, and she sits in the cockpit of her jet, waiting for the snap of the aircraft carrier catapult that will send her hurtling off the deck of the USS Harry S Truman. One hand flexes, curls around the center stick between her knees, and the other rests on her thigh, fingers drumming in idle anticipation. This is always the worst part - the moment right before take-off. It’s too much time where she’s focused and dialed in but nothing’s happening. It’s too much time for her to get twitchy - and nobody likes it when a pilot is twitchy.

Fortunately for Katie and everyone else on board, it’s a short-lived moment. 

Soon enough, orders and authorizations are crackling through her comms system, and before she knows it, she’s snapping her right hand up and firing off a salute to the Shooter, who returns the salute, then wheels his arms to the right and points straight down the runway. 

What follows is undoubtedly one of the most gasp-inducing moments in a fighter pilot’s career: the catapult slams forward, and the jet is all but thrown off the carrier. There’s a split-second drop - and then, with a blast, Katie is airborne, pinned into her seat with a gasp, climbing higher and higher towards the sun and the endless blue above her, free at last.

She cuts left and away from the Truman, circling out into open territory above the Chesapeake, heavy on the throttle as she punches it. She is master of all, beholden to none but herself and her own skill, and the F-18 is her instrument, her weapon of mass destruction and awe. Up here, in the air, she is in control, in the zone…

Home.

The air is home and god, is there no place like it.

Incidentally, Katie’s home is being used for practicing high-speed maneuvers today. It isn’t long before she’s got company up in the air, company in the form of two other F-18’s controlled by equally self-assured pilots, who fan out behind her to form an arrow, piercing the sky and the clouds before them. 

“Joker, this is Dragon. All present and accounted for up there?”

Katie briefly glances down at her radar display, nods at the two small dots trailing behind her, holds up her mouthpiece to speak. “Sand Trap to Dragon, all present and accounted for. Radar shows two on my six.” 

“Copy that Sand Trap. Execute high-speed maneuvers.”

“Roger that Dragon.”

“And Sand Trap? One barrel roll without reason and your ass is grounded on no-fly status.”

Katie can’t help the impish grin that spreads across her face. “C’mon now sir, I can’t help that I’m in my comfort zone up here.” It’s a good thing no one from ops can see her; she’s pretty sure she’d get chewed out for that snark otherwise. Knowing her luck, she probably will later. 

No matter. It’s not enough to bring her down. Hell, up here? Nothing can bring her down. She is unstoppable. 

“Just do what you’re scheduled for. No funny business.”

“Roger that Dragon. Sand Trap, over and out.” 

And with that, Katie clips in her mouthpiece, pushes down her sun visor, and punches off in a burst of raw sonic power. 

Time to get down to business.

***

Two hours later, high-speed maneuvers have been completed, and Katie and the others have touched back down on the Truman, exhausted, but satisfied with the work they’ve put in and the contrails they’ve left behind - all in a day’s work, and all according to plan. 

If only the same could be said for the rest of the afternoon. 

Not even seconds after finishing debrief, Katie finds herself being whisked down the Truman’s p-ways and into the office of the ship’s air boss. Well boy howdy, she thinks as she smooths down the flyaways wisping from her braid and steps into the small compartment. Must’ve done something to piss him off today.

Turns out, she couldn’t be farther from the truth. No sooner does Katie open her mouth to say good afternoon than the air boss silences her and orders her to sit - and he wastes no time in delivering news Katie never thought she’d hear in her lifetime. 

Surely there must be some mistake. Her? Going TAD? To fucking TOPGUN? It’s whiplash unlike anything she’s ever dealt with before. 

“Garland, are you even listening to me?”

Katie blinks, frowns. “What makes you think I’m not, sir?”

“I dunno, I tell you you’re being sent to North Island and you don’t say a goddamn word. Begs the question, don’t it?” 

“Well trust me, sir, I heard you. Just… What?”

“What do you mean ‘what’, Garland? Do I need to spell it out for you?”

“I mean, forgive my disbelief here, sir, but are you sure you don’t have me confused with someone else? I wouldn’t exactly consider myself a one-percent pilot.” 

The air boss drags his hand down his face, looking for all the world like he’s about to slam it into his desk. Clearly, this isn’t the reaction he expected from her, far fucking from it. “Lord gimme strength - look, be modest and say what you want, but someone in leadership seems to think otherwise, all right?” He pauses for a moment, settles back into his chair with a weighted sigh. “Couldn’t have come at a better time, if you ask me.”

‘Couldn’t have come at a better’ - what the fuck? What’s THAT supposed to mean? “…Meaning?” 

“With all the new talent coming in, we’re starting to lose our edge,” he explains. “Blue Blasters ain’t what they were ten, fifteen years ago. Now, like I already told you, be modest and say what you want, but leadership seems to think you got what it takes. This squadron needs someone sharp, smart, and focused, someone who can take what they learn and pass it on to the new guys, give us that edge back.”

“…Someone like me,” Katie clarifies, voice slow. Holy Christ, he’s not kidding. 

The air boss nods. “Bingo.” 

It’s now Katie’s turn to sink back into her seat, and she does it with a hard exhale, her hands flexing and gripping the armrests as she processes the information. Mother of Jesus, this is real; this is actually happening. Is she going to puke? She’s not entirely sure. Her stomach is simultaneously twisted in a paralytic knot and turning somersaults, elated fucking somersaults. It’s the best kind of nausea she’s felt outside of pulling 7 G’s in her jet and she’s not sure if she can keep it in. 

Somehow, she manages. She swallows thickly. “Got any paperwork for me to look at, sir?” she rasps. Were it not for the gravity of the situation, she’d be embarrassed at how ridiculous she sounds. 

The air boss wordlessly produces two sheets of paper from the stack on his desk, and Katie takes them into her hands, blue eyes roving over the boxes and paragraphs typed on them. Someone is already several steps ahead of her; the documents she holds are signed and stamped orders for TAD, complete with allocated per diem, notes on BOQ lodging at NAS North Island, and a no-later-than date of 27 July…

Which is a week from today. 

Oh holy shit. 

“The NLT date is next week.”

“Yep, sure is.” He says it in such a way that Katie would think he’s talking about the weather, like it’s the most normal thing in the world that she’s now got no time to get her affairs in order before vanishing to the west coast. 

“That’s not a lot of time to get things figured out.”

“Eh, I’m sure you’ll manage.”

“Not like you’re giving me a choice,” Katie grumbles under her breath. Christ, she hasn’t even left the east coast yet - hasn’t even left the boat, for the matter - and this is already turning into a pain in the ass. 

“We all gotta make sacrifices for our career at some point, Lieutenant. If you want it, you’ll make it happen.”

Damn him, he’s right. Katie might’ve walked into this meeting with no clues or expectations, and she sure as shit might not have been expecting an engraved invitation to Fighter Weapons School, but it’s not like she’s going to turn it down. She loves flying and being a pilot, far too much to let this opportunity go to waste. 

She heaves a long sigh. “Can I at least put in leave and give myself time to drive out there?” 

“Hell, I don’t care what you do,” the air boss shrugs, “so long as your butt’s in the schoolhouse by Monday. Fill out a leave chit and I’ll have it signed off by close of business today.”

“Sounds good, sir.”

By this point, the conversation is effectively finished, and recognizing that, Katie rises from her seat, salutes the air boss, and turns to leave. Just as she’s turning to leave, though, he stops her, reaches out and shakes her hand with a firm grip. 

“You give ‘em hell out there, Sand Trap. Put ‘em through their paces.”

Katie smirks. “I’ll do my best, sir.”

Then, she’s off, stepping through the hatch and back out into the p-way, the door clanging shut behind her. 

She’s not even five steps away from the air boss’s office when her knees buckle beneath her and she’s forced to brace herself against the bulkhead with her arm. The other hand clenches her chest, wheezing with shock and barely-contained, joyous laughter. 

She can’t believe it. She’s going to be a student at TOPGUN. It’s the opportunity of a lifetime, and it’s hers. 

North Island isn’t going to know what hit them. 

[shadowworks]

Compulsion

Pairing: Mafia!Dabi X Reader

Warnings: dubconish themes, flirting with Hawks, blood, murder, blackmail, fingering. NSFW, quirkless AU!

Word Count: 4.4k

A/N: Alright! This piece is for The Smut Pile Mafia Collab

I have to give my wholehearted thanks to @hisoknen @some-kindofgnome , @pleasantanathema, and @ever-enthralled for reading this over the last couple weeks, and making sure it reads well! I am so happy to have you beautiful souls! Also a special shoutout to Raph for brainstorming with me when I was stuck at the very end. 💕

Edit: This has fanart! Beautiful @maewoahoah created a Mafia!Hawks piece right here and a Mafia!Dabi piece here! She’s very talented! ;)

On this ominous winter evening it begins snowing. 

You readjust your peacoat and step through the frosty glow of the street lamp to your front door. Your muscles ache a little more than usual, your steps a little heavier. It’s been a long and tedious day at work; far less stimulating compared to Toga’s position working for a bootlegger named Tomura. But both jobs pay the rent. You push papers and withhold your scowls towards clients. Now, you want a bath. 

The sound of a muffled radio plays on the other side, and it floods your ears as you walk in with warmth and an iron smell wafting your chilled nose. 

“Folks, I'm goin' down to St. James Infirmary...

Seeeee, my baby there;

She's stretched out on a long, white table

She looks so sweet, so cold, so fair.”

Toga’s playing blues again. It’s a routine she has before the graveyard shift across town. At this time, she’s in the kitchen making something before she goes, but you’re having trouble figuring out what food smells like copper. 

“He-e-e-y,” you call lazily, a sing-songy tone in your voice. 

She doesn’t answer, though you hear the clacking of stiletto heels on wood, which makes you amble down the hall to see what she’s doing. 

“Think you can smuggle some whiskey tonight? I thought we had some, but Keigo probably polished it off last—“

You stop in the doorway. 

There’s a poor bastard lying flat on his back, head twisting too far towards the sink. Ribbons of blood streak down his colorless skin, pouring out from a dark and glossy hole just beneath his jaw. You see it puddle and stain the edges of his hair a sticky red, the only sound besides your heart thudding is the soft thrums from the parlor.

“ When I die please bury me in my high top Stetson hat

Put a twenty dollar gold piece on my watch chain

So the gang'll know I died standing pat.”

You’re in a daze, one where you’re not sure how long you’ve been staring. It doesn’t seem real. Is it real? But it’s not until you hear the sound of heels clicking against the wood floors that you drag your gaze to the noise. 

Toga’s standing near the stove, her features vacant, shoulders slouched, and she’s holding a knife that’s still wet.

What the fuck? 

You want to scream, berate her, seethe what the fuck was she thinking, or if she was thinking for that matter. But the blonde speaks up before you do, with a voice above a whisper. 

“He was going to leave me. Said he was too dangerous.” Toga doesn’t look in your direction, moving to the rim of pooled blood which has stopped spreading out, “I told him I wouldn’t let anyone come between us, but he wouldn’t listen.”

Your jaw goes taut, staring incredulously at her steely face. The lack of emotion gives you a sinking feeling in your stomach.

The man wasn’t a random suit who bled out on your floor, this moron was seeing Toga on and off for months and had been trying to be more present.

Nights spent arriving at your door with flowers and sweets, and driving her to work was becoming a staple in his routine. He preferred staying in Toga’s room if they had the day off, and he always slipped out when the morning frost dusted the grass, a soft bluish hue painting the streets before sunlight. 

But that’s not the problem. See, he was a core member inside the Mafia running the northern side of the city, ‘The League’ they like to call themselves. The only men above this guy was his boss Tomura, and the underboss Dabi. You don’t know the former, but you’ve spent time with the latter.

You’re aware of his sadistic nature that flashes behind those teal eyes, and he doesn’t try to  hide it, either. The sideway glances during a poker match before he fucked someone over , the smile he wore when you asked about the purple bruises on his knuckles. 

So fan-fucking-tastic, the broad has some nerve.

You curl your lip, already shrugging your shoulders from your coat. You toss it over the table and start rolling up your sleeves to the elbows.  

Toga finally turns towards you after catching movement by her side, brows raising confused, “What are you doing?”

“You’re gonna grab his feet and we’re gonna move him onto the rug in the hall.” 

You step in the blood, grabbing him by the rusty black colored jacket and dragging him from the puddle. Of course it leaves drag marks, your heels making tracks alongside, but you can deal with the clean up later. 

Toga hurries over to help, carrying him by the legs and letting you guide the body to the floral rug.

“You don’t want to know what happened?”

You stop. Immediately dropping the dead weight, his blond head lolls off to the side. Your palms sheen with red, but you straighten up and push a beach curl from your cheekbone with the back of your hand.

“Not really. All I want is this fucker out of my house.”

It’s her turn to stare at you incredulously. This is completely out of nowhere for you to be assisting in hiding a dead boyfriend, even if you two are roommates. You’ve only been living together for four months now.

“Toga, I need you to listen, okay?” you say, a bit mockingly, “I can look past the murdering business by pretending you acted in self defense, but if you don’t have the goddamn brains to realize this idiot has friends, then I suggest you don’t stab people!”

Toga flinches slightly at the lilted pitch in your voice, already suggesting panicky, “We can take him to the woods and hide him there?”

“That’ll work.” You don’t think Twice about it.  

Working together, you both hoist him a couple feet onto the rug, refusing to look at his face. You didn’t need to be feeling a pang of guilt. It doesn’t take long for you to roll him towards the front door, as the material wraps around his figure. 

The hardest part is retreating to the car. The moment you push through the door, you see the distance from where you stand and the car parked a little down the sloping street. You both give a hard look to the powdery snow dusting the ground, quiet and enchanting. It would be beautiful...had you not been carrying a corpse.

“Stop being a little bitch and heave!”

“I can’t! You’re making me hold all the weight!”

“He’s off the ground! How the fuck are you holding all the weight?”

“But my arms hurt!”

“Fucking hell, Toga. What if I had stayed at my sister’s tonight? What then?”

“Stop yelling at me! I get it, alright? I shouldn’t have done it in the house!” 

Your bickering toils through the winds, muffled by the falling snow. The burst of cold air is running through your buttoned blouse while crossing to the 1929 Chevrolet causing a shiver to roll down your back. When you reach the car Toga plops the rug down onto the snow first, then you. Your wet fingers feel numb against the metal handle. 

There’s one entrance on each side, which likely will make shimming the body to the backseat  much harder. You pause, looking at the front in thought. 

“I’ll go first,” you say, “when he’s in, you go and grab our coats.”

“Are we burying him?”

“Think the lake’s faster.”

“What if it’s icy? They’ll see the hole if we throw him in.”

You both ponder your options for a little while, this isn’t exactly something you’ve done before...You can’t say the same for Toga, but she seems just as puzzled, almost clueless on how to get rid of her ex. 

Meanwhile, the rolled corpse behind you starts to slip downhill, little by little. The slanting street gives speed and the rug starts to roll.. Red droplets trail behind in its wake. 

You just happen to see it first.

“Toga—Toga, the body! The body!” 

Toga cries out, taking off after the rug as best she can on a frozen sheet. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” 

The graceful snowfall flutters with pain and chaos.

Toga skids against the fresh ice, feet stumbling under her navy blue dress. She falls to the ground with a hard thud, and you see she isn’t stopping. She keeps going alongside the body, sliding until the two disappear under another parked car. 

You don’t have time to think, a chill strikes up your spine in your panic. 

“Toga!” you call out, taking off after her. Unfortunately you find yourself abruptly on your back, pounding hard on the stones and stealing the breath from your lungs. 

If you could sigh right now you would. Or rather, if you could punch Toga right now you would, as rage twists with a throbbing pain in your chest. Was all this worth having a mobster roommate? The odds were piling against her. You have a mind to push her in the lake when you get there.

Several silent minutes go by with you staring up at the cloudy sky. It’s brighter from the illuminating white snow, and despite the icy powder prickling your flesh, you have no choice but to wait for the ache in your chest to fade. 

“Enjoying the view?” 

You hear a new voice, male, and the suave tone tells you who it is before he treads near. He looks over you with half lidded eyes of honey gold. 

He’s very pretty. The drifting snow flakes above his wheat coloured head manage to enhance this, though the uplifted eyes lined in black, and nicely sharp features are the last thing you want to see. You’re nowhere near ready to start lying out of Toga’s mess. 

“That can’t be too comfy down there,” Keigo says, bending forward with an outstretched hand,“C’mon, upsy-daisy.” 

You take his hand, feeling another leather glove hold your waist and lift you onto your feet. When you settle, he starts brushing the caked snow off your back. Mobster or not, he’s at least a gentleman.

“You alright?” he asks, giving you a once over for any fresh scratches.

You give a slow nod, crossing your arms over your chest. Fear’s got the better of you, and you look anywhere but him., “What are you doing here? I thought you were working tonight.”

“Oh I am! You could say I’m on patrol, need to pick up a few things.” 

Your gaze stills to your left, heart skipping. Keigo’s not alone. Standing nearby, a slim figure dressed in black from head to toe is watching you two lazily. A thread of smoke seeps from his parted lips, clouding a handsome face and spikes of black hair. Keigo keeps talking, but you can’t take your eyes off the ghostly presence you know to be Dabi.

“Unfortunately that includes loverboy. He was supposed to be back hours ago, but we figured he’s still fooling around,” a little smirk tugs at his mouth, suggestively “He’s still inside, right?”

You blink, turning back to face Keigo, “I wouldn’t know, I just got home,” you lie. 

“Look at you! You look like you’re about to freeze to death.” He starts suddenly, swiftly slipping his arms out from his heavy coat, revealing a black three piece with pinstripes, and a brighter crimson tie. In one smooth motion he twirls the long, beige coat over your shoulders, letting it rest over your figure.

“Thank you,” you say, before your eyes catch something. 

Dabi moves towards the clumsy skid marks, head tilting down to the red dots in the snow near his polished shoe. You stiffen.

“You sure you’re okay?” 

Your gaze flashes from Dabi’s retreating back to a politely smiling Keigo, “Yeah, I’m fine! I’m really cold is all.”

“Well, we should get you inside. You know you left your door wide open?” Shit, the door. You forgot about the stupid door—

(Dabi looms across the indents in the snow and follows down the hill like a dark shadow against crystals illuminating bright.)

“Ah yeah, I thought I left my purse in the car. It was just for a second, and then I slipped,” You force a smile. Relax. You need to relax. Keigo doesn’t seem convinced, reading something off in your features.

“Is that right?”

(He gets the edge of the old Ford, and notes the specks of red soak wider here. The spots lead underneath.) 

“I know, it’s pretty foolish. It’s um...It’s a good thing you showed up when you did, or...”

Your eyes drift over Keigo’s shoulder. The underboss starts to crouch low. Your pupils shrink, a new wave of panic tingles the back of your neck. Damn him, why was he so clever? 

“Dabi, wait!” you shout, pushing past Keigo’s shoulder. In your hurry you kick up the snowy crystals, rushing to the taller mobster in his long obsidian coat. Dabi quickly turns, standing up.tall before you hook onto his upper arm like a lover. “I saw an animal go under there that looked hurt. You shouldn’t mess with it.”

A smirk that breaks into a grin spreads on his face, a look of amusement blooming from your look of fright. You want to glare at him, though that could be dangerous. Why does he like seeing you scared?

 “An animal, you say?” he parrots back, adopting the same mocking pitch you gave Toga earlier. He’s not in the least bit on edge, and you really don’t like that. He flicks his teal eyes up to look behind you just then, “Good thing I have the city’s best exterminator right here.”

As if on cue, you hear the crunching boots of Keigo walking to the car. “Give me a break with the dirty work, will ya?”

“What, scared of a little pest?” Dabi taunts back coolly.

 “I’m not too fond of getting my knees wet, actually,” Keigo returns quite dryly, sharp eyes studying the long pattern marks. He places his gloved hands on his thighs and drops himself to a crouch in front of the vehicle.

You desperately hope Toga proves you wrong. Maybe she had the common sense to bail while no one was looking. It’s all you can do at this point, while Keigo dips his head underneath. You don’t realize, but your grip on Dabi’s arm presses tighter into the wool.

Keigo inspects below for a moment. There’s a long pause like a winter evening should be. Silent. Calming. You can almost believe in the soothing little lie. Then Keigo coughs a laugh  that echoes through the street. Bursts of manic giggles grow louder from the mobster, leaving you tilting your head at his pushed back hair, confused.

“There’s a pest, alright! I think I caught something—“

Keigo reaches under, and with an impressively strong yank, Toga’s head pops out in a doe eyed stare. Her arms are wrapped around a bundled rug with a fairly familiar head sticking out. 

“Hey there, Toga!” Keigo exclaims, “When did you become a rat?”

 Dabi tips his head down, drawing the lit cigarette back to his lazy smile. He’s shockingly calm which does nothing to ease your shivering panic. Toga however, seems fine. In fact, she’s moved on to livelier feelings.

“Hey! Does it look like a rat could’ve done this?!” she snaps, shaking the body in her arms. It bangs against the bottom of the car sending loud echoes through the nearly empty street. Specks of blood dribble on the white ground, and a couple more drops spray her cheeks.

You stare up at the clouds, rolling your eyes. Goddamnit Toga.

“Yeah, I guess a rat can’t hold a knife, huh? Ya got me there.” Keigo turns and beams you a smug look, eyes half lidded in an expression that reads, nice try, but you failed.

You scrunch your nose, quietly shooting him back a glare. Asshole might’ve caught you both red handed, but he didn’t have to be so fucking cocky about it. It’s only charming when he has a winning hand at cards. Beside you, Dabi’s shoulders shake with silent laughter, though you don’t have the guts to flash him the same glower. He is second in command after all.   

“Yeah, see? That’s what I thought!” Toga says in victory.

You blink very, very slowly at Toga when she finally meets your vastly unamused gaze,“...Nice work, Toga.” 

It comes suddenly. A fiery warmth ghosts the dip in your waist as Dabi leans in. It’s not unwelcomed, raw and soothing even, but it hardly lasts. His hand curls around Keigo’s coat collar and pulls it off your shoulders. The crisp wind rushes to your exposed arms.

“You got any rat poison on you, Hawks?” Dabi tosses the coat to Keigo. 

He catches it mid air as he rises to stand. “Nah, fresh out. But we have some back at the house.” 

“You want to take care of our rat problem then?”

“Can do, boss man.”

Before you can figure out what they mean–what they have planned for Toga–Dabi’s pristine leather glove presses at the small of your back and directs you toward the pouring light of the open door. “Don’t wait up.”

It’s barely there, but as you shift your eyes to Keigo, his features take on a darkened look toward Dabi.

“Play nice, now,” you hear Keigo say. This time though, the joyous tone is gone. 

A new song hums on the radio when you’re pushed through the threshold, you listen to the richly solemn blues as Dabi closes the door. He turns the lock with a click and pockets the key.

“I forgive you 

'Cause I can't forget you.

You've got me in between the devil and the deep blue sea”

He doesn’t give you a passing glance, instead he turns and strolls down the freshly bare hall. He hasn’t removed his coat, and each room he passes he tilts his head in to search for something, stopping by the parlor. With a twist of a knob, he shuts off the radio.

“Where’d she ice him?” he asks, still not looking at you by the stairwell. 

“In the kitchen.” You return. No point in hiding it now. 

His steps creak the wood as he ambles further down, knowing full well where to go. He’s been here a handful of times; of course, those were happier evenings filled with drunken laughs.

You watch him stand by the doorway, staring at the vibrant mess of a crime scene. He pops the tip of his cigarette in his mouth before slipping from your line of sight. Dabi’s got the key to the door, so it’s not like you can run away—especially with Keigo just outside. It’s too risky to try and you know it, but it does cross your mind. 

Summing up the courage, you decide to follow Dabi with measured steps, “What are you going to do with Toga?” 

When you face the kitchen, Dabi’s near the table where you threw your coat. He has a hand in one of your pockets, and he’s fishing for something inside. It jingles in his grip as he stuffs it into his own pocket. Your car keys. 

“Are you going to kill her?” you try again, a little irked he’s swiping your things left and right. He doesn’t release your coat either, laying it over the crook of his elbow.  

He draws a final inhale from the dying bud, and crosses to the sink to snuff it out. An exhale of smoke blows out from his lips, “Killing her seems like a favor, don’t you think?”

“I thought it was the other way around.”

He turns, flicking teal eyes sheening with energy at you, “That lunatic’s no longer your concern. Right now, you ought to be more worried about yourself.”

Your features go taut, which in turn makes Dabi’s sadistic smirk return.

 “I didn’t help her kill him.”

“No,” he agrees, taking a few strides around the blood to approach you,“but you were willing to stash the stiff.”

“Yeah, for this very reason. I didn’t want you coming after me!”

Dabi draws dangerously close, mere inches apart as he glances down with lidded eyes, the smell of tobacco perfumes from his shirt collar nestled under a violet tie. He crooks his index finger, embellished with a silver ring, ghosting it under your chin. “How’d that turn out for you, babydoll?”

With a ruthless smile, he breaks the fixed stare and rounds you to the hallway. He seems to be making his way towards the parlor again, but the swish of your peacoat in his arm, set you off.

How dare he? You don’t like how he’s walked inside, claiming what’s yours. You might have your life screwed over, but at the very least you want your coat back as some semblance of control.

You stalk after him, picking up pace to aim for his arm. The clacks of your heels are loud, but you currently couldn’t care less about being sneaky, “Give it fucking back. You’re not keeping that!”

You lunge for the black wool, but as your fingers brush the material on his left elbow, Dabi whips the coat, rotating arms. You’re not fast enough, but you try a second reach for his right arm, huffing out a growl at his stealthy reflexes.

“Dabi, I’m serious! You’re such a—”

In a twirling motion his newly free palm shoves at your shoulder, pinning you against the stairwell’s wall. He’s close, so close, the blue flames in his eyes are absurdly intense. 

“That makes two of us. You’ll get this back when I say so.” 

His voice is low, soft lips almost connecting to yours. You tilt your chin up, glaring at him with fearful, tentative eyes. His gaze flashes with mirth, and he huffs a small laugh at you.

“I’ve always liked this about you. That spark inside you.” He muses. The peacoat spills to the floor. Dabi lifts his slender fingers, pushing back a loose curl from your cheek. 

Your stomach flips, as shocks tickle your skin. There’s been subtle flirting between you two before. You just wrote it off as overthinking the moment. Even though he only called you, babydoll, and he sat next to you at gatherings. How he filled your glass with water instead of booze as the nights waned. Now, you feel foolish for denying the little signs. 

“You have a horrible way of showing girls you like ‘em,” you counter back, your voice’s quiet but leveled. 

“Yeah?” he asks. The arm holding your shoulder tightens, while the other lowers to collect your long skirt. He traces his knuckles on the soft flesh of your thigh. As his hand trails up, his eyes remain fixed on your facial features. “Maybe this will help.”

His slim fingers reach the cotton slip, and it’s easy to pull off to the side, exposing the lips of your warmth. He tests the waters, sweeping the tips of his fingers across your folds. Your mouth parts in a breathless hitch in your throat. Dabi parts his own lips drawing near, ‘til his lips touch yours but not quite pressing together yet. His pierced nose bumps yours.

“Now here’s what’s going to happen,” he starts, just before sinking two fingers between your folds, pumping deep and slow inside. “You’ll go upstairs and pack what you need. When you come down—”

He thrusts particularly hard into you, sending a gasping moan to fall from your open mouth. His voice remains calm, a hint of glee can be detected. Fucking bastard.

“—You’ll be leaving with me. You’ll work for me...Live with me…And you’ll do everything I say. You got it, babydoll?”

He adds a third finger, soaking his knuckles deep with your slick. He’s hitting the right spots, the perfectly deep pressure. Your attention turns hazy as wakes of pleasure tighten just below your stomach. Your hips buck against his thrusting hand, yet still, you manage to nod your head. 

Moans flutter from your lips and vibrate onto his smiling one. To heighten the pleasure he begins swirling your wet clit. “Ah, Dabi...Oh god, Dabi—”

He slows his fingers suddenly, which makes you cry out. He pretends to ignore it. “If you try to escape me...I will hunt you down and hurt you in ways that will marr that pretty skin of yours. I’ll make you scream so loud, and no one will be there to save you. Tell me you understand.”

He curls his knuckles, pressing into a rough spot at the top, pumping fiercely against your slippery, muscular walls. You cry out, squeezing at his shirt collar and coat. “Fuck—I understand, I understand! Baby, right there, ah!”

Dabi gives you no mercy. He tugs and twirls the bud of sensitive nerves, swirling with driven circles that clench your walls in wonderous pressure. You’re close, he’s so close to sending you in high bliss. Your moans get heavier, and your clenching more and more and—

He removes his fingers. Another cry of protest sobs from your mouth only to be swallowed by Dabi’s lips on yours. His tongue massages the moans from your breath, his scent of cigarettes and smoke immerse your senses as you drown in the kiss.

He slowly breaks apart with a wet sound, looking deeply in your lust-glossed eyes. His voice is low and arousingly husky. “Now get your things.”

Before you know it, Dabi pulls away from your shoulders, and turns for the parlor. You try catching your breath, watching his slim, muscular back...Did that happen? Did he rob you of everything? Your home, your life, your orgasm?

Eventually, with light steps you do as you’re told, and turn to climb up the stairs. What choice do you have? He has your life in the palm of his hand. And right before you make it to the top, your hand drawn on the railing, the spinning clicks of your house phone perk your ear.  

A long pause. Then finally, Dabi’s rich voice speaks up from the parlor,

“Hey, I’ll be needing a few guys at Togas...Yeah, we found him….Toga did him in pretty good...No, we’ll need the good bleach for cleanup.”

***

P.S, this might be a mini series 👀

[stardustprompts]

hulu’s  the great   season 2 ,  ep 1 - 4  —-   sentence starters change tenses/pronouns as needed !!  some lines have been edited for clarity / length / ease of roleplaying tw :   language ,  pregnancy , nsfw ,  sexism ,  violence

‘I’m somewhere between bored and enraged.’

‘battle has it’s own rhythm. you must play it as it lays, not how you wish it.’

‘we are one step closer to victory, feel free to congratulate me.’ 

‘you’ve become quite the worrier. it is dull and makes me want to punch you when I see you about to speak.’ 

‘god will blow the right wind soon.’

‘your serene faith is really fucking annoying.’ 

‘you look amazing. look how big you are.’ 

‘you’re so sweet sometimes I could just kiss you on the nose.’ 

‘did the baby just kick you?’ 

‘don’t be stubborn. I mean, I love it, but it’s fucking wearing at times. like right now.’ 

‘I’m not sure appealing to my selfless side has a lot of traction.’ 

‘I shall have another great idea and we will prevail.’ 

‘you underestimate how well liked I am.’ 

‘you have steel in your heart.’ 

‘you’ll realize you haven’t even known love until this baby comes out, and men forever after will be merely useful trinkets.’ 

‘the wind blows her way, well played.’

‘I’m saying blame is not an attractive characteristic.’ 

‘don’t get pregnant, (name). it’s like a coup on your body.’ 

‘there is the poetry of what we want and there is the blood and grind of how we get it.’ 

‘head not heart, (name).’ 

‘reason not rage, (name).’

‘a child should float in a bubble of love so that nothing can touch them, at least while they’re young.’ 

‘if you can not take a life and still get what you want, then why take the life?’

‘only men are dumb enough to do that. it’s why they’re endlessly creating their own destruction.’ 

‘I will fuck who I want, when I want.’ 

‘my love for you hangs heavy.’ 

‘barbaric. good for you. maybe you can do this.’ 

‘you’re alive. that’s all I need.’ 

‘now I suppose having not thought things through properly, you’ve probably resolved to kill me.’ 

‘children seem endlessly problematic to me.’ 

‘unbelievable. all our enemies are alive and having a lovely day.’ 

‘reason and compassion can win any argument better than violence.’ 

‘you are forgiving. she betrayed you.’ 

‘if you dress well, no one notices what you do, just what you wear.’ 

‘did he just call me a dickhead?’ 

‘I wish a knife was in your heart.’ 

‘even your charm cannot win all battles.’ 

‘I will protect that which I love. no matter what.’

‘no one wants a fierce wife.’ 

‘they think better things come from better husbands.’ 

‘if I could summarize my response to your request as elegantly as possible... go die, you pig.’ 

‘you are lit from within.’ 

‘it is a storm. they will never stop coming, but pass through and away. they always will.’

‘it’s talk like that which will get you killed.’

‘I intended to be all calm and high-handedly bitchy with you but I am unfortunately not that person.’ 

‘I will leave you to do nothing as usual.’ 

‘are you angry or are we fucking?’ 

‘hands up, who had sex last night?’ 

‘is anyone listening to me? have I stopped making sound when I speak?’ 

‘I fucking give up.’ 

‘for you, I will try to be better next time.’ 

‘you are a bloodthirsty thug, and I wish I had killed you when I had the chance.’ 

‘you are uncharacteristically yell-y.’ 

‘sometimes people say words and I just hear a buzzing in my ears. this is one of those occasions.’ 

‘being sad is a pathetic, self - soothing indulgence now, and I will not fucking have it!’

‘I thought perhaps because it was verging on unpleasant with a woman, perhaps a man was more the carriage I should be riding in, but the road is different, but the feeling much the same.’ 

‘the road is different, but the feeling much the same.’ 

‘I love you, and I want you but he needs me right now.’ 

‘I am your best friend and need to talk. that is the prerogative of a best friend.’

‘I am your best friend and need to talk. that is the prerogative of a best friend. In the madness of the night, when one has a problem, we are there for each other.’

‘I fear you will make yourself, and those around you, suffer, and perhaps the country as well.’ 

‘an angry, seemingly out of control woman is not looked on kindly. trust me on that.’ 

‘are you fucking defending him?’

‘what is it you wish to say to me? say it and it will magically heal me.’ 

‘you have an overly benevolent view of me.’ 

‘your ruthlessness, which I know of already, has taken me aback this last day.’ 

‘forgiveness will perhaps soften both our hearts.’ 

‘you did as you had to. let it go, like a bluebird off a tree in the spring.’ 

‘if you wanted to save him, you would have.’ 

‘I don’t know what to do with this feeling.’

 ‘you are careless with people, their pain.’

‘first love is good. but I also recommend 21st.’ 

‘I lost my way a little. I am back, reason itself.’ 

‘it might be good that people remember him. the nightmare should not recede from people’s minds.’

‘I’m sure people will see through him soon enough.’ 

‘I know that look. and don’t you fucking dare.’

‘she is backing me into a corner and you know I hate that.’ 

‘it would also make me really happy, which should be everyone’s top priority, really.’

‘what is your point? because so far, I hate it.’ 

‘no one should have that power over me, even if I love them.’ 

‘it very odd to feel your lungs being crushed like an accordion into your throat by a foreign invading creature who has taken over your body.’ 

‘you are a blossom that has never grown in this garden before. no need to twist and turn your glory to impress a man who cannot see.’

‘I hold out my hand in friendship. I do not want to close it into a fist.’ 

‘I find power imbalances wildly erotic. I suppose I’m old fashioned that way.’ 

‘I suggest you keep your fingers out of the machinery of this issue lest you lose them.’

‘it’s excruciating, but I’m thinking of things to distract me from the pain.’ 

‘I’m going to be a dad.’ 

‘I’m trying to save your life here.’ 

‘you love your people and are not black of heart or evil of eye.’ 

‘when you have a party, it should be an impromptu, spontaneous outpouring of love and alcohol.’

‘I suppose that’s hard to understand for an un - fun person.’ 

‘that’s not quite the beginning of an apology, is it?’ 

‘it’s fucking dangerous, the way this is being handled.’ 

‘I fear I may cheapened myself tonight for no reason.’ 

‘the joy of being a woman is knowing that we have unseen and unacknowledged depths and strength beyond anything a man will ever know, and knowing that, when we feel like it, we can outplay a man on his own field.’ 

‘I haven’t felt much of anything. I don’t want to feel anything.’

‘I think I need the person I’m fucking to feel something. numbness is not very attractive.’ 

‘so, it’s either numb, or terrible.’ 

‘you think I will not last. but that is because you have never seen a ruler like me before. because I am the future.’ 

‘the gesture, grand and aggressive as it may be, is pointless.’

[elleclairez]

The Starless one and his star - Darkling x reader

Alina didn’t know what to do exactly. She sat silently in an armchair of her chambers in the Little Palace, her gaze focused on the figure of her worst enemy who decided that it would be a marvellous idea to torment her a little by playing tricks with her mind. 

The Starkov girl knew that the Darkling wasn’t really there, but it certainly did not ease her worries in any way at all. The man on the other hand, silently stood, watching young Grisha train with Botkin through the window. No one could guess what was going on inside his head. Saints even he didn’t know why he chose to pay a visit to his enemy. 

The silence in the room was heavy, almost unbearable for the young woman. She wanted to cry, shout and hit the man all at once and yet her body couldn’t move even a little. She was petrified and she couldn’t understand why. Was is fear? Hatred? Anger? Or was it something else stopping her from crying out for help or banishing the man from her mind herself?

The silence didn’t stop until the beautiful, silky voice of the Darkling resonated through the walls of the room.

“Have you ever heard of a young woman by the name of Seren Heijman?” Confusion flashed through Alina’s eyes. Seeing that the Shadow Summoner sighed and added “You might know her as the Star Saint. A bloody ridiculous name if you ask me.” The last sentence was muttered and Alina could barely hear it to properly decipher all the words. But as the words left the man’s mouth, the young Grisha suddenly had old memories of childhood stories crossing her mind. Alina could still remember the tales that Ana Kuya would tell them back at Keramzin. There was one story that Alina always adored, it was about a young, beautiful and selfless woman who chose death to save her comrades and the now long dead king. 

“All I remember is that she died sacrificing herself to save the king and her friends. Let me guess she was Grisha too?” Asked Alina with her brows furrowed. Why would the Darkling talk about Saints with her? 

“I always told you that those tales were propaganda for peasants. Seren was indeed Grisha, a powerful Inferni actually. And no, she did not sacrifice herself as everyone chose to believe. She was killed. Stabbed and left to die alone. Without anyone to save her or to at least be by her side when she would let go of her last breath.” Spat the Darkling with anger. Hatred could be deciphered from his eyes quite easily. It wasn’t hard to understand that this story was quite a sensitive topic for him, but Alina didn’t care. She was too curious as to why the man who was as heartless as a volcra would care so much about a mere woman and her unfortunate fate.

“You knew her didn’t you?” Carefully asked Alina too afraid of his reaction. The last thing she wanted was to anger her enemy. The Darkling chuckled.

“I did not know the martyr that people made of her against her will. I knew a young Kerch Inferni who was too good for this world.” And with those words, the Darkling pulled out a chain out of his pocket, and attached to it were two rings.

Two wedding bands. 

While at court Alina was able to see many jewels but all of them paled in comparison to the beauty of those. It was no doubt Materialki work.

The first was a man’s ring, quite simple, black with silver engravings on it, but it was the second one that caught her eye. A silver ring with black engravings that were too small to be read but big enough to be visible. On top of it, three diamonds were placed. Two were small, white ones looking like stars and the third one in the middle seemed to represent a full black moon.

At the realization, the Sun Summoner gasped.

“You...” Words couldn’t form themselves. Never in a million years could she have guessed that the most heartless man could actually be married. But most importantly it seemed that the marriages was based on love, a feeling that Alina thought the Darkling could not feel.

“Yes, Alina. We were married and loved each other dearly. She was the only one for who I was ready to give the world to on my knees but even more, she was the only one for whom I was ready to give it up. The moment she would have said it, I would have given up everything. The Second army, Ravka, everything.” The Darkling paused to take a breath, eyes full of sadness and grief. “What people say is true. She was everything any person would want to be. Intelligent, beautiful, sarcastic, a real firecracker if you ask me.” At that the Darkling laughed a little, memories seemed to flash in his eyes. “Loving, brave and selfless and yet selfish enough to dream of a peaceful life with me, away from all the fighting. She was the only one that I needed, and yet she was still taken from me.” At those words the man’s fists clenched, knuckles white from tension, his eyes full of hatred and yet still held the same sadness as before. Alina could even feel herself pitying the man.

“What happened?” Almost shakily whispered the raven haired woman. She knew asking that would be dangerous, but she wanted to know what happened.

“The ancestor of our so lovely King Alexander desired her with all his body and could not bear the idea that she chose to marry me and decline his advances. So he did what many Lantsov men did as it seems, he tried to take her by force. But my Seren was powerful, something that the bastard forgot, she burned him but was kind enough to simply leave burns on his hands. She hoped that he wouldn’t approach her from then on but that man, if you can call him a man, was vengeful, so he sent her to Fjerda on a mission, as he said. I was away the day she was sent away, and I only found out a few days later. The moment I received the news I rushed to Fjerda as fast as I could but when I arrived at her camp, it was too late. All I found was dead Ravkan soldiers both otkasatsya and Grisha and when I found her tent I already knew something was wrong, I felt somehow felt it. And there she was in her tent, laying on the ground, eyes blank, a single dried tear on her cheek, the spark that I used to adore in her beautiful orbs, gone. She laid there, on the floor, in a pool of her own blood and all I could do was to stand there, paralysed with this raging urge to destroy the monster who did that to her.” A deathly silence succumbed the room, Alina did not know what to say, and she became even more speechless when she saw a tear run down the Darkling’s cheek. He didn’t look so terrifying anymore but more like the young man that Baghra so desperately tried to save. “From that day I promised myself that I would avenge her. That I would take over Ravka and destroy every person who would think of hurting my and her people, of hurting Grisha people.”

“Make me your villain, Alina Starkov. But even you should see right now that I am not the villain but only the victim. The one who lost too much by the hands of others.” Alina didn’t know what to say, how could she respond after such story? Was she even supposed to respond? Was he even saying the truth? It wouldn’t be a surprising for her that the Darkling was simply playing tricks on her, again.

As if reading her mind, the Shadow Summoner said. “If you don’t believe me, there is proof in a secret drawer of my desk, well your desk now should I say, in the war room, go see for yourself.” At that the Darkling’s figure started to disappear, but Alina had one more question.

“Wait!” The Darkling looked at her expectantly. “I know not all tales are true, but some said that... she was...” She couldn’t bring herself to say it. Because if those stories were indeed true then the Darkling would be even less of a monster.

A dark chuckle left his mouth, he knew what she was trying to say. “We were going to name them Elizaveta if it were a girl or Piotr if a boy.” And with those words the man disappeared.

Alina didn’t even notice how tears escaped her eyes but a few minutes later she found herself in the war room, opening the same drawer that the Darkling talked about. 

It was a portrait. An old, small and dusty but still very well-kept one.

On it was painted a young couple, dressed in wedding attires, those same rings on their fingers. Smiles and eyes full of love, so bright that even the painting couldn’t dull the sparkle that they had while looking at each other.

At the bottom of the portrait Alina was able to decipher the writing.

            “Seren and Aleksander Morozova. The Starless One and the Star”

Hope you liked this angsty Aleksander x reader one-shot. Had this idea since I saw the trailer (which is INCREDIBLE by the way) and gotta be honest I literally wrote all of this during my philosophy class because it was better than falling asleep...

If you have a request don’t hesitate to send me a message. You can find all the fandoms I write for in my bio, but I warn you that it may take a little while for me to write it because I’ve been a lot of writer’s block lately....

Ps: Hello! This is me again from the future or present (depends on how you see it). Just wanted to say that I edited the story a little. Again English is not my native language, so there may be some mistakes that I’ve missed, do not hesitate to comment if you see one. Again I hope you enjoyed this story and if you did go check my other ones 😉

[jamespotterthefirst]

Mi Viejito (Ethan x f!MC)

Pairing: Dr. Ethan Ramsey x F!MC (Dr. Lilac Allende) Words: 1K Warning: None Summary: Father’s Day more than twenty years later. 

Author’s Note: “Mi Viejito” means “Old Man” (affectionate). Thank you to the two anons who requested this!

Also, no editing. Oops. We die like men. 

Twenty five years are not enough to dull the impact of startling blue eyes meeting hers across a room. For a moment, she feels like that fresh-faced intern she used to be, meeting her medical idol for the first time. Except now, Ethan Ramsey has the elegance of time on his side, carved into every fine line on his handsome face. His hair, once dark brown, is a storm of silver now, making the blue of his eyes even more of a shock.

A pleasant sort of shock that makes her body thrum with warmth.

Ethan removes his spectacles and gives her a tired but breathtaking smile. Lilac returns it, moving to settle into her husband's embrace.

“Happy Father's Day, mi viejito,” she murmurs into a kiss. After his hum of thanks, they melt into the kiss, enjoying the rare few moments of blissful companionship.

“Where are the girls?” he asks after a while, as though reading her mind.

“Andy should be here any moment to drop them off.”

“Ah, the calm before the storm,” he muses with exaggerated dread. It doesn't fool anyone, least of all Lilac. Anyone who glances at Ethan Ramsey with his children for more than two seconds knows just how much he adores them. “What about Lori and Jonah?”

“Jonah hasn't texted me back and Lori is on her date.”

“Hrm.”

Lilac laughs. “Hunter's a nice kid. He's taking her on a boat ride at the Common.”

Ethan is not impressed.

“It's a cute date for two seventeen year-olds,” Lilac reasons with little success.

“Pitiful.”

“You took me on one of those when we were engaged.”

“I meant his name. What kind of name is Hunter?”

She laughs at that and places a kiss on his cheek, succeeding in softening his expression by a fraction. “You're just upset your little girl is all grown up.”

Ethan's expression is as impassive as ever but Lilac can see the brief flash of sadness in his eyes. She places a comforting hand at his cheek, sweeping the ridge of his cheekbone with her thumb.

“She'll be back in time for dinner. And I'm sure Jonah will text me back later. He's been swamped with school work these past few days.”

Ethan nods but is unable to elaborate an answer because the sound of approaching voices grows louder outside the door.

The youngest Ramseys arrive then, three times more boisterous than any teenagers their age. Though, to the surprise of exactly no one, the person in the little group arguing the loudest is Jasmine. Andy rolls her eyes, unable to contain a smile at the charming young girl trying to talk her way out of whatever trouble she's gotten into.

“Seriously, it's okay. Our dad owns the hospital.”

“He manages it,” her twin, Violet, corrects.

“Same thing,” Jasmine returns dismissively. “He as good as owns it if the place falls apart without him.”

“That,” Ethan intervenes, placing a kiss of greeting atop each of their heads, “would be your mother. She does the brunt of the work around here.”

Jasmine scoffs. “And yet the man gets all the credit.”

“Typical,” Violet adds.

Ethan and Lilac both laugh proudly. After Andy takes her leave for the day, the girls hug their father.

“Happy Father's day!” They chorus.

“We brought you coffee from that place you and mom are obsessed with.”

They thrust a to-go cup in his hand.

“We remembered,” Jasmine says importantly. “Not like Tweedle dee and Tweedle Ugly.”

“Jazzie,” her mother scolds. “Don't call your brother and sister that.”

“Ingrates,” Violet adds, agreeing with her sister. “Write them out of your will, Dad.”

Ethan is fully laughing now, a sound that is rare and wonderful, easily drawn out of him by his family. The little crevices on his face grow deeper with his mirth and it tugs at Lilac's heartstrings.

“If we're divvying up Dad's stuff then I call Minnie,” Jasmine proclaims.

“You can have that cat now,” Ethan returns intently. “I don't want anything to do with that thing.”

“I call Jenner the Second,” Violet calls out before her sister can.

They dissolve into an impassioned argument about who loves the dog more. Luckily for all of them, they are interrupted by the sound of more approaching footsteps, followed by even more arguing voices.

“... doesn't have his license yet.”

“What good is a license if he doesn't even have a car.”

“You don't need a car in the city. You can get around in the train.”

“Then why did you text me begging for a ride here?”

“You're such a jerk, J.”

The eldest of their children appear in the office, ceasing all bickering when their eyes fall on the father. Dolores, beautiful and bright faced from the sun, the freckles on her cheeks more vivid as she smiles. Jonah, tall, collected, and handsome—reassembling his father more than any of his siblings. Lilac watches fondly as they hug Ethan and wish him a happy father's day. After the brief surprise of their sudden appearance wears off, she can see her husband's eyes shining with emotion.

“We're taking you to lunch,” Lori informs him. “Jonah got us reservations at your favorite place downtown.”

“Nice, that place has the best chocolate cake,” Jasmine says excitedly.

“We said we're taking dad, not you freeloaders,” Jonah returns jokingly, ruffling his younger sister's hair.

“It’s father’s day! We deserve to be celebrated, too!”

“How do you figure that, squirt?”

“Who taught you how to throw a ball, Jonah Naveen Ramsey?” Jasmine demands indignantly.

“Who gave you pointers on how to impress that girl down the street you used to have a crush on?” Violet adds.

“Who Googled 'how to drive a stick shift car' when you borrowed Dad's car without asking him?”

“You what?” Ethan asks, turning to look at his son.

“Who—”

“Alright, alright! You can come with,” Jonah cuts in. “You two are insufferable, I swear.”

“That's no way to speak to your fathers,” Jasmine chastises.

The siblings continue their banter, taking turns predicting what their father will order. The one who knows his order exactly, Lilac observes, is Dolores, though she has no chance to boast to her siblings. Ethan’s pager goes off and he groans when he reads the message.

“There’s a problem with the paperwork in the Sawyer case,” he tells Lilac. With a mournful twist of his mouth, he looks at his children. “I’m sorry but I have to go handle this. Lunch won’t--”

“I’ll stay to take care of it,” Lilac interrupts.

Ethan studies her expression. “Are you sure, love? It’s an awfully complicated case.”

“I’m sure,” she assures him with a nod. “Go enjoy lunch with them.”

Ethan gives her a look so laden with gratitude and affection, her heart skips a beat.

“Geez, you were right, Dad,” Jasmine says. “Mom really does run this place.”

“Or she just prefers dealing with grumpy patients over hearing your awful jokes, Jazzy,” Dolores comments, side bumping her sister affectionately.

“Mom is a pro at dealing with grumpy, though,” Jonah tells them sagely. “She’s dealt with Dad all these years.”

Ethan laughs at that. “You kids won’t cut your old man a break on father’s day?”

“Nope,” Violet returns cheerfully. “Roasting you is our way of telling you we love you.”

______________________________

Author’s Note: Happy Fathers Day to everyone who celebrates! Thank you so much for reading this!

For reference, Jonah is around 20, Dolores (aka “Lori”) 17 going on 18, and the twins are 14

A few notes:

Though I am super behind on replies to my previous fics, please know I am so thankful to everyone who interacted! Love you guys so much!

I haven’t been able to work on Ch 2 of the OPH3 re-write, but I hope to do so soon. I think I’ve decided to take it easy with that series and see where it takes me!

Same thing with the Pictagram series! Thank you to everyone for your patience!

If you tagged me in your content while I was away, I apologize for the delay. I have it all saved up, ready to enjoy this upcoming week!

Tagging in a reblog!

[yourmcu]

Body Pillow

 Pairings: Natasha Romanoff x reader

Summary:

Natasha finds you cuddling a body pillow. In your dream, it’s actually her you’re cuddling. It’s Christmas Eve too.

Word count: 1,600

A/n: I’m takin a long time to post but I’ll get em out soon! I hope! thanks for 200 followers btw :))

Warnings: fluff, sleep talking

It’s not a surprise to anyone in the compound when they find you sprawled on your favorite sofa in the lounge. Of course you had a room, but you just love it so much that you’d rather sleep there most of the time. Especially after or before your favorite holidays.

Bidding Sam and Bucky good night as they're the last ones to turn in, you ask Friday to dim the lights and to turn on a Netflix show. If you’re ever wondering why no one stays with you for a movie night or something it’s because you’ve had too many already, and most of the time you don’t mind being alone anyway.

After two or three shows, you finally fall asleep.

Few hours later, Natasha walks across the lounge to get to the kitchen, not all that fazed when she sees a lump shaped like you on the sofa. Though she stops in her tracks when she hears a faint voice coming from your direction.

“Nat,”

She decides that she’s just hearing things, or you probably saw her come in then drifted back to sleep.

When she’s about to return to her room, you speak again.

“Nat,”

She decides to reply this time. “Yeah?”

You don’t respond back immediately. So just in case, she walks up to the sofa to see if something's wrong.

Your hands are wrapped around the side of the body pillow and it's slightly bigger than you. The whole blanket is wrapped around you as well, so Natasha could only imagine how comfortable you are in your sleep.

“You give the best hugs, Nat,” you murmur, still fully asleep, oblivious of the same redhead witnessing it in real life too.

Everyone knows you’ve developed a lil something for Natasha. Does she know? Yes... and no. She refuses to believe you like her that way. If you do, she wants to hear it from you, not from the testosterone of the team.

But seeing you so adorably vulnerable and cute, in a way, it makes her heart flutter.

“I do, huh?” Natasha chuckles from above you and leans down to kiss your hair. “Too bad you’re gonna have to get up soon.”

“Aww, no,” you whine, snuggling closer to the crook of her neck.

Natasha just stands there and tries to process it - you, her teammate and close friend, is dreaming about her. It’s normal, right? Even she has dreamt of the others, including a weird one where Tony and Bruce were riding unicorns-

She flinches when you make a movement, but you just make yourself more comfortable on the pillow, sighing contentedly.

Obviously she’s giving you a good time in your head. Natasha believes she could do better though. If you ever ask her to cuddle, she’d make sure. Am I really jealous of myself right now?

The opening and closing of bedroom doors shake her from her thoughts. She clears her throat and walks back to the kitchen to wait for Wanda so they could make breakfast together. It the day before Christmas, after all, everything has to be special today and the next day.

Wanda enters the kitchen moments later, still a bit groggy from her slumber but she’s in a mood to make a good breakfast. As the pair gets started, they hear a yelp that sounded like yours from the lounge.

“Ow! Tony!”

“Wakey wakey,” Tony teases, defending himself from your playful punches. “For gosh sake, you need to stop having sleepovers by yourself here - you sure you don’t want that sofa in your room?”

You grumble and walk out of the room to get dressed, taking your blanket and body pillow with you.

The lounge and kitchen starts to get occupied by the inhabitants of the compound. One of them being you, out of your pajamas and in a casual Christmas sweater. You greet them with the usual good mornings including Natasha.

“Good morning,” she drawls out. “Sleep well?”

She's curious on how you’d react. But of course you don’t think much of it, you don’t know that she knows what you dreamt about.

“Yeah, it was... nice,” you try to play it cool, avoiding her eyes to pour yourself a glass of eggnog. I mean, look who’s asking. And the fact that she was just about to kiss you in the dream before Tony so rudely interrupted-

“Bet it was,” Natasha smirks after Steve grabs your attention to point out your favorite comic strip on the newspaper, thinking you didn’t hear her.

You chuckle at the Christmas-themed edition of the comic but your gaze returns to Natasha not long after because you did hear her. Maybe she was just being Nat but yeah, the dream was nice. Too nice to be real. You sigh and sip on your drink, getting lost in your own world as Tony loudly rambles about a party to the group.

It was just you and her, so many blankets, watching movies. You don’t know or remember what film specifically, everything was a blur except the way she held you.

As a kid you never got that much affection physically, so every hug from your friends means a lot to you. Well, especially the ones from Natasha.

You couldn’t bring yourself to admit how you feel for her. The men constantly tell you to do it, that it wouldn’t hurt to try, but you’d rather have a close and friendly relationship with Natasha rather than an awkward one just because she didn’t feel the same about you.

The thing is, you don’t know if she shares those kinds of feelings. That’s what Bruce was nagging to you about. ‘You won’t know until you try, until you tell her-

“Y/N, you with us?”

Your hand involuntary twitches as you snap back to the room. “Sorry, yeah. What’s up?”

“Well, instead of a usual party, we’re gonna have a movie night,” Tony says, stealing a piece of food from your plate. “Thoughts?”

You sent him a look but chuckle, “haven’t we already had enough of those?”

“But it’s Christmas!” Tony insists. “And we’re watching Die Hard.”

Steve frowns. “That doesn’t sound like a Christmas movie.”

-----

“Alright Cap, it may not sound like a Christmas movie to you but it’s one of the best.” Sam jokes and plays the movie once all of you have settled.

The theater room is dim and composed of two large sofas, one in front and one just behind it, and a table filled with food. You're one of those who occupied the second sofa behind along with Clint, Wanda, Vision and Natasha. The rest fought for a place up front, which took a while to be honest.

“Hey Nat,” you mutter, eyes not leaving the screen but you do see her from the corner of your eye claim the spot beside you, the one at the edge of the sofa. She gives you a warm smile and makes herself comfortable.

An hour into the movie only the men seated at the front are fascinated by the fighting scenes. Well except for Clint who's seated at the other end, pointing and asking Sam questions about the plot. Wanda and Vision are half asleep leaning on each other, you and Natasha are the only ones calmly watching, probably because you’ve both seen it many times.

You make a sound when Hans Gruber appears on screen again. “Did you know that’s the same guy who played Professor Snape?”

“What?” Natasha chuckles.

“From Harry Potter,” you reply, smiling to yourself. Then you turn to her, “have you watched any of those movies?”

“I’ve heard of it but, no.”

You tilt your head at her, slightly surprised. “You should watch them with me sometime. I prefer the original source material but the films are good on their own.”

You wish you could photograph the way Natasha smiles at you. She’s all smiles today. I wonder why. “I’d love that.”

A loud explosion echoes throughout the room along with yells that sounds like Tony’s and Clint’s, making you yelp and scoot closer to Natasha. She wraps an arm around you instinctively.

“Guys, turn the volume down,” she calls out. Silent chatter fills the room once it turns into a more calmer scene, and Tony told Friday to lower the volume. “You okay?” 

Her arm is still wrapped around you and you want nothing more than to hide yourself in the pillow you’re hugging out of embarrassment. “Yeah... m’good,” you manage to say while holding a yawn. Natasha tugs the blanket more snugly over both of you.

“You can sleep if you want,” she speaks softly. “I think they’re planning on watching all the Die Hard movies until dawn.”

“That’s crazy,” you breathe out. Your eyes are starting to droop and your yawns became frequent. 

You know that cozy feeling when the room’s cold and you have a warm blanket over you? That’s one of your favorite things (the other one being Natasha).

There are only four of you left on the back sofa since Clint moved to the front. At this point your head rests on Natasha’s chest while she plays with your hair, and one of your arms loosely wraps around her waist. You exhale, falling asleep entirely.

Natasha admires how adorable you slept on her. “I hope this is better than your dream,” she murmurs, gently planting a kiss on your forehead and getting drowsy herself.

You snuggle closer to her, as if it was to say, it is.

[barnesandco]

Little Hands (II)

Series Masterlist

You, Bucky, and Anastasia pay Bruce Banner a visit. 

This is an entry for @star-spangled-bingo 2021. Word count: 1836. Square filled: “You don’t wanna know.”

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: More Sad Child. Needles, fear of. So much overthinking.

A/N: Gosh, I’m so glad I got this chapter edited in time. I hope you like it and I’m sorry for skipping out on y’all last week! To make up for it, there’ll be two updates this weekend, so look out for the next chapter tomorrow! Lmk what you thinkkkk

The Avengers Compound is every bit as spectacular as you could have possibly hoped, and yet you’re unable to fully appreciate it because of the sheer absurdity of the situation. Your hand is in the vice-tight grip of the supposed daughter of your neighbor, who happens to be an Avenger.

Said neighbor is pacing back and forth in front of you as you sit in Bruce Banner’s laboratory, with Anastasia beside you while you wait for Bruce to arrive. Ana is remarkably calm, her young features – the round cheeks, still-wet eyes – made mature by her abnormal silence. Something about her makes you think she’s used to this kind of tension. Something about her screams war-child. Perhaps this grip she has on you is the first demand she has made in a long time, the only tantrum she has ever been allowed to throw.

While you aren’t particularly experienced with children, you think you want her to feel safe with you, because it seems she hasn’t been elsewhere. Ana’s eyes flit around the room in the only behavioral indication of her youth – a childlike curiosity, shining in the face of this fancy, new place that gleams like a toy store. Every now and then, her gaze jumps back from the alien appearance of the lab to her father (?) who seems intent on wearing a hole in the tiles with his pacing.

It is beginning to wear on you: both Bucky’s pacing and Ana’s steadily increasing anxiety. He hasn’t said a word to her since he opened the envelope, only asked that you accompany him to the Compound seeing as Ana won’t go alone with him (You would have gone with him even if that hadn’t been so. Though the nature of your relationship is ambiguous at times, the strength of your friendship is not. You’ll figure this out. You won’t leave him alone). Clearly, there is some unspoken memory that has him convinced the claim in the letter is plausible. Neither of you would be here if it wasn’t.

Bucky doesn’t talk too much about his past. He has offered a few of the shattered shards of his past reflection to you in the few night-caped moments you have hammered on his door upon hearing shouts across the hall. Between that, and what you know thanks to Black Widow’s file dump, the big Avengers’ in-fight in Europe last summer, the consequent resolution to the Accords, and Bucky’s publicized pardon, you can guess at the traumas that lurk in the depths of him.

They’re traumas that are closer to the surface of his eyes now, pulled forth by this new life, this little soul that has no business with such dark things, and the implication that this holds. Ana, innocent as she may be, is an insinuation of what else might have been unwillingly torn from Bucky.

You don’t want to think about it, because it hurts to do so, because you care for him, in many, many ways. It seems that Anastasia is also starting to tire of it. With every step Bucky takes, her hand tightens on yours. Fortunately, soon, the door to your left opens, and Bruce Banner enters his lab.

He's appropriately disheveled for this hour in the morning. Under his pristine lab coat, one of his shirt buttons is done into the wrong buttonhole, but his eyes are alert, frantic even, though you get the feeling that this is a man always on the edge of escape.

Bucky lets out a breath he seems to have been holding at the same time as his shoulders tense. “Thanks for coming so early, Doctor Banner. I wouldn’t have called if—”

“You never call, so I know it must have been important. But it looks like I’ve kept you waiting anyways,” Banner says, his eyes widening as they move from Bucky, to you, to the little girl at your side. “What’s the matter? You know I’m not a medical doctor, right?” He asks, putting a work bench between himself and his visitors.

Bucky clears his throat, and doesn’t quite know how to say what he needs to. After a few more seconds of hesitation, in which Banner waits patiently, Bucky extracts the envelope containing the fateful letter from his pocket, and hands it over.

The furrows in Doctor Banner’s brow multiply spontaneously, and when he looks up, Bucky gestures with a subtle nod of his head to Ana. He has yet to explain your presence, but you think Doctor Banner is a smart man. It won’t take more than Anastasia’s tight hold on you for him to put two and two together. Sometimes, a scared child is just that, no matter how unusual.

Most of their ensuing conversation is held at a lowered volume, set by Bucky, probably out of courtesy for Ana. You can hear snatches and phrases, most of them confirmations of things you had expected and some, not so much. Lobby security cam footage… fingerprints… paternity test… serum… blood sample…

By the end of it, some facsimile of a plan seems to have evolved between the two men, because Doctor Banner turns away with a smile and you, taking it as a welcome, stand and approach him. He rounds his desk and shakes your hand, exchange introductions though he hardly needs one, and then, he crouches, the way Bucky had, and offers Ana his hand.

“Hi, I’m Bruce.”

“Ana.”

Bucky steps forward. “Anastasia—” the name is clumsy on his tongue, because he’s scared. You can see it, and you hope he knows you are, too, but you’ll stand with him regardless, “—Bruce is going to check that you aren’t sick.”

“I’m okay.”

“We need to be sure.”

“Okay.”

Banner pulls out a chair, and you’re about to sit Ana down on it, when she pushes you gently into it, and sits on your lap. You can do nothing but wrap your arms gently around her, so she doesn’t fall. The apology in Bucky’s eyes is melted with a sympathetic smile. It’s alright. A child developing an inexplicable affection for you is not the worst thing to ever happen to you.

Ana is warm and a comfortable weight on you, and you hold her as loosely as you can, feel the movement of her chest against your arms with each breath. Her hair is a mix of wool-thick and silk-soft against your chin, smelling faintly of the sugar-sweet strawberry scent found in children’s shampoos. Someone took care of her.

Someone she isn’t asking for. What kind of child doesn’t ask for their mother, past the initial, momentary heartbreak? How has she come to terms with the apparent change in custody, when the new custodian hasn’t?

Whether Bucky is to be the new guardian has yet to be determined. You can see Bruce pulling out a syringe and preparing a vial. You wonder if she’s scared of needles. Bucky flinches at the sight of them, even now. He’s said that his disdain for the cold clinicism of medicine dates back to long before Hydra. Medical equipment reminds him of worrying that his best friend was going to die. It’s the fear he has harbored longest, longer than his fear of war, of gunshots in the dark, of blood on his hands.

Ana shares it. When she sees the needle, she screams, and Bucky lunges forward to help you hold her in place. She’s so, so much stronger than you thought and while you can hold her limbs, her head thrashes about, and so does her torso, making it impossible for Bruce to get to the inside of her elbow.

In the chaos, your eye lands on a trinket on a nearby desk, sitting there like a peace offering, literally beckoning to you. “Hey, Ana,” you whisper-yell, trying not to get hit in the jaw by her head. “Do you like animals? Cats? I have a friend who has lots and lots of cats, and I could take you to see them.” It’s working. You’re out of breath, but she’s quieting. Most little kids love cats. You love cats. “I think Bruce has a toy cat. See, over there?” You dare to lift an arm to point at the maneki-neko on the table. Ana stills. Her eyes follow the hypnotic movement, and the syringe at Ana’s elbow does its job.

When the bandage is put on, you and Bucky let go with twin nervous chuckles of relief and disbelief, and Bruce puts the vial in a machine. Ana hops off to approach the desk, and bats at the paw waving at her like a mirror of it.

“We should have the results soon. I think the others are starting to wake up, if you want to say hi,” Bruce says, taking off his glasses and wiping them on the corner of his lab coat.

“Maybe later,” you say, seeing that Bucky is hardly in any position to converse casually with his teammates right now. Not to mention, it’d be a lot of work to explain Ana, especially before having any sort of confirmation of who she is.

Bucky pulls out a chair next to you while Bruce opens a laptop a few counters away, and an x-ray machine lifts its head behind Ana, who has moved on from the lucky cat, and is stroking the leaves of a flowering plant.

“Peace lily,” Bucky says, startling you. You look at him, the bags under his eyes, the way he almost looks his age right now, and fight the urge to hold his hand. “It’s the first flower I bought for my apartment. I put it in a community garden after a nightmare about the war. Didn’t feel right for me to have it.”

He's talking about the Second World War. The war always refers to his first war. You think he’s talking about peace, and not the lily, after what he’s done. After what he was forced to do.

“It’s not your fault,” is an automatic response, and never enough, especially for the war, because at least he was in his own senses, even if he was drafted. It always elicits a self-deprecating laugh, but right now, he’s too tired for even that.

Right now, he can only watch as the x-ray camera follows Ana around the room, from the peace lilies, to an Amazon elephant’s ear, to a strange sculpture made from Coca-Cola cans glued together by what looks like spider-webs.

Too soon, Bruce calls you over to his work station. You follow Bucky, one eye on Ana.

“She’s yours,” Bruce says, and Bucky inhales sharply. Now, you do take his hand, stroke the metal ridges with your calloused thumb. “But she has disproportionately more of your DNA than her mother’s.”

“What does that mean?”

Bruce wrings his hands. “She’s not a complete clone, but nearly a genetic copy. 80% of a clone, if you will.”

Bucky is growing increasingly uncomfortable, shifting next to you. “How’s that possible?”

“You don’t wanna know.”