#screaming shouting howling I love this comic | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

haunthouse · 5 years ago

Text

welcome to a meta that, in retrospect, seems glaringly obvious, but that has hit me like a freight train this morning. we’re talking about the lonely as a ghost story.

ghosts as an entity are inherently about disconnect. but kaylee, i hear you say, ghosts are dead people, wouldn’t that make them in the end’s domain? but when it comes down to it, death is a good framing device for ghosts (and yeah, it’s necessary to make ghosts), but people don’t tell ghost stories just because they’re afraid of death. ghost stories are told because ghosts are irrevocably disconnected from the living in a way that terrifies us — sometimes they’re intentionally scary, knocking shit around or yelling boo!, but a lot of the time they’re just... there. and that’s the terrifying part. something that’s there and shouldn’t be; something that can’t interact with the world around it and is completely, utterly, terrifyingly alone.

ghost stories are about isolation, about being a person without any of the framework that being a person requires, without society or connection or love. being unseen and unheard and unknown to all around you — and trying so hard to reverse all those un-words, to be seen, heard, known. that’s exactly the domain of the lonely!

and onto the meat of this meta: all nine lonely-centric statements (and the journey of one martin blackwood) through the lens of ghost stories.

(spoilers for mag170 at the end, but each episode section is clearly marked, so feel free to skip it if you haven’t gotten that far yet!)

MAG013: ALONE

the first lonely statement we get (and also the first in-person statement! which is such a good inversion of the lonely being about lack of connection! jon doesn’t do a great job of comforting naomi, but he does stay with her as she gives the statement when she asks!! that’s beside the point but it is something i really love), and right off the bat, the ghost vibes are off the charts.

truly i am feeling absolutely idiotic for not really thinking about the ghosts-lonely connection before now because this statement? peak ghost story.

naomi’s fiance dies. naomi has several near-death experiences (crashes her car, then is hit by another car and winds up in the hospital), which is also a staple in a lot of ghost stories; nearly dying is set up as a way to get the living closer to the realm of ghosts, able to interact with them more clearly. it was a dark and foggy night in a graveyard, and standing at evan’s (open, empty) grave, naomi hears his disembodied voice leading her home.

when ghost stories are told from a distance, they’re about the horror of it — disembodied howling, faces in the window that keep you up at night. but when they’re told by someone close to the now-ghost, they’re love stories. it’s my grandmother hearing her father’s breathing one last time after his death, giving her a chance to say goodbye. it’s a familiar and loving presence, comforting you. that’s what naomi’s story is — the ghost of evan showing his love for her one final time.

MAG033: BOATSWAIN’S CALL

so, ships are meant to be places of community, right? ron @gerrydelano has a really good post about this regarding shanties. but ghost ships are an established trope of ghost stories: the inversion of what a ship should be, lacking all life and community, silently traversing the waters on its own.

the tundra is a ghost ship. it’s quiet (”very quiet... it was like they were doing everything in their power not to think about each other”) — the people there move around one another as if none of them are there, all so taken by the lonely. their cargo containers are empty. all they’re transporting on that ship is the ghosts of those aboard.

this episode falls into the trope of ghosts want the living to join them — though there’s still a mourning atmosphere when sean kelly is taken fully by the lonely, that final bit of life on the ship extinguished. (”no one said a word, but i could have sworn a few of my shipmates were crying.”)

MAG048: LOST IN THE CROWD

this one’s one of my favorites! andrea nunis’ statement deals with different kinds of loneliness — she begins it with explaining that she prefers to travel alone, but later, that loneliness is something terrifying. she’s in a crowd of unrecognizable people, unable to fit herself into the world she’s seeing — she’s completely separate from the rest of the world. she’s a ghost.

“it wasn’t italian being spoken ... or any other language i recognized. the more i listened, the more i realized it wasn’t a language. there were no words, it was just noise.” “their faces were a blur, each and every one of them.” and, the crowning point: “i tried to talk to them or to shout, to scream at them, but there was no reaction.”

by being taken in by the lonely, andrea’s been turned into a ghost. she cannot interact with or even recognize her environment, and that’s the real horror — it isn’t just being alone, it’s being surrounded by something that should be familiar; a crowd is something she’s been in a thousand times, as someone who travels a lot, and people are the most familiar thing in the world, like looking in a mirror! but it isn’t. everything is strange and she is outside of it all and that’s what a ghost is.

and her connection to her mother is what pulls her out. people have talked at length about how love is the antidote to the lonely so i won’t go on too long about that, but the connection between that & ghosts’ relationships to the living often being what keeps them around is sure something.

also, after getting out of the lonely andrea says “i made sure i was always in sight of at least one other person” — and there’s something to be said there about needing to be seen to be real.

chiara @red-reys brought up this feuerbach quote which fits very well: “that which i alone perceive i doubt; only that which the other also perceives is certain.” being the only one to perceive something (for example, a ghost), or the only one who is utterly unperceived, is a very lonely thing — it isolates you entirely from those who do not perceive it. being perceived, or having someone else see what you see, can give you an anchor.

wow i’m sure that won’t come back later!

also, far be it from me to talk about this statement without mentioning gerry keay. because it means something that he’s the one to give andrea the tools she needs to pull herself out of the lonely. gerry is someone completely lacking in human connection, who is literally haunted by the ghost of his mother and later is seen as a ghost himself. gerry doesn’t have friends; he tells jon “i always wanted my friends to call me gerry,” but in a tone that makes it clear he didn’t have anyone who could’ve. and of course he didn’t. a life so entwined with the entities and cut so short, a life so ruled by the cruelty of others that he certainly did not want to rope anyone else into.

though gerry’s never directly stated to be affected by the lonely, he’s certainly lowercase-L lonely at the very least, and he’s certainly got enough experience with ghosts to understand the lonely.

gerry is the trope of the helpful spirit. he’s the ghost who’ll give you directions on a deserted road and disappear when you turn around. he gives jon the information he needs to understand the entities, he gives andrea the information she needs to not become a ghost.

MAG057: PERSONAL SPACE

alright so this one is, admittedly, more cosmic horror than anything else, but if y’all’ve seen any of my comics you probably know i’m very passionate about space ghosts & haunted spaceships. and as such, i’m extremely interested in how the daedalus mission echoes ghost stories.

carter chilcott’s story pretty directly acts as a ghost story — unable to communicate with the others on the ship even when he tries, unable to interact with the world to the point of looking out the window at one point to find the world entirely missing. this is all stuff i’ve said already about the other statements, so i’m glossing past it, because what interests me more is the daedalus as malicious architecture.

because the daedalus was created specifically for this union between vast, lonely, and dark (all of which i think have significant ghostly tie-ins). everything about how the ship itself and the mission came to be is a mystery, even to those involved — manuela says “i don’t know how he convinced the lukases and fairchilds to help finance the project,” “i don’t know if they were working on rituals of their own,” “exactly how the launch was arranged, i couldn’t tell you.”

a piece of the traditional haunted house is a sort of timelessness, and mystery inherent in its building. hill house in shirley jackson’s haunting of hill house “seemed somehow to have formed itself, flying together into its own powerful pattern under the hands of its builders... it was a house without kindness, never meant to be lived in, not a place fit for people or for love or for hope.” the oldest house in the game control is malicious architecture at its finest, and it’s called the oldest house. it predates people. it exists as a giant piece of brutalist architecture smack dab in the middle of new york, but no one knows why or how it came to be. as a real-world example: the winchester mystery house is wrapped up in mythos about its creation. was sarah winchester just a lonely old woman with a hobby for architectural design, or did she create endlessly spiraling staircases and doorways with a steep drop into the yard to keep ghosts away? who knows! we sure do like to speculate, though.

yes, i’ve talked about this in tma metas before. highly recommend jacob geller’s control, anatomy, and the legacy of the haunted house for more of this content.

even manuela dominguez, the only person on the daedalus mission who actually knew what she was doing and wasn’t just there to be a victim of entities they did not understand, does not know how the mission came to be.

and the entire purpose of this spacecraft is to be malicious to its inhabitants! the very architecture is meant to make the people within into perfect snacks for their respective entities! the station is cramped (”so cramped that i could only fully stretch out in the section used to exercise,” says jan kilbride), but when the vast takes hold it’s suddenly endless — “a hollow pretense of a shell that did nothing to separate me from the void.” (cue me shouting about how much trust we put in the places we live, and whether or not that trust is warranted, how easily it can be turned against us!)

a few other bits of this statement that really echo ghost stories: “twice i was woken up by the sound of the door opening, only to find it as tight as it had ever been. throughout the daytime i would occasionally hear footsteps, which shouldn’t even have been possible in zero gravity.” and then the empty, ghostly spacesuit that floats past chilcott’s window — there are so many stories about disembodied wedding dresses or mourningwear walking the halls silently, so why not a spacesuit?

i started this section saying this statement was more cosmic horror than ghost story but i’m finishing it by saying this is actually one of the clearest representations of haunted architecture in the whole podcast. (other examples off the top of my head include upon the stair & a cosy cabin, the latter of which i actually already wrote a meta about.)

MAG092: NOTHING BESIDE REMAINS

the moment i started thinking about the lonely-ghosts connection i remembered this episode, because it’s so clear. complete disconnect, existing entirely alone in a shadow of the world you once knew, unable to interact with the living in any way.

very small bit but. “as the cab pulled away, it seemed to have no driver that i could discern” vs the theme of ghost carriages in older ghost stories. i am looking directly at it.

barnabas bennett can “almost think i hear the mocking joy of my friends, but there is nobody here.” he can see evidence that life continues around him, unseen — “i know that what is done by those i cannot see might be felt here — i have found glasses broken and pages torn that were not so the night before.” just as a ghost is unseen to the living, the reverse is true: bennett can see others having an impact on the world in small ways, and his letter is found by jonah, but he can’t really affect the world in any real way.

MAG108: MONOLOGUE

this one is so exciting to me because theater ghosts are a huge trope in ghost stories! theater people are some of the most superstitious people you’ll ever meet! especially regarding ghosts having an impact on their shows — there’s the superstition regarding The Scottish Play™, the tradition of leaving a ghost light on onstage to appease the spirits. there’s that time all the kids in my production of brigadoon when i was in middle school circled around the makeup mirrors to play bloody mary and got thoroughly chewed out by the adults in the cast. theater’s full’a ghosts!

(i think it’s something about the intense amounts of history behind it — and how, in playing a part that a thousand people have played before, you’re echoing their exact words, becoming a repetition of those long gone. and on a stage, blinding lights in your face washing out any view of the audience — you could, technically, leave the stage and interact with the people down there, but it seems pretty entirely impossible when you’re up there. you’re being perceived but can’t see in return. you’re essentially a ghost putting on a show for the living on a loop.)

the statement-giver for this one, adonis biros, echoes a lot of those sentiments, actually. “your words heard by no one — and in that no one, an entire universe.” “have you ever had stage lights in your eyes? ...you can look out into the audience and see nothing at all. just you.”

i said before that “when ghost stories are told from a distance, they’re about the horror of it — disembodied howling, faces in the window that keep you up at night.” the disconnect between the anonymous audience and the singular actor onstage makes the distance here extreme — so this is the sort of ghost story that’s unquestionably a horror story, focusing on the most chilling aspects of ghosts. their inhumanity, their anonymity. the theater masks adonis sees in the audience are “empty. it was a hollow shape of a man that had no life, no presence to it.” even adonis himself says he “had no doubt that what i had seen was some sort of specter or omen.”

he sees a “masked mockery of a human figure” in a window while walking at night. ghosts looking through windows is enough of a trope that once, when i went on a ghost tour in williamsburg, at least half the stories were about people seeing ghostly faces in windows, and i completely freaked out when i saw someone moving around in one of the houses before realizing, oh, some of them are still actually occupied.

this one’s undoubtably a collaboration between stranger and lonely, but i think that intersection’s one of the best for ghost stories — something not-quite-human-anymore, if it ever was, haunting you.

MAG150: CUL-DE-SAC

a lot of the bare bones of this statement are things i’ve already covered, so i’m not gonna go too in-depth on it. herman gorgoli’s statement is about disconnect (from alberto, and then from the rest of humanity), about isolation, about houses-gone-wrong (his and alberto’s house in cheadle, which he views by the end as a place imprisoning him, and the titular cul-de-sac).

we’ve seen the malicious architecture trope in the form of the daedalus already, but this time it’s on earth. it’s something that should, by all rights, be familiar. the houses in the suburbs are all the same, but it’s at least a sameness you know. but they’re all bereft of any irregularities, ghostly echoes of what a house should be.”there were no lights on in any of the houses.” he even finds a dead body in one of the houses — but the woman who’s body he finds is not the one haunting them.

it’s herman haunting the neighborhood, until his love for alberto brings him out. herman making his way through houses he cannot interact with in any meaningful way, whos details he cannot interpret. “how many corpses lay waiting behind the placid facade of this endless false suburbia?” he wonders, and i have to imagine he’s also wondering if he’s already joined their ranks, if he’s the haunting in a haunted house.

and connection brings him back and the houses are no longer empty, no longer waiting for a ghost to take resident in their hallways.

MAG159: THE LAST (& martin’s journey in season four, generally)

we’ve all analyzed 159 within an inch of its life but i’m here to do it again, with the context of martin’s whole journey into the lonely. because the lonely turns people into ghosts. the lonely takes away humanity and life and leaves a hollow echo in its wake.

literally the powers lonely avatars have involve turning invisible. what else is often associated with invisibility? ghosts. checkmate. i’m running out of steam a bit but i swear these are good points i’m making. trust me.

what makes ghost stories so good is that even if the narrator is not a ghost themselves, just experiencing a ghost puts them at a fundamental disconnect from society. it’s something disbelieved by so many people. (there’s parallels to be made with mental illness here, but i... don’t really feel like making them right now. they’re definitely there, as is the very potent lonely-depression connection that made ep170 hit so hard for so many of us.) in hill house, the more eleanor is wrapped up in the goings-on of the house, the less she’s able to relate to the other people there. the closer martin becomes to the lonely, the less he’s able to talk to the people around him — he’s told not to talk to them by lukas, but he’s also just... unable to relate. their experiences are different than his, at this point.

nicole @brunetteauthorette99 said something really good in our conversation about this, about ghosts “being stuck in... spaces that have moved on without them, reenacting their defining moments in life over and over again without the possibility of change.”

martin is stuck in the institute. he probably has an apartment, but we don’t see it, and i can’t imagine he as he is by season four has put much effort into decorating it or making it feel like a home. every place is impersonal — somewhere he exists without really living.

and the institute moves on without him. jon goes into the coffin and martin doesn’t know until he’s already in there. and martin can impact his environment only in small ways — leaving tape recorders on the coffin in an attempt to anchor jon home, leaving the tape of jon’s victim for melanie, basira, and daisy to find. he will not or cannot speak to or touch other living beings, just move objects around in a desperate attempt to get a message across, a ouija board of tapes and post-it notes. his moment of rejecting the lonely’s plans in 158 is dropping the knife peter has given him — another expression more through his interactions with his environment than any human connection.

martin says the lonely always had him, and with how much his story revolves around people who may as well be ghosts, that’s true. his father disappeared and left only the image martin had of him in his mind, only the echo he himself provided in the mirror, the ghost of someone who hurt him overlaid on his own reflection. his mother was only present so far as she could be malicious, disapproving; a vengeful ghost, taking out the revenging instinct she had for martin’s father on martin. and then everyone else martin cares about dies — sasha’s gone and not!sasha acts as her malicious echo for a while; tim dies; jon dies. and yeah, he comes back — but he’s different. a ghost of sorts. martin’s already pretty ghostly by then, too.

so martin is, essentially, a ghost throughout season four, and probably beforehand, as well. jon literally! asks martin! if he is a ghost! in season one! which brings us to 159: “are you real?” martin asks the first living person he’s really talked to in who-knows-how-long. because martin doesn’t feel real, so how could anyone else be? “nothing hurts here” may be a contradiction of the literal experience of ghosts we see in tma (gerry saying “it hurts, being like this”), but is a very real perception of ghosts in ghost mythology as beings beyond pain, beyond the suffering of being alive. sometimes they exist to cause others that suffering they can no longer feel, but a lot of the time, they’re just melancholy, having forgotten what it’s like to be a person or hanging on just enough to yearn to return to that feeling of life.

“i’m the reason he... i did this to him as much as you,” jon says. in ghost terms: martin died for him. of course his connection to jon, then, would be the only thing able to bring him back.

mag159 is an orpheus/eurydice story — people have made posts about that before, i’m sure, and i have too, how jon and martin invert the orpheus archetype by being saved rather than damned by the act of sight. and it feels obvious to state it, but for clarity: eurydice dies. orpheus, alive, tries to save eurydice from the underworld, where she is a spirit, a ghost, an echo of herself.

MAG170: RECOLLECTION — (SPOILER WARNING!)

this episode is the reason i’m making this post, but i may as well copy-and-paste the entire transcript for this section, because there is truly not a single part of it that doesn’t resonate as a ghost story.

the lonely house as a malicious location. the chairs are all uncomfortable, the house is large enough that just by wandering it (as a ghost might) martin grows tired enough to sit in them regardless. the decorations are wrong — all the rooms are the same and martin doesn’t like it, said he doesn’t know “why i’d decorate my house like this.”

it isn’t a small house. there’s a reason a lot of ghost stories take place in twisting mansions where you can never quite find your way back to where you started. ghost stories thrive on that isolation, that loneliness — if you see a ghost while you’re alone, are you sure you’ll be believed? doesn’t that just isolate you further? architecture can twist around those within it until they’re trapped, doomed to haunt it themselves. “it's such a - such a big house, my house, there must be other people!” martin says.

but the only others in the house are ghosts like martin.

“hundreds, thousands of lost souls, wandering the halls. hollow memories, with eyes full of tears. i’ve seen them. they’re all trying to remember.”

“i found someone else, wandering around. they were all thin and gray. faded. like they’d been here for ages.”

the ghosts cannot remember their names, why they are there, whether or not it is their house they exist in. they’ve become near-inseparable from the fog around them and the architecture that holds them hostage.

and the house itself, it takes all of that, and its quirks — the size, the chairs, the decorations, all of which martin openly does not like — are all made from the people haunting it. the house is wrong because the people within it can no longer change it. martin’s comment on the decorations sticks with me because it’s such a simple example of this: presumably, he could affect the house in some way in the past, but he no longer can, and he’s stuck with the results of his past mistakes, echoing over and over from room to room. the impacts remain even when the people have faded so far as to be practically nonexistent.

and once again: love is what makes him remember, over and over. he remembers jon, and then the lonely steals that memory — but the remembering is what’s important, because the act of loving anchors martin, and it helps him remember who he is, repeating his name over and over.

ghosts lack identity. whether it’s because they’ve been forgotten by all who knew them in life, whether it’s because it’s too painful to hold onto that when they can no longer do anything with it — we assign names to ghost stories, connect them to the living, but there’s always a disconnect there.

and that’s what helps jon find him, helps martin keep himself from fading out again. and even jon says “you were faint” upon finding martin. martin was a ghost haunting that house.

but not anymore.

the lonely is a ghost story. the lonely is about people who’ve become unmoored from human connection and their own identities, who haunt places, or who’ve been lured into places that are hauntings in and of themselves and have no choice but to take up residence as ghosts within those walls.

and ghost stories, often, are love stories. love keeps us tethered to life, and love is what saves people from the lonely, over and over again.

#the magnus archives #tma meta #martin blackwood #the lonely #mag170 #kaylee.txt #kaylee.meta #dfgkjngfd HELLO i didn't mean for this to get quite so long but ty if anyone actually reads it!!!!#this is longer than most fics i write. whoops.

531 notes · View notes

ooops-i-arted · 4 years ago

Note

I'm dead mando episode killed me (would love to hear your thoughts on it from my grave)

I am dead with you IT WAS SO GOOD AND I ABSOLUTELY LOVED IT. My sister and I were literally bouncing on the couch and screaming at the tv.

Okay this is what I have wanted THE ENTIRE TIME. Din & Baby bonding time, plot stuff is centered around Din & the baby, cameos are super cool but don’t overwhelm Din being the main character, preestablished characters unique to the show being used. This. Not Filoni making Yet Another Version Of His TCW Stuff.

The opening scene of Din and Baby was PRECIOUS. They’re both clearly so reluctant to do this but Din has Promised and more importantly, he wants to do what’s best for his kid even if it means separating from him. Prioritizing someone else’s needs over your wants is true love HE’S SUCH A GOOD DAD

Din being such a fucking dumbass in this episode damn. Din ilu but where is your jetpack??? Why did you try to get through the Force barrier the exact same way THREE TIMES when you knew it wouldn’t work and after it had knocked you unconscious???

Protective Din fuck yeah

I’m actually thrilled with the kidnapping because it’s RAMPAGE TIME YAY

WHEN SLAVE I APPEARED MY SISTER AND I WERE SCREAMING

Cuz you know who it is and there was The Suspense!!! over whether they were working for Gideon or would they truly ally with Din

HOLY SHIT BOBA FETT BOBA FETT BOBA FETTTTTTTTTT

Although I was also laughing bc I’m pretty sure this is the first time we’ve ever seen him actually be a badass onscreen instead of just standing around looking cool

Yes I know he did more in Legends/EU content and probably in the 3D TCW but I’d never been interested in either of those or him as a character before, but okay NOW I see why people are into him

("Boba Fett? Boba Fett? WHERE” is still my favorite Boba moment tho, and a top favorite Han moment)

“I’m just a simple man trying to make my way in the universe” AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH

NO ONE EVER WANTS TO ACKNOWLEDGE AOTC EXCEPT TO MAKE SAND JOKES BUT FINALLY, FINALLY AOTC IS BACK AND AS A PERSON WHO UNAPOLOGETICALLY LOVES AOTC I AM SO HAPPY

Also Jango has always been my favorite Fett so I was LIVING for him being acknowledged and especially by Boba

Fucking howling at Din apparently feeling he is the only person in the entire galaxy who can decide Who Gets Beskar

Like the SHEER GALL from a meta perspective of looking at Boba Fett, the Orignial Mandalorian of all of Star Wars, and saying “Yeah I’m not sure if you should have that armor”

Like Din will happily be chill with anyone he meets who doesn’t immediately kill him but if you have Mandalorian armor you need to bring out your receipts immediately lmao

This is what I wanted with other Mandalorian characters coming in though. Contrasting and comparing others’ Mandalorian cultures/sects/whatever with his and Din having to reexamine his own beliefs with it. With Bo-Katan we got like two lines about it but here it’s A Thing that’s discussed, plus some Boba background, and Din comes to face his own biases and ultimately decide that yes, Boba should get the armor even if he doesn’t follow the Creed the same way Din does. Plus the contrast between Din and Boba’s Mandalorian Experiences but also the uniting thread of Mandalorians Really Love Dads.

Anyway the Fetts are Real Mandalorians again as far as I’m concerned. I have spoken.

Fennec Shand!! I couldn’t believe they WASTED Mulan herself in The Gunslinger and this made me so happy!! She’s such a badass and an excellent side character and I loved seeing her again, and it’s really cool that she and Boba teamed up? That’s a backstory I wouldn’t mind seeing in a tie-in comic or novel or something.

As a SWTOR fan I loved seeing Tython brought to life. Since SWTOR was 3000 years ago it makes sense there’s little left, but the stone thing was cool. I wonder what the runes mean? Although my sister and I were laughing over how much Tython apparently looks like California.

I know I already said it but Din getting yeeted and trying to get through the barrier three times was great

Also why tf aren’t you shouting “Grogu!” instead of just “kid” after we know Grogu likes hearing his name???

WHEN THE BABY WAS KIDNAPPED I TOTALLY DIED THE CONCEPT ART EVEN HAS HIM CRYING OH MY GOD

We all know Din was crying under his helmet for at least 50% of this episode

Gideon is SUCH a good slimy villain, so creepy and chilling (and he got STYLE), I absolutely loved his villain monologue even if it’s delivered to.....a baby. Even if we’re getting some hints that Grogu is possibly more developed than previously indicated by his behavior, Gideon’s still delivering his Evil Speech to a toddler which is amazing

YO WOW WE NEED TO TONE DOWN THE DARK SIDE TENDENCIES THERE GROGU

Like usually he just has A Big Moment but this time he just goes buck wild with those poor troopers. Plus we’re so used to seeing him little and innocent and cute so it was very jarring (in the best way)

Despite the seriousness of the situation I fucking lost it at the Baby Handcuffs. Like who had to order those? Which poor peon was ordered by Gideon CRAFT ME BABY HANDCUFFS? Were they custom made? They’re so tiny!! Baby commits Baby Crimes and goes to Baby Jail

THEY SHOT THE BABY. I DON’T CARE IF IT WAS A STUN BLAST THEY SHOT HIM

Mayfeld????? Why????? I really hope Din takes Cara along too. I’m loving this Avengers Assemble thing again, although I definitely want Greef and Cara along as opposed to any of the other Guest Stars we met this season

(Frog Lady can come though, she’s cool)

Maybe Cara’s New Republic ties will help? Not quite sure how but that’s a cool thread they could use. Again since she’s a big secondary character on the show, and unique to the Mandalorian, she’s one I’d love to see more development with as well - what made her decide to rejoin the New Republic? Will this cause conflict between her and Din in the future? etc.

Like this is what I’ve been craving, it was so suspenseful and good, I cannot WAIT for what’s next!!!

#more baby commentary with the usual post ofc #the mandalorian spoilers #the mandalorian #asks #anon

37 notes · View notes

supernaturaldesires · 4 years ago

Text

A Descent Into Insanity - Chapter One

Based on request by @sweetpotato-97

Could ask for a fic of Yandere Dean with a reader who sees him as a best friend and a form of brother for them, of course in the beginning Dean was not a yandere but he changed with the passage of time?

Note: the reader in a way is innocent and does not know that Dean is in love with them.

Pairing: None (yet)

Characters: Dean & Sam

Warnings: none, other than a slightly protective Dean

Word Count: 1,802

One Year Ago

As you pulled up to the old abandoned shack, you checked against the photo in the newspaper on your passenger seat. This was the place, without a doubt. You had stopped about 150 yards away to avoid drawing any attention or raising any alarms within the shack. If the stories you’d heard from the townsfolk were true, you were expecting just a couple of vamps, max three. It appeared to be a relatively new nest since the attacks only started a couple of weeks ago, out of the blue. You reached into the backseat, grabbing your machete and hip-flask. You took a swig of whisky from the flask for good measure before shoving it in the glove compartment and heaving yourself out.

There was a gravel path leading up to the shack, but you opted to walk along the grassy verge in an attempt to keep as quiet as possible. When you were about 50 yards from the shack though, you noticed a ‘67 Chevy Impala tucked behind some large shrubs, just off the path. Strange. It wasn’t a large town and all of the attacks happened within a couple mile radius of the shack, so you couldn’t imagine much need for the vamps to have a set of wheels. Nevertheless, you pushed on.

As you approached the front porch, you noticed that the door to the shack was already open, creaking back-and-forth with the breeze. It was at that moment you heard a blood-curdling scream, followed by shouting. Armed with your machete, you launched through the front door towards the noise.

Two beheaded bodies already lay on the floor, and ahead of you there were two figures wrestling on the ground. “Sammy!” Shouted the man who was pinned to the ground, trying to fend off the snarling vamp with his bare hands. His machete lay on the ground nearby, but just out of reach. Without a second thought, you flew forward, thrust your machete down on the vamp, slicing clean through its neck. The head bounced off the man’s shoulder, to which he jumped up, shuddering and wiping himself down. “Hey, thanks man-” He looked up at you for the first time and blinked. “Oh, my bad. Sorry, didn’t mean to assume.” You lowered your machete, wiping the blade on the clothes of the dead vamp. “No biggie,” you shrugged in response. “You get used to it in this line of work.” You flashed him a knowing smile.

Another man entered the room through a second door, to which you instinctively raised your weapon again, but he immediately stopped and raised his hands in self-defence at the sight of you.

“He’s good,” the first man said. “That’s my brother. All good, Sam?”

“Yeah,” the tall man said, running a hand through his shaggy hair. “There was another one in there but I managed to catch him off-guard.”

“Sweet. Well, this young lady saved my ass before I became a vamp snack,” the first man chuckled. “Thanks for that, by the way, um...?”

“Y/N,” you said. “As I said, no biggie. I wasn’t expecting such a big nest, so if you guys hadn’t got here first, I’d probably have been the meal anyway.”

Both men laughed at that. “I’m Dean, this is my baby brother Sam. Come on, let me buy you a drink to say thanks.”

Present Day

“Dean, can you please put a different tape on now?” Sam moaned for the fifth time. “I swear this is the tenth time I’ve heard this song.”

“Sorry Sammy, you know the rules,” his brother smirked. “Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole.”

Sam turned in his seat to face you in the backseat, hoping to get some back-up but he knew he was outnumbered when he saw you playing air guitar.

“She’s got eyes of the bluest skies, as if they thought of rain,” you sang along gleefully. “C’mon Sammy, how can you get tired of Guns ’n’ Roses? I could listen to this all day!”

Sam groaned, shifting back to face forward and slouched grumpily against the car door. “Don’t encourage him, Y/N,” he grumbled. “And I’ve told you, not even Dean’s supposed to call me Sammy, you’re definitely not allowed.”

You leaned over the back of the front seat, throwing him a pout before motioning a tiny violin between your thumb and forefinger. Dean roared with laughter as Sam grunted, folding his arms with a strop. “Tell me we’re nearly there, at least.”

“Only another 50 miles to go, little brother,” Dean hummed. He shot you a cheeky look and you knew exactly what was coming next. You both sang at the tops of your lungs:

“WoooooOOOoooaahhh sweet child of mine!”

As you arrived at the bunker, you jumped out of the car and stretched your legs before hauling your overnight bag out of the backseat. “I’m jumping straight into the shower, I still stink of werewolf.”

“Yeah I know,” Dean remarked, scrunching his nose comically. You punched him playfully in the arm, which he then clutched in feigned agony, staggering.

“Whatever, tough guy,” you huffed as you made your way into the building.

After showering and feeling refreshed, you pulled on a pair of joggers and an oversized hoodie and made your way to the kitchen. Sam was already sat at the table, staring intensely at his laptop screen and scribbling notes.

“I’m feeling pancakes, Sam, you want some?” The tall man just shook his head, his eyes not moving from the screen. “You know you’re allowed to relax every now and then, right?”

The elder Winchester sauntered into the kitchen then, also looking much fresher. “Did I hear pancakes?”

“Yep, you know where the ingredients are,” you smirked, plopping down into the chair opposite Sam.

Dean threw an irritated look at you before reluctantly rummaging through the fridge. “Asshole,” he muttered.

“Jerk,” you retorted without missing a beat. “You boys up for a drink tonight? I fancy going out, celebrating our victory in taking out that pack.”

“Sure,” Dean answered. “Let’s get some grub in us, then we can head over to the bar.”

Sam continued tapping away at his laptop. “You guys go ahead, I’ve just found this interesting article about this new legal case over in Wisconsin. Check it out, so this guy-”

“Yawwwn,” Dean interrupted. “Sometimes I wish I’d just left you at Stanford, you nerd. Anyways, Y/N and I are gonna go have some fun. Maybe you can look up the definition of the word sometime, Sammy.”

You and Dean had settled at a table at the bar, chatting about everything and nothing for about an hour, already four drinks in. You couldn’t forget that impressed glint in his eye when he first realised that you could not only hold your drink, but could also keep up with him quite easily.

You were howling with laughter as Dean told you a story of Sam losing a rabbit’s foot and the chain of unfortunate events that followed. “So I’m there on the phone to Bobby and I could tell Sam was mucking around behind me doing some stupid shit but I wasn’t really paying attention. Next thing I know, I turn around and he’s looking at me with that goofy puppy-dog face. ‘I lost my shoe,’ he says. Dropped it down a damn drain, the dumbass.” You wiped the tears of laughter from your face, shaking your head and taking a swig of your drink. “Anyway, gotta go empty the tank. I’ll be back.” Dean pushed away from the table and headed off to the men’s room.

One of your favourite AC/DC songs came on the jukebox, so you started tapping your foot and bopping your head along with the music. You didn’t really notice the stranger approach you until he helped himself to Dean’s seat. “Hey there, little lady.” You looked up at the guy, he was your typical jock-type, wearing a football jersey and a baseball cap. He was a little broader than Dean, but several inches shorter. “Can I get you a drink?”

“No thanks,” you said, smiling politely. “I’m here with a friend, just having a good time.”

“Yeah, I saw your friend,” the guy scoffed. “I promise you, come with me and I can show you a real good time, sweetheart,” he said with a wink.

You sighed and rolled your eyes. “I said-” your tone was harsh now, your words sharp. “I’m here with my friend. I’m not interested.”

“Aw come on sweet cheeks, I saw the way he was looking at you. He ain’t interested in you like that. I mean, he’s a fucking fool for it, but I’d be happy to step into the shoes if he’s too much of a pussy to fill them.” He tried to wrap an arm around you then, and you were just about to shove him off when his whole body was suddenly ripped away from you, and the next thing you knew, he was on the floor.

Dean towered over him, his eyes sparking with anger. “Did you not fucking hear her when she said she’s not interested?” By now, the rest of the bar had fallen silent, all eyes on the unfolding scene.

“Hey, dude, chill out,” the guy muttered. “It’s not like you were making a move.”

Dean grabbed the collar of the guy’s shirt in his fist, getting right in his face. You jumped up, preparing to intervene. “What I do is none of your fucking business, if you come near her again, I swear-”

“Dean!” You shouted, grabbing his other fist which had raised, ready to take a swing. “Leave it.”

“Oi!” The manager peeked out of the backroom, having heard the commotion. He jabbed a finger at Dean. “Get out of my bar, now!”

You could see the fire in Dean’s eyes redirect towards the manager, but you tugged at his shirt. “Dean, please! Just leave it. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

Dean paused for a moment before releasing the guy’s shirt, letting him fall roughly to the floor. He turned his attention back to the manager, eyes like daggers. “You oughta get some better clientele in here, mate, instead of little bitch boys.” You hooked your arm through Dean’s and dragged him out the front door. He let you pull him away, but all the while throwing glaring looks between the manager and the man who had tried hitting on you.

You really did love your new life with the Winchesters, basically considered them your brothers now, but they tended to find their newfound protective role a little too seriously sometimes. You decided it wasn’t worth an argument this time, instead letting Dean cool down as you both made your way back to the bunker.

Chapter Two =>

Dean tags: @akshi8278

Divider credit: @firefly-graphics

#supernatural #spn #spn fanfic #dean winchester #sam winchester #a descent into insanity

36 notes · View notes

zuffer-weird-girl · 5 years ago

Note

Would you be willing to write a scenario about Kai's s/o going in to labor and the delivery? Maybe just Kaito?

Lets give plague doctor more heart attacks :D

Honestly? You deserved at minimun a pat on your back, because carrying a child is not easy... and aparently carrying a Chisaki inside you was equal to hell.

Deadly cramps, torturous nauseas and dear lord even comenting the word 'peas' left you wanting to pull all of your stomach out.... all of this for exactly seven months and a half already.

The baby was surely a fighter. His kicks were dead ass strong and ever time it was a bad one, you would wince in pain while supporting yourself on somewhere.

This baby was going to knock you out at some point...

Ever time Kai notice that this was happening he would place his entire gloved and scold his unborn child.

'Not even in here and are already causing trouble brat? Be good to your mother or we might have trouble.'

It was always in that same no emotions present tone of voice of his but you could see the genuine adoration in those usual cold golden eyes.

Although today you were feeling quite... normal.

No deadly kicks, neither the urge to puke ans surprisingly your feets weren't sore!

What a great day!

You got up from your chair to grab something to eat as you carresed slightly your belly on the way.

Although when you were already half the hall you started to feel dizzy and had to support yourself omwith one hand on the wall.

"Woah not looking great there miss. You good?" You heard Mimic's voice but when you looked down you just saw a black blur.

"Y-Yeah..." you took a shaky step "I guess."

"You guess?" Mimic spoke in sarcasm while Chrono coincidentally entered. Irinaka pointed to you for Kurono to see as he also made a slightly concerned face.

Before the man could ask what was going on, you felt as if a hammer had hit you in the gut while you howled in pain, no longer holding back the discomfort or the recent, unbearable pain.

Chrono and Mimic were immediately on your side when you almost fell to the ground. In your mind passes a thought that scared you to no ends and just to confirm you lowered your hand lower to push it back to see that your terrors were true.

Blood and other fluid... your water bag broke... The baby was coming earlier.

You let out a bloody scream at seing this and another joilt of pain came into you.

"ShIT ShE'S DyInG?!"

"Of course fucking not Irinaka! Shut up!" Chrono went to lend you a shoulder but you stopped him.

"K-Kurono... P-Please... K-Kai.. H-Here." You said between breaths, trying to stal calm since you knew this was going to stress the fuck out of everyone... especially Chisaki.

Hari didn't even objected and ran looking for Chisaki as Irinaka came back into his human form to at least see if it helps.

"Breath chick, you're a fucking fighter to carry that little shit."

"MIMIC!" you shouted and the man apologized at seing the anger in your eyes.

Chisaki was currently looking at the medicals exams of his unborn son along with the first ultrasound picture. The boy was going to be here soon and after a very long time he felt anxious.

He flinched at the way the door of his office hitted the wall as Chrono shouted his name.

"What the hell Chrono? Lost your manners?" He said darkly while placing the documents inside of his drawer.

"(Y/N)." He said while pointing at your direction "She's bleeding."

In one blink of Kurono's eyes Chisaki was already running through the house while placing his mask up.

Shit. What had happened?! Were you okay?!

"Angel." He called, ignoring his horror at seing the state you were in, and kneeled on the floor.

"Baby... coming." You breath out while jolting in pain again.

Damn those contractions

He cringed at your whines but ignored his own discomfort and scooped you up in his arms in bridal style as he shouted for a precept to clean ths mess as long for Chrono to get the fuck in the car.

Mimic swore he saw the walls trembling.

"Count to ten angel." He said monoustly but the way his hands tremble slightly and the hint of desperation in his eyes told everthing.

You screamed as the car suddenly roughly spun aside, the last drop of patience on your husband completely gone.

"WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT CHRONO?!"

"IM SORRY BUT A GUY ALMOST HITTED THE FUCKING CAR AND COULD HAVE KILLED US YOU KNOW?!" Poor Hari was consumed by both you and Overhaul's desperation.

"Oh my god both oF YOU SHUT UP!" You shouted causing both of them to be completly silent all the ride to the hospital.

He was going to talk to you about that later, but maybe it was a understatement since you were giving birth at this point.

Kurono had to hold back Chisaki when a bunch of nurses just pulled you out of Kai's arms and a doctor told him to wait outside.

His wife was giving birth to his soon son and he was supposed to wait OUTSIDE YOU FILFH UNPROFESSIONAL BASTARD?!

When a nurse came to Chrono, asking for him to get out of the room since only it was allowed the father, he arched one eyebrow at her and pointed with his palm at a very furious Chisaki, silently saying 'Im the one keeping the beast calm, you sure about that?'.

The nurse just gave him a apologetic look before, with the nerves on their skin of talking to a dangerous man of the yakusa, calling Overhaul.

The way Chisaki looked at them could be described as murderous and if he had a laser vision quirk the poor nurse would be already dead on the spot.

"I-I'm sorry! But you can enter now." She bowed apologetically while indicating the door for Chisaki.

He didn't even acknowledge her as he entered the room abruptly, ignoring many looks of the doctors and just making a bee line at you.

Despite your eyebags and squirming in pain figurine, you still manage to look angelic... just incredible.

"Angel, it's almost over." He said monoustly, a mix of pain and relief at seing the way you opened your eyes.

"Kai..." you whispered while crying... your hand desperately hilding the bed sheets as you cried out...

"Dad hold her hand!" A male nurse suggested and you almost laughed if it wasn't for the torturous pain you were in.

Someone was trying to give others to Chisaki? Your Chisaki Kai? Great joke.

Chisaki narrowed his eyes at the man befofe cringing at seing you crying again... you were in so much pain but yet refused to just grab his hand because you knew him.

He suddenly left to a quick bathroom and picked a hand sanitizer and a handkerchief.... the scene was almost comic to the doctors and nurses. A soon to be father wipping his wife's hand before holding it onto his gloved one.

"You don't change do you?" You whispered while smilling at him, pure appreciation and love on your eyes as you looked into those beautiful golden ones that you had fallen with.

"Why should I?" He said monotonously but you could see the hints of a smile behind that black face mask of his.

His hand suddenly cracked at your strenght as you turned your head away from him to muffle your screams.

...ouch.

The doctors were surprised because they LISTENED to his hand cracking and he was just... there. He suddenly glared at them with pire hate as his words spilled from his kouth like venom.

"Bunch of incompetents, my wife is having a kid and you just stand there without doing nothing? Move and help her before I lose my pacience bunch of filfh." They flinched before returning to their activities whiel Kai scoffed 'sicks' under his breath.

Your screams had stopped and your grip on his hand released, putting the pieces together he looked up and saw a tiny creature on the arms of one nurse.

"You did it." He amused out loud while you only let out a sleep deprived 'yay' before closing your eyes as you tried to catch your breath.

He picked the handkerchief and wiped your forehead gently before looking down at you.

"You're sweaty..."

"No shit sherlock I just gave birth." You said between breaths and giggles receiving a pinch on your arm along with a scoff of his.

"W-Why isn't he crying?" You suddenly breath out.

Shit. Is true. He haven't heard his son cries. He looked uo already with anger before he saw the doctor bringing a white blanket and handing rubbing the face of your new born to you.

"See mommy? Your baby is fine." He felt butterflies forming inside his stomach at seing the little boy face in contact with yours... you smilling tiredly but still manage to open your eyes to look at your son.

"Kaito... is so nice to meet you.." you teared up at seing your baby for the first time... he had his father looks.

He punched his chest to prevent any hints of despicable tears fron falling from his eyes but it was really damn difficult... Luckily he managed to stay with his stoic face at least.

The moment though he saw you closing your eyes he internally panicked.

"Angel." He grabbed your face and shook slightly, checking your pulse with his other hand and sighing in relief at feeling your heartbeat on his fingers.

"She is just tired, will come back as soon as she recuperates... would you like to hold your son mister?"

He eyed the doctor in suspicion before choosing to only look at his son, eyes secretly telling how much he was willing to do for this little one already.

"Place him on the crib for now. I want my wife to see the scene, she wouldn't leave me alone after knowing that I holded my son without her seing it." He spoke crudely amd coldly at the doctor bit they didn't seemed to mind at first.

The doctor nodded in understatement before placing the kid carefilly down on the crib, right besides Kai as he sitted on the edge of the bed... holding your hand in his gloved ones.

He took a glance at his sleeping son and decided to just carres the tip of his thumb on the chubby cheek.

He swore the kid just smiled at the contact... a simple contact... but it was rather a nice feeling.

"I made this brat..." he mused out loud for himself before smirking down at his son and bringing your freahly washed head to rest on him instead of the pillows of the hospital.

"Welcome to this world... Chisaki Kaito."

#overhaul x reader #overhaul scenario #fanfic overhaul #overhaul #chisaki kai imagine scenario #kai chisaki x reader #chisaki kai x reader #chisaki kai #kai chisaki #bnha imagine #bnha x reader #bnha characters #bnha villains #bnha #my writings #zuffer writings

443 notes · View notes

anexperimentallife · 4 years ago

Text

(EDIT: THIS IS THE PROJECT THAT GOT CANCELED) MY STORY I‘M BEING PAID TO LICENSE FOR ADAPTATION INTO A MOBILE GAME!

(Also posting to my gaming blog, @atombombbaby)

Since some of y’all expressed interest, and since the rights have reverted to me, this is the story I'm getting paid a licensing fee to allow expansion into a thirty episode (minimum) mobile game. It was the first story I ever sold, back in 2012, and the Quiet World setting has morphed since then, into something more its own, and more steampunk/solarpunk than what you see here. Not to mention I’m a better writer now than I was back then. And I get mostly full control!

Enough things change that you may as well consider the game version of the Quiet World to be a different continuity—much like Marvel Comics and the MCU are different. In fact, all new Quiet World stories will be set in something close to the game version than the version here. The new Quiet World is set on an alternate Earth, so the pop culture references and so on will not be there. The core and the spirit, however, remain.

I’m not completely happy with how I ended this, and there are obviously other things that are changing, like obviously more characters and possible LIs, some of whom already exist in my other QW stories (like Kai the Nephil hired gun, Gray the feral werewolf, and so on), a choice of MC gender and race, expansion of the story to fill out three seasons, and so on. I should stop making excuses for it--It was good enough to get greenlit to turn into a game, right?

SO HERE’S THE ORIGINAL STORY--ENJOY!

Karma

by D. Robert Hamm (about 15,000 words)

We hit the interstate like an unguided missile. Needles of frozen rain and jagged blades of wind beat my face numb and turned what was left of my dress into a full-body ice-pack. Even with the heater on ‘incinerate,’ I couldn’t stop shivering, but the outside air was all that kept me from gagging on the smell of my own puke and the rusty stench of blood, so the window stayed down. Between the black pavement and blacker sky, the air was wet and gray. It sucked the vitality from my headlamp beams well before their natural time, but that was okay. I wasn’t paying much attention to the little they revealed anyway.

The man in the passenger’s seat either didn’t feel the cold or was too stoic to show discomfort. The dashboard glow turned his short white beard to green and deepened the age lines in his face. Gods, I’d loved that face growing up. It was my grandfather’s face. But right then, I could barely look at it, because this wasn’t my grandfather, just a sad, confused spirit wearing his body. And even though he was one of the good guys, that didn’t mean it was easy to take.

“You’re going to catch cold,” Not-Grandpa shouted over the storm.

“I’m… what?”

Since last night I’d been shot at, whipped, and electrocuted. I’d watched a good man beheaded and disemboweled before my eyes, and learned things about myself, my family, and especially my past, that had already driven other people into padded-room territory. I was marinated in a vile concoction of blood and various other body fluids, quite a bit of it my own, and had spent the last however-many hours fighting horrors that should never have existed. In the middle of all that—because I’m an overachiever—I took time out to kill a man I loved.

And this guy was worried that I’d catch a fucking cold?

Once I started laughing, I couldn’t stop. The kind of deep, full-body laughter that doubles you over and makes your stomach muscles ache for days afterward. The kind that shreds the lining of your throat and rises in pitch to rapid staccato squeaks, like sneakers on a hardwood floor. I held back the worst long enough to wrestle the car onto the shoulder, then let go. The laughter turned to howling, the howling into screams, the screams into sobs, and the sobs into a quiet whimper that finally, gods finally, tapered off, and I could breathe again, in great, ragged gulps. I wiped away a rope of snot hanging from my nose and sat hunched over with my eyes closed and my forehead against the steering wheel, shaking, while the rain pummeled my back with tiny, ice-cold fists.

In shock? Probably. Hysterical? Definitely. Look, I make sandwiches at my family’s restaurant for a living, okay? Sandwiches.

Not-Grandpa waited until I quieted down before speaking. “I’m sorry,” he said. It was the dozenth or so time he’d said it. The line of his mouth stayed hard, but his eyes and his voice were soft and broken. I believed him. Had to believe him.

“I know.” I didn’t mean for it to sound bitter. He’d saved my life after all, and he deserved better than that. I just didn’t know if I could forgive him for not being who I wanted him to be.

A little too “in media res” for you? Yeah, me too.

So here are the vitals: My name is Karma Miranda Rodriguez. I’m twenty-three years old, five foot six, with brown eyes, light brown skin, and dark brown hair that I keep boy-short. I claim to be a size five, and I dare you to say otherwise. I like strawberry daiquiris, support equal rights for supernaturals, am indifferent toward long walks on the beach, and . . .

And oh, yeah—apparently, I kill demons.

Eli’s Borderland Station, my family’s restaurant, has been the only twenty-four hour eatery on the Kansas City Plaza since back before the Jasonites outed the supernatural community (aka, “The Quiet World”) and we had to coin the term ‘daylighter’ to differentiate plain vanilla humans from those touched by the paranormal. During the riots that followed the Jasonites’ little party, and all through the Apocalypse Wars, my Grandpa Eli and Uncle Garston kept the restaurant open as a free kitchen-slash-aid-station for refugees and emergency workers, and turned the upstairs apartment—which is mine, now—into a de facto headquarters for various peacekeeping forces.

So alongside our Absolutely Killer Turkey Sandwich (made from, according to the menu, genuine killer turkeys), we serve up a mean side-order of history. Obviously, a lot of things have changed since the AWs; for instance, the Plaza, always an upscale shopping district, is now a level four Private Patrol Zone with the best law enforcement money can buy. As you’d expect, our main business is well-heeled shoppers whose sidearms are more fashion statement than personal defense, but we try to keep prices reasonable enough for the average college student, too.

No amount of money will buy you a table or a bar stool in our VIP lounge, though, even if every other seat in the house is taken. The lounge is permanently reserved for veterans, proxies, bounty hunters, elites, and so on. It’s where people with code names like Halloween Jack, Lucy D.T., HalluciNathan, and so on come to catch up with one another, trade information, or just relax. Grandpa and Uncle Garston are technically civilians now, but a lot of the VIPs still use their call signs from way back when, so if someone in armored leathers with notched weapons and a stare that looks like they’re counting the ways they could kill you with one finger says they’re going to see The General and Body Mass, they’re not talking about some secret mission, it just means they’re headed our way for the lunch special.

On Tuesday nights we lock up for a few hours of uninterrupted cleaning with my special patented Karma Rodriguez closing procedure. This involves, among other things, lots of dancing around with brooms and mops, and other Weapons of Mess-Destruction, and me in a casual dress singing along with loud music at the top of my lungs. It’s effective. The more I can make work feel like play, the faster and more efficiently I get things done, and as proof of that, what used to take three people on Tuesday nights now requires only two.

At thirty seconds to zero-dark-thirty on a drizzly February evening, when my grime-fighting partner Jayden and I were the only ones left in the restaurant, I locked the front door and hit the music. My mix for the night was weighted heavily in favor of pre-Apocalypse rock—music that was old before I was born. It was a minor tragedy when it cut off about ten minutes into the shift, right in the middle of David Bowie’s Rebel, Rebel. Jayden and I both trailed off a cappella.

“I didn’t hear you singing if you didn’t hear me,” Jayden said. “We stick together, and nobody can prove anything.” He fixed me with what would have been a deadpan stare if not for that quirk at one corner of his mouth that I thought of as his, ‘our little secret’ smile.

I put on my best film noir ‘tough dame’ voice. “It’s always secrets with you, isn’t it? Fine, I’ll play your game.” Staying in character, I headed upstairs with an over-the-top hip-swaying sashay, to reboot the router while Jayden kept cleaning.

I can’t be objective about Jayden, so I won’t try. He was one of a kind. Literally. Part Aosidhe, part Graealfinsidhe, and part daylighter, Jayden was a medical miracle, and he got the best from each branch of his ancestry. Six and a half feet of lean muscle, flawless skin, hair like pale gold silk, and . . . you get the idea. His ears were only slightly pointed, and with his hair down, he could pass for an exceptionally pretty daylighter, if not for his eyes. Whiteless, and bright turquoise in color. They suited him.

And yeah, I know. If only I wasn’t his boss. Jayden had something of a ‘mystery man’ air about him that only added to his status as local lust-object. Among other things, the way he dressed like a wastelander (only cleaner) but acted like a gentleman fueled speculation. He kept his past and his private life just that, though—past, and private. It was like the world was in love with Jayden, but Jayden wasn’t sure how he felt about the world and didn’t want to lead it on.

When I got back from confirming that the router was indeed fried, those exotic eyes of his were fixed on the big screen in the main dining area. I came up behind him and stopped, gaping. “What the . . . ?”

Just north of us, people were fighting in the streets and looting, while Hushville—Jayden’s neighborhood—burned.

“Short version?” Jayden said without turning around, “They busted the wrong guy for the Taylor murders, so they released him. He lasted a whole three hours.”

“They didn’t give him police protection?”

“He was under police protection when it happened. Now everybody has a conspiracy theory, and apparently with every conspiracy theory this week, you get a free Molotov cocktail kit. Speaking of which . . . ” He rewound a few seconds and paused on a burning apartment building that I recognized as his. “Great firebomb, huh?”

“Wow. I’m sorry.” I put my hand on his shoulder. “Are you okay?”

He shrugged, his back still to me. “I carry everything really important with me.”

“You want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Want me to leave you alone?”

He paused, as if considering. “No.”

“Okay. But know what? Fuck cleaning. Help me get the trash out, then haul your duffel bag upstairs. You’re staying at my place tonight.”

Jayden turned and looked at me as though I were speaking Swahili. “Your place?”

“You just lost your apartment to a xenophobic asshole with a fire fetish, and you need crash space. Friends do that kind of stuff for each other.”

That earned me a confused look. “No, I just . . . Yeah, that’d be great. Thanks.” He seemed utterly bewildered. So much for his famed stoicism and unflappability. Ah, Jayden. Such a strange, strange boy. I ran up to get my coat and pull on a pair of jeans under my dress, and Jayden and I dragged the first can out into the alley.

I remember the air tasted of cold grease and wet pavement. I remember the electric buzz of the street lamp, and the way its dirty light turned the drizzle into sparse gray streaks like anime rain. I remember the exact cadence of the trash can’s scraping and banging as we dragged it toward the dumpster. How screwed up do things have to get before taking out the trash is a fond memory worth replaying in your head?

We didn’t hear the patrol team until they entered the mouth of the alley, running hard toward us, shouting at us to get inside. The woman’s name was Lawson. She’d lost her helmet, and a sheen of blood covered the left side of her face. Her partner, Hall, had a crack running down the side of his faceplate, and his body armor was shredded in places. They both carried their weapons at the ready, scanning the roofline as they ran.

Before they’d even finished their warning, a clot of shadow and sickening angles detached from the rest of the dark. The Shashashkuhun slaughter-spider—How did I know that?—dropped from the roof and—The Shashashkuhun and the bad people are making us walk a long way again. I don’t say how tired I am because I am almost eight years old, and that means I’m a big girl, and because it would make Mommy feel bad that she can’t carry me that far. Mommy and me are in our nightgowns because we were asleep when they—Where were these images coming from?—landed in the alley behind them. It was an impossible thing, eight or nine feet tall, all mottled ochre-and-black chitin, with eight spiked and bladed spiderlike legs from which it took its name, serrated mandibles beneath great protruding compound eyes, and short, thick, writhing tentacles suspended from the underside of a bulbous, misshapen central body.

I shouted my own warning, but Hall was already emptying his magazine at the thing as he backed toward us. Lawson either tripped or dove in our direction, twisting in mid-air to land on her back. She raised her shotgun, and—grabbed us, and it was really late because both moons were out, but they let us put on our boots before they made us start walking. Mommy tried to fight them and she shot one of them but they beat her up and cut her cheek really bad. But she is still the prettiest lady in the whole wide world. It was real people, not Shashashkuhun, but they don’t act like real people. Mommy says they have bad things inside them called Qlippoth. I think they are telling the Shashashkuhun what—made it roar as she hit the pavement.

The monster’s cry was like a foghorn made of cats and feedback, a spike that shoved through both eardrums. Lawson had hurt it, taken out one leg, in fact, but it wasn’t enough, and Hall’s automatic gunfire cut off with a sickening, meat cleaver sound as the spider sliced through his neck. Hall’s head flew from his shoulders and bounced against the alley wall while the spider eviscerated his body before it could hit the ground, as if he weren’t–to do. A man tried to run away today, but they caught him, and instead of shooting him a Shashashkuhun stuck one of its sharp arm/leg things in him and cut him open and played with his insides until he stopped screaming, and I cried, but I won’t cry anymore, because I’m a big girl, and—dead enough already. Even as far back as Jayden and I stood, hot, sticky wetness splattered our faces.

The monster tried to leap toward us, but its missing leg threw it off balance. Lawson’s shotgun was out of ammo, so she fumbled out her .45 and taunted the slaughter-spider while edging toward the side of the alley opposite the door. Sacrificing herself—big girls don’t cry. The demons usually kill everybody, but now they only kill people who try to run away or stop walking before they tell us to stop or people who fall down and can’t walk anymore, but sometimes when somebody falls down they let somebody else make a travois, which is a kind of sled thing that you drag—to give us a chance to get away. My gun was in my purse inside, but even if I’d had it on me, I couldn’t loosen my grip on the trash can, let alone force myself to move.

I caught Jayden’s eye. I’d never before realized–when I feel like crying I think about Daddy. Daddy is a general, which is a kind of soldier who tells other soldiers what to do. He is a long way away fighting other Shashashkuhun, but when he comes to save us, the Shashashkuhun and the bad people are going to be sorry. I am going to be a soldier like Daddy when I grow up and—how much he and I communicated without speaking, but with that look, I knew we’d done the same math. One of us might—just might—make it to the door. If we left the other one to die along with Lawson.

Fuck that.

Once I’d made the decision, the tension drained from my body—I am nine years old, and I have been in the prison camp for over a year. They tell me it is time for the laboratory again, but if I pick someone else to go, they will leave me alone today. If I choose my mother to go they will leave me alone for a month. They seem surprised when my answer is to hold out my wrists for the cuffs. I am the daughter of a general and a hero. I do not run, or let others take my pain. And no matter what they do to me, I won’t let them see how scared I am—the way the fear had, sublimating into the night and leaving me perfectly relaxed. Jayden gave me that ‘our little secret’ smile, and I knew he got it. He understood. Not just what I was about to do, but why.

When anything you do will end in death, make your final act one of defiance.

And so it was that we, about to die, in the most futile and ridiculous gesture in the history of futile and ridiculous gestures, screamed our defiance in the face of death, and charged the monster that would surely kill us.

With a fucking trash can.

We slammed into the slaughter-spider and fell hard, with the trash can bouncing between those giant legs and spilling its slippery contents out onto the already-slick blacktop. The slaughter-spider screamed at the impact, even louder than when Lawson had shot it, and nearly toppled. A serrated leg missed me by inches, and I rolled away, but I’d only be able to dodge for so long. My only regrets were that since I hadn’t properly prepared this body, I would die along with it—again, where the hell did that thought come from?—and that so many things would go unsaid between me and those I cared about. Including Jayden, if I was being honest.

Something hard in my coat pocket bit into my side as I rolled. I’d forgotten about the taser I almost always took with me when I left the restaurant. Even if it was still charged, it wasn’t salvation, but at this point salvation wasn’t an option. Victory was what mattered, and victory was nothing more nor less than continuing to fight until the inevitable happened. I pulled out the taser, flipped off the safety, and sent 50,000 volts into the center of that mass of tentacles, along with all the fury I could muster. The slaughter-spider jerked momentarily, and Lawson took advantage to pick up a piece of steel rebar from the junk pile in the alley and plunge it glove-deep into one of the slaughter-spider’s faceted eyes. Jayden followed with a sharp piece of broken two-by-four into the other.

And as though someone had flipped a switch marked ‘alive/dead,’ the slaughter-spider fell . . . in slow motion, like those television broadcasts of building demolitions. After one final spasm, it was still, and the alley was silent for several seconds except for the buzz of the streetlight. After barely long enough to begin to accept that we weren’t dead, answering cries to the spider’s death scream split the night.

We staggered inside the restaurant as the first new creature hit the pavement, and got the bars across the door just before another slammed against it. I slapped my palm against the ward sigil and spoke the syllables to activate it, then ran to the front and did the same there. After grabbing my gun and other weapons from upstairs and activating still more wards, I hit the ‘dim all’ switch and met up with the others in the kitchen. Lawson used a cabinet as cover, her shotgun aimed at the door, and Jayden . . .

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

I’d been gone perhaps two minutes, but when I returned, Jayden stood transformed, a grim-faced cross between a modern wastelander and a wild warrior from legend, in a combination of armored biker leathers and Fay armor. The hilts of two matching blades extended over his shoulders, and his jacket sleeves were pushed up to reveal Sidhe archery gauntlets—the real kind, not the department store knockoffs. Other weapons clung to various parts of his body, strategically placed so as not to impede movement—blades, throwing disks, bolas, and quivers and bandoliers of bolts and arrows for the quick-load mini-crossbow in his hand and the compound bow housed in a slender case across his back. He shrugged bashfully—Jayden? Bashful?—when he caught me staring. So this was what he meant when he said he carried everything important with him.

The booming of another hit on the door jerked my attention away from Jayden. After a few more tries, though, the spiders seemed to realize that it was futile, and ceased their efforts.

Now that we had stopped racing time, time slowed to let us catch up. Whether from the endorphin rush or something else, I felt disconnected, an observer watching from inside myself. In the dimness, Lawson and Jayden were pale, oh so pale, and heartbreakingly beautiful against the gray and charcoal shadows. I stood with chest heaving alongside them, seeing and feeling and hearing everything as though for the first time, in love with it all. Because we, who moments before had been dead, were alive and more than alive, were filled with life until we could burst from the pressure as it strained against the insignificant scraps of skin and flesh that could barely contain it.

A single glossy drop of blood formed at the tip of Lawson’s finger, creating itself until it was real enough to float downward and finally join its comrades who had already emigrated to the floor to form a puddle, and Lawson was falling, falling, falling behind it as if to join the puddle herself.

I shook out of my trance barely in time to help Jayden take Lawson’s weight. She was conscious, but weak. “It’s okay,” I told her, “We’re going to get you taken care of. Did you call for backup?” Lawson shook her head weakly, closed her eyes, and made a sound between a chuckle and a sob. “Nobody left to call. Even if the radio worked, nobody left to . . . ” she trailed off and seemed to fold in on herself. I’d seen what that thing did to Hall. I didn’t need her to tell me what had happened to the rest of her squad.

We got Lawson into the VIP lounge and onto a folded-out hide-a-bed, and raided the crisis closet. There was more in there than I’d realized. We patched up Lawson as well as we could and got a saline drip going with something for pain and nausea. It was only after I’d given her naproxyn, though, that I thought to wonder if it thinned the blood the way aspirin did. What if she had internal injuries? Was there anything else I was supposed to be doing? At least I remembered to elevate her feet and make sure she had plenty of blankets. Beyond that, it was a matter of, ‘do no harm,’ with a supersized side order of, ‘hope I don’t fuck this up.’

Damn it, I wasn’t qualified for any of this. Grandpa was the one with the certifi—Duh! Grandpa could talk me through this, and we needed to get word out anyway. Our phones may as well have been paperweights, though. No signal, whether due to the riots or something else. If all else failed, Lawson said that after too long with no contact, it was corporate policy to send in what amounted to the wrath of the gods to investigate. The restaurant was pretty much a fortress—even the ‘glass’ was actually transluminum—so theoretically speaking, all we had to do was stay buttoned up for a few hours and wait for help to arrive. And not go nuts in the meantime.

I’d cut away most of Lawson’s uniform, but the rest needed to come off to make sure I hadn’t missed anything. Her partner had died saving us, and I’d be damned if she followed suit because of me. I asked Jayden to leave the room, but Lawson put a hand on his arm, winked, and flashed a weak smile. “‘Sokay. I like your boyfriend,” she said.

“Just a friend. It’d probably break my ego to date somebody that much prettier than me.”

“‘Just a friend,’ my ass.” She smiled and closed her eyes, slurring her words, and rolled her head around on her pillow. Her own smile didn’t so much fade as disappear. “Thanks, guys. You did good. I just wish . . . ” Tears trickled from the corners of her eyes, and it didn’t take a psychic to know how that sentence was supposed to end.

After helping Lawson down some broth with a little liquid protein and Nutri-All added, we let her rest. When we were sure she was asleep, and that her breathing and pulse were regular, Jayden and I crept out of the room to treat our own injuries, mostly scrapes and bruises.

It seemed like there was something about what had happened in the alley even stranger than the attack. A flash of knowledge or memory. But whenever I tried to access it, it slipped away. Probably the kind of thing that takes over for some people in emergency situations, like the woman who supposedly lifted a car off of her toddler, or the accountant who found himself standing over the bodies of three would-be muggers, with no memory of what had happened. The other disturbing thing was that I was so . . . blank. I should have been shaking. I should have been horrified at Hall’s death, and at the deaths of the rest of their squad. It’s not that I didn’t care, I just kept feeling like it should have affected me more. We should have been . . . I don’t know, mourning them or something. Maybe I couldn’t let myself feel it yet.

I knelt behind Jayden on a tablecloth on the floor, dabbing antiseptic onto a scrape on his upper back. “So everybody dies,” I muttered, “and we end up with road rash. That’s fair.”

“That’s survivor’s guilt talking,” he said.

“Yeah, well.”

“Lawson’d be dead if not for you. We all would.”

“I had help.”

“Your idea, though.”

I’d been swabbing the same area for maybe a full minute, no longer aware of what I was doing, until Jayden spoke again. “You were wrong, you know.”

“About what?”

“About the ‘prettier than you’ thing. I don’t think anybody is. Nobody I’ve ever seen. And I see into the infra-red and ultra-violet, so I see more than you’d think.” I could almost hear that, ‘our little secret’ smile. “It’s not a peeping thing,” he added quickly, “It’s just my normal vision.”

Blatant change of subject, but not unwelcome. I’m pretty sure I blushed. “Yeah, well thanks. But hey, I like the way I look and all, and I’m not fishing for a compliment here, but—realistically speaking—if you’ve never seen better, you must’ve been living in a cave.”

“Actually,” he said, “a Graealfinsidhe separatist conclave, until five years ago. It was carved into the side of a mountain, so I guess it counts as a cave. Never talked to anyone about it until now. I stand by my statement, though. I decided that if we lived, I was going to tell you that. Tell you everything.”

I blinked. “I’m . . . honored. And I’m not complaining—I mean, look, you’re not the only one who decided out there to reveal some things; guess almost dying does that. It’s just, the guy I’ve been crushing on for two years now is suddenly . . . Why me?”

I caught myself stroking his hair, and was about to stop when he tilted his head into my hand and sighed. We sat there like that for a while before he answered. “I want you to know me.”

Coming from him that night, there in the dark on the hardwood floor with the smells of grime and antiseptic assailing our senses, with death waiting outside the door, those were the sweetest words ever spoken. Sweeter in their simple, naked honesty, than any candle-lit declaration of love, more beautiful in their artlessness than any sonnet delivered on bended knee. I couldn’t stop the wetness on my cheeks, and I didn’t want to.

“Yeah, well, there’s something I want you to know, too.” I pulled him back against me, brushing my lips along his cheek. He turned his body in my arms until we found each other’s mouths and lost ourselves, and entwined around each other on that blood-streaked tablecloth on what might be the last night of our lives was the only place I ever wanted to be.

We dozed, and when we woke it was to Uncle Garston standing over us like a bearded, glowering mountain of muscle in blood-stained flannel, with one bandage around his head and another showing through a rip in his shirt, wearing a flak vest that didn’t quite close around his girth. In addition to his omnipresent Desert Eagle in its holster, he clenched an assault rifle in a hand so huge and meaty that the rifle looked almost like a child’s toy.

“Where’s your half of Eli’s find-me charm?” he growled.

“What? What happened?”

His nostrils flared, and he snorted like a bull about to charge. “Did I fucking stutter? Where is the gods-damned—” He stopped, took a breath, and squeezed the bridge of his nose with his free hand. “Sorry. L-word, all right? I didn’t mean to . . . Just, where is it?”

I told him where it was, and he sprinted out of the room. Jayden and I dressed hurriedly, and Lawson called out from the VIP lounge asking what the shouting was about. “That’s what I’m going to find out,” I told her. I ran upstairs, with Jayden behind me, to find Garston in the kitchen scattering the contents of drawers onto the floor.

“Here,” I said, “Right where I said it was. Now stop being Uncle Growly long enough to tell me what’s going on.”

“They took him. Don’t know why, or why they didn’t kill us, but those bastards—”

“Who? The Shashashkuhun? The Qlippoth?”

“Of course, the Shashashkuhun. Who else . . . ” He looked at me with an undecipherable expression. “How did you know about the Shashashkuhun?”

Yeah, how did I know? “I—I don’t know. But when the slaughter-spider attacked last night—”

“They came here?” Garston roared loudly enough to be painful. “Why didn’t you say so? Did they hurt you? And you, boy,” he turned to Jayden, “where were you when this happened?”

Gods. Could I get one question at a time? “I’m fine,” I said, “and Jayden helped kill one of the damn things, so you can back up out of his grill right now. They killed an entire patrol squad except for Lawson, though. She’s downstairs. But this is . . . ” I shook my head. This wasn’t right. “People don’t suddenly know things like that, Garston. And then not even wonder how.” My heart was trying to pound its way out of my chest. Anyone would be freaked out, but why now instead of last night? Where was this panic coming from? “But that’s exactly what I did. I haven’t thought about it since—and when I do, I get these pictures in my head. There were two moons, and we were walking to some prison camp or something, and I was a little girl, and they . . . ” I could hear my voice rising in pitch, but couldn’t stop the words from spilling out or the images from growing more and more solid. Garston and Jayden moved toward me, but I held up my hand. I could do this on my own. I slowed my breathing and counted my breaths, an exercise I had learned as a little girl. One . . . Two . . . Three . . . Little by little, the panic faded, and I opened my eyes.

“Better?” Garston asked.

“Oh, hell no,” I said. “Or yeah, better, but not good. What’s happening to me?”

“Something your grandpa and I were afraid was coming, and that fucker last night must’ve kick-started things. ’Swhy we made you learn all that meditation and shit. Important thing to know is you’re not crazy, okay? But right now, I have to go find Eli, and we’ll explain it all when we get back. Just try not to think about any of it until then.”

“No, you can explain on the way.”

Garston shook his head. “This ain’t a discussion, K-girl. I want you safe. Don’t worry about me. I’m just gonna find out where they’re headed and call in the big guns soon as I get someplace I can get a signal.”

“You’re right, it’s not a discussion. We’ll take my car; it’s faster, and I just charged it.”

Garston opened his mouth to argue, but Jayden jumped in. “Quick question,” he said, “Do you really think anything you say is going to stop her from following you?”

My uncle glowered, but Jayden spread his hands, “I didn’t make the rain, I’m just reporting the weather.”

Garston looked from one of us to the other and threw up his hands—narrowly missing my spice rack with his AR-15—and, grumbling, led the way back downstairs.

Jayden, with his preternatural senses, rode in the passenger seat with Garston’s AR-15, once again in full warrior regalia, while Garston rode in the back with the find-me. I drove. It was calming to have something active on which to focus.

“So,” I said once we were under way, “Tell me if I’ve got this right. Monsters kidnap Grandpa Eli and attack the restaurant, and you know all about them, right down to their inseam sizes, but you don’t think to say anything until they show up and actually start killing people? Oh, and I have random surprise knowledge and first-person scenes from a science fiction movie popping into my head, and you knew that was coming, too, but didn’t think to warn me about that, either. So if I sound just a little bit pissed off, it’s probably because I am. Care to explain?”

“It wasn’t . . . We never thought they’d come here, and just . . . you were so happy, not remembering. You could grow up and have a life this time. Meet a nice boy. Or girl. Hell, a dozen of each and a fucking toaster if that was what you wanted. But you’re the one that made yourself forget shit, and we figured you had a reason and we shouldn’t fuck with it. Maybe it was wrong, but if we’re guilty of anything, it’s trusting your own subconscious, so if you’re looking to be pissed off at somebody, you better put yourself right at the top of the list.”

Ouch. I pretended to focus on traffic for a little while.

“Sorry.”

“‘Sokay.”

“So, whatever ‘it’ was, it was that bad?”

Garston snorted. “Pardon the old war-dog cliché, but I still wake up screaming some nights, and that’s after decades with a PTSD specialist. See, we got what they call desensitized after a while, so they stepped things up a little at a time. When I remembered, though, it was fifteen years all at once, including the stuff at the end that would’a broke anybody unless they worked their way up to it. The good part is it doesn’t sound like it’s hitting you all at once, and like I said, there’s all that meditation and shit.”

“And I still have no idea what ‘it’ is. Looks like we’ve reached the point where not remembering is more dangerous than remembering, though. Agreed? Make me understand here.”“Eli’s better at this kind of thing than I am. It’ll sound crazy coming from me.”

“I challenge you to top the last couple of hours in the crazy department.”

“Okay. Here goes.” He took a deep breath, cleared his throat, and went for it. “Your Grandpa Eli is a demon hunter who travels between universes by performing a ritual that lets him die and come back in other worlds, and he’s actually your father from your first life. You and I and a bunch of others got taken prisoner by the Shashashkuhun demons—who were working with the Qlippoth demons at the time—when you weren’t quite eight years old. Everybody thought we were dead, but we weren’t. We spent about the next fifteen years as live test subjects for demons, until we finally escaped.”

I pulled onto the interstate. The electric hum of the motor, the tires on the wet road, and the wind buffeting us from outside were the only sounds for a while. The drizzle had picked up into rain, and sandwiched between the black sky and blacker road, I struggled to see through the falling gray that sucked my headlight beams into limbo.

“So. You escaped. We escaped, I mean.”

“Yeah.”

“By doing this death ritual thing.”

“Yeah. We got separated, and you took forever to get here, but one day you just sort of . . . coalesced is the word Eli uses. This perfect, beautiful little baby girl, looking exactly the way you used to. Eli picked you up and held you for the longest time, staring at your face and crying, and I said, ‘See? All the good things you’ve done, your karma finally caught up to you.’ And he said, ‘Yes, she finally has.’”

I drove. And I admit that I sniffled a little.

After a few minutes Garston said, “Well? You gonna say something?”

“This is probably the biggest understatement of the century, but it’s a lot to take in.”

“I warned you.”

“You did.”

Still trying to figure things out, we compared notes on the attacks. When Grandpa and Garston saw the riot footage and couldn’t reach me by phone, they headed to Garston’s truck to come check on me. That was when the demons hit them, about an hour and a half after the attack on the restaurant, roughly twelve-thirty or so, when we were still huddled in the restaurant thinking the monsters were right outside. Knowing all that didn’t help much in the ‘figuring things out’ department, though.

Jayden had been silent most of this time except for helping fill in details of our fight with the slaughter-spider. When I glanced over, he was frowning.

“So,” I said, “Regret getting involved with me yet, or do I need to work on that?”

“You’ll have to work on it. Had a thought, though. I’m still not getting a signal, and . . . ” He clicked on the radio. Nothing but static all the way up and down the dial. He looked at me and raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding,” I said.

I caught up as close as we dared to the find-me charm, which bought us a few minutes to pull over and search for the jammer. Once we found it, in a waterproof casing fastened to the inside of a rear wheel-well, disabling it was simple. For something a little bigger than a pack of cigarettes, though, it had certainly caused enough trouble.

Jayden took the wheel when we got back on the road so we could run without headlights, thus saving juice and making ourselves stealthier at the same time. Garston made the call. Not just to anybody, but to Malachai Traeger, who doesn’t need a code name because, hey, he’s Malachai fucking Traeger. He might be a sweetheart when he’s not working, but according to local legend, he’s faced down gods. No, that’s not hyperbole. Handy having someone like that as a family friend, especially considering there was no way we could afford him otherwise.

Just knowing that Kai was on the job did wonders for morale, and we whooped triumphantly. Okay, I whooped. Jayden smiled, but for him, that counted. Uncle Garston’s whoop sounded more like, “Would you please shut your mouth while I’m on the phone?” but I claim creative license.

Why wouldn’t we be jubilant? We had a plan, and professionals to carry it out. We had a big head start, but Kai said he’d catch up as soon as he could, and make calls on the way to assemble a small recon team and get someone to the scene of each attack to do forensics. The recon team would figure out exactly what they were up against, and call in extra support as necessary. All we had to do was point the way.

The find-me led, and we followed, with occasional updates to give Kai our route. Once we got out of range of the last cell tower, we dropped emergency reflectors and other expendables at exits and intersections to blaze a trail, and considering we were well into unpatrolled territory at that point, I strapped on Lawson’s body armor just to be safe.

On a sketchily-paved county road at the corner of nowhere and nothing, something pinged the fender, and the front right tire blew with a ‘whump’ like a glove hitting a punching bag, Jayden fought for control and lost, and the world did cartwheels as the car flipped sideways into the ditch, coming to rest halfway down with wheels in the air. Jayden and I extricated ourselves from our seat belts and air bags while I called out to Garston to see if he was okay. He didn’t answer, and when I turned to check on him, he was gone, along with one of the rear doors.

With Jayden’s night vision, it didn’t take long to find Uncle Garston, laying spread-eagled in the bottom of the ditch with his head at an unnatural angle, and wheezing with every breath. I fought back the impulse to throw myself across him the way I had as a little girl, and knelt beside him instead. Jayden understood more quickly than I did what was happening, or maybe just accepted it more readily, and stood silently nearby.

“Least it doesn’t hurt.” Garston said. “Can’t feel shit, to be honest.”

“Kai should be here soon. We’ll get you to a hospital and you’ll be—”

“Come on, K-girl. This ain’t my first body. I know when one’s going.”

I felt like I was six years old again. “You can’t just give up. You’re my Uncle Growly, and you’re tougher than anything, remember?”

“Difference between giving up and knowing when to cut your losses. I need you to do something for me, now. It’s hard, and I don’t want to ask, but—”

“No. No, don’t make me do that again. I can’t.” Again?

“Yes, you can, K-girl. I don’t need the ritual, either, not if it’s quick and clean. If I’m stuck in this body for too much longer it’s over for real, though.”

“I call bullshit. You’re going to hang the fuck on, and that’s all there is to it.” I knew better. But until I admitted it, it wouldn’t be real.

“Karma, I’m asking you to do this because I can’t do it myself. You’ll get past it. Jayden’ll help you with that. I’d ask him, but I know you—even though he’d be saving me, you’d never be able to look at him again and I want better for you than that. So I’m begging you now. Please, do this one last thing for me.”

He coughed, drew in another wheezing breath and coughed again. I ran my fingers over that tangled, salt-and-pepper mess he called a beard and kissed him on the cheek, and after a little bit of struggle, I managed to free the Desert Eagle from its holster and hold it somewhat steadily in both hands.

“L-word, Uncle Growly,” I said.

“Love you, too, K-girl. I’ll be seeing you again.”

Garston closed his eyes. It took me a while, but I pulled the trigger. The big Desert Eagle knocked me on my ass and punched me in both eardrums. I turned my face skyward and howled while the rain sluiced thick, sticky warmth from my face.

And I remembered. Not everything, not even a lot, but enough to begin to understand just how fucked up everything was. To understand why they hadn’t wanted me to remember. Why I had made myself forget. Jayden stood back while I let it out. If he’d put his arms around me or offered any kind of support, I don’t think I could have handled it. He seemed to know that.

Although it’s the worst place to find it, there is strength in pain. Not if you stuff it down or deny it or revel in it, but if you accept the pain as yours. When I was done crying, I used that strength to pull myself from the mud, and hand in hand, Jayden and I helped each other up the slope to the car to assess the damage. Jayden made a frustrated sound beside me, and flipped open his cell phone to show me the bullet hole in the fender.

And that was when I put it together. “Jayden, this isn’t about Grandpa. It never was. This is about me.”

I laid it out for him.

Whoever planned this had learned my routine, knew it would be just me and one other person on Tuesday night, and knew we’d be in the alley with our hands full at some point. The idea was simple. Grab me and get the hell out of there. The spider was never supposed to kill me. But because of the riot, the Plaza had a bunch of extra security, and Jayden and I changed our schedule, so not only were the—call them minions—not all in place, they’d been spotted. Once they’d tipped their hand, they only had a few hours to act, so plan B was to grab Grandpa and use him as bait, leaving Garston alive to come tell me. If they just wanted me dead, why a jammer instead of a bomb, either on the car or in the alley? Or why not a sniper in the alley? And why would someone clever enough to think of making us carry our own jammer not think to look for a find-me charm? They had to have found it, but instead of getting rid of it, they incorporated it into their plan. Then, when we got to where they wanted us to be, they shot out the tire to keep us in place.

There were easier ways to do this. All of it. That someone had gone to all this trouble to show they could outsmart me and pull my strings meant this was something personal, and considering my age when the Shashashkuhun had taken us, it had to be something to do with the prison camp.

It took maybe thirty seconds to explain it all. “So, what do you think?”

“I think my girlfriend is either a brilliant detective or a criminal mastermind. What’s our next move?”

I had no idea.

Garston had brought an extra rifle and plenty of ammo. Jayden and I gathered everything and scrabbled to the edge of the ditch. The tree line was perhaps a hundred yards away on the other wide of the road, but in the darkness it may as well have been miles. I was thankful for Jayden’s eyes.

“I’ve got some movement, but nothing much,” Jayden said “They’re either waiting for their boss, or they just want to make us sweat.”

“Probably the latter,” I said. “We screwed up their plan. Whoever it is, now it’s even more important to show how clever they are. Both for their own ego and to save face. They’re going to want to talk. And gloat. I’ll try to stall them until Kai’s crew gets here. If I say anything horrible that doesn’t sound like the me you know, and I probably will—”

“No, I get it. ‘Words are weapons, sharper than knives.’”

Devil Inside. Now there was an appropriate reference. I nodded. “Just wanted to make sure.”

We watched the tree line in silence for a while. Rather, Jayden watched the tree line. I couldn’t see that far in the dark, so I watched Jayden and tried to stop shivering.

“So,” I said, “Bet you’re wishing you’d stayed at the restaurant about now.”

“No. Gotta admit, though, I normally don’t do the whole monster-fighting thing until the third date. But you’re special.”

“I bet you say that to all the girls who almost get you killed.”

Jayden seemed about to say something when a man’s megaphone-amplified voice shouted across the field. “Karma Rodriguez.”

“It speaks,” I shouted back. “And it knows my name. Should I be impressed?”

“You should remember mine. It’s Brallus. I’m sending over a field phone so you don’t have to shout.”

“Anything that steps out of that tree line dies, Brallus. Especially if it’s carrying something I think might go ‘boom.’” I was already getting hoarse, though. After a quick exchange we determined that both sides had access to walkie talkies, and that Brallus had no need for signal jammers this far from the closest cell tower.

“Alright, Brallus,” I said into the walkie-talkie, “Good people died tonight because of you. If that was supposed to get my attention, it worked.” I wanted to scream at him to give my grandfather back, but if there was any chance at all of that happening, I had to downplay how important he was to me.

“You expect me to believe you’re upset about those native guards?” he said, “What happened to the cold little demon-bitch who whored out her own mother for scraps and special treatment?”

What? Jayden caught my eye, and I shrugged, nonplussed. “You know that’s not how it was. And which of us is working with demons? I could swear that was a Shashashkuhun slaughter-spider I killed a few hours ago.”

“A temporary alliance. And better the Shashashkuhun than monsters like you. See, I know why the Qlippoth’s little experiment worked on you when it killed everybody else they tried it on. You were evil to begin with. That thing they put inside of you wasn’t an invader, it was a soulmate.”

Okay, best not to think about the Qlippoth putting anything inside me for now. Probably something I was better off not remembering. “Brallus, I was a child when they captured me.”

“Captured you? Took you home, you mean. Put you in with the real prisoners to spy on them, and anyone who caught on, you had your followers kill. Then when you and your little band escaped, you left the rest of us there.”

“Okay, do you see the flaw in your logic here? If I was somehow serving the Qlippoth, why would I want or need to escape?”

“How should I know how a demon thinks? After what you did to my brother, I stopped even trying to understand you.”

Riiiiiight. Not like I’d really expected logic to work, anyway. “Look, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“No idea? His name was Kolb. You used your powers to seduce him, then had him ripped to pieces when he finally gave in. As if he had a choice. I can still hear him screaming.”

Speaking of screaming, I didn’t need the walkie to hear him at that point. If the idea was to stall, as opposed to goad, I’d better take things down a notch. I keyed the mic, but before I could speak, the world went away. This world, anyway.

The stone is rough against my back, and Kolb has his hand over my mouth. His brother Brallus is supposed to be keeping watch, but he keeps looking at me funny, and he says they shouldn’t do this, but he breathes harder when he looks at me. Kolb thinks I am afraid of them, but I am just waiting for them to make a mistake. When Kolb tries to rip my top off, I bite his hand as hard as I can and knee him between the legs the way Mommy taught me. I still have a piece of his hand in my mouth, and it is gross, but I can’t think about that now. I spit it out and dig my fingernails into his eyes and scream as loud as I can. And then Mommy is there . . . That twisted . . . And he called me a monster? When I could speak again I screamed back hoarsely. “I was nine years old, you sick fuck. I’m glad Kolb is dead. I hope it hurt like hell and took a long, long time, and I’m just sorry they could only do it once. Now give me back my grandfather, you piece of shit, or I swear I will tear you open with my bare hands and feed you your own intestines.”

I was shaking with rage, and when Jayden touched my arm I nearly decked him before I regained control. He raised an eyebrow and indicated the tree line by inclining his head toward it. By the time I followed his eyes, he was already sending arrow after arrow across the field. The Shashashkuhun were attacking. There were at least a dozen or so—I was a little too occupied to count—a mix of slaughter-spiders and more humanoid-looking creatures—slothor, something inside me said—laying down suppressing fire with automatic rifles, but considering what it had taken to kill just one already-wounded slaughter-spider, we were well and truly fucked. So much for Brallus wanting me alive. The only thing to do was go down fighting, but that would probably be quicker and cleaner than whatever Brallus had originally planned. I picked up the AR-15 and took aim, and Jayden lay down his bow and grabbed the other rifle.

“I’m sorry, Jayden,” I shouted. Like sorry would cover this. “They don’t care about you. If you run they might let you go.”

Jayden’s only response was to keep firing. I had to give him the out, even though I knew he wouldn’t take it. Part of me found comfort in knowing he’d be there until the end, and the rest of me hated myself for that.

“I love you,” I yelled above the sound of gunfire. I should have said it months ago, and I might not get a chance to say it later.

“You’d better,” he said as he swapped out magazines, “And I love you, too.” He tried to give me one of those ‘our little secret’ smiles, but failed, and we pretended not to see the fear on each other’s faces. We downed two demons, but although that made them a little more cautious, they were still too tough and healed too quickly. By the time they were thirty yards away, we had only taken one more out of the fight, and were nearly out of ammunition. It would be hand to hand with the remaining ones soon, and realistically speaking, that wouldn’t last very long. We were about to die. The only question was whether we could take any more of them with us.

And that was when our miracle arrived. At first I thought it was more Shashashkuhun, but no, the demons were taking flanking fire from the roadside perpendicular to ours, and a three-wheeler with a sidecar leapt over the adjoining road and sped toward us down the center of the ditch. Malachai Traeger, tall and lean in brown armored leathers and that Boba Fett-looking helmet of his, jumped off the trike before it even came to a full stop, letting it stall out, and a slender Aosidhe woman in ill-fitting rust-colored gear followed from the sidecar, carrying four assault rifles with jungle clips. If I knew Kai, and I did, they’d be loaded with something to give us an edge. She tossed one to Kai on the run, and scrambled up the slope to hand one each to Jayden and me before taking a prone position and firing. She and Kai squeezed off disciplined three-round bursts, and Jayden and I tried to follow suit, focusing on the same targets. The Shashashkuhun didn’t simply fall back or retreat, they scrambled for the tree line. About half of them made it, and the gunfire changed to occasional shots and bursts as targets became less visible.

The Aosidhe woman took off toward the other end of the ditch. Kai waved me a little further down the slope and plopped down next to me, flipping up his faceplate. “Would’ve been here sooner, but someone left a surprise for us. And by the way, that trash can did quite a bit of damage. Not fatal on its own, but more than it should have. Same with the taser.”

“So their weaknesses are aluminum and electricity?”

“Nope. I have a theory about that, but—”

The radio squawked. Brallus wanting to know if I was still there. “Yeah, I’m here, Brallus. You’re down a few troops, though. Seems like this might be a good time for you to surrender.”

“Not when I still have something you want.”

I made sure the mic was off, and explained to Kai what was going on, then asked, “Can your people get to my grandpa?”

“They’re working on it, but we don’t want to put him in any more danger. Stall.”

Along with everything else, Brallus was playing a power game. He couldn’t just tell me what he wanted—He had to make me ask. “Okay, what do you want?”

“You, demon-bitch.” He didn’t speak the words so much as spit them. “Wearing thrice-blessed iron manacles, in a circle of containment. Then I’ll let the old man go.”

What. The. Fuck.

“Traditional anti-demon thing,” Kai whispered. “This is good. Keep him talking.”

“I see a couple of problems with that,” I said. “The first of which is, gee, wouldn’t you know it, Brallus? I’m fresh out of thrice-blessed iron manacles.”

“Funny. I’ll send over the restraints.”

“And what’s to stop you from double-crossing us once you have me?”

“I don’t think you have much choice.”

“Let me talk to him.”

“He’s rather . . . indisposed.”

“Look, do you see the other hole in your logic here? If I’m this evil demon spawn you claim, why would his life mean enough to me to risk my own?”

“I don’t know, nor do I care about your reasons.” Of course. Hadn’t we established earlier that Brallus was immune to logic? “I’ll give you twenty minutes to decide how important he is to you.”

“If you kill him, you lose your leverage.”

“True, but I don’t have to kill him. How do you think he’d like living without his lips? Or maybe his eyelids?”

That was when I knew that no matter what, even if it cost me my own life, I was going to kill that son of a bitch, and anyone who got in my way.—The worst part isn’t what they do to us. It’s what they make us do to each other. I am strapped to the table trying not to cry while my mother stands over me with a hot iron. They give her a choice. She can take over torturing me, or they will burn out my eyes, one at a time. If she still refuses, they will cut out my tongue—but not all at once. They will draw it out. They make it very clear just how long and how horribly they can make me suffer while keeping me alive and awake.—

“You touch one hair on his head, and I’ll make the prison camp seem like Club fucking Med, motherfucker. I’ll . . . ” I don’t even remember the rest of what I screamed into the walkie-talkie at that point, only that my hands were shaking so badly that I dropped it. I was wiping the mud off when Brallus’ voice broke in again.

“I’ll turn this back on in twenty minutes. Have your answer ready.”

Oh, I had an answer for him, all right. I was going to put him in a hole where no one could hear him scream. I was going to cut off his balls and feed them to him. I was going to—

“You know you can’t hand yourself over, don’t you?” Jayden said.

My voice came out harder than I’d intended. “Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do. You think I don’t understand the risk? Would you do it for someone you love?”

Jayden’s voice was quiet when he answered. “You already know the answer to that.”

Oh, smooth. I was bitching at a man who’d proven twice in the past few hours that he’d stand beside me even if it meant dying. I hung my head, blinking. What the fuck? One minute I was ready to kill, the next, I was fighting back tears.

“I didn’t mean to snap at you,” I said. “It’s just so messed up right now. We started the night being attacked by monsters. And do we run from them like, oh, I don’t know . . . sane people? No, we chase them into an unpatrolled zone like some kind of demon-food delivery service, because yeah, that was bound to turn out well. But what other choice did we have? They took Grandpa and we had to get him back. And Garston . . . I lost one of only two people I consider family tonight—no, correction, I blew his fucking brains out, and I don’t dare even slow down long enough to let myself feel it yet.” I heard my voice rising, felt my control slipping, and I didn’t care. “Apparently my entire family is from some alternate universe, and I’m remembering things from a past life where I was tortured by demons for fifteen years starting when I was eight years old—Let me tell you, it wasn’t a good time. I am this close to completely, absolutely, permanently, and irrevocably losing my fucking shit, and the only reason I haven’t already lost it is that all of this is so utterly bat-shit insane that I can’t even focus enough to go properly crazy. I—”

Jayden knelt and pulled me to him hard, covering my mouth with his in a kiss that, for just that moment, was more real than anything else in existence. Solid and tangible proof of a connection with another human being. One who would support me no matter what the odds. When we broke the kiss Jayden remained, holding me firmly but gently, grounding me.

“I’m sorry,” I managed to say, “I just . . . I’m doing the best I can, but I honestly don’t know how much I have left in me. I’m trying to be strong, but I’m so fucking tired of being strong right now.”

“And you are strong, Karma,” Jayden said. “Just stop taking it all on yourself. Nobody’s that strong.”

Kai shook his head and sighed. “The kid’s right,” he said. “Most people’d be ready for a rubber room after half of what you’ve been through in the past—what’s it been, five hours or so? I’ve been close to the edge myself a couple of times, and I deal with fucked-up shit for a living. No shame in needing somebody to pull you back.”

I swallowed and nodded, and Kai continued. “That said, as much as I don’t want to push you any further, we’ve got a deadline to meet. You gonna be okay?”

There was a question I’d heard before. “Ask me that in a couple of years. But let’s do this.”

“Okay. Give me your hands. I have to check something.” Kai knelt where Jayden had been and took both my hands in his. A familiar, subtle energy, both warm and cool at once, circulated through me. Something in Kai called out to that energy, but it was like the call was in a foreign tongue, a friendly language that I could almost, but not quite, understand. Kai became somehow more real, more solid. I had an impression of immensity, of a bright column of light almost too intense to look at, that feathered outward like three sets of giant wings, and of a voice like singing multi-tonal bells and pipes accompanied by a chorus of beautiful, almost human voices. Kai removed his hands from mine, and the vision faded.

“You’re a—” I started.

Kai cut me off. “Don’t go there, it’s not what you think. I’ll explain later, but for now let’s just say the Quiet World is a hell of a lot bigger than most people think. There are some people who don’t even know they’re Quiet Worlders. Like you.”

I swallowed.

“So what am I?”

“Beats the hell out of me. Not the same as me, but similar enough that I’m betting your power—at least one part of it—works about the same way mine does. At least there’s one thing we can both do.”

“Are you telling me I’m a—”

“I said don’t go there. Now about this power . . . ” After he told me I sat blinking, trying to take it in.

“You’re telling me that I turned a trash can into a holy weapon? And I can’t believe those words just came out of my mouth.”

Kai winced. “I wouldn’t put it like that, but basically, yeah. You channel energy into objects, and if something’s got a supernatural weakness, well . . . You’ve seen the results. You’ve already done it unconsciously, and we have about ten minutes to figure out how, so let’s get with it.”

When Brallus came back on the air, I told him I was ready. He sent the more humanoid of the remaining Shashashkuhun across, pulling what looked like an old barn door on makeshift runners, marked with containment circles. Assuming they were specifically keyed to demons, they wouldn’t affect me, nor would the blessings on the restraints. Unfortunately, though, the chains would hold me just like they would anybody else. Brallus insisted I strip down to my bra and panties to make sure I wasn’t hiding a weapon, and while that made sense on one level, it was also creepy, considering. The kind of pseudo-succubus he’d convinced himself I was wouldn’t mind stripping, though, and the idea for now was to play into his expectations.

So I stepped up into the containment circle and made a show of it, shimmying and tossing my head as though dancing to some private, raunchy music—which is a lot harder than you’d think when you’re soaked, and shivering uncontrollably. When I got down to my underthings I ran my hands down my sides, did a little wriggle, and hooked my thumbs into the waistband of my panties. “Sure you don’t want me to keep going?” The demon eyed me and licked its black lips as it came closer. Gods, I was going to be sick if the thing actually touched me.

At a word from Brallus, it backed away hurriedly, and someone in the tree line fired a warning shot. “No tricks,” Brallus shouted. “You, with the long hair,” meaning Jayden, “Chain her up. And do it right, or the old man suffers.” So far, so good. Part of the plan depended on either Jayden or Kai getting up onto the platform with me.

The cuffs and collar were fastened to a ring in the middle of the platform by chains that wouldn’t allow me to raise myself up past a crouch, and secured by large, medieval-looking padlocks. As Jayden snapped the last lock in place, I lowered my head, ostensibly in defeat, but in reality to hide my smile at the feel of cold metal hidden beneath my foot and the chemical smell in my nostrils. The drizzle hadn’t let up, and would already be diluting the acid, but all the acid had to do was weaken the wood where the ring was bolted.

It took forever for the monster to slog across in the mud pulling me behind it. This would work, I kept telling myself. For the most part I believed it, too. Until Brallus stepped forward, placed his hand on the platform, and spoke an activating word. After that I was too busy screaming to think about much of anything.

When I came to, I was huddled on my side in the fetal position, shivering, in a pool of my own vomit and urine. At least I’d landed on the multi-tool when I fell, keeping it hidden. The air was damp and cold, but a tent kept the rain off of us. Brallus stood nearby with arms folded, glaring at me. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, fairly well-muscled, with close-cropped, thick, dark hair. The overall effect was like someone had brought a G.I. Joe to life. A .45 sat holstered on his right hip, and a coiled whip hung from one wrist by a leather strap.

“Killer turkey sandwich,” I croaked, “No mayo, black coffee, apple pie.”

“You have no idea how difficult it was to treat you like a human being, or to keep my food down while looking at you. And by the way, please try to move again. The outer circle is containment, the inner one is pain, as you’ve already discovered. So sorry your foot was touching it when I turned it on.”

“Kinky. If I were fifteen years younger I bet you’d be creaming yourself. Again.” I tried to keep my voice steady, but I was scared shitless, and trying to hide it from him any way I could.

It wasn’t a good tactic. I barely saw the whip coming in time to take the lash on my arms instead of across my face. It was a half-hearted strike and didn’t quite draw blood, but it stung like hell, and I cried out despite myself. The whip gave me an idea, though; I just wasn’t ready to try it yet.

Brallus was red in the face. “Soaked in holy water. It should have burned you, but I guess that’s just one more mystery we’ll have to solve. Some old friends want to see what makes you tick, and I’m sure they’ll get to the bottom of it. If there’s anything left when they’re finished, you’re mine. Think about that, demon-bitch.”

I thought about it, alright, and I didn’t like the pictures in my head. “What about The General? Did you let him go?”

In answer, Brallus pointed behind me to where Grandpa was tied to a post by his wrists with his head down on his chest. He was breathing, but unconscious. “I’ll release him at a more appropriate time. For now, though,” He pulled a baby monitor—talk about creep factor—from his cargo pocket, switched it on, and set it on top of the nearby field table. “Feel free to scream at me as much as you like. I’ll be listening.”

He muttered what I supposed were instructions to the monster who’d dragged me here, then swaggered out of the tent. Smug bastard. The man demon growled when it looked my way, but immediately averted its many eyes, as though afraid to look directly at me. I guessed Brallus had him convinced that I was dangerous. I took advantage to inspect the pain ward more closely, careful not to move any part of my body over it. I was no expert, but if I was right about it, my idea should work. I wrapped myself around the ring, and worked it back and forth, covering the motion with fake, body-wracking sobs, augmented occasionally with very real dry heaves from the stink of my own fluids, until I’d gotten it as loose as I thought I could by hand.

I was determined to stay alert for a chance to work on it with the multi-tool, but I was at that point of exhaustion where inanimate objects move in the corners of your eyes and normal background noise becomes voices on a far-away radio. The pain and growling in my stomach reminded me that what little I’d eaten in the past few hours was either smeared all over my skin or lay in a noxious pool beneath me, and the last time I’d felt warm or dry seemed like a lifetime ago.

My body finally said, ‘enough,’ and as if my brain was trying to convince me to stop fighting sleep, I could almost hear a lullaby in a woman’s soft mezzo-soprano, familiar and comforting. I held the song against myself and let it pull me down into the welcome dark.

I couldn’t have been out for more than a few minutes, but when I opened my eyes, the demon guard’s misshapen head lolled to one side in sleep. It had to be a trick, I thought at first, but then again, we’d left Brallus short-handed, and who knew how much it took out of these things to heal as quickly as they did?

I turned at a low hiss from Grandpa. He winked at me and wiggled the end of the rope. He’d gotten loose, but held it in place to make it look as though his hands were still bound. Thanks to the baby monitor, we didn’t dare speak, but I managed to pantomime my idea, and urged him to escape. He frowned and shook his head no. I hadn’t really expected him to leave me there, any more than I’d have left him or . . . Gods, I didn’t want to tell him about Uncle Garston. I set to work with the multi-tool, digging around the ring to which my chains were attached. Once I got it out I replaced it, took a deep breath, and with an encouraging look from Grandpa, got ready to put on another act.

“Brallus,” I said toward the monitor. The demon guarding me jerked its head up, awake, but other than that, nothing. “Brallus! Please, I’m cold, and I’m hungry, and I know you don’t care about that, but I’ll tell you things you want to know. All I want is a blanket and some food. I’ll cooperate. I didn’t know how bad it would be without my power.”

Still nothing.

“This body’s getting weaker. It’ll get sick. What if it dies? What then? All this for nothing?”

Something rustled outside, and Brallus entered the tent glowering. He spoke a few words to the demon in an ugly language, and the beast left. I did my best to look small and pitiful and afraid. The afraid part wasn’t hard, and I figured that being scared at least meant I was still sane.

“I sent it for food, water, and blankets. I’ll have it bring them in once we’re done here.”

I bowed my head, doing my best ‘humbled prisoner’ act, and reminded myself that as long as those wards were active I’d be unconscious from pain before I could get my hands around Brallus’ throat. “Thank you,” I mumbled.

“Don’t thank me. I’d rather watch you suffer.”

I bit my lip. Have to play this just right. I couldn’t have him get pissed and walk away. I needed to get hold of that whip.

I kept my head bowed. “I know. But I’ll keep my end. I’ll tell you everything.”

“And how would I know it was the truth?”

“Because my best chance of survival, or at least a quick death, is to cooperate.”

The best lies contain at least partial truths, and I sprinkled in just enough to make things sound plausible, given that there was no way he’d accept the unvarnished version. Some things I had to blatantly fabricate, though. For instance, I claimed that the riot and Grandpa were both parts of long-term plans to gain power in this world, and that when I agreed to trade myself I did so thinking that Brallus couldn’t hold me (that part was true) and I’d have my pawn back for free. After a few minutes, it was time to bait my hook. With head hung low, I offered to tell the truth about what I had done to his brother, and said that I’d write a confession. He bit, and I started reeling him in.

Another thing about lies. People will buy into almost anything as long as it confirms what they want to believe, and unless I had seriously misunderstood Brallus’ expression when his brother was trying to molest me, Brallus’ tastes ran similar to Kolb’s.

So I spun a Lolita story that would have made Nabokov proud. Although I barely kept from gagging as I did it, I confirmed all the lies people like Brallus and Kolb tell themselves so they can sleep at night, and credited myself demonic powers to further absolve Kolb of responsibility. Brallus’ breathing quickened, and every so often he’d unconsciously moisten his lips with his tongue. Yeah, I know. Makes you want to throw up, doesn’t it?

“And you’d write this out as a confession?” he asked.

I hung my head. “With witnesses, if you want, to prove I wasn’t coerced.”

He steepled his hands and sat watching me. “You know this doesn’t change anything.”

“I know. Still, I was hoping maybe . . . ”

I let the pause hang there until he prompted me. “I knew you’d have an ulterior motive. You were hoping what? That I’d unchain you and let you go?”

I shook my head. “No, just that if I cooperated and told you everything you wanted to know, maybe you wouldn’t turn me over to them.” I wasn’t even sure who ‘they’ were, but I assumed the higher-ups in the Shashashkuhun hierarchy.

“That’s out of my hands.”

“No, you can convince them. And you can . . . use me any way you want.” Emphasis on the ‘use.’ And then, for the bit that would set me free. “And if this body doesn’t please you, I could help you find young girls, like I was back then. Boys, too, if you want them. I could make them either submit or fight back, whichever excites you more.”

His face went slack and pale. The last thing people in denial want is to have their proclivities thrown in their face. “You. Dare.” Brallus stood and unfurled the whip. I crouched and threw my hands in front of me as though cowering, but as the whip wrapped around my forearms and bit into them, I grabbed and pulled. Brallus teetered, off-balance, but didn’t fall. We played tug-of-war, and Brallus was winning until Grandpa threw himself at Brallus’ back and knocked him across his own wards.

The wards flashed with electricity, and Brallus screamed, convulsed, and passed out. I used his body as a bridge to get out of the containment circle, then Grandpa grabbed his sidearm and his keys. Grandpa offered me the .45, but I waved it away in favor of the keys, and told him to deactivate the find-me charm—which would signal Kai and his group to attack. I should have taken the gun and put a bullet into Brallus’ head, but I wanted him awake and alert when I killed him. As I finished with the locks, scrambling noises outside said that at least one demon was on the way back to the tent. I grasped the chains that had held me and swung them in a slow, but accelerating circle while I used what Kai and I had discovered about my power to infuse them with what energy I could.

When tall, dark and revolting poked its ugly head into the tent, I swung my chains with everything I had, and sent it staggering back. The power in the chains flashed, then diminished, but did not completely fade, and the demon’s face blackened across its eyes where I’d hit it. I swung again and again while Grandpa flanked it with Brallus’ .45. On my third blow, the demon’s skull cracked open, spattering me with blood and brains.

Gunfire and other battle noises announced the arrival of our allies, and by the time I’d secured Brallus and stepped out of the tent, the fighting was over. Filthy as I was, I threw my arms around Grandpa’s neck, telling him how much I’d missed him, how worried I’d been, and babbling about Jayden.

Grandpa looked away, with sad eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m not your grandfather.”

“I know. Uncle Garston told me. Dad.” I grinned.

“You don’t understand. I mean—”

I heard movement behind me, and turned to see Brallus low-crawling toward the tent flap to escape.

Reunions would have to wait. I ran toward Brallus swinging my chains, and opened a gash across his back with the bolt end of the connecting ring. He bellowed and fell forward, and I went to work on him. Not his head, though. That would be too quick. This man had killed my friends, kidnapped and tortured my father, forced me to kill the other man I thought of as a parent, and those were only the tip of the mountain of things he had to answer for. He rolled onto his back snarling and tried to catch the chain, and got a broken arm for his trouble. He succeeded in pulling me off balance, but I don’t think me landing with my knee in his solar plexus was the result he was going for. While he gasped for breath, stunned, I raised my arms into the air and smashed a double fistful of chain into his face.

Once he was unconscious I let up, simply because it wasn’t as satisfying to hit him when he couldn’t feel it. I wanted to kill him. I wanted it more than I could remember ever wanting anything. But I didn’t. No, not because of some cliché like, ‘he wasn’t worth it,’ or, ‘that would be stooping to his level.’ Oh, hell, no. I could have killed him and slept the sleep of the just, but it came down to a question of practicality. I had questions for the bastard, and if I killed him, I’d never get the answers. I left him to Kai’s tender mercies for the time being.

One of the proxies loaned us a vehicle to get back to civilization, and Jayden and I set out to find where Grandpa-slash-Dad had gotten to. The drizzle had become a downpour by the time we found him on the side of the road staring at the spot where Garston had died. Correction: where I had killed him. I stuffed that thought down as best I could. Kai’s cohorts had already removed the body, but someone must have told him. I didn’t know whether to feel relieved that I didn’t have to break the news, or guilty that he’d had to hear it from someone else. I finally decided on feeling guilty about feeling relieved. Jayden kissed me—yes, vomit and all—and said he’d be close by, then wandered off to give my grandfather and me some time alone.

I stood behind Grandpa and put my hand on his shoulder. I didn’t know what to say, or even whether to call him Grandpa or Dad, so I didn’t say anything. After thirty seconds or so, he broke the silence, and I didn’t think I’d ever heard him sound so frail or tired.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so, so sorry. I thought I could get Eli back, but then I was . . . He’s in here somewhere, but he’s buried deep.”

My stomach dropped, and my spine turned to ice. I backed away, drawing my nine millimeter, pointing it at the back of his head and thumbing the safety off. “Who are you? What are you? And what the fuck are you doing in my grandfather?”

“I—Nobody. Just another prisoner. Someone who tried to save everybody and failed. You did great, though. Saved everybody I couldn’t, including yourself. Including me. I’ll keep this body alive long enough to get it to a hospital, and then I’ll leave you all in peace.”

I lowered my weapon. “What do I call you?”

He turned toward me, and I averted my eyes to avoid seeing someone else behind that face. “I won’t be around long enough to need a name.”

There was nothing left but to go home. I took the wheel, with Not-Grandpa in the passenger seat and Jayden in the back. In the enclosed space, all the things I hadn’t been able to wash off hit me square in the face. That window had to come down, freezing rain or no. I eased us back to pavement, and then opened up full throttle, trying to outrun my own thoughts.

Nothing. It was all for nothing. I’d failed, utterly and completely, and as if to prove there was no justice in the universe, I was still alive—Then again, maybe there was justice after all. Maybe surviving was part of my punishment.

Which brings me to my laughing-slash-crying jag at the side of the road. The car was too confining, so I drove to the nearest rest stop, got out and walked to a covered picnic table. After a few minutes, Jayden joined me. As he’d already shown, he had a good feel for when to approach me and when to leave me alone.

“I was talking to, uh . . . ” He gestured toward the car.

“I’ve been thinking of him as ‘Not-Grandpa,’ for lack of anything better. And look, I already know I’m not giving him a fair shake. I can’t help it. And yes, I know we should try to help him find another—”

“About that. I know the whole deduction thing is your territory, but as the Watson to your Holmes, I figure I can come up with something once in a while, too.”

“Okay, spill, Watson.”

“Under one condition.”

At Jayden’s insistence, I gave myself a sponge-bath in the ladies’ room while he rinsed my clothes and laid out his thoughts and conclusions the way I’d done with him earlier. When he finished, I stood literally open-mouthed for probably a full minute, letting it sink in. If my power was, as Kai thought, something like his, there was one way to see if Jayden was right.

“Go on,” he said. “I’ll wait here for a little while.” Seemed like that boy spent a lot of time waiting for me. Then again, we’d waited almost two years for each other, so we should’ve been used to it by then.

Back at the car I took Not-Grandpa’s hands, over his objections, and focused on finding that same energy I’d felt with Kai.

There were no heavenly choirs, no columns of light. Just a face. Layers of faces, actually. The first one was a facade, the peak of a bearded mountain named Garston. Behind that one was a woman’s face, with long, dark hair, and eyes like mine. A face from another life. My mother.

Although it was Grandpa’s body in front of me, it was still my mother’s face I saw superimposed upon it. She turned away from me, crying. I was almost too stunned to form words, and my mouth opened and closed several times before I could make anything come out. “Mom?” I said. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I—” she started, but a huge sob cut her off, and for a while, we just held each other and cried.

It took some time, but the gist finally came out. In that prison camp, protecting me and taking care of me became my mother’s reason for living. But nobody could have protected me the way she’d wanted to, and when she couldn’t do the impossible, she blamed herself. Even when she died and traveled to this world, the guilt had nearly destroyed her. She forgot who she was—literally forgot—and became someone else, someone she thought would be a better protector for me. There had never been an Uncle Garston until she created the persona and inhabited a mountain of muscle with it, and once she had, she set about spending a second lifetime trying to protect me from everything. And was begging me to forgive her for her imagined failure.

There was nothing to forgive, I told her. She hadn’t failed me. Nobody could protect anyone from everything, and besides, she’d taught me all the things I needed to take care of myself. The only way she could fail me, I told her, was to intentionally make me lose her again.

We’d have to find her a new body somehow, though. For one thing, Grandpa-slash-Dad would need his back once we found a way to fix whatever was wrong with him, and for another, it’d just be too weird to keep calling her ‘Mom’ when she was wearing the body of an eighty-something-year-old man. She smiled at that, and I counted it as a minor victory.

So much for this all being for nothing.

Maybe we all got what we deserved in the end, after all. We’d be a family again for the first time in nearly two lifetimes, once we got Dad back from wherever inside himself he was hiding out. Mom would get another shot at life—as herself, this time—and we’d work on that guilt thing together so that maybe she could actually relax and enjoy it this time around. Jayden got me, and at the risk of blowing my own horn, I’m not such a bad catch. The patrol officers—after everything I’d seen, I couldn’t believe that death was the end for them. Me, not only was I getting my family back, along with some sort of as-yet-unexplained superpowers, but also quite possibly the most fantastic guy in this or any other universe. I don’t know what I did to deserve any of it, but it must have been something pretty awesome. So even if it sounds corny—and I know it does…

I’m going to call it karma.

#I only have eyes for queue #my writing #the writing life #uncle rob says stuff

28 notes · View notes

tammyhybrid21 · 4 years ago

Text

Hybrid Screaming about Rats for an HOUR

(Ft. Bonus dog symbolism as well)

I mean, this is going to be about Mummy and Tad(and Jeff). Buuut I am honestly taking it as an excuse to scream about rats. And their symbolism.

I'll also probably have an aside about Jeff as well, but honestly... Since @shields-and-depthgauges-oh-my done her wonderful art-- And I am not over how happy Mummy is to see rats, among other little details. Let's get to analysing!

Sooooo--

First off, I'm going to talk about rats. Because here's the thing. I have fancies. And this is my TOPIC to scream about. No but seriously, back when I was writing WHMS/Winds Howl, Mountains Stand, I gathered an honestly ridiculous amount of symbolism and research for ratties. Which has ultimately kind of being left to the wayside, aside a small mention/use for my old Danny Phantom OC's revival.

Which yeah...

We're not here to talk about Snitch though. As much as I do want to talk about them, the only thing they're relevant for right now is "why rats?" Which-- is only turgently connected to this. Because let me talk about the symbolism and how that impacts how I feel about rats, along with why I think that they're telling in terms of how each character reacted to them when first seeing them in the movie. Beyond the obvious of that one comic's view on things-- how you treat the lowest but--

Which, I actually have some things to say about how Tad's less grossed out than one might think and his reaction is more to Tiffany's... but now is NOT the place.

Meanwhile Mummy's reaction-- yeah. "What's wrong with them anyway?". This is something that maybe would be better expanded on later, but-- that's the common associations at play. I'm sure if I just put down the word-- Rat a million negative things would race through your head.

Dirty, diseased, traitor, thief, liar, coward, spineless, bringer of death, disarray, destructive, vermin, pest, opportunistic-- etc.

BUT

Again, I own fancies. And I'm not alone in owning fancy rats. And if there is one truth I know that's probably universal. A rat's home is only as dirty as you let it be. And for a few of those prior descriptors-- they actually couldn't be further from the truth. Sure some are still certainly true-- but those are also not their problem as much as it's the issue of the world around and what it's given.

Rats are--

Some of the greatest little pets I've owned.

They are loving, curious, inquisitive, creative, almost too creative when you're trying to keep them out of something and they keep getting around your obstacles. Loyal-- rats do not abandon those who're family. They come back--

Rats are fertile, and considering their hoarding behaviour-- well, they stock up, they prepare, they can be symbols of wealth, ambition, expansion, intelligence and resourcefulness. The underground world(which how relevant is that one to Mummy) And yeah-- but then they have some-- rather surprising symbolism that I just... wish I could find the old sites I got this all from. But most of them seem to have vanished into the nether...

But you know one of the big ones I have on my list that I just-- wish I could source back.

Divine Retribution

Which, probably has something to do with the Black Death/Plague-- but I don't know really. Still!

Rats-- NOW--

How does this all relate to Mummy and why did I want to mention that reaction? Circling back a little bit late but-- Misunderstandings.

And how that relates a bit to Autism, being on the spectrum, what we are-- how Mummy presents himself verses what his truth really is... Weeeell-- Rats actually have a lot of symbolism that I personally think is telling when we match Mummy up with them. Like-- he shows a lot of the same things that rats are associated with in terms of creativity, intelligence(although not in the same way that most people recognize, but the dead tongues, languages) And just generally-- there's a lot.

Like, I would also again, like to think about the loyalty Mummy shows and how he is. And there's something in the Sacrifice scene I'd love to grumble about here regarding that, and ever Tiffany there-- with how it looks like they've come closer in the interim-- not just Tad staying and I just--

But that's neither here nor there, because there's another main thing.

Secrets, Underground World, Stealth

Mummy. Also something about hiding in plain sight. I mean-- how often do you even get a glimpse-- of rats even when you know they're there. Or have an idea of it.

I mean, barring a few places... which as an aside, I want to talk back again to another rat role and place that I think we here in the West-English Countries don't appreciate or understand the MAGIC of quite enough-- India's Karni Mata Rat Temple.

Rats are reincarnations. They're part of that, life, death, rebirth. Rats have their own sacredness. And considering in movie 2 we see them as I guess-- guardians in a way of a temple-- well yeah. But all of this stuff is more of an aside really to the main point and reason I am just-- delighted that rats are Mummy's implied favourites. Because yeah-- they're very misunderstood creatures that live such a short time BUT--

Yeah-- impact and there is a lot of symbolism he shares with them when you bother to look at ALL of it and not just full stop at the dirty side of things. Rats are secret keepers and just-- good beans. Also survival.

NOW--

Let's talk another side of things. In terms of all the animal companions for a moment, but more specifically I want to talk a little bit about how Tad and Mummy look to relate to animals verses humans.

Which-- I know personally-- with my Autism-- yeah, animals are much, much easier to deal with than humans in MANY ways. You don't have to try and work out what someone means when they say something, or any of the other puzzles. It's all really straight forwards. And no need to mask yourself at all. Something I'm sure both Tad and Mummy can appreciate--

Even if it does appear that Mummy is an extrovert, I mean, look how eager he is to get out, interact with people. Which that verses masking-- wouldn't blame him for befriending rats in that case since they always come in a group. Large clans/families-- which yeah-- Ratatouille got that RIGHT.

Meanwhile we have... Tad who's... rather more complicated, but at the same time not and really gets me screaming at him-- because he needs to TRAIN THAT DOG!

LIKE HOW EXPENSIVE?!

I have-- a whole other rant on Jeff's poor to none training level. But-- it can actually be summed up in how Tad is with him in general. Which is... in terms of the psychology in his relationship with Jeff. Because listen here. I had dogs. I've had dogs, chickens, my rats. Befriended cats but never gotten the full honor of owning one.

But--

I actually have some things to say about this-- and it's almost a guilty admission really but... When it comes to dogs and training, I can almost kind of get it. Jeff's lack of training is probably twofold.

1) It's damn hard to train dogs when you can barely train yourself. And 2) it's got to do with how Tad seems to be with Jeff, seeing him as part of the family and as someone who gets him. Which as an oxymoron is a bit about respect--

Although, that's... well, also something to do with Autism and projecting and I should probably make a whole proper rant about that in its own time, along with the FULL "Train yer dog" rant. Which yeah... Sooo instead I'll tie this off with our favourite doggy symbolism and talk about that-- re Tadeo himself.

Let's be obvious here-- Dogs are-- very often associated with dumb loyalty. Loyal but stupid. I mean, at least in American media-- which... not entirely wrong sometimes. Dogs are incredibly loyal. But stupid-- NAH--

Dogs are not as stupid as people see to like to portray them as. It's usually the people around them who're stupid and not paying attention or really working with the dog. Which-- I want to talk a little about Tad in regards to that, but it's kind of hard, since I am... not quite as enthused about it as with the rat rant and Mummy.

BUT--

Protection is the key theme here. His promise-- which leads to his assistance, loyalty resourcefulness... but for all the traits that Tad does have-- I feel like arguably his dog relations are in those lessons he has yet to learn from our favourite "man's best friend"

Communication, obedience, community. Stuff that Tad could arguably improve in. Also I do feel like, there's also some of his big heartedness and the empathy that could be improved, but that's less a lack of as much as he's kind of pushing that down-- and well-- a whole other issue.

Which--

Almost circles back to the mess of Jeff's lack of training.

Which-- dogs are boundless and seek things to keep them occupied. And they also seek leadership, which-- interestingly there's how I watch and view Tad-- and his relationships and he's very much a lost puppy when you look at how he follows around Sara-- which I have deeper analysis on that but--

Tad's... not really a leader as much as he tries to fashion himself as one and play the Hero.

AS A QUICK ASIDE--

While I'm on dogs, I just want to quickly give a shout out to Freddy for making me think he really hits their high points in the small meaningful moments and hints to more beyond just "comic relief" ALSO, Shout out in general to these movies for allowing the "comic" to have their moments where you can glimpse more beyond just that.

Loyalty, protection, communication, sensory perception, assistance, resourcefulness--

In any case yeah!

BACK TO MY POINT--

...Animals are... much easier to relate to a lot of times in comparison to people... and we've repeatedly seen that Tadeo has issues with people. Which feels weird really when he's the protagonist. And while Mummy definitely speaks as an Extrovert.

Like-- He's so eager to get out and be himself--

Tad is... a lot more complicated. Like, I am really, really this close to going back into my usual MBTI analysis rant for him, but-- Tad very much doesn't seem to actively ever really go out and talk to people outside their circle unless necessary. Which heeeey--

Again... Dogs are there to help you with communication, talking to people. Which makes me wonder about the pets and movie 3--

Which-- aside possibly nods to some of the deeper lore with Anubis. Which, let's not forget that he(they?!), also tended to the scales where Ammut is but--

DOGS are all about communication. Which is Tad's BIG issue. And it's not just in regards to how I point out the potential of him just taking the promise seriously and not communicating that. But-- Tad's... not good at communicating clearly with anyone. And we're not just talking in terms of people communication, bad listening and not trusting what people say--

And let's be real, still has a bit of lying issues-- but well... who in the modern world doesn't--

BUT

More, I want to return to Jeff and think about how generally one of the rules in Dogs, canine behaviour issues is... Dogs naturally want to have a pecking order/leadership to follow. And if there isn't a clear one they dictate that they are thus the leader.

Which indicates that Tadeo-- isn't really communicating clearly with Jeff and proving himself a leader... Which heeeey-- kind of hope this becomes more of an issue in movie 3, I really, really want something that forces him to come to terms with at least some of his issues.

COMMUNICATE DAMNIT, TRUST YOUR COMPANIONS.

Mummy, Sara, reign in Jeff and see that he needs you to be steady just as much as you seem to need him. And Tad does need Jeff.

FUNNILY ENOUGH

There are three characters who've proven they can gain some of Jeff's "oh leader" vibes.

Belzoni-- who seems to be able to rally, or at least lead him around a bit, and is looked to by Jeff here-- like Jeff sticks by them...

WHERE JEFF IS ON THE TRAIN FEELS TELLING AS WELL.

Like really?! Why is he not by Tad? But instead, he's following Freddy around on the train. And, minutely following scenes, still following and looking to him a bit. Which interesting.

And most interestingly, from the Facebook shorts, teasers... I'd say for this, it's a walk that's starting "strong". Which indicates that Mummy is also slowly gaining ground with Jeff and communicating in terms of leadership(and no wonder, with his experience).

NOT THAT IT SURVIVED THE WHOLE WALK BUT--

Yeah.

Please let movie 3 have Tad coming to confront this. Please. USE THE SYMBOLS YOU HAVE!

#THybrid Jones #Tadeo Jones #Animals #Mummy(Tadeo Jones)#Tad(The Protagonist)#Animal Symbolism #Freddy Marquez #Rats #Dogs #Honestly feels like a long rant of just screaming #That might go in circles-- but eyy #ALSO DON'T WORRY #Sara will get her own symbols rant eventually #Communication #Autism #Speculation

11 notes · View notes

witchy-anna · 5 years ago

Text

Play with Fire (Dabi songfic)

Quirk: Homeostasis- the ability to force someone’s body back into its stable condition. Requires physical touch to activate. Examples are regulating the body's blood pressure, heart rate and temperature. Disadvantage: May cause the person to go into shock if the quirk works too quickly.

A/N: I’m going to go with vigilante fem!reader, sorry it took so long Fox! You’re a Doll 😘 Each section is essentially a time skip.

Warning: cursing (I curse a lot, can’t control my potty mouth)

Taglist: @soldier76sbabygirl

Message to be added to taglist

youtube

Insane, inside the danger gets me high Can't help myself got secrets I can't tell

Another string of deaths caused by the serial arsonist. When will it end? The news anchor reads off the prompt with obvious faux concern. Is this another travesty caused by the League of Villains? Find out tonight on the Hero News Network.

You sigh and grumble, “What a crock of shit.”

A husky voice says close to your ear, “You sound more irritated than concerned.”

Without startling to the closeness you crane your neck around and level a glare at the person intruding in on your space.

A raven haired man stands close, sunglasses obscuring his eyes and shirt collar pulled high covering the bottom half of his face. How strange.

You tsk and turn back to the screen now playing an expose on a local pro heroes love life, as if that matters. Gesturing vaguely at the screen you spit out, “They sound so..fake...People are dying and instead they focus on who crawled out of bed with some pro.”

“This world is so full of suffering, who can blame them for being desensitized to it,” the man says with an oddly cheerful tone.

“I suppose so,” you say but it falls on deaf ears. Gone.

In other news, the police and pros are still on the lookout for a masked vigilante...You spin on your heels before the news anchor can finish their report. With a quickened pace to trudge another monotonous day of desk work. Fun stuff.

I love the smell of gasoline I light the match to taste the heat I've always liked to play with fire

Another night, another secret patrol, hood pulled high, mask secured, and ass kicking boots laced with vengeance. Monotonous desk job during the day and vigilante at night.

Illegal being the operative word, the one floating in front of your vision akin to an annoying bug. Following you around each and every night you took off on an excursion.

This night was the same as any other night, some unsuspecting fool thinking they could pull one over on you. Sorely mistaken darling. Your quirk may not be the most suited for combat but you had worked hard to get where you are now.

Again and again late into your sleepless nights you question why you are doing this. Why pick up what the pro heroes leave behind.

The words etched into your mind of popular top ranking heroes saying: My quirk isn’t suited for this. Let someone else handle it. Over and over again.

You want to scream in their face, Neither is mine but you don’t see me giving up!

Bitterness will get you nowhere in life, so instead, you chose to focus that venom on helping those left behind. At least, that’s how it was at first.

I ride (I ride) the edge (the edge) My speed goes in the red

The concussive shock of an explosion nearly knocks you off your feet. Without a second thought you take off in a sprint to the source.

“No,” you whisper. Just a moment too late. To slow, what you wouldn’t give for a speed quirk.

Blue flames roar, reaching and clawing high in the sky. There is the distant scream of sirens signaling their approach. Someone is crying, a wail, a whimper, the harsh dissonance of fear.

Ash falls like snow, blue and black tinted snow. It’s eerie but strangely beautiful.

Emergency lights reflect off shattered pieces of glass littering the sidewalk and a single silhouette stands framed by the flames. The wind picks up causing ash and debris to fly everywhere; and almost comically his beat-up coat to flair behind him.

A dry humorous laugh escapes much to your dismay. What is this an action movie?

Intense eyes matching the azure flames turns to you, meeting your own (e/c) and rooting you to the spot. A flash of stark white teeth stretches the skin at the corners of his mouth, cut in half by scarred skin. No fear, no panic of being caught.

“Wait!” you shout, desperation evident in your voice. “Stop!” Something nags at your subconscious, that feeling when you leave the house and your mind insists you forgot something but have no inkling what it could be.

The man leisurely lifts a hand from his pocket and waves without turning around, disappearing around the corner. A wave that says: Until next time.

Hot blood (hot blood), these veins (these veins) My pleasure is their pain

Another week passes before you see him again. Lying to yourself, you had dropped everything to sprint to another howling blue fire, drawn to it like a moth to a flame. To save people? Or to...no don’t finish that thought, you grumble internally.

The stench of burnt flesh makes your stomach churn and you stifle a gag even through your mask. Steeling yourself you search for the source, is it a body or a person in need?

You follow your nose to the source. “Oh,” the word leaves your mouth with barely a sound. Just a puff of air really.

There he sits, reclined against a trash bin partially hidden in shadows. If not for your keen sense of smell he would have stayed hidden. The smell is strong enough to make your eyes water. He watches you with narrowed luminous eyes, the only thing visible in the dim light. You step closer and he raises an open palm pointed at you, the blue flames dance and kiss his skin.

Steam rises from his skin and he pants, clearly in pain.

“Your quirk hurts you,” it’s a statement not a question. “Let me help.”

His eyes narrow to slits before he gives a quick nod and you carefully moved to kneel beside him. The palm with the flame clenches closed to extinguish the flame but stays poised to react if you try anything. He lets out a heavy breath that literally steams the air, he’s overheating.

“I need to touch you,” you warn and slowly reach out your own hands. “I can cool you down.”

There’s a pause and he nods again, staying silent. Up this close the amount of scarred skin is jarring, as well as the staggering amount of piercings or are they staples? No matter, your hands slowly reach up to cup his cheeks and let your quirk kick to life. The steam rising from his skin slowly dissipates as your quirk works to regulate his temperature, cooling him down to his body's normal level.

Part of you wonders why he is even letting you touch him so...intimately. His temperature now back to as it should be but your hands remain.

“Is anyone there?” a stern voice calls from the entrance of the alley causing you to jump. Someone shines a flashlight down the alley, it’s a police officer.

“Leave now,” you hiss to him and stand quickly to move out of the cover of shadow. To the police officer you call out a soft, “Hello?”

His mouth opens as if he wants to say something but snaps it closed. Without a word he stands to leave but not without throwing a curious glance at your retreating form. Mask now gone but he can only see the back of your head, he watches as you put on an act for the police officer.

“Interesting,” he says to no one in particular.

I love to watch the castles burn These golden ashes turn to dirt

And again, he’s toying with you. This is a game to him.

It’s a mansion this time, his flames eating up the opulence like a cavity. Eating up the perfect expensive abode and turning it to rot; to ash. “How cliche,” you mutter to yourself. “What an idiot.”

A low chuckle sends shivers down your spine, “I have a name.”

With a half interested turn of your head, you glance back over your shoulder. “Oh? And why would I care?” Lie.

Another chuckle, but closer this time. He calls you out on your bluff, “Oh Doll, we both know that’s a lie.”

Right behind you now. You sense no malice, only curiosity coming from the man.

Your entire body locks up when you feel the barely there brush of a single callused finger at the base of your neck. It flicks the spot where your mask is tied and a breath of hot air sends goosebumps crawling across your skin.

“Dabi,” he whispers. Another long finger adds to the first, pads whispering against the soft skin of your neck. Heat radiates from both the fire in front of you and the man at your back. He tugs gently enough at your mask tie to not remove it, yet. “Why did you help me?”

That’s a good question, why did you? Because he’s a pretty face or someone in need, regardless of villain or civilian status.

You dodge the question, “Why did you let me?”

“Maybe I just want to unmask a certain little vigilante,” he chuckles again and it vibrates against your back. A single finger slips underneath your mask brushing against your cheek and dips to ghost over your lips and you let him.

“And maybe you’re just a pretty face,” you say, just a tad breathlessly.

He hums, “Oh so you think I’m pretty?” He chuckles at the blush creeping over your neck but then curses when there’s a shout about a pro arriving on the scene.

Dabi says directly into your ear, “Until next time Doll.” Gone.

I've always liked to play with fire Play with fire Fire, fire Oh, watching as the flames get higher Oh, I've always liked to play with (mm)

This time, he finds you.

“Are you following me?” you ask. It’s quiet where you sat, luckily far away from the view of any passing civilians as he could be easily recognized.

He sits beside you, stretching his long legs out and crossing them at the ankle. “You never answered my question last time,” it’s a statement, ignoring your attempt at deflecting.

“I- I don’t know,” you admit staring down at your hands as if they hold all the answers. They clench and unclench in your lap.

You are the antithesis to his sturm and drang. A man who clearly is the type to take what he wants, simply sits beside you, waiting and watching the war going on inside of you.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” he teases. “It was a simple question.”

Little did you know at the time it would only take one little push, or rather a gentle pull to flip your already wavering resolve. A hand catching yours, rough calloused thumb rubbing a line across your knuckles distracting you. The other shoots out and releases the tie of your mask before you can react.

“Maybe I just want the satisfaction of turning a vigilante hero to our side,” he says but spits out the word ‘hero’.

That’s what you get for letting your guard down. That’s what you get for letting a villain get so close.

“Get away from me,” you snarl and shoot to your feet. Reaching to yank back the mask he took from you but he keeps a firm grip on it. With a frustrated growl you rip the mask from him and storm off, face lit with a flush.

A dry raspy laugh sounds from him, and he says those stupid infuriating words again, “Until next time. Doll.”

Right of passage classic maverick Match in the gas tank Ooh that's wretched Unstoppable legendary animals (mm)

Just in time, you find him face to face with a pro, no, it’s a sidekick but dangerous nonetheless. The sidekick is clearly a newbie, shaking slightly in their boots but standing firm against the notorious villain.

Dabi has clearly overexerted himself again, the steam rises from him in waves, a drip of blood leaves a trail that disappears below the collar of his shirt.

Both swivel to face you. One pair of stern eyes that immediately recognize you as that vigilante. The other pair of eyes at first looks annoyed at the new addition but then relaxes to an easy expression, one of familiarity.

There’s a challenge in those azure eyes, asking what will you do? Who will you side with?

The sidekick starts to advance turning their attention away from you. You sprint, desperate to get to Dabi before the sidekick does.

Dabi sends out a flare of him fire directly at the sidekick but aims it away from you, over your head. What? Impossibly warm arms close around your waist, shielding you from harm. Again, what?

A camera flash. At the last second you realize your mask must haven fallen off in the chaos.

Right time for them; wrong time for you. Shit.

Digital justice Now you're gonna know us

Your face is displayed across tvs, newspapers, online articles, everything.

Vigilante Hero unmasked. Connections to the League of Villains?

An entirely unflattering picture from your workplace displayed beside the picture from the previous night. You, held in the arms of Dabi.

Your apartment had already been raided and is being watched by the police. An entire lifetime of stuff out of your reach in an instant. What did you expect to happen with this type of lifestyle anyway? Only the clothes on your back and a long since smashed cell phone tossed into a dumpster.

You go back to the place where he first took your mask, bearing your naked face to the world. Baring your face to him.

Hail to the king and queen of the ruckus Yacht Money wired No denying I've always liked to play with fire

“There’s no going back now Doll,” he says in a hushed tone. There is an edge uncertainty hidden under his usual bravado, maybe even vulnerability.

You shake your head, “Who said anything about going back.”

Azure eyes meet your own (e/c) and matching grins split both of your faces. Rough callused fingers slip into your palm and twine through your fingers, tugging until your nose to nose. His tongue darts out to taste the ash stuck to his scarred lip, it floats all around you both like a gentle but haunting snowfall.

“No going back now,” you repeat the sentiment before sealing your now flipped resolve with a kiss.

I've always liked to play with fire

#witchy-anna writes #dabi songfic #Dabi x reader #dabi is a todoroki #bnha x reader #mha x reader #boku no hero academia x reader #my hero academia x reader #i love this dang song #I listen to it on repeat #i am not at all consistent with the section lengths oh well

69 notes · View notes

allen-arthur · 5 years ago

Text

Orchard Wars - Beginning

Hey guys! I’m excited to post the first page to my comic Orchard Wars. This is the comic series that will explain the Soulmate AU that I based this account around. Each chapter of the comic will follower a different Hetalia character and I decided to start off with Francis and his struggles within this world. Please feel free to send any asks to me and I’d be happy to answer them. I will also be making a tumblr chat dedicated to this world.

I put it under the keep reading because of the following tags:

Blood

Minor Character Death

Implied Death

Strong Loss and Strong emotions

Loss of a loved one

Burning/Fire

“1431″

“You! You swine! How dare you - Let her go! Let her go now you have no right to touch her!” Francis shouted as he ran through the orchard. Felling the burning in his lungs as the frenchmen sprinted.

Hands shaking, Francis does everything he can to keep his sword held high as he slid to a halt in front of the Englishmen and his amour.

Oliver just smiled, one hand holding the smaller female in front of him in place while the other holding a sword to her neck.

“No. She serves her sentence now.” Letting go of the ropes and snapping his fingers in one swift motion - the Englishmen watches with a grin as he summons a torch and slowly drops it in the make shift burning ring.

“JOAN! JOAN NO!” Francis screams are mixed with the howls of pain coming from his love now trapped in the inferno.

The last thing Francis remembers is the orchard glowing as his soul string breaks into thousands of pieces of glass - as his soulmate burns into the night.

Francis swears that night to hunt down every single last one of the 2p’s.

Especially the one who took everything from him.

This is war.

#im bad at writing #I hope this makes sense #enjoy!#it's heartbreaking #aph hetalia #hetalia #aph france #francis bonnefoy #joan of arc #2p hetalia #2p england #oliver kirkland #orchard-wars

15 notes · View notes

cutmyhairabovemyjaw · 6 years ago

Text

Heaven and Hell Bound - Tommy Shelby ~ Part 5

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Hi Guys. Thank you so much for the love and comments, they truly brighten my day. During this part I decided to include some reference pictures of how I envision the clothing during certain scenes in this chapter. Let me know how you feel about these and if you’d like to see more or less of them.

After this part there will be one more chapter set during the war before we move into Birmingham which will loosely follow Season 1 of the show. I’ve been thinking of trying out requests for one-shots with different characters from the show and others. Let me know if you’d be interested in that :) Hope you enjoy reading part 5 and again, any feedback is most welcome. <3 <3.

Tags:

@namelesslosers

Part 5 - The Dance

Y/N’s POV

It had been a month since Tommy was brought to the hospital, a month since I heard his screams, a month since I felt his kiss. And there had not been a single night in which my head was not stormed by thoughts of him. I craved his touch, his smile, his caress. I had written him quickly, just as he had asked. We talked of the mundane, of the gruesome, of the merry. My diary was now filled with sketches he’d drawn and photos he’d sent. Most recently, however, he had requested that I send through one of my nurses ribbons. I was puzzled as to why he would wish for something as plain and simple as this.

“My dearest Y/N,

Please forgive my selfishness as, yet again, I ask for a piece of you. Whilst your photo sits forever in my pocket, I must find some rare time to pause and peacefully admire it. I noticed on my last hospital visit that all the nurses wear white ribbons somewhere on their person. I have had the pleasure of seeing you wear it in your hair and around your delicate wrist. I ask because many soldiers whose lovers volunteer as nurses, tie this ribbon in with the shoelaces on their boots. The idea is that as we soldiers look down at our feet and into the hell we may soon occupy, an angel stops us on our way. Perhaps you are not my lover yet but you are my angel. The Christmas Ball ever approaches. I believe the invitations shall arrive within the next week. I look forward to seeing you there. If you get invited that is. Perhaps the goblin matron of yours wants you all to herself.

Sincerely,

Your Tommy.”

His angel. That’s what he called me. I still believe that my eyes were deceiving me as I read and continued to re-read those words. I sent one away at once. If I could supply any hope or relief in his darkest times, I would gladly do so. Anything to see that stupid perfect smile of his. He was right about the invitations. In fact they arrived the following morning. And when they did, we all got very excited, perhaps Rosaline a little too much.

We sat upon our hill, the freshly delivered mail buzzing in our hands. The air seemed sweeter and the sun brighter as everyone in the hospital radiated excitement as the beautiful red envelopes graced the grey and brown hospital. It seems this year the higher ups have decided to use the annual Christmas ceasefire to up morale. It was nice to see some smiles around here. “You ready?” Ro asks me, her smile wider than before, if that were even possible. I look to her and nod, my eyes wide and ready. Ro tears into the envelope, erratically pulling and tearing, turning the once solid paper into confetti shreds. I laugh before carefully peeling the seal back, trying to preserve the item as best I can, knowing I will want it in it’s best condition for my diary. We simultaneously pull out the letter and read the message.

“Dear service Men and Women,

It is with great pleasure that we invite you to the 1916 Allied Christmas Ball. As a reward for bravely fighting for your king you will enjoy a night of dancing, singing and drinking followed by the second day of the two-day cease fire. Provisions have been provided by the Crown and the public. Formal uniform is expected.

God Save The King.”

I jump as from beside me I hear Ro let out a loud holler of joy and enthusiasm. I laugh and join her as we cheer into the sky. “You know what this means Y/N?” She leans forward, eyes wild. “Oh boy” I say in preparation for her explosion of joy, knowing what is to come next. “Dress up time!” We hoot and holler once more, taking full advantage of this moment. We burst into laughter. Whilst I had grown up on rural farm land with little time for glitz and glam, Rosaline was born into a family which lay on the wealthier side of things. Whilst she rebelled against many aspects of it, she was infatuated with fashion and beauty. One of our many post-war dreams was to attend the most extravagant regal event and cause havoc whilst donning dazzlingly expensive gowns. Whilst this wasn’t exactly that, Ro would make it work. “I’m going to give Tommy the most beautiful date of them all!” She declares, like a Queen to her kingdom. I laugh, the alien feeling of my cheeks hurting from smiling returning for the first time since the war began. She pulls me to my feet and begins to twirl me around, a horrible version of ballroom dancing does ensue. “You two will dance into the night, twirling, giggling, and drinking the whole way through. Before he finally seals the night with true-love's kiss” She puckers her lips out comically. I smash by hand against her mouth and she slobbers on my palm. “ Oh Jesus Ro gross.” I wipe my spit covered hand against my apron. “And then,” she continues, my anxieties growing, fearing what words may following next, “He fucks you well into the night as you howl his name down-” This time I firmly plant my hand over her lips, silencing her ridiculous statement. “Shut the fuck up Ro” I shout-whisper to her, my eyes wide and a blush rampant on my cheeks. I remove my hand, letting out the wild laughter Rosaline had produced. I sigh, shaking my head in shame trying to ignore all of the horrified looks the other nurses were giving us. I let out a small chuckle. “You’re ridiculous you know. Completely and utterly ridiculous.” I say, every word I utter is followed by a small jab to her stomach with my finger, using her ticklish nature to my advantage. “Ok! Ok! I’m sorry,” she surrenders to my actions, “It’s true though”. I simply shake my head once more. Of course I’d had my fair share of intimate thoughts of Tommy, but it was nothing more than a fantasy. Perhaps he shared these thoughts. Perhaps he wished to enact them. Fuck what am I thinking. He might not even dance with me… I hope he does. “Well come on Y/N. We’ve only got a week to prepare so let’s go!” She pulls me out of my train of thought both with her words and her hand which now drags me towards the hospital tent. I still have not decided upon how I feel about the Christmas Ball. Part of me dreads it with my whole existence whilst the other has never been more excited about anything.

The first day of the cease fire had dawned. The peace was unfamiliar, almost unsettling as opposed to the normalised violence of every other day. And with it, the cease fire brought the dreaded Christmas Ball. The nurses gossiped amongst themselves, sharing around what little makeup and products they had managed to keep. Practically every second word that were freed from Rosaline’s brain had something to do with the ball or the dressing up. I was happy for her. She deserved to be happy and play fashion, not to encounter death and sadness on the daily.

Rosaline had already gotten herself ready. She radiated perfect beauty as her red lipstick and black mascara accentuated her doe-eyed complexion. Her ginger hair flowing by her waist as opposed to the tight bun it normally found itself in. As we stood in front of her small mirror, the juxtaposition of complete beauty and myself was accentuated. I wallowed in my gloomy insecurity, looking down to avoid the striking gaze of the mirror. How was I supposed to compare to someone like Ro. How was I supposed to impress someone like Tommy. I felt two small warm hands guide me out of the depths of my brain as Rosaline now held my face. “Y/N listen to me hey? Just listen. When you guys first saw each other you stood still, blown away by each others beauty. And guess what you both looked like? You were in your uniform, you were sweaty and covered in all kinds of gross shit like vomit and blood. And Tommy? He’d just dragged John out of a tunnel so he was covered in bloody dirt and muck and was the most dishevelled we’ll probably ever see him. You guys fell in love while kinda looking like shit.” We laugh, I begin to understand what she’s saying. She continues on, smiling proud, knowing she’d won me over, “He’s going to think you’re absolutely beautiful, ok? Hell everyone’s going to think that. We’ll walk into that ball, arms locked together and stun them into silence. Perhaps a few may even cry,” she proclaims rather melodramatically. I smile, rolling my eyes at her antics. I turn to hug her, grateful for her love. She sits me down in a nearby chair. “Now come on, we’ll miss the bloody thing if we take much longer.” Perhaps he will find me beautiful.

Tommy’s POV

I stand in front of the dirty, sorry excuse we have for a mirror, fiddling with my tie and the buckles on my sleeves. I try, to no avail, to slick my hair back, push it to the side, I try everything to make it decent. Frustration fills me as I wipe my hands down my face. “Fucking fuck it” I exhale. What is she gonna think of the bloody mess that I am. I slam my hat down onto my head, sitting on my bunk to begin to tie my boots. That’s when I see it once more. Y/N’s ribbon. I take it gently between my fingers, closing my eyes and remembering her. I shall not ruin a night that could be filled with her smile, her touch, her eyes, with my silly insecurities. I hear the tent flap bustling as it is pushed open. I look up to see Arthur and John, dressed in the same garb as myself. “Tommy, they are uh, they’ve given the order to start heading off” he says kindly, holding his cap, fidgeting with his fingers. I blink slowly, nodding whilst looking to the ground. I wave one hand, gesturing to them that I’ll catch up. They look to each other, reading the worry written on my face. John moves to sit next to me putting his hand on my shoulder. “Tommy,” he says, the toothpick bouncing between his teeth and lips, “look mate, everything’s gonna be fine. You look fucking ugly as normal.” He laughs, I shoved his shoulder. “Come on now John Boy, tell him the truth” Arthur smiles at his younger brothers. “You look great Tom and she’s gonna look beautiful. So if you don’t get your sorry ass out there, every other fucking guy’s gonna dance with her. And we can’t have that now can we now Arthur”, “No John, course we can’t have that. Plus,” Arthur continues, a smugness tugging at his tongue, “What use would we have for this otherwise?” He pulls out a flask, whiskey no doubt dancing in the bottle. “Now come on, drink up, the Shelby brothers have got some work to do” he proclaims. I stand and laugh. I’d spent the last week dreaming of how this night will go. How’d she look. How’d we dance, drink and smoke. Perhaps even get close. Oh Y/N, what are you doing to me.

Y/N’s POV

An hour later we stand in front of the mirror once more, this time, surprisingly happy thoughts made their way through my mind. Our formal attire projected elegance as our normal uniform paled in comparison. It was clean, shapely, and flattering. Whilst the veil was slightly uncomfortable I had a plan for that. Once everyone had gotten drunk of booze and dancing, no one would pay any mind to a missing veil or two. Rosaline had given me very similar makeup to hers, carving stark black lines around my eyes, and a scarlet scenery to the hills and crests of my lips. If the notion of the fighting starting up again in two days was not present, perhaps truly good fun could be had, and true happiness could be felt. I stop myself from dwelling on this, everyday could be our last, and if my last involves dancing and Tommy that’s fine by me. “Ladies start filling through to the tent please!” Rosaline and I turn to the source of the noise, a high ranking soldier gives the order. A wave of cheering pours out from the nurses. A smile breaks onto my face. “Well come on then slow poke!” Ro runs forward, dragging me by my hand. “Wait wait wait! I have something for Tommy.” I run back, reaching into my diary, pulling out the small origami horse I had made for him. Quickly, I place it in my pocket before Rosaline’s beady eyes could ask any questions. “Ok. Let’s do this”. We loop our arms together. Our heads high. Stepping in time. We will take on the world, or at least the dance floor.

(Y/N’s POV on left, Tommy’s bumped to the right)

I finally catch a glimpse of the massive white tent which would soon house many a drunkard soldier and stumbling nurse. It seems they collected every light source from every bunk as the scene was set alight with beautiful bulbs and strings. It reminded me of one of those fancy christmas trees I would ogle at in shop windows. The music filled my ears, as did the tapping of shoes, and harmonized singing. A makeshift bar had been set up, tables and chairs too. My heart swells with excitement as Ro and I beam with joy. I hadn’t spotted Tommy yet, and it may yet be a task to do so as more and more people crowd in.

“Oi Oi!” Arthur yells as we enter the large tent. “It’s a fucking riot in here ain’t it” John speaks, before spitting on the floor. I watch as the dancing erupts onto the floor, amused by the singing antics of the already drunk. “Look at some of the birds in here mate. You’d have to pay a pretty penny to get with one of them back in Small Heath.” Arthur drools over the women, the party letting out the beast in some of them. “Well boys,” I begin, lighting my cigarette, “Go get drunk, get into as many fights as you can and go for any woman you like. Just not mine.” John whoops and claps, “Thatta Boy Tommy. Now John Boy, we’ve got some work to do.” They walk off, leaving me to myself.

“This is amazing Y/N! Have you seen some of the blokes in here?” Rosaline exclaims to me. Turns out her lover Edward hadn’t died, rather he’d being fucking their resident nurse over there. Nothing motivates Rosaline quite like revenge with a side of free drink. “Go have fun Ro. You deserve it.” I spur her on, knowing she ached for some fun and freedom. “You sure you’ll be ok?” I nod in response. “Now go you bloody minx, go!” I push her towards the group of dancing soldiers. I laugh and make my way to the bar. Besides I had a mission of my own.

Find Tommy.

Find Y/N. That’s what I had to do. I walk through the dance floor, noticing her friend Rosaline tearing up a storm. Yet my Y/N was not with her. Come on Y/N. I kept walking making my way to the rudimentary bar. Please be there.

I sat at the bar, not yet finding Thomas. Perhaps he’d been dancing. I smile at the thought. The night had only begun, I mustn't worry now. I begin to make my way over to the dancing circle. Come on Tommy, where are you?

3rd Person POV

Little did they know at this point that they had both been looking for each other.

Little did they know they were headed straight for one another.

In a parting of the crowds filled with dancing drunks, they saw each other.

Their eyes meeting, just as they had that fateful first day.

He looked unbelievably handsome.

She was breathtakingly beautiful.

They swam in each other’s eyes.

Silence filled their ears.

They peered each other up and down, taking in their elegant costume.

Neither of their feet moved.

For all one knows their hearts were beating too fast, or perhaps not beating at all.

Instead she waved.

A small flick of the fingers and a smile.

He laughs and returns the gesture.

As they walk to each other, the same thought plagues their minds.

Maybe tonight I’ll tell him.

Maybe tonight I’ll tell her.

Y/N’s POV.

We now stand face to face, awe spread across my cheeks. He looks at me with the biggest smile I’ve seen painting his profile. “Hello Sergeant Major Thomas Shelby”, I courtesy, deciding to play into this royal fantasy that our outfits created. “Why, you look ravishing Sister Y/N L/N”, he bows, taking one of my hands and places a gentle kiss on it. “Fuck off Tom”, we both laugh, he extends his arm for me to take hold of. I gladly do so. We wander together this time to the bar, taking a seat on the crates that had been scrounged together. “Two Whiskeys please” Tommy orders, leaning his elbow on the table. “So, I see that Rosaline is quite the dancer.” We look out, watching her as she flows from soldier to soldier, her skirt twirling and her hair flowing. “Oh yeah. I feel bad for any other girl that even attempts to get on that dance floor.” I respond, proud of my best friend and she wraps all those boys around her finger. “And what about you Y/N, do you dance?” he asks, grabbing his glass of now delivered whiskey as I do the same. I leaned forward and new wave of air taking over me, “Wouldn’t you like to know.” He smirks, playfully scoffing. “Well then,” He downs his whole glass, slamming it on the table before standing up, offering a hand to me. I following his actions, chugging my drink before hammering my glass down, taking his hand. “Let’s put you to the test then hey?”

We danced and danced and danced. We danced wildly, we danced passionately, we danced carefully. My head was now rested upon his shoulder as we swayed in each other’s arms. Our eyes rest closed, not a care in the world. I feel the vibrations in his chest as he hums along to the music. The party had well and truly died down. People had either gone back to their bunks, had collapsed on the floor or were savouring the last dance. Over the course of the night I had met Arthur and John, they were bruised and bleeding after just getting out of a fight of course, I’d drank way too much and blisters covered my feet from dancing. But I didn’t care. It was a perfect evening with Tommy. He called me beautiful, he’d kissed my cheek. I wonder if my face was now stained red, a blush had become a regular to cross my face. I looked up to admire him, his eyes still calm and closed. I had utterly and completely fallen for Thomas Shelby. But this thought brought more sadness with it than I anticipated. Tommy was a soldier, everyday could be his last. If he makes it home we live in different towns. We had completely foreign lives back in England. I worry that the intensity of the war had amplified our feelings, meaning outside of the fighting, there would be none. I fear I care for him more than he cares for me. I squeeze him tight, not ever wanting to let go. He opens his eyes and squeezes back, looking down to me worried. “You ok pretty girl?” He asks letting go of my hand and waist and instead, places his hands on my cheeks. I meet his blue-sky eyes and sigh into his touch, resting my hand on top of his. “I’m ok, just worrying about silly future stuff.” He laughs, “Silly future stuff hey? Don’t worry about that hey, just enjoy right now. That’s what they teach you down in the tunnels. Think about living now, in this very minute, the soldier’s minute. Just you and me hey?” I nodded timidly, his beauty still making me shy. We dance for a few moments more, savouring every touch and every look.

“Y/N?” I hear Rosaline call from behind me, a slight slur to her words. I turn to see her and a soldier practically holding each other up. “Me and this Noah here are heading back to our bunk. So uh...you might wanna find somewhere else to sleep…” They giggle amongst themselves. I roll my eyes, both happy she’s having fun, but not so happy about sleeping someplace else. “Play nice Rosaline. Now go on, have fun,” they cheer and smile to each other before turning around and stumbling out. “And no fun on my bunk!” I add. “No promises!” She yells back. “Cheeky fucker” I whisper to Tom. He laughs in response. “So where will you go now?” he asks, concern lacing his voice. “Well I suppose one of the hospital bunks will probably be free…” I kick my feet against the ground, realising how uncomfortable it will be. “I uh, I might have a solution,” he begins, scratching the back of his head, “John and Arthur have both gone back to their girl’s rooms, therefore...Why not stay with me?” My eyes fly up to meet his, “Really!” He laughs at my excitement. “I-i mean if that’s ok with you. I don’t want to intrude”, I stammer on, embarrassed by my reaction. He leans his forehead on to mine, “Y/N?” I hum in response, “Shut up” he jests. I laugh trying to brush away awkwardness. “Now come on, before any other drunk offers you their bunk.”

We walk hand in hand, enjoying the silence all the way back to his bunk. As I enter the space I take in my surroundings. I notice the 3 small bunks, one for each brother. I watch Tommy sit on the furthest bunk and begin to take his boots off. I walk over to join him, analysing what trinkets lay on his table. I try to remember everything. A diary, papers, cigarettes and matches, a knife and photographs, many many photographs. I flick through them, observing a younger Tommy surrounded by his family. I attempt to match the names Thomas had given me to the faces in the photos. Ada, Polly, Finn. They looked happy... I hope my present would fit perfectly within the decor of his table. “Tommy,” I begin, turning towards him, my hands clasped behind me to try and hide my nervousness. He was now wearing only his sleep shirt, and his trousers. He meets my eyes but I can’t help but look him up and down. He steps towards me, nodding for me to continue. “I have a Christmas present for you.” His eyes widen, a confused smile tugs on his lips. “A Christmas present?” I nod, now excited. “Sit down and close your eyes” I order, pulling him back to the bed. I sit next to him, waiting for him to do the same. “Now stop looking at me and close your eyes.” He leans forward, still experiencing the waves of alcohol “You’re so pretty tho” he drags out the last syllable. “Tommy close your eyes and put your hands out” He still leans towards me, “Now”. He huffs and finally does so. I gently pull out the origami horse from my pocket, laying it in his hands. I watch his fingers jolt slightly at the feeling. “Ok, now you can open.” His eyes open, yet he sits silently, taking the horse in his fingers, examining it closer.

I can’t read the expression on his face and I begin to worry. “I’m sorry, I know it’s stupid I shouldn’t have-” He cuts me off. But not with his words. With his lips. My eyes stare wide, shocked at the action before I melt into the kiss. It’s perfect. It’s everything Rosaline describes from her romance book. It’s everything my dreams had wished for. After what feels like hours, we pull apart. “Thank you Y/N. I-i I don’t even know what to say.” Thomas speaks quietly, a loving softness to his voice. “You’re welcome Tommy. It’s a thank you for all that you’ve done for me.” He places it upon his desk, admiring it for the moment. “Would you mind if we lay down...together” He asks, his eyes pleading for a yes. I can’t seem to form words at this point. Instead I simply nod. We get comfortable, I removed my shoes and veil before laying beside him. He wraps his arms around me as my head rests upon his chest. “Y/N? Can you promise me something?” I lift my head, noticing the vulnerability wobbling his words. “Anything Tommy”. “Promise me that even after this fighting is done, we will stay together and that we will always find each other. Even if we are separated by a world and a half?” I raise my hand, extending my pinky. “Pinky promise” I say, “Pinky promise”, he returns. Our fingers lock and my heart rests. “Now, come here”, he whispers, tilting my lips to his.

That night would never leave me. For how could one forget something as beautiful as that. We continued late into the night before finally falling asleep, bare in each others arms.

Just before the tidal wave of sleep took over us, one last thing was said.

“I think I’m in love with you Y/N.”

“I think I love you too Tommy.”

302 notes · View notes

agentkgent · 5 years ago

Text

Fic: If You Want It Back

Read on AO3

13-year-old Richie/Eddie fluff because my heart needs it (apparently my boys taking care of each other is my favorite thing in the world??); This is probably a multi-chapter slowburn deal that I may or may not have the patience to complete; We’ll see!

Pros: Intimate medical care, sleepy cuteness, innocent sleepovers

Cons (Warnings): Mild blood, profanity, nightmares, sexual humor dialogue

- - -

Eddie | 13

“Would you stop being so fuckin loud? It doesn’t take much for her to check on me,” Eddie whisper-shouts.

Richie yanks his momentarily-stuck leg past the threshold of the window seal. “Dude, she’s used to me sneaking into the house late at night,” he smirks. “She’ll just be jealous-”

“Shut up, Richie.”

It’s dark - at least 11 o’clock at night in the shithole that is Derry. Fall is coming and nighttime is colder than it’s been for months.

He had been waiting up for Richie in his second-floor bedroom, gently lit by an old desk lamp. While his room had always been pristine and prepared for a Sonia Kaspbrak inspection, it’s fallen into a slightly less-than-perfect state the past few days while he preoccupied himself taking every possible moment to join the Losers in their final days with Beverly; final days of their summer vacation.

A few items of clothing lay on the floor near the bed, a jacket strewn across the corner of the bedspread. Socks hanging inside-out on top of a pair of Converse sneakers near the door.

Richie stands upright and tugs his hooded sweatshirt gently, fixing the zipped sides. Without pause, strides across the room to Eddie’s closet and pulls out his (well, not really his , but no one else uses it) comforter and pillow. “Move your shit, Eds.”

He scoffs. “Don’t fucking act like your room isn’t a pigstye.” And starts to grab clothing from the floor and throw it to a vacant corner, avoiding using his cast-covered limb.

“You couldn’t clean up for company?” Richie teases while he tosses the pillow onto the floor near the bed and unfolds the comforter.

“Yeah, well,” He begins, annoyed. “I’ve been distracted by the giant festering garbage wound on my hand, thanks to Bill. It’s freaking disgusting. He just fucking picked up a piece of glass and started cutting us with it. What the hell were we thinking? We’re all gonna get tetanus and shit.” He’s speaking faster, the horror setting in again. “What if the infection spreads to my arm? What if one of us has AIDS? Now we all have AIDS because Bill wanted to make a stupid fucking blood oath. Why couldn’t we have just created a secret handshake-”

“Shhh!” Richie throws his index finger over his mouth.

Eddie swats a hand over his own mouth in alert, realizing his own volume. The two wait a moment in silence, listening for a reaction, eyeing the bedroom door. They wait to hear footsteps in the hall or creaking on wood floors.

Nothing. He exhales in relief and continues, a bit calmer. “I don’t think there’s enough penicillin in the world to prevent me from getting an infection from that fucking piece of glass he used.” He watches Richie de-shevel his hoodie and kick off his sneakers. “Did you clean up your hand?”

Richie half-shrugs. “Yeah, I’m good. I washed my hands after I took a piss.”

His jaw drops. He thinks he might literally scream. “WHAT THE HELL, RICHIE?” He quietly shouts, his voice squeaking.

He can’t tell if Richie’s joking or not but he definitely DIDN’T see any kind of bandage over the moron’s hand, so he scrambles urgently to his desk’s designated medical drawer and digs out all the necessities. Fucking Trashmouth WOULD bring infection and sickness into his bedroom, goddamn it. Alcohol, gauze pads, antibiotic cream, yep. Medical tape, gauze wrap, rubber gloves...

“Jesus Christ, chill out,” Richie protests, a shit eating grin on his face from Eddie’s urgency. “I’ll deal with it tomorrow.”

“No!” He points a finger at his stupid friend. “You are not gonna touch my stuff and leave blood and puss and infection and whatever-the-fuck-else in my bedroom.” He crudely dumps his First Aid supplies across his bed and yanks Richie to sit next to him. He leans back down towards the floor next to the head of his bed, grabs a flashlight, flicks it on, and slams it into Richie’s un-injured hand. “Hold this so I can see, idiot.”

It’d been a significant moment, the seven of them holding hands; committing to each other and to keeping It from hurting more people. Although they laughed off the tension at Stanley’s “I hate you,” and lightly talked about plans for the following day, something about the situation made it feel melancholy. The weight of their promise had also felt… a little suffocating, to be honest.

He needed to hug his best friend. It sprouted from deep in his gut and drove his movement. Almost instinctively, Richie opened his arms for a hug and patted Eddie’s back affectionately.

He finally took wide steps across the weeds-covered ground to head home, and turned to wave goodbye to his Losers. His attention landed on Richie, though. And Richie’s expression was… dopey? His huge eyes were fixed on Eddie, but it looked like he was far away. He was sort-of smiling? But wasn’t entirely focused behind his thick glasses. Eddie didn’t read into it too much. It was a heavy day.

Two hours later, the Kaspbrak residence phone rang. “Hello?” He answered.

“Spuhgett!” A poor Italian impression came through the line. “Come over and stay the night!”

“Richie, really?”

“Yeah man, let’s dive into some new issues of Hustler and howl into the night! Ow OW!”

He held the phone down in shock, the asshole’s howling audible from the handset. He flung his head to either side, looking for his mother, and then hissed into the phone. “You can’t say shit like that on the phone, asshole! My mom could be listening! She’s been on me nonstop.”

“Dude, that’s some kinky incest shit. But pretty hot.”

At this point, Eddie was confident his mother wasn’t listening on the line. That would have been her opportunity to shut down the conversation. “You’re fucking disgusting. I’m hanging up.”

“Come on! I’ve got some comics I need to catch up on, let’s hang out!”

He sighed. “Rich, my mom’s basically put me on house arrest.”

“I can come over there, if that’s easier.”

“How is that easier?”

“I’ll climb up to your room from the gate.”

“Wow. Genius.” Eddie rolled his eyes.

“Thank you, I agree.”

“Dude, I’m tired.”

“Alright then, you can fuckin’ sleep, I’ll entertain myself.”

“So then why don’t you just stay home?”

A quiet moment, and then, “Eddieeeee!” Richie faked a whine.

He closed his eyes in defeat. “Fine. But I’m not staying up late. And you need to get out before my mom’s up tomorrow.” He remembered the most important part. “HEY AND you need to wait until it’s been dark for a while or she’ll still be watching TV.”

“Edward, I’m quite familiar with my lady’s nighttime habits. She watches porn ‘til 10 p.m., then I come over, then we do a couple lines, and after you’ve gone to sleep, she sucks my-”

Eddie slammed the phone back on the cradle.

Richie’s hand is now clean and covered, at least until the bandages need to be replaced. Eddie had only gagged once (maybe twice) while cleaning the Trashmouth’s palm. He inspects his handiwork one more time before closing the container of gauze. He takes the flashlight from Richie into his arm along with the impromptu First Aid kit.

“Do you think Bev will come back and see us? Like, visit from Portland?” Richie asks suddenly, looking at his cared-for hand.

Eddie pads across the room. He looks back towards Richie. “I don’t know. I hope so.”

“Come back for more quickies down by the Barrens, probably,” Richie sneers. “Maybe if we’re lucky she’ll let us watch.”

“Ew, dude, what?” He asks. He knows Richie doesn’t mean it, they all genuinely like Beverly. She’s cool and funny and treats them like normal people, which is more than they could say for other girls at school. But who-?

Richie knows what Eddie’s asking. “She and Bill sucked face after we left,” He wiggles his eyebrows.

He isn’t really surprised, he supposes. “Oh,” he says after a moment.

He turns off the desk lamp and walks back towards the bed. Richie scoots carefully until his back is against the wall, and Eddie plops his weight onto the bed, shifting until he’s next to him. They sit quietly for a whole three seconds before Richie continues with his gratuitous humor.

“Or maybe Bill will go see her .” And Richie starts with a dramatic tone of voice. “She might leave her bedroom window open at night for Big Bill, her dear auntie not knowing about the debauchery taking place in their home-”

He shakes his head slightly and ignores Richie. “Do you think Bev remembers Ben kissing her?”

Richie considers the question for a moment.

Everything that transpired in the filthy, dark tunnels beneath Derry had been something of a blur, but they all remembered that moment clearly. They found Beverly in the sewers, floating and white-eyed. She wouldn’t wake up. Ben was terrified. “What’s wrong with her?!” He looked at the others for answers, but no one knew what to do. Then he made a decision. Ben cupped Beverly’s face with both hands, and pressed their lips together, to everyone’s confusion. What the hell was that? ...And then Beverly woke up. Why did it work? Who knows. But it did. Bev mumbled something about ‘January embers’ and was back to normal.

“I don’t know, dude?” Richie dismisses, snatching the flashlight from Eddie’s hand and flicking it off. The whole room becomes immediately darker, only lit by the slightest bit of moonlight coming through the window. “Ben’s a nerd, anyway. Bev may be a Loser, but she’s still hot. And she and Bill like each other.”

“Poor Ben,” Eddie concludes.

“Plenty of fish in the sea, my dear Eds! Benjamin will be just fine,” Richie proclaims.

“Don’t call me ‘Eds.’”

“You love it.” Richie smirks.

“I don’t. And Ben will probably be fine, but YOU sure won’t. No one wants to kiss a Trashmouth.”

“If you only knew, shorty. Half of Derry has tasted my tonsils.”

Eddie smiles widely, preparing to call Richie’s bluff. “Bullshit. You haven’t kissed anyone.”

Richie’s smile drops. He looks into Eddie’s eyes. “Eddie…”

Eddie’s smile drops, too.

Richie continues, leaning in closer. “When are you going to face reality? Your mom and I care about each other very much. The woman has the most talented tongue-”

“Shut UP, Richie!” Eddie swats Richie with a pillow, landing with a muffled whack . Richie laughs quietly to himself.

Another quiet moment, and they’re both looking down at their hands in their laps.

He presses the question. “Rich, really. Have you kissed anyone before?”

It’s a risky question. They talk about girls all the time, but it’s always been something of a distant topic: jokes and celebrity crushes and their classmates. Bill, Stanley, Ben, and Mike always kept things PG. They’d each mentioned having crushes. Of course, Bill talked about kissing Beverly in the 3rd grade school play, something Richie taunted him about ruthlessly. Eddie kept quiet while the others discussed. He’d laugh when they joked or look when they shared photos from magazines, but he stayed away from the subject, afraid to reveal how little experience he had interacting with the opposite sex. Or, interest, honestly.

Richie, on the other hand, basked in loudly telling about his fictional sexual conquests with every female he’d supposedly ever encountered. At every opportunity. No one believed it, but no one bothered to dispute it.

But this was new territory for Eddie. Talking seriously about this stuff. Girls and kissing and feelings. Or rather, Eddie’s complete lack of anything to do with girls and kissing and feelings.

And with Richie, of all people?

But something about the events of the summer of 1989 made their friendship feel less… adolescent.

Richie slides onto his comforter on the floor. Without looking at Eddie, he answers. “No.” He takes off his glasses and tosses them recklessly onto Eddie’s desk.

Eddie expects a follow-up or a joke, but doesn’t hear one. “Me neither.”

“Yeah, that I know, Eddie-bear.”

“Fucking-”

- - -

Eddie dreams of Beverly, alone in the darkness.

He recognizes the horrible place that they’re back in. He’d hoped to never be back there ever again, smelling the piss and shit of Derry, mixed into a nice concoction with blood and remains of Pennywise’s victims.

Bev is a couple feet in front of him, eyes wide open. They’re solid white, no irises or pupils. She’s in the trance again.

Eddie places a hand on either of Bev’s shoulders, shaking her gently. “Shit, Bev! Bev! Beverly! Come on! You can snap out of it again, Bev!” Eddie yells. T hen shaking her with a little more force. She is slack-jawed and unresponsive, facing him blindly. “Guys! Guys, it’s Bev!” He looks around frantically for the other Losers. “She’s zonked out again, what do we do?!” But they are alone. Matter of fact, he can’t make out any of the terrain around them, either. No water, no drainage pipes, no pile of murder trophies. No ‘new kid’ to wake her up.

Eddie swallows and looks back towards the damsel in distress. If it worked for Ben, maybe it’ll work… for him? He places a hand on each side of Beverly’s face, squeezes his eyes closed, and gently pulls her towards him, pressing their lips together.

‘Please wake up, please wake up!’ He thinks, trying not to panic about what he’s doing. And Eddie releases the kiss, letting himself move back a few inches, and opens his eyes.

He’s holding Richie’s face, eyes closed, cheeks flushed, lips slightly pursed and shiny. Richie’s white eyes fly open, wide and horrified.

“WHAT the fu-” Eddie wakes with a heaving chest.

He’s confused and flustered and about to have a fucking asthma attack. He reaches behind his head to his nightstand and grabs his inhaler, placebo be damned. As he puffs and takes deep breaths, he looks around quickly, reminding his brain that he’s safe in his clean, non-sewer bedroom.

It’s still dark outside, and a little cold. He’s only been asleep for a couple hours. And he’s moved around so much in his nightmare that his comforter has slid onto the floor, ...and is starting to move on its own? Wha-

The comforter folds back. “Eddie?” Richie mumbles, half-asleep.

Eddie yelps and slams his back against the bedroom wall with a thud. Richie tries to shush him and continues, “Whoa! What the fuck?”

He dramatically clutches at his chest and uses his inhaler again. He examines Richie’s alerted expression, making sure his eyes have irises and pupils. Then his eyes glance at Richie’s lips, which are so-slightly parted. And maybe looks a little too long.

“Eddie, are you okay?” Richie climbs onto the bed and places a hand on Eddie’s shoulder.

He resettles in reality. Right. Richie stayed the night. He’s actually here. “No, I didn’t- I forgot you were here.” He covers his face with both hands and exhales deeply, embarrassed. “It was a stupid nightmare.”

Maybe another time, Richie would seize the opportunity to make an ‘erotic nightmare’ joke, but he leaves it be. “Well, breathe, dummy.”

Eddie focuses on his breathing for a few moments. He drops his hands into his lap. There’s something wet on his face, but maybe it’s just sweat? Richie’s brow furrows. And that’s when he comes to terms with a sharp pain in his hand.

“Eds, your hand!” Richie whispers urgently. “Shit, you got blood all over your face!”

He can’t even process what’s happening before Richie flies across the room to fetch the medical stash and his glasses.

“Oh my god,” Eddie squeaks. His hand is still bandaged, but it’s bleeding and has soaked through, running down his arm. He can feel the panic and terror bubbling in his throat at the utter level of unsanitary , but Richie’s back and holding his arms.

“Shhh, okay, hold on,” Richie tries to calm him. “I’m gonna get something to clean off your face.” And he hurries out of the bedroom, leaving the door open. The water runs in the faucet down the hall and Eddie hears gentle splashing. He looks towards the dark door opening, then back at his hand. His fingernails have blood under them. His cast has a large, rusty-red tint across the inside of his arm.

And Richie’s back, holding his chin carefully and cleaning with a wet cloth. He continues shushing Eddie, sensing his nausea. “It’s okay, you’re okay, don’t barf.” Richie works at his cheeks and brow, and softly wipes at his nose. His attention turns to Eddie’s hand and he looks closer. Seeing someone in that proximity to his injury makes him queasy, but Richie’s hold grounds him. Since when is Richie capable of being so… caring? (Last time Richie tried to help him, he re-broke his goddamn arm and called his mother, who wouldn’t let him leave the house for almost a month.) “Looks like you just squeezed your hand too hard. Probably fucked it up while you were sleeping. I’ll rewrap it. I watched you do mine. Jesus fuck, breathe, Eds. You’re panting like a pornstar.”

Right. Breathe. Where the fuck is his inhaler? He’s starting to feel lightheaded.

“You probably need to take off your shirt.”

“FUCK OFF, Richie!” He spits.

Richie raises his eyebrows. “No, seriously. You got blood all over your shirt, too.”

He blinks and looks down at his- oh. Fuck. Yeah, his favorite night shirt is ruined. It’s covered in blotches of red. He feels like he might pass out.

He pulls it from behind his neck and over his shoulders and head. He almost immediately starts shaking from the cold rush of air. Richie rolls his eyes, leans down to the floor where he slept, scoops his hoodie with one hand, and hands it to Eddie. He quickly pulls it on but leaves his casted arm and hand for Richie to tend to. He mumbles a drowsy, “Thanks.”

“Just try not to bleed on it, please? It’s one of my faves.”

- - -

Eddie doesn’t have any more dreams that night. Actually, he has the best night’s sleep in recent memory. No nightmares.

He also doesn’t remember falling asleep. But the morning light is shining directly into his face now, and he reluctantly comes to consciousness.

The pieces of last night reassemble in his mind, and he quickly looks at his injured hand. It’s wrapped tightly, only a few smudges of dried blood in between his fingers evidence of the late night mess. A tiny bit of dried red on the very edge of the cuff of his sleeve. And poorly written in Sharpie in the center of his bandaged palm, Sweet dreams, Spaghetti ♡

“You really know how to fuck up a nice gesture, huh?” Eddie says quietly to his probably-still-sleeping friend. He didn’t know what time it was or if his mother was lurking around yet.

No blood on his bedding, thank GOD, and no more blood on his- ...wait. What is he wearing?

He leans up on his elbows. He’s warmer than usual. Something hard is scratching at his chest and his neck, but the rest of whatever he’s wearing is so, so soft and very oversized on him.

Its an ash grey zipped-hoodie. It’s Richie’s.

His sense of smell kicks in, and he scrunches his nose at the reek of shitty body spray coming from it. He sits up and unzips the gross, unwashed jacket, pulling on the cuffs at each wrist carefully.

“Rich, come on. It’s morning. You gotta go before my mom wakes up.” He glances over the edge of the bed, but Richie’s not there. The comforter and pillow are wadded up in front of Eddie’s closet, and his sneakers are gone. No glasses on the desk.

Which means... he left already? Eddie’s heart sinks a little. Whatever. He’ll see Rich today, probably.

He looks back at his wrapped palm.

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

Richie | 13

“Just try not to bleed on it, please? It’s one of my faves.”

Eddie doesn’t laugh or fuss, which is disappointing. Richie needs to keep Eddie’s attention away from the fuckin’ Carrie episode triggered by some nightmare.

He wants to keep things light because he knows, he’s certain , Eddie’s violent nightmare probably has something to do with It. Because he’s been having nightmares about It, too. He dreams of missing posters hanging across Derry with his face on them, with no one looking for him. He dreams of that giant lumberjack trying to stab him to death in the middle of the park, and no one will help him. He dreams of being lost in the sewers, his friends calling to find him, but his mouth is sewn shut. Horrific realities every night. He can’t stay asleep more than a couple hours.

That’s why he’s risking getting caught in the Kaspbrak house. Anymore, he doesn’t feel okay unless he’s with his friends. The Great Richie Tozier is reduced to a sleepless baby, and the only possible remedy is having one of his Losers at arm’s length. And Eddie is his favorite Loser, after all.

And up until Eddie woke him up, it seemed to be working.

He focuses on unwrapping the crimson tide mess of cloth wrapped around an apparently catatonic version of his friend Eddie. It isn’t until he’s gently wiping away fresh blood from the cut that Eddie actually responds again.

Eddie hisses. “Ow.”

“Sorry.” He apologizes softly. “I’m just gonna clean this up, and then… I’ll put some stuff on it?”

He looks up and meets Eddie’s eyes, which are half-lidded and sleepy. He figures the horror has subsided and his firey little friend has worn himself out in his own panic. Or maybe he’s about to pass out? Either way, he’s glad Eddie isn’t making this difficult.

Eddie nods. “Yeah we can jus’ put some triple antibiotic on it.”

He looks over the products he brought to the temporary emergency room that is the bed. Triple… antibionic… ?

“S’the yellow tube,” Eddie mumbles and points lazily. Richie picks it up and uses some across Eddie’s wound. “Don’t use it all, dumb.”

“‘Dumb’ what?” He replaces the cap.

“You’re not qualified to do this.”

“You’re not qualified. I’m qualified as shit.” He’s glad Eddie wants to bicker instead of freak out. He finishes wrapping a first layer of gauze and tape around Eddie’s small hand. Richie risks a glance up at Eddie’s face, only a few inches away. The kid hasn’t fallen back asleep, but his eyes are shut and he’s tilting his head back against the wall.

Richie allows his fingers to gently drag across Eddie’s as he pulls back. He pinches Eddie’s fingertips softly as he lets go. The sensation tingles up his arm and to his center, where it’s growing warmly. (He thought it couldn’t get better than Eddie tending to his hand earlier in the night. He enjoyed the rough way that Eddie yanked his hand into a position easy to clean and bandage, lectured Richie about cleanliness and all the risks involved with not properly taking care of a wound.) There’s a tightness in his chest at how he gets to take care of Eddie like this, totally in control and responsible for his well-being.

He looks over the casted arm, with LOVER written across it and smiles fondly at Eddie’s determination to fight back against that stupid bitch Greta Keene. (He really wishes he could hit a girl.) But even more than that, the fact that Eddie prefers to be thought of as a “lover” makes Richie’s heart pound.

He’s almost done wrapping Eddie’s hand.

“Richie?” Eddie whispers.

“Yes, ‘muh boy?” He whispers back.

“Can I go back ‘ta sleep?” He slurs.

“Hand’s almost done. And then,” He pinches Eddie’s cheek. “We just gotta wrap you in fucking bubble wrap because you can’t fucking manage NOT to hurt yourself every chance!” Eddie is apparently too sleepy to fight back and allows him to hold the freshly bandaged hand in both of his own. “All better, Spaghetti Man.” And he presses his lips to the center of Eddie’s palm in a quick kiss and smiles widely.

Eddie lifts his head and opens his eyes at Richie. He looks down at his hand, and then back to Richie. “Thank you.” His eyelids drop, he quickly tips over, and plops his head onto his pillow, bouncing on the mattress slightly.

Richie has to cover his mouth to stifle his laugh. Eddie muffles something into his pillow. “Pardon me?” He says quietly with a big smile. He can’t help it. This is cute as shit.

Eddie turns his face away from the pillow. “Don’t laugh at me. I’m gonna sleep.”

“Can you sleep without injuring yourself?”

Eddie doesn’t answer right away. “I dunno but I’m tired.” He shuffles and twists his body around until he’s facing upward and looking at Richie. His hand reaches up and wraps around Richie’s wrist. “You can sleep on the bed too, if you want?”

Richie’s throat closes. He’s not entirely sure how much of this Eddie is actually processing, he seems really out of it. And his wrist feels like it’s on fire from Eddie’s touch.

“I just… Maybe that way if I start hav’ ‘nuther nightmare, you can wake me up. If you don’t wanna, tha’s fine-”

“No it’s fine.” He stops Eddie, taking a breath before continuing. “If you start freaking out again I’ll kick you in the dick until you stop.” He hopes that Eddie believes his nonchalant agreeance.

Eddie, once again, doesn’t laugh or fuss. He scoots to the outer side of the twin mattress and closes his eyes. The oversized hoodie swallowing his tiny form, almost covering his sleep shorts. He leaves space between himself and the wall.

Richie gulps. He can feel his hear pounding in his ears as he steps across the room to turn off the light on the desk, and pick up Eddie’s discarded comforter from the floor. He looks over his patient lying on the bed. His chest is moving gently as he breathes. It’s really cute. Too cute. Dangerously cute.

He can already hear steady breathing coming from the little wad of hypochondria. He’s out.

Richie steps back towards the desk and plucks a Sharpie from next to the lamp. He pads back towards the bed and kneels down close to Eddie’s face. He gently pulls Eddie’s bandaged hand from near his neck. He can feel Eddie’s breath on his fingers and it sends chills down his spine, but he stays focused. He scribbles, Sweet dreams, Spaghetti ♡ into the center of the palm, and replaces it against Eddie’s chest. He knows Eddie won’t think too deeply about it, he’ll just be pissed off and probably want to change the bandages as soon as possible. He hopes, at least.

After he tosses the closed marker onto the floor, he prays to WHATEVER evil God has put him in this position that Eddie won’t feel him shaking as he lays down facing the wall, pulling the cover over them. His ears are ringing, at this point. They’re echoes of blood rushing all over the place, his heart on overdrive. He tries to keep at least a couple inches distance from Eddie’s back, but he’s starting to get a contact high from the proximity and the body heat. His breathing is totally out of rhythm. His body is buzzing with a want to close the gap.

Listening to Eddie’s soft breathing, Richie drifts asleep.

And oh, by the way, it’s been exactly six days, 13 hours, and 12 minutes since he decided he was in completely love with Eddie Kaspbrak. And it fucking sucks.

- - -

“Eddie!” An irritating voice rings from the hallway. “Why is the bathroom light on?”

The sound shakes Richie awake. Looks like the sun has just started coming up, and it’s still a little chilly. He knows right away that Sonia is up and on the move. He’s got to go before she starts jiggling Eddie’s doorknob. By then, she’ll hear him climbing out of the house.

Richie rubs his eyes quickly and touches the top of his head, checking for his glasses, but doesn’t feel them. He tries to lean himself up on his arms, but something is weighing one of them down…

He doesn’t need his glasses to figure out that the blurry figure laying on his arm is Eddie. He can make out the features of Eddie’s nose and eyebrows, and lips… Really close to his own face. His breathing intensifies as he realizes how closely they’re facing each other. Eddie is only a few inches away, weight holding down Richie’s right arm.

He would have loved to stay like this longer… but he can hear the floorboards creaking outside the bedroom.

“Fuck.” Richie mouths to himself.

As gently as possible, he pulls his arm from under the still-sleeping angel next to him. He scoots to the far end, away from Eddie, and worms off the bed, avoiding touching him. He places the comforter back on Eddie and scrambles to clean up the rest of the evidence. He scoops his make-shift bed from the floor and tosses it in front of Eddie’s closet. He clumsily pulls on his sneakers and grabs his glasses from the desk.

He turns towards Eddie, still dead asleep. Must have slept okay?

Man, for that matter, Richie didn’t have any nightmares either. The Great Richie Tozier slept like a sleep-full baby.

“Sorry, Eds, I gotta scram.” Richie whispers affectionately as if to a one night stand, and moves towards the window. Out the window, across the roof to the gate, down onto the fence, then he’ll escape out the back yard. Carefully, he lifts the window and climbs out, focusing on not catching his leg again. He pauses to take one more look inside, towards the bed.

“Eddie!” Mrs. K repeats, from behind the door. “Are you awake this early?”

“Shit!” And he rushes away from the window, out of sight. He’s moving quietly, and he hears the window shut behind him.

#eddie kaspbrak #richie tozier #reddie #it (2017)#reddie fic #reddie fluff #ao3

84 notes · View notes

wxlfstxrx · 5 years ago

Text

Gone, Gone, Gone (Oneshot)

A/N: NOW. I honestly never expected to be the one to write this crossover; I was actually hoping someone else would. But I can’t stop thinking about this scene and now I’ve gone and put myself under immense pressure to deliver. HAH. Anyway, I know Gwen Stacy in the comics died while falling off a bridge, but since my post referred to The Amazing Spiderman 2, featuring the gorgeous Andrew Garfield (who I already envision as Remus Lupin anyway), I shall write the clocktower scene instead. As mentioned in my teaser, I also found it incredibly awkward to name Harry as the villain. Because, well. Ha ha. But yes, a major thank you to @fleursowl for prompting me to write this, and for leaving comments on my drafts, I hope I didn’t disappoint :”)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9H9bm1Oj1wQ&t=200s here’s the link to the video I referenced from!!

The title is actually a song from the Spiderman soundtrack, and god. I destroyed myself. I’m crying so hard now. Hope you guys like it.

“HARRY! This is between you and me, you wanna fight? FIGHT ME, LET HIM GO.”

“... Okay.”

Remus’ heart dropped into his stomach.

Everything was happening so fast, yet they seemed to be happening in slow motion. He didn’t allow himself even a breath before he leapt up, off the top of the domed roof. He watched helplessly as jet black hair obscured what would undoubtedly be a face of panic, and hoped and prayed with all his might that he could catch him. He extended his arms, rising to meet Sirius, who was tumbling down through the crisp autumn air. I’ve got you, I’ve got you, he chanted in his head, not letting Sirius out of his sight, although the wind was making his eyes sting.

Finally, after what felt like forever, he felt the other boy crashing into his body, the pull of gravity sending them both falling through the sky and through the roof of the clocktower with a loud smash. He didn’t care that shards of glass were piercing his skin through his latex suit, he just instinctively curled his body around Sirius’ to make sure he was okay. He could feel the other’s heavy breathing; he knew how afraid Sirius was of heights. He just held him tighter, bracing themselves.

They hit a narrow metal platform, and for a moment Remus allowed himself to breathe. His arms were wound tightly around Sirius’ waist and he pulled him towards his body even more, thanking all the gods that he was safe.

“I’ve got you, love. God, I was so fucking terrified, but it’s okay, I’ve got you, you’re alright now,” Remus rambled as one hand travelled up and down Sirius’ back, trying to soothe his frenzied breathing. Sirius weakly shook his head before burying it in the crook of Remus’ neck, letting out a choked sob.

A short clink of something dropping, and an accompanying beeping noise startled the two of them, and Remus’ head snapped up to follow the sound just several inches away from them. Too late did he realize where that sound had come from.

A red hot explosion blasted the pair off the platform, and Remus turned them on their sides to shield Sirius.

And then, they were falling again.

Remus heard Sirius scream and he felt his blood run cold. With one foot hooking desperately around an intact railing, he grabbed Sirius’ wrist with his hand. He barely had time to look down at him before the latter was slipping out of his grasp. He vaguely heard Sirius cry out his name.

Blood rushing to his head and heart pounding in his chest, he shot a web out to wrap around Sirius’ wrist tightly, breaking his fall.

A swooshing noise caught Remus’ attention and he was forced to look up. Good thing he did; had he been mere seconds later he would have been knocked off the railing by Harry. Swinging himself up, he dodged yet another attack, and managed to sneak a look at Sirius, who was (sort of) safely perched on a rotating gear just several feet below him. He was looking back at Remus fearfully, eyes widened in terror.

In normal circumstances, Remus would never be tired of staring into his boyfriend’s gorgeous face.

In that moment, that was all he allowed himself before he sprang back into action.

Remus leaped from surface to surface, trying to create as many webs as he could around the clocktower to impede the glider’s movements. Harry chased after him relentlessly, missing Remus by a hair’s breadth too many times for comfort. He barely noticed Sirius trying to maneuver himself from gear to gear in an attempt to get to safety.

Swinging from web to web to confuse Harry, Remus gained enough momentum to jump as high as he could, past the shattered roof. Shooting a well-aimed web down at Harry’s glider, he pounced on his enemy’s back and caught him in a headlock. He knew he didn’t have much time, especially with them zooming around uncontrolled in the air.

He worked quickly to coil webs around Harry’s throat, praying with all his might that this would be enough to gain the upper hand.

It wasn’t.

The glider reversed at top speed and sent Remus crashing into a wall. His vision blurred for a moment, allowing Harry to break free from his grasp. Recovering quickly, Remus kicked himself off the wall and jumped, swinging himself around a web. He barrelled into Harry and knocked him off his glider, finally, sending him crashing into a metal beam. He thought Harry had fallen face first onto another platform, knocking him out for the meantime, but he couldn’t be sure.

His eyes were instead fixed on Sirius, who was looking right back at him. Time seemed to slow down as the glider fell through the air and into the gear that Sirius was currently kneeling on.

Remus didn’t so much hear himself shouting as he felt the burn in his already hoarse throat.

Sirius was falling further and further away from him, and Remus struggled to web him back. No, no, no, not again, Remus almost cried. But he knew Sirius was counting on him, and at last the web coiled around Sirius’ wrist for the second time in ten minutes.

Sirius was now dangling in mid-air, suspended only by the strong web Remus had caught him in.

Remus frantically pulled at the long web, trying to reel him back up onto a concrete surface. As he was almost at a close enough proximity to reach for Sirius’ hand, he heard the other boy shout, “REMUS!”

He turned his head so fast he got whiplash, but it didn’t register in his mind. He had turned back just in time to feel Harry’s hands around his neck, forcefully backing him into a gear behind him.

Harry grabbed Remus by the shoulders and slammed him down on the gear they were currently on, and the web loosened, jerking Sirius down a few feet. Remus’ head throbbed painfully but he fought to maintain the web even as Harry’s foot stomped down on his wrist with a sickening crunch moments later.

He heard a broken cry from Sirius, and it wasn’t until he craned his neck to look at his broken wrist, which was still holding onto Sirius via the web, that he realized why.

The gear was turning slowly but surely, and from the way the web was caught in one of the gear’s teeth, it was a matter of seconds before it would meet the other gear and snap.

A broken metal joint that had fallen a few feet away from Remus’ hand caught itself between the pair of gears, halting the rotating of gears temporarily with a loud screech. Sirius’ breath hitched as he watched on, helplessly dangling in the air.

Taking Remus by surprise, Harry brandished a sharp knife-like weapon, aiming it at the web. Thankfully, Remus’ quick reflexes blocked the attack. Pushing his left hand into Harry’s face, he knocked the weapon out of the way with his right arm, letting it skid across and off the platform.

Remus’ hold was broken seconds later as Harry gained control over him once again. The latter wrestled to pin the former’s arms down by the side of his face, but Remus slammed their foreheads together, knocking Harry off balance. He delivered a heavy blow to Harry’s cheek and shot a web out to trap the arm that had been trying to retaliate.

Harry’s snarled, and his hand shot out to clasp around Remus’ throat, choking him. Through his watery eyes and blurred vision, Remus managed to shoot a web out through one of the gears behind Harry without him realizing.

Working quickly, he ambushed Harry by winding the long web around his throat several times just as the gear shifted, causing him to howl as the web tightened painfully around his own neck. Still, he didn’t relinquish his hold on Remus’.

The loud clang of metal caused Remus to turn his head around, watching as the broken metal joint gave way to the force of the shifting gears, and it snapped all of a sudden, falling to the depths below and narrowly missing Sirius’ suspended form.

Remus let his eyes linger on Sirius, who was dangling a little way below another gear, partially hidden from his view. Despite the chaos surrounding him, all he could hear was his own voice shouting in his mind, over and over again.

I’ve got to save him, I won’t let him die, it’ll be all over soon, we’ll make it through, I love him I love him I love him.

Remus remembered how, just hours ago, they had been on the top of the bridge, on top of the world. How he’d professed his love for Sirius and how he’d offered to go to England with him. To be with him. He wished that he could turn back the time. What he’d give to be back on that bridge, just him and Sirius against the world. He closed his eyes and swallowed hard, willing himself not to lose focus.

In a desperate attempt to buy more time, he stuck his left foot out and wedged it between two gears, ignoring the pain shooting up his foot. He felt like he was being torn apart, what with Harry’s fingers still clamped around his throat, his left foot raised up in an awkwardly painful angle and stuck between gears, and his right wrist hanging semi-limply over the edge of the gear he was currently pinned down on. But it was worth it.

Saving Sirius would be worth all the broken bones in his body.

The gears were cranking in protest, and the web was centimetres shy of snapping. Remus could no longer feel his foot, but he wasn’t going to let go. There was no way. Mustering all that was left of his strength, he tried to push his upper body up so he would be able to kick Harry off him with his right foot. He was panting heavily with exhaustion and his heart was slamming against his chest. The voice inside his head was going a hundred miles a minute. Just a little more—

A deafening screech filled the clocktower.

And everything happened so fast.

One of the gears dislodged itself, producing bright orange sparks as a result of the friction.

Sirius’ voice broke, “Re?”

No.

His vision zoomed in to the web, tracing it from his wrist to where it was caught between the two gears.

Where it snapped in two.

In that moment, he could no longer feel any pain. He could no longer feel anything. His heart felt like it was about to leap out of his mouth and drop down to his feet simultaneously.

The gears in the clocktower started spinning furious and uninhibited, and the gears in Remus’ mind followed suit. No no no, shit, fuck—

Remus didn’t even realize that Harry had released his hold on him, sailing across the air with the web still coiled around his neck and slamming into a gear, knocking him out. He was too focused on Sirius’ freefalling form.

He watched in despair as broken metal joints tumbled down alongside his boyfriend, falling further and further away from his reach.

So far.

He took the plunge.

Willing his body to pummel through the air faster, Remus kept his eyes locked with Sirius’. The glittering pools of molten silver he had come to love after all this time was now a thunderstorm, with flecks of white-hot lightning flashing every few heartbeats. If he thought Sirius had been scared earlier, the look in his eyes now almost made Remus‘ throat close up with raw emotion. The torrential rain took over, and Remus wanted nothing more than to be huddled up together in their thick blankets at home, kissing away every tear that had ever trailed down the other boy’s face.

So far.

Extending his arm, he shot a web out. Please let this be the last one. He hoped it’d reach Sirius in time. Please.

They were still gazing at each other. Remus willed the other boy to understand everything unsaid in the silence that stretched between them. I’ve got you. Trust me. I love you. I won’t let you go. Please. I’ve got you.

Sirius swallowed hard, gave him one last pleading look, shook his head ever so slightly, a fraction of a degree, and closed his eyes.

No, please look at me, please open your eyes, don’t let go.

Don’t let go.

Finally, the web caught hold of Sirius’ broad chest, capturing him in his grasp, finally.

He let himself breathe out as he caught hold of a railing, clinging onto it with his uninjured hand. Thank g—

Thud.

Remus’ heart stopped.

Wrapping one end of the web around the railing, he dropped himself down to the ground, where Sirius was suspended a few feet in the air by the other end.

Remus approached slowly, inhaling sharply.

Sirius wasn’t moving.

“Sirius?”

He removed his mask and ran a shaky hand through his mussed up hair. His lips were trembling as he stepped forward and lifted Sirius in his arms.

With one arm under his boyfriend’s back, he placed his other hand over his heart, feeling desperately for a heartbeat.

Remus didn’t think he’d ever be able to breathe again.

There was a deafeningly loud ringing in his ears as he cradled the lifeless body in his arms, as though his whispered pleas would be heard. As though they could be heard.

Please, stay with me.

Don’t go.

Don’t leave me.

Please, I love you.

You’re everything to me.

In just the span of a few minutes, he’d lost the only person he’d ever loved. He would give anything, anything at all, to have the other boy alive again.

There was complete silence all around, save for the shuddering breaths that Remus let out. He blinked his eyes furiously, tears spilling onto his lover’s face, refusing to accept whatever had just happened.

“Sirius... Sirius, please. Sirius...”

His whispered pleas grew into loud cries and he didn’t even know how much time had passed anymore; when Sirius had hit the ground it was as though the concept of time stopped existing. All he was aware of was the pain coursing through his veins, searing and never-ending.

Remus looked up, blinking past the tears, and saw the moon through the shattered roof, watching over him. In sympathy perhaps.

How was he going to survive this, when Sirius had been his rainbow after heavy storms, and the brightest star on his darkest nights?

He didn’t think he’d be able to.

Remus collapsed onto his knees, still clutching Sirius’ body in his arms, and let the wracking sobs take over him.

#remus lupin #sirius black #remus x sirius #sirius x remus #wolfstar #wolfstar oneshot #wolfstar fanfiction #wolfstar au #marauders #spiderman #spiderman fanfiction #wolfstar angst #angst #af

49 notes · View notes

bitsandbobsandstuff · 6 years ago

Text

A love that never leaves (5)

Summary: Sometimes when you go looking for the past, you find things you never expected. When an accident brings him face to face with something he never knew he lost, Bucky Barnes begins to understand an age old truth – it’s so easy, sometimes, to love the things that destroy us.

Characters: Bucky Barnes x Reader Warnings: Bad language. WW2 Bucky swears so much. SMUT, so 18+ please.

A/N: Every love story begins somewhere. This is the first time I’ve really written 1940s Bucky, so I hope I do him justice. Also I may have a fondness for punching Steve Rogers in the balls, what can I say. Remember those hidden items from Chapter 2? Some of them pop up again!

Tags are open, if you want on the list please send me a DM or ASK, it’s easier for me to track. Otherwise you can find the new updates each weekend!

MASTERLIST ALTNL MASTERLIST

PREVIOUS CHAPTER

Previously...

Silence stretches longer and longer and Bucky finally realizes his lungs are burning. He lets out his breath with rush and leans forward. Elbows on his knees, he tries with everything in his heart, to remember.

“We’d met? Before then? We knew each other?”

She sits up straight, never breaking eye contact. Wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand, she searches for the right words. Bucky feels his heart thump wildly while he waits; her voice is laced with sadness when she speaks.

“The first time we met was in 1944. I was wearing grey and you were wearing blue.”

*****

Early January 1944 Somewhere in France

Bucky lays flat on his back, staring at the puffy white clouds floating by. Ears ringing, he breathes in a lungful of wet smoke while he waits.

Calming breaths, they always say. Clear your mind. Focus.

The bullet whizzes through the broken front window and explodes an empty water pitcher, covering him in shards of glass and yeah, that did it.

He’s fucking pissed.

“You piece of shit fucking asshole!” he shouts, flipping angrily onto his stomach and crawling toward another narrow window.

Hours of fighting and here they are, with Bucky stuck in the still smoking bones of a bombed-out apartment, unable to hit the sniper victoriously camped in the bell tower of the village church. Below him, Steve, Gabe, and Dugan are crouched behind the burnt shell of a truck, waiting patiently for him to sort it out.

Well. Patiently might be a lie.

“Barnes, I’m hungry,” Dugan calls up. “It’s not that hard, just point and fuckin’ shoot.”

Hunched now against a broken wall, Bucky grits his teeth while he reloads and calls down an insult.

“Maybe it’s time you tried a god damn diet, shithead. I’m fuckin’ working on it.”

He waits until the next shot comes, a zinger cracking the frame of the window beside him, and then he pops up, fires into the bell tower, and ducks back down.

“Anything?”

The only response, is another bullet, fired through the retaining wall. It blows through siding, pelting him with chunks of wood. One particularly jagged piece smashes into his right hand, slicing it open and drawing a line of blood from thumb to pinky.

“OUCH! Fucking ouch! God damn chickenshit motherfucking cocksucker, fuck you,” he yells furiously, briefly contemplating how many bars of soap his Ma would shove in his mouth if she heard his language. Switching the gun grip to an equally proficient left hand, he peers through the new hole in the wall, searching.

There.

An eagle-eyed gaze catches it, a momentary flash of skin through a chink in the stone tower. Holding his breath, Bucky finds his shot and fires.

Even from here, he knows it lands. There’s a moment of suspension, before a body collapses forward, catching on the wide window ledge and flipping out. Whistling through the air, it lands with a sickening crunch on the bricks. Down below, the men grimace.

Smiling grimly, Bucky climbs to his feet and leans against the busted window frame, lifting his helmet to mop up the rivers of steaming, muddy sweat streaming down his face.

Christ, this helmet smells like shit.

Slinging his rifle around his shoulder, he looks down to where the guys are still crouched. He points down at Dugan and holds up a middle finger.

“You owe me a smoke. Jackass.”

*****

Liberation creates a carnival atmosphere in the little French village.

Back on the ground, Bucky wanders through the crowds, accepting handshakes, slaps on the back, the occasional fervent kiss on the cheek. The flurry of excitement is tempered by a few harsh injuries, those who suffered before Captain America and his Howling Commandos arrived this morning.

Howling Commandos. Jesus H Christ, the PR war machine was sheer insanity, Bucky thinks contemptuously. Here comes Bucky Barnes, Captain America’s right-hand man! He makes the shot! He saves the day!

If he has to see one more of those idiotic comics, he’ll fucking scream.

With a dirty towel wrapped around his still bleeding hand, he stalks the injury line, searching for Jim Morita, because he just fucking cannot sew it himself. Last time he tried, he puked up beans on his own boots and Dugan laughed at him for three days and he’s not doing that shit again.

“Jim, can I get some help?” Bucky finds Morita setting a broken leg and drops to his haunches, unfolding the towel. Morita takes one look at it and shakes his head.

“No time. Sew it yourself or wait.”

“Well I ain’t god damn doing it. I’ll fuckin’ wait,” Bucky growls irritably. Stomping off with a huff, he plops on a bench and pulls the make-shift bandage tighter, wincing at the sting.

He finally has a few moments to himself, so he sits and hangs his head. Closes his eyes and relives that final shot. His stomach churns at the memory and he takes those deep breaths now, in through his nose, out through his mouth. Like so many times before, today was no different.

Down to the wire, all on the line. Here comes Bucky Barnes. He makes the shot. He saves the day.

That fucker deserved to get his brain splattered, but sometimes…Jesus. Sometimes he gets tired of doing the dirty work like this.

Lost in his thoughts, he barely notices when clunky leather boots stop in front of him.

Annoyed with the intrusion, Bucky looks up to find a woman looking down at him. She’s dressed in grey, dark trousers rolled up at the ankles, a light grey men’s shirt that looks two sizes too big, and a tattered leather belt. A moss green coat drapes her frame, falling to her knees and she has a black scarf tied around her head. Dropping a pail of fresh water next to him, she kneels in the dust at his feet.

Without a word, she takes his wounded hand and gently unwraps the dirty rag. Digging in her pocket, she pulls a clean cloth free, dunks it in the water, and carefully cleans the cut. Once the blood and grime are washed away, she pats it dry and motions for him to hold the cloth in place. Producing a sewing kit from her other coat pocket, she finds a clean needle and unwinds a length of blue thread.

Bucky’s so captivated by her efficiency, so mesmerized by the way she catches her tongue between her teeth, that he barely feels when she starts to stitch the skin together. Struck dumb, he gapes at her and let’s himself be manhandled. Glancing up, she offers a quick smile, before going back to her task.

It all happens in a matter of moments, but to Bucky?

A lifetime passes.

Nimble fingers make neat little stitches, and far too quickly, she’s releasing his hand. He swallows several times before he can finally make a sound. When he speaks, charm oozes from every pore, because he’s James Buchanan Barnes, for fuck’s sake. Shooting Nazis and hunting Hydra and talking to women are what he does best.

According to him, at least. Summoning his confidence, he pours it on.

In French.

“Bonjour,” he says smoothly and gives her the adorable smile he reserves for beautiful women and his Ma, when she’s really, really pissed. “Je vais avoir de la chance ce soir. Il y a de belles femmes en france qui ne m'aiment pas.”

Standing a few feet away, Steve Rogers makes a strangled noise and drops his face in his hands.

“Je m’appelle Sergeant James Barnes,” Bucky continues confidently. “Quel est votre nom?”

“Bucky,” Steve sidles up behind him, hissing under his breath. “You fuckin’ moron, you just said you’re getting lucky tonight and the women in France don’t like you.”

“No, I didn’t,” Bucky hisses back. “I said I’m lucky, because she’s the most beautiful woman in France. I know how to speak fuckin’ French, Rogers.”

“Actually, he’s right,” she says. Clearly and in perfect English. “You need to make sure you keep that clean, Sergeant. I have fresh bandages if you need more.”

Bucky’s jaw drops.

Beside him, Steve, now officially his former best friend, starts laughing. Clapping Bucky on the shoulder, he gives the woman a grin.

“Sorry mam, we’re still working on his French. Great with a gun, always makes the shot, but you know – bit of an idiot sometimes.”

Swinging a blind fist behind him, Bucky punches Steve as hard as he can, which happily lands right in the balls. Steve backs away wheezing and Bucky smiles serenely up at her.

“Ignore him,” he says conspiratorially. “He drinks.”

Bucky feels his heart bounce wildly when she laughs. It sounds like music. He preens under her indulgent grin, before she moves along to help someone new.

On that cold January afternoon, covered in sticky blood and dirty sweat, and stumbling through terrible broken French, Bucky Barnes falls head over heels in love.

*****

Later that night, with their camp set up on the edge of town, the Howlies collapse. Plates of supper are passed around, followed by swigs from a beat-up silver flask; slowly and with certainty, the circle of men drifts from snarky, ribald jokes, into deep, dreamless sleep.

All except for two men.

Flicking the lid of his lighter, Bucky fingers the rusty coils. The night sky arcs like black silk above him and he thinks. About war. About death. About life and whatever the hell he’s gonna do when this thing ends, if he makes it out alive.

Somehow, that last thought leads him back to the woman he met earlier. Pretty smile, pretty eyes, pretty stitching. Pretty far out of his league. Can’t hurt to dream, though.

Lighting up the smoke he stole from Dugan’s pack, Bucky takes a long drag. He makes it halfway through, before restlessly tossing it into the low embers of the campfire. He climbs to his feet.

“I need a walk. You fuckers snore so loud, I don’t know how all’ve Hydra hasn’t found us.”

Keeping his eyes trained in the pitch-black night, Steve waves him away.

*****

White moonlight shines down into the clearing and she drops a basket of bloody, grimy cloth next to the creek. Singing under her breath, she dunks the cloth in the freezing water them and starts scrubbing. In the light of the moon, the rusty red blood turns black and for a moment, she can believe it’s nothing more than dirt. Dark stains bleed away in the lazy flow of water and life begins to feel clean again.

A small blessing, after a day of bloodshed. As she works, the words to her favorite song drift in and out, peppering the tune.

“We’ll meet again…don’t know where…don’t know when…but I know we’ll meet again, some sunny day…”

The quiet snap of a tree branch, of a footstep in the grass, abruptly shatters the night.

Heart in her throat, she draws a knife from her belt and leaps to her feet. Wide-eyed, she whirls to find the dark-haired man with the brilliant blue eyes from earlier – Sergeant Barnes, he said.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes softly, raising both hands in surrender. “I didn’t mean to bother you, I was just – I was walking and I thought I heard someone.”

She considers him for a moment. He’s taller than she thought. All lean muscle, moving with a slow grace that puts her at ease. A shadow beard covers his face, creeping down his neck, and his short hair looks smooth as black satin in the colorless night. He gives her a crooked smile and she lowers the knife, tucking it back at her belt.

“How is your hand?” she asks, her voice floating through the small clearing. Bucky glances down at the white bandage and flexes his fingers.

“Fit as a fiddle,” he says with a grin. “Thank you. For earlier. Although you did such a good job, probably won’t even scar. How’m I supposed to brag about my war wounds if you fix ‘em up so nice?”

Her lips curve up. “Something tells me you’ll find plenty more opportunities for trouble, Sergeant Barnes.”

“Bucky. Please, call me Bucky,” he ducks his head bashfully when he offers the nickname. Ambling toward her, he points to a smooth rock close by. “Is it okay if I sit?”

In the space of a moment, his voice has gone soft and shy and she wonders how a man who seems so confident, can demonstrate such a sweet vulnerability. It charms her far more than the swagger she saw earlier today.

“Only if you promise to help,” she finds herself saying and he perks up.

“Anything you need,” he offers, folding his knees under as he plops down.

She hands him the edge of a sheet with the instruction to hold tight. Bucky grips the fabric in his left fist while she twists it tighter and tighter, wringing every last drop of water from the cloth. When it’s semi-dry, she hands him another, and another one after, until her basket is full.

They work in companionable silence. She glances up now and then, to find him watching her. Each time she meets his gaze, he gives her a slow smile.

As the last piece of cloth is dropped in her basket, she wipes her hands on the trousers and rubs sleepy eyes. Bucky jumps to his feet and reaches down, offering her a hand up. When she folds her cold fingers against his hot skin, the spark of electricity rockets down her back and explodes in her toes.

Oh.

Swaying slightly, she releases his hand quickly and steps back. Opting for distance between them, she picks up her basket and holds it in front, a useless barrier from the strange feelings his touch awoke. Her brain urges her to bid him goodbye, to walk away and not look back.

Her heart though. It has another plan.

“Would it be okay – could I walk you home?”

Part of her wants to say no. Beginning anything with a Soldier, it won’t end well. She’s been down this road before. She doesn’t think she can survive it again.

But the nervous hope she finds in those blue eyes stirs her soul, and she says something unexpected.

“That would be nice, thank you.”

Bucky insists on carrying the laundry basket and they move slowly through the trees. The walk is oddly comfortable, filled with shy glances and an occasional brush of shoulders that makes her belly swoop. Guiding him along the edge of the town, all too soon they arrive at her little cottage sitting at the dead end of a narrow street. She takes the basket from his arms and balances it on her hip.

Quiet words warm the cold air around them, both prolonging the goodbye neither wants to give. It’s the ferocious barking of a dog down the street that finally makes her jump.

“I should get inside,” she says reluctantly and Bucky nods, looking down to watch his boot drawing a circle in the dirt. “But, now that you know where to find me, maybe you’ll come by sometime? Let me take a look at that hand?”

When he looks up, his smile takes her breath away.

“I absolutely will.”

“Goodnight Bucky.”

“Goodnight darlin’. Sleep well.”

*****

Two days later, a tentative knock sounds on her front door. Wiping her hands on a dish towel, she opens it to find a soldier on her doorstep.

“Good morning,” Bucky says hesitantly, brandishing a bundle of holly. “Hope I’m not bothering you. I, um – I was hoping, maybe you could have a look at my hand?”

“Come in,” she beckons and Bucky steps inside, the smell of wintery air clinging to him. In the confines of her small home, he seems larger than life, this quiet American.

She collects a chipped white pitcher from her closet and fills it with water, arranging the holly and setting it on her kitchen table. Suddenly, she’s overwhelmed by color – red berries and green leaves, blue eyes and brown hair.

He lays his hand on the table and she unwraps the bandage. Beneath the strips of white, she finds something peculiar - after only two days, the wound looks several weeks old. Staring for a long moment, she finally looks up in confusion.

“That’s impressive.”

“I – yeah, I heal pretty quickly. Good genes, I guess,” he stutters. For some reason, she hears a twinge of panic in his voice.

“Well that’s great,” she says with a smile, her thumb brushing the thrumming pulse at his wrist.

“Yeah. I guess,” he mutters to himself.

With quick snips, she removes the stitches and dabs a bit of Vaseline along the line of puckered skin before wrapping it up again. Over and done then, there’s no real reason for him to stay longer, but – she doesn’t want him to leave just yet.

“Would you like a cup of coffee?” she offers. “It’s more hot water than coffee these days, but I have a bit left if you would like?”

Eyes brightening, Bucky happily accepts.

*****

“So, you’re not from here,” he guesses, wrapping his hands around the steaming mug. “Your English is perfect. Better than most’ve the soldiers I know.”

She appears to choose her words carefully.

“No. My mother was French, my father was German, but I lost them both when I was young. After that, I found myself in London. I learned there.” She runs her finger along the rim of her cup, not looking up.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. Without thinking, he reaches across the table to touch her hand, but pulls back at the last moment.

She thinks to herself, she wouldn’t have minded. She clears her throat and tries to smile.

“Tell me about you. About America,” she encourages. “I’ve never been, but always wanted to visit. What was Bucky Barnes like growing up in Brooklyn?”

Bucky leans back in the chair and crosses his ankles with a coy smile.

“Full of trouble, if you ask my Ma. But let’s just say all my worst decisions came from growing up with Steve Rogers.”

The late morning bleeds into early afternoon as they sit and talk. Conversation flows easily, punctuated with lazy grins and surprised laughter, and in her sunny kitchen, she feels a lethargic sense of peace. Something she hasn’t felt in years. Since before they came, before her world ended. Since that November night in Berlin.

All too soon, the shadows are stretching across his face and the battered living room clock strikes the late hour. Both of them start at the sound, before realizing how long they’ve been sitting together.

“Dammit,” Bucky mutters regretfully. “I better go, I’m on watch tonight.”

“Okay,” she says, disappointment in her voice. He reaches across the table again and this time, his fingers catch hers. He squeezes.

“Thanks for helping me today. Your bedside manner’s a helluva lot better than Morita. He usually just tells me to quit whining,” he gives an exaggerated eye roll as he rises from his chair and she laughs once more..

God. In one afternoon with him, she’s laughed more than in the past year.

It’s addictive.

Bounding down her back steps, Bucky heads toward their camp and she leans against the doorframe, watching. No more than a hundred yards gone, he spins around to see her one more time. Giving her a jaunty salute, he turns and takes off running.

It happens right there.

Shivering as the fresh air whips around her, she watches the silhouette of a soldier running toward the coming darkness. Slow as syrup dripping down her skin, the feeling sticks.

On that cold January day, wrapped in warm laughter and drowning in the blue of his eyes, she falls head over heels in love with Sergeant James Barnes.

*****

One of the small comforts in wartime, is consistency.

Each Sunday, the town still gathers in the small church to give thanks, an attempt for normalcy amid the increasingly bleak news arriving from the front. Here, everyone is welcome. Religion, race, nationality, none of it matters. She loves this progressive little village, where differences are celebrated, never shunned.

This sunny morning, she’s late. Hurrying down the aisle as the buzz of voices begin to settle, she finds a seat near the front and slides inside. Pulling off her gloves, she glances around the morning crowd.

Her heart jumps when she sees them.

Side by side, the two broad-shouldered men sit in the pew across from her. Both have carefully combed hair, one dressed in a brown leather jacket, the other in dark blue. As the Priest begins the opening prayer, Bucky meets her eyes and gives her a grin.

She turns away quickly, her jumping heart now racing.

One prayer rolls into another and then another after that. Occasionally peeking over, she finds the same scene each time. Captain Rogers kneels in the pew, head bowed, eyes closed, while Bucky – he doesn’t even try to fake it. His eyes are always fixed on her and when he catches her looking, he wrinkles his nose and makes a silly face and she looks away, fighting the urge to smile.

An hour slips by and as the service nears its conclusion, there’s a moment of contemplative silence. In the pious stillness, she hears a muffled thump. Looking over, she sees Steve glaring daggers at Bucky, who’s now rubbing his arm and glaring right back. Both men glance her way and when Steve catches her eye, a bright red flush blooms across his cheeks.

And Bucky?

He winks.

When the service ends, the low hum of voices picks up, people greeting each other, exchanging news. Pulling her gloves back over perpetually frozen fingers, she steps quickly into the aisle. Head bowed, she walks along, feeling a heated gaze following her. Unable to help herself, she peeps behind her one last time, and Bucky gives her a brilliant smile.

Everything about him is so big and bright and full of life. Her answering smile is so natural, it shocks her.

She steps into the fresh sunshine and she knows she should hurry home, she really does.

But instead, she lingers.

He catches her there, a light touch at her elbow. When she turns, the sun makes a halo behind him. Clear eyes meet hers, and she sees his face shaved smooth, his hair still damp and slicked back. There’s something almost angelic about him, this man she first discovered covered in the bloody aftermath of battle.

She thinks she’s never in her life seen someone so beautiful.

“Can I walk you home?” he asks hopefully, that edge of shyness creeping into his voice. When she nods mutely, he offers his arm and she wraps leather fingers around the folds of thick blue.

Their walk home is slow, meandering. People hurry by, saying hello and hiding their smiles at the sight of the handsome soldier so clearly smitten.

When they arrive at her front door, she throws caution to the wind and takes the plunge. Cupping Bucky’s face in her hands, she brushes her thumbs over his clean-shaven skin and presses her lips to his. He’s stunned at first, the pressure taking him by surprise, but then he responds with wild enthusiasm, lifting her up and spinning her in a crazy circle.

They’re both laughing, trading the sounds of happiness between them. Bucky keeps kissing her, his arms locked around her like he can never have enough and the taste of his first sweet kiss sears itself right into her heart.

*****

Life falls into a familiar pattern.

Bucky comes by every day. Once with a handful of sharp scented pine boughs, so fragrant they fill her entire home. Once more, to give her the bundle of colorful postcards he’d collected from his travels through Europe; cheeks flushing pink, he added a hand-painted card of Brooklyn Steve had drawn him, with two curvy hearts he added on the back. And then once again, with a handful of smooth, silvery blue pebbles he found in the riverbed. Little trinkets, small things to make her smile and –

To remember him. When the war drags him away again.

Every day he leaves her with a kiss, at first light and chaste, then harder and bolder, hot touches that burn. She knows she plays a dangerous game, balancing her heart on the blade of his knife, but she can’t find the motivation to stop.

And every day she waits for the axe to swing. For his orders to come, whatever new mission will march him away, back to whatever hell awaits. Every day she holds her breath, releasing it only as the sun sets, thankful the fragile world they’ve created lives to see another sunrise.

But one week turns into two, and that turns into three, while the Howlies wait for instructions. As the days pass, the men grow impatient, desperate to move along and tackle their next fight – all except Bucky. The longer he stays, the more he settles in the rhythm of life with her.

Steve is bemused, when he mentions it to her one night.

“I’m glad you found him that day, he’s had a – it’s been a hard war. For Bucky especially,” Steve looks into the distance, unfocused for a time as he sips a glass of watered-down whiskey. When he looks back to her, his eyes are serious. “I’ve never seen him this happy, so thank you. For keeping him together.”

Two days later, the inevitable message arrives.

The team sits in the town’s little pub, a cozy wooden building housing an out of tune piano and an old man who saws away on his accordion every night. Bucky leaps to his feet when she appears in the door and the men cough, hiding their laughter.

She greets them all, but her eyes are for one man alone.

“Will you walk with me?” he asks quietly, tangling his fingers with hers and tugging her into the cold night. They stop just outside the pub and he stares down at boots. Disappointment rolls off him in waves and she doesn’t want to ask; she knows what’s coming. Putting a cold finger under his chin, she tips his face up.

“Bucky?”

“We’re heading out at dawn,” he mumbles miserably, his shoulders slumping.

“Oh,” she says. Because that’s it. There’s nothing more she can say.

He puts his arm around her shoulders, drawing her into his never-ending warmth and she goes gladly, wrapping her arm around his waist. They begin to walk, making it behind the pub, before he leans to kiss her, and she catches him close. Walking her quickly backward, she bumps into the wall and his mouth is like fire as it trails down her neck, the tip of his nose ice cold as it follows.

Breathing hard, she holds him tight, pressing her body against him and Bucky groans quietly against her throat. Her mind racing, she steels her nerves to make a request.

“Come home with me. Stay with me tonight. Please,” she whispers.

He pulls back, surprise and desire playing over his face.

“Are you sure? I’m not expecting anything, you don’t have to – ”

“Stop,” she says, holding her fingers to his lips to shush him. “I’m sure. It’s been a long time for me, since I’ve been with anyone, but if you want – ”

“Yes,” he says quickly. “God, yes. Since the first day we met – you’re the only thing I’ve wanted.”

Like shadows they move through the dark streets, until they reach her home. There’s no hesitation as she unlocks the door and pulls him inside. Hands clasped together, she leads him upstairs and the sound of his heavy boots following her makes her stomach flutter.

Opening her bedroom door, she steps inside and Bucky pauses, surveying it all. Green quilts on her bed, a small stone fireplace in the corner, a cracked mirror and a dressing table by the window. Photographs in simple frames, a small jewelry box and a silver brush. A little dish by her bed holding the handful of pebbles he brought her. Little fragments of her spread through the room, and he drinks it up greedily, memorizing everything.

He closes the door behind him, still watching her carefully, as though he genuinely can’t believe his good luck. Without a word, he sheds the thick blue coat and unlaces his boots, kicking them away.

“Come here,” she murmurs, reaching for him.

He stands before her in the low firelight and she runs her hands up under his long-sleeve wool shirt, urging him to remove it. When he yanks it over his head and tosses it aside, her mouth goes dry at the sight. Cool, curious hands trace the hard planes of his body, through the dark hair on his chest, feeling the silver dog tags hanging from his throat, the pads of her fingers brushing over the wealth of scars scattered across his body. He sucks in his breath when her hands reach his trousers, but then she’s unhooking the buttons and pushing them down his legs and Bucky chokes back a stuttered groan.

Pushing him lightly, he drops to her bed and looks up with wide eyes. She slips her shoes off, stepping between his knees and she watches his hands clench tight, waiting. Her fingers fumble just a bit with the buttons at the top of her dress, and as each one pops free, his breath comes faster. At her waist, she shrugs her shoulders and the dress slides off, pooling at her feet.

Bucky blinks rapidly, stunned at the sight.

Reaching for his hands, she grips them tight and places them on her hips. Through the filmy white fabric of her underwear, the heat from his skin burns hot and she steps into that safe space, craving the warmth. Bucky tugs her forward, wraps his arms tight around her waist and buries his face into the softness of her belly. His breath huffs against her, and she combs her fingers through his hair, the nervousness slowly ebbing from his body.

When he finally looks up, the lust in his face nearly brings her to her knees.

Rough fingers catch in the band of her underwear and he drags it down, holding his breath until the reveal. She unclips her bra and lets it fall away, and he closes his eyes briefly at the sight, of her naked and open for him.

He wants to devour her.

Gripping her bottom firmly, he lifts her up and settles her legs on either side of him. The only barrier between them is the thin fabric of his cotton boxers and she utters a low moan when she grinds herself against him. That simple sound, her unexpected reaction to feeling him, nearly sets him off.

“Look at you,” he whispers hoarsely. “God, darlin’ I’ve been dreamin’ every night about this.”

Twisting quickly, he shoves her back into the quilts, covering her body and slanting his mouth hungrily over hers. She twines her arms around his neck, hips pushing against him.

Full body shudders rattle through her when he moves down her body, lips finding her breasts, teeth tugging gently at her nipples. Digging her fingers into his hair, she arches up and he slides an arm beneath her, keeping her body bent into the heat of this mouth. Bottomless black eyes lift to watch, and he sucks harder, relishing her breathless reactions.

If she let him, he’d stay there for days, teasing and tasting and touching, but she tugs at his hair, begging for his lips again, and he crawls back up her body. Shaking hands bracket her face and she feels him, hard and heavy, between her legs.

“You’re okay? You’re sure?” he murmurs in her ear and her heart nearly bursts at the concern in his voice.

“I’m sure,” she breathes.

At her promise, Bucky wraps a shaking hand around himself and shifts his body. With one smooth move, he buries himself inside her and the stretch, the thick feel of him, it punches the breath from her lungs. When his hips are flush against her, he stops, resting his head on her chest while he squeezes his eyes shut.

When he looks up, the raw emotion in his face is a stark reminder of what this means. For both of them.

She never knew.

Never understood it could be like this. That it could feel this way. Her heart hammers furiously against her ribs, so hard she marvels that it doesn’t crack her bones and fly away.

Bucky pulls her leg up, hooking it around his waist, and his hips begin a slow roll. Staring into her eyes, he pushes into her, again and again, the drag of his cock catching unknown nerve endings, sending pleasure rippling through her. Minutes drift by, time meaningless as they move together. She locks her fingers behind his neck, her back arching with each thrust and he’s lost in the uniqueness of her, the curve of her neck, the swell of her breasts, every mark on her skin.

And when he looks down between their bodies, to where he can see himself pushing into her, he nearly comes at the sight.

“Can you come for me darlin’?” he rasps, his hips unconsciously snapping faster. “Can I help you?”

She releases her grip on his neck, one hand sliding to hold his sweat-slicked bicep, the other reaching between them to touch herself. “Kiss me,” she urges, and he complies, slipping his tongue between her parted lips. He can feel her fingers rubbing between her legs, pausing now and then to touch him, to feel the way he thrusts into her and he groans into her mouth.

Fighting himself harder than he’s ever done before, he tries to keep from coming, desperate for her to beat him to the finish. Broken little noises leave her throat as he drives himself into her, faster and harder, his rough thrusts lighting sparks beneath her skin, until she suddenly clutches him close. Bucky feels her body spasm around him, squeezing him so fucking tight while the tremors wrack her body, and he swallows down her breathless cries.

“That’s it darlin’, that’s it, there you go,” he pants against her lips, grinding himself into her until he follows right behind, coming with a soft grunt.

Chest heaving, Bucky strokes his fingers down her sides, reveling in the silky feel of her damp skin. When he can catch his breath, he rolls onto his back, keeping her tucked against his chest. She clings to him, refusing to let go.

Pressing trembling lips against the sheen of sweat on her forehead, he pulls the blankets over them and locked together, they fall asleep.

*****

The barest hint of morning light illuminates the eastern horizon when Bucky eases from the bed, tucking the blanket around her to keep the cold draft away. Regret already licks up his spine at the thought of walking away, of leaving behind the precious world he’s found here with her.

He buttons his trousers, laces his boots, slips on his coat. Quickly, quietly, efficiently, like a good soldier does. He adds more kindling to the red embers of the dormant fire, coaxing it to flare again, knowing if he can’t be here to keep her warm, something else will have to do.

Minutes rush too quickly now, and as thin fingers of morning light inch across the land, Bucky knows his time is up.

Falling to his knees beside the bed, he rests his chin on the mattress and brushes gentle fingers down her cheek. Her eyes are still closed, but he knows she’s awake. Lips curve up at his touch and Bucky leans in, pressing his lips lightly to hers. Reaching from under the covers to wrap her fingers around the back of his neck, she keeps him close. She deepens the kiss and Bucky sinks into it, his mouth moving eagerly against hers. The heat builds, until he pulls away with a reluctant sigh.

Opening her eyes, she finds him nose to nose with her.

His black eyelashes are so long, she wonders how he ever sees through his scope.

“I love you.”

She sucks in a shocked breath at his declaration. But he’s so perfectly composed. Content with the words he’s offering, ones she never expected. After everything she’s been through, everything she’s done, she never believed she could have something like this.

“Bucky – “

“You don’t have to say anything,” he interrupts. “I don’t expect anything. I just wanted to tell you. I wanted you to know.”

Maybe it’s too soon. Maybe it’s not possible to feel this way already. Maybe sweet words will crumble to dust in the harsh light of day.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

But here’s the thing. The world is at war and Death walks in his shadow, stalking him with her sharp bullets and shaper blades, and God knows what the future will bring.

She only knows she wants one. She wants this. She wants him.

“I love you too, Bucky,” she whispers, and the words feel right. Her fingers rub the short hairs curling at his neck and Bucky melts into her touch. “Don’t go. The world can wait, can’t it? I want you to stay.��

“I want to stay. More than I’ve ever wanted anything,” he whispers back, nuzzling into her neck. She turns to brush her lips against his beard and she feels him swallow hard. “I’ll write you. Often as I can. We gotta use code names out there, so don’t be surprised when you get letters from some strange guy named Jimmy.”

“Jimmy. I like it,” she says with a sleepy smile.

His grin mirrors hers and he kisses the tip of her nose. When he speaks again, a hint of desperation bleeds from the sweet drawl.

“Wait for me darlin’, okay? Will you? I’ll come back for you. I promise.”

“I will,” she says softly. “I’ll always wait.”

Just like that, he offers his whole heart and she gives hers freely in return. Both know their world is dark and unforgiving, and this war could make liars of them both, but neither cares. To find love in this bleak life is a rare opportunity and the temptation is too strong.

Bucky kisses her one last time and rises to his feet. She watches him pause at her bedroom door to give one more crooked smile, and then the door is clicking shut and he’s gone. Alone again, she curls into a ball under the heavy blankets.

It’s hell, she thinks, to love a soldier.

Burying her face in the faded green pillow, her heartbroken tears fall fast and thick, soaking silently into the soft cotton.

*****

Next Chapter

*****

Tags are open right now, if you want one, please send me a DM or ASK.

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky #bucky fic #bucky barnes fic #altnl

1K notes · View notes