#or maybe his stitches rip open and he can’t catch a break and he bleeds through his favorite polo

[catharusustulatus]

I need Steve to have a breakdown in season 5 and fall apart and cry on Robin’s shoulder. And for her to say “hey Steve, Steve, shhh heyyyy heyyy you’re okay. You’re okay dingus” to him while she holds him and pets his hair. Just a thought

[kashimos-hajime]

the pawn (3/8) | r.b.

summary: He smiles. “How could I? You promised to marry me, didn’t you? Wouldn’t miss that for the world.” Or, Reiner makes a promise; you ask if it’s a challenge.

WARNINGS: general mentions of blood and injuries, minor angst, lot of subtext,  and if you know where we are in the show/manga, you know whats up next pairing: reiner braun x fem!reader word count: 5.4k

a/n: slow descent into madness type beat ig hehehheh 

masterlist

crossposted on ao3 x

“Shit. Bertholdt, my head—“

“Hold on.” A hand grabs yours, warm and rough, and you look up blearily to see your best friend beside you, smiling uneasily.  “Give me the reins.” Bertholdt tugs it out of your grasp and you watch as he rides up ahead a few paces, leading you and your horse at the right wing of their party back to Calaneth. “How are you feeling?”

“I feel like I might throw up,” you explain briefly through clenched teeth. Being thrown off your horse and trampled had left you ragged, bloody, and broken, but you know you’re one of the lucky ones. “I shouldn’t be priority. I’ll be okay.” 

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Hey! Are you alright?” Reiner rides up next to you and you glance at him wearily. You cradle your sprained arm and hold your swollen shoulder in place as you nod. Your face cracked with dried tears and blood, you sway with every step back as you nod. Blood drips down your ripped pant leg and you swear the bruise is growing ever more visible but despite it all, Reiner visibly sags at seeing you breathing. 

“She’ll live,” Hange calls back at them. “We managed to stop the bleeding and any internal injuries aren’t serious.”

“How do you know that?”

“Managed to scoop her up before any ribs could be stepped on,” the Section Commander explains and you nod again, straining to keep your head up. “She was a real trooper. Managed to knock a few soldiers out of that Female Titan’s way before they got crushed.” 

“My horse didn’t make it, though,” you murmur, rubbing at your cheek. The sunset burns your skin and you screw up your face as a swirling sensation fills your stomach. Legs going lax, a numbness begins to crawl up your body. “I—I tried—“

“Hey, you did good,” Hange cuts sharply. “Just stay awake until we get back.”

You don’t remember what happens next. You were sitting up right, and then you pitch sideways and there’s a shout of your name. Hands grab at your shoulders but you slip, the sensation of wind brushing against your cheeks before you crash to the hard ground and black explodes into your vision.

When you awake, a soft groan rips out of your mouth and something inside your throat cracks as a figure jolts up. 

“Creampie? Hey, you awake?”

Turning your face away, you let out a noise and your eyes screw shut tighter. 

“You don’t have to shout,” you mumble to yourself. Your head is like a thunderstorm, lightning striking in your skull with every pulse of your heart and you wince to yourself when you move too quickly. “Shit.” Trying to move your arm, pain lances up and balls up in your shoulder, and you flinch as a hand stills your efforts. “Where—“

“We’re at headquarters. You should be okay, now that you’re awake.” Head tilting, you catch sight of a broad silhouette as the hand on your arm moves to your uninjured one, resting atop your knuckles.

“How?”

“You passed out. The doc thinks you’ve got a concussion, but we have to wait a few days until you can stay awake longer than few minutes,” Reiner continues quietly, his hand not quite leaving your bruised hand. “Shit. You scared me.”

“What? Why?” Confused, your eyebrows scrunch together as he reaches and his shadow blocks the flames for just a moment. The ache in your head dulls as his palm presses against your brow. You close your eyes. “Reiner, everything’s still fuzzy, you know.“

“You scared the shit out of me. I thought you were going to die.”

“I’m okay,” you whisper, eyes prying open gently. “I’m okay. Give me… the, uh, rundown.” You look down at your still body covered in a blanket, and Reiner follows your gaze, a dark remorse filling his gaze. Tilting your head at him, you try to smile and he accepts the effort with a tug of his own lips.

“Sprained wrist, dislocated shoulder, bruising. Your leg’s in pretty bad shape. Bruised to hell, but the doc said you’ll have a full recovery. The swelling on your shoulder should go down, but take it easy for the next month while you heal.”

“What?” You try to sit up, but he pushes you back down and your teeth clench when agony ripples through your fatigued body. Your muscles barely move, and the pain is sharp in contrast to the gauzy heat spreading under the covers.

“Don’t move. You passed out once already.” Staring into furious golden eyes, you comply and he sits back down beside you. Planting his elbows into the mattress, he buries his face in his hands with a soft groan. “Shit.” You crane your heard curiously. Lifting your uninjured hand, you set it atop his fingers but he only seems to begin to shake. “Shit.”

“Reiner?”

 Fingers digging into his scalp, Reiner turns his head into his palms and you’re scalded by his flinch as you stroke a thumb over his scarred knuckles. Raising his head raggedly, golden eyes fix on your face.

Softly, as if breaking a promise: “Fuck it. Let it kill me. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t pretend that you—you—“

Confusion wrinkles your brow before a realization settles in and your hand falls as you look away. Your heart begins to wilt in your chest. “Reiner, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

“Sorry? You’re sorry? God, I want to marry you.”

You open your mouth in pure shock and your eyes fly to his face just as hands cups your cheeks and he lunges forward, lips pressing to your own hungrily. A soft noise keening from your throat, your arm drapes around his neck, pulling him close instinctively.

His hands span across your cheek, your jaw, pinkies brushing the soft skin of your neck, and your head is spinning from the serenity that flows from his palms into your body as he breathes in deeply, holds you tighter. 

When he pulls back, you sink into your pillows with a dazed sigh and he brushes his thumb over your mouth, gaze never leaving your face for a moment.

“I really like you,” you breathe. His face slackens at your voice, and his lips part as if he wants to say something, but as his ochre gaze only flits all over your face, a soft scoff-like sound escapes his chest.

“Still?”

Like he’s shocked. Like it could ever fade.

“Yes, and you want to marry me. We’re all full of surprises,” you whisper and for a moment, a smile pulls at the corner of his mouth as he sits back down. “C’mon. Smile for the cripple.”

“You’re not crippled.”

“Not yet, but with my skill? It’ll only be next week until you have to carry me around in your big hunky arms.” You wrinkle your nose as your hand runs down his arm, rubbing his forearm soothingly. “But you’re stuck with me now. Watch out, Braun. You don’t know what you’re in for.” He twists his wrist to grab your fingers and lifts them to his cheek. The strength drained from your arm, you can’t feel any pain anymore, only the rough skin of his hands, the warmth of his lips as he kisses your limp fingers. Maybe it’s the exhaustion or maybe it’s him, but as Reiner meets your eyes, a loopy smile passes over your face. “I’m going to break your heart.”

Lifting his head, he clasps your hand with his other, and rests his chin atop their hands. Squeezing tightly, he swallows and his lips press into a thin line that twitches into a smile that shatters you.

“I think I’ll break yours first.”

In the future, those words would haunt you for years. You’d hear them in your sleep, lingering in the haze between your dreams and reality, and every time you looked over your shoulder, expecting him to be there.

You could never know what he meant until it was too late.

Presently, however, you don’t know any better. 

Frowning, you shake your hand out of his grasp and stretch to touch his face, run a knuckle under his eye. He looks like he’s staring at a corpse, and you want to sit up, hold him to you, run your hands through his hair—a million things you’ll do once you get out of this stupid bed.

For now, you settle on, “Is that… a challenge, Reiner?”

Smile. Please, smile. I’m not going anywhere, idiot. I’m alive, I’m laying right here and you want to marry me—

His eyes flicker over your battered body, to your wrist and shoulder wrapped tight as the muscles try to stitch themselves back together. He presses your hand to his cheek and, with a haunting sadness, he whispers, “No. It’s just the truth.” 

Your heart drops and you open your mouth to argue but he lets go of your hand at that moment, gently lowering it back to the bed before he stands. Cold wind sweeps in, chasing away the heat of his skin, and a hollowing feeling begins to settle inside your gut as he leans over. A pair of lips press between your eyebrows before a nose rubs against yours and you stare dazedly into warm golden eyes that are infinitely empty. They stare right through you.

“Reiner…”

“Get some sleep. I’ll see you in the morning,” he whispers and your entire body yearns to hug him as his mouth slots against yours. Warmth pulsing from his mouth against yours, you arch off the bed. His hand at your neck tilts your chin to deepen the kiss and it is everything you never dreamed of. Gentle, and warm, and sad, and so full of an emotion you can’t name it seeps into you until your whole body is stuffed full of it.

When he draws back, a tear slides down the corner of your mouth yet when you raise an exhausted hand to your face, you’re scalded with the realization that the skin around your eyes is dry.

.

Returning to the barracks after another damn meeting, only an hour or so before Tybur’s damn show, Reiner can’t help but glance at the walls, wondering, wondering, wondering.

Are you listening even here, Magath? 

Porco carries Pieck to the couch, setting her down gently while Reiner heads for the abandoned pot of tea from earlier. Pouring himself a cup, he sucks it down like he needs to breathe, ignoring how cold it is in his gut. Repeating, he hears Pieck’s gentle laugh as Porco crashes down beside her, leaning back against the couch.

“I’ll see you guys later,” Colt says, grabbing his jacket. “I have to go talk to Zeke about something. We’ll meet you guys there?”

“Sounds good.”

“See you later, Grice,” Galliard calls and Reiner barely manages his own farewell before the blond is slipping out of the room. There’s a beat of silence before: “Is it just me or are parents really insistent on their kids reproducing?” he continues to himself. “I was talking to Mom before the meeting and she said something about continuing on the family line. Ugh, as if I could stand a few ticks running around me.”

“You’d trip on them.”

“Exactly. What about me screams that I want to be a dad to some snotty brats?”

“They’d only be snotty because you’d be their father,” Pieck teases. “I heard someone’s mom was being really insistent on their son having grandkids,” she continues, pushing herself up and Reiner glances over to see her black-haired head poking out behind the cushions to send him a curious look. “It’s endearing. She wants little blond grandbabies.”

“Right, that’s not going to happen,” he says as the last drop of tea leaves the teapot and he is left with half a mug left. “I only have just a bit over a year left before I get eaten. Too cruel of a fate to leave a widow and any kids we might have.” He snorts. “Besides, I’m not interested in anyone.”

“I could help with that. You have a lot of admirers, Reiner.”

Yeah, right. “I’m not looking for anyone either, Pieck. I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“Yeah,” Porco snorts. “I’m sure that’s the reason.”

“Don’t be mean, Pock.” A sigh and a flop and Pieck disappears from sight. “He’s right. I forgot we’re going to get eaten before we know it, and you’re going to be the only one left standing. You’ve gotta train new blood, you know. It’s so weird to think about.” Porco sits up abruptly to look down where he assumes Pieck is laying. Eyes wide, he seems to struggle for words and it’s clear that the reminder has socked him in the gut. To be honest, Reiner finds himself counting down the days at this point. “Dad’s already having a hard time with it.”

He sips on his cold tea, and it weighs like a gun in his mouth. He still remembers the feeling of it on his tongue, the slightly ashy taste of gunpowder that lingered. He still isn’t sure whether or not that part had been his imagination, but it wouldn’t have mattered.

“Pieck, c’mon. Don’t talk like that.”

“Why? It’s just how it is for us Eldians. It makes sense—we get tossed out when our bodies give up on us.”

Porco falls silent. Reiner empties his mug and walks over to set it down in the sink, bracing himself against the countertop and staring down the drain as a heavy silence fills their room.

His time is running out. He’s always been aware of that—painfully scrambling to gather the motivation to even wake up without going through with taking the Armoured Titan from Marley permanently. But... he can’t. He won’t.

He doesn’t know why he never expected you wouldn’t be there when he left. Did he think you would come quietly to Marley? A nation that set up your life the way it is now—a line of dominos one catastrophe after another? That you would come with him easily? The very man who toppled life as you knew it, forced you to join a military you didn’t want to join just to protect people?

Did he think you would still care for the man who left you, left someone who would cling to the pieces of her family left until she was bloody?

He knows that answer.

Wood creaking, he pushes himself off the countertop and heads towards the door. Two pairs of eyes burn into his side but he doesn’t care. Not even when Galliard crows at him.

“Where are you going? We have to go to the show, remember.”

“I’m taking a walk,” he replies shortly, yanking open the door and stepping through. “I’ll be back  in time.”

He needs to get out of here.

.

Reiner helps you ease your arm back into the sling. Although you’re going insane staying in the infirmary while the others are off fighting in Stohess, his patience staves off the edge of fear at the idea of trying to stand up on your horse again. The last time—

Blonde hair. Pale eyes. She saw right through me and stopped.

Annie. It’d been Annie this entire time. Why? Why couldn’t you see it? Could you have prevented two Titans boxing it out in Stohess right now? Shit. 

I should’ve known. I’m such an idiot. Why did it take for Armin to tell me?

“Hey,” Reiner murmurs, kissing your fingers. You blink, staring down at him again and he smiles faintly, straightening up. A soft pair of lips press against your forehead and you lift your head to slot your mouth against his briefly before he pulls back, stroking your cheek and sitting down beside you. “What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing.” Your arm presses against his and you flash him a smile. “We’re on another day of absolutely nothing, aren’t we?”

“Yeah,” he affirms. You sigh. The entire morning had been spent with him by your side—breakfast in bed, him bringing you some books to pass the time—but as noon nears, you can’t help but want to get out of here. You can’t even do that. 

“I’m sorry.”

He frowns. “About what?”

“I feel so useless right now. The Commander’s in Stohess, and we’re just here. We should be with him.” Trying to figure out how to capture Annie. Or doing something. “I hate that I got myself hurt. It’s just so frustrating. I should’ve been better. Moved out of the way sooner, or—”

“No. Don’t do that. Don’t shoulder blame that isn’t yours.” Reiner wraps an arm around you, hand pressing the side of your head into his chest and you turn to loop your uninjured arm around his waist. “Hey.” A soft kiss against the crown of your head. “We’re going to be okay. I promise. You’ll heal up, and it’ll be okay.”

“Promise?” you echo weakly, eyes closing. Your heart pounding, you listen to his own and wonder if the same bliss fills his entire body as it does for you whenever you’re around him. Simply holding him close, you close your eyes. I think I love you, you tell him silently. Do you love me, too?

“No matter what. I’ll even put a ring on your finger when this is all over.”

“You remember,” you whisper, and he chuckles quietly, nosing at your hairline. It does nothing for the ache in your heart at the thought of your friend somewhere in Stohess locked like an animal. Is she an animal? A monster? She can’t be, you tell yourself. She’s just Annie. 

Reiner’s finger brushes against your cheek, wiping something away and your eyes open when you realize it’s wet. You’re crying? How hadn’t you noticed? Squeezing him closer, you can’t help your voice from cracking: “Distract me, please. Just… tell me where we’d live. Anything.”

“Where we’d live?” he repeats, strangled, and you nod. “You’d want to come live with me? What about finding your life by the water? Raising kids—“

“Fuck all of that. I just… I just want some peace.” Throat tightening, you close your eyes again. “I want to sleep in on the weekends and I want to kiss you when I wake up, and I—“ Every thought that’s haunted you for the past few months comes back in full force as your voice clots. “I want to stop waking up feeling so heavy. I don’t want any more secrets. I don’t want to fight. I never want to see blood again.”

“Then, how about we go back to my hometown?” he suggests tightly, thumb brushing your cheek before tilting your head up. You look up at him and he smiles faintly. “There’s the biggest lake you’ve ever seen nearby. We can go to the water in the afternoons, eat all this food you’ve never had before.”

“Never had? What is it?” 

He sighs, kissing your lips as his index fingers curls underneath your chin. “That’ll ruin the surprise.” Raising his hand to brush over your brow, he studies your face before cupping your jaw and cocking his head, pressing a brief kiss against the corner of your mouth. Your heart lurches. “But the weather is nice, and there are good people, and we’ll never have to worry about the war again. Sound like a plan?”

You can only nod, trying to imagine the lake he’s talking about—the shape, the shade of water, how the sunlight looks when it hits the surface. Is it cold? Does a river lead into it? All you know is that you want to see it.

“It sounds like a good plan,” you finally whisper, and something in his face softens. 

“I don’t want to lose you,” he continues in low tones, swiping his thumb over your lips and cheek. “I’m sorry if I ever hurt you.”

“You were scared.” You give a one-shouldered shrug, pain spreading through your chest. “Maybe it would’ve been the right choice. You would’ve been rational to just let it go and I would’ve understood if you didn’t feel the same way.”

“No, I would be insane,” he corrects. Your eyebrows knit together. “How could I not feel the same way about someone like you?” 

His words sink into your skin so deeply that the smile that pulls at your face makes you forget, for a moment, about all that’s wrong in the world. Exhaling a soft laugh, you fling your arm around his neck and pull him closer, their noses clashing as your lips find his in a soft kiss and he chuckles, reciprocating tenderly.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

It echoes in your chest like a song that ends too soon.

The infirmary doors open.

Springing away from one another, you look up as Bertholdt, Connie and Sasha come in, none the wiser, although Bertholdt’s eyes narrow at the lingering way your eyes stay on Reiner’s red cheeks. Wiping at your mouth inconspicuously, you adjust your sling with your uninjured hand.

“How are you feeling?” Sasha asks, approaching first and you wiggle your bruised leg gingerly. Dull pain, but manageable. 

“Okay. Sleep really took the edge off.” Taking Reiner’s hand, you ease off the bed and get up as the brunette wraps an arm around your shoulder gingerly. Shuffling closer, you rest your head against hers and lean against her, trying to shake the feeling tingling at your cheeks. Sasha’s infectious heat soothes your nerves either way.

“C’mon. Let’s get you something to eat,” she continues. You glance over your shoulder at the boys who all house similar grins, and you dip your head. “You must be starving. I know I am.”

“Sasha—“ You’re cut off by your own laugh as she grabs your hand, pulling you towards the doors.

“What the—“

“Sasha!”

“Slow down, Sasha!” Bertholdt calls as Sasha tries to hide her snickers. Wincing, you still can’t help your smile as you meet her nefarious gaze and you give her a subtle nod. The boys call after them as their fingers interlaced, and Sasha lets out a sharp laugh as she speeds up, tugging you along. “Hey, wait! She’s still hurt!”

“Sasha!”

“Sasha! Lunch isn’t for another hour!”

Breaking into a full sprint, the two girls barrel through headquarters, letting out peals and shrieks of laughter as the boys chase after them, screaming for them to slow down. Despite the thrumming pain in your leg, you can’t help but breathe in the way the wind whizzes past your face as they reach the stairs, jogging down and slipping out of the boys’ view.

Giggling, Sasha whispers about a shortcut and you let her lead you down a hall as the boys’ footsteps patter behind them.

Indeed, when three boys burst into the mess hall, panting and two of them even sweating, they find you two already sitting at a bench across from one another, playing a game of flicking paper at one another, and Sasha, who faces the door, can only maintain a serious face for so long before she bursts into a loud laugh and you hide your smile behind your hand as you glance over your shoulder.

You only last a couple more seconds before you’re breaking down, too.

“Your face! You should see the look on their faces!” Sasha wheezes, slapping a hand over her mouth and trying to silence herself as they come closer, but Bertholdt only looks at them with barely enough anger to scare a baby that it only makes them fall apart even more. 

Connie shoots Sasha a look, wedging himself in beside her with purposeful elbow action while Bertholdt and Reiner sandwich you between them and you send them both look but Bertholdt only rolls his eyes as you clutch your stomach, gasping for breath.

“The cripple can run… faster… than you,” you manage to say achingly, poking him in the arm and you swallow, your stomach cramping up as you cover your face with your hand. “What’s the Survey Corps come to?” Your leg seems to pulse at your words, and you hide a wince as your lungs hitch. A hand settles on your thigh gently, and you look at Reiner. He raises his eyebrows and you clear your throat, voice needly. “I’m okay. Really. It’s just my leg, and even that’s not that bad, I promise.”

A firm squeeze before he lets go. Sasha wipes the last tears from her eyes, sniffing a bit.

“If you say so.”

“At least you have something to do, all injured and stuff. If lunch isn’t going to come any sooner, I think I might die of boredom,” Connie points out. “We’ve been here for like, two days, and we haven’t even gotten any updates.” Bertholdt and Reiner share a look behind you as you grab the last paper ball Sasha had flicked at you and throw it back at Connie. He winces, batting it down to the floor.

Grumbling to himself, the guy ducks under the table to grab it as Reiner gets up. Looking up, you watch as he heads for the corner of the room and you excuse yourself, following after him, still recovering from your laughing high.

Sidling beside the blond, you watch as he crouches beside some cabinets.

“I think there’s a chess set somewhere here,” he explains, opening them up and searching. “Do you know how to play?”

“No.”

“Bertholdt and I do. I can teach you.” You nod, surprised. You know chess has always been a game more suited to the higher ups. You wonder how he knows how to play—who must’ve taught him.

Reiner lets out a noise of triumph and pulls something out. Extracting some books, he ducks his head and manages to pull out a wooden box, something rattling inside. The checkered pattern is a bit faded, but he kicks the cabinet doors shut gently and turns to you, surprised to see you standing so close. 

“Hey.”

“Hi.” You smile softly, leaning towards him, and he cocks an eyebrow. “You’re full of surprises. Who taught you how to play chess?” The only thing blocking them from touching is the chess box between their bodies as he huffs a laugh.

“I had a friend who was older than I was. He was like our leader—knew all this kind of stuff.”

“Really?”

“His father was a doctor, I think,” he explains vaguely and you smile in amusement. “It’s really easy once you get the hang of it. Don’t worry.”

“Alright. You’re on.” You lean up just as Reiner turns his face away, and you reel back, eyes widening. The soft expression melts away and you exhale sharply, following his gaze to see Ymir glancing over her shoulder at them. Krista speaks to one of the other Scouts sitting across from them, leaving the freckled brunette to study them freely, and Reiner clears his throat, stepping back. 

You duck your head, stepping back so Reiner can go ahead first and head towards the table, you following moments later. 

It is easy once you learn the basic moves of each piece. Bishops diagonally, rooks horizontally and vertically, pawns one step at a time. When you don’t understand, Bertholdt explains as Reiner tries to get out of a tight spot he’s been shoved into. You really can’t tell who’s going to win as you study the board, trying to guess what they’ll do next.

Sasha and Connie look out the window, bored out of their minds, waiting for lunch as you point at a piece before Reiner can move it.

“That’ll put you in checkmate for Bertl’s next turn, I think,” you tell him, and Reiner pauses, staring at the board. Bertholdt shoots you a glare and you smile sheepishly as Reiner moves his hand.

“You’re right.” He moves his knight instead and Bertholdt scowls, moving his rook quickly as Reiner crosses his arms again. “You’re good at this.”

“I’ve got a good teacher,” you reply, smiling at him. Leaning forward on your uninjured elbow, you keep watching as Reiner turns the tides of the battle, your eyes dragging from the squares to his face. An unsettling feeling growing in your stomach, you glance at the chess pieces that’ve been taken out of action from the game just as he points out how strange everything is.

Why are we unarmed?

It wasn’t standard for them to be—that, and the lack of new orders is troubling. If anything, they should be out there with their gear on, scanning the walls just to make sure there isn’t another breach. Or even in Stohess. Why weren’t the healthy Scouts there? Wouldn’t it be more ideal for there to be more forces just in case?

Your heart drops. Unless…

Reiner stands and you look at Bertholdt who looks paler than usual.

You didn’t think much of it at first with everyone in their plainclothes, but as Reiner returns to his seat next to you from the window, you look into your lap.

What’s happening? Your eyes flit to the carved chess pieces, the one still standing as Bertholdt takes a pawn from Reiner’s side. What aren’t they telling us?

It’s not until Tomas bursts into the mess hall, demanding you directly to get ready to ride to Stohess do you understand.

“Wall Rose has been breached. You and I are riding back to Stohess to alert Commander Erwin and get you to safety.” You shoot up to your feet as Bertholdt’s and Reiner’s mouths drop open.

“I can fight.”

“There are Titans heading this way now. Without ODM gear, you might as well be dead weight.” It’s harsh, and you flinch as Reiner grabs your hand but you jerk it out of his grasp. “Saddle up, now. That’s an order from Section Commander Miche himself.” You step over the bench as Tomas turns to head out and worried murmurs break out amongst them. Your desperate gaze swings from the door to your friends who all stare at you.

“Guys—“

“Go. We’ll be okay,” Connie says, standing just as a Nanaba lands at the window and you rush out of the mess hall, ignoring the pain in your shin as you run out of the building and towards the stables. Entering, you spot Tomas already guiding out two horses and you take the reins with your hand, shrugging your injured shoulder testily out of its sling. It smarts, sharp pain shooting through you, but you shake your head. 

You’d have to put it back in later. For now, tacking up a horse is your priority. 

What the hell is going on? Bertholdt, Reiner, do you know what’s happening? You guys have to know what to do.

Gritting your teeth and head pulsing with pain, you manage to only be a minute behind Tomas and he helps you with the final fastenings before boosting your step up into the saddle. You take the reins gingerly, determined not to let the pain slowly growing in intensity slow you down as he leads the way out to the road.

The doors burst open as soon as they hit sunlight, and you watch as the other Scouts run for the stables. Moving out of the way, your eyes scan for one blond head in particular as Tomas calls for you to get going.

“Wait, give me a second!” Wretchedly, your ears begin to pound. “I’ll catch up to you!”

Tomas does not wait. He shakes his head, snaps his reins, and gallops out of base without another second to lose.

“Creampie!” The name makes your head swivel and you see him at last near the rear, probably to make sure no one detoured, and you wait for him to run up to you as your mare tosses her mane impatiently, pawing at the ground.

Reining her back in, you feel Reiner’s hand on your thigh before he stops beside you and you wish you could say a million things, but the most you can muster is, “Don’t do anything stupid.”

He smiles. “How could I? You promised to marry me, didn’t you? Wouldn’t miss that for the world.” Winking, he runs into the stable without another word, and your heart lurches as Bertholdt passes, squeezing your knee comfortingly and sending you a determined nod.

You give him a nod in return before grabbing the reins and taking off towards Wall Rose, following the path of dust Tomas had kicked up in his wake.

[mandoalorian]

If you’re taking requests RN can you hit me with them fighting about something big and they think reader is gonna break up with them but then the reader is like uhm no it was a fight but I still love you and then they get all soft afterwards with Maxwell, Frankie or Javi? You choose I love them all equally (BTw if not that’s okay obvi)

follow up: “ (I meant Javier Peña from my last ask 🥰) “ 

Thank you so much for this request!! I’ve had a pretty lousy day but writing this for you was really the highlight so I hope you enjoy! I was going to write for Maxwell because he’s my number one favourite, but I thought I’d challenge myself with Javier since I haven’t wrote for him yet.

Lie To Me [Javier Peña x Reader]

READ PART TWO HERE

READ PART THREE HERE

Word count: 3.3k

Warnings: mention of drug trafficking and general Narcos topics, blood/a little gore but not too much, angst anGST ANGSTTTT!!!

MASTERLIST | SUBMIT REQUESTS

"I just can't believe you'd be so reckless!" you exclaimed, dampening the wash cloth and carefully dabbing it into your boyfriend's arm. Javier stayed silent, although it was hard not to hiss and curse in pain as you washed away the blood seeping from the deep cut in his bicep. "It's not like you at all Javi. I don't understand."

Your boyfriend had a history of being impulsive, yes, but ever since you became 'official' and started living together, he had changed. It was like this new experience had grounded him. Javier wasn't offering you any information about the incident which, truthfully, infuriated you. The cut was deep but everytime you brought up the hospital, he'd grumpily tell you he was fine. That he's had worse. After just a simple look over his wound, you knew he needed stitches. This was serious, and you knew he never really liked to discuss his work with you, but this was different. His whole demeanor had changed.

And this wasn't about work, really. Javier was closing himself off, shutting himself out from you. Once upon a time he'd make a habit out of this. He found that it was just easier to bottle away his emotions and not talk about them. But that was no good for either of you; not healthy at all. Javier knew this. He was trying to change for the better— improve himself, all for you. That's how he got in the entanglement in the first place. You didn't know this, but he was trying to protect you.

Javier was so sure his disguise worked. He wasn't a spy, he didn't often go undercover. He had very little experience; but he was so close to catching this kingpin, he just went with it. Lucky for Javier, he was blessed with the charisma of a criminal and could charm his way out of most situations if it became necessary. Unfortunately for him, the cartel was already one step ahead, playing along with his little charade.

"Javier Peña, DEA." the kingpin grunted, reaching into the pocket of Javier's leather jacket and snatching Javier’s ID. "You really thought you could fool us?" the kingpin chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief. Javi's jaw ticked when he saw that his abrupt action had caused his wallet to drop on the floor. The kingpin picked it up and clicked it open. Luckily, Javier had nothing of value in there. Maybe ten dollars and a condom. At least, that's what he thought.

He watched the kingpin's face soften under the dimmed amber light as he adjusted Javier's wallet, tilting it in his hands. His eyes narrowed and a smirk wormed its way across his lips. Javi knotted his eyebrows together in bewilderment.

"Quite the pretty lady you scored here, Agent Peña," the kingpin snaked, gesturing for his lieutenants to come on over and take a look. The one on the left took a drag of his cigarette and wolf whistled when he caught an eye on the picture. "Nice tits too." The kingpin shrugged his shoulders, lighting a cigarette for himself. "Would be a shame if something were to happen to her."

His threat set fire to his heart and his job felt like it had just gotten a whole more personal. He had been working for the DEA for over a decade now; he knew how dangerous cartels and drug lords could be. He would not and could not ever let anything happen to you. He swore his life depended on it. But now he was standing before the Capo and his men, and in typical Javier Peña fashion, his first instinct was to fight.

He went to throw a punch at the kingpin, but one of the lieutenants grabbed Javier's wrist mid-air whilst the other one flicked open a pen knife, dragging the blade through Javier's bicep and ripping open the sleeve of his cream coloured shirt. 

Javier groaned at the stinging sensation and his crimson red blood began to stain through the material. The kingpin laughed again, before tutting and shaking his head. "So, you have a soft spot for her? I expected better from you Agent Peña. Last I heard, your reputation wasn't one for commitments. But myself? I'm a family man too. I love my wife. Our kids. So here's the deal. I'll let you go, but you tell the DEA your so-called undercover mission was a bust. You go home, into the arms of your woman, and speak nothing of this. This stays between you, me, and my men. Do you understand?" 

Javier was never one to follow rules— especially not ones made by cartel leaders, but he was outnumbered and he knew the Capo had an upper hand. Javier nodded, pressing his hand on the cut and applying somewhat pressure to stop him from bleeding out. "Can't go to hospital either," the kingpin told you with a roll of his eyes. "If that wasn't already obvious. No one can find out about what went on here. Agent Peña, I have thousands of falcons all over Columbia. They can find out where you and your pretty lady live. And I promise, it won't be pretty."

Javier gulped, not wanting to imagine and nodded his head. There was no need for anymore fuss. The kingpin popped Javier's wallet and ID back into his jacket pocket and pat him on the shoulder. "Agent Peña, I hope I never have to see you again." the kingpin narrowed his eyes before gesturing his lieutenants to open the door and let Javier out. Javi scoffed, but stayed silent. The situation could've gotten a lot worse. He walked outside to his truck, guided by the sicarios of course, and made his way home.

When Javier stumbled into your shared apartment, colour drained out of his skin and blood seeping through his fingers where he was holding his bicep. Your heart sank. His hair was stuck up in places from his cold sweat and he leaned against the wall, closing his eyes. "Baby," he grumbled. "Could you- could you help me with this?"

"Javier what happened?" you gasped, a knot forming in your throat. Tears threatened to spill from your eyes when you took in the state of him. Sure, Javier had scars, and you didn't mind— but this was the first time you had ever seen him so injured. "I- I thought it was an office day." you exclaimed, holding him gently by his shoulders and guiding him into the bathroom.

"Was," Javier gritted out. "But you know how unpredictable work can be. We got a lead. So- I was sent out. But uh-, everything is fine now. I sorted everything out and erm-, you know." Javier gasped when you ripped open his shirt and pulled it off his torso, dropping it to the tiled bathroom floor.

"Jump." you ordered him, pointing at the sink. Javier obeyed and hopped onto the corner of the counter nearby the sink. He watched as you wet a washcloth under warm running water and padded it gently over his cut. As the faucet was still on, Javier leaned over and rinsed his blood stained hands from where he had been applying pressure on the open wound. "Javi, this cut— it's so deep. I think you need stitches." you said with worry, carefully analysing the depth of his injury.

"No." Javier spat immediately, the aggression and urgency in his voice making you jump slightly. He saw your reaction and placed a hand on your cheek, cupping it and taking a good look at you. You were his angel. He had done the right thing, and he wouldn't screw up now. He couldn't lose you. "No," he repeated, this time with conscious effort to sound less stern. "I'm a big boy, okay? Please just bandage me up."

Your eyes flicked from the cut to Javier, and you hesitated for a few moments. "Okay," you agreed quietly. You knew Javier well enough to know that there was no point in arguing with him. All of this sounded highly suspicious but you knew that you had to trust him. You kneeled down to the cabinet under the sink and took out the green first aid kit. Unbuckling it, you located some bandages, tape, and a tourniquet. "Shit Javi, it's still bleeding." you sighed, pressing the now ruined wash cloth back into his cut.

He choked up at the sudden pressure you applied. "It's okay," he reassured, running his free hand through his short dark hair. "Once I'm bandaged up, I'll be fine."

"Javier, who did this to you?" you frowned, carefully removing the washcloth and unravelling the tourniquet. "Who hurt you?"

Javier stayed silent. He wanted to tell you. He didn't want to have to lie to you, or keep secrets, but he was too caught up in the moment— he didn't want to risk your safety. His paranoia settled in. What if the kingpin's sicarios had followed him home? What if they were listening in? Javier's fists clenched around the cabinet he was sitting on, knuckles turning white. Between his injury, and the thought of losing you— he knew which hurt more.

"Are you just going to ignore me?" you puffed out, folding your arms across your chest in annoyance and looking at him in the eyes. Javi looked down at his feet, not saying a word. "So that's a yes?" you questioned further. Still no response. You shook your head and finished bandaging up his injury. Javier hopped off the counter and followed you into your shared bedroom where you opened your closet.

You threw him a clean shirt and he mumbled a 'thank you' before pulling his arms into it, careful not to disrupt his now bandaged bicep. You rummaged deep into the back of your wardrobe and pulled out a duffel bag, unzipping it and throwing piles of clothes into it. T-shirts, jeans, socks and underwear. Javier watched you, bewilderment written all over his face.

"Baby, what are you doing?" he asked eventually, standing with one hand on his hip and watching you intently.

You didn't respond. If he wanted to ignore you, fine. But two could play at that game. You zipped up the duffel bag and hung it on your shoulder, grabbing your car keys from your bedside table. As you left the bedroom and walked to your front door, Javier raced after you. "Hey- where are you going?" he demanded, panic coursing through his veins.

You couldn't leave. What if the sicarios were outside— watching for you. Waiting for you. Javier grabbed your arm and for a second you felt the slightest touch of empathy when your gaze met his anxious blown eyes. You quickly washed away that feeling. If Javier wasn't willing to be honest in your relationship, you weren't willing to stick around.

"I just-" Javier took a deep breath. "Figured, um- please. Please stay with me," Javier begged, dropping his hand to your hand and intertwining your fingers. "I'm sorry. Can we just forget what happened? We can go to bed, order take-out, watch a corny movie? I need your comfort." Javier compromised.

The idea did sound appealing but you wanted to know what had happened. It drove you insane. You sighed and shook your head. "No Javier," your gaze was cold and empty. "You're a big boy, right? Comfort yourself." And with that, you left the apartment, slamming the door behind you.

Javier raced to the window and watched as your truck pulled out of the driveway. He looked up and down the street for any suspicious cars that might be stalking you or following you, but thankfully, there was nothing. Nevertheless, he cursed himself for letting you get away. That was the last thing he wanted. He kept the information from what happened with the cartel a secret from you because he didn't want to fill you with worry.

Luckily, Javier knew that there were only a handful of places you could go in Colombia. You weren't too familiar with Bogota and so he ran with the first place that came to his head. Connie and Steve's. He raced to the phone that hung on the kitchen wall and dialled their home number.

"Hey, Con? Is Steve there?" Javier asked in panic. He didn't really want to talk to Connie about this because there was a very good chance she'd take your side over his. And, rightfully so. There had been plenty of times Steve had kept work business away from Connie in fear of hurting or worrying her. But she always found out in the end.

"He's with Olivia," Connie replied. "Javier, what's going on?"

"Uh," Javier ran a hand through his hair in stress. "Listen. I think y/n is on her way over. We had a fight. She's not talking to me. Everything is a mess. But, I'm on my way too. She took the truck so I'll have to walk but- I'm coming, okay? So just, keep her there. Keep her safe."

Connie scrunched her nose up at Javier's words. "Safe?" she repeated before lowering her voice. "Javi… what did you do?" she asked sternly.

"I'll explain everything when I get there." Javier promised and slammed the phone back down on the hook. Not even bothering to grab his jacket, he raced out of his apartment and ran to Connie and Steve's.

Of course you were first to arrive. Javier can read you like an open book. He knew you'd be going to see Connie. You let yourself into their apartment and flopped down on the sofa. Connie, who had of course been expecting you, entered the living room to greet you with a cup of hot tea. You didn't even know she was already brewing a coffee for Javier and Steve in the kitchen. You took a sip of the herbal drink and smiled appreciatevly. 

"So, what brings you here this evening?" Connie asked, raising an eyebrow with inquiry.

You sighed, nursing the mug in your cold hands. "Javier." you mumbled, as if that one word was enough of an explanation. Connie nodded her head understandably when Steve stumbled in.

"I put Olivia to bed," he announced before his eye caught on you. "Oh hey y/n."

You offered Steve another smile.

"Javier's being a dick again," Connie rolled her eyes and Steve shook his head.

"No," you replied. That felt unfair. "He's just being distant. Shutting me out."

"Well that's Javi for ya," Steve shrugged, sitting on the arm of the sofa and taking a box of cigarettes out of his pocket.

"No but— we had gotten better," you explained. "I mean. We talked a lot. He'd finally started opening up."

Before you could say anymore, the front door to Steve and Connie's door burst open. Javier stood at the doorframe, heaving and panting like he had just ran a marathon. Steve looked confused, but Connie just smiled, knowing that he had sprinted over just to try and fix things with you. You didn't know how to feel. Javier's chocolate brown eyes were sparkling with unspent tears and his heart blossomed when he saw that you were safe. That no hard harm had come to you.

He approached you and fell to his knees. You placed your mug on the coffee table and let your boyfriend take both of your hands. His thumb rubbed soothing circles into your wrist. Once again, Javier was speechless— just wanting this moment to last forever. Wanting you to be safe and healthy in your arms.

Connie nudged Steve who cleared his throat. "Uh, we'll give you two some privacy." he said before dragging Connie out of the living room and into the kitchen.

The second it was just you two, Javier dropped his head and his heart broke. "I'm so sorry," he sobbed, warm tears falling down his cheeks. You shuffled off the sofa and fell to your knees, facing him, and pulled him into a hug. 

"Don't cry," you hushed. "Javier… I just wish you could be honest with me."

"When you left earlier, shit, I thought I had lost you for good. I thought you were never coming back." he admitted, his voice croaking as the ache in his heart intensified. Your face softened at his revelation. "I know it might not seem like it, but everything I do, I do it because I love you."

You ran your fingers through his hair and planted a gentle kiss on his forehead. "I worry about you Javi," you whispered. "And seeing you so injured today, it really scared me. You weren't telling me anything. Do you understand how that might make me feel?"

"I do," Javi promised, squeezing your hands tight. "When I said the DEA sent me out on a mission… that wasn't exactly true. I found a lead myself. And I didn't tell anyone. I went out to pursue the lead and got in an entanglement with the Capo himself. He saw the photo of you that I keep in my wallet and he threatened to hurt you. He said if I told anyone about my findings at the cartel, he'd get his sicarios to hunt you down and… listen, my love. They do bad things to pretty girls like you. And I couldn't risk it. I was so afraid."

Javier felt ashamed. Ashamed for lying to you, and also, he didn't want you to see him as weak. But you could never think such a thing of your boyfriend. He was the strongest man you knew. So brave and compassionate. And after this revelation, you saw a whole new side to him.

Your finger gently brushed over his bicep. "The capo did this to you?" you whispered, feeling your cheeks burning with rage at how a drug lord had gaslit Javier into staying silent by making threats over your safety.

"No, but one of his men," Javier explained. "When, when they mentioned you. I got so mad. I raised my fist and-"

"Oh Javi," you whispered, wiping the tears that filled your eyes. You pressed your forehead against his. "You could've just told me."

"I wish I had now." Javier admitted. "I really thought you were going to break up with me."

You pulled away from your boyfriend, but your hands were still resting on his shoulders. You looked deep into his dark eyes and found nothing but guilt and remorse plastered over his face. "No," you shook your head and offered him a small smile that immediately eased him. "We had a fight, but I still love you."

Javier smiled back, the corners of his eyes crinkling in delight. "I love you too." he grinned. "Come on, let's go home." he said, taking your hand and pulling you to your feet.

"Okay," you hummed. "Cuddling up in bed with take-out and a corny movie sounds great right about now." you reflected back on Javier's previous compromise and Javier let out a hearty chuckle, pulling your hand up and brushing his lips delicately over your knuckles.

"You're the best thing that's ever happened to me." he professed, his eyes sparkling. "So please baby, there's going to be times I fuck up- but please don't leave me."

"Whatever the future has in store for us, we will get through it together." you assured him with a soft kiss on his lips.

Permanent taglist:

@goth-topic​  @supernaturalgirl @phoenixhalliwell @ah-callie @luvzoria

[maddiewritesstucky]

Whenever You’re Ready

I am equal parts excited and terrified to share this story with you all. This one is very special to me, and it has been an Emotional Experience putting these words to page, so far removed from what I usually write. Huge acknowledgement to @doctorenterprise whose honest critiques vastly improved this story, and @buckyandthejets who validated the hell out of me, thank you both so much 😘

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Steve/Bucky (Modern AU)

Word count: 5189

Tags: Angst, infidelity (not between Steve/Bucky), heavy on the feels, reference to past internalized homophobia, lost love, reunions, emotional sex, happy ending

*CW: Infidelity - In this story, Bucky has sex with Steve even though he is (unhappily) married to someone else. Please avoid this story if you will find this triggering, or feel free to DM me if you need more details. It all ends well!*

***

“Never changes, does it?” 

 It goes straight to Steve’s bones, that voice, all the way down to his marrow. He doesn’t turn around at the sound of it, nor at the muted clunk of footsteps on the dock behind him; slowly closing the distance to where Steve’s standing, thinking. 

Waiting.

He’s been out here long enough to have watched the sun disappear behind the mountainous horizon, taking with it its warmth and making way for the quiet chill of evening to set in. It’s far enough away here, from the music and revelry and reminiscence, that Steve can almost pretend those words are true; that nothing’s changed, that there’s nothing and no one else in existence but the two of them, and the reflection of the moon rising over the lake. 

“Some things do.” 

It comes out bitter, even though Steve’s spent years telling himself he’s not; that the pit in his stomach and the hole in his chest have a different name, a different face. It’s a pointless grief, after so many years. Decades, now, as the banners and balloons up at the reunion were boasting.

He knew what he was doing, coming here tonight. Like pushing on a bruise to make sure it still hurts. And it did, it does, because Bucky is right - the camp hasn’t changed a bit, and Steve might be pushing forty now but his heart is still nineteen; still standing at the end of this dock at sundown waiting for those footsteps behind him, for that warm hand slipping into his and that familiar voice saying his name like it’s music, like it means something.

“Steve…” 

...There’s no hand, and his name is just a name. It aches in the exact place Steve had thought it would.

“She’s pretty, Buck. You look good together.”  

He thinks he hears Bucky’s breath hitch, but it could have been the breeze catching in the trees, or the lick of water at the splintered edge of the dock. It would be easier if it were a lie, might sit sweeter on Steve’s tongue if he were sugar coating something false, something to say for the sake of speaking, but he means it. 

That aches, too.

“I married her,” Bucky says, and the way it sounds like an apology sinks like a lead weight in Steve’s gut.

“I heard.” 

“Steve, will you please look at me?” 

Despair frays the edges of each word, and Steve shakes his head, blows out a ragged breath into the cool night air. 

He had looked at Bucky, had watched him walk in tonight looking every bit like the man Steve always knew he’d grow into - strong, kind-eyed, beautiful; age starting to show in the soft flecks of grey at his temples, but missing from where Steve thought it’d make itself known first. 

“You don’t have smile lines,” he can hear the frown in his own voice as the thought slips past his lips, “always thought you’d have smile lines, way you were always laughing at everything.”  

“Steve...” 

It’s a sob, this time; unmistakable, and it rips the ground out from beneath Steve. 

There’s a hand on his back, slipping down the column of his spine; a shivering body pressing up close behind him and a forehead dropping against his shoulder. Tears soak wet through the back of Steve’s shirt and two arms circle around his waist, a hold long-forgotten and achingly familiar all at once, and Steve can’t remember how to breathe.

“Bucky,” he begins, though he has no idea where it ends.

His hands come up to cover Bucky’s, threading their fingers together and pulling Bucky’s arms tighter around himself, and it feels nothing like it used to because Steve’s heart wasn’t broken back then. 

When Bucky’s lips find the crook of his neck, that doesn’t feel anything like it used to either, but Steve tilts his head for it anyway; offers up the expanse of his throat like he’d once offered up the rest of his life to the man holding him. 

All of me, he’d said so long ago, every day of every year I have left. All for you.

Bucky’s hands slip to Steve’s hips, his mouth at the hinge of Steve’s jaw, and it’s so wholly selfish, the way Steve wants this. It’s years of longing and anger and loss made harder by all the ways Bucky wasn’t gone, and the tattered vestiges of Steve’s heart are screaming at him to stop before there’s nothing left of himself to salvage.

 “You left me.” 

There’s no emotion left in the statement, not anymore. It bled out years ago, muffled into Steve’s pillow and screamed into voids and hurled at the walls of his too-quiet, too-empty house. 

It’s hollow, now, but Steve feels how heavy it lands in the way Bucky’s entire body curls in on itself behind him.

“I know,” Bucky whispers, his tear-stained cheek tucked against the side of Steve’s face. 

The immensity of pain buried in those two words sinks jagged teeth into the meat of Steve’s heart, and he can’t believe he still bleeds for it after all these years. He knows he should walk away from this, pry himself free of the physical hold Bucky has on him and spend the rest of his days praying those soul-ties unknot themselves too. 

But the wound is open now, if it were ever really closed, and he can’t stop himself from tugging on the busted stitches to see just how raw and messy he can make it. 

“Tell me why,” he turns in the circle of Bucky’s arms, cups the back of Bucky’s neck and makes him meet the full force of his gaze. 

Give me salt for this wound, he’s pleading, and Bucky would have every right to deny him because this conversation has no place here; has no place in any universe where there’s a ring on Bucky’s finger. 

But Bucky came to him, Bucky broke the silence and put his hands on Steve like he’s just as hungry to hurt for this again, and maybe they both just need to bleed it out together. 

“Because we couldn’t,” Bucky twists his fists tight and frantic into the fabric of Steve’s shirt. “I couldn’t...Jesus, if my family had found out—” 

“I loved you,” Steve spits, “it was real, and I loved you, and you loved me too.” 

“Fuck, Steve, of course I loved you!” There’s desperation there now, in Bucky’s hands on him; not just clinging but clawing, no space between them for air or reason or good judgement. “You think it didn’t break me, too?” 

“I wouldn’t fucking know what it did to you, Bucky,” Steve runs a fingertip across the plain gold band hugging Bucky’s finger, digging his nail in under the ridge of it, “but it seems like you bounced back just fine.” 

Bucky sucks in a breath, and Steve doesn’t hear him let it go again. He’s doing nothing to mask the anguish on his face as he stares up at Steve, lips parted and eyes welling over; his brow knotted into lines that form all too easy, like they’re well worn at this point, and it’s so so wrong. 

Steve smoothes his thumb over the groove between Bucky’s eyebrows; pushes at it like it’s something he can rub away. 

“Aren’t you happy?” he hears himself ask, hurt and exhausted and terrified of the answer. 

It’s not until Bucky shakes his head, tears spilling anew from his red-rimmed eyes, that Steve realizes there was any part of himself left that was yet to break.

“Not a day of my life, Steve. Not without you.” 

Steve will never be emptier than this, seeing the truth of it all spelled out across Bucky’s face. It had been all the light Steve had left, that small embittered part of himself that’d believed Bucky was better off for the way things had gone. 

What was left, now? It had burned Steve down to ash, losing Bucky, but loving him was inextricable, and thinking he was happy out there was the only reason Steve could sleep at night.

“What do I do with that, Buck?” 

There are tears in Steve’s eyes now too, a tremble in his voice and the dead weight of regret hanging off his words. 

Bucky takes Steve’s face between his hands, too tight to be tender. When he sweeps his thumbs across the tears tracking down Steve’s cheeks, it only spreads them further. 

“Kiss me?” 

Bucky leaves it in the space between them like it’s the only answer he has left, and Steve wishes it didn’t make sense. 

 Another place, another time; a different dock and a different sky, and Steve might see the insanity of it, the notion that putting his lips against Bucky’s could be a salve instead of just another scar. 

But they’re here, with those same stars and that same rundown boat shed with it’s broken door, and Steve lets himself close the distance between their mouths, because it’s the only answer he has left, too.

He kisses Bucky with every minute of every day of every wasted year sitting there on the tip of his tongue. He holds Bucky too close and breathes him in too deep, leans all too willing into the pass of Bucky’s hands over his body.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Bucky sobs brokenly, slipping his hands up under the hem of Steve’s shirt to splay across his bare skin. 

Steve shakes his head because he can’t hear that now, with Bucky’s hands on him. Remorse can’t coexist with the warmth of Bucky’s palms and the slick press of his mouth, not when there isn’t even room for moonlight between them. 

“Don’t,” Steve whispers, “don’t tell me that.”

Bucky’s hand finds its way up to the center of Steve’s chest, his fingertips curling into a grip on Steve’s flesh like he can reach in and take hold of what lies beneath. Steve’s not sure there’s anything left in there to grab onto, but he lets Bucky try anyway because if there is, it will only ever belong in his hand. 

“Can I tell you I still think of you?” Bucky kisses the words against Steve’s cheek, trails them down the line of his jaw. “Never stopped thinking about you, Steve.” 

You should have, is what Steve should say, you’re not mine anymore.

“Someone will see us,” is what Steve does say, even as his fingertips dip beneath the waistband of Bucky’s pants. 

Someone is probably looking for Bucky right now, but there’s no room for that truth here, either. Especially when Bucky pulls back and looks toward the long abandoned boat shed, and then back at Steve.

There are so many opportunities for Steve to choose differently, to tell Bucky to stop. When Bucky takes him by the hand with a plea in his gaze; when he pulls Steve down the dock, and into that boat shed...it’s been a lifetime and Steve is a grown man, too old to be this foolish. But he’s tired, too worn down from years of unmet longing to be anything other than reckless when presented with everything he’s lived without for so painfully long. 

So he doesn’t say a word. 

He lets it happen, and he helps it happen. He raises his arms for Bucky to pull off his shirt, tilts his hips when Bucky works his belt loose and tugs down his pants. 

He strips Bucky bare with his own two hands and pulls him against his own naked body, sobbing open and unashamed for the way it makes him feel whole for the first time in twenty years. 

He maps the planes of Bucky’s body, no longer rounded and softened by youth, but every bit as warm as the memories Steve has clung to, and it shouldn’t feel right because it isn’t; shouldn’t feel so familiar when there’s been decades of distance between them. 

“I miss you.” 

It trips off Steve’s tongue before he can stop it, small and breathless. Of all the three-word truths he could have let slip it isn’t the worst, but Bucky’s wounded noise says that it cuts just as deep. 

He catches Bucky’s lips against his own before Bucky can do anything stupid like say it back; fisting his hands up through Bucky’s hair and pushing his tongue into Bucky’s mouth.

He wants to do this slow, to sink deep enough into it that every touch and every moment cling to him like a brand. But it’s only ever been a headlong tumble, this journey that begins with Bucky’s bare skin against his own, and Steve can feel himself falling the same way he always did.

Open palms turn to pressing fingertips, lips on skin turn to grazing teeth, and a dusty hammock spread across the floorboards. It’s another twist of the knife, the way Bucky’s body still fits beneath his own just as perfect as it ever did, the way Bucky’s spread thighs still make the perfect cradle for his hips. 

Bucky still looks up at him from the flat of his back with the same awe he’d turn upon the night sky, like Steve’s still the only heaven he believes in, and there’s too much gravity in that gaze. There always was, but there was no reason not to get dragged into it back then. 

It’s not until Bucky’s fingertips brush softly over his eyelids, tracing the sweep of his lashes, that Steve realizes he’s closed his eyes.

“What are you thinking about?” Bucky whispers.

Steve almost wants to laugh, because if he were thinking at all, he wouldn’t be here. 

He’s not laid out naked on top of someone else’s husband because he’s thinking; not about to put his mouth and his fingers and his cock where they don’t belong because he’s in his right mind. 

Steve is an exposed nerve, a callous that’s been rubbed raw, and he’ll pretend that’s all he is for as long as it takes to see the man he never stopped loving fall apart beneath him one last time.

He buries his face in the crook of Bucky’s neck and bites down on the softness he finds there, all the answer he intends on giving. There’s no good reason for him to still know the exact spot to sink his teeth into, but he’s not about to waste time pretending he doesn’t remember every last touch point that ever made Bucky lose his mind. 

His right earlobe, the notch of his clavicle, the tender space beneath his ribs. 

His hip bones, and his wrists, and the soft insides of his thighs, sensitive all the way down to his knees.

Maybe after all this time it’s only nostalgia, only because they both want so badly to be who they once were to each other. But Bucky’s body still sings the exact same tune when Steve plays it, tongue and teeth and fingertips in all the right places.

“Please,” Bucky gasps, giving over to it just as easy as he always did. He’s hiding nothing of himself, not in the sprawl of his body or the longing in his gaze, the breathless sounds dripping off his lips. 

He arches into the rub of Steve’s skin against his, splays his thighs wide for Steve’s hips then wider still for Steve’s shoulders, and he looks down the line of his body with all the same rapture when Steve finally takes him into the heat of his mouth.

“Oh...” 

It’s so soft, the sound Bucky makes. One tiny word, more breath than anything else, yet it somehow holds all the sentiment of of course, and how have I lived without this, and Steve is ruined for it. 

He’s sixteen again, realizing that want begins and ends with Bucky Barnes.

He is seventeen, discovering that the only thing better than getting his hands on Bucky, is getting his mouth on him. 

He is eighteen, and nineteen, and twenty; bone-deep certain that for him, there will only ever be Bucky.

“Stevie,” Bucky sighs. He reaches gentle fingertips to brush the hair back off Steve’s forehead; traces the stretch of Steve’s lips around him with all the tender wonder of their youth.

...Steve is thirty-nine, and he will never come back from this. 

He holds Bucky’s gaze as he swallows him down, watches the play of pleasure across Bucky’s face like it’s still his to behold. 

He sinks all of himself into chasing those awed, quiet sounds that have existed only as echoes for so long, and pretends it’s not the worst kind of cruelty that this act should still feel so sacred; that Bucky should still be that breathless, trembling embodiment of surrender. 

Back arched, thighs twitching, face flushed and lips parted…it’s as devastating as Steve remembers, and so much more so for the fact that he has no right to witness it anymore. 

“Steve, please...” 

Bucky looks down at him imploringly, reaches for him with open hands. 

Steve hollows his cheeks as he pulls off him, slow and tight. He crawls back up Bucky’s body until they’re face to face, until he’s covering Bucky’s body with his own.

“I’m here, Buck.” 

I’m weak, Buck.

He cups Bucky’s face in his hands, strokes his thumbs across Bucky’s cheekbones and nudges their noses together. He breathes Bucky’s air and kisses his lips, soft and careful until it’s not; until it’s just Steve pouring all his hunger and his longing and his desperation into Bucky’s mouth.

And he is desperate. Every last part of him is breaking for the feel of Bucky’s bare skin, his bare arousal, rubbing up against his own; for the responsibility of holding Bucky’s vulnerability and his nakedness and his pleasure in the palms of his hands.

“God, it’s been so long,” Steve’s voice splinters around the words, around the sobs that want to keep coming, “it’s been so long, Bucky...”

He rolls his hips heavy and deep, slips his hands beneath Bucky’s shoulders to keep them locked tight together. There’s sweat beading between them, spit and precum slicking their skin, and every promise they ever made weighing dense in the air. 

Bucky’s fingernails are sunk deep enough into his back that Steve can feel the half-moon imprints forming; Bucky’s legs hitched up around his hips and soft moans passing back and forth between their open mouths. 

Steve had always wondered what this must look like from the outside, the way they get lost in one another. The quiet gasps and heavy breaths, the pleasured sounds that catch between their lips. Bodies shaking, hands clinging, eyes open because it’s the closest thing to heaven you’d ever see. 

It’s immensity was always buried in the slowness of it all, but it’s as consuming and inevitable as it ever was. 

He knows Bucky’s close before Bucky tells him he is; can feel it thrumming through Bucky’s body beneath him. He knows he shouldn’t watch it happen, shouldn’t sharpen that mental picture back into focus when it had taken so long to blur its edges in the first place. 

He shouldn’t moan brokenly into Bucky’s mouth and rock harder against him; shouldn’t push up onto his hands and fix his gaze squarely on Bucky’s face.

‘Shouldn’t’ doesn’t mean a goddamn thing anymore.

“Come with me?” Bucky pleads, eyes glassy and body strung taut. 

He presses a trembling hand to Steve’s heart and the other to Steve’s neck, holding his racing pulse and his heartbeat in his hands just the same as he had the first time they made love, and Steve comes apart at the seams.

It’s unending, that wash of raw feeling. It’s galaxies inside his rib cage and oceans in his veins, and wildfire curling around the base of his spine. He breathes Bucky’s name, spills all over his stomach, and when Bucky follows him over he ducks down to drink the wonder of it right off Bucky’s lips. 

The quiet weighs so much heavier, as they lay pressed together in the aftermath. 

Steve looks down at the man beneath him, watches his breathing settle and the flush subside from his cheeks, and the ache of the past suddenly pales in comparison to what lies ahead. 

What exists for them beyond this moment, here and now? Bucky’s face is cradled in Steve’s hands and his nakedness is sheltered by Steve’s body, but even this was never Steve’s to offer. It’s time and touch already stolen, and the rhythmic lap of water against the dock outside may as well be the ticking of a clock.

“What happens now, Buck?” he asks, knowing there’s no comfort to be found in the answer. 

Bucky shakes his head, touching gentle fingertips to Steve’s cheek and searching Steve’s gaze. 

“I don’t know.”

The night air is cold against Steve’s back, all the warmth that had seemed to wrap so close around them dissipating. 

He slowly moves off of Bucky and gathers up their clothes, redressing himself with fingers that fumble weak and uncoordinated with the fabric that had been so very easy to take off. 

“...If you asked me to leave her, I would.” 

Bucky’s voice comes small from behind him, but the words take up every last inch of space in the room. 

Steve turns to look at him, and there’s something so painfully close to hope on his face, it makes Steve’s chest ache. 

“I can’t do that, Bucky,” he rasps, “it can’t be up to me.” 

The regret in it is palpable, the ‘I wish it was’ joining the thousand other things that live, unsaid, on the tip of Steve’s tongue.

I am so much yours that it hurts

I will never stop hoping for you 

I will love you for the rest of my life

It’s years too late, for all of it. But those words still throw themselves against the backs of Steve’s teeth, because if not now, then when?

 “Bucky, I—”

 “James?”

 ...The soft call comes from outside, carried on the breeze from a little ways off. 

There’s nothing in it, no suspicion, no concern. Just someone looking for the person they’ve lost, wondering where they’ve gone to. 

Steve’s stomach sinks, and the clock runs out.

Bucky looks at him, eyes wide and lips falling open like he intends to speak. No sound comes out, but Steve understands all the same - Bucky’s gaze always said more than words ever could, anyway.  

“You should go back, Buck.” 

Steve says it gently, though neither of them deserve that kindness after what they’ve done. He picks up his sweater, and he leaves what’s left of his heart on the floor, because he’s got no use for it without the man he’s about to walk away from. 

“If you ever…” Steve starts, and stops himself, shaking his head softly. His gaze sticks to the spot just in front of Bucky’s feet, his body half turned toward the door. 

“...You know where I’ll be,” he says instead, and then he gathers up his shoes in his hands and steps back out into the evening, because he’s no more capable of saying ‘goodbye’ to Bucky now than he was back then.

 ***

It’s a half hour walk home along the edge of the lakeshore, but it takes Steve hours; tears washing a salt-sting down his cheeks and his feet in the too-cold water the entire way.

It doesn’t even scratch the surface of what he deserves, that frigid needling against his skin and the stones underfoot. But the greater punishment will come, he knows.

When he gets home, and has to live the rest of his life knowing not only what he lost, but what he did to try and dull the ache of it. 

When he gets home, to that rambling, too-quiet house on the lake edge, where Bucky’s touch is set into the very foundations.

The roof they had helped Steve’s dad patch, the summer Steve turned eighteen; the creaking window ledge that would betray Bucky’s midnight visits to Steve’s bedroom, and that same kitchen table where they’d try not to blush at each other’s gaze. 

The porch swing where they’d watch the sun go down; every wall and doorframe they’d kissed up against when Steve’s parents weren’t around to see it; every tree they ever made love or fell asleep beneath...

He may not have seen Bucky in the flesh in almost twenty years, but there hasn’t been a day of Steve’s life since that he hasn’t felt the echo of his presence, and now it will hum under his skin the same way it always has in his house. 

The sky is awash with stars he can’t bear to look at by the time he makes it home, feet numb and shivering all over. 

He trudges the path from the lakeshore back up to his house, clearing the tree line and stepping into the moonlight spilling full and bright over his yard, over his homestead. 

Over the unfamiliar car parked in his dirt-track driveway, and the figure sitting, waiting, on his porch. 

“...Bucky?” 

His body slows in its tracks, stops halfway across the yard and won’t carry him any further forward. 

Bucky makes no move to close the distance between them either, save to stand slowly on unsteady legs and step down onto the silver-lit lawn. 

“Hey, Steve.”

His arms are curled around himself, his shoulders rounded and his feet shifting on the grass. Even in the moonlight, Steve can see the swell of too many tears shed around Bucky’s eyes, and he’d look like he was about to run if not for the set of his jaw; the unwavering hold of his gaze on Steve’s.

“Buck, what are you...how long have you—”

“I did it.” 

Bucky’s voice cracks - not like a heart breaking, but like a weight falling away, like a world upending, and it hits Steve like a blow to the back of the knees.

“You did what, Bucky?” 

He knows what he’s hearing, what Bucky has just laid before him, but he asks anyway because it can’t be that; that terrible, selfish thing that Steve has dreamed of and hoped for and hated himself for wanting all these years. 

Bucky can’t be here, standing under the light of the full moon, hours after they made love that was all passion and no integrity, telling Steve that.

Bucky takes a step forward, just one. Not close enough to touch, but close enough for Steve to see that he’s shaking.

“I told her, Steve. I told her what I did tonight...told her the truth about me.” 

“The truth...” 

Steve’s chest is crushing in on itself, the air between them so thin and fragile he’s afraid to breathe it in. 

Bucky wraps himself tighter in the circle of his own arms, shaking his head and dropping his gaze to the ground. 

“I was scared, Steve,” he whispers, “back then...We were kids, and I was so scared of what it meant, the way I felt about you. And I thought I could...make myself feel that, again. For someone else. Someone who was...” 

He blows out a shuddering breath, kicking at the ground in front of him.

“...Someone that everybody else would accept. But I couldn’t, Steve. I tried, I tried so fucking hard, and I thought that if I got married, then maybe...maybe it’d be better, because I’d have no choice but to love her. But I just...I couldn’t feel that again. I couldn’t, because I never fuckin’ stopped feeling it, for you.”

Steve aches, in every part of his being, all the way down in his soul. He stares at the man he’s loved his whole life, and he aches for the both of them; for the half-lives they’ve been living, tied to one another with string that had stretched when it would have been kinder to snap. 

“I got it so wrong, Steve,” Bucky sobs, his eyes screwing shut against free-flowing tears. “I chose so wrong. And I’m so sorry, I’m so fucking sorry…”

Steve’s body moves without thought, reaches and wraps itself around Bucky’s trembling frame; tight like he can save Bucky from this inevitable unraveling. 

“Jesus, Bucky,” he shakes his head, heartbreak spilling raw into his voice, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Bucky’s face is tucked into the crook of his neck and his tears are catching cold against Steve’s skin. But Steve’s own are falling into Bucky’s hair, and his hands are shaking too hard for their strokes up and down Bucky’s back to be any real comfort, and neither of them move to change a thing about it.  

“I’ve thought of you every day,” the confession slips quiet from Steve’s lips, and he lets it, “I’ve missed you, every day.” 

Bucky gasps a hitching breath into Steve’s shirt, holds tight to the fabric at his back. 

“Fuck, I got more to make up for here than I’ve got years left,” he shudders, pulling back to find Steve’s eyes. “I got no right to ask you for anything ever again, and I know I gotta put some things right first, get myself right, but...but would you ever...could we, ever…” 

Steve is nodding. Before Bucky’s even gotten the words out, Steve’s nodding. 

There are so many questions still to be asked and answered, so many conversations to be had and blows that are yet to land in the aftermath. The road that lies ahead is unpaved and unmapped, and the sunrise will shed light on realities they haven’t even considered. 

But none of that changes what Steve knows to be true, here and now. 

He knows that the window ledge still creaks; that that tree still bears more fruit than he knows what to do with, and the roof hasn’t once leaked, not during a single storm.

He knows that in any lifetime, any versions of themselves...they could. 

“Whenever you’re ready, Bucky,” come home when you’re ready, Bucky, “you know where I’ll be.” 

***

It takes time, just like Steve knew it would. 

It takes tears, and words that are just as hard to hear as they are to say. 

It’s wounds reopened just to be stitched back together better, right this time; stitched to heal instead of just to survive. 

Bucky is gone again, for a while, but his absence isn’t the bleak void it once was. It’s time apart for the sake of a life together, for both of them to rebuild what was broken and find a new sense of ‘whole.’ 

It’s Bucky finding his feet as the person he’s always been, and learning to speak his truth. It’s untangling himself from the life he was never meant to live, and finding forgiveness where it’s needed. 

It’s Steve ripping up those floorboards that creak, and it’s letting himself sleep. It’s replacing the wallpaper that was more peel than pattern, and it’s teaching himself to roll with the waves of joy and grief until he can sit just as comfortably with both.

It takes time; eight months and twenty-one days worth of it. 

But they heal, and Bucky finds his way home. 

And this time, it sticks.

[cyhyr]

Summer of Whump Day 24: Stitches

Fandom: Naruto

Rating: T

Pairing: Hatake Kakashi & Umino Iruka; Uzumaki Naruto & Umino Iruka

WC: ~2530

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Notes: Stitches, performed without anesthetic. Dissociation. PTSD. References to past non/dub-con between Mizuki and Iruka.

A/N: Heyyy I did a tiny bit of research, watched a video on how to perform these kinds of emergency stitches, and Have Never gotten stitches before in my life, anesthetic or no. I just wanna hurt the man, is that so bad lol

~

Two days after Mizuki puts a fūma shuriken in his back, showing his true colors and betraying the village, Iruka leaves the hospital because he is sick of laying on his stomach. The medinins refuse to heal him any further, saying that his body needs to help put itself back together without the use of chakra; still, though, they want him to stay for at least a week, so they can keep an eye on his stitches. Iruka knows how to care for stitches. And so, with minimal pain medication and Naruto’s begrudging assistance, Iruka signs his discharge forms and goes home.

The next day he goes back to work at the Mission Desk, as the Academy is on break for another two weeks before the next term starts. The work is physically simple, if stressful in other ways. There really should be refresher courses for shinobi with terrible handwriting.

The problem happens on his way home. And it’s really the dumbest thing.

A stray cat gets underfoot. Iruka stumbles. He twists just enough to catch himself before he falls, and feels some of the threads holding his back together rip.

He’s proud of the fact that he holds back any outward expression of pain. He’s also proud that he makes it the rest of the way home without attracting any attention or getting any odd looks.

Iruka heads straight to the bathroom once he’s home, and is able to shrug off his flak vest easily enough. There’s a spot of blood on the inside, soon to set into a stain. Iruka can’t be bothered. He tries pulling his shirt over his head and grits his teeth at the flash of pain—nope, that’s not happening. Instead, he pulls a pair of scissors from the vanity drawer, sighs for the hopelessness of needing to replace this shirt later, and cuts the fabric off of himself.

Once his shirt is in pieces on the floor, he turns around and looks over his shoulder as best he can to observe the damage. He’s bleeding sluggishly through the ripped threads, and the skin has split again. He should go to the hospital.

He really doesn’t want to go back to the hospital. It’s only been a day.

But he can’t fix this himself; if it were on his arm, or leg, or hell even his chest or stomach, he could do it. In the middle of his back, however? That’s just—

“Iruka-sensei, I’m home! And I brought Kakashi-sensei! He said he was going to have soup for dinner so I invited him! Who has just soup for dinner???”

Oh, shit. He forgot about Naruto coming over. He forgot about giving Naruto a key and teaching him the wards. And of course, Naruto invited his jōnin-sensei—which normally wouldn’t be a problem! But he can’t go out there like this.

Fuck.

Naruto knocks on the door. “Iru-nii?” He’s quiet, which is how Iruka knows that Naruto is worried about him. “Is everything okay?”

His instinct is to say yes, of course I’ll be right there but he doesn’t want to lie to Naruto. He’s not okay, and he won’t be okay if he can’t get his back—

Wait.

Kakashi.

He’s not considering this. He barely knows the man! But then, wouldn’t that make it easier to ask for a clinical, clean, stitch me up please with no weird feelings?

Naruto knocks again. “Iru-nii?” The handle jiggles like he’s about to open it.

“I’m… I—Actually, could you. Um.” He braces his hands against the vanity. He can do this. He gets it all out in one large exhale: “Can you send Kakashi-sensei in here, please?”

Naruto seems to pause—maybe even thoughtfully—outside the door before he runs back to the living room. Iruka whines through his teeth as his back continues to bleed sluggishly. He can hear the two of them talking in the apartment, Naruto’s voice getting louder as he comes back to the bathroom.

“Please, can you just—?”

A soft knock. “Iruka-sensei?” Kakashi’s voice is just as soft.

“Come in, please,” Iruka groans. “Don’t let Naruto in,” he adds quickly.

Kakashi steps through the door and shuts it behind himself. He crosses the bathroom in two steps and stands behind Iruka, examining the wound. He lets out a low hum. “I thought you’d be on bedrest for at least another week, sensei,” Kakashi comments. “I heard this was serious.”

Iruka ignores him. “There’s a suture kit in the cabinet above the toilet,” he says instead. “Is there any chance I can have you—?”

“Why not just go back to the hospital?”

“I… Gods, Kakashi-sensei, I hate it there. It smells wrong and everyone looks at me with either distrust or pity and I. I can’t. Please.”

Kakashi doesn’t respond verbally, but does go to the cabinet and remove the suture kit. He pushes his hands around Iruka, into the sink, and washes up; then he finds a washcloth, wets it, and carefully drags it along the skin around the wound.

“You still may have lost a significant amount of blood, sensei. You should—”

“I’ll take an iron supplement,” Iruka shakes his head. “Just. Close it back up, please.”

“There’s no anesthetic in here.”

“I know,” Iruka says sheepishly. “I used it up last time Mizu—well, I never got around to replenishing it.”

“I don’t know the medical ninjutsu to numb the nerves,” Kakashi warns. “This is going to hurt.”

“I’m aware. Just. Do it.”

He can feel Kakashi prodding softly at his back with the forceps, the metal cool against his skin. He prepares himself for the worst.

~

It’s been at least a year and a half since Kakashi has had to give someone else stitches. He sets the forceps aside, back in the kit, and selects a pair of gloves.

“No latex allergy?” he asks, to confirm.

“I wouldn’t keep them in the house if I had one,” Iruka grumbles.

Kakashi hums and pulls his own gloves off, replacing them with the latex. “Five stitches in total, sensei,” he says, assessing the length of the exposed injury. “You popped four, but I learned a different method of stitching; I’ll need to make five to cover the same distance.”

Iruka nods. “Whatever you need to do.”

“Do you have something to bite?”

Iruka nods, reaches up and pulls his hitai-ate down his face, and back to his mouth. Kakashi notes that he doesn’t put the metal plate in his mouth—either he’s had this done before, or he’s not stupid.

Kakashi loads the needle, picks it up with the driver, and presses the tip of the needle against Iruka’s skin. “Last chance to go to the hospital,” he says.

Iruka groans through his makeshift gag and shakes his head. Once he’s still again, Kakashi drives the needle into his skin, turns his wrist, and pulls the first half of the stitch out of the right side of the wound. Iruka’s curse is muffled, but what Kakashi can determine sounds… creative?

He’s careful in pulling at the wound with the forceps, placing the needle precisely and piercing the flesh. Another turn of his wrist has the needle point rising up through the skin. He shifts the grip and pulls the needle through, letting the suture thread follow.

Iruka is statue-still, but whimpering behind his gag. It’s… gods it’s impressive, how still he holds himself through such biting pain. Then again, he is a shinobi—even if he’s a teacher now, Kakashi remembers pulling field work with Sandaime’s newest pet. Pain is just part of the job.

That doesn’t mean they can turn their nerves off.

Kakashi loops the thread and ties it off, settling the knot on the left. Twice more he knots the thread to keep it from coming loose again. He might not be a medic, but his stitches don’t pop. ANBU was good for something.

“That’s one,” he mutters and readies the driver again on the right. Iruka nods, and he continues the stitching.

As he’s tying off the second stitch, he notices that Iruka’s shoulders are, perhaps, too still. He glances around Iruka’s body (he thought the man would be slight and yes, he’s smaller than Kakashi, but they’re built similarly and that’s not important right now damnit) and notices that Iruka is barely breathing.

He sets his tools down and puts one hand on Iruka’s abdomen. “Breathe,” he orders. Iruka immediately sucks in a breath, pushing on Kakashi’s hand. He nods, saying, “Very good. Keep breathing through it. You’re doing very well.”

He picks back up the forceps and driver, not realizing the effect his words have on Iruka.

~

The needle bites into his back for the third stitch and Iruka breathes deeply through his nose. The pain is sharp and intense and combined with the ache of the rest of the shuriken wound and how recent Mizuki’s betrayal is on his mind… Iruka’s worried that he’s going to slip away like he used to in the last few months of his and Mizuki’s relationship. Before he had threatened Naruto one too many times and Iruka asked him to leave and not come back unless he can respect both of them.

(Mizuki hadn’t come back. He, instead, had gone and gotten engaged. Turns out Asuma-nii-san was right when he’d said that Mizuki was using him.)

(That was over a year ago. He doesn’t cry himself to sleep anymore.)

The needle comes up the other side and Iruka braces for the oddity of thread sliding through his flesh. Then the discomfort of the wound being pulled back together.

Kakashi is good at this, though. He uses even pressure the whole time, so Iruka can be sure exactly how much it’s going to hurt.

“Three done,” he says. “It’ll be over soon. You can take it.”

Mizuki used to say stuff like that.

Just a little more, baby. I know it hurts, but you can take it.

Iruka fights to stay present. The needle goes in, and in, and out and out; thread slides along the way it’s guided.

Aww, ‘Ruka, you gonna cry from a few stitches? I thought you were stronger than that.

He whimpers. He can’t have an episode in front of Naruto’s jōnin-sensei. But this was an unfortunate perfect storm of pain and soft words and harsh action but gentle hands and. And. And.

He breathes in. And out.

“There we go, that’s it,” Kakashi murmurs behind him.

His eyes lose focus. He needs to stay still because Mizu—Kaka—because… The pain is dull compared to the ringing in his head and the throbbing in his teeth. He can feel his heartbeat in his neck.

He tries to get out a warning. That he’s about to slip. He’s dissociating. He’s—

~

“One more knot,” he mutters. “You’ve done very well.”

Kakashi finishes the final knot and snips the thread to size. There are surgical dressings and tape in the box alongside the suture kit; he tapes a large dressing into place over the whole wound, not just the new stitches. The latex gloves come off and fall into the garbage beside the sink.

Iruka hasn’t moved.

He puts his hands on Iruka’s shoulders and turns him around; takes the hitai-ate out of his mouth and lets it rest around his neck. Iruka is… dazed? His breaths are shaky, uneven; what the hell…?

“Are you okay?”

Iruka nods slowly. Maybe the pain made him non-verbal. Kakashi’s known shinobi for whom it’s happened before.

“You took that well. I don’t know many shinobi who would get that many stitches without anesthetic outside of a field situation.”

“Thank you,” Iruka says drowsily.

That wasn’t exactly the answer he was hoping for. Umino Iruka is known for having a smart mouth and a quick wit; this is something else. “You should eat something.”

“Not hungry.”

“Something light, then.” Kakashi tugs him along by his elbows, says, “Your bedroom, out and to the right?” Iruka freezes, for less than a second. It’s enough for Kakashi to notice; he hastens to explain, “You need a fresh shirt, yes?”

Maybe a sense of normalcy will bring him back. Should he treat Iruka differently in this…

Fuck, the man’s not even looking at him. He’s looking at their feet. He’s trembling.

Trauma response, his ANBU training supplies. Fuck.

He takes Iruka’s hands, over-projecting his movements, and says, “Let’s get you dressed, and then you can sit with Naruto for a bit?”

Iruka’s like a doll as he follows along into his room, and sits primly on the edge of the bed. Like he’s ready to slip off at any moment—shit.

Kakashi ducks his head out of the room and yells down the hall. “Naruto? Come over here.”

The door next to his hand opens up and Naruto stands in the doorway, clearly stressed and worried. “Is Iruka-sensei okay? What happened? You guys were in the bathroom forever!”

Kakashi holds up a hand to stop the rambling. “He’s alright, I think. He’s—well, something unrelated to what I—”

Naruto pushes by him and into Iruka’s room. He clearly takes in Iruka’s shirtlessness and position on the bed to mean something else, because he crosses to Iruka and pulls the man into a hug. Then, he glares at Kakashi.

The Fox glares at Kakashi.

“You! I trusted you! How dare you touch him like that—!”

The fury is rising fast, and Kakashi needs to do damage control before real damage becomes a problem. He raises both hands and tries to placate Naruto, explaining, “Iruka asked me to fix his stitches. The trauma response is unrelated to me, I swear. Naruto, I didn’t touch him without his consent.”

The heat in the room settles a little, as it looks like Iruka leans into Naruto and maybe even mutters his name. Naruto looks away from Kakashi, his eyes still exposing the Fox, and he grits, “Second drawer down,” while pointing at a chest of drawers against the wall.

Kakashi moves carefully—he’s not sure yet how much of the Fox is out of the seal’s control and he doesn’t want to risk it. The second drawer has a selection of uniform shirts and also casual tees. Kakashi picks the topmost civvie tee and brings it to Naruto.

“That’s close enough,” Naruto growls when he gets to the end of the bed. He’s three paces away. He’s not positive that it’s far enough to make a clean retreat should Naruto determine him to be a threat. He tosses the shirt the rest of the way, and watches while Naruto helps Iruka into it.

“I’m going to go and find him something light to eat. Stay with him?”

“Of course,” Naruto growls. “You don’t need to ask.”

“Naruto…” he hesitates, not sure he wants to know, but is too curious to not try and ask. “What happened? Who—?”

“You can ask Iruka-sensei when he’s back,” Naruto says.

It’s telling enough that Naruto understands what’s going on, that Iruka is dissociated and not present. Kakashi heads out of the room with a nod. Someone who inspires this much rage from the Fox, and who Naruto is comfortable enough with to call “brother”?

Kakashi absolutely intends to find out everything he can about this man.

[candychronicles]

unrequited love, or not? // k. bakugou

A/N: Thank you to the lovely anon who requested this, and thank you for being so patient!

CHARACTER PAIRING: Bakugou Katsuki x Reader

WORD COUNT: 1,668

WARNINGS: mentions of being drunk, blood, mutual pining, dumb best friends

SYNOPSIS: you’ve been best friends since you could remember, but what if you wanted more?

the first day you met Bakugou Katsuki was on the first day of school, ever. you were bubbly, upbeat, someone who introduced yourself to everyone and made as many friends as possible. nothing could get you down, well, besides Bakugou. despite your best attempts, he was mean, sassy and definitely didn’t want to be your friend. for awhile, you resigned yourself to all your other friends, but the grumpy gremlin never left your brain.

over the following years, you slowly broke down the anger and superiority of his childhood, peeling back the layers to find a kid who wanted to save lives and be a hero, a kid who used his confidence to keep himself going against all odds. it wasn’t until your years at UA high that you really figured out who he was to you, but by then, things were too late, him being too focused on climbing to the top to even spare anything other than a friendly glance your way.

it wasn’t as if he ignored you. in some ways, that may have even been better, for you would’ve been able to push aside your feelings, but no, Bakugou was anything if not an attentive friend. he was one of the few people you trusted with your life, and vice versa. he came to you for everything, with everything, about everything, because you were his partner, his best friend. this closeness only complicated things, but you persevered, determined to be the greatest sidekick you could be to him.

your friendship wasn’t one that many people understood. while you were bright, extroverted, smiling brighter than the sun, moon and stars, he was grumpy, reserved, focused, but it worked. he called you annoying every day, and yet you two were inseparable, eating together, doing homework together, shopping, spending holidays together and taking selfies that, when you posted, he threatened to blow you up. 

you watched as he blew every challenge out of the water, both literally and figuratively. from every challenge that came in high school, all of the death and destruction that you two fought together, coming out on top despite the pain, and continuing to help save people as he became a sensationalized pro hero practically overnight.

despite his constant successes, he wasn’t the number one pro hero, and until he achieved, and consistently maintained, his biggest goal of his life, there would be no other priorities in his life. you slowly watched, year after year, as he worked tirelessly, throwing away other opportunities in order to continue to pursue his goal. it wasn’t until you confronted him casually one day that your worst suspicions were confirmed.

“Katsuki, why haven’t you ever dated someone?” you questioned not so innocently one day, waiting with baited breath to hear his answer.

“Becoming the number one pro-hero has and always will be my number one priority,” he replied casually, shrugging his shoulders and continuing on with eating like he didn’t just shatter your heart into a million shards.

little did you know, his heart was also breaking, threatening to rip his chest open from the inside, suffocating and strong. he liked you, loved you, for longer than he could remember, but he was sure you didn’t feel the same way. he thought that every lingering touch, every suffocating hug, every time you called him when you were sad and drowning in tears, begging him to make you feel better, was just you being a best friend, nothing less and nothing more.

you became a bit more distant after that, nursing your hemorrhaging heart, attempting to fix it back up, using any stitch or glue that you could find so that you wouldn’t bleed out. this need to not hurt led you to a very drunk night with Mina and Jirou. it started off innocent enough, but as the night drug on and the alcohol tickled your veins, your blood began to thin and pour out of your mangled heart, and the tears followed soon after.

“why did i have to fall for him? he doesn’t love me, he never will. i’ll have to sit back and watch him continue on with his life, blissfully u-unaware that there is someone here who loves him so much that it hurts. i’m so dumb, so so dumb,” you rambled on, liquid pain streaming down your face as you cuddled a bottle of wine.

the girls tried to console you as best as they could, snuggling deeply into you and rubbing your hair, wiping the tears off your face and assuring you that you were loved, before you promptly passed out, the bottle of booze replaced with a pillow that you clutched tightly to your chest, attempting, even in your sleep, to fix the ache in your heart.

you awoke with a pounding headache and a steely resolve to distance yourself from your best friend even more than you already were. while you knew it would hurt, nothing could compare to the emptiness you felt standing next to him knowing he didn’t feel the same way. texts were replied to hours later, calls missed, and you once even pretended you weren’t home when he stopped by randomly to check up on you.

Bakugou didn’t know what he did wrong, and it was eating him alive. he texted, he called, he even tried to break down your door, knowing you were home, but you still barely responded, claiming you were busy. never in your combined friendship had you went this long without talking, even when you were truly mad at each other. 

the lack of communication took a toll on Bakugou and he finally decided to confront Mina about it one day, despite not wanting to look desperate.

“why has she been avoiding me?” he asked the second she picked up the phone, not bothering to even say hi.

he heard a soft sigh on her end of the phone before she replied, “i’m not supposed to tell you.”

“bullshit. if she’s hurt, mentally or physically, she should be coming to me. i’m her fucking best friend.”

“and that’s the problem,” she replied cryptically.

“what the fuck is that supposed to mean? does she not want to be my friend anymore?”

“well, yes and no.”

he swore, at those four words, his heart stopped.

“if she doesn’t want to be friends with me anymore, then she needs to man up and tell me. i don’t have time to waste on cryptic shit. i’ve got more important things to do.”

“and that’s the problem!” she suddenly exploded, before replying more evenly, “all you care about is being the number one pro hero to even see what’s going on in front of your very eyes. someone cares about you very, very much, probably more than your shitty ass deserves, and you can’t even return those feelings because you can’t and won’t prioritize more than one thing in your life.”

Bakugou hung up on her after those words, immediately calling you, to no avail. he grabbed a jacket and some shoes and raced out of the door, heading towards your house with nerves of steel. 

how stupid could i be? does she really feel the same way? 

once he reached your house, he barged in, not even bothering to announce his presence as he headed towards the kitchen.

you appeared out of nowhere, alert and ready for anything, before relaxing your body, though there was still tension squaring your shoulders back. 

“what the hell are you doing here?” you asked, confusion and a little bit of anger tinging your voice.

“do you love me?”

you quirked your head at him, face heating up in embarrassment, not sure how to respond.

“are you ignoring me because you love me and you don’t think that i love you back? are you so dumb to think that if you confessed to me right now, that i would reject you?”

your mouth gaped open and closed, unsure of how to take his questions, so you nodded meekly back, before responding, “you told me that being the number one pro hero was your number one priority-”

“my number one priority right now, sure, but that doesn’t mean you’re also not one of my priorities in my life. sometimes you’re even my number one. i don’t spend all my time with you, tell you everything, help you with everything, just because you’re just one of my ‘friends’. you’re my other half, you idiot. will you go out with me?”

your head cocked side to side, mouth still open, attempting to process his words, all the information that he had just thrown at you like it was nothing. he liked you? he wanted to go out with you? 

“the question isn’t that hard. you also look like a fish. close your mouth and just tell me how you feel, how i know you feel now, so i can kiss your dumb face.”

at those teasing words, your face broke out in a smile before you rushed forward to capture his lips in your own, pouring all of that pent up pain and sadness into the kiss, allowing your heart to finally stitch together.

“you’re such an idiot. of course i like you, and of course i’ll date you. i’ve loved you for a long time, maybe even since you were a snotty nosed little brat, but not much has changed since then,” you teased, eyes twinkling in mischief.

“hey, just because you’re dating me doesn’t mean i still won’t kick your ass for being rude.”

“catch me if you can lover boy,” you called out, leaping away from him and into the kitchen laughing.

he shook his head, finally allowing himself a moment to breathe, feeling the heat rise into his cheeks and his blood pumping throughout his body, before he called out threateningly and began chasing after you around.

i’m in love with my best friend.

maybe being number one pro hero wasn’t the number one priority in his life anymore.

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[imaginesmai]

Peter Parker - Far From Home

This is long, angsty and fluffy! It follows the film, mostly. 

Plot: Peter Parker has just been run over by a train. However, he has biggest worries. Like, Beck having you in his grasp. 

“Oh my god, Happy”

Peter let out a loud hiss when the needle hit his skin once more, and swallowed down the tears that threatened to leave his eyes. He bit his lip, closed his eyes and endured the pain for a while longer. No more than a few hours ago, he had been all over the moon because you had asked him to go for a walk through the city. He had been inches away from kissing you, had gripped your hand and had told you the truth about his identity; well, you had figured it out, but no one needed to know that. It felt like a dream, that had turned into a nightmare because of his stupidity.

“Just a few more to go, don’t worry” Happy said, using a soft voice that Peter thought he didn’t deserve.

Another pinch, another hiss. The needle, however, wasn’t what hurt him the most. It was a mash up between the betrayal of who he thought he could trust, the guilt crushing into him like waves, and his mind running a mile per hour with the possibilities of the disaster that he had caused.

He tried looking out of the window and focused on the low hum of the plane. It was hard to disassociate from Happy stitching up his shoulder without any anaesthetic, and just when he thought he had managed to keep his breathing under control, the careful man hit some nerve and Peter jumped on his seat.

“Happy!” Peter slammed his fist on the desk, an empty cup making its way to the ground.

“Relax, Peter!” Happy tried to calm him down, but it only angered Peter more. The boy got up in a sudden move, with half of his wound still bleeding. Happy was about to drag him back to the chair when Peter turned around and faced him, showing the angry tears on his eyes.

“Don’t tell me to relax!”

Happy had known Peter for some years by then. He had thought he knew the boy fairly well to say that Peter was nothing but sunshine and rainbows. The kid made videos, introduced himself to everything – and anything – , and sometimes brought sandwiches for him when he thought Happy might not have eaten yet. But the way Peter spoke, showed him that the pain he was feeling was nothing like sunshine and rainbows. In fact, Happy thought no one should ever felt it – especially not a kid, his kid.

“How can I relax when I messed up so bad?” his voice broke at the end into a messy sob, and Peter pressed the back of his bloody hand to his lips. “I trusted – I trusted Beck. I thought he was my friend, I gave him the only thing Mr Stark left behind for me.”

“Kid, maybe – ” Happy started, but Peter cut him off.

“And now, he has her.” Peter let the tears run down his cheeks, supporting himself against the side of the plane. “He has the most important person for me and the deadliest weapon, because – because I can’t take care of anything without messing up”

His legs gave up and Happy didn’t have time to catch him before he stumbled into the nearest sit. The autopilot was, once more, the only thing that could be heard in the plane, besides Peter’s quiet sobs. Happy didn’t know much about what had happened, just that he had received a call from a very long number and had to fly through half of the world to get Peter. Since then, he had had to calm the boy down from a panic attack twice, where he had only muttered your name and asked if everything was real.

“So, please… do not tell me to relax.” Peter breathed out.

He let his body fall down until his head was nearly hitting his knees, and ran a desperate hand through his hair. It was damp with blood and sweat, and he missed so, so much the brief feeling of your hand running through his hair. It had been just a second, after he had freaked out after the whole discovery with Mysterio, and you had done it by chance. But he wanted so desperately to feel it again. Peter and Happy let the silence take over for a few minutes, and Peter used that time to get his shit together.

Finally, he heard movement and raised his head. Happy was sitting now in front of him, leaning towards him with his hands clasped together. There was only a desk between them, and that reminded him of the abysm that dissociated both of them in that moment. While Peter was witnessing his whole word crash, Happy still had to understand where that awful wound came from.

“You have to talk to me, Peter” Happy tried to sound as friendly as possible. He searched Peter’s eyes with his own, and held the smile even when he saw the pain in them.

“Y/N… she’s the girl I had the plan with” Peter started, lowering his gaze again. “I was supposed to kiss her at the top of the Eiffel tower, because she loves those awful love movies and I really, really like her Happy”

Peter started to tell him how Nick Fury had crashed his plan by changing the trip, how Beck had appeared from another universe and he had been fooled like a kid. How you had found a drone that proved his lies and had showed it to Peter, discovering his secret identity in the way. Peter avoided the details about how you had almost kissed in the bridge and how you had hug him for a while longer when he had jumped from that window; not knowing Beck was already at the hotel and had targeted you before Peter had the chance to do anything about it.

“It was all a trap. It – I-I fell for it. A-and he had her all the time, but I couldn’t… reach her” Peter tried to explain how the illusions had messed up with his head, and hadn’t let him save you. “Then – the train, I was hit by a train and I fell unconscious. I woke up before I called you”

“And that guy still has Y/N” Happy finished for him, and Peter nodded.

The shadow of you reaching for him, in Beck’s grasp, just before the train ran him over clouded if eyes. Peter wondered if you knew he was alive; you hadn’t known he was Spiderman until that night, and his powers were still some mystery for him sometimes. He wondered, too, if you were alive. If Beck wanted to, he could have killed you just after the crash.

But his ‘peter tingle’ told him you were still alive, with Beck, in case the plan had gone wrong and Peter came back. That was, probably, what scared him the post. That you would have to endure just an inch of what the illusions made to him.

Peter pressed the palms of his hands against his eyes and rubbed them until he saw white spots, and then looked up to Happy.

“I don’t know what to do, Happy” Peter wasn’t afraid of sounding weak, or childish, in front of him. The man sighed. “I just – I just want her back”

“You’re Spiderman. She counts on you” Happy told him with a small smirk, and his eyes were the most real thing Peter had seen since the fight with Mysterio. “You’ll figure something out”

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

That Flash had a public account with no self-preservation, where he announced himself the biggest fan of spiderman and uploaded the most embarrassing things, came in handy. Peter decided to take care of the suit while Happy drove them to London, where the students were and where he hoped Mysterio would be. Ned also knew about the fiasco of the monsters, and probably MJ did too, so they were probably a threat too.

The suit he was creating was nothing like the old one. He decided to go with the original colours, eliminating the blue and using only black and red. He added a few new webs designs he was working with Tony the last time in the lab, something similar to a parachute so that he could fly down from the plane, and a thicker cloth around his body so that he wouldn’t be defeated so easily.

Like last time. Where he had seen you for the last time.

Breathing through his mouth and giving Happy a hesitant thumb up, he decided to rip the band-aid at once, jumping out without looking back. Suddenly, he was surrounded by air, clouds and pressure. Peter fell through the sky like a crumb, right into the bigger mess he had seen in a long time.

A bus was in flames, flying in the sky and being torn apart like if it was made of clay. People were running everywhere, screaming and looking for their loved ones. As Peter went down, he could see more of the scenario; like Ned gripping Betty’s arm with one hand and leading MJ away with the other, or Mr Harrington trying to calm everyone down while screeching like a fire alarm.

Peter landed on the top of the bridge, hidden from plain sight but still in a good position to see everything above him. Like, Mysterio controlling the drones with a big helmet from inside the glass tunnel, while gripping your arm and dragging you around. He sucked in a breath as he quickly searched for any injuries. You seemed fine, wearing the same floral drees you had been wearing for the opera, then stained by grease and blood. Your hair, that had been pulled up, was obstructing your face as you tried to break free from Mysterio.

But you were alive, still having the will to fight against him, and Peter could almost laugh in relief. He didn’t waste much time in relaxing, instead going for the plan that he had made up in the short trip there.

“Happy?” he muttered against his earpiece. “I – Y/N is down there”

“That’s good, kid” Happy muffled voice came through the earpiece.  “You know the plan then. Turn off the earpiece and cause a distraction. I’ll be waiting on the ground, just bring her to me and I’ll put her to safety”

“Alright” Peter smiled shakily. For a moment, he hesitated. He knew he was far from just a kid, but he had really, really wanted to be a trip without any problem. Where he could talk about his feelings with you, and maybe kiss you. His hand trembled for a second; then he pressed the earpiece. “See you in a minute”

The lines of drones designed to protect Mysterio failed to detect Peter when he entered into the cloud, and the boy let his mouth hang open. There were, at least, one thousand drones flying around an open air, shooting and creating an illusion for the rest of the world. In the middle, stood the real Beck, talking angrily with someone and still holding your arm.

From where he stood on one of the drones, he could see some kind of wound on your ankle, that stopped you from moving freely. Peter gripped the end of the drone where he was resting with so much force that the mental bended under his fingers, and he had to stop himself before throwing everything through the roof. Instead of just going for Beck, he focused on the drones.

They seemed to be following a path. Move left twice, then right once, up and down three times. The plan was simple; destroy one of them so that Beck would be forced to check it out, and use the opportunity to lower you to Happy, who would put you in a safe place while Peter ended up the fight.

Peter decided to go with one that seemed lonely. It was probably in charge of something small, like the monster’s finger or his eye. He threw an explosive web to it and hid under the glass bridge when it exploded. From there, he could hear everything.

“No, I want the cape – what was that?” Beck turned around like a maniac, hissing venom into the earpiece. “Why the fuck has a drone exploded?! I said I wanted a perfect job this time!”

A unintelligible response came out of Beck’s helmet, too low even for Peter’s ear to pick up. He watched, from his place under a piece of metal, how his face became redder and redder until a vein popped out of his neck. It seemed that Peter was finally seeing Beck’s true face; a mad man that couldn’t control his emotions.

“I don’t care! I don’t – if this goes wrong, you’re dead! You hear me?! I’m gonna fucking rip you apart!” he threatened into the earpiece. Peter winced each time you were shaken around like a piece of rag, but forced himself to stay in place. “Like everything, I’ll go and solve it. But be fucking prepared for when I come back”

Beck took out the earpiece and threw it over the bridge, emitting a low grunt. Your lip trembled and more tears fell down your cheeks when his grip on your arm became more rough. Over the past few hours, you had cried, begged, yelled, insulted, sassed and said everything you could think of to the man. Still, the only thing you had received had been a nasty bruise on your cheek and a hard stamp on your foot that probably was broken.

“Now, listed to me” Beck kneeled in front of you and frowned. When he talked, spit hit your cheek. “You stay here. Quiet, still and being a good girl. If I find you an inch to the left, I’m going to throw you to the river tied to a drone. And that’s not gonna feel nice. You hear me?”

“Yes” you answered, knowing that if you didn’t he would only get angrier. “Yes, I won’t – I won’t move”

“I know you won’t” Beck scoffed, and inched closer. “But if by any chances certain spider boy comes around, you will stay put too. Because I don’t think his body would take two thousand drones shooting at him, alright?”

You nodded quickly and another sob rose up your throat. Beck got up and dragged you to the side of the bridge. He didn’t bother in tying you, because he had played with your mind enough times to know you wouldn’t move.

A drone appeared in front of him, simulating a small platform where he could step on. Beck spared you a final glare and drifted away into the mass of drones.

Peter, still hidden under the bridge, saw his chance and crawled up to where you were. He took his mask off with one hand and clenched his jaw. His body hurt and his spidey sense was screaming at him to leave, but he kept moving until he was besides you. He took a second to look at you thoughtfully; from head to toe, from how your hair was messy from being dragged and the way you hugged yourself.

It took him a while to move, because he could feel the panic attack rise to his throat, and the bile with it. He was tempted to turn to the side and empty what he had left in his stomach, but swallowed and gave you a hesitant smile. You didn’t move, neither, and he was afraid you thought he wasn’t real. Been there, done that.

“Hey” he whispered, and stepped – or crawled, since he was still in fours – forwards. “Hey, Y/N. It’s me”

“Oh my god” you squealed out, and unfolded the protective shell you had created around your body to put your hands on your mouth. “Oh my –“

“I know, I know” he stopped you, and looked quickly around to check Beck was still busy. “But I’m here. I’m – I’m real. And I can prove it! Ask me –“

“Oh my god, you’re alive!”

Peter barely could do anything before your body crushed into him. He wasn’t prepared for it, so he fell onto his butt and caught both of your bodies with his elbow. Swallowing the hiss of pain, he wrapped his free arm around your middle and hid his face on your neck.

Suddenly, he felt like a kid.

Spiderman wasn’t supposed to do that, but Peter let the first sob break through his throat and pressed you tighter against his body. Time was hot on your trails, and Peter knew that; yet he only took shaky breaths against your neck. You were talking, saying something about Beck, your class and the drones. It was all white noise, compared to his heart beating loudly against his ears.

You smelt like blood, sweat and Beck. It wasn’t a pleasant smell, because Peter was sensitive to them and, after hours of captivity, they weren’t nice. Behind them, there was also your natural smell, the one he found himself sniffling in class when you sat in front of him. It was there, just like Peter’s sanity, hanging by a thread.

Slowly, Peter pulled you back until your faces were only inches apart. He had to shift his gaze to see your features, and his lip shook dangerously. There were tears on his cheeks, and his eyes were glossy.

“I’m gonna get you out of here” Peter whispered. He didn’t want to sound weak, but it seemed that he was the one seeking your comfort. “I – Happy is down there, and he’ll take you to a safe place. I’m sorry… I couldn’t save you. Sorry.”

“It’s okay” you reassured him. “You’re saving me now, Spiderman.”

“But I couldn’t – “

“We can discuss it later” you cut him off with a small wet laugh. “I think I’m going into cardiac arrest if I spend one more second here”

Peter nodded once, twice and a last one more firmly. He got up and helped you to stand by his side, your ankle making your lean against him. Again, with just one hand, he put on his mask and jumped out of the bridge in a blink of an eye. Wind rushed past him like the familiar feeling he was used to, and he felt as if he was just in Queens, swinging back to his apartment after a rough patrol.

The occasional yelp from you and threat woke him up from his daydream.

He landed in an alley, away from the mess and destruction. Happy was waiting for you like the loyal friend he was, with a black car already on and a gun ready on his shelter. The plan was to run in the opposite direction, run by a hospital in case it was needed, and wait for Peter to go back home. It was a rushed plan, open to many problems and obstacles, hence the gun, but Peter didn’t have anything else. With a sigh, he unwrapped his arm from your waist and let you catch your breath.

“Peter – that was – we were, they were just seconds!” you smacked his shoulder lightly, and Peter didn’t have the heart to tell you it had been stitched in the ride there. “Why didn’t – I’m taking so many advantage of that.”

“We can… talk about that. At home” Peter said, voice muffled under the mask. He didn’t want to risk breaking down again, so he didn’t take off the mask. “I’ll see you there. I have, you know, to go back”

“I guess” you shuddered, and Happy honked. Neither of you cared. “Be careful”

“I will”

There went his plan, probably. The beautiful blue necklace he had brought you in Venice was probably destroyed in his backpack, wherever it was then. The kiss, shattered by an improvised kidnapping. His date, ruined by a mad murderer. And the girl he wanted to do all of that with, in front of him ready to go home.

Peter swallowed around nothing, because his throat felt dry.

“I, uh, we could do that again. No the swinging. The – the other part” Peter blushed under the mask, and you raised a brow.

“The part you got it by a train? Or the kidnapping?” you teased.

“No! No that’s – isn’t happening again. I promise. Never, ever again” Peter shook his head and raised his hands. “Like in a million years? Never. I’m sorry. Not that, it shouldn’t –“

Happy honked again, and both of you jumped a bit. He shouted something to Peter and signalled inside of the car and behind you. The place wasn’t ideal, but neither was probably kissing Spiderman. After all, you had just been kidnapped and Peter was going to risk his life for the sake of the humanity.

So nothing wasn’t ideal, but Peter wasn’t either, and that was where the magic of things laid.

There was a sudden breeze hitting the lower part of his face, and the mask rested uncomfortably against the bruises on his cheeks. Shivers ran down his spine and for a moment he was afraid, because his vison was being blocked because of the mask and his ears were covered. Probably a second before having a breakdown, he felt your lips on his.

They were soft but decisive, your hand cradling the back of his head. It wasn’t as good as what he had planned, yet he could live with that. Leaning forward and ignoring Happy’s indignant shout, he responded to the kiss. There were no fireworks or angels singings, and his body still hurt from the beating. Nothing was being solved by kissing, but he surely felt a lot better.

The kiss was awkward because of the mask, and Peter was too petrified to even think about removing it. One of his hands was resting on your hip, while the other just clenched and unclenched at his side. Your fingers cradled the baby hairs of his neck and he shudder, making you smile and push yourself tighter against his.

As quickly as it had come, it went away. You stepped back, lowered his mask and the world screamed for him again. Peter wasn’t sure, for a second, that it had been real; but then he saw the blush of your cheeks, the angry-proud smirk in Happy’s face, and the tingling on the tips of his fingers.

“Yeah, we can repeat this later” you said, and kissed his masked cheek. If he hadn’t had the mask, he would probably had been as red as it. “See you later, Peter”

Not the first date he had imagined, but he was fairly okay with it.

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[lailannajacobs]

A Broken Ship and a Healed Heart | Counterfeit Criminals pt. 13

Pairing: Loki x fem!reader

Chapter Summary: You deal with the aftermath of Loki’s injuries

Warnings: lil angsty 

Word Count: 2.6k 

A/N: So we’re almost at the end, I can’t believe it! One more to go after this! Hope you guys enjoy, I always love to know what you think! <3 

Previously...

Then his eyes fluttered shut, his head falling back to the floor with a thump.

“Loki,” You croaked, feeling his hand go limp in yours.

He didn’t answer.

You checked for a pulse.

Chapter Thirteen 

Nothing. 

The sound of your own heart pounded in your ears, but there was nothing under your fingertips to match the sound. Your fingers trembled. You tried to breath but the only thing you could inhale were choked sobs that left you gasping for air. You needed to steady your hand. You convinced yourself maybe that was the reason you hadn’t felt anything and pressed into his throat a little harder. Your tears dripped onto his chest in a steady rhythm and you felt like you were going to collapse even though you were kneeling by Loki’s side. His face was ashen, his entire torso covered in blood. He couldn’t be dead. He couldn’t. You almost let go, but that was when you felt it. A pulse; faint but there.

A shaky exhale escaped your lips. He wasn’t dead yet, but he was dying.

Your hands hovered over his body as if you could magically heal him. He needed medical attention - far more than you knew how to give him - but you needed to get your ship to ground fast. If he was going to make it out alive, you needed to wipe your tears and do this with the same efficiency as one of your heists. Checking his pulse one last time, you stood abruptly, feeling a cold calm come over you. There was no place for emotion here, even if it was emotion motivating you in the first place.

A ripped bed sheet, a cork, and a few safety pins later, you’d managed to stop most of the bleeding and had bandaged him up. It was a terrible, half-baked version of a tourniquet, but it was all you had, and it would have to do. He groaned and you paused, your heart breaking at the sight but you couldn’t let it. He’d be okay; he had no choice to be.

“You’re not going to die,” You whispered, giving his hand one last squeeze, “I promise I won’t let that happen.”

Although you were pretty sure you were imaging things to keep yourself sane, you could have sworn you’d felt a faint squeeze back. Somewhat reassured, your adrenaline picked up again. Every move you made was quick and efficient, no second wasted on indecision or fear. Even the astroid field was a blur, the giant rocks seeming to move out of the way the same way they had for Loki.

The alarm quickened, the beeps coming in faster intervals, demanding you land immediately or prepare for an evacuation. Loki’s planet appeared behind the last of the astroids, but it was still too far to put your ship down. You needed another minute or else neither of you would survive the landing.

You brought the ship in faster than you’d ever risked for a landing but there was nothing you could do at this point. The only thing left was hope the impact didn’t kill you. Loki bounced around on the floor of your ship and you winced, but you couldn’t give him your attention for long. You strained against the gravity and the force of your ship as it went down, pulling against the controls in an attempt to slow your descent.

The impact resounded through your entire body, knocking the wind from your chest. Everything shook and rattled as your ship dug into the ground, skidding toward the house. It neared closer and closer, and you pulled back desperately trying to avoid the collision with the house. Time moved in slow motion, the distance between you and the ship closing until, by some miracle, the tip of your ship knocked a light off the side of the house but nothing more.

Collapsing back into your chair, you closed your eyes trying to catch your breath. Your moment of relief didn’t last long, and a small groan from Loki spurring you into action. The sound was enough to know he was still alive, and you inspected the rest of his body, trying to decide what to do. But you weren’t a doctor. You couldn’t be sure what to do.

You pulled back the bandage. The stab wound didn’t seem to have bled anymore, but the other wound he’d teleported onto your ship with still had something lodged in it. Before you could pull it out, you realized it was something like an arrowhead. Your heart dropped in your chest, dread flooding your system. You knew enough about injuries to know that the only way for it to come out was through, and judging by its placement, if you didn’t do it perfectly, you’d be the one to kill him. You began to tremble. Maybe Loki wasn’t going to make it through.

The tears came flooding in and you hiccuped, trying your best to keep them at bay but it wasn’t working. You stared at him hopelessly. All he had was you and there was nothing you could do for him. You weren’t enough.

You brushed the sticky hair from his face, wishing more than anything that he would disappear from under your touch and appear behind you, but there was no pretending that the life draining from the body in front of you was fake.

“Why’d you have to save my life?” You scolded, but really it sounded more like you were begging, “I don’t know how to do this, so you need to live okay? At least a little longer so I can figure it out, okay?”

But there was no answer. You wouldn’t get another one ever again unless you did something.

Then you remembered your time on Asgard last year and your breath caught. It was a long shot, a hail Mary if you’d ever seen one, but it was the only thing you could think of. You grabbed Loki’s hand, whispered for him to hang on a little longer, and sucked in a deep breath.

“Heimdall?” You cleared your throat, not sure how loud you needed to be for him to hear you, but knowing your choked-up mumbling couldn’t be enough, “I need help…Loki needs help. I don’t know if you’re hearing this or seeing this, but I need someone to tell me what to do. Loki’s dy-” You choked on the word, “He’s not going to make it. Please.”

Nothing happened. You knew it was stretch and it probably wouldn’t work, but you couldn’t give up. Not yet.

“I’ll give anything,” You begged, louder and stronger this time, a thought blooming in your mind, “I’ll return to Asgard, give Odin the chance to carry out his sentence. As long as Loki makes it out of this alive, I can give Odin the justice he’s looking for. I promise. Please, just help him.”

Sobbing, you paused and then it was as if you were standing at the end of the Bifrost beside Heimdall, staring out at the infinite worlds.

He kept his gaze far out, titling his head in your direction; the only indication he knew you were there, “Nonsense child. I won’t let you sacrifice your life for his, though it is commendable that you would do such a thing.”

Speechless, you only stared at him.

He continued, the corner of his lips pulled up in a slight quirk, “The moment Loki introduced you to me that day, I knew you would be in his life the entirety of yours, and as you can see, you are well and living. Here’s what you will do, and you must hurry.”

The Bifrost vanished and you were back in your ship. Heimdall’s explanations were clear and concise, especially the first telling you where Loki had stashed a first aid kit in your ship complete with an IV set. Throughout the entirety of your procedures, you weren’t sure you breathed at all. Every move you second guessed, looking up to a Heimdall you imagined no one else could have seen, to make sure you were doing the right thing.

The hardest part had been turning Loki on his side to push out the arrowhead. Only Heimdall’s steady hand on your shoulder kept the thoughts of Loki’s death at bay. Your hands were covered in blood and so was Loki’s bare chest but his breathing, though shallow, was steady. You weren’t sure when Heimdall had left only you knew he was gone now. You couldn’t ask him if he knew if Loki would survive or not, but you figured that might be a good thing. At least this way, you could delude yourself into thinking he would survive.

When the last stitch was tied, you finally let out a short exhale. You didn’t think you would breath normally again until he opened his eyes. At least you knew there was now a good chance he would. Gently, you cleaned him off until the only sign of his injuries were the white bandages across his chest.

You grabbed every pillow available to you and made sure he was as comfortable as possible and settled in for the night. You held onto his hand, refusing to move until he woke up, because he had to wake up. He had to. You wouldn’t consider any other outcome.

Exhausted, you drifted off into a deep sleep, your hand never letting go of his.

Loki felt like his chest and stomach were on fire, like his head was about to explode and that his tongue was a piece of sandpaper in his mouth. Even breathing hurt… but he was alive. He shouldn’t be alive. For maybe the first time in his life, Loki had acted without considering his safety first, but it wouldn’t mean a thing if she wasn’t alive. He cracked an eye open, searching for the reason he’s sacrificed himself.

She was on the ground beside him, head bent at an odd angle, brow creased even in sleep. Loki didn’t know how long he’d been out or how long she’d been beside him, but there were a couple plates and one with a half-eaten sandwich on it which meant it had to have been longer than a day.

He sighed, relived that she was fine. All the fear he’d felt concerning his feelings towards her felt trivial in the face of losing her. He’d pushed away his emotions, afraid she’d leave him if she really knew how he felt and yet here they both were, him half dead and her the reason he wasn’t completely. He’d almost died. For her. If he kept running from his feelings, he only would only be risking her life even further. That wasn’t an option. Maybe letting her in wouldn’t be as terrible as he thought.

Loki pushed past the pain, lifting up to his elbows. He wanted to move a pillow under her head, but his movements were so shaky and pained that her eyes fluttered open.

“Loki,” she breathed, frozen in place.

He shivered at the sound of his name on her lips. He didn’t know what to say.

He stared into her eyes, fighting the urge to touch her and figure out everything going through her mind. Unsure what to do, he tried to push himself up even higher.

Her hand shot out, hovering just away from his shoulder, and she blurted, “Don’t. It’s fine. Are you okay? I know you’re not but are you in pain?”

Shaking his head, he tried to push himself up to a seat but couldn’t.

“You’re lying to me,” She said sternly, a dangerous look on her face, “I have pain killers. I’ll go get them.”

She was about to get up and leave, but he tightened his grip, “Stay.”

He hadn’t forgotten they were holding hands, but by the way her eyes widened, she had. The look made him smile, giving him enough strength to say what he had to say.

“I have something I need to say.”

“It better be thank you,” She snapped, then immediately winced.

Normally that would have been enough reason for him to choose a sarcastic remark and run with it, but he was done putting on a show. He’d never had to with her and it was about time he admitted that he felt things to himself and to her, regardless of what she said about it afterwards.

“You’re right, thank you,” Loki gave her hand another squeeze, hoping she knew that he really meant it, “But I also owe you an explanation.”

“You shouldn-”

He cut her off, knowing if he didn’t say this now, he might never, “I have to. Please.”

She sucked in a breath, and nodded, though he could tell she was wary of what he was about to say, “Then please don’t lie to me.”

“I won’t. I’ll do my best to give you the explanation you deserve,” Loki then continued to explain the conversation he’d overheard a year ago and Odin’s plans to kill her. Talking about it a year later still made his blood boil, but his body was in no condition to support his rage. Uneasy from the blank look on her face he finished with, “If you hadn’t escaped, Odin would have killed you the next morning. You needed to be as far off Asgard as possible, with no reason to return.”

She shook her head, looking like she was about to be sick, and whispered, “I don’t believe you.”

“You asked me not to lie,” He whispered back, afraid he’d waited too long to tell her.

The lines on her face hardened, “Since when has that stopped you?”

“Since you started believing in me,” He snarled back, unable to keep the emotion from his voice or the words from tumbling out of his mouth, “Or at least since you used to. Since you stayed…Since you didn’t look at me like I was the cruel monster everyone else believes me to be. Odin was going to kill you and I couldn’t let that happen. Not to you…never to you.”

It was as if the next moment was suspended in time and they stared at each other, trying to find the truth hidden beneath all the lies. But for once, there were no lies. There were no half-truths or omissions, no tales spun for fear she wouldn’t like what she saw. He owed her the truth. Not only for saving his life, but simply because it was time she knew.

Loki couldn’t read the expression on her face; didn’t know if she was going to kick him off her ship and leave him on his own or if she might be willing to stay. Although he was afraid to say anything now, she had a room ready for her in his house. Yet, the longer he waited, the more he thought this was the end.

And then she kissed him.

His surprise quickly turned to relief and he pulled her closer, ignoring the pain in his body. Without realizing it though, he must have winced because she tried to pull away, but Loki kept his hand firm around the nape of her neck, refusing to let her slip away. He’d been waiting this long, he wasn’t going to ruin it because he’d almost died.

“I’m fine,” He growled before deepening the kiss.

He felt her smile against his lips and he almost sighed with relief. She tangled her fingers in his hair, tugging gently, and Loki shivered. He tried to pull her in closer, but even he couldn’t ignore the pain any longer. They broke away, both flushed and a little breathless.

“Why now? Why find me now?” She murmured, forehead resting against his.

He smiled, “Because, I needed to make sure the people you stole from didn’t kill you.”

“How kind.”

“What can I say,” He brushed his thumb along her jaw, “I am generous. I’m letting you stay on my planet.”

“I can leave if you’d like,” She offered.

He tugged her in so that his lips hovered so close, they brushed lightly against hers as he said, “I’d rather you stayed.”

And then he kissed her.

[highsviolets]

give me love (i’ll put my heart in it)

summary: you think about your relationship with Ben, musing on endings and beginnings. set in between ‘complications of time’ and ‘gingerbread cigarettes.’

pairing: lifeguard!Ben x reader 

warnings: angst-ish? I guess? Nothing crazy. Some language.  

links: prev / next / series masterlist / full masterlist 

a/n: yes hello hi I still write for Obi-Wan! Thanks to Brit, who encouraged me to post this, as well as being the fearless champion of this series. If you wanna, listen to this while reading.

give me love (i’ll put my heart in it) 

The cigarette isn’t working like it’s supposed to. There’s no burn, no squeezing in your lungs. Smoke that’s exhaled in a practiced breath lingers. Reluctant. It doesn’t want to dissipate — building blocks of nothingness can’t dissolve into their own substance, after all. Or can they? Maybe they’re just waiting for permission((letting go)).

It doesn’t matter anyway. A rock is your path, and you kick it, and you watch it travel down the sidewalk. Does it know? Does it know that its existence was a hindrance to yours?

Marlboros feel different without him around. When you haven’t stolen it from his backpack, or pocket, or right out of his hand. It doesn’t taste like heady spice, tingling tobacco. There’s an anguishing aftertaste in it wake, all metallic and slippery and….fucking hell, what’s the word? Where you miss the way things were before? Reminiscence? Nostalgia?

Ben would know. He’s good with words. The inhale is sharp, this time. From the death stick or the thought of him, you can’t say. Probably him, you decide, and pull the flannel tighter around you with your hand. He has always drawn you closer that you already were.

Ben is good with words, and he is good with cigarettes. Somehow the two things mold together, pressing and pulling: a play-doh question of eternal causality. Which came first, the cigarettes or the words? It sure as hell wasn’t you; he was already everything he is when he dragged you from crushing currents and brought you back to solid land. and you had lit his cigarette and worn his t-shirt and kissed him against the metal of his car, so hot it was cold, so hot you didn’t feel him save you from drowning just to set fire to your eyes. so hot you forgot the sensation of suffocation, his life squeezing yours in a box, a box shaped like the narrow white-and-red packs in back pocket and the metamorphosing of his books and the lewd lines in his sketches of aromatic deep blue futures ((those too that he would construct on your body, all arches and gilded strokes)). Hands are Ben’s forte: his weapon of choice. It is how he constructs you, brick by brick, and how he punches you apart, snippets and cuts and incisions through rips in paper and bleeding ink and scabs made from ashes.

He’s here and not here, as he always is. But nothing works even when it’s all the same. Ben will always linger, in crevices in dark armor that you carry shrouded and half-discarded, limp from a weary frame. And he will be there too, in drizzles of gold and honey sunlight. Perhaps you will never be able to smoke a fucking cigarette again((you won’t be able to stop))

Christ, it’s been a while, you had thought when he offered you one for the first time. Funny. That was the last time he had asked. Each ensuing occasion had been a woven branch of phone lines and psychosomatic communications, almost inebriated in their understanding of you and him. you&him drunk, drunk and drowning, hapless as he crashed into you without permission because he didn’t need to. When you had said yes to his cigarette you had said yes to him, and when you said yes to his question on Fukuyama you had assented to his words.

You feel out of place here: disjointed and rheumatic moans echo in your ear while you traverse pavement.This is his turf, and fall suits him better than it suits you. His hair matches the leaves, and his turtlenecks accentuate his cheekbones. He says he likes your flannel (you would, you told him, leaning into the heavy palm caressing your cheek, you picked it out.) But fall is far too esoteric for your liking, too erudite, too intellectual, too restrained. It is everything Ben is and everything you are not. And somehow he is summer too, drowsy and vibrant orange, and fucking hell if he isn’t winter and spring too.

Ben is entirely too alive for his own good — whole fragments — stitching — beloved, licentious breath.

And too pretty at that, you think, catching sight of sky through liquid smothered eyelashes that approach eroticism in their melancholy. You’re not like the girls he knows here. They’re posh and come from towns that aren’t like yours. Like yours and Ben’s. Their penmanship is precise and they have unsaddled accents and when he converses with them he never has to explain himself the way he does with you, tripping and fumbling with words and lighters and dousing the two of you gasoline just so you can see the patterns with which you’ll burn; damn it all if he never has to stop to tell them about a book because they’ve already internalized the moral principles of righteous words, and Christ you just can’t fucking compete with them, with these girls who adorn their words in painted lips.

Your mind has done what it’s been trained to do, exercising agency when you most seek comfort. Lattices of neurons have listened to what you want, twisted electrons pathways and energy levels shattering any semblance of a resting state. There is no rest, not with him and not without him, either. Ben is fast and slow; he is glacial, earthquaking movements. You do not realize you are moving — until you strain for the horizon and discover that it is no longer there.

He is outside, smoking. Corduroy meets brick at the upper reaches of his shoulders, stiff and formal, where his hair would be if he hadn’t cut it just a few weeks back. You wonder if he is really the one that is breaking you; perhaps you’re the one that’s casting him off-balance. Wet — Hot — Car — Skateboard — Library — Braids — Hands — Jackets — it’s always you going into him, so how is it that he has entered into you. maybe there’s a reason you failed biology after all. you could never see things as they really were. before lingers; there will never be an after, not for him((not for him with you)).

what’s wrong, baby, he says and the cigarette falls from his lips but not his hand, not the one that’s taking your arm so you face him head on((you’ve never been able to do that, maybe it’s time you start, maybe it’s time you finally start acting like him, and those girls with painted hands)).

you want to say something witty, something that doesn’t just cut but leaves an open wound. a phrase that will make him hurt in all the same places you do. a clump of letters that will make him understand. that’s what Ben always wants, isn’t it? To understand? you thought the phrase had been soft green and vibrant purple. now it’s a double entendre, or maybe a pun, all dual definitions of sneers and hypocrisy. Ben would know, of course. He’s good with words.

time stretches. temporality feel different as he stands, now upright. waiting. he’s waiting. waiting and yet still moving. blue eyes pluck at your tearstained cheeks((sifting through realities)).

the world needs to stop screaming, to stop screaming and let you think for once, no, you are tired of thinking, you are not like him, you are raw and uncensored gushes of emotion((exuberant hiding)).

Ben tilts your chin, thumb veering up your jaw. the pattern of his fingerprint — all coiled, swaying swirls — imbalance of charges — soft stings to jolt you awake. his touch is so familiar: wrapped in hundreds of occasions past. you relive them all in an instant, from the first to this last ((there is no after)).

but these are shadow-truths, ones you read in the way his hands grip your back and fall back to his sides((limplanguidlazy)) and you want to kiss him, kiss him one more time with eyes wide open. so you can watch him slip away, and slip away with you watching, you think. it’s a lie((Ben told you truth is a certain point view))

ben does not kiss you, but apologizes instead. blue eyes never lose your face and the meanings pressing against your skin feel sticky, over enunciated and slurred at the same time. he is right, but you cannot help but thinking that it is because he has made it so. he has achieved his greatest goal: ben now lives in a reality of his own creating. one fabricated with shards of bloody glass and violet scrunchies ghosting along the fringes of notebooks. most of all it is created with his words. because ben is good with words.

you smile and nod because it what you do, that is what you always do when the world((him)) crashes at your feet. and you walk away. it is really you that have been left, and him who has succeeded in the undoing. but it is all words, words and shadow-truths and half-hearted grasping at living((maybe he will realize how loud it is without him to tame the wind that’s rushing in your ears))

obi tags: @ohhellokenobi @profkenobi @goldenkenobi @rentskenobi @nobie @roseofalderaan @mcu-padawan @anakin-danvers @obitwo @obirain @justrunamok @catsnkooks @answer-the-sirens @lussyyung @cherrykenobi @royalhandmaidens @snips-n-skyguy0501 @kyjoraven @videogamesandpoorlifechoices @ina-lotta @inukako @i-am-i-am-obiwankenobi @princessxkenobi @wille-zarr @badedum-badaboom

[madasthesea]

AU: Platonic Soulmates

(Warning: blood)

Tony sighs heavily, absently scratching at his wrist. The nanotech is fighting him tonight—everything he tries ending in another failure. He should probably just call it quits and go to bed, really. Pepper’s almost certainly already asleep, having long since given up on him.

Tony scratches his wrist again. Sleep doesn’t sound so bad, actually. Better than the frustration he’s currently experiencing.

Running his fingers through his hair, Tony reaches out to the holo-table, ready to turn it off. Out of habit, he glances at his hand.

The name wrapping around his wrist in royal blue ink had been jarring for the first few months. He would catch it out of the corner of his eye and flinch or forget it was there. Now it’s comforting, though, familiar. Just like the kid that it designated as his soulmate.

In the dim light, it takes a second to register that the color isn’t as strong as it should be, not as bright and solid.

Tony’s stomach drops and then he’s scrambling through the lab, nearly tripping on his stool as he flings himself toward the door.

“FRIDAY, call Peter, push it through. Give me a suit, now,” he gasps. Now, an hour ago, yesterday. How long had he sat there fruitlessly staring at nanobots while Peter had been...?

“Call connected,” FRIDAY announces just as one of the Iron Man suits closes around Tony. He hopes it’s his fastest one.

“Peter?” Tony snaps.

Silence. Tony strains his ears.

“FRI?” he asks, his voice breaking.

“The call is connected, boss.”.

“Peter, buddy, please.” Peter doesn’t answer, and, worse, Tony can’t even hear his breathing.

He can’t see the mark on his wrist while he’s in the suit, but he can feel it, itching and burning and demanding attention.

“What are his vitals?” Tony whispers, zooming over the New York skyline toward the blinking red dot of Peter’s tracker.

“His AI is malfunctioning, I can only get a heartrate. Forty-two beats per minute and slowing.”

So he is alive. Alive and bleeding out, probably in some dingy alley: The life leaching from him just like the color leaching from Tony’s soulmark.

When your soulmate dies the mark goes white. Like a scar. Never to recover.

“Full power to thrusters,” Tony chokes out. “And prep the Medbay or, or an ambulance, or... something. Anything.”

He’s closing in fast. He doesn’t bother slowing down, just crash lands, skidding into a dumpster and sending rats skittering. This is where his kid is, injured and unconscious and dying.

Tony claws at the suit until it opens, falling out gracelessly. He scrambles to the side of the prone figure, ignoring the sticky pool of hot liquid he kneels in. With shaking hands, Tony grasps Peter’s face, turning it toward him. In the dim lamplight, barely reaching the dark recesses of the alley Tony can see the blue around his wrist fading, practically flickering like a weak heartbeat. Like Peter’s heartbeat.

Peter doesn’t even groan, his eyelids don’t even flutter.

“Ambulance, FRIDAY.” The kid wouldn’t survive the flight back to the tower Medbay. He might not even survive the wait for the ambulance.

Tony’s heart is imploding. His vision is fading in and out. He can’t... he can’t...

By sheer instinct from years of running around with the Avengers, Tony finds his hands applying pressure to the gaping wound in Peter’s thigh. It’s deep and wide, but he thinks that by some miracle the femoral artery must have stayed intact, simply by virtue of the fact that Peter isn’t dead yet.

“Peter,” Tony says loudly, putting his entire body weight on the wound. He doesn’t have a belt on or he would do a tourniquet, and he won’t leave Peter long enough to find a suitable replacement.

“Peter,” Tony practically shouts. He presses down hard, almost purposefully digging into the wound just to get some reaction. Finally, finally, Peter whines in the back of his throat, his eyebrows beetling.

“Kid? Kid, you with me?” Peter doesn’t answer, but his face stays creased in pain. As much as Tony hates it, it’s better than the pale lifelessness of before.

“I don’t know if you can hear me, Pete, but you are not allowed to die. Do you understand? You can’t do that to me. You can’t.”

A siren pierces the quiet and tears of relief spring to Tony’s eyes.

“Ok, kiddo, just a little longer,” he murmurs. “Please, buddy, hold on for me.”

The medics arrived in a blur of red lights and shouted questions. They load Peter into the ambulance and Tony scrambles in with him. He sits at Peter’s feet, because that’s the only place an EMT doesn’t need to be. Aching to touch him, to feel that Peter actually is there, getting the help he so desperately needs, Tony reaches out his hand and wraps it around Peter’s ankle.

His soulmark is hard to see through the blood coating him nearly up to his elbows.

In the back of his mind, Tony remembers reading somewhere that the only thing worse than losing your child was losing your soulmate.

How can Tony survive losing both?

  Tony sits with Pepper in the waiting room and watches his mark like it was the only thing in the world that matters. Maybe it is.

He cleaned himself up once he got to the hospital and had been forced away from Peter, but the knees of his jeans are stained rust brown and there are streaks of blood on his t-shirt. Pepper had blanched when she’s seen him, but Tony hadn’t managed to force out any words of comfort.

May bursts into the waiting room eventually, looking frantic. Pepper goes to talk with her. Tony’s sitting with his head in his hands, but when they both come over, May reaches out and tugs his right hand into hers. Tony squeezes his eyes shut. She isn’t just offering comfort, she’s checking his mark. It’s the only source of news they’ll have until Peter’s surgery is done.

After a long moment, Tony looks up and meets May’s gaze. Her eyes are red, but she looks stalwartly back at him. On her neck, just above her collarbone, is her own soulmark, Benjamin Parker written in a cramped, messy hand. The letters are white now, like a scar. Like spider webs.

Tony decides then and there that he would rather cut his own hand off than have to face the reminder of losing the most important person in his life every single day.

For so long, Tony had thought he didn’t have a soulmate. If it wasn’t Pepper—or, heck, even Rhodey—it wasn’t anyone. And then the Accords fiasco had happened and he’d found himself sitting in a teenager’s room, clapping him on the shoulder and asking if he’d ever been to Germany.

Soulmarks appeared the first time you touched each other. Tony had felt the burning under the skin of his wrist and done his best to ignore it, grateful his jacket sleeve covered the skin. As soon as he’d left, however, he’d yanked up the fabric to see Peter Parker curving around his wrist like a bracelet in childish handwriting.

He didn’t tell anyone for months. In fact, he did his best to pretend it hadn’t happened. How do you casually say, “Hey, I met my soulmate that I didn’t think I had and, by the way, it’s a fourteen-year-old boy that I made fight Captain America?”

Pepper had been the first person to find out, after they got back together. Tony had tried to brush it off, but she had taken his face in her hands and looked at him for a long time before saying, “I don’t think the universe gets these kinds of things wrong, Tony.”

He’d disagreed, then. In fact, it had taken Peter almost dying (again) for him to wake up. He’d been standing in sickened horror as medics had cut away the Spider-Man suit so they could stitch up a gushing knife wound. And there on his chest, in the exact same place the arc reactor scar was on Tony, was Anthony Stark in blazing red.

It’d been a lot harder to deny after that. He’d sat Peter down and had a very short, awkward, and probably insufficient talk with him about it and somewhere between then and now, Tony realized that the universe had known exactly what it was doing when it decided that Peter Parker and Tony Stark were meant for each other.

Peter is... Peter is everything. He’s his lab partner, his best friend, his hero, his son all in one. He makes Tony more himself than he had ever been, than he had known how to be. He learned that he liked waking up early to dumb texts about people on the subway, he learned he preferred home cooked meals to ordering out, he learned that he liked to teach. He learned a new definition for ‘home,’ and it’s almost entirely centered on Peter’s laugh and the way his eyes look in late afternoon sunlight.

What he wouldn’t give to be there right now, he thinks. If he could click his heels three times and go home, he would be curled up with Peter’s head on his shoulder and Pepper’s feet in his lap and a single blanket draped over all three of them.

As it is, all he can do is stare at his wrist and pray for that familiar royal blue, that beautiful blue, to grow stronger.

It gets paler instead. The blue creeps away from the edges, fading and fading until it is suddenly, brutally gone.

May’s hand is crushingly tight around his.

“No,” Tony breathes, and it’s the only thing he can do, the only word he can think. No. No, no, no nononono.

It hurts. It aches all the way down to his bones and the stabbing, burning pain emanating from his wrist straight to his heart is so sharp Tony cries out.

The blue jolts back and disappears, leaving nothing but thin, gossamer script. It looks so much like spider webs Tony would laugh if he could manage it around the piercing, ripping agony.

He has never thought too much about soulmates, but now he wonders how literal that word is. Are they one spirit in two bodies? Is Tony’s soul, right now, being shredded, torn asunder? It feels like it.

The words light up blue again, flicker, and die.  

Tony’s going to vomit.

They’re shocking his kid. His Peter. Trying to restart his heart. Trying to bring him back to life.

The blue fizzes back into existence and this time, this time, it stays that way.

May sobs in relief next to him, unclenching her fingers from around Tony’s so she can lift it to her face and cry.

Pepper, kneeling next to him unnoticed for the last two minutes, yanks Tony up and guides him to a garbage can just in time for Tony to make good on his promise and cough up bile.

A nurse comes and checks on him after that, but Tony ignores her, barely registering her murmur of, “His soulmate? Oh, that can cause very visceral reactions,” as if there was something quantifiable, something normal about having your world balanced on the precipice of complete and utter destruction.

  It takes them four hours to finish Peter’s surgery, another hour before he’s in a room. They almost stop Tony from going in, spouting that “family only” line Tony has heard so many times, but Tony’s at the end of his rope, so he just shoves his wrist in the RN’s face, who nods and bashfully steps aside.

Tony collapses in the chair by Peter’s bed, feeling like he’d just run up Mount Everest. He reaches up and takes Peter’s hand. The name around his wrist is a dark, stunning blue. For the first time all night, Tony can breathe.

  When Peter wakes up, Tony’s at his side.

“Hey, kiddo,” Tony whispers as Peter scrunches his eyes closed, his nose wrinkling up.

“Tony,” Peter slurs, turning his head toward the sound.

“Right here.” He stands and puts his hand on the center of Peter’s chest, right over his soulmark.  

Peter hums, smiling dopily, his eyes still closed. “’Is you.”

Peter’s hand comes up and wraps around Tony’s wrist, his fingers covering his own name on Tony’s skin. As always, a small rush of warmth accompanies the touch.

Tony laughs lightly. “You could see that if you opened your eyes, buddy.”

Peter makes an unhappy noise, but slowly opens his eyes.

“Hi,” he says.

Tony snorts. “Hey, kid. Good to see those eyes open.”

Peter grimaces. He looks around the room, frowning.

“How’d you know?” He asks suddenly, sounding slightly more lucid. “I... the suit was damaged. I passed out before I could call.”

Sighing, Tony sits on the edge of Peter’s bed. He gently adjusts Peter’s grip on his arm so that his mark is showing.

“Luckily, I have a very reliable alarm bell, right here.”

“Oh.” Peter runs his thumb over name again. “It was that bad?”

Tony’s stomach clenches, remember the feeling of desolation as he’d sat in the waiting room, watching as Peter flatlined.

“It was pretty bad,” Tony agrees. “In fact, I uh, had to blow our cover a bit. They wouldn’t let me in until I showed them my wrist.”

It is, technically, a secret. If Tony’s going out, he always wears a watch or suit jacket to cover the mark, knowing a single paparazzi shot is all it would take to change Peter’s life forever.

Peter bites his lip. “Think it’ll be a problem?” he asks, his voice small.

“Nah,” Tony says, leaning forward so he can brush Peter’s hair off his forehead. “Plenty of parents have their kid as their soulmate.”

Peter smiles, that smile that means home to Tony more than any building or city. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Nothing new.”    

[zmediaoutlet]

in support of Black Lives Matter, @hairmonie donated $15, and requested Samifer/Dean Thank you for donating!

to get your own personalized fic, please see this post. (no longer taking prompts)

Sam says yes, in Detroit. Dean knows because Sam left him a voicemail.

He got a handful of voicemails this year. He never responded because he--he just never responded. He drove alone and killed some things and nearly got killed by others, and the world got worse. Lucifer out there, somewhere Dean couldn’t find him, and Sam gone, and he’d watch his phone light up with an unfamiliar number and wait through the rings, and then when he got the notification he’d hold the phone to his ear, hunched over with his eyes scrunched shut, and listen. Sam usually didn’t say his name, and he didn’t tell Dean where he was, but he’d say things like he wants to use me and I’m hiding but Castiel says they’re getting better at tracking and be safe. Be safe. The last voicemail is left about five minutes to midnight when it’s still technically May 1, and Dean’s in Louisville with ten stitches in his thigh and nearly a full bottle of tequila in his gut, and he doesn’t actually listen to it until morning, when the skies are suddenly dark all over the country and there’s thunder like it might never stop. He’s curled up on the backseat of the car, and he puts the phone to his ear and listens to Sam’s voice and Sam says, for the first time in a year, Dean, I think I can--I think I can do it. I’m sorry.

He’s sorry. Dean doesn’t delete the voicemail like he hasn’t deleted any of the others, and he lets the phone fall to the floorboards. The thunder’s getting louder. It rattles in his chest like there’s something that used to be there, and now it’s just an empty box.

He’s outside of Evansville when it happens--this massive world-ending crack of lightning that splits the sky’s darkness, so bright he slams on the brakes, swerves over to the side of the country highway. Afterimages blur purple across his vision and he has to clap his hands over his ears for the thunder that comes after. Fuck--loud enough that it hurts, that the windshield fractures. He stumbles out of the car and Castiel’s there, for the first time in months and months since he abandoned Dean to his miseries. Castiel’s wounded, scorched. His ears and eyes and nose all bleeding, and he grabs Dean’s jacket sleeve and Dean has to read his lips to know he’s saying it’s too late, and Michael lost, and Dean doesn’t know what that means. He jerks out of Cas’s grip and Cas stares at him and then looks up, straight up with his back arched unnaturally, and in the blink of a second he’s gone. Gone.

The thunder quiets, finally. In its place Dean’s aware of his ears ringing and the ticking of the car’s engine as it cools, and--nothing else. No other cars on the road near him. No breeze. He listens to his own air and looks west, toward where the lightning was, and then there’s a hand on his shoulder and he turns around fast and it’s--Sam.

He backs up a step, more out of shock than anything. “What,” he says, breathless, and Sam tilts his head, looking at Dean. Looking at him, in this--weird dispassionate way, this studying way, and Dean looks back, sees Sam in his dumb boxy jacket and his walked-on jeans and his hair Dean used to tease him for, when it was still okay enough between them that they could have teasing, and it’s all the right shape but the horror’s rising up in his gut. That voicemail. That look, wearing Sam’s face.

“I’ve been wanting to meet you,” Sam says. Quiet voice, calm. He smiles at Dean, a little. “I thought I was going to kill you, today, but I guess you managed to dodge my brother long enough that you got out of it. You’re more clever than they gave you credit for, Dean.”

He backs up another step. Like there’s anywhere he can go. He has Ruby’s knife and he has his gun and he has a foot-long blade he stole from an angel under the front bench in the car, but none of them will work. “Lucifer,” he says, and even as he says it he hopes it’s not true.

Sam’s face smiles a little wider. “In the flesh,” he says, spreading his hands. “So to speak.”

Dean’s ass hits the car, his boot thudding against the front tire. He didn’t realize he was still backing away. Lucifer. He carries Sam’s body--differently. Taller, slower. His eyes drag all over Dean and Dean feels them physically--literally, physically, like a heavy hand is pressing on his skin, pressing through his skin. When Lucifer meets his eyes again he looks--interested, thoughtful.

“Sam loves you,” he says. Dean’s jaw flexes and he looks down at the asphalt. “No--” Lucifer says, and Dean’s head drags up by some unseen force, gripped tight so that he has to face the thing wearing his brother head-on. He swallows and the pressure slides to his throat, not hurting but an unmistakable threat. Lucifer dips Sam’s chin a little. “He loves you. I loved my brother, too. It’s why Sam said yes. Did you know that?”

“The connection’s a little beyond me,” Dean says. He’s surprised he’s allowed to speak.

Lucifer stares at him for a too-long alien second before he smiles, a strange upside-down version of Sam’s smile. Like he’s pitying the dumb human. “He wanted to keep the world from burning,” Lucifer says. “Not so much for the world’s sake, but because you were in it. He thought he could control me and stop all this. It was noble. Even if it didn’t work.”

“If you loved your brother, why did you kill him?” Dean says. He remembers Sam’s hands around his throat, his cheekbone cracked and the blood spilling over his lips. Lucifer watches him, calm. Maybe he did it with his hands, too. “Shouldn’t you be celebrating?”

Lucifer huffs. It’s so like Sam for a second that Dean feels his heart crumbling inside his chest. “It’s okay that you don’t understand,” Lucifer says, softly. He steps closer and grips Dean’s shoulders, gentle enough but it doesn’t stop Dean’s skin from crawling. “You will, I think. One day. You’ll know what’s necessary and you’ll try, instead of this pointless running in place you’ve been trying to justify to yourself. Today isn’t for you. Today is for Sam.”

Dean can hardly breathe with Lucifer this close. “What does that mean?”

Another little smile. Rueful. Almost sweet. “Sam’s screaming,” Lucifer says. He takes one hand off Dean and taps Sam’s temple with two fingers. “In here. He wants control back, wants to stop me from doing what I need to do. I need to show him what will happen, if he keeps defying me.”

“Don’t hurt him,” Dean blurts out. Stupid--like he can stop anything--but it’s instinct, ripping past that ill-healed scar where he thought he’d buried away worrying about Sam.

Lucifer shakes his head. “I don’t want to.” It almost sounds honest. “But I can’t have the distraction if I want to execute my vision for this world. But we both know, Dean, that Sam can take any kind of pain and still hold strong. What hurts him is what hurts you.”

He’s watching Dean’s face, waiting for him to get it. Dean drags in air and the understanding of what’s about to happen settles over him like suffocation. “Don’t,” he says, but he can barely get out the voice for it. Lucifer gives him another rueful little smile, like it’s something that can’t be helped. “Sam knows better. He’ll stop you.”

Lucifer cups Dean’s jaw in Sam’s big hand, strokes over his cheek with the thumb. “He won’t,” Lucifer says, quiet promise, and there’s a weird stomach-turning moment where the world quivers, and then Dean’s--oh, god, oh fuck oh fuck he’s on his back on the Impala’s hood, and he’s naked, and he had forty years with Alastair’s knives and even so he still has a moment, a fierce bloody moment, where he thinks he can fight back. He strains and is shocked to find that he can move, and he swings a clenched fist and Sam’s hand catches it, easy. Lucifer’s stripped, too, and Sam’s body is--thinner than Dean remembers him being--like he wasn’t eating right, this last year--but he’s still tan, still built, and Dean’s eyes drop because he can’t help it and Sam’s dick is--god help him, hard, and big, hanging heavy and straight out from Sam’s hips.

“This is stupid,” Dean says, trying to push back on the hood but his skin’s catching, the metal holding him. Lucifer grabs his knee, drags him painfully back into place. “And cliche. I mean, rape? Really? Come on, you think this’ll break me?”

“It did,” Lucifer says, easy. “In hell. Eventually.” Dean’s jaw clenches and he tries a punch again, but Lucifer’s strong--stronger than Sam, unnatural and inevitable, and he grabs Dean’s wrists in one hand, pins them against Dean’s chest bruisingly tight, and his hips are between Dean’s thighs and he catches one leg, pushes it up and back, spreads Dean open for it. He looks down at Dean, knowing, and it’s not--lustful, not crazed and dripping like the demons were. Not cruel. One corner of Sam’s mouth lifts up. “Breaking you isn’t the point. Remember, this is for Sam. He wanted this, so badly,” Lucifer says, and Dean stills his squirming, looks up into Sam’s familiar face. It’s still dark, with the sky crowded with thunderclouds, but Sam seems lit from within, Lucifer’s grace filling him. For a second, he looks genuinely sympathetic, and Dean’s still frozen, mind stuck on that thought, when Lucifer dips in and kisses him, close-mouthed and nearly sweet, Sam’s lips soft and catching against his where they’re chapped. When Lucifer lifts up he sighs, still close enough that Sam’s breath touches Dean’s mouth, and he looks right into Dean’s eyes. “What matters is that it hurts you. It’ll hurt, Dean.”

It does already. Sam’s prick nudges in against Dean’s ass, wet only with whatever precome’s making it slip against his skin, and Dean stares up into his brother’s face. When the shove happens--it is a shove, Sam’s dick too big and Dean too tight--Dean can’t help the sound he makes, or how he arches, trying to get away--and for a split second Lucifer’s face changes and through the haze of split-open racking hurt Dean knows that it’s Sam, it’s his brother, holding him and wrenching him wide and looking at him terrified--and Sam lets Dean’s wrists go and grabs his face--says, “Dean,” in the way he always used to, the way Dean loved, the way that meant something deeper than any other words could ever hope to say--and even with Sam shoved inside him and with how much it hurts Dean touches his face and says, shaky, “It’s okay, Sammy,” and before he can finish Sam’s name Sam’s eyes change and he knows it’s Lucifer, looking back at him, a weird canny triumph in his eyes.

The thunderclouds part, over Sam’s head, and roll back. The sun’s rising in the east and the sky’s a clear, pale blue. Lucifer plants a hand on the car and holds Dean’s hips in his other hand and fucks in and it hurts, hurts, fuck it hurts, and he smiles down and says, “It’ll be over soon, Dean,” and that’s a lie. Dean drags in breath, hooks his legs around Sam’s hips, and when Lucifer screws inside the next time it still hurts like knives but at least the angle’s better, and he drops his head back against the car, pants up at the clear sky. It won’t be over soon, but one day it will be. Lucifer kisses his jaw, gentle, and Dean closes his eyes and says, clear inside himself, it’ll be okay, Sammy, and resolves then that he will kill them both to make sure that one day it’s true.

[vicunaburger]

Gonna blame @hoodoo12 for her amazing vampire!Dewey fics for this so... THANKS. <3

Vampires + Soft Dewey Finn kicked down my door, punched me in the face and screamed “BUT WHAT IF THIS?” Will I do another one? IDK. Maybe. This is a weird AU to play in and I kinda dig it.

Fandom: School of Rock: The Musical Pairing: Dewey Finn x Vampire!Reader Word Count: 1,308 Warnings: Blood, Vampirism, Mild violence

Wild Things

Instincts were troublesome.

Especially when they decided to kick in at the most inconvenient of times: like when you were trying to enjoy a peaceful evening with the man you adored above all else. The two of you were in bed after a long, rowdy night at a local concert; he was dead asleep, but you were wide awake, keenly aware of how slow his heartbeat had become.

The alcohol was making him sluggish, no doubt; a trait you thoroughly enjoyed when you were feeling hungry. But this wasn’t your meal, this was Dewey Finn.

Although there was no rule that said they couldn’t be one in the same.

You slowly crawled your away across the bed, pressing yourself against his warm side, your face settling into the crook of his neck. One, two… one, two… one, two… You started counting his heartbeats like the bass track of a rock ballad.

His blood was loud, rushing though his veins like a drainpipe, taunting you to just reach out and take a little for yourself. Just a little… he wouldn’t miss just a bit…

At once you were leaping out of bed, plastering yourself against the nearby wall, trying to put distance between yourself and Dewey. The movement jostled him awake, and he sat up, confusion replacing the tiredness in his expression.

“Huh- wha- honey bun?” Dewey’s gaze settled on you, concerned as he watched you back yourself into the far corner of the room. “What’s… what’s the matter?”

“I have to go out,” you announced, nearly teleporting yourself to the closet, scrambling to find something to wear over your nightclothes. “It’s nothing. Go back to sleep, Finn, I’ll be back soon.”

He stumbled out of bed, turning on the desk lamp, and shuffling toward the closet, “Go out? It’s… late? Why are you going out? We just got back from going out.”

You narrowly avoided his outstretched hand, hissing through your teeth, “Not… not that going out. Call it early breakfast.”

Your admission sobered him up immediately, but he didn’t move from his place beside you, “…oh. Well, that’s the most important meal of the day, you know?”

His face was flush with embarrassment at the bad joke, and you could hear the blood rushing to fill the capillaries in his cheeks. It was so distracting, you dropped the jacket you were holding and just stared at him in the dim light. The glow caught your eyes as your turned, reminding Dewey of how a cat’s eye catches even the faintest trace of light. A predator trait.

“I know you don’t like it,” You were whispering now, desperately trying to ignore his closeness. “But the alternative is not an option.”

“Why not?” Dewey asked suddenly, his voice tinged with a bitterness you had grown used to in the months since you moved in together. “I can handle-”

“No you can’t.” You snapped, bearing your fangs for emphasis.

The look on his face damn near broke your heart, and you quickly covered your mouth with your hand. Unlike most media on vampires, you didn’t have a cute little set of large canines; your incisors and canines were sharpened to thick points, and the teeth on the bottom row matched. They were for tearing and holding onto prey, not gently taking a few mouthfuls of blood during a romantic evening.

You knew you frightened him.

Maybe that’s what hurt you the most during these arguments, seeing the look of terror flit across his rounded, soft face when he caught sight of something you couldn’t hide fast enough. As much as he professed to not care about your monstrous nature, you could read his face like an open book when he wasn’t paying attention.

“Please… just let me be the judge of that, okay? Do you know how much I worry about you going out when you’re like this? When you’re near starved because I’m selfish and keep you here at all hours? I… I hate having to think about you seducing someone into following you into a dark alley or some other shady place. That you smell like nasty body spray some dude bathed in before hitting a bar…” Dewey was pacing now, running a hand through his perpetual bedhead in frustration. “Just… just use me.”

There was that heartbeat again, drumming against his chest, “You’ll hate me.”

“How could you think that? After we’ve been together this long? I think I’ve been pretty goddamn chill about the whole bloodsucker thing, honey.” He groaned, “Just let me heellllp. That’s all I want. Gimme one chance to prove that I can handle things. If I act like a jackass… then… you can do what you want. You can yell at me, hit me, even b-b-break up with me and I’ll take it like a man.”

You watched as he knelt down next to you, slowly, as though he were approaching a feral animal. So soft, so kind… so trusting.

In a flash you had him pinned to the floor, the difference in your statures irrelevant as your strength kept him from throwing you off like a bucking bronco. You ripped the collar of his t-shirt to expose his skin, diving toward his neck with practiced precision, sinking your teeth in deep.

Feeling the warm liquid slide down your throat like a finely aged whiskey, you could feel him start to fade beneath you, the fight literally being drained out of him with each passing second. Before his pulse became too weak against your lips, you dislodged yourself from him, not wanting to be greedy however tempting his offer had been. With a renewed sense of vigor, you dragged him over to the bed, sitting him upright upon it and wrapping him in blankets to get some warmth back into him. Luckily, you always knew to keep a well-stocked medical kit nearby, just for such occasions. You had been at this for… well, a very long time before you met the enthusiastic rock star.

—

A wild animal can’t be blamed for being wild.

At least that’s what you told yourself as you dunked your shirt into the kitchen sink, scrubbing with the harshest cleanser you had in the apartment. You frowned, watching the stain go from red to pink, the water doing more harm than good as it carried the coloring through each fiber of the garment. Pity; it was one of your favorites he had let you borrow for the night.

Abandoning your task, you made your way back to the bedroom, stretching your arms up wide hearing a satisfying pop. On the way, you gathered up a needle, thread, and scissors from your sewing kit. It was handy thing to have around whenever something needed mending. Your overall mood had improved tenfold; you had so much more energy, and that awful, painful hunger had vanished completely.

The same couldn’t be said for your partner.

Knocking on the bedroom door quietly, you slipped into the room, going over to sit on the edge of the bed closest to him. He was sweating, tossing and turning in a fitful sleep, mumbling words you couldn’t quite understand despite your excellent hearing.

You placed the back of your hand against his forehead, his body flinching at your touch, “I know… I know… your body will come out of shock soon, Finn. Just try and breathe for me, okay?”

Dewey shook his head, whimpering as he aggravated the wound at the junction of his neck and shoulder. Reaching over, you checked the bandage you had placed there, happy that the worst of the bleeding had already subsided. A few more hours and the gashes would begin to close on their own.

“I hate to say it, Dewey, but I did warn you this would happen.” You leaned down, nuzzling your cool skin against his warm cheek. “But don’t you worry, it won’t hurt as much next time. Promise.”

Kissing his sweat covered forehead, you settled yourself beside him in bed, taking the shirt you had ripped earlier and beginning to stitch up the collar.

Writing Tags: @mr-geuse @paxenera @leiasolo77 @go-commander-kim @ashemspirit @asriells

[pocketfulofrogers]

Solace

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader

Summary: You’ve recently switched to the night shift and the adjustment hasn’t been great. Your neighbor would agree.

Notes: This is a part of @buckygrantbarnes writing challenge! I chose concept #5: Character and Reader are neighbors, and Reader keeps waking Character up by setting a really loud alarm in the middle of the night. 

I know this is a smidge late, but life has been crazy! Thanks for hosting, I had a lot of fun writing this!!

Steve Rogers considers himself a reasonable man, he really does. He remains patient with the trainees while he shows them new techniques again and again until his mind melts, taking each clipped jaw in stride. He even always smiles at the children trying to climb his body in their excitement when all he wants is a coffee. 

During those precious moments he isn’t in the suit, he’s a very quiet, laid back man.

Which is why he’s gone two months without breaking down your door in the middle of the night when he hears that shrill, incessant alarm you seem to be immune to seeping through the shared wall.

He’s been tortured before. This is worse.

Each time he comes home from a mission, peels the Kevlar from his body, and sinks to his bed, your alarm steals away the hope of a quick slumber and he loathes you for it.

Sam tells him to try writing a letter, Natasha offers to break in and steal it.

He considers both options, the latter more seriously, until one afternoon he runs into you after his morning jog. The elevator doors are almost closed when he shoves his hand in the small opening. He mutters an apology, but hears no response.

You’re leaned on the wall, arms crossed before your chest, head resting against the metal and for a moment he thinks you may actually be asleep.

He doesn’t say anything, he’s been there.

“6B right?” You mumble. He’s not sure he’s heard you correctly. “I’m 6A. I think I’ve seen you around.”

When you look over at him, his stomach flops, does somersaults in his belly. You look positively wrecked. The light blue scrubs you’re wearing are splattered and stained with various colors, and the bags under your eyes are deep enough he’s almost concerned for your health.

Yet he thinks you may be the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“Uh- yeah, Steve.” He manages.

You nod and go back to resting your head. “Y/N.”

He imagines he may be more tolerant going forward.

**

He tries to catch you again in the following weeks, but your schedule seems to be more unpredictable than his. That stupid, stupid alarm still wakes him most nights, but he finds it easier to suffer through now.

**

One night he comes home after a long mission. Exhaustion weighs his body enough he almost considers passing out by the door, but after days of sleeping on dirt floors, his back is pleading for the comfort of his bed.

Looking at his watch he knows he has about 45 minutes before you have to be up for work. Maybe it’s the hope that for one night he could have a restful sleep, or perhaps the humidity of the jungle had just escaped had dissolved his patience, but his feet have padded their way to the hallway before he truly knows what he’s going to do.

Barefoot before your door, he knocks. Once. Twice. Then a third time.

He waits patiently until he hears you mumble something less than kind from behind the door and finds himself smiling at the irony.

**

Having someone pound on your door at midnight, ripping you from a dead sleep, is only about the third worst thing to happen to you this week.

You fling the door open. “Do you have any…“

Of all the people it could’ve been, Martha from 5A coming to complain about nonexistent noise, the new mom from 6F asking you to check out her baby for the third time this week, or the teen from 2 trying to convince you he definitely needs a medical marijuana card, a very tired Captain America leaning on your door frame is the last thing you expected.

He raises a brow at your unfinished threat. “Ah yes, 12:09. 21 minutes before your alarm.”

You furrow your brows. “How do- “

“Look,” He interrupts, pushing off from your door frame, you don’t miss his wince- the way he favors his right side. “I know you probably have a very important job, and getting up in the middle of the night for shifts like those must be brutal, but I’ve just gotten off quite a draining ‘shift’ myself and was hoping that for at least one night you could just not.”

You’re catching on. “’Just not?’ Are you talking about my alarm?” He nods. You’re stunned, having thought that with as much as you pay a month, the walls would’ve been much thicker. Or is it really that loud? Adjusting to the night shift had been rough. “Oh, wow, I am so sorry.”

He shakes his head and points to his ear. “Super good hearing, don’t worry about it. Thank you.” He turns to walk away and that’s when you notice his limp, and the blood.

“Woah, wait. Did you have anyone look at that?” You point at his leg and he shrugs, giving you a less than assuring ‘it’s fine’ and goes to open his apartment door. “Uh- no. That’s a 6-inch lac that’s still actively bleeding? Are you insane? Please, let me take a look.”

“That’s very kind, but-“

“Your ribs could also be broken and I’ll just spend all day worrying about if you died in your sleep from a punctured lung or something. I can’t have Captain America’s death on my conscious.”

He takes a moment to look you up and down and weighs his chances of being able to talk his way out of whatever this is. He’ll heal on his own, eventually, but the look in your eyes tells him he’d have more luck trying to convince Martha he doesn’t actually stomp around just to annoy her.

“Alright.”

**

Managing to get Steve to strip down to some shorts and a tank top, he’s sat at your kitchen table. It took you a solid five minutes to convince him that he needed stitches, and lucky for him, you steal suture kits.

“You know, when you told me your name it would’ve been the perfect moment to mention you’re Steve as in Steve Rogers.” You lightly chastise, holding pressure to his thigh.

He doesn’t even flinch. “Not like I was hiding it. You did look right at me.”

You laugh. “Well I had just gotten off a 36-hour shift, you cannot hold that against me.”

He watches quietly as you work, forehead creased with worry and constantly mumbling about how he’s lucky there’s no signs of infection, with an occasional ‘you really weren’t going to do anything about this’. He finds your commentary amusing.

Your fingers glide across his skin and your touch is faint enough it almost tickles. You’re worried about nerve damage, but he thinks you’re just that good.

With a pile of red stained gauze by your side and the area around his wound as clean as you could get it, you grab a lamp from your desk and pick up the needle with your hemostat. Well, not yours, really. Also stolen, but sterile!

When you hold the needle up and adjust your grip on the clamp, he gives you a wary look.

“What?”

“I don’t know how I feel about a thief stitching me back together.” He says with a raised brow. There’s a glint in his eyes, the smallest twitch at the edge of his lips.

You roll your eyes. “With as hard as they work me, this is the least they owe me.”

“What do you even use them for?”

Your quite for a moment. “Sewing.” You say quietly and he barks a laugh. “I just- hush, don’t distract me.”

He complies and sits back to watch you fondly. Your teeth sink into the pillow of your lip each time you push the needle into the flesh of his thigh. You had apologized for not having any kind of numbing agent, but he had assured you that he’d be just fine.

Still, you glace up with each pull to make sure it’s not some macho show. Then again, he was Captain American and by the look of him at this moment, the pinch of a needle is probably more an annoying after thought than anything else.

Cutting the last stitch, you place the bandaging and offer him a smile. He thanks you sincerely, but you tsk when he tries to get past you to the door.

“Shirt off.” You order. He takes a half step back, cocks his head to the side and smirks. How he could be even slightly amorous at this moment is beyond you. “I want to check your ribs, make sure nothing’s displaced.” Something in his eyes shifts, he’s hesitant- guarded- and you’re unsure why. “I haven’t seen you take a single normal breath in the time you’ve been here. A simple, quick exam can tell me if there’s anything to worry about.”

He looks away and you’re about to suggest that he just check in with the medical team at wherever it is that super people work. They have to have medical staff, right? You tuck that question away for later.

Steve looks back to you and nods before pulling the white cotton over his head.

You would be completely stunned at the site of his quite perfect physique if it weren’t for the bruises blossoming bright red and dark purple across his torso.

You catch yourself moving closer, reaching forward to graze a finger around the outline of the prominent colors. “Jesus, Steve.” You whisper.

“Heard that phrase before, never in a situation like this, though.” He mumbles,  but you ignore him and begin to prod as carefully as you can.

When you apply pressure to a certain spot that looks the most concerning, his breath exhales quickly in a hiss. “Sorry.” You mumble and find yourself asking how this happened before you can stop yourself.

He grabs your hand in his to stop your exploring fingers. The memory from these injuries hadn’t quite made their way through him yet. They sat too fresh on the forefront of his mind and being this vulnerable before someone he barely knows is quickly becoming too much.

“I’m fine, darlin’, really.” He says softly. You of course don’t buy it for a minute, but the proximity of him steals your fight, you lose your argument in the blue of his eyes.

“Ice it.” You order weakly. “Maybe just bruised, probably fractured.”

He nods, twitching the edges of his lips into a smile. Your hand is still in his and he brings it up to ghost your knuckles against his lips before thanking you again.

He leaves you there, stunned. You’re 15 minutes late for work.

**

“Wait. You had the Steve Rogers in your apartment half naked?” Your friend prods during your lunch break. You nod and lower your forehead to rest against your coffee cup. “And you didn’t even take advantage, kudos to you. Wait, is this a HIPAA violation?”

You sigh and look up to meet her narrowed eyes. “Honestly, I don’t know. Wouldn’t be surprised if SHIELD took me out, though.”

“Is that even a thing anymore? I can’t keep up with that craziness.” She shakes her head.

“Guess I could ask my neighbor, but I doubt he’d tell me the truth.”

“You have to see him again. You’re going to see him again right?” You try to ignore the excitement in her voice.

“He is my neighbor and those sutures have to come out eventually. Although he’ll probably just rip them out himself.” The thought makes you cringe.

“You know that’s not-“

Thankfully your pager goes off right then, cutting her interrogation short. “Sorry! Incoming trauma, gotta bounce.”

**

Steve comes home that evening to ice packs with the nearby hospital logo on them by his door. “Stop stealing from work.” He calls out and is rewarded with your laughter floating out from under your door.

**

He starts to make a habit of it, showing up at your doorstep sometimes bruised, usually bloody. You start to keep a bigger stock of supplies around, and worry on the nights he doesn’t show before you leave when you know he’s on mission.

He tries to message you when service and circumstance allows, just to ease you mind.

Every once in a while, you’ll find him sitting in the hallway beside your door, waiting with food and some injury that needs your attention.

Eventually you get around to asking him if there just isn’t any medical staff where he is, he tells you this is just more convenient. You don’t prod, but think it may have more to do with the way you treat him. Like a patient, a person, not an Avenger.

**

One night a knock awakes you in the middle of the night. You jump out of bed, knowing it’s most likely him. When you open the door and lay eyes on him, your heart stops.

He’s leaned against the doorway, barely able to hold himself up. There’s blood on the wall, his hands, his face, everywhere. He’s ghostly pale and you can tell he can hardly focus his eyes.

Before he can pass out, you wedge yourself under his arm and try to guide him inside.

“Probably shoulda just went to medical, shouldn’t’ve driven.” He tells you before collapsing onto your couch and you work quickly to get his suit off, apologizing each time he groans in pain.

“Oh god, Steve.” You whisper eyeing the deep gash on his side and quickly apply pressure.

He grunts. “I hope to hear you say something like that under different circumstances one day. You know, not in horror at the state of my health.”

“Well, don’t only show up when you’re hurt.” You shoot back and tape the gauze in place so you can get a line started. You had hoped he’d never show up this hurt, but a part of you can be relieved that you were prepared for it.

“Hey, I brought you food at work last week.”

You ignore that. “Steve, this is bad. Really bad. What the hell were you thinking?” 

Ignoring his half assed excuse, you get to work, quickly and tensely, mumbling your thoughts and a few vague threats about him not being allowed to die on you.

“Don’t worry, darlin, wouldn’t dream of goin’ anywhere.”

Once you get the bleeding under control unlike your emotions, you start to lay into him. Loudly. Your reaction is to be blamed on fear, the absolute nightmare that the man before you, who you’ve reluctantly become very attached to, could have actually died in your arms.

“I mean, seriously, Steve! How could you be so reckless?”

He drapes his arm over his eyes. “I like you more than the docs we have.”

You huff and begin cleaning the rest of him up. “I’m sure they’re just as good at their jobs.”

He shakes his head and willingly gives you the arm resting above him when you reach for it. “You’re better.” He states simply and you snort your disbelief. “Your hands are softer. I think your touch reminds me I’m still human.” He says quietly, eyes trained on the ceiling.

Your movements stall, his admission leaving you a little dazed. When he tilts his head to look over at you, you swear you stop breathing.

“I think I’ll always prefer you.”

The rational part of you is telling you to just chalk this up to blood loss, not to get your hopes up because this could get so complicated. But the other part, oh the hopeful part, was singing.

“I think I prefer you too.”

He laughs. “As a patient? Neighbor? Avenger?”

“Oh, come on now.” You start seriously. “The Black Widow went to Capitol Hill and basically told congress they wouldn’t arrest her because they didn’t have the balls. She will always be my favorite. You might be a close second.”

“Might be?”

“You’re first for everything else. Take the win, Steve.”

It only takes five minutes and two bribes to convince him to stay the night and that you should call out of work to keep an eye on him. He had protested, given you every excuse he could come up with, but you are well versed in the language of Steve Rogers.

You set a takeout menu from his favorite place before him during the middle of his ‘you have already done so much for me’ speech and he grumbles out an ‘alright’.

**

He awakes just after dawn to your head on his thigh, your body tucked tightly between his leg and the couch, and the intro music to some infomercial droning in the background. The last thing he wants to do is move, he could watch you like this all day. Maybe one day he’ll get to.

**

When you finally wake up, he’s gone. There’s a blanket from the laundry room draped over you and the smell of him still on your pillow.

A part of you is hurt, but you’re not quite sure why.

You don’t hear from him for two weeks.

**

Some coworkers suggest going downtown to blow of some steam and, since you knew Steve was home all week out of harm’s way, you agree. It’s not often you get to go out stress free.

However, mixing alcohol with a list of fairly serious questions that only one extremely handsome and infuriating super soldier could answer isn’t the greatest idea. Especially when said blue-eyed day dream lives right next door.

It isn’t long before you’re stumbling up to his door, despite the warnings of everyone that night that you absolutely should not. 2am wasn’t that late and when you get an idea in your head it’s hard to shake it.

He answers faster than you thought he would and his amused expression only distracts you for a few moments.

“You’re drunk.” He points out, trying to withhold a grin.

You scrunch your nose. “A smidge.”

“Lose your key?”

“No. Well… maybe. But that’s not why I’m here.” You take a step forward, place a hand on the door frame to steady yourself, and point a single finger at him. “I have questions that need answers, Cap. Let me in.” He raises his brows. “Please.” You add and he obliges.

You make your way to his kitchen and take a seat at the island, he trails in behind you. “Would you like some water? I think you should have some water.”

He sets a glass before you when you don’t reply, but with his eyes watching you, concern in the crease of his brow, you suddenly feel vulnerable- exposed. Where had that burning rage at him for leaving you without a word gone? Why had you been so angry to begin with?

It’s difficult to sift through the thoughts in your head, and the alcohol wasn’t exactly making that easier. What was the word for what you felt? Used? Forgotten? The last thing you wanted to do was sound like a needy child.

He leans forward onto the counter before you. “What’s on your mind, darlin’?”

Instead of meeting his eyes, you run the tip of your finger through the condensation on the glass, watch it pool on the marble.

“Talk to me. What is it?” He asks again

Suddenly you wish you had just gone home.

You chug the water. “It’s nothing, never mind. I’m just gonna go to bed.”

He steps in front of you before you can make it to the door, pleads with you again to just talk to him. You try to get past him, but his hand on your hip makes you freeze. He trails it up your side, grazes his knuckles up your arm. His fingers stop below your chin to gently tilt your eyes up to his.

His lips have barely parted to form his next plea when you cut him off. “What am I to you.” You barely whisper.

That catches him off guard.

“If this is just a convenience thing for you, I need to know.” He looks confused but you power through before he can respond. “Maybe your admission was just the blood loss talking and you disappeared to keep me from getting attached, although it’s a little late for that. Or, maybe there’s someone else. Which is fine-“

“Do you think I’m using you?” He appears hurt at the insinuation and suddenly it’s difficult to meet his eyes. “Look at me. Is that what you really think?”

“I don’t know what to think, Steve.”

He crashes his lips to yours. A sudden almost desperate act that leaves you useless. Your brain stalls and suddenly he is all there is. 

It’s needy and messy, but it is everything you needed. You thread your fingers through his hair and press yourself to him. The soft feel of him steals your hurt, dissipates that pit in your stomach, and you could almost hate him for it.  

He pulls away, breathless. “What part of ‘I will always prefer you’ wasn’t clear?”

[rinas-ninjas]

A while ago I think you did an evil SoG Zane drabble where he hurt jay? Can you continue that one maybe?

That au belongs to @revlischarm​, who oh so graciously collaborated with me to bring this next part of that chapter!

Content warning, this does get kind of bloody and gory compared to my usual content.

He wasn’t sure when Jay had stopped crying. And if he was being honest, he didn’t really care.

Sliding the knife in had been...cathartic, almost. Tossing it aside had been even better. It was such a limited space he had to work with, his hands proved better—and the feeling of truly being a part of his work felt even more so. It was for the best, really; all he’d felt was sheer anger, frustration, and there in front of him was a single point he could pour it all into.

The blue ninja’s face was a disarray of blood and tears when he was done, face framed by dark, messy curls. His hands and gi matched the mess of gore in front of him.

He’d stopped wriggling, finally. All that movement had been frankly irritating.

There was only one thing left to do.

So why couldn’t he finish the job?

It would be one clean, easy strike. A simple slash and they’d be rid one less ninja to deal with.

And yet, despite this, his hand refused to move from where it hovered.

Words echoed in his head,

“Are you crying?”

He shook them away. He was savoring his triumph. He’d seen the Quiet One do so before—and would do so again when he finally delivered her the Green Ninja.

“You really don’t want to do this.”

Of course he did. Of course, who wouldn’t want revenge? After all that pain, all that frustration and torment—they left him, he was only taking his rightful pound of flesh, so why was this so hard-?

He took in a gasping breath as the sight set in. As the feeling set in.

For a moment, his hands flashed in his mind’s eye. Blood-covered, not from inflicting pain but from taking it away. He could even see the scar, mottled with a bruise and broken bones, hiding beneath a tear in the blue ninja’s gi.

He’d stitched that scar.

It was impossible.

He shouldn’t know that.

And yet he does.

He’d stitched that scar, and set that bone, and healed a thousand other injuries and burns and bruises on this body, and now he was covered in blood but not from a messy surgery; from his own hands.

This was wrong.

It shouldn’t feel that way, why did he feel that way? He’d wanted this for so long…

...didn’t he?

This…

This wasn’t what he wanted.

It’s like a moment of cold cutting clarity when he finally lets out a gut-wrenching sob and rips the sleeves off of his gi. He can’t fix it, not here, not now, but he can stop the bleeding and stop the life from draining away.

Because this is Jay. This is his friend, his brother, his trusted mechanic, the one who’d patched and welded and repaired countless of his own injuries.

The tears are welcome now, welling up and falling faster than he should be able to do with how steady he’s breathing. He can’t lose it, not yet, because Jay is bleeding out and he won’t stop and he can’t think about his eye because if he thinks too hard he might just break here and now and then Jay really will be lost—so he resolves to work, tightening the torn cloth around his brother’s face and leg, and when it’s all said and done, he leans back to breathe.

By now, the drizzle of rain had washed away some of the blood covering both the ninja and the scene around them, but it still lingered there.

An ever-present reminder of what had transpired.

A soft, pained noise escapes the nindroid’s mouth, and then another until he’s full-on crying. His upper body and shoulders wrack with every sob that forces their way out, chest rising and falling unevenly as he gasps for breath, the regret forcing its way into every inch and crevice of his body.

But he can’t afford to feel sorry for himself right now.

There’s no time to, he doesn’t have the luxury to do so.

He has to help him, damned be his own priorities.

“Jay-Jay? You okay?” He stares at the comm in numb shock as it crackles to life. How long had it been since he’d heard that voice, devoid of pain and anger ripping through the sound? “Bluebell? You there?”

Their voice is so concerned, so worried—he couldn’t remember the last time he heard it full of such softness.

He jumps for the comm, gingerly unhooking it from Jay’s ear, it’s red and dripping and no he can’t focus on that right now no—and he almost chokes on a voice not his own, played back like some sick recording. But really, what other choice did he have?

Zane’s mouth opens once and then again, unable to bring himself to speak the first time.

“Jay? Sparky, I really need you to answer, we’re worried about you.”

And if his voice is tinged in panic, at least he’s in character. “I-I’m fine! Sorry! J-just distracted,” he has to pause to catch his breath, because he’s heaving in and out too fast to talk, even for the master of lightning. “I, uh, I think I got turned around- where am I headed, again?”

“...seriously?”

“It’s slippery, I hit my head, sue me.”

“Alright, I’m just glad you’re okay.”

He swallowed back the sickly feeling in his throat, “Y-yeah.”

After he was given brief instructions he moved to put the comm back down before stopping, the voice issuing from the device once more.

“Hey, Jay? Be safe getting back. I wouldn’t want anything bad happening to you.”

“...I will.”

If he wasn’t a robot, he was certain he would have gotten sick at this point. Even after all was said and done, he didn’t know if he could ever face his friends- his family again.

A slow thought that crept like a cold worm through all his brain suddenly made him go still.

Was he even still breathing?

Jay has never been a quiet person; his chatter and energy always constant and unwavering.

But now, laying sprawled on concrete before him, Zane found himself scanning again and again just to make sure that quiet pulse was still thrumming. It was there- for now. Faint, but steady nonetheless, as he carefully slid his hands under the blue ninja, shouldering his head where it lolled against him.

Jay had always been so small in appearance, yet he was strong in ways one would never know upon first glance.

Yet now, cradled oh-so-delicately in his arms, the blue ninja felt as brittle as a thin sheet of glass. He was terrified that if he made one wrong movement, it would end up permanently deforming him—or worse.

He hoped nothing had gotten infected. He prayed that the ninja had the necessary medical supplies to take care of Jay. Perhaps he could drop some off, or-?

The throes of pain that beat at his head made him wince, and reminded him that he didn’t have any time to waste. Despite his resolve, the programming set in by the Sons of Garmadon would undoubtedly take hold of him once more if he didn’t hurry. If anything, he would compare it to more of a virus—and a hard one to fight off at that.

Zane needed to move now, before he was lost once again. He had to save Jay—he had to do at least one thing right.

[willykappymarnsmatts]

Lose My Mind (K. Kapanen)

Requested by the wonderful @eikoxx 😊💙

*Y/N’s POV*

When I started going out with Kasperi, I quickly learned that the media portrayals of the guys were very false, more so than I thought. Kappy is the sweetest, most humble guy I’ve ever met. He’s very overprotective, and I appreciate it, although sometimes he gets a bit much. Even around the guys, who I’ve become good friends with, he often pulls me away and asks if they’re making me feel uncomfortable.

“Kap,” I start, as he’s getting ready to leave for the rink. I’m going to be making my way over later with some of the other girls, but he needs to leave earlier than me.

“Yeah, babe,” he says, throwing equipment lazily into his bag.

“Kappy, you don’t need to constantly stick up for me and defend me, okay?” I move towards him and as he puts his jersey into his bag and stands up straight I put my hands on either side of his face. “I love you, so much, but you need to trust me, okay? I got myself.”

He nods, slightly taken aback. “I just, I want to protect you from the world.”

I nod, smiling big at him. “I know, and I love you so much for that. But trust me, I can handle myself, okay?” He nods once more, turning towards the closet to pick out a suit. I point at a dark green one and grin. “That one. Your butt looks good in that one.” I wink with a smile on my face and Kasperi laughs at me when I turn and walk out of the bedroom door.

•••

*KASPERI’S POV*

During warm up skate, I look up and around the arena, looking to see if I can spot Y/N in the crowd. I know it’ll be impossible, but I like to do it anyways. It makes me feel like I know that she knows I care that she’s here, watching me.

“We gonna kick some Winnipeg butt, eh Kap?” Mitch yells when he skates up to me and we stretch together.

“I swear to fucking god, Mitch, you are the most Canadian boy I’ve ever met and I literally can’t stand it.” Mitch just laughs. We’ve been friends for too long for me to be intimidating at all, and we both tease the living shit out of each other.

“Let’s go Kap, lets gooooo,” Willy calls as he skates past me and towards the tunnel. I roll my eyes. If he didn’t make me leave warm up so early, I’d stay out until the very end with Auston and Mitch. Well maybe not until the very end, because that’s their thing, but my point stands.

The clock ticks away until it’s game time, and we obviously start out on the bench because Keefe’s dumbass refuses to put me on the first line even though I really do deserve it. When it’s finally mine and Willy’s time to shine, I lick my lips and crack my neck while adjusting my helmet. I jump over the boards and skate towards the circle for the face off and go to Kerfy’s right.

The guy next to me, I don’t even care to look, starts flying his mouth and I roll my eyes. He says some stupid shit, chirping my hair or something that doesn’t bother me. I give him a shove when the puck drops, but leave it at that.

When the whistle blows because Ceci iced the puck again, the same dude skates up behind me, but this time my ears perk up when I hear Y/N’s name roll off his tongue.

“Why you dating that, um, Y/N, I think was the name? Good in bed or what?”

I whip around and face him. I shove him back with my stick. “You better shut your mouth, asshole.”

He shoves me back and continues his chirping. “Nah, really, bud. An ugly piece of junk, eh? Doing her for charity?” He licks his lips, like he’s proud, or some shit.

“Really,” I drawl, and shove him harder. “Open your mouth one more time, dick, and you’ll regret it.” In the back of my mind I wonder why no ref has skated over to break us up. But it is the back of my mind, and I continue going at it.

“She’s a real fucking piece of work, bud. She must be really good at sucking it, cause she ain’t no-“

I don’t let him continue, and I don’t even realize what I’m doing until my gloves are on the ice and I have his jersey clenched in one hand and I’m throwing punch after punch in his face. He gets a few good ones in, but I barely feel it. My fist doesn’t stop flying until I feel three pairs of arms pulling me away from him and I see Willy and Kerfy tearing him away from me. Only then do I reach my hand up to my face and see it come back covered in blood. My helmet flew off a long time ago, and my hair is flying everywhere.

I suddenly realize that I’m not just bleeding, I’m fully dripping everywhere. Willy grabs me by my waist and drags me towards the bench where I’m immediately lead into the locker room. I shake my head once I’m seated on the table in the doctor’s, studying my knuckles, ripped wide open.

“The fuck did he say?”

“Hmm?” I mumble.

“What did the guy say to get you to pound on him, and to rip open your forehead?”

“Oh, uh, just something about my girlfriend,” I mutter, slightly ashamed. The doctor just nods and continues cleaning my face up. “What was my penalty?”

He chuckles and I frown at him. “You must’ve been hit a couple too many times in the head. You’re out for the rest of the game, same with him, and we’re gonna have to go through concussion protocol.”

“But the game just started! I played one shift, and I barely even touched the puck!” He shrugs and tries to get me to sit still when I see The Needle in his right hand. “Fuck me,” I mutter, and slouch forwards, allowing him to fix me up.

•••

*Y/N’s POV*

“Kas!” I cry when I see my boyfriend leave the locker room and come into the hallway where I usually wait for him. Basically his entire face is stitched up and bright red. One eye is slightly swollen and as he nears me I see his knuckles are bright red. “Kasperi, as hot as that was-“

He laughs loudly, cutting me off. He wraps me in his arms and holds me tight. “He said some shit, and I had to shut him up,” he explains simply, like it’s no big deal.

“Kasu, you weren’t responding to anyone, you were so upset. Will had to drag you off the ice! What did he say?” We make our way to Kappy’s car.

“Just something stupid.”

I wait a few seconds for him to continue, and when he doesn’t, I go off again.

“Kasperi fucking Kapanen, I deserve to know why your face is thoroughly messed up and the entire city of Winnipeg now hates you.”

“He was saying some shit about you, and I got pissed off. Okay? Are you happy now?”

I’m shocked silent momentarily, unable to come up with words for him. “Babe, what did I literally say before you left.”

“That you think my butt looks good in these pants?”

I laugh, but don’t let him get away with this conversation. “I’m serious!”

“Yeah, I know. And I’ll work on it. But I love you, and I hate hearing people talk about you the way he did. Trust me, he deserved it.”

I smile at him. “I love you, you know that?”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t hurt to hear every now and then.”

“Oh my God you are genuinely the most annoying person on this planet, Kasu.”

“That’s a funny joke. I’m standing next to the person holding that title.” He bumps my hip and I falter sideways in the parking garage. I hit him back, and he picks me up and throws me over his shoulder.

“Kas! Kasu!!” I scream between giggles and trying to catch my breath. When we get to the car, he lets me drop, and pulls his body against mine, his hands on either side of my waist. “I love you,” I whisper against his lips.

“I love you a million times more,” he whispers back, and kisses me hard to prove it.

[1917-boys]

Heaven (Tom Blake Fluff)

Requested: Yes / No

Word Count: 2,089

Author’s Note: So this is kinda long, but I really enjoyed writing this

The day had been nothing but boring. Taking inventory, making unused beds, and cleaning. You were happy to know, at least, that your actions today were going to help someone, someday. You just didn’t know when.

Opening a field aid post was nothing short of difficult, but it was days like today that made you question why exactly Army Command had stationed you in the Middle of Nowhere, France. Your post had been up and running for a month now, but with no wounded soldiers in need of care, you spent your days cleaning and organizing and talking with Beth, your fellow nurse.

Early April of 1917 brought a change to your daily schedule.

“Help me! Someone, help! Please! I have a wounded soldier and he’s losing a lot of blood! Help! He’s been stabbed! Please!” You hear someone shouting from outside. Dropping the pan you were washing in the sink, you rush out of the tent to see a soldier carrying another soldier in his arms.

“In here, come. Quickly!” You call to him. You run back to the tent to shake Beth awake from a nap. “Beth! Wake up! I need your help, please!” She’s awake in an instant, standing up and ready to assist.

You and Beth run back to the entrance of the tent as you see the soldier struggling to lift the other man on to the operating table. “Beth! I need you to collect all the operating tools you can and a bucket of water and some rags. Quickly, please!” You call, rushing over to the standing soldier.

You grab the injured soldier’s legs, helping to lift him and situate him atop the operating table. Frantically, you rip open his jacket and shirt. Gasping in spite of yourself, your eyes widen at the amount of blood the soldier has lost.

“He’s lost a lot of blood,” the other soldier tells you, staring down at his friend blankly. You nod, meeting his gaze. “It’s okay, soldier. We’re going to take care of him,” you tell him. You tear through another layer of clothing before you reach bare skin. The wound is long and wide and oozing blood.

“Beth!” You cry. “Any moment now!” The man on the table shakes violently, in desperate need of care. You place your hands on the wound, trying to stem the bleeding. Beth rounds the corner and shoves a bucket full of water and rags into your hands. She disappears again, this time to retrieve the operating tools.

The wounded soldier, previously unconscious, begins to open his eyes. Searching frantically, he relaxes slightly when he lays eyes on his friend. The man rushes to his side, trying to calm his friend. “It’s okay, Blake. Blake, look at me. You’re going to be okay. The nurses are going to help you. Tom, please. Lie down,” the man says.

You grab a rag and wet it in the bucket before lifting it to the man, Tom’s, abdomen. “This will sting a bit,” you tell him reluctantly. His eyes meet yours, and you see pure fear displayed in the blue orbs. You place the rag on his wound and he cries out in pain. Beth returns, placing a tray covered in tools on a table next to Tom.

The other soldier continues to speak quiet words of encouragement and comfort to Tom as he cries and wails from the pain. You meet Beth’s eyes and silently will her to help the man comfort him. Tom’s beginning to strain to get up, but this is only making his wound bleed more.

“Beth, I need you to hold him down,” you tell her, continuing to soak up as much blood in the rag as you can. Once the area is clear enough for you to work, you thread a needle before beginning to stitch the injury closed.

You hear Tom’s continual cries, though they begin to subside as you near the end of your stitching. Beth is trying her best to keep him down, and so is Tom’s friend.

But Tom is determined.

“Tom, please!” You tell him, anxious now. He needs to lie back. “Tom, I need you to lie back for me. Please, Tom!” When he hears how desperate you are, he gives in and stops struggling.

You glance up at him to thank him. You finish stitching the wound closed and grab another rag to carefully rinse the area before wrapping Tom’s abdomen in bandages.

Once you’ve done this, Beth releases Tom’s shoulders and begins to clean up the area. Tom’s friend approaches you, asking, “Will he be okay?”

You nod. “He lost a lot of blood, but you did a great job of getting him here quick enough so that I could close the wound before he lost too much blood. It will be a while for recovery, but he should be back to normal.” The man smiles gratefully at you before extending his hand to you.

“I’m Will,” he says. Your hands are still covered in Tom’s blood, so you neglect to shake his hand, but introduce yourself to him nonetheless. “I’m Y/N.”

“Thank you for saving my friend, Y/N. He means a lot to many people, myself included. But as long as I know he’ll be okay, there’s somewhere I need to be. We were sent on a mission, and I’ve really got to go. But thank you once again,” Will tells you before gazing at Tom for a moment and leaving.

You help Beth clean up, washing the tools and rags. “We’ll have to change the sheets on the bed when Tom wakes up,” She says to you. You nod in response, “Yes. They’re disgusting.”

When you’ve finished cleaning up, you enter the front area of the tent where Tom is asleep. You approach the bed softly, staring down at the man before you.

You can’t help but think how attractive he is. With his brown hair, curled at the top, a soft, round, and gentle face, and those bright blue eyes. Snapping yourself out of those thoughts, you return to work, straightening up the supplies that had been jostled in the midst of your helping Tom.

A few hours pass, and Tom has yet to wake up. Beth makes a vegetable soup for dinner and you two eat in the small mess hall of the aid post. “He’s something, isn’t he,” Beth giggles. You smile softly, blushing.

Beth notices this and smiles wide. “You think the’s cute, don’t you?” she asks, eyes wide as if you’re young and discussing first loves, the way you used to as a young teenager.

But now, you were 19. It was time to grow up, and accept these feelings for the man whose life you had saved earlier. But you couldn’t help but wonder if maybe this isn’t right.

Yes, you had saved Tom’s life, but he was going to get better and leave to fight or be discharged. There was so little hope of seeing him after he was healed that you didn’t want these feelings for him to surface.

After you and Beth clean up from dinner, you approach Tom’s bed again. This time, he’s awake.

“Hi,” he says croakily, his throat evidently dry. “I’m Tom.” You smile down at him before introducing yourself.

He smiles after learning your name, repeating it once or twice. He likes the way it sounds. Beautiful, just like you.

“Could I have some water, please?” Tom asks softly. Nodding, you rush to get him a cup and bring it back to him. You help him sit up before handing him the cup. He gulps the water quickly, thanking you.

“How do you feel?” You ask. Tom raises his eyes to meet yours and you’re once again caught off guard by those icy blues. “Not bad, but I could be better,” he jokes lightly. You laugh, causing him to break out into a smile. He laughs slightly before wincing.

You help him lay back down before pulling a nearby chair up next to his bed. “Tomorrow morning we’ll move you from here to the recovery wing,” you tell him. He nods, his eyes never leaving your face. You blush, asking, “What?”

“You’re just so beautiful,” Tom replies, shaking his head in disbelief. Blushing, you turn away and see Beth enter the front wing of the tent. She catches your eye and sees the blush on your cheeks before turning swiftly on her heel and retreating back to where she came from.

“You should get some rest,” you tell Tom, turning to face him again. Nodding, you see him glance to your hands, resting in your lap. Slowly, Tom extends his hand out to you, a silent question.

Smiling softly, you reach up and grab his hand, intertwining your fingers with his. He grins and lays his head down, turning to face you. “Thank you for saving me, Y/N,” he whispers.

“Of course, Tom,” you respond. Sitting in silence, hand in hand, you wait a few minutes before standing slowly. “Good night, Tom,” you say, listening as he repeats the words. Gently, you remove your hand from his grasp and leave the front wing, feeling his eyes on you as you leave.

The next morning, you and Beth move Tom to a bed in the recovery wing. As you lift him slowly and carry him, his quiet whimpers make you feel horrible, but you know this is what needs to be done.

Once Tom is situated in his new bed, Beth hurries off to clean Tom’s used bed. “It’s nice to see you again, Y/N,” Tom tells you, smiling. His eyes are bright and happy and it’s a refreshing sight for you, compared to him yesterday.

“It’s nice to see you too, Tom,” you reply, his hand once again reaching out to grasp your own. “Tell me about yourself,” he says. You begin to recount the story of how you had always wanted to be a nurse and help people, ending with how the Army had instructed you to start an aid post here.

Talking to Tom was easy and fun, and you felt that you could go on forever. His bright eyes and smile never dwindled and it was in this moment that you knew you were falling for Tom. You could only hope he felt the same way about you.

The rest of the day passed this way, Tom and you talking. When the sun began to set, Tom sat up slowly, before reaching his other hand out to caress your cheek. Noticing that you hadn’t pulled away from his touch, he continued to stroke your skin with his thumb, his eyes searching your face, trying to memorize every detail.

“You remind me of mum’s cherry orchard at home,” he says, his voice nothing more than a whisper. Your eyebrows furrow in question before he laughs softly and answers your question. “You’re so beautiful. The cherries are so pretty, the fruit’s sweet and the flowers are everywhere. It’s heaven!” He tells you, “And so are you.”

Your face heats up in an instant, your cheeks tomato red within seconds. Tom can’t help but laugh at your state. “And every moment I spend with you is my own little piece of heaven.” When Tom says this, you can’t help but stare back into his blue eyes, thinking to yourself how easy it is to get lost in them.

Tom slowly moves his face closer to yours, not wanting to scare you or make you feel uncomfortable. When he notices that you haven’t made any actions that make his feel unwelcome, he presses his lips against yours.

His lips are soft and sweet, and to his delight, you kiss back. Pulling away moments later, Tom rests his forehead against yours, closing his eyes and relishing in your closeness. You two sit like this for a while, until the sun can no longer be seen and the sky is blanketed in darkness and the sprinkle of stars.

You pull your body away from Tom, and stand up before suggesting you change his bandage before sleeping. He agrees happily and you set to work cleaning and tending to his wound once again.

Once you’re finished, you bend down to kiss his forehead lightly before standing up again and whispering, “Good night, Tom,” before turning and walking to your bed.

You hear his response and the smile in his voice as you leave. “Good night, Y/N, my own little piece of heaven.”