#so its probably going to continue to get worse until i bite the bullet

[spontaneousglitterbees]

so im working on an ask rn and started doing some drawings but its taking longer than anticipated so i might (?) pare down what i first thought of and come back to it

[dizzydancingdreamer]

Persephone Symphony | Night One | Hades

Hey my lovelies, here is the next instalment! It’s pace is a little different-- a little more frantic-- but it fits the storyline so all is good! I wasn’t joking when I said it was a slooooow burn LOL! It’ll be worth it, I promise-- expect a bathtub scene soon. Anyways, enjoy my loves!!

Synopsis: In which he is the bad one— the dangerous one, the clunky one, the one who only knows how to break things— and she is the good one— the fragile one, the soft one, the one who knows how to put things back together— and he has to keep her alive long enough for anyone else— anyone who can do more than kill— to save her like she deserves to be saved— to save her from him. There are no pomegranates, no three headed dogs, and no requirement to stay— that is, if they don’t count an assassin on the loose out for her neck. In that case, three days in a safe house doesn’t feel like a long time— just long enough for Persephone and Hades to remember why opposites attract.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader (third person)

Warnings: nightmares, anxiety, cheesy chic flicks

Word count: 5.5k

Previous | Next 

Master List

“You don’t even go here!”

He tries not to laugh— he really, really tries. He doesn’t want to laugh at a chick flick. Maybe Nat would have called him toxic for that. She was a badass— strong, intelligent, killer— probably the most like him out of everyone on the team— and even she used to laugh at movies like this on the nights she and Wanda would claim the common room for marathons. She definitely would have called him toxic. Maybe that’s why he lets a few chuckles out. Maybe it’s just because it is funny, though, and because the other deathly intelligent woman next to him is looking at him.

Maybe he just wants her to keep looking at him and if that means watching her movie then so be it.

The couch shifts. It’s only a tiny movement— if he wasn’t so focussed on her he wouldn’t have even noticed it. But he is and he does and he tells himself it’s because this is his job. It’s his job to watch her because he has to keep her safe. Yeah, it’s his job to keep her safe. It has nothing at all to do with the fact that when she had dropped that stupid fucking brush his heart had beat so fast he thought it was going to explode. Nothing to do with the fact that he’s never kicked a door down that quick in his entire life. Nothing to do with the fact that it feels like if he takes his attention off of her for even a second then she’s going to end up with a bullet in her skull—

No. She’s fucking not. End of story.

He swallows hard, the laughter evaporating like smoke in his lungs. He didn’t expect it to last that long anyway. It never does. His eyes flick over her, watching as she pulls her legs under her worn hoodie, her head resting on the arm of the couch. Her eyes are closed and when he holds his breath he can hear hers, soft and slowing alongside her heartbeat.

Some of the tension begins melting away in his shoulders. For four hours he laid there on the floor, jaw and fists clenched so tight he wasn’t sure he’d be able to pry them open again when the time came, listening to the rapid thump, thump, thump of her heart. Four fucking hours. That was worse than the brush— he can stop a guy with a gun but he knows nothing about heart attacks.

It was agony— he hasn’t felt that kind of helplessness before. Helpless knowing he couldn’t do a damn thing to stop her heart because he was definitely the reason it was pounding like a freight train trying to barrel out of her chest. He doesn’t want to scare her— in fact, he’s almost certain he would do anything if it meant she wouldn’t be afraid of him. Because that’s what it was— fear. He could practically smell it. The sharp tang of sweat and something else lingering in the air— something that made the hair on his arms stand on end, his attention laser focussed on the semi-sweet aroma. Normal people can’t smell fear but he can. Dogs can.

He swallows thickly, metal fingers balling so tight he can hear the slight creak of the vibranium curling against his thigh. His eyes dart back to her, praying the sound doesn’t make her flinch like everything else he does seems to do. Thankfully she remains still, her heart continuing to slow steadily. He pauses his breathing again to listen harder, clinging to the rhythm of the air coursing through her lungs.

In, out, pause. In, out, pause.

Like everything else she does, she makes a song of her breaths, finding a melody in the simplest of human routine. This time, though, it’s less mesmerizing. It still drags him into her orbit— he can still feel himself getting lost in this new incarnation of her inescapable softness— but there’s this voice nagging at the back of his mind, nervously tapping at his skull, demanding to be heard. That’s normal, right? She’s supposed to be breathing that slowly? Where is the line drawn between too fast and too slow? As much as he wants to get lost in her music he can’t help but feed into the voice. Fuck. He narrows his eyes, opting to watch the minute rise and fall of her chest instead.

Rise, fall, stop. Rise, fall, stop.

For a moment it works— he can see her breathing so she’s obviously fine— but then she stills and it feels like someone is driving a knife through his lungs. It’s normal— it has to be normal. She’s just asleep. Sure enough she takes another breath, chest rising once more before falling. The same thing happens, she stills, and he waits. Rise, fall, stop. With every cease of movement he feels more and more like sliding closer to her— as if he would be able to change her breathing pattern from sheer will and closeness.

Snap out of it, Bucky— she’s fine!

He’s being irrational— he’s being nitpicky. Since when is he an attention to details kind of guy? It’s his job. There it is again— the reminder. The excuse. He has to keep her safe and making sure she’s breathing normally is definitely part of that. Rise, fall, stop. His fingers— his real fingers— twitch against his other thigh and he squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, trying to stop his gut from twisting. He has to do something— anything— to get closer to her. Just to make sure. Glancing around the room, his eyes catch on something along the back of the couch— perfect.

He yanks the quilt down as silently as possible, shaking it until it unfolds before scooting closer to her. As Bucky enters her space, cushions heaving under his weight, all he can smell is cherry pie. It almost floors him, the heady sugar and slight tang clinging to the air around her. His lips are dry but he doesn’t poke his tongue out, afraid of syrupy nostalgia he can feel starting to meld against his skin, sinking into the pit of his stomach. It’s futile— he knows it is— avoiding the sweetness won’t make it go away.

He swallows the lump in his throat and it tastes like July in Brooklyn in 1925. It tastes like running through the docks with Steve when the first shipment of fruit reached the shore, hands— both flesh, both warm, both untouched by anything but careless youth— curled around the money his mother had given him. Buy the ones in the back, she would tell him. They’re the sweetest. Finally he can’t take it— how tight his mouth feels— and he runs his tongue along his lips. His mother’s cherry pie used to win awards— now he knows why.

He drops the blanket a little unceremoniously. He isn’t intending for it to fall in a lump into her lap, all bunched up and awkward, but it slips from his fingers before he can catch it. Damn pie. He quickly fixes it, acting with more delicacy, trying to keep from touching her as he drapes the material over her legs. Despite his efforts he brushes her skin a few times, his now calloused and cold fingers meeting her buttery soft thigh, and his chest jolts, heartbeat spiking enough to rid his lungs of any trace of oxygen. He tears his hands away, breathless, face hot, and sinks his head into his free grip. He’s losing it.

“I didn’t mind it.”

At first he thinks he’s imagining it— her sweet, soft voice— the faintest lullaby breaking through the crashing of blood in his eardrums— but then he feels the couch move again and his head is lifting of its own accord, eyes desperate to see that she’s okay. He follows her movements, tiny hands grasping at the quilt, pulling it over the rest of her body. She presses her face against it, eyes remaining shut but clearly alive, and his shoulders drop. See, she’s fine you idiot.

She’s fine but he didn’t hear a word she said. “What.”

He bites back the groan— Really? ‘What’? So you remember her cherry pie but none of the manners she taught you?

If she notices the gruffness in his tone she doesn’t point it out, only yawns and stretches, bringing her body into an even smaller ball. God, he could just reach out and pick her up with one han—

“Doll.” She mumbles, sleep etched across her features, making her already soft words even more gentle. Even more hypnotic. “I didn’t mind it.”

He wasn’t breathless before. Now he knows that. He was something— stunned, shocked, a moron— but not breathless. His lungs didn’t feel like they were filled with helium before— so light that he’s afraid he’s going to float away. He didn’t slam a hand against his chest last time, fingers like jelly as they claw at his heart, searching for something to anchor himself against the madness of his racing mind. She didn’t mind it. It didn’t feel like this— like there’s no air in his throat but that it’s okay because if there’s air in her throat then everything is fine.

Everything will be fine.

She liked it.

He sinks back against the cushion, eyes wide and glued to the girl next to him, barely registering the soft snores that begin fluttering around him. She liked it. Her, the softest, warmest girl that he can remember even being this close to. The softest, warmest girl who smells like his mother’s famous pie. The softest, warmest girl who, in her sleep, pushes her foot closer towards him, resting it against his leg and snoring a touch louder. He’s breathless now— speechless.

But he has to say something.

“Oh.”

Yeah, he’s a moron alright.

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

After the movie finishes Bucky just clicks on the next one. She’s The Man. It’s funnier than the last. Maybe that’s just because the clock now reads four thirty, though, and his legs have started going numb and her cherry pie scent is still lingering in his nose. It’s like a sedative, being this close to the sleeping girl. His bones feel heavier, his eyelids beginning to droop. Every time he blinks the darkness lasts a little longer. He uses the ticks of the ancient clock to keep track.

Tick, tick, tick.

She stopped snoring about an hour ago. He kind of wishes she hadn’t. It was like a reminder— a little ‘it’s okay, I’m breathing’ to keep his nerves from sky rocketing. Now all he can hear is the little puffs of air as they leave her lips. Sometimes they blend into the noise of the TV and he goes still, a chill tingling at the top of his spine as he waits. In, out, pause. Always that damn pause. He debates turning the movie off a few times but stops himself, not wanting to risk her waking up to him staring at her in the dark. He may be out of touch with the times but creepy is timeless and in any time— be it the thirties or now— he would prefer to stay as far away from that category as possible.

Tick, tick, tick, tick.

He can feel where her toes still press against his thigh. They’re higher now, closer to his hip, and he can’t bring himself to move away from her. He should. He knows he should. This isn’t part of the job. The way his stomach flip flops like he’s a teenager again when she kneads against him is not in his contract. Neither is the way he wishes it wasn’t just her foot. He clenches his jaw, head sinking back into the back of the couch. Screw Wilson for having a couch that feels like a fucking cloud. He can feel his muscles relaxing, the numbness in his fingers a tell tale sign of the impending sleep. Just a few more seconds.

Tick, tick, tick— god he wants to crawl next to her and fall asleep— tick, tick.

He springs to his feet, eyes open as wide as they can go, shaking his head to clear the thought. Nope— that game is done. That’s the last thing either of them need; for her to wake up, broken leg or wrist or worse, trapped under him because there’s no way that he wouldn’t hurt her if they were sleeping together. He’s too big and she’s too good. Too good for someone like him, too good to be subject to the danger of his tossing and turning.

His restlessness was never dangerous before. Annoying? Yes. Distracting? Definitely. But dangerous? Never. Thinking about it now, though, he can see it— all the little ways she would get hurt being with him but especially the ones that involve them sharing a bed together. Or a couch. He’s destructive and it only makes sense that his sleep habits would be destructive too. His fingers thread through his hair, tugging at the roots. The sting against his scalp is almost enough to cover the one in his throat.

Now that he’s on his feet he stays on them, shifting his weight between his heels, trying desperately to clear the numbness. He never sits that long. Even back at the compound he never spends more than an hour in the same spot. He wasn’t built for the peace of day to day life. All the sitting and sleeping and lounging. That’s part of being a monster— in his case half man, half mechanical beast. He’s gotten used to being turned off when he’s not needed. Always moving and pushing and fighting until— Benign. Blackness. Nothing. The cold.

Maybe that’s why he can’t relax these days— the warmth. When he used to sleep— when he used to get turned off, he should day— it was freezing. Of course now he knows why— they kept him in a cooler like a piece of meat, always thawing and freezing him. It shouldn’t be a memory that he clings to— he shouldn’t be sleeping with his windows open at night, nothing but a sheet pulled over his hips. He shouldn’t cringe when Stark turns the heat up or when the gym showers are steamy from the person before him. He may be an idiot— a monster— but he’s not stupid. It’s not normal.

He misses being normal.

The supersoldier serum ensures that possibility is gone, though. Maybe one day he’ll get over the shower thing. Maybe he’ll even appreciate the temperature being turned up. It doesn’t really matter either way. Neither of those things will erase his heightened senses. Like how he can still feel where she was pressed against him, the spot on his thigh prickling with the memory of her touch. He knows he'll be able to feel her for the next few hours, engraved into his skin, taunting him. Not being afraid of the fucking hot water won’t rewire his nerve endings. Or his fucking brain which keeps filling with thoughts of the sleeping girl.

Shivering, he pushes himself to the other side of the living room, drawing back the curtain for a quick moment, eyes wandering the empty darkness before letting it drop again. He sinks into the recliner next to the couch, ignoring the way his bones ache in protest. The spot on his thigh is like a magnet, the lingering signature she unknowingly left on him begging to be reunited with her. He scratches at it— he’s not about to subject her to his cold shower, windows open life. She has enough of her own problems.

It’s not long before his eyes are beginning to shut again, the ticking of the clock like a dare, lulling him back into that semi-sweet cherry haze. Just try to stay awake, it taunts, clicking mercilessly as he fights his drooping eyelids. It would go against his entire nature, falling asleep in this armchair. It’s too soft and too warm and he has way too many clothes on but still— something’s different. He doesn’t have to look around to know what it is. His thigh is still buzzing. He doesn’t have to look but he does anyway. In hindsight it’s a good thing that he does—

“No—” his head snaps up, eyes cracking open, heart stopping— “No stop— don’t hurt—”

—because if he hadn’t then he wouldn’t be in front of her in time to catch her body as she bolts upright, springing from the couch with a choked scream, knees crashing into the coffee table and sending her flying straight towards where the glass vase shatters on the carpet.

He’s out of his seat in seconds, heart lodged in his throat as he shoves the coffee table with his boot, diving for her with all the speed he can muster. He winces when he hears the glass crunch further into ground but he can’t bring himself to care— not as his arms curl around around the tiny girl, pulling her into his chest as he twists his body and lands back first against the patch of carpet that is— thankfully— shard free. The thud of the impact echoes through his body, stabilizing only when it reaches the vibranium. He has no idea what the Shuri did to the arm to make it shock absorbent but for once he’s grateful for the hunk metal because at least it’s keeping the impact from jaring her even more. Finally the fuckin’ thing comes in handy.

His head slumps against the carpet for a moment, eyes closing, his chest heaving and veins singing— both from the adrenaline coursing a path through his body and from the way she settles on top of him, thighs pressing against him, hands splayed across his chest. He could get lost in this feeling— hell he can feel himself slipping away right now. Never before has he wanted someone’s hands to touch him so much. Hell, he doesn’t even want his own hands to touch him half the time. But hers? Gods, he wishes they would just dig into his hair already, tug on his shoulders, trace along his jaw and nose and lips. He’ll take anything— any little scrap of her skin on his.

That being said, it takes him longer than he’s willing to admit to push past the all consuming feeling of her pressing against him enough to realize that those very hands— the ones he wants so badly— are clawing at his shoulders. His eyes snap open, hands tightening on her back as she thrashes against him, voice high pitched and terrified.

“No, no, no, no! Don’t— hurt me. He’s gonna’— help me!”

Her hands— now balled into tiny fists— fly out, just barely missing his jaw as he ducks out of the way. They land against his chest instead, weakly pounding against him, and just like that he’s back, pushing off the ground and gently scooping her hands into his. It makes her thrash harder, her eyes squeezed shut, her harsh movements somehow languid and being swallowed by the hoodie. She’s panting, still mumbling, and he narrows his eyes, just barely making out the movement beneath her eyelids— is she still asleep?

“Please no.” It’s not so much of a yell now as it is a strangled whimper— one that hits him so hard he has to slap a hand to the ground to keep from falling over again.

“Hey, c’mon—” he lets her wrists go, hand instead curling around her shoulder, shaking her as delicately as he can given the fact that he’s trying to break her from the nightmare— “you gotta’ wake up, doll.”

Bucky can hear the way he stutters his words. He hasn’t stuttered since the second grade but here he is, fumbling over his sentences, trying to think of something coherent and useful. He’s a soldier for fucks sake— he’s faced worse things than a nightmare— but right now he feels eight years old again and helpless. He’s stuck, shaking her with weak arms, deaf to anything but her name on his tongue, and he’s scared. With every tortured cry that rips from her pink lips he becomes more torn between the kid he once was— the one who thought Brooklyn was so huge and that he was so small— and the man he is now— the one who knows that Brooklyn is nothing but a place and who still feels smaller than ever.

“Mama, no—” this time it’s neither a yell nor a whimper; it’s a full blown sob— one that sinks against his chest where her forehead hits him, a dagger straight to his already broken heart— “don’t go, don’t leave—”

The end of her sob explodes into a scream so loud he flinches, his hold on her tightening for a split second until he feels his fingers digging into her pilant flesh through the hoodie. He eases his grip, chest so tight he feels like he’s going to pass out. Somehow, even through the noise, he can still hear that fucking clock. It sounds like it’s laughing at him now. Tick, tick, tick, you can’t even keep a little girl safe, tick. He wants to curl up— he wants to rip his ears off. It’s too much. His shirt sticks to him, soaked with the hot, wet tears of the trembling girl in his arms and he snaps— he can’t take it anymore.

He shakes her one more time, harder, ignoring the way his muscles scream in protest, like they’re demanding he treat her as gently as possible. “Y/n wake up!”

He doesn’t yell but it’s the loudest he’s spoken since he walked through the door and it feels like he’s swallowing the pieces of the vase he broke. He had to do it. He had to make those sounds stop. He doesn’t like it but he had to. He’s just thankful it works, her eyes snapping open, the scream catching in her throat and dying away. It’s so sudden that his ears ring— not missing her wails but empty without her noise. The silence isn’t worse but it may as well be. There’s no winning for them.

She stops dead, movements ceasing, and too many seconds tick by in which all he can hear is his own panting, laboured and frantic. For too long she sits there, her eyes wide, meeting his gaze but also not. It takes everything in him to keep her at arms length— to not crush her tiny body against him if only to be able to feel her breaths against his skin. To make sure. He can see it— rise, fall, stop. Rise, fall, stop— but it’s not enough. It wasn’t enough before but now it’s really not enough, especially when she’s on his lap looking more dead than alive. Looking as dead as he feels knowing he can’t fight whatever’s going on in her head for her.

Finally, after what feels like another century of agony— one almost as bad as his first century of cryotanks— she blinks.

“Bucky?” Her voice is watery, his name coming out a little distorted— a little raw— but beneath it all he can hear the unyielding softness.

She shifts on his lap, fingers wound so tight in his shirt that he’s not sure if she’s fully aware of what happened yet. They shake wildly, thrumming a drunken beat against his chest. Had it been anyone else— had it been Wilson or Stark or anyone— he would have ripped them off of him. He would have seethed, teeth bared and nostrils flared, seconds away from barking, until they backed off. But it’s not anyone else; it’s her and so instead he sucks in enough air to make his lungs inflate and push his chest closer to her touch.

“Shit, doll, You’re ali— awake. You’re awake.” He breathes, face flushing, neck so hot he can feel every burning inch of his shirt— especially where her hands push the fabric against him.

He resists stuffing his fist in his mouth, hoping how stupid he sounds doesn’t register with her. Of course she’s awake— she's talking to him. She’s talking to him and she’s alive and she— despite the sweat beading along her forehead— still smells like tang and sugar. The SoCal girl still smells like summer in Brooklyn and that’s enough for him to force his hands off her shoulders, reluctantly but with relief cooling his nervous system.

The movement makes her tenses, head sloping down, eyes filling with realization before her neck snaps back up. “What do you mean? What’s going on?”

There’s an edge in her voice, her eyes glossing over, hands loosening before dropping completely. Bucky blinks and the next thing he knows she’s pushing off his lap, dragging herself backwards, hands clawing at the carpet now instead of his chest. The cold air rushes over him, detailing every inch of him that had been pinned against her, and suddenly he doesn’t like it so much anymore. Get a grip.

He swallows, speaking around his aching tongue and stinging palms. “Think you had a nightmare or something. You were—” he pushes his hand up and through his hair, not realising until it’s too late that it’s the wrong one. He yanks it back, teeth clenching when some strands rip out with his metal fingers— “you were talking in your sleep and then you stood up. There was a vase—” why is this so hard to say? Just fucking spit it out— “and you were about to fall and I just— it was all so fast it was the only thing I could think to do.”

He doesn’t meet her eyes for the entirety of his spiel— he can’t— but he can feel her stare burning into the top of his head. That scent— that semi-sweet musk— fills the space between them and he digs his fingers into his thighs. He knows that, were it not for the same damn serum making it possible to smell her right now, he would have bruises on his legs. The thought doesn’t mean anything to him— it doesn’t make him let up. She’s afraid. Again. All because he couldn’t let her go soon enough. God damnit Bucky.

He listens as she shuffles— as she sniffles— and he’s never hated himself more. Because that’s what it is— he hates himself. He hates himself for shaking her so roughly in his haste. He hates himself for agreeing to take this job thinking he could handle it. For not demanding Wilson take the job. For enjoying bacon on grilled cheese and for wondering what Pasedena is like and for how fucking badly he wants to truly rememeber what his mother’s pie tastes like.

He hates himself for— despite every rational part of him screaming at him not to— closing the space between him and the crying girl and pulling her back into his arms. Call him a dog— call it the instincts of a useless, dangerous mutt— but to him her soft cries sound more like his name than anything he’s ever heard. They sound like an order. Come, dog. If there’s one thing Bucky Barnes is good at it’s following orders. For better or for worse.

This time, instead of pushing him away, she throws her arms around him. “I’m sorry.”

Her quivering voice catches him off guard but not as much as her apology does. What? She sinks her face into his neck, shoulders shaking against his, hoodie covered hands scraping against his back. Nevermind— he’s not about to fuck this up. He can feel the stretch of her spine as she struggles to keep her arms around his torso, her knees wobbling slightly as they hold her up, and he instantly slouches, curling forward. In turn she crawls forward even further, legs bumping messily into his. There’s no way this is happening.

He tests the water, running his fingers up her back, pressing so lightly that he can barely feel the ridges of her bones. “Don’t be.”

They stay like that in silence for more tick, tick, ticks than he can count, neither of them speaking. Eventually her shoulders stop shaking and her little sobs turn into little hiccups before finally dissipating into little huffs of air, warm and sweet and still against his neck. At one point he moves, rolling off his shins and kicking his legs out in front of him. It forces her to move too and at first he thinks she’s going to pull away but all she does is turn, scrunching her own legs up to her chest and settling between his knees, her side resting against his front. It isn’t until the first dregs of dawn cut through the miniscule crack in the green curtain that she speaks, voice stiff and fingers pulling at the collar of her hoodie.

“What, erm, what did I say?” She pauses before sheepishly adding— “In my sleep, I mean.”

Cue the sweet scent of her fear again. He peers down at her, watching as she tugs her lip between her teeth, biting down until he can smell more copper than fruit. The hair on the back of his neck raises, stomach sinking. Blood. Keeping his hand steady where it rests on her ankle is hard. It isn’t what he wants to do but he doesn’t want to scare her— well, scare her more.

“I couldn’t tell you,” he lies, voice tighter than he would like, shrugging his shoulders instead of reaching over and running his thumb over her lip. “It was too quiet.”

Her shoulders drop and— when she releases her lip, slightly tinted crimson but overall okay— so do his. She nods but doesn’t say anything and he taps her ankle once. He hopes that to her it reads something like you’re too wonderful to be hurting yourself. Even if it doesn't, that's fine. Even if all she does is feel it and know that he’s there, watching her back, then it doesn’t really matter. That’s good enough for him.

Still, there’s that feeling in his chest again— that nagging, nitpicky feeling. It makes the words dance on his tongue, stomp against his teeth. Just ask, they goad. We know you want to ask. His eyes flick to the clock. Six-thirty in the morning. He uses it— his glaring lack of sleep— as an excuse to open his mouth.

“Do you wanna’ talk about it?” it’s a risk— pressing the matter of her nightmare when it’s clearly a touchy subject— but he has to ask.

He has to make sure she’s okay.

It’s his job.

She shakes her head, closing her eyes. He watches as her throat bobs, fingers slipping into the neck of her hoodie. “Not right now.”

He nods— he can live with that answer. He knows what it’s like to not want to talk about things. To not want to talk about nightmares. He gets wanting to bury it. It’s what he does best. Showers, jogging, fighting. Ignoring his problems is his most fluent language— and he knows three. The only problem is that now his mouth is open and it’s refusing to close— to stop talking— and he says the only thing his worried, tired brain can think of.

“Do you think you wanna’ go back to sleep or—”

“No—” she chokes out, voice rushed and cracking and cutting off the rest of his stupid thought. The regret bubbles like tar in his chest— he’s such an idiot— “please no I can’t.”

She’s sitting up now, ankle falling from his grasp as she wraps her arms around her knees. Her eyes are squeezed shut and her jaw is just barely craning back and forth, her lips moving but nothing coming out. This time he wastes no tick, tick, ticks scooting closer to her, metal hand on her back, brushing up and down, flesh hand finding the warm spot on her leg and reclaiming it. She hiccups again and he holds her a fraction tighter, wondering just how common her nightmares are.

“Hey, s’alright, don’t worry. I’m not going to make you sleep or anything. That was, ah—” damnit Barnes don’t start rambling now just fix it— “yeah no, we’ll figure something else out.”

It seems to work, she settles quicker than all the times before, but it doesn’t keep his mind from continuing to think about her. From worrying about her. Do the nightmares happen often or only sometimes?

Her body relaxes, arm sagging against his once more as she nods. “Thanks.”

Who holds her when she wakes up screaming?

He winces. “You don’t have to thank me.”

Does anyone hold her or does she just wake up alone, terrified and—

“I want to. Thank you, Bucky.”

He feels like he’s going to explode— like he’s going to say something else that he’ll regret. He has to change the subject—

“You hungry, doll?”

_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_

Tag List: @xhollycowx @remembered-license @dumble-daddy @hellotvshowtrash @thesummerbucky @elijahs-wife @cari1bunny @im-just-star-dust @motherofallthesmallthings​ @hazardoushallucination​

[luimagines]

You React to Him getting Sick/Injured Part 3

Masterlist

Part 1 Part 2

The final installment of this prompt!

It will include Sky, Time and Twilight.

Content under the cut!

Sky

You were having an ok day.

It could have been better.

It could have been worse.

Very mediocre all around.

You looked around and saw how your friends were handling the change of scenery. It had happened in the middle of the night when most of the group was asleep. You had considered it a more merciful shift than what usually happens.

But it does always mess with the internal clocks of the groups. You never seem to shift from night to night. It’s always night to middle of the day. 

And middle of the day usually brings trouble.

But since the group was asleep, it takes a lot of energy to get up and deal with whatever shenanigans the day brings.

You yawned and tried to rub the last of the sleep from your eyes. “Anyone know where we are?”

“Not a clue.” Wild speaks up from beside you and puts his sheikah slate back in its holster.

“Anyone see Sky?” You hear someone ask and you look around your surroundings in search of your friend.

“Nope.” You reply and stand up, stretching your arms over your head.

“I don’t see Sky either.” Hyrule comes to the middle of the group with a slightly concerned look on his face. “Where is he?”

“He’s not with us?” Warrior gets up, a little concerned and on verge of frantic pacing.

“Wasn’t it his watch?” You ask and take your first step to put away your bed roll.

“No. It was mine.” Wind answers. “But Sky was with us when we shifted.”

“Then where is he?” 

“Here. Help.” You hear Sky’s voice come from above you and snap your head in his direction.

“Sky. I didn’t think you’d take your nickname so seriously.” You say and squint against the sunlight. It takes a while to see him but you take a step to the side and see him more clearly.

He’s stuck in a tree, arms and legs all snagged by a branch and holding him in place. “Get me out of here please.”

“Sky did you even manage that?” Four snickers slightly into his hand. “Weren’t you on the ground with the rest of us?”

“Believe it or not-” Sky glares. “-I was. and I don’t know how I got up here. I only know that this hurts and I can’t move. I’m pretty sure that all the blood is being cut off from my limbs. Get me down.”

“I got you. Hold on.” Wild grins and climbs up the tree with the same grace as a cat. He places himself on the a nearby branch next to Sky’s legs and chops away the tangling twigs with one of his sheikah swords.

“Is there anyway we can put like a tarp or something under him so he doesn’t just hit the ground?” You ask in a panic. 

No one was doing anything, content to watch Wild hack away at the tree to free your friend.

“That’s not a bad idea.” Twilight shrugs and looks around your collective supplies. “Anyone have anything we can use?”

“Wild slow down, you might hurt him too!” You cry out again but he’s too focused on his mission to get Sky out to even notice that you’re speaking to him.

He frees up both of Sky’s legs in record time, quickly moving to his arm.

The debris collects right under them and lands without much fanfare.

But Sky were to just fall, he’d land right on top of them and it’s not an idea you’d like to entertain.

You dash under them and clean them up to the best of your ability while Twilight and Time look for something to break Sky’s fall.

Wild is working to fast for any of your to keep up and gravity does its part in tearing at the branches that aren’t strong enough to hold Sky up on their own.

He falls.

You dodge out of the way so Sky doesn’t land on you and barely succeed in avoiding the branches you moving out of the way. Sky however, isn’t so fortunate.

He tries to jump out of the way but trips over half of them. He gets up with a nasty gash on his face and a torn sleeve on his left side.

You hiss and pull him out from the pile, just time to avoid Wild as he jumps out of the tree next to you.

“Got him!”

“I can see that!” You growl and pull Sky away to start cleaning him up.

“Thanks guys. I feel like there’s bugs crawling under my skin but I’m glad to not be there any more than I had to be.” Sky smiles and kicks his feet a few times. He shakes his hands a few time for good measure as well and gradually begins to feel the blood move away and back to as it should be.

“You shouldn’t have been in there at all.” You  scold and take out your personal medkit. “How did that happen?”

“How should I know? I woke up like that.”

“Sleep walking but he climb a tree instead.” Legend yawns and pats Sky’s head. “Gets the best of it.”

“I think you need to go back to sleep.” Sky smiles and moves his hand away from him.

“Whatever.”

“Sleepy Legend is best Legend.” You smirk and pull Sky’s face close to you with your hand to clean him up even more. “I can’t believe you got stuck in a tree.”

“I like to be up in the sky but not like that.” Sky snorts and lets you tend to him.

Time

You couldn’t believe what you had just witnessed. 

Despite the cool and calm nature Time like to put off, you had seen him slip down a hill and roll right into a pricker-bush.  With all calm demeanor lost, Time cursed in the loudest voice you had ever heard from him.

It had scared so much that you jumped and dropped your journal in the process.

You stood there staring at the man as he pull himself away from the bush and brush off all the thorns that he could reach. Curses kept falling from his mouth left and right but he at least had the decency to lower his volume and say them under his breath.

You took a breath to unfreeze yourself and stepped forward. “You ok Old Man?”

“I’m fine.” He snapped through gritted teeth. 

“Ok.”

Time blinked for a second and sighed. Responding to you again in a softer voice. “I’m fine, really. Just.... inconvenienced.”

“If you say so.” You help to his feet and watch his back as he begin to walk away.

At first, it seemed like that was it.

A bit out of character but nothing to bat an eye at. Until Time started to look a little green in the face and had started sweating bullets.

“Time.” Warrior called out with a concerned wobble to his voice. “Are you ok? You don’t look so good.”

“Admittedly, I don’t feel so good.” He grunts and wipes his hands over his face.

“What happened?” Sky takes out a cloth to hand it over.

“He fell in a bush.” You explain.

“What did look like?” Four asks you, eyebrows furrowed and face deadly serious.

“Brown and dusty green with red tipped thorns.” 

“Time.” Four turns. “You’ve been poisoned.”

“Poisoned?!” You yell.

“It’s all mild, but we’re done for today.” Four sigh. “It won’t kill him but it’s going to get worse before it gets any better.”

“I’m fine.” Time winces slightly and shakes his head. “I can keep going.”

“For like five more minutes.” 

As if on cue, Time folds over himself and spins away from the group to vomit.

Any one that was close to him instinctually takes step back and recoils from the scene.

“Worse.” Four reiterates. “Before he’s better.”

Twilight takes a step by Time’s side and rubs small circles on what he can reach on Time’s back. “We’re going to need to find a spot to set up camp.”

“I’ll do it.” Sky raises a hand.

“I’ll go with you.” Warrior places a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s make this quick.”

“Agreed.”

“Wild.” You grimace as Time continues to dry heave and cough out enough sick to probably be part of last night’s dinner as well. “I don’t Time will be able to handle any food until this passes. Do you have anything that would pass for tea or maybe a light broth?”

“I think I can whip something up.” He nods and begin to look through his slate.

You make your way next to Twilight and Time and side step away from the dibbling bile. You place you hand on the back of Time’s neck and wince at the steady growing temperature. “This is going to be bad.”

“Come on Time. Let’s get you to somewhere out of the sun.” Twilight hums and begins to pull and lead Time away from the others, heading off in the vague direction that Sky and Warrior disappeared to. You follow and hook your arm around Time’s when you see he’s barely able to hold himself up anymore.

“Bad indeed.”

It’s a long night to say the least.

Twilight

You thought you had seen enough monsters to last you the next fifty lifetimes.

You were sick and tired of these guys and how they seemed to come from an never ending source.

Your sword clashed against the shield of an annoying lizalfos and it had to audacity to strike you back and not die.

“For the love of-” You bite back a curse and continue hacking away what you can at the beast. “Why. Don’t. You. Die!”

“Aim better than!” You hear Legend shout from across the battle field.

“Legend! So help me! I will cut you!” You shout back and finalize the beast in front of you by cutting off its head.

“You won’t, you love me.” 

“I’ll throw something at your head then.” You spit and spin around to slash at the bokoblin that tried to sneak up on you. It doesn’t put up much of a fight and falls within seconds.

There’s a growl from behind you and you spin around to fight off the next attacker. It’s a huge moblin and you doubt for a split second that you can successfully block the upcoming attack. 

But you don’t have to.

Wolfie comes up from the side and jumps on it, latching and sinking its teeth into the forearm of the monster, ripping its arc away from you. You grin and stab it in the opposite direction, keeping its attention on you instead of your wolf companion as he goes to help someone else.

That’s the plan anyway.

A separate monster, a stalfos, jumps and lands on your friend and sends the poor thing flying across the field with a crack.

“Wolfie!” You scream and run after him, ditching the monsters around you.

You can vaguely hear that Warrior takes over the monsters you’ve left behind and you see Wild run up with you toward your friend.

Wolfie tries to get back up onto his feet but he’s whining and not willing to put any weight on his front paw. There’s a patch on his fur that’s beginning to turn red and you think that there’s a bit of bone peaking out.

“Oh this is bad.” You kneel next to him and try your hardest to shift the fur gently.

Wolfie growls and even snaps at your hands as you try to help and get a bigger picture of what had happened to him.

“Wolfie, stop moving.” You whine and try to get him to sit back down. “We’re going to have to put your bones back in place, before we can even think about healing you.”

“Why do you think you can get away with stuff like this?” Wild scolds and kneels next to you, helping you place pressure on the rib. “You can’t do anything to me at this point.”

Wolfie growls again, trying to snap at your fingers but Wild grabs his snout and holds him down.

“What on earth are you two doing?” You hear Wind shout.

“Wolfie is hurt! We’re trying to help him!” You yell and place both of your palms on top of the bone, putting your knee on Wolfie’s abdomen to try and keep him in place. Wolfie for his part won’t stop squirming and you’re worried that you’re actually going to hurt him more if he doesn’t sit still.

“Wolfie. Stop being stupid.” Wild growls. “We’ll let you go in a minute. just stay still.”

Somehow he listens to your friend and stays still long enough for you to pop the bone back inside and shift it back into place. Woflie lets out a pain howl but you and Wild both let go of him when it’s safe to do so, jumping away from his teeth and personal space.

You’re quick to run over to where Epona holds your bag. You’re holding on to the hope that Wild will keep Wolfie there for a minute longer with his presence alone. You pull out a potion and run back, dashing and maneuvering around the battle field and left over monsters.

You bring out a bowl as well and pour the potion inside.

You place it on the ground by where Wolfie and Wild were having a stand off.

“Here, Wolfie. Come here boy.” You whistle and coo, trying to call your canine friend over to the potion. 

Wild sends Wolfie what can only be called a smug look and he watches as the wolf limbs and whines his way over to hesitantly lick the contents of the bowl.

You sigh and begin to pet the friendly beast, trying to calm him as he drinks.

“Are you two just going to stand there?” Time shouts and he delfects another around of slashes.

You growl and stop petting Wolfie for a second. “You know what Old Man, I think I will! Fight your own monsters! These aren’t even from my time!” 

“Good job.” Wild raises an eyebrow. “Now we’re all going to pay for it.”

“Not my problem. Wolfie probably just saved my life, I owe him this much.”

Wolfie pauses from drinking your potion and then licks your face instead.

You smile and push him away gently, trying to guide him back to the bowl to drink what’s left over. “One good turn deserves another, don’t you think? Drink up Wolfie, we’ll all be ok.”

Wolfie seems to nod at your words and drinks up the last of it.

Wild takes out his bow and strikes at whatever monsters try to get close.

You stay by Wolfie side and dread the talk you know you’re going to get from Time when this is over. Maybe Wolfie will bail you out again, who knows?

[moral-turpitudes]

Silver Linings: Part 1

Masterlist | Rules | Peaky Prompts

A/N: Excuse any of my terrible math skills and if this seems rushed. This is the best I could come up with lol, I hope you all like it though!

Trigger Warnings: Swearing, Angst, Slight Fighting, Descriptions of Drug Use, Drinking, Familial Drama, Fluff, Mentions of Adoption, etc.

Word Count: 3,972

Characters: Alfie Solomons x Adopted Daughter!Reader + Michael Gray x Alfie’s Adopted Daughter!Reader

Summary: After growing tired of hiding, Y/N decides to venture out from the back of her fathers shop, not knowing she’d quite literally fall for one of her father’s enemies who happened to be lurking around the corner. But with tensions growing between the two families, one decision could change the course of their lives as they know it, for better and for worse.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | *Part 4* | Part 5

“Alright Y/N, now when you aim you gotta line yer eyes up with the sight. Take a deep breath, and on that exhale of yours yer gonna pull that little trigger right there.” Alfie said, the teenage girl only coming up to around his chest, her hands shaking slightly as she aimed the small hand gun for one of the flour sacks in the back of the shop. With a small exhale she fired, the bullet whirling through the air and into the target she’d helped draw on it the day before.

“See that’s not so hard innit?” He asked, smiling at the new light in his life.

Y/N heard her father calling for her upstairs, bringing her out of her daydreams from years ago. That was during the first week she’d lived with him after he adopted her from the nearby orphanage. She had no adoptive mother, and no other friends except their dog Cyril, seeing as she had to be practically hidden away on a daily basis. The only time she really went out was to work in her fathers shop, where she’d do her best to avoid being spotted by her fathers business partners-some of which who had strained relationships with him and his men.

Shaking the memory from her brain, she hesitantly walked up the stairs, the creaking of the wood announcing her arrival.

“There you are love. Listen...I’m having Mr. Shelby come by soon so you’ll have to work in the back alright? I know you’ll get me for it later but I’ll make up for it mmkay?” He said, looking his now 21 year old daughter in the eyes. People often found him intimidating, but over the years she grew used to him, knowing deep down he was a sweet person. With every interaction she observed, she could see the pain in his eyes over not being able to really introduce her, knowing it would put her at risk. But deep down there was a mutual understanding between them that it was going to be inevitable that someone would find out, but neither of them thought it would be so soon.

With a sigh, she reluctantly walked towards the back where the other “bakers” worked the ovens and inspected shipments. While she organized bricks of cocaine for shipment, she felt her stomach drop as she realized she’d left her gloves in the front of the shop. She often hated the texture of the bricks as she packed them away, the fabric gloves being her only solace when she was given the task.

Swallowing hard, she nervously crept around the corner, eyeing Thomas Shelby and some of the other blinders in her fathers office as she continued, not noticing the man she collided with as she stumbled back slightly.

“Oi! I’m so sorry sir...wasn’t even fuckin’ looking.” She said, brushing a stray hair from her face and tightening her apron around her waist.

“No problem love, you alright?” He asked, looking concerned as he adjusted his well tailored suit.

“Y-yeah. Just looking for my gloves. I have to go.” She said, knowing she wasn’t supposed to be out for long while the blinders were there, yet trying to not look the dashing man in the eyes.

As she walked away, his eyes followed her to her station where she usually rolled dough and decorated pastries, grabbing her gloves which were tinted white from the previous cocaine shipment she handled earlier in the morning.

“Hey...miss? Before you go...what’s your name?” He asked, a crooked smile spreading across his features as she neared him.

“Uhm...it’s Y/N. What’s yours? You don’t look like you’re from ‘round here.” She said.

“I’m Michael, Michael Gray. I’m with the blinders.” He said.

“Oh....um, well I have to get going. It was nice meeting you...Michael.” She said, awkwardly putting on the gloves as he recognized the powder falling off them.

“What do you around here anyway? I know that’s not flour on those gloves.” He said with a smirk. She swallowed hard before answering, her eyes flicking to the window of her fathers office.

“Um...I bake, and...I organize things. Listen...I really do have to go. I’ll see you ‘round sometime, yeah?” She asked. He followed her gaze to the window, noticing the nervous look on her face.

“Alright. See you around, Y/N.” He said with a wink, walking back to his lookout spot in the corner.

She smirked slightly as she passed him, reluctantly heading straight to the back, the other workers paying her no mind as she resumed packing the bricks.

As she worked, she could hear shouts coming from her fathers office, her stomach tightening in knots at the tension she could see forming in the room. Thomas and him standing close to each other, most likely mumbling threats under their breaths. A few moments later, she saw the men exit the tattered room, putting their razored caps on and storming out the door. Michael ultimately leaving with them, but catching her staring as he looked back towards the room she was in. She smiled lightly as he smirked, shutting the door behind him.

She shook her head as she turned back, getting the rest of her packing done while shaking away the thought of someone like him ever taking an interest. She knew her father dealt in dangerous business, so she wasn’t afraid of the blinders and her father doing business necessarily, but she couldn’t deny that them feuding terrified her, knowing even one slip-up could put her or her father at risk. Blowing their years-long cover.

As she was lost in thought, Alfie walked down after they left, smiling as he grabbed a bottle of rum from one of the crates and locking it back.

“You don’t have to organize all those love. How about we go call it a day aye? I know you’re probably wanting summing’ because your old man made ya work back ‘ere all day.” He said. His words annoying to her ears as of late as she grew bored of her life at the shop and at home. One question forever buzzing in the back of her mind as she continued her monotonous tasks.

“I was wondering something....” She said, taking her gloves off and turning towards him.

“Yeah? Wondering about work or what? I’m all ears now you know.” He said, taking a swig from the bottle in his hand.

Her stomach tightened again as she looked her loving, yet over-protective father in the eyes.

“I was uh...wondering how you would feel if I moved out?” She asked, the thought barely working its way through her anxious mind before spewing out of her mouth.

“What?” He asked, his eyes squinting as he cocked his head to the side.

“I-I just think since I’m an adult now, I’d like to have a place of my own. That way I won’t come between ya and the business as much. I’m tired of hiding, dad.” She said, throwing the gloves on the table as she sat next to him.

“What devils gotten into your bones? Have you been sniffing the snow or drinking me rum?” He asked.

“No dad....I just...I just want to be more independent that’s all.” She said.

“I’ll tell ya what...if you pack the snow for the next month I’ll up your pay so you can get you a place. I’ll chip in some too but getting it on your own will be good for ya. I taught you to shoot but I didn’t teach ya about life aye?” He said.

“No not really. But spare me the lectures. Let’s get home. I’m starving.” She said.

“Alright. Let’s get on with it then.” He said, walking with his cane as they made their way to the car.

As the next few weeks passed, she found herself going into work with a smile. Knowing she’d get to work towards her own place, and for the chance to see the dapper blinder who’d been making regular appearances lately, and to her surprise, for more than business reasons.

He’d been sent by Thomas to crunch numbers and talk bets with Alfie, knowing that he was sent to handle more of the legitimate business than the illegal stuff.

But if Y/N learned anything throughout her years, it was knowing when to make herself known.

She waited until Alfie closed his office door, watching Michael walk down the creaky steps as she did a small whistle.

He turned around and grinned, walking towards her, as was becoming their habit recently.

“Y/N, didn’t think you were here, love. Must’ve been in the back again aye?” He asked, quietly. She nodded and led him to one of the women’s lavatories.

“W-why are we in here? I haven’t even taken you on a date.” He asked, a mischievous grin on his lips.

“Shh. There’s no other place right now for us to go. I haven’t told him.” She said.

“Told who?” He asked.

“My-my father. Alfie.” She said, nervously biting her lip as she removed her hand from his. Crossing her arms over her chest.

“Wait...your father is Alfie fucking Solomons?” He asked, his face hardening at the fact. His usual happy demeanor fading.

“Well, adoptive father. He uh adopted me when I was 16 from an orphanage ’round here. He wanted to protect me...from uh...people like you. I guess he’s had some bad history with the blinders and other groups so I’ve been most my life, just working here to pass the time.” She said.

“People like me? What...are you afraid of me?” He asked.

“What? No! I’ve been around dangerous men all my life. I’m just saying that your blinder cousins may not take a liking to me and neither will my father to you. I just have a bad feeling about it.” She said.

“So...what are we to do? Fucking talk in the bathroom every week or what?” He asked, a small smirk playing at his lips.

“We’ll do what I do best. We’ll have to hide.” She said. He looked at her with a confused expression as he put his hand on her hips.

“I get off at 4pm and my father won’t be home until late at night. I usually go straight home, but meet me at the warehouse later around 7pm, yeah?” She asked, seeing him smirk.

“Michael I’m deadly serious. If Thomas or my father finds out we’re as good as dead.” She said.

“Fine...I’ll meet you, but I want you to bring some of the snow. Can you sneak it out?” He asked.

“Yeah. Alright, now go, the workers are coming down the hall.” She said, hearing the plethora of Alfie’s men stomping down the dark hall, making it easier for Michael to slip out un-noticed.

“See you then, Y/N.” He said, pecking her cheek before he left.

She rubbed the spot, her cheeks flushing at the brief contact.

“Y/N?” Alfie’s voice rang from the hall, making her heart race as she thought of all the reasons he could be asking for her, internally praying that it wasn’t because he caught Michael leaving.

“Yeah dad?” She asked, quickly stepping out of the restroom.

“Thought ya ran off love. I was just gonna remind ya I’m working late again.” He said.

“Alright, how many nights are you working late?” She asked.

“Well, probably every day for this month. Thomas and the rest of his blinders are damn near making me lose me mind.” He said.

“Oh...ok. Well I’ll keep an eye on Cyril then. Is it ok if I go out to the shops later? Been wanting to stock up for the new place, for whenever I get it.” She said.

“I mean I’m not going to be there so I can’t stop ya can’t I? You can but remember your gun and that knife. You remember how to use it aye?” He asked.

“Yes dad, I can’t really forget stabbing a man for you, nor can I forget putting a bullet through his head.” She said, shivering slightly at the memory of when things got tense at the shop with a disgruntled employee. Alfie had beaten the man unconscious and dragged the man to the back, telling her that it would be good practice. And it was, but after it was done, she vowed to herself that she’d never use such weapons unless she had to.

“Right, well I have to go deal with some business. I’ll let you off at 4 like usual alright?” He asked.

“Okay, thanks dad. I’ll see you...I guess tomorrow depending on how late you get in.” She said giving him a hug before walking back to her station.

The last few hours dragged on as she reminisced over the past couple of weeks. Her heart skipped a beat thinking about how they’d secretly talk and make out behind the shop where her dad couldn’t see, and how on days like today she had to drag him into the restroom as her heart beat out of her chest at the rebelliousness of it all. It was nothing compared to what she planned to get away with tonight, and for hopefully weeks to come, but it was a small step towards her independence, even if they had to hide their relationship from the world.

As the clock struck 4 she headed towards the back of the building, snagging a bottle of rum from an opened crate and replacing it with one that had just came off the line for the night. Shoving the bottle in her purse as she grabbed a rather small brick of cocaine, it being one of the various runts in the pile they’d received that day.

With quick steps, she went out the door and down to the car that was waiting for her. The purse growing slightly heavy as she continued on. Her father didn’t want her walking home alone of course, and so he arranged for one of his men to routinely take her home, ultimately becoming a blessing and a curse for her independence she was so desperately trying to achieve.

“Hello Tim, I have an odd request today.” She said, counting the huge wad of cash in her purse she’d managed to save up well before asking about apartments

“What’s that Ms.Solomons?” He asked, hid old face wrinkling with a smile.

“Can we stop by the housing department? I’ve had my eye on an apartment for a few weeks. Don’t worry though, I’ve already gotten my fathers approval.” She said, pulling off her biggest lie yet.

“Alright, after that do you wish to go home? He asked.

“Yes please.” She said, watching as the streets zipped by.

Once at the housing department, she told the landlord where she’d like to stay and she followed her to the requested location. Her eyes lit up as she saw the rather grand place. It was just close enough that her father needn’t worry too much while also being just enough of a distance away from the shops she loved going to. It was a rather safe area given the town and her fathers plethora of men protecting her, but she enjoyed the new sense of independence as she gave the woman a cash deposit, along with enough for the years rent.

The woman’s eyes lit up as she saw the amount of cash, Y/N rather un-phased given her fathers business.

“Are you sure Ms.? This is so much in advance.” She said.

“Yes. When shall I move in?” She asked. Checking her watch and seeing it was just after 5pm.

“Oh I’d say ‘round any time next week. Here’s your key, just drop by before you begin moving in.” She said with a smile as she got in her car and left.

“Alright Tim, I’m ready to go home.” She said, a satisfied smile on her face.

“I’m impressed. You got this place yourself? Alfie must be proud.” He said.

“Mhmm.” Y/N said, nervously fidgeting with her hands as she remembered the lie. He’d have her neck if he knew she’d already bought the place earlier than he would’ve liked. But what could it hurt?

The minutes passed rather quickly as she was dropped off at her house, walking inside to see Cyril’s tail wagging as she came through the front door. The house was dimly lit and quiet, just as she’d left it that morning. She played with him and made sure his water bowl was filled, seeing as the maid would help feed him later, but she still loved helping wherever she could.

“Ms. Y/N, I have your dress ready. I’ll feed the dog later and make sure the house is kept before leaving. I hope you enjoy your date.” The older woman said, a genuine smile on her face.

“Thank you so much. I can’t tell you how much you’ve helped me these last few weeks. Here.” She said, giving her a few slips of cash from her purse.

“Just as a thank you. I’ll be moving in next week to my apartment. Dad doesn’t know though so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell him.” She said.

The maids eyes widened at the cash in her hand, agreeing with a small smile and a quick nod before returning to her duties. As much as she loved this house, she wanted to do things on her own terms. She wanted to meet people on her own terms, and finally not hide herself. To make more friends than just the maid. To start actually living.

With an excited smile she ran up the stairs, putting the casual dress on and doing her makeup, deciding to leave her hair as-is, then anxiously making her way outside. The purses weight tugging at her shoulder as she walked down the quiet streets, her gun in her purse and her small knife in hand.

Once she neared the warehouse, she sat around the back, taking a swig of the rum before Michael got there to calm her nerves.

She watched the sun set over Camden Town, the birds songs ending as the insects buzzed about, the air turning a bit colder as she looked at her watch. It was just after 7pm, her heart sinking in her chest as she thought he’d stood her up. But after a few moments, she heard footsteps, making her panic slightly not knowing who was behind them. She carefully drew her gun, aiming at the man as he walked closer, his hands soon up in surrender.

“Y/N? It’s me. Michael.” He said, a smirk on his face, lowering his hands.

“I figured you were ‘round back, didn’t think you’d try to shoot me though.” He said.

“Sorry. You never know out here.” She said, putting her gun away and retrieving the cocaine and rum.

“You carried all that here? I’m impressed.” He said, inspecting the cocaine as she opened the bottle, taking another swig from it. She cringed internally as the liquid burned her throat. She’d only drank a few times, not to any huge extent, but now that she was older and more capable, she figured she at least could drink how she pleased.

“How’d you score this rum?” He asked, taking a swig from the bottle as well.

“I stole it from my dads stash in the back. And that coke is one of the runts of the batch, it was too small to pack in the big crates. Figured I’d bring the whole thing since you seemed to know about it a couple weeks ago.” She said, smirking at the memory of their first awkward meeting.

“Have you tried it?” He asked, leaning back against the wall of the warehouse.

“No.” She said turning away from his gaze as she nervously brushed a strand of hair behind her ear.

“It’s easy. Watch.” He said, unwrapping it and shaving off a sliver of the white substance with her knife. He sat it on top of the brick and made sure it was all crushed, forming it in a straight line.

He handed her the brick carefully as she held it up towards his face, him inhaling the powder through his nose in one fell swoop.

“You want me to shove that shit up my nose? Are you mad?” She asked, giggling as she took another swig from the rum.

“Yeah. Can’t hide from everything love.” He said, his words hitting home probably more than he realized.

“Alright, if I die, my fathers gonna have your head on a spike.” She said.

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take.” He said, preparing a smaller amount of the drug and holding it up to where she could inhale it through her nose. Her nostril burned as she did so, the foreign particles lacing their way through her system.

She laughed and shook her head, wiping her nose of any excess powder as she looked up at Michael who was chuckling slightly.

“That was so odd. I’m not doing that again. Not right now anyway.” She said, handing him the bottle of rum as she curled up next to him. It had only been about a month since they’d met, but even then, their interactions became more frequent.

Over the next few weeks, it was as if they’d known each other for years the way they got on. His aunt Polly eventually seeing a spark in his eye that wasn’t there before, and the same went for Alfie.

“You’ve met someone. I can tell.” Polly said one night, catching him coming in drunk on more than one occasion.

“Yeah I did. Tommy can’t do anything about it. It’s not his concern so don’t go telling him.” He said as he stumbled into the house.

As Michael grappled with the weight of seeing an adversaries daughter, Y/N had gradually moved things into her apartment with the help of her driver, all under her fathers nose. But she knew that once her room was more vacant, he’d catch on. Knowing if the blinders didn’t anger him enough, her leaving suddenly surely would.

One night after a drunken date with her mystery boyfriend, Alfie confronted her. Holding the small brick they’d chipped away at over the previous weeks.

“Oi! You wanna explain this? No daughter of mine is going to be sneaking drugs in me house. Do you really think I’m dumb? Cuz I guarantee you I’m not. This can’t happen. Not under my roof.” He said, lighting his cigar.

“Well if you didn’t want to pack it anyway I thought I might as well put it to good use. But uh, I’ll be sneaking it under me own roof from now on. I’ve bought a place if you couldn’t already tell from barging in my room to find that.” She said, folding her arms like she often did when she was frustrated.

Alfie stepped closer to her, his eyes not leaving hers as she barely flinched.

“I’ll find out who you’re doing all this for. Once I do, you’ll wish ya never stole a thing.” He said, walking towards his chair he usually sat on in their grand living room.

Y/N shook her head and chuckled to herself, stomping off towards her room. Her mind raced as she thought about what to do, grabbing what was left of her clothes and hurling them into her suitcases, deciding to leave the house for good in the morning.

Alfie sighed and sat back in his chair as he heard Y/N rummaging around upstairs. The sweet girl he helped raise all of a sudden wanting to leave the nest. 

It seemed like everything was fine in their lives until the peaky fucking blinders waltzed into his shop. Not caring who they destroyed as long as they got their money, their rum, or their drugs.

[goblinkingdomsblog]

Hello I hope you are doing well !! I was wondering if it okay to request the mafia universe where they meet the agent y/n have a moment but then the agent smile and go away in like we will meet again kinda way I’m sorry if it’s too much you don’t have to do it I appreciate your writing and love it thank you for your hard work 💕

They get hurt while running away from the police, but agent y/n helps them - part 1

Members: hyung line.

Genre: mafia!AU, reaction.

Premise: during a police chase, one of the mobsters ends up getting injured. Suddenly, you appear when he least expected it, willing to help him. You say you will see each other again in the future. With complete certainty: after all, you will guarantee it yourself.

TW: (V) = Violence.

Mafia Series Masterlist

Mafia Series Plot

Hii!! I hope you enjoy this post, and that it meets well your request!

I'm really happy to know that you like the things that I write! Thank youu!!! 💜❤😁

+ Sorry for the delay, I wanted to make a long version of this reaction. The part 2 is already posted!

"We'll see each other again, don't worry."

Namjoon:

The damn right leg. It was always that damn leg.

Namjoon gasped, lowering himself against the wall of the dark alley. The smell there was not at all pleasant, and the humidity certainly wouldn't leave his expensive suit unpunished, but he was too busy to care about that at the moment.

Everything happened in a flash: one hour, he was sitting comfortably on a soft leather sofa, talking to the leaders of the other two most important gangs in Seoul (maintaining good relations between partner companies was essential); on the other, he was running down the wet sidewalk, after escaping from the building through a side door. The damned police had somehow discovered the secret meeting, probably through a traitor, and had invaded the place, trying to kill three birds with one stone.

Even his security guards had stayed behind, exchanging shots with the police to give him enough time to escape. He hated having to escape, looking like a coward, but he knew it was necessary.

Another thing he hated: he couldn't run fast without dropping at least one of his weapons, or himself. It was in a fall on the wet street that he had injured his leg, the same one that had broken twice before, and that now was hurting again thanks to his shitty motor coordination. He knew he was being chased, so he got up and forced himself to run for several more blocks, until the pain became too unbearable to walk. It was at that moment that he hid in the alley, where he was until now.

Suddenly, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed in the wet darkness. Without a gun, he could do nothing but watch, hoping his bad luck wasn’t that glaring that day.

When you turned into the alley with your weapon in your fists, using its wall for protection, you saw him immediately.

The mafia boss, sitting on the floor, with an empty expression.

Frowning, you checked if that was a trap and if there was someone around, but he seemed completely alone. Raising your voice, you announced your presence, and the first thing he saw was your well-equipped uniform.

- Hands up. Put them behind your head. - you said, with controlled calm.

Namjoon sighed, obeying slowly.

- I'm unarmed. You don't need to be alarmed.

- Get up and come over here. - you ordered, ignoring his words.

The mobster started to get up, but then he slid back down the wall. He tried a couple more times, until he gave up and lay motionless on the floor.

- Hurry up.

- I am unable. I think I broke my leg again. - he murmured, almost as if admitting it was a shame.

Suspicious, you didn't move forward initially. You checked the alley again, but no one was in sight. So, you decided to use a different strategy: you approached with the gun pointed at his head, after all, none of the henchmen would dare threaten the life of their leader (or at least that was what you hoped to be true).

- If you try anything "funny", I swear I'll kill you, okay? - you hissed, bending down in front of him.

The man's legs were stretched out in front of him, and the right was in an ugly position, proving that he was telling the truth. The bone must have torn the flesh, because a bloody wheel was beginning to form in his pants. It would be disgusting to anyone who was not used to brutality.

- How did you get hurt like that?

- Let's say that this specific bone is not the strongest. It is already the third incident that occurs with the poor thing. - he tried to laugh, perhaps to feel better about himself, but the pain prevented him.

You then took a deep breath. You couldn't leave the man bleeding there, even if he wasn't the best of people. It went against your values.

By slowly lowering the weapon (but keeping it within immediate reach), you began to roll up your uniform sleeves. The basic first aid classes you took when you joined the police would have to do.

- What will you do? - he asked, lost in hesitation and fear, as he noticed your approach.

- I will help you not to bleed a river. But it will really hurt, and it will be a really temporary solution. - you answered, seriously.

Without saying anything more, the man just fell silent, a thoughtful expression appearing on his face.

You put your hands firmly on his leg and, using the techniques you had learned, started to push. The pain was absurd, but he preferred to bite his lip until it bled rather than scream. Of course, being a fugitive from the police should be part of the motivation for not making too much noise.

The cracking of bones when they went back to place was hollow and dark, but at least the meat stopped being kept open. Taking a serious look at him, you noticed that the man was pale with pain, looking like he was about to pass out.

- Breathe in. The worst is over. - you replied, rummaging through your belt until you found the bandages you always carried along, in case of personal emergencies.

Carefully but firmly, you started to bandage his leg, just to stop the bleeding and keep the leg in place for as long as possible.

- Don't move too much, or you could make your situation even worse.

The man remained silent for a few minutes, just watching your serious expression and your nimble hands as you bandaged his leg. He wasn't sure about how to react, after all, that kind of situation was not quite what a mobster would expect from a police agent.

- Uh... why are you helping me?

You lifted your head, facing him directly.

- One of the most important parts of doing justice involves not letting anyone bleed to death. And even if your wound is not that deadly, I believe that waiting for a long time in a wet alley is not the most ideal healing scenario. - letting go and wiping your hands on the leftover gauze, you took your gun out of your belt and stood up - I'll give you the advantage of not immediately telling them where you are. But hope your henchmen find you fast.

He watched you walk away, going back cautiously to the exit of the alley.

- But... I... - unable to formulate a coherent sentence and not wanting to look like an idiot, Namjoon just gave up asking questions - I suppose that's what it means to be on the good side. Thank you anyway.

Surprisingly, you turned around one last time. The smile that shone on your face exposing all your teeth and lifting the corners of your mouth, giving you an air of extreme cleverness, took away the little breath that was left to Namjoon.

- Oh, but you don't need thank me now, because we will meet again. And next time, I'm not going to be that good. - clicking your tongue, you took a step towards the darkness - You better be well prepared.

So, you're gone, leaving him alone in the alley until the moment he would be found by the other gang members (which took a little longer than it should have).

Seokjin:

Shit!

That whole day was being terrible. First, Jin had started by clashing with members of a rival gang. Then the police arrived, shooting anyone they saw ahead. It was in the middle of so many fights that he ended up being shot in the palm of his hand, and his dominant hand!

Pressing his hand against his now-stained shirt chest, he continued walking through the seemingly empty industrial quarter, unsure of how to hold his revolver straight.

Everything should have been a simple negotiation, but things got off track too quickly.

His palm had already bled so badly that the entire front of his shirt was red. In addition, he could no longer move his fingers, which was a really bad signal. Containing a sob, he let a few tears roll down his face.

He was concerned with his own hand, but his biggest concern was if it would lose its usefulness forever. How would he be a hacker after that, without being able to type?

It was at that moment that you found him wandering alone and desperate. You had been looking for the fugitives in the more distant streets, to make sure they didn't get far. However, when you found the boy crying, a part of the adrenaline that dominated your mind dissipated. He barely held a gun, after all.

With patience, you announced your presence. When he saw you, he threw his head back in mourning, as if he were indignant at the heavens.

- I can't handle it right now! - he whimpered.

Rolling your eyes, you approached, your gun in hand.

- Don't worry, I won't shoot if you don't do anything stupid.

Eyes widening, he pulled his hand away from the body, in a strangled cry.

- How would I do it if there's a hole in my hand?!

Even a few feet away, the fact that it was possible to see through his hand was disturbing. The bullet had gone in and out, leaving a hole with color of blood, bones and nerves showing. Yes, the boy's despair was justified. You just kept calm because you've seen a lot of complicated situations like that before.

- You have to stop the bleeding!

- How am I going to do this with one hand?! - the silent tears continued to run down his face.

Sighing, you finally approached, scaring him by holding his hand.

- What is this?!

- A basic aid, considering that the nearest hospital is two kilometers from here. - you replied simply, taking improvised bandages from inside the jacket of your uniform.

There was not much to do about that hand other than to stop the bleeding. Avoiding looking at his blood-soaked shirt (which was not a pleasant sight at all), you began to wrap the wound with the fabric, covering the hole and tightening the bandage tightly.

He let out a sob of pain, but he didn't back down, knowing he needed to put up with it.

- Take good care of this wound.

He wiped his wet face with his healthy hand, sniffling.

- I don't even know if I'll have a hand after this! - the reaction would be comical if it weren't tragic. The panic in his voice was real.

So, you closed your expression, getting completely serious.

- You will take care of your hand and you will stop being pessimistic. It'll be there the next time we meet. - so, you gave a smile of certainty, small but absolute.

Then, moving away, you raised your weapon again, passing by him.

It took a few seconds for Seokjin to understand what you had said. The pain left him with slow thinking.

- Hey, next time?! - he exclaimed, turning in your direction.

Unfortunately, you were too far away to be stopped. He watched you leave for a much longer time than the expected.

Yoongi:

He was no longer able to walk, so he didn't force himself anymore. It didn't matter that he was inside the same building that the police were still in: he just couldn't get away anymore.

Limping painfully for a few more steps, he sat down in the narrow hall, resting his back against one of the walls. He and his two customers had been caught during the delivery of a shipment of heroin, and one of the damned customers had stabbed him to have time to escape. Literally.

With a small knife stuck in his thigh, Yoongi was actually slower than the others, easier to be captured. He was just lucky to be in the company of his most trusted friends, who came into conflict with the police just so he could run. He was worried about them now, of course, and he couldn't even repay their sacrifice and really escape. The pain was so much, and the blood on his clothes was so much, that his veins seemed to be filled with acid, which caused a burning sensation in his entire body.

Closing his mouth to try to hold his breath and feeling the sweat on his forehead, he leaned his head against the wall, looking at the ceiling for a few moments. The knife was still stuck in his leg and needed to be pulled out. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and counted to three. Then, lifting his trembling hands, he put them on the handle of the knife. That gesture alone was enough to make more cold sweat run down the back of his neck.

Then, as he prepared to pull the knife out, you appeared at the end of the hall. Wide-eyed, you observed the injured man and what he intended to do.

- Wait! Don't pull it! - you exclaimed, startling him.

I mean, Yoongi got scared, but the only thing he did was to turn his head slowly towards you, without really expressing fear.

You turned the other way, knowing that your colleagues were close. Specifically, a colleague who hated mobsters, and who would certainly have no mercy when shooting a man who was already injured. There was even a trail of drops of blood on the carpet, which went as far as the dealer was left.

- Why not? Sometime it will have to go. - he said, in a weak voice, with the tone of someone who no longer cared.

You slowly lowered your weapon when you realized that he was not carrying any gun. Then you looked at him again, snorting when you realized that you would need to act quickly.

Too many people had been hurt that day. You needed to fix the situation. Then, running up to him, you bent down in front of the man.

- You were stabbed in your thigh, that is full of important blood vessels. In addition, you are already bleeding too much. - you said, scolding him with some anger - If you pull the knife, it can make the situation worse and cause a much worse bleeding. Even though it hurts, the knife seems to be stopping the wound.

Too impressed by how straightforward you were, he just remained silent, nodding his head to signal that he would obey. In the distance, you heard your angered colleague's voice. Then you faced the mobster again, running your hands over his shoulders.

- I'm going to get you out of here and put you in a place where you're not in the immediate sight of a gun. But I can't do anything else. You will need hospital care.

Yoongi opened his eyes wide when you started to help him up, shocked by the situation as a whole.

- Why are you doing this? - he asked, his voice low and strangled with pain.

With effort, you managed to get him upright, but you were practically carrying his full weight.

- Because I think people should go through a fair trial, and not just get shot in the head like will happen if I leave you here. - striving to walk, you started down the corridor, towards the basement of the building - And make sure that your leg does not leave a trail of blood behind us, even if you have to tighten the fabric of your pants around the wound.

Again, he obeyed without protest, containing a cry of pain as he prevented the blood from dripping on the floor. He was shaking and sweaty, and the pain he was enduring must have been scary. Still, that was better than leaving him to die.

You followed as quickly as possible to the staircase, and each step was a sacrifice for Yoongi. The black mask you were wearing, part of the uniform, prevented him from seeing your face, but your eyebrows were frown at the smell of blood and the man in agony.

When you reached the basement, you hid the man behind a tall and heavy closet. The place was small, dusty and probably untouched for months. Still, you left him on the floor, sitting.

Stretching your aching back, you searched for the bad and cheap phone you used when you went to work, for emergencies. You turned it on and handed it over to the injured man, just before standing.

- Use this to call someone who can help you. It's the most I can do for you. - you said, as soon as he held the little electronic device.

Pale but with lively eyes, Yoongi took another deep breath to be able to speak through the pain.

- Thanks. - he said simply, closing his eyes when a flash of pain passed through his body. Then, he opened his eyes again - Isn't this phone tapped? It would be pretty easy to track me, then.

With a mysterious expression, you walked away. Even though you were wearing a mask, he could see the corners of your mouth going up to form a mysterious smile.

- You will have to find it out until the next time we meet. - you replied, taking your weapon from the belt just before leaving by the same staircase you had traveled before - Do not expect me to help you again.

Hoseok:

Hoseok was crying, something he hated to do. However, getting shot in the chest was not something that happened every day, and it was okay to cry in a situation like that.

With his hands pressed to the bleeding wound, he staggered down a deserted road in the hot dry night. The road was flanked by plantations, since it was located in the countryside, and the only noises there were that of the plants moving with the wind and that of the nocturnal animals.

He was afraid of those animals, after all, he smelled of blood. Still, nothing too dangerous should be there, as farmers would exterminate any creature. Even the "creature" himself, probably, if he appeared bleeding and wanted by the police in one of the houses far from the road.

He stumbled forward, needing to lean on one of the wooden fences. The pain in his chest was so strong that he had no idea where he was running to.

Suddenly, he felt the cold muzzle of a gun at the back of his head. As he bent over the fence, he stopped paying attention to the environment, and didn't notice when you approached silently.

- Hands up! - you hissed between teeth.

With a high-pitched cry, he remained in place.

- I'm using my hands to stop the bleeding from the shot your colleague gave me in the chest! - he exclaimed, his voice exuding real pain.

Swallowing hard, you wondered if it was true, and ordered him to turn around. When he did it, weak, the front of the shirt soaked in blood was proof enough.

The man's luck was that the shot had hit the right side of his chest and not the heart. The bullet was still lodged in his chest, but the bleeding was not aggressive enough to had hit an artery. That man was very, very lucky.

- Give me your gun. - you said, forcing the man to hand over his revolver. As soon as you made sure he was unarmed, you lowered your own weapon - Let me see.

By taking the man's hands away and looking more closely at the wound hole, you were sure that no very important veins had been hit. Then you started to take off the man's coat.

- Hey, what are you doing?! Isn't it enough that you invaded our place and killed 4 people?! - he exclaimed, irritated and scared.

Hearing those words was not pleasant, but they were true. So you didn't answer, just folding the jacket efficiently and wrapping it diagonally around his body, tying it tightly on his back.

- I'm helping you, you bastard.

Arching his eyebrows, he realized you were telling the truth.

- Why? - he asked, confused.

- Because nobody else is going to die today. I'll make sure of that. - you answered seriously - Now tighten the wound again. Prevent too much blood from being lost.

The man was already pale, but when he heard of blood, he became even more so. He swallowed hard, his face still wet with tears.

- Are you sure that I will not die?

You started to smile wryly, wanting to laugh at his crybaby face. However, as you watched his expression, you realized that his panic was real. You then changed your expression, smiling without showing your teeth but confidently.

- I am sure. We will meet in the future, because I will keep you alive. - you said, walking away - Now, run to the house after this plantation behind you and ask for help. I have to go back to the mission.

He wanted to say something else, but you were already walking away. The courage you gave him through your steady smile was enough.

He had the strength to run to the nearest house and ask for help.

Maknae line here.

The images used on this post are not mine, credits to the owners!

Kisses from the Goblin Kingdom! :)

[katelyn--renee]

Composure

Title: Composure

Fandom: Supernatural

Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Reader/(Y/N) Winchester (mentioned), Harper Winchester (OC, mentioned), Daniel Winchester (OC, mentioned), Crowley (mentioned)

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Wife!Reader

Words: ±2670

Description: Dean and (Y/N) take their shot at a normal life and settle down. Over the years, they have a few kids. Things are good. Until they’re not. What will Dean do when his past comes back to put an end to his happily ever after?

Written For: @deanwanddamons ​ 2K Celebration! Congratulations babe! That’s awesome! My prompt will be in bold -  “Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in.”

Warnings: ANGST! Descriptions of blood. Mentions of breaking and entering. Kidnaping. Show level violence/outbursts of anger. 

Author’s Note: This is in correlation with another fic of mine, Sweet Cherry Pie. It takes place about twelve to thirteen years after that one, to give you a brief timeline. There will be other fics with that original storyline, so stay tuned.

Thank you so much to @wonder-cole​ for being my beta for this wonderful piece and helping me with the title. You’re awesome and much appreciated! She has some amazing work of her own, so please do yourself a favor and check it out! Check out @talesmaniac89​ for more awesome page dividers!!

Disclaimer: I do not own any photos or gifs, all rights go to original creators/owners.

Interested in more of my work, check out the link below.

Masterlist

The rain was heavy tonight, thick and angry as it poured from the dark clouds above. The fat raindrops were noisy against the single paned windows. The water coated the glass surface and made it impossible to see through, even as the flashes of lightning lit up the night sky and cast long shadows through the living room of 35 Maplewood Road. There was a heaviness surrounding the house, as if something wicked had been there.

The home was dark and empty, and the furniture was overturned and broken in places; the sofa was thrown over backwards, the cushions laying discarded across the floor with the end table toppled over beside it. The lamp that had occupied its surface was shattered to pieces on the wooden floor, and the rug had been stained with something dark and red. 

The coffee table was shoved out of place, the glass surface no longer there in one piece and the mirror that hung in the hallway had a spider web like crack across the surface, hanging now only by one screw. In the very center of the crack, something crimson and shiny caught the lighting from outside, almost as if someone’s skull had been smashed there.

The familiar idling of Baby’s engine grew louder as Dean pulled in the driveway of his home, the brakes squealing as he came to a stop and put the Chevy into park. A feeling of dread began to knot into his stomach, making the muscles of his jaw flex as he tried to bite back the feeling. Something was wrong; all those years of hunting and honing his instincts told him that much. Not a single light was on inside of the home and yet, (Y/N)’s car was parked out front. Not good.

Dean fished his phone from his jacket and swiftly unlocked the screen with a swipe of his thumb across the glass, dialing the number he knew so well. Pressing the receiver to his ear, he waited while the call rang out once... twice… “Come on, (Y/N/N).” He muttered under his breath as the fifth tone sounded. Her voice greeted his ear, but it was artificial; the recording of her voicemail, Hi, you’ve reached (Y/N)... 

“Damn it.” He cursed between gritted teeth and ended the call. He tried again, pressing redial. “Come on, baby, answer your damn phone!” He shut his eyes when he got the same results as before, cursing to himself as he shoved the device back into his pocket.

Never taking his eyes off the front of the house, he leaned over for the glove box and swiftly unlatched the compartment door, just as he’d done a million times before. Green eyes continued to scan for any signs of movement, even through the thick wall of rain that coated the windshield, despite the efforts of the wiper blades. 

Reaching a steady hand inside, he pulled out a pocket sized flashlight and his beloved stainless steel Colt, the engraving on the barrel catching the lightning as it bolted across the sky. Expertly, he removed the clip with a press of his thumb and double checked the bullets inside before sliding it back into the place, securing it with another click. It’d been years since he’d held the weapon, but the pearl coated handle felt just as natural as breathing against his palm.

Leaving the Impala’s engine running, Dean climbed out from behind the wheel and shut the door, the hinges creaking with age. Clicking on the flashlight, he approached the home with long, yet cautious strides, his booted feet silent in his approach, even through the heavy rain. 

His mind was racing with every terrible possibility, his guilt threatening to eat him alive as images of his family, in the worst possible outcome, flashed before his eyes. It made his blood run cold. His heart was pounding rapidly with fear, pushing the adrenaline through his veins and forcing him to move forward rather than let the panic overwhelm him.

He tried to peer inside the living room through the set of windows lining the front of the house, but it did little to ease his uncertainty; if anything, it only made it worse, only able to make out long shadows and dark shapes. His clothes were completely soaked through, hugging his large frame by the time he’d reached the front porch, the coolness of the rain chilling him to the bone. Droplets of water dripped down his face and the tip of his nose, and his hair clung against his forehead.

Approaching the large red door, his scowl only deepened, darkening his features when he discovered that it had been left unlatched, allowing in a single beam of light with each flash from the storm overhead. He glared at the lock and then narrowed his eyes as something caught his attention, the muscles there twitching. Stretching a hand out, he examined the wooden surface, his fingertips grazing over the chipped paint and splintered wood. Someone had broken in.

Taking only a moment to compose himself, Dean exhaled slowly and swallowed back his apprehension, forcing himself to go on. Using the weight of his body, he nudged the door open cautiously and poked his head inside. The experienced hunter kept his gun aimed high and at the ready, his finger hovering over the trigger. Wrist over wrist, Dean held the flashlight steady with the opposite hand, the beam unmoving, providing him with some light through the darkness.

All of those years of training were put to the test as he stepped through the threshold of his home, his expression as hard as stone and giving away absolutely nothing, despite the fear that was boiling just beneath the surface. His eyes darted around the room, following the beam of his flashlight, taking in every detail of his surroundings just as he’d been taught all those years ago.

Following the layout of the house, Dean came to the living room first, stepping over the broken furniture and discarded decorations. The sight of his home in this state made him uneasy and that much harder to keep his cool, able to sense the panic starting to creep in. Where was (Y/N)? Where were the kids? Who had done this to his family? Was it revenge?

Another flash of lightning caused something slick and shiny to catch his eye, and Dean let out a shaky breath. Hesitating for only a moment, he crossed the room and crouched down next to the sofa to investigate, the troubling sight seized his heart. There was a substantial amount of blood there, a large pool of crimson that had soaked into the fibers of the rug. 

Near the top of the stain, a gold chain necklace was lost within the mess and a thin layer of another substance was scattered around it. It was almost yellow in color and had a very distinct, very specific scent that accompanied it. Touching the surface of the floor next to the stain, Dean felt something grainy under his finger tips. Lifting it to his nose, the smell of sulfur invaded his senses. Demons.

“Fuck,” He cursed, the boom of the thunder shaking his house as it lit up his face simultaneously. Still crouched, he plucked the necklace out of the sticky crimson mess and glared at the amulet with a heavy gaze, his hand shaking. He shut his eyes and closed his fingers into a fist, the knuckles turning white around the piece of jewelry. It belonged to (Y/N). It had been a gift, a charm to ward off evil and prevent possession.

This was all his fault. He should have known better. Hell, he did know better and yet, he ignored it, because he had a chance to finally be happy. To have an actual family and live the normal, apple pie life he’d always wanted. And now the ones he loved were missing and more than likely dead. Or probably close to it.

His chin quivered for a moment and hot tears stung at the corners of his eyes, his emotions getting the better of him. How could he let this happen? How could he be so stupid and reckless? He knew better, damn it! Once a hunter, always a hunter. There is no getting out of the life, not entirely, because those evil sons-of-bitches will always be out there. 

One way or another, they always find a way to catch back up to any hunter who has tried, and every single time it ends bloody and messy and violent. He needed to find them, he just had to. And he would save them, no matter what it cost. He’d pay it.

Releasing a heavy breath, he opened his eyes and willed the tears away, shoving the emotions back down into the pit of his soul. Despite his efforts, a solitary tear made it’s escape, dripping down his left cheek and onto the color of his shirt before he could stop it.

Dean rose to his full height and squared his shoulders, prepared to continue his search. Sliding the necklace into his jacket pocket with care, he followed the trail into the hall with a heavy heart. 

Glass cracked and snapped under his boots as he walked through the space, his jaw flexing when he saw the picture of his family shattered on the floor. Their happy faces only added to his grieving heart and guilty conscious, their smiles making his soul ache.

That had been a good day, nearly five years ago now; (Y/N) had worn his favorite blue dress that day, the strapless one that stopped right above her knees and showed off her sexy legs. 

She had on that silly - but achingly cute - oversized tan hat that kept the sun from her eyes. He would always tease her about that goofy hat, but she never cared what others thought of her, never ceasing to be herself, no matter what.

They’d gone to the park that day, had an actual picnic and he’d played catch with his son while the girls giggled and painted their nails...  They even taught the twins how to ride their bikes that day. They couldn’t have been more than seven years old.

Harper had caught on much quicker than her brother, of course, taking after her mother in that way. Those girls were naturals at almost everything they did, only needing to try something a few times before perfecting it. That had been something he’d adored and admired about his wife and it was a huge part of what made her such a skilled hunter when they met.

Daniel, on the other hand, had to take the time to understand how something worked first. He needed to study the mechanics of things, take them apart, rebuild and understand it completely, inside and out, before he was able to master it. Danny often reminded Dean of the Winchester side of the family. That had been a good day, one of many they’d shared together.

Brought out of his memories by another angry boom from outside, Dean pressed on. Where the picture had once hung, there was a bloody handprint smeared on the white wall, the two colors contrasting greatly. 

The blood streaked out toward the kitchen, giving the hunter a clear path to follow. Damn it. Dean grit his teeth. It felt as if something had his heart in a vice, squeezing it tighter and making it increasingly difficult to breathe the further he went.

His emotions were threatening to break through the surface again, fighting hard against his resolve, but he held his ground against them, purely focused on finding his loved ones. Now was not the time to break down. Following the trail of blood and debris, he checked each room along the way, trying to be as thorough as possible. He couldn’t afford to miss a damn thing. 

Their bedrooms were empty, and unsurprisingly, every inch had been torn apart. Dean’s chest heaved with emotion, his breath hitching in his throat; if anything happened to those kids, he would never be able to forgive himself.

Continuing on, the hunter emerged into the next room, and found much of the same; broken furniture, shattered pictures and even more blood. But not a single sign of his family. The sliding glass door had been left open, allowing the rain from the storm to collect onto the tile floor. 

Dean shut his eyes and took several deep breaths, his chest aching with every forceful beat of his heart. He needed to call Sammy, needed to form a plan. When he opened his eyes, something on the countertop caught his eye; a sheet of paper. Cocking his head with curiosity, he crossed the room in three long, determined strides.

It was a note, addressed to him.

It’s been too long, darling. How’s Moose? Hope the wife and kids are well...oh, wait, that’s right, you’re as clueless as ever. No surprise there. Before we get to the fun bits, let’s talk business; I need a favor and you and your giant of a brother are going to help me. Now, to ensure that things go as planned, I have something of yours. I assure you, they are safe. For now. Do as I ask, and they will be returned to you, alive. So, Dean, dear, let’s make a deal, shall we? You know where to meet me.

Squirrel,

Yours truly, 

The King of Hell

“Crowley.” Dean growled deep in his chest, his teeth clenched as his blood began to boil over with rage. “Goddamn it!” He shouted, swiping the contents of the counter onto the floor. “Fuck!” He kicked something across the room, too angry to pay much attention to it as it slammed into the stainless steel refrigerator. He swung at the closest surface, his fist connecting with a nearby wall.

The drywall collapsed around his fist as the plaster fell to the floor at his feet. His knuckles were screaming at him, but he didn’t care, too fueled by his rage to notice. What could Crowley possibly need their help with? It didn’t matter. Whatever it was, they would get it done and save his family. Crowley would get what’s coming to him; Dean would make damn sure of that.

Taking a few calming breaths, Dean removed his phone with a bloodied hand and opened his contacts, scrolling through the names until he found what he was searching for. Sammy. Dialing the number, Dean held the phone to his ear with baited breath. After the third ring, Sam’s voice came in through the other end, sounding concerned because of the late hour, “Dean? Everything alright?”

Dean shook his head, his vision blurring with tears. He cleared his throat, trying to prevent it from shaking too much. “No, Sammy. It ain’t alright.” He admitted, gripping the counter with his free hand, bracing himself. He wanted to crumble onto the floor, his body trembling; his mind flooded with so many different emotions, each of them trying to overpower the other: fear, guilt, anger, heartache…

“Dean, what is it?” The younger Winchester questioned, the worry evident in his voice. “Is it (Y/N)? The kids? Is everyone okay?” He waited patiently on the other end, but Dean could hear him moving around; he assumed his brother was getting his things ready to head out.

“Damn it, Sammy,” Dean’s voice broke as a few tears slipped through the cracks, “Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in.” He shook his head, allowing himself a moment to break, his chest heaving. “We were out!” He slammed his fist down onto the counter, terrified and angry.

“Dean, what’s going on?” Sam pleaded, wanting desperately to help his big brother. 

“Crowley.” Dean clarified, going into more detail as he composed himself and straightened his stance, “Crowley’s taken them.” He took a calming breath, his moment of weakness over. “I need your help, Sammy.”

“Already on my way.”

Annnnnnd there you have it. I hope that wasn’t too rough on the heart? No worries, there may or may not be a part two in the works? We shall see. ;) 

Anyway, if you enjoyed that, please like and comment and if you’re feeling a little extra generous, share it with your friends, too! You’re feedback is like GOLD! As always, thanks for reading! 

Taglist!

Supernatural

@akshi8278​ // @flamencodiva​ // @perpetualabsurdity​

[meikuree]

the centre cannot hold

Fandom: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Relationships: Hitch Dreyse & Annie Leonhart Characters: Annie Leonhart, Hitch Dreyse, Armin Arlert (mentioned) Additional Tags: Canon Compliant, Mild Psychological Horror

ao3 link

The days blend into a seamless fugue, dreamlike and out of reach.

(Or: a look at Annie's time in the crystal.)

The days blend into a seamless fugue, dreamlike and out of reach.

She can't place what time it is, inside. Time is meaningless. The interrogators who enter complain about the cold drafts puffing through the bricks; she can't feel any of it. Only the blunt sensation of the crystal’s cover, cool as iron is cool, running over her arms and torso and head, her entire body.

Hitch visits, many times. She comes to know her by the telltale skip of her boots on the floor. The way she always leaves the door ajar, as though she hadn’t intended to stay long. Her own eyes are closed now, all the time. It means her other senses become sharper. She hears mutters even through the thick slab of wood that passes for a door, and learns the smell of autumn filtering through the bars of her cell’s sole window, carried into the space in dead leaves stuck to the soles of soldiers' boots.

Those signs are what she begins to rely on to mark the passage of time. In the initial months, it’s an inexact science. Mere guesswork, in which she misestimates, on a few occasions, the correspondence between the oil-stench of polished boots and badges and the exact military festival being celebrated outside.

She listens to the chatter of the scouts who return daily to work out the mysteries surrounding her. How she breathes, what is keeping her alive. She knows the answers herself, of course. In this state she is tapped into the Paths realm; feeding on the otherworldly largesse of Ymir Fritz somehow, her lungs sustained by oxygen piped into her chest by means metaphysical and invisible. How long do you think she’ll last in there, they ask, and she wants to bark a laugh, say: I can stay here for the rest of my life. She starts a betting pool with herself about when they will meander towards or away from the answers, and also memorises some of their names—Anya, Nicolas, Louis—as a matter of personal amusement. Hange is the one who gets closest to piecing together anything about the truth, including the concept of an afterlife and/or higher realm.

Eventually they give up on her. With the Shiganshina basement breached, Hange’s purview as commander shifts to other horizons. The room hollows out as they clear the furniture, the echo that bounces off its walls widening into a sound vast enough to fill graveyards. A looming silence. Still as death. Only Hitch continues to come by, and Annie begins to yearn mentally for the stimulation of her conversations, like a plant straining towards the sun. Towards necessary sustenance.

She reminisces about her history lessons back in the Survey Corps, sometimes. It had been fascinating to see what counted for fact and narrative in a different land. She now wonders if she's become an artefact of history herself. Dead for all intents and purposes, preserved only in textbooks. Pragmatism brings her back to earth, when she remembers that nobody has ever been memorialised for lying in a coma.

Her sensory awareness only extends so far, after all that. It is deep, but not very broad. In the first year she keeps track of worldly happenings by the generosity and latitude of Hitch’s reports. Her passionate spiels, often preceded by a long indrawn breath and groans of despair that could have rivalled Eren’s, span an impressive set of topics ranging from Eren’s whereabouts, the Survey Corps’ movements, and military gossip, to more quotidian ills that ail her: a nail chipped while filing paperwork, her anguish over a sold-out bakery on the way home. The twenty letter-long saga she has going on with a romantic rival-turned-interest-turned-rival-again. Annie becomes the unwitting beneficiary of her ability to transform all ordinary occurrences into effusive theatre.

There are a few signs. The stunning perseverance with which Hitch comes. The verve and enthusiasm Hitch puts on full display before her, as though she is performing—and hoping that somewhere, she might be watching. The fond wonder and melancholy with which she speaks of their short-lived time in the Military Police. Hitch, Annie suspects, comes because she is nursing the remnants of a badly timed crush on her.

In this place, it’s a happy accident. It relieves the slight irritation she feels when Hitch confesses a touch too much detail about the minutiae of her morning routines and new interests. She’s grateful, in some deep unacknowledged part of herself, for the contact with another person from her old life, even if it’s one-sided and not very conversational on her end.

Every now and then she gets glimpses of the activities her erstwhile associates—Eren, Armin, Mikasa—are getting up to, in updates from Hitch spaced months apart. It is amusing, at first, to hear Hitch discuss them with distant respect and reverence as if at a remove, when she has firsthand knowledge of their individual quirks and neuroses, and can fill in the blanks within her iron silence much better than Hitch can. She saw long ago how they were some of the greatest breathing idiots to walk the earth; she briefly wishes she could tell it to Hitch too, puncture the aura of myth that has surrounded them like a bubble.

Eventually enough time passes that she has to recontextualise what she knows of them against the secondhand knowledge Hitch relays to her each time, adjusting her mental picture of who they are, the distance between memory and fact asserting itself. It grows apparent in those moments that they are becoming foreign to her too, changing while she remains fixed here, with outdated fragments of people, an insect trapped in scintillating amber.

Armin drops in to see her about four times in the first year. When he speaks he reaches a hand out to touch her crystal, and probably gazes at her the whole time; she can tell by the soft thud of his fingers upon her looking-glass cage. He tells her about Paradis’s defenselessness, their discoveries over the ocean. Pleads with her for a sign, any sign, that she is listening, and then sits with his knees drawn up, the stone floor vibrating imperceptibly with his motion. After his second call he begins to express his sympathy for her. The belief that he now understands why she had to betray them.

She wonders, idly, if he’s kept his nervous habit of biting at his cuticles. He has a grim edge to his voice now, a flute and gravel ruthlessness she hadn't recalled belonging to him before. Unlike Hitch, he doesn't say much. With him, she gets treated to dense silences interspersed with outbursts of conviction, or emotion. As though he speaks only when he has no choice, no other outlet.

She supposes his approach is one of delicacy, in opposition to Hitch’s: there is no evidence she is conscious, although she is alive, so talking is more or less a fanciful gamble; there’s no guarantee his words will reach a living being. She can’t fault him, on a technicality. She only laments that his idealism has given way to unimaginative realism too. Officially, he is devising a plan to establish contact with underground allies in Marley; unofficially, she wants to ask him if reaching the sea had truly made him happy, or only brought a new wave of troubles.

But her opportunities to have anything to think all these against are privileged and few. The visits are sparse, on the whole, so that she learns to conserve her responses and, most importantly, ration her thoughts—like a precious, corked wine, fit to be let through into her conscious refrain only in drips, a resource not to be exhausted too quickly. She has to remain here until there is certain guarantee she can complete her mission. In layman terms: she has to last through years of boredom.

She repeats it to herself, like an idle song or a blinkered reminder: she can endure it. She has to endure it.

After that she slows down her pace of thinking by necessity. Draws every internal argument that would have taken minutes out over the span of weeks. This dissolution makes her feel not so much like a primordial titan, moving according to vast, immense timespans, but a piece of rubber stretched to its limits, shrivelled and ready to burst.

Dreaming is the most direct analogue for her existence in this crystal shell. But it’s an incomplete description. It’s not like being asleep. She hasn’t relinquished consciousness, simply adopted a fickle and yet compulsory relationship with it. Some days, her mind is sharp and lucid like clear water. Others, she wakes up sluggish and nauseated, with the slow pressure of an anvil headache at her temples, a feverish chill bathing her bones. Like she’s slept far, far too much. Like she hasn’t woken up at all, but passed into a worse, second slumber. The effect is that of being drugged, of being sunk into an unnatural fatigue.

In these moments her choices are confined to the binary of staying awake and suffering, or returning to sleep and worsening it. Her muscles ache and scream for movement or stimulation; but she cannot move, and so has no recourse to relief. Only the sickening ache, the awareness of the uncomfortable fog, her arms trapped by her sides, always, like dumb logs.

Consciousness becomes the centrepoint her life revolves around. Sometimes, its presence is like a bullet aimed at her that she can’t catch: fleeting, painful, inescapable.

Back in the trainee bunkers she’d moved slowly. Pulled off the act of a sullen, indolent girl, better inclined towards a long nap than proper sparring. It’d shocked people that she was in fact a first-class prodigy in hand-to-hand combat. More than once she’d heard herself described by her peers as a concealed knife: inconspicuous at first, lethal once unleashed and in motion.

Those days are behind her now. A trite touch of fate, perhaps, that her languorousness now looks like it had been a rehearsal for this longer, extended sojourn in stillness. She can no longer summon movement; she has no defense against any assumptions people might concoct about her. She can only hope that people will remember the shadow her outsized figure cast as the Female Titan, even in the absence of continued proof.

As it turns out, what is most difficult is not the boredom, or time, or the trappings of her mind. Solitude suits her. She is not afraid of her thoughts. The symptoms of wakefulness frustrate her, but her mind has long been a well-controlled thing, smooth and cunning. She’d perfected the skill of disciplining it through the gruelling, unending hours of training with her father in her youth. Learning great focus, concentrating on the exercises that determined if she got to sleep, or eat, or drink. Disregarding all other excess, like the russet burn of sunset or sundown behind her in the courtyards. Your mind could not be suggestible, in this situation. Not even as an eight-year old.

No; what truly grates is the loss of sensation. Her capacity to interact with the world. Heading inside has severed her from her repertoire of fighting stances, uppercuts, movements. No longer can she understand her environment by the rhythms of her body attuned to it: the sunspots in her vision, the wind whipping her shins, the recoil of her fists against an enemy. She once knew the world by the blows and kicks it directed back at her; they were signals, an entire language of their own. She's been reduced to a lonely speck, disconnected from her single means of communication, her vernacular for parsing the world around her. The lonely, obsessive cycle of thoughts she can stand—but this? The dark, empty corridor of her body where she once had access to momentum, eruption, injury and the lightning burst of revelation in knowing her enemies by their punches, the scrapes and bruises left on them? It’s unbearable.

She resigns herself, but never quite crosses the hurdle. Many times she registers the itch of her limbs desiring to move, a furious bristle skittering upon her skin or on the edge of her brain. There is no outlet for them. Even the smallest movements are off-limits to her. She can’t flex her fingers, or tense her toes. The boundaries of her prison are absolute. These impulses, blossoming and then dead-ended, coil up and accumulate inside her like poison. Like a stricken scream with no release.

After a period of time she tentatively defines as three years, she hears Hitch entering and turning the key in the lock in her usual smooth motion. The tiny clink a struck bell in the gloom of mental oblivion. She perks up. Prepares to listen for any news.

“I know it’s been a while,” Hitch starts, “but we’ve been busy preparing for the Queen’s inauguration— like, god, how many ceremonies do these nobles need?— and I was detained by gift duty, can you believe, which meant I had to shop for the second-tier nincompoops over at the chambers—“

Annie’s blood, a gentle throbbing before, suddenly runs cold. Inauguration? But surely— Historia’s coronation, according to the silver measure of her careful timeline, had passed a long time ago. They should have moved far beyond by now.

“Anyway,” she hears Hitch saying now, a little morosely, “hard to believe it’ll be one-and-a-half years soon with you here. That you’re still in there.“

Annie chokes, a gutted sound in her head. She must have lost touch with her sense of time in the previous few weeks. It’s the one possible explanation.

If it’s only been one and a half years, she can only imagine what the next two, or three, or five, or seven years until her death will be like.

She feels the rug being pulled out beneath her feet. There’s panic now, a stab in her throat, the realisation she has to move back to the drawing board. Reassess everything she knows. She’d kept track well enough in the later half of the first year—what had changed?

Hitch leaves. She doesn’t register it.

Her sanity has so far hinged upon the single, fantastic, incredulous constant of Hitch’s visits to her. It’s a fragile coincidence—Hitch might one day get tired of her, reality outpacing her idealisation of her, and stop coming, too. She is beginning to feel the hours and days like an acrid trap, her thoughts a rapid torrent that her body—inverted in frozen stasis—will never keep up with. Suddenly every second is too slow, too long.

She wants to yell. Wants to rattle the bars of her mind-cage. But the only thing that answers her is drifting somnolence, like a hand passing sluggishly over her head, and then disappearing. The same smiling silence of her unresponsive body, indifferent to her will.

What life will this be, she thinks, what life will I be left with, and tries to plan, to consider the contingencies—but just as suddenly, nothing comes to mind, except the hollow echo of her voice referring across her insensate headscape, the strain of her thoughts thinned into pieces from disuse.

[veliseraptor]

Down in the Yi City Pit: A Recs Post

So as anyone following me may have noticed, I’ve been spiraling ever deeper into a pit called Yi City Feelings. I’m down at the bottom and I’m still digging. This also means I’ve been doing a lot of fic reading, and I figure it’s about time that I wrote a recs list, since I said I’d do it and some people expressed interest.

Heads up that I am a dirty Xue Yang stan first and foremost, so this list is going to skew in, uh, that direction. Just so we’re all aware.

Divided these into canonverse recs and modern au recs, since apparently this is the only thing I’ll read modern aus for! It’s a brave new world out here. 

Also like. blanket warnings across the board here for The Inherent Dubiousness of Xue Yang/Xiao Xingchen as a Pairing, Generally. I’ll offer more specific/major ones as they’re relevant/I remember, but please check the tags/authors notes as well.

CANONVERSE

lover to your nightmare by Zaatar (@ameliarating) . Xue Yang uses Xiao Xingchen getting sick as an opportunity to fuck around a little. Second person POV sickfic, except XueXiao flavored sickfic which means it’s messy and full of good things like “delirium” and “people taking advantage of other peoples’ confusion and disorientation to mess with them psychologically.” This fic also does the thing I love really well where Xue Yang’s internal monologue/self-justification is full of indications that he’s having Feelings that he neither recognizes nor acknowledges. Crunchy, delicious.

Samsara / 輪迴 by ForgivenMemes. Upsetting fic full of every content warning ever alert! (Off the top of my head: violence, rape, suicide, self-harm.) I keep going back to this fic and rereading it because it hurts so bad and I love it, because it hurts in the best worst self-sabotage recapitulating-mistakes-over-and-over way. Like, I am a sucker for a time loop fic always, and usually I read them as a route to fixing things - but honestly I’ve always loved the part of time loop fics that’s “everything getting worse first.” And this is a whole fic of “everything getting worse.” Aka, the one where Xue Yang has thousands of chances to get it right, but there’s no getting it right.

compromise by Sectionladvivi. Xiao Xingchen convinces Song Lan and Xue Yang to kiss. (aka, obviously Yi City AU where Song Lan gets folded into things, Xiao Xingchen still doesn’t know about Xue Yang being Xue Yang, and an uneasy detente where the two of them don’t touch each other gets interrupted by Xiao Xingchen Wanting Things, which is, of course, a priority always). 

til dawn by Sectionladvivi. Xue Yang takes care of Xiao Xingchen’s body after his death, and mind the tags. This is that perfect Yi City level of “horrifying and also very sad, I feel bad for my boy but also he is sort of defiling a corpse (though it is just kissing).” This might not sound like a recommendation but it is absolutely a recommendation.

Our Antebellum Innocence by spockandawe (@spockandawe). First time XueXiao. Xue Yang lays the groundwork for his first time with Xiao Xingchen with meticulous care.  This author always delivers, both in terms of excellent porn and in terms of characterization, and this is no exception. 

life’s illusions I recall by Sour_Idealist (@souridealist). The basics of this fic is just “outdoor sex at a river” and it is delicious for that, but what I love about it in particular is this author’s Xue Yang voice. It’s always good (they are the genius behind the incredible Jiang Yanli/Xue Yang fic - no, really), and this is a fic I come back to a lot for that reason. I also love the tag “two characters experiencing two very different fics” which feels like a very apt description for the XueXiao dynamic, generally speaking.

Selenographia by lightningwaltz. A lovely, short-ish fic about the Yi City years. I don’t feel like I have a good description for this one - it’s just one of those beautiful character/moment portrait pieces, very well done.

Stories from A Lonely City by blackwatervial. A series of snapshots/vignettes from the three years in Yi City. Sweetness, bittersweetness, and of course, ultimately, a sad end. This was one of the first Yi City fics I read.

yi city depression hours by glueskin (series). Just. You know. Some feelings. There’s two fics in this one, both short character study type fics making me feel feelings.

a bird caught in this winter blizzard by cherriru. I do love a good grief/mourning fic, especially featuring someone realizing slowly the sheer miserable depths of their fuck-up. Aka, Xue Yang after Xiao Xingchen’s death. It’s just sad. 

all I ever knew of love by Sour_Idealist (@souridealist). See what I said above about the Xue Yang voice and this author; this one also featuring blistering hot porn (first time), a little light praise kink, and huddling for warmth as an excuse for sex. It’s a perfect blend of filth and tenderness and I love it.

revelations wallet wood burn art by Sectionladvivi. This one describes itself in the summary as “grim pwp” and yeah, that fits (and also! is such a XueXiao vibe, whoop whoop); it’s based off the simple premise of ‘Xue Yang tells Xiao Xingchen who he is, in the middle of sex.’ Honestly, one of my favorite things about this fic is the ending, which is horrifying in the best possible way.

Your Heart Inside My Hands by williamshooketh (@ectoplasm-james). This fic is fabulously made for me in the specific subgenre of “Xue Yang thinks he knows what he is getting into when having sex with Xiao Xingchen and, it turns out, does not.” This one featuring some of my favorite things including praise kink and Xue Yang getting extremely fucked up by someone being very nice to him.

Sleep Until the Sun Goes Down by spockandawe (@spockandawe). Love me some Xiao Xingchen seducing Xue Yang with candy. First time fic, second person POV, absolutely delightful.

pass the time by short_tandem_repeats (@yiling). A-Qing and Xue Yang bonding hours. I am actually such a sucker for their weird relationship (I don’t poke at it enough in my own stuff, should work on that) and the way they recognize each other in ways that Xiao Xingchen doesn’t, and also a-Qing having to reckon with the ways in which she’s more like Xue Yang than like Xiao Xingchen. Just a very good fic with a delightful a-Qing.

Three Springs by Verbana. Just a really excellent Xiao Xingchen POV of the three years in Yi City and a developing relationship between Xiao Xingchen and Xue Yang. Beautifully written, a lovely escalation, and I’m absolutely delighted by the gentle loneliness of the Xiao Xingchen POV here.

Red Azalea by CeNedraRiva (@cenedrariva) (WIP). A longfic in progress following the continuing adventures of the Yi City Crew after Xiao Xingchen survives his suicide attempt and Xue Yang reconsiders some life choices. Recently got tag-updated to SongXueXiao which has me absolutely thrilled. Updates every Wednesday.

ephemeral by im_krying (WIP). Xue Yang, traveling around wearing Xiao Xingchen’s face, decides it is time to go looking for the last remaining part of Xiao Xingchen that he doesn’t already possess. That is to say, the eyes in Song Lan’s head. I’m really curious where this is going - it smells up my alley at this point though it’s been a bit since the last update. 

Heaven Has a Road But No One Walks It by Silvestris (@silvysartfulness) (WIP). Things I love: beating on Xue Yang, SongXueXiao, terrible road trips, fix-its where there’s a lot of suffering involved. Things this fic has: all of the above. I’m in love.

MODERN AU

(There are other recs to this one but for various reasons (pwp reasons) triggered my self-consciousness slightly too much to put on this post. Go check my bookmarks, you’ll find stuff there.

Most of these are PWP to greater or lesser extents (Rewritten and Misalignment are, I’d say, the exceptions); all very hot and fantastically written.)

circling like vultures by brawlite (@brawlite) (series). Truly quality porn, featuring mostly Xue Yang/Song Lan both pining for Xiao Xingchen, which is a thing that it turns out I really like. The sex is rough and mean and I’m really into it. (Okay, mostly the sex in the first one is mean, the second one is actually XueYao, and the third one is actually verging on nice. Wow! Growth. Anyway, it’s all very good and very My Scene.

Rewritten by incendir (series). This series is like. Everything I want from a modern AU and that was true even before the most recent fic gifted me a beat up Xue Yang suffering, so you know. I don’t have a good summary for this series other than that it’s basically a married Song Lan and Xiao Xingchen adopting Xue Yang as a third partner and it’s just. So well done, such good writing, such good characterization, I would read 20,000 more words of this and probably still be hungry.

catalyst by Ajaxthegreat. If there is a porny fic I’ve reread more than this one, I’m not sure what it would be. I’ve reread this one a lot. It’s very good. It’s very hot. I’m trying not to be self-conscious. SongXueXiao first time rough sex and boy is it tasty.

biting the bullet by Sectionladvivi. Xiao Xingchen doesn’t want to have to choose between his two boyfriends and so he doesn’t. Sectionladvivi in general writes some very sexy modern au PWP (including a few different Xue Yang/Lan Wangji fics which...didn’t see that one coming! But it works when they do it), so general rec for author but this one (as, you know, SongXueXiao porn), is one of my favorites, probably. 

sxx configurations by rynleaf (series). This is a SongXueXiao series on AO3 based off of @kevinkevinson‘s modern reincarnation AU and I am in love with both the art for that AU (go look!) and these fics, they’re so good, I’ve reread several times. 

Misalignment by Kasasagi (WIP). The one with a reincarnated Xue Yang and a Xiao Xingchen who arrives in the modern world from the past, fresh off his suicide.

And Once Again, if I’m Allowed to Rec My Own Fic

a kindness you can’t afford. Early days in Yi City after Xue Yang wakes up.

lick your exit wounds. I wanted canonverse-era bottom Xue Yang praise kink, so I wrote it for myself in the hopes others would also find this an interesting prospect.

this place could be beautiful. Xue Yang vs. domestic living.

tear out all your tenderness. Xue Yang gets turned on by murder and makes it a project to get Xiao Xingchen to lose control.

the beauty of your repair. PWP, modern AU SongXueXiao; there’s not an inkling of plot here, it’s really just an excuse to get Xue Yang wrecked, but nicely.

[hongism]

mists of celeste ➻ three

➻ pairing: ??? x fem reader ➻ genre: space au, pirate au, space pirate!ateez, angst, eventual smut ➻ Word Count: 4.1k ➻ Rating: M ➻ Warnings: language, violence, guns and weaponry, blood, future warnings tba ➻ summary: Sneaking aboard the ship of a renowned space pirate may not have been the best idea, but you’ll have to make do with what fate has handed to you

⇐ previous | next ⇒

mists of celeste act one ➻ part three

​

"First order of business," Yunho starts as he gets up from his stool. "I need to run some basic scans on your arm to gauge the injury and infection. Then a full-body scan to see how far the infection has spread. How long have you had the injury?" He moves around the bed you're placed on with quick steps, a tablet in hand.

"Th-Three days," you stammer, watching him work. Spectre cuts in, and you almost forgot he was standing nearby with a brown belt in hand.

"Four days. Today is the fifth," he says. Yunho glances over at him, eyes wide in question.

"How do you know…?"

"She was on the bridge of the HMS Revenge. Considering that Hongjoong destroyed the ship four days ago, this is the only logical explanation." Spectre motions towards you with his head. "I noticed her on the second day, to be honest. I only wanted to see how long it would take for her to reveal herself. Until I saw the blood trails, at least."

"Ah yes, that makes sense." Yunho nods before bringing his tablet to hover over your arm. Blue light emits from the bottom of it, a faint stream of light that cascades over your bare skin.

Now that your military uniform has been stripped, you can see the injury better, although you don't particularly want to see it. It's bruised black and blue, blood all around the hole that is shiny and fresh. It oozes a bit still, although the liquid is not all red, and you're certain that it's the infection mixed in as well. Not something you would like to look at but the blue rays coming from Yunho's tablet are quite fascinating to watch as they dance over your arm. You don't feel the touch of the light; you can only see it as it moves as though on its own accord. Sure you've had injuries time and time again, but the treatment methods for them were never like this. No fancy tablets with strange lights. Although the military has always had a more traditional approach to everything they do.

"Hm. The bullet is in there pretty deep, huh? It… uh, it's in an awkward spot. The bullet tore right through your brachialis muscle along with a bit of your bicep. Moreso, the nerves all around the path of the bullet itself seem to be a bit fried? I doubt that makes any sense to you, but in layman's terms: two muscles have critical damage, and that's not something we can immediately fix. I can remove the bullet with an emergency operation to cut the arm open and take it out, which is the best course of action. The nerves can be… I'm not sure how to say this in a way that will make sense to you. Hm, well. The nerves can reconstruct themselves over time. When I do the surgery, I can help them along a little bit but I don't think it's needed. Nerves try to repair themselves by shrinking back and resting for a period of time. After the rest period, they grow back as they were. Muscles can do the same sort of thing but not in cases of extreme trauma. A muscle damaged in extreme trauma creates these gaps that are too large to fill on their own so scar tissue forms in the gaps as a way to compensate. Does that all make sense?"

"I have an infection-induced fever," you state. "I don't understand anything you're saying." Yunho raises his brows.

"I'll take that as a no." Yunho lifts the tablet higher and drags it through the air above your head all the way down to your feet. The blue rays conform to your body as they move, widening and contracting with the folds of your clothes. "San, could you do me another favor? I need you to go get Woo so I can have an assistant to run the operation."

"No, no, I can do it," Spectre answers with haste. His eyes dart between you and Yunho. "Woo won't be necessary. I can help you." Yunho stands up straight, pulling the tablet back to his chest one the light retracts from your body, and stares at San. He looks ready to argue about the topic but never opens his mouth to retort. Instead, he releases a deep sigh: a sign of relenting. San's lips quirk upwards into a small smile of victory.

"Fine. Get the anesthesia injection, a scalpel, tweezers, and gauze." Spectre turns away from the bed upon hearing the command. You watch him walk out the corner of your eye, thinking over Yunho's words.

"Anesthesia?" You repeat. "I thought you said you didn't want to use anesthesia on me."

"I didn't want to. But that was before I ran the scans and saw the extent of the damage to your muscle. I'm not getting this bullet out without trouble, so numbing it is pretty much the only comfort I can give you." 

"Wait San – the belt. I need it." San passes said object to Yunho by tossing it across the bed. Yunho folds it in half. "Here, you're going to want to bite down on this." He holds it out to you, and you take it between your teeth, glancing up at Yunho as you do. He then reaches around you to pick up the bottle of vodka from his table. "Please – well, please try not to jerk your arm while I do this."

Yunho grips your arm at the elbow, a small effort to keep you steady as he tips the bottle towards your wound. You clench your teeth around the leather belt before the alcohol even touches your skin. Anticipating the worst helps quite a bit, in fact, because the second the first drop of alcohol lands on the wound, you're screaming around the belt. If not for the death grip Yunho has on your elbow, you would be thrashing. It's the worst pain you've ever experienced. Far worse than being shot, far worse than burns or frostbite, hell even getting shot by a laser hurts less than the pain you're in at the moment. Yunho keeps the steady stream of alcohol going, flushing the wound out. The mix of blood, infection, and alcohol is causing a grotesque foaming mixture that drips from your arm to Yunho's hand and onto the bed.

"Hang in there, I'm almost done," Yunho mutters, voice barely audible behind your muffled screams. He continues pouring alcohol over the wound until it runs clear but the pain doesn't let up even after he stops. "See, that wasn't too bad!"

His cheery tone and optimism only make you want to punch him in the nose. Luckily for him, your punching arm is out of order at the moment and you're in so much pain that you can barely feel the limb. All you can do is spit the belt out. Yunho catches it before it hits your lap. He inspects the leather, a small laugh escaping his lips as he sees the indentations of your teeth along the belt. You all but bit through the leather on both sides.

"I hope you didn't like this belt too much, San," he calls to the man who stands on the other side of your bed. He's gathered the materials that Yunho asked for, all piled up with the other stack that Yunho already had.

"Oh, I didn't. Captain did though."

"You took this from Hongjoong?" Yunho asks, voice rising as he gapes at the other man. He grins like a Cheshire in response. "On god San, you're fucked if he finds out."

"That's why he won't find out. Can't miss something you forgot you had."

"That's not the way h—"

"Anyways." San passes the shot of anesthesia over to Yunho, interrupting his train of thought.

"Yea, yea. We need to work fast to get the anesthesia in so there's enough time for it to kick in and wear off before the 47 hours are up." Yunho takes the shot in one hand, his other hand squeezing around your elbow. He pokes at the skin a few times then presses so hard that you release a loud noise from the sudden pain. The needle enters your arm so quickly that you barely feel the pressure. Warmth is the only thing you feel for a moment, a cozy yet uncomfortable sensation that spreads down to your fingertips and all the way up your arm. "Okay, we'll need to give you a bit of time now. The anesthesia will take a bit to kick in, so in the meantime, I need to run an IV drip for dehydration. Just for putting some fluids back into your body that you've lost through all the sweating and vomiting. Not to mention you probably haven't had a lot of water in the past few days. I'll also do a drip later for narcotic painkillers once the anesthesia begins to wear off. Okay? All standard protocol for an operation like this, I promise."

"Let's just get it over with," you murmur back. He frowns at you, a small "okay" leaving his lips before he continues his work on you. 

The combination of your fever and the pain is bringing a piercing headache. You don't notice that Yunho moves around the bed until his hand reaches for your left arm. You yank it away as though burned. His eyes go wide at the forcefulness behind your action. A moment later though, he tries again, fingers closing around your wrist. You try to tug away but his grip is a bit too powerful this time and you fail to release your arm from his grasp.

"I need your uninjured arm for the IV. There's too much damage on your right arm to get these fluids into your bloodstream."

"Use my right arm or no arm at all," you hiss back. Your fingers clench into a tight fist, knuckles going white from the pressure.

"I already saw it," Yunho whispers. There is no point in whispering, as the room is silent aside from his voice, so San can hear the words as well. Still, you freeze. The tension leaves your arm and you let it fall limp in Yunho's grasp. "I'm sorry. I saw it when we were getting the uniform jacket off."

"Whatever," you say, looking away from the man. The plain, white wall before you is suddenly much more interesting. Despite the length of time that has passed since you received the brand, the memory always remains fresh. The sensation of searing hot metal being pressed against the inside of your wrist, the pain that resonated through your whole body, and the feeling of five pairs of eyes glued to you as you received the brand. It's all too real and present in your mind. Just the thought of someone seeing the brand is enough to send you headfirst into those memories.

"How… how did you get it?" The healer inquires. His voice is quiet again, no doubt hesitant and uncertain about asking the question. You barely feel the next needle that enters your arm.

"That's none of your business," you respond without looking his way.

"Yeah, you're right. I'm sorry for intruding. I'm just – just trying to make conversation to distract you from the pain."

"Well, talk about something else. Not my past."

"Understood." You catch sight of Yunho's small smirk out the corner of your eye. Despite your confusion, you decide against asking him about it and wait for him to contain what he's doing instead. He places small round patches on various points around your chest, deft fingers dipping under the fabric and back out without you even feeling it. "These are just for keeping an eye on your heart rate. It's good I checked too because your heart rate is awfully slow. Could be due to the infection or your body is trying to conserve. Normally I only see it this low if the patient is asleep though."

"Need anything else?" San asks. He steps forward, hands coming to rest on the foot of the bed.

"Not right now. I think we're – wait. Wait." The level of panic in Yunho's voice does not comfort you one bit. Especially when Spectre's face shares the same level of concern. "Something isn't right." Yunho swipes furiously at his tablet, fingers moving so quickly over the screen that you can't tell what he's trying to do. "She was shot in the arm… outer arm with no exit wound, the bullet still present in the brachialis muscle right against the humerus. Why does she have pneumothorax too?"

"English please?" San asks.

"Punctured lung. It's a punctured lung that could collapse at any minute. Yours looks to be a pinhole, meaning it's small and acute. You should recover just fine without any treatment if you were a healthy adult but there's a serious infection running through your blood and that means it could cause complications if not treated. More importantly, I can't do an emergency operation like this if your lungs aren't fully functional. I'd need to put you on an oxygen mask just on the off chance that your lung collapses during the surgery but a one percent chance is still a chance."

"What caused it? I haven't noticed anything." You try to sit up a bit to look at Yunho's tablet but he pulls it away before you have the chance.

"It depends on all sorts of factors. Do you know how long you've had a lung problem?"

"I didn't even know I had a lung problem," you retort.

"She's been on the ship four days, Yunho."

"Okay, okay. We can worry about that in a bit. I need to get the IV drip in now." You glance forward as Yunho approaches your arm with another long needle. San is blocking your line of sight. He doesn't look back at you; instead, his eyes are fixated on your arm, rather your wrist where the chain brand resides. Subconsciously, you turn your wrist away only to have Yunho resituate it again as he inserts the long needle.

"You're looking pretty pale again," San comments. You take a deep breath but find yourself unable to respond. All the white in the room begins to blur together. All the strength left in your body is ebbing away. "Yunho, she's looking pretty fucking pale!" The man's voice climbs in volume as his form blurs into nothingness. Yunho keeps working on your IV, securing the catheter and tubes with a piece of tape.

"Shit, hey. Hey. Hey, stay awake." Yunho reaches over, patting your face with his palm. You push him away with a weak shove as a wave of coughs overwhelms you.

"Is this normal? What do you need? What's wrong with her? What do we do?" San rambles. Yunho rubs at the skin between his brows as San speaks.

"Shut the fuck up, San. If Woo were here, he would know what to fucking do since he helps me ninety percent of the time." San leans forward, smacks Yunho's hands away from his face, and grabs hold of his collar.

"If you don't want my help, then you're on your own," San hisses as he yanks Yunho forward. A weak laugh escapes your lips.

"Do you all fight this often or am I just special?"

Yunho sighs at your half-hearted jab and pushes San off him. He reaches for his ear, beginning to speak again but this time it's not directed at San.

"Wooyoung to the med bay for emergency operation assistance." The moment his hand leaves his ear, San is back in his face.

"Call it off!" He yells. Yunho deflects San's anger with a surprising sense of calm.

"I'm not letting a girl die simply because you don't want him to be seen. The fact of the matter is you don't know what the hell you're doing so you're of no use to me."

"Your damn savior complex is going to be the end of everyone on this ship."

"Then we were doomed the minute I set foot on the ship. Wooyoung is the only one who knows how to help me conduct emergency operations and laser surgeries. You need to fuck off and let me do my damn job. It's my job to save people, no matter the cost. Yours is only to kill them. So, why don't you listen closely and hear the wheeze in her breaths? The sweat on her forehead? The residue from her arm? If I don't get to work quickly, then you'll have a body to haul out. Do you want to be responsible for her death?"

At those words, San stands down. He leans back and stands up straight ahead, the fury dropping from his features as he moves. He turns away from the bed but something in you causes you to lunge forward with a sudden bout of strength and catch his wrist. He glances down at you with widened eyes.

"Thank you… for – for saving my life." San's gaze softens. A smile almost crosses his lips but he stops it before it can show too much.

"I did nothing except prolong the inevitable," comes his response. The words are spoken in a cold and emotionless tone, much different from the tone he used with you previously, but you no longer have the strength to even think straight. Your hand falls away from San's wrist as you fall back against the bed. Yunho lets San leave the med bay without exchanging further words with him.

Instead, the healer finishes connecting all the IV tubes and fluid bags.

"You're probably going to pass out," he mutters, bending over you and resting his palm against your forehead. "We'll try our best to work quickly and keep you under during the operation, okay?" You can only nod against the pressure of his hand. He eases you further into the bed and makes sure you're flat against the mattress. The action is like the magic touch for you to fall unconscious. Before your vision goes completely black, you see a new form enter the med bay, one with tanned skin and hair that looks like coal and ash. You don't have the chance to look over the rest of his form before the darkness overtakes you.

✦          ✦          ✦

Waking up again takes far too much effort. Your whole body feels as though it's made of pure lead, and you can't even open your eyes easily. You can't recall what happened before you fell asleep or where you are; the confusion only grows further when you're finally able to crack your eyes open.

White. The color is all you see for a few moments before your vision clears up some. The brightness of your surroundings blinds you. You shift and push your head to the left. Wires and tubes are all around you, two lead to your arm and another to your face. You try to feel around but you aren't able to; the strength hasn't completely returned to your body. All you can do is move your head from side to side for the time being. You check your other arm. There's a large white bandage wrapped around your bicep and you can't recall what's underneath it.

The clink of metal distracts you. It resounds from somewhere in front of you, and as you twist to look in that direction. A man with tan skin stands near a sink. You peer at him. Something about his figure seems familiar but you can't place it. Seeing him brings reality back to you, however, and you recall how you got here, a Cheshire cat finding you in a crate, the gentle giant healer who helped you.

"Wh-Where am – where am I?" You stammer out, voice cracking and hoarse as you try to talk. The man jumps at the sound of your voice. He drops what he's doing and turns towards you, eyes wide and curious as he looks over at you. Now that you're more awake, you can see more clearly and get a better look at the person with you. Besides the caramel tan, he bears dark hair that's almost black but not quite. The color is more between silver and grey but the color of his hair is the least interesting thing about him. There is a metal collar around his neck, a thick block that stands out against his skin, and you peer at it in curiosity. A collar? I don't… You don't have time to look at him, however, because he's rushing towards you a second later.

"Oh, you're awake!" He chirps as he comes closer to your bedside. "You're aboard The Horizon, ship belonging to Captain Kim Hongjoong. I'm not sure whether you remember it, but you were awake for a little while before the surgery." At his words, vague memories of a healer and a man with a strip of white hair float to the forefront of your mind. "You had a pretty awful fever though so it might be a bit hard to remember. Yunho – the healer, if you remember him – patched up the pinhole in your lung and kept it from collapsing with quick laser surgery. We also removed the bullet in your arm and drained the infection. He patched it up with stitches as best he could. He said that it was hard to close without some skin grafting, but he didn't want to do that so he just closed it without the extra graft."

"How – hold on, how long have I been here?" You ask. The sudden barrage of information catches you off-guard. You're still waking up, brain not coming back to full functionality, yet this man doesn't seem to care about that one bit. 

"Oh! Hm, I think you've been on the ship for maybe a total of seven days? If you include the first four stowaway days, that is. Otherwise, you've been asleep for three days."

"72 hours," you mutter to yourself. You remember something about the captain telling Yunho that he only had a certain amount of time to fix you.

"Sorry? I didn't quite catch that."

"72 hours… but the captain gave Yunho 48 hours to fix me."

"47 actually!" The man corrects with a bright and blinding smile, his teeth shining under the yellow light above your heads. "Captain only gave 47 hours to fix you, but it only took Yunho 17 so."

"Wh—What do you mean?"

"We were up for 17 hours trying to fix you up. Captain was impressed at Yunho's speed so he said that you could have extra recovery time. Oh, if you pretend to still be resting, you could get longer recovery time!"

"Why is everything in this room so damn white?" You mutter as you push yourself into a sitting position. The man shakes his head.

"No, no, no! You shouldn't get up!"

"Why not?" You protest, swinging your legs over the edge of the bed. "I'm fine, I feel fine, and nothing is going to rupture. Laser surgery doesn't leave tears or stitches either so it doesn't matter."

"No!" The man argues, voice climbing in volume. You blink up at him, eyes wide from the sudden outburst. "Yunho told me not to let you leave, and I won't go against what Yunho wants. If he says you stay here, then you stay here."

"This is ridiculous. Now I'm being kept here against my will? Am I a captive now?" You scoff as you continue to get to your feet. The man moves with surprising haste. He leans across the space in front of you, snatches up something from the table, then grabs your head. You try to fight back but he has already caught you and overwhelmed you. Something sharp pierces your neck. You cry out at the pressure but waves of warmth wash over you next. You stumble backward when he releases his hold on you. The backs of your knees hit the edge of the bed and you fall back onto the mattress as your strength leaves your body again. 

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry but I had to do it. I won't go against what Yunho says." His voice sounds somewhat remorseful. You're losing consciousness so fast that the world spins around you and as you glance over at his hand, you spot a large shot. You'd recognize that almost anywhere. The military use them religiously, a typical weapon that you would brandish when dealing with insurgent civilians. High grade emergency sedative shots.

"Y-You…" You can't finish the sentence before the exhaustion overwhelms you and you pass out yet again.

✧  ✧  ✧

a/n: hello hello it’s that time~ new chapter! i hope you all enjoy it! please let me know what you think so far and what your fav part has been or anything about the story!! i know things are moving rather slowly at the moment bUT i promise it’ll pick up in the coming chapters, we just gotta get through this ish first !!

consider sending me a ko-fi!!

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

[set-phasers-to-whump]

field surgery

prompt: field surgery

whumpee: kurt wallander

fandom: young wallander

here is another surprise unplanned young wallander fic!!! i didn’t feel like doing what i had planned and was dreading writing this even tho i love field medicine and i thought ok ill do kurt and then the story just...went. love when that happens. anyway i suppose this is a liberal definition of field surgery taken to mean any kind of field medicine. no actual surgery here. 

He and Rask are at the home of a suspect, on the edge of the woods. It’s nothing but trees for miles around, and Kurt can’t help feeling like this place is creepy as he knocks on the door.

Or, if not creepy, then apparently dangerous. A door slams from the rear of the house, and Kurt and Rask rush to the source of the noise of their suspect getting away, jumping over a small fence just in time to see the suspect fleeing into the woods, aiming back at them with a gun. 

Both of their hands reach for their weapons, but not before the suspect gets a shot out. It’s desperate and wild, and the two police take no time in continuing their pursuit. 

There’s a split second in there where Kurt feels like something’s hit him and almost stops running before quickly getting himself together. He’d probably kicked up a rock. 

He picks up his pace as the suspect disappears into a thick patch of trees, flat out sprinting now. Rask’s racing close along behind him, and he hears her curse over the wind rushing in his ears. 

“No signal!” she shouts to him. “No backup!” 

“Okay!” he yells back, pushing himself even further. They can get the suspect, just the two of them. He’s certain of that.

And certainly they would have been able to get their suspect, but Kurt suddenly trips over a log and hits the ground hard, and then Rask tries to sidestep him but stumbles too, and by the time they both get back to their feet, the suspect is nowhere to be found. Kurt’s about to set off running again, desperate now to catch them, when Rask’s hand grabs his arm firmly, preventing him from moving. 

“You’re bleeding,” she says, and he doesn’t even bother to look. 

“I fell,” he says. He’d be more shocked if he wasn’t bleeding somewhere, honestly. 

“No, Kurt. You’re bleeding.” She gestures to his stomach, and he looks down. 

His entire stomach is covered in blood and smeared with dirt from where he’d fallen. If he looks closely, he can discern a hole in his shirt, and if he looks even more closely, he can see the hole extending into himself. 

He’s been shot. 

The second he realizes that, Kurt feels his legs give out from under him, and suddenly he’s sinking to the ground, saved from flat-out collapsing by Rask’s arms around him, guiding him down to sit on the ground. 

He hadn’t felt it before. He’d been running before, distracted, moving. But now that his attention’s been drawn to it, now that he’s seen it, now that he’s not moving, has nothing on his mind but it, it hurts. He presses a hand to it out of instinct, feeling warm blood coat his fingers, barely registering the feeling of the pressure amongst everything else. There’s so much blood. 

Rask takes off her jacket, crouching in front of him. She balls it up and then takes his hand, pulling it away from his stomach. At first he doesn’t understand, tries to pull away and keep protecting himself, but eventually she gets his hand out of the way and presses the jacket into his stomach. 

Whether it’s the unexpected change or the fact that it’s not him who’s in control of it, something about the feeling of the jacket being pressed to him makes the wound scream in a way it hadn’t with his own hand covering it. He bites down hard on his bottom lip to stop himself from screaming, tears welling in his eyes. He looks down at the jacket, held firmly in Rask’s bloody hand, and wonders whether he’s dying. 

Rask’s other hand is occupied with her phone, and then it isn’t. She tosses it to the ground with an angry noise that makes Kurt very worried.

“Still no service,” she mutters, more to herself than to him. “We’re going to have to get ourselves out of here.”

Even in his current slightly-out-of-it condition, Kurt recognizes that this seems like a bad idea. Right now, for as much pain as he’s in, for as much blood as is coming out of him, it’s better than it will be if he’s moving. 

Rask, though, apparently knows this as well, because she makes no move to get up. Instead, with her free hand, she pushes Kurt down to the ground until he’s lying flat on his back. She grabs his legs and stretches them out in front of him, lifting them up to place a small log underneath his back. 

He knows this is in an attempt to elevate the gunshot wound above his heart and hopefully make him lose less blood, but it’s horribly uncomfortable and puts a weird kind of pressure on the wound. It does seem to slow the bleeding marginally, though, so he doesn’t ask her to get rid of it. 

“You’re not walking out of here,” Rask says, which Kurt thinks is rather obvious. “And I don’t think we could make it all the way out of here before you’d have lost too much blood.” 

And probably died, Kurt fills in in his head. He doesn’t want to die. 

“I don’t want to die.”

“You’re not going to die,” she tells him, and presses down harder on the jacket. 

“Are you sure?” he asks, because right now dying seems like the most logical outcome of this. 

“You’re not bleeding massively, so the bullet probably didn’t hit an artery, and anyway, I have an idea.”

“What?”

“You’re not going to like it.”

“If it stops me from dying, then yes, I will,” Kurt insists. He’d get shot again, right now, he thinks, if it meant he wouldn’t die. 

“Okay, but fair warning, it’s going to hurt.”

“More than getting shot?” he asks, half joking. 

“Possibly.”

That definitely does not inspire confidence. Kurt feels his hands start to shake where they’re balled into fists at his sides, anticipating the pain already. 

Rask grabs one of his shaking hands and uncurls it, then presses it firmly atop her own on the jacket. He wonders why she’s done that for a second, and then she lets go of the jacket altogether. It slips from his grasp for just a second, and then he’s pressing it back down, weirdly grateful to be in control of its pressure again. 

Rask stands up, and for a horrible second Kurt wonders if she’s going to leave, but she just sticks her hands into her pants pockets and pulls out a rather large pocketknife and a box of matches. 

He has a terrible feeling that he knows where this is going, and he instinctively shuts his eyes against it, though nothing has happened yet. It will, though, he knows. It has to, if he wants to not bleed out in the middle of the woods. 

“I assume you know what I’m going to do?” Rask asks him, kneeling down next to him. He nods and takes a shaky breath. 

“Good. Just hold on.”

He resolutely keeps his eyes shut as he hears her strike a match, hears a flame whoosh, feels the heat of a small fire. He shivers, feeling his heart pound, inevitably forcing yet more blood out of him. He just wants this to be over…

There’s a rustling sound, as of someone taking off their shirt, and then a tearing of fabric. 

“This is probably not going to taste very pleasant, but it’ll at least give you something to bite down on,” Rask says, and Kurt knows exactly what she’s doing, knows it’s almost time for this to happen. He opens his mouth and bites down on the rolled-up shirt, imagining Rask running the blade of the knife through the flames until it glows red-hot…

She grabs ahold of his hand and gently lifts it away from his stomach, the jacket still in his fist. He feels the wound leak more blood at its removal and wishes he could put it back. There’s no chance of that happening, though. 

Rask then lifts the hem of his t-shirt, and he feels it pull away from his skin very slowly, tacky with blood. A scrap of fabric - what he’d heard tearing, Kurt thinks - passes over the wound, though he can’t imagine it does much given how much blood he knows there is. It feels incredibly uncomfortable against his skin, but he tries to focus on that feeling, preparing for it to get much worse. 

His hands are both back on the ground now, again balled up into shaking fists. He feels Rask grab one, gently uncurl the fingers, and hold on tight.

“Three, two -”

On two, there’s a searing hot pain on his stomach, and he screams into the cloth, body writhing instinctively to try and escape the pain. He feels the edge of the knife press into him again and again, and screams until his throat is too scratchy to make any real noise at all. He wants to pass out, wants desperately for this to stop, but it doesn’t. The pain goes on and on and on, burning into him. 

The pain never stops, but eventually it dies down enough that Kurt begins to become aware of other things. His throat hurts. His face is tacky with teats. His right palm burns from cuts made by his nails pressing into it. His left hand is still holding onto Rask’s, just as tightly, and he lets go abruptly. Very slowly, he opens his eyes. 

“It’s over,” Rask tells him. “The worst part is over now.”

He’s too exhausted to nod, and the cloth in his mouth prevents any verbal agreement (not that the scratchiness in his throat would have made that easy, anyway), so he just kind of shudders out a breath in response, and again squeezes his eyes shut. 

She pulls the cloth out of his mouth, and must tear it further, because after a second she wraps a strip of fabric around his stomach and ties it. He feels it press uncomfortably into his freshly-cauterized wound, but he barely reacts to the pain. 

He hears the pocketknife close with a snap, hears Rask smother the fire with something, and wonders what’s going to happen now. He doesn’t think he can stand, let alone walk.

Not that he needs to do any of those things. Rask picks him up, incredibly gently so that it barely hurts at all. She holds onto him tightly, one arm behind his shoulders and the other under his knees, and begins walking. Kurt shivers involuntarily in her arms as a breeze kicks up, sending cold air rushing over his body. 

“I’d give you my jacket if it weren’t already soaked in blood. Or my shirt, if it weren’t torn up into three pieces.”

“Sorry,” Kurt mumbles, voice scratchy and painful and quiet. He shivers again and presses himself closer to her.

“What are you sorry for? You’re the one who’s cold,” Rask points out. “I’m sorry I didn’t wear more layers today. All I’ve got left to offer is a t-shirt, which is exactly what you’ve got.”

“Yours...is less bloody,” Kurt says, his voice now so quiet he wonders whether he’s actually spoken aloud. Her shirt must be less bloody than his, he figures. His is absolutely soaked in blood, drying rapidly now in the cool air, sticking to his skin.

“It still is bloody,” Rask promises. “You’re bloody, and I’m carrying you.”

He nods slightly, lacking the energy and physical ability to speak any further.

Rask sighs. “You’ll just have to get me a new one when you get out of the hospital.”

Kurt supposes he’d spend all the money he’s got to buy her some new non-blood-soaked shirts. It’s the least he can do in thanks for her saving his life. Which she’s done, he realizes, as he sees flashing lights through his closed eyelids. 

“Wh-”

“There you are,” Kurt hears someone say, followed closely by, “shit. Medics!” 

He keeps his eyes firmly closed as he feels himself be laid down onto the familiar material of a stretcher, feels himself move, hears doors slam and a siren start. 

“You’ll be okay,” he hears Rask say from somewhere next to him, her voice leaving no room for him to doubt the truth of her statement. 

He’s going to be okay. That reassurance is enough for his body to finally stop fighting against the pain. He passes out before they even give him any drugs, knowing that he’ll wake up alive.

thanks for reading!!!! i had a lot of fun writing this and i hope you liked it!!!

[atqh16]

Take My Hand (Say You Need Me Still)

A Daredevil Fic (Matt/Foggy, Girl!Foggy. Pre-Slash)

Summary : Look, getting shot is just the New York experience. You haven’t lived unless you’ve been held at gunpoint at least once. And if you save someone doing it? Hey, bonus!

AO3

Foggy will very openly admit that it was actually a really stupid thing to do. Matt will be downright furious when he finds out. If she makes it out of this alive she’s not keen on facing down the utterly hypocritical wrath of her best friend. She’s pretty sure Karen would defend her which is a nice thought to dwell on.

After Karen had told her about what happened with Wesley, it was like a wall had broken down between them. Suddenly she was so much more relaxed, open. She didn’t look like she was going to throw up every time Foggy talked about how ridiculously admirable albeit stupid she was to insist on constantly putting her life in danger to chase a good story (Lois Lane would be proud).

You’d think Foggy would get a break with having to deal with only one dangerously reckless best friend but apparently life felt that she deserved to handle two

She wouldn’t change a thing.

Though she feels that its incredibly ironic how she finds herself to be the one bleeding out from a bullet wound at the Police Precinct after daring to step in front of a mook with a gun. In her defense it was either her or the 8 month old pregnant lady and really was that much of a choice?

Marci would be really pissed at her too if she ever found out about this even if they've split up for almost 6 months now. That is if she ever found out from where she’s staying in Los Angeles. Knowing how much of a tattle tale Matt is, she’d probably find out. No Foggy Bear this time. Probably just an ass whooping in the form of a chilling reprimand that only serves to remind Foggy how much Marci really cares. Especially since this is the third time she’s gotten hurt in almost 5 years. Must be a record. 

Maybe this is the universes way of helping her make up for the fact that she can't be out there in the thick of danger the same way her partners are. She’s not planning on making it a habit because this fucking hurts and the pregnant lady clumsily putting too much pressure on her stomach isn’t helping with that. She bites back a laugh at a sudden random thought that maybe her abdominal fat played a useful role for once and managed to absorb most of the bullets impact as opposed to her vital organs

She’s not brave she knows. Not in the same way Karen and Matt are. She can't even manage to take a bullet without crying because again, it fucking burns. But at the very least she’s comforted knowing neither Matt nor Karen are the ones bleeding out this time.

It’s a soothing thought and it helps that she’s starting to feel numb. There's a faint troubling nudge at the edge of her mine that she's sure is panic at this. Something about how it might be because she’s losing too much blood, she's going into shock. But the feeling is such a welcome compared to the overwhelming sting from before.

Charlotte -the pregnant lady- is saying something. Mouth moving, loud enough that Foggy can register the sound but her brain is filled with too much fuzz to actually tell what she’s saying.

Either way it doesn’t seem to matter. She’s just surprised she doesn’t feel more scared than she is. Her last thought is maybe that’s a cause for concern but really she can’t find it in herself to care. It occurs to her maybe that’s worse

*

*

*

*

*

“What the hell were you thinking Foggy?”

Foggy raises her eyebrows, actually impressed. Matt managed to hold off his furious outburst for five days after she woke up from her short induced coma – “It was two days Matt. Relax”, “You were intubated  Foggy. You were in the ICU. Don’t tell me to calm down” – and really it’s a full five days more than she’d expected.

“I’m confused. Was I supposed to let the guy put a bullet through our very nice pregnant client?”

“You were supposed to let the police do their job”

“Right, the very understaffed policemen on duty at the station that included the guy who put me in the cell with our client in the first place”

“Why were you arrested again?”, Karen interjected and Foggy doesn’t miss how it was a cautious attempt to drain the heat out of the conversation.

“Obstruction of justice, or so the very hot headed rookie claimed. I wouldn’t let him do an extensive drug search on my lovely cellmate and told him to get a female cop to do it.”

“Where was Brett?”

“He was at the drug bust at the pier with me. I called him there”, it’s Matt’s turn to explain. There's a hint of guilt in his voice and while Foggy doesn’t agree for it to be there, she finds it the perfect moment to throw in another excuse.

“To be fair, I did call both of you to bail me out.”

Karen looks a bit red in the face. Coughing loudly before she says, “I was under cover. At the Irish Parlor”

The angry flush in Matt’s cheeks seem to redden even more “The Parlor Mob ?! Karen….”

“I was with Jessica! Relax, Matt.”

There’s a short moment where Matt seems to have more to protest but instead, “At least one of you has some common sense”

“OK, now you’re just being a hypocritical asshole”, Foggy retorts, rolling her eyes.

“You should’ve waited for back up! For Brett or even me-“

“And what? I don’t think you understand when I say this guy had a gun aimed at our pregnant client and was ready to shoot her point blank any second. God knows why”

“I Don’t… Its just… I.. “, words seem to have tied his tongue into a knot and Karen immediately understands it as her cue to leave.

“I think I’m gonna get some coffee. Have to talk to Jess. She actually asked about you Foggy”, Karen says. Providing an entertained smirk.

“Yeah well after all the times I kept her out of Jail I hope she does”, Foggy replies but there's no heat in it. Only a fondness that surprises even her.

“Tell her I said Hi, and tell her she still owes me my retainer”

Karen lets out a laugh but she doesn’t say anything else. She gives a soft peck on the side of Foggy's head before leaving. The sole of her sneakers  pad softly on the linoleum floor until she probably turns a corner after which Matt seems to be satisfied that she’s properly out of earshot.

Foggy raises an eyebrow that she knows Matt can’t see but she trusts her tone conveys her expectation for Matt to continue,“You were saying?”, she prods. Curt.

Matt’s hands are on his hips. A classic Murdock stance the few times he finds his clever tongue has failed him. Shuffling back and forth before taking a deep breath and - “You’re not suppose to get hurt. I know-“ He raises a palm to qualm his best friends protest “- it’s hypocritical of me. I know. But you’re meant to be safe Fog. Karen… I can’t stop her. No matter what I do. I’ve accepted that-“

“Like I’ve accepted the same thing about you?”

“It’s different fog!”, Matts voice is weighted with frustration and he’s gritting his teeth the way he always does when he’s trying to hold back from snapping.

"Matt, breath. I promise I'm not gonna make a habit out of this. I don't think my health insurance can take it. It's going to be hell to get them to cover my third hospital visit in 5 years. I'm pretty sure they're thinking about cancelling my contract at this very moment"

"Leave that to me", there's a challenging snarl in the undertone of Matt's voice - glad to have something else to direct his frustration at - that has something balloon all warm in Foggy's chest.

It's not that Matt has never showed off his protective streak before. She remembers how he reduced one of their classmates to tears in a debate when he found out they'd called her a fat fag at a party a few days before. Which frankly is not the worse she's been called and is just insultingly unoriginal. But it still makes something flutter fondly inside her at the unofficial confirmation of how much Matt still cares.

There hasn't been a lot of that going around lately what with Matt being stretched thin with Daredevil and a new gang trying to claim the territory Fisk had left behind. There hadn't been anything else that could take priority. Which, Foggy truly doesn't begrudge.

But she lost her best friend for months. Thought he was dead. She just got him back. Is it selfish for her to want him for herself for once?

He hasn't just been hers for a very long time now. Which, again, understandable. Matt's a fully independent adult, not an object to own. But she used to be able to hold his attention a lot more than she does now. A part of her knows its not because of her, but years of high school bullying have buried a vindictive voice in her head, constantly trying to convince her that its because she's just not important. Not enough.

Which again is so self-absorbed that she internally cringes every time it comes up. Still, to admit that it doesn't gnaw at her self-esteem would be a lie. Which is why she absolutely refused to raise the issue with her walking, talking lie-detector of a best friend.

She distracted herself with their workload. Both hers and Matts because she hadn't suggested they reopen their firm without knowing exactly what to expect. Not that Matt hadn't pulled his weight. The info he'd gotten for some of their cases as Daredevil was invaluable which is sort of important when their rinky dink little firm absolutely did not have the budget for a private investigator. There's only so many times Foggy can call Jess in for a favor before risking her busting his door down and throwing their office phone out the window.

Which, ok yeah that's not fair. Jess is a drunk asshole but she's not a bitch. Big difference. There would definitely be some empty threats and cussing colourful enough to make a sailor blush. But nothing worse.

So Foggy had done what she could and carried what she could. Which is why when their most recent client had called her from jail in a tearful panic, Foggy hadn't hesitated to rub the lethargy out of her eyes before making her way down to the precinct.

How could she have known that a cop - their clients ex, she'd been told - would pull out a gun on them both? She'd done her best to distract and try to diffuse the situation till one of the other cups could tackle the maniac. But he'd been a lot more trigger happy than any of them expected. Pushing their client out of the way had been instinct. It's not like she had purposely let the bullet hit her. She was just slow. Sue her. Her reflexes aren't that great.

But is it bad that she was having fun basking in Matt's attention right now? Matt mother henning her, from adjusting the position of her bed to chiding her into drinking more water (This is the third glass Matt. Anymore and my bladder is going to burst") to even fluffing her pillow.

Unfortunately she doesn't get to enjoy it for long because despite what waking up from a very long sleep would suggest, she still feels exhausted. The pain-killers are weighing her limbs down and the filter between her brain and her mouth has turned from a sieve to a funnel and she doesn't really want to say anything she's going to regret. Not anything bitter or sharp. Just thoughts. Feelings. Things that she's not ready to face, let alone voice.

But she can't stop the warmth rising in her cheeks when Matt lifts a hand to her temple to push some stray strands behind her ear ("It's growing out", "I like it. It's more you", "Not very professional though", "Avocados don't follow society's idea of professionalism", "Well you got me there"). Or from curling her fingers around his hand when he grips hers between both of his, brought up to his lips as if in prayer.

Matt has never been able properly look at her of course. Hello! Blind! But even with his radar senses, the lack of use of his eyes and the presence of his glasses make it so that he never really bothers to adjust his pupils to give the illusion of eye contact. It took some effort and time but after a while she managed to learn how to read her best friend from his body language and the simple way he moved to communicate what he couldn't or wouldn't say.

From the difference between a fake laugh and a genuine one to the way he tilts his head when you had his full attention. How he stiffens when he's annoyed or pissed. The disparity of a toothy smile and a open lipped snarl.

Foggy knows her best friend. Has spent 10 years collecting bits and pieces of him and while Matt might disagree with the image Foggy has formed of him in her mind, Foggy refuses to budge on it. Matt insists that he's built with the devil under his skin and a fury that burns with it. Contrary to Matt's belief, Foggy has always seen and known that part of Matt existed. Its just, to Foggy, they didn't hide what laid underneath. The empathy and kindness that curled like roots from which all Matt's actions rose from. From pushing an old man out of the way of a speeding truck to starting a firm that barely earned pennies for the sake of helping the innocent to even his need to stalk the night with nothing but a cotton shirt protecting him from harm.

So foggy knows. She knows how Matt acts when he's around his friends. When he's around potential hook ups and even when he was with Elektra. Loath as Foggy was to see it.

But right here, right now, there's something different in the way Matt is moving. Something tender. His thumb swirling circles on the back of her hand. His lips brush over her knuckles. Chapped and rough but the kiss he leaves on them is lingering and hot from his breath.

Even as her eyes droop, Foggy's heart drums a furious beat that threatens to burst through her ribs.

"Matty?", Foggy barely manages to get his name out. So tired, blackness already easing her away from him. She feels more then see's one of Matt's hands gliding down to clasp her wrist while the other pulls hers closer to rest his cheek on the back of it.

"Sleep Foggy. We'll talk when you wake up"

She does and this time, nothing hurts.

[wild-flower-art]

The Old Guard- Andy x Reader (F/F)

This started off as a weird dream and I had to jot it down...I was inspired and started writing a chapter 2. If y’all like this I might post the 2nd chapter. I’ve never written a fanfic before, so any constructive criticism is welcome! (I’ll probably name this if it gains traction)  Enjoy! 

The Old Guard- Chapter 1: What the Fuck Did I Just Get Myself Into? (first-person POV-- 1,434 word count)

This isn’t how I pictured my Thursday evening to go. I was supposed to have a chill night at home, with some tequila, take out, and a bad yet so good sci-fi b-movie.  With blood caking my shirt, writhing in pain as the synapses shoot off pain between neurons like fireworks, yup, this is DEFINITELY not how I pictured my night to go.

I’m going in and out of consciousness, but all the while I’m aware of a few things going on around me. The sound of bullets leaving barrels and hitting bodies and cement blocks. Blades slicing flesh. The sound of men and women yelling, some in anger, others in pain. But the main thing I keep focusing on is the sight of a woman, crouched down next to me, her hand pressed firmly on my diaphragm, trying in vain to keep my blood inside my body. How is she shooting at these people with such precision?

“Guys a little help here! She’s not gonna make it!” She turns to me with something that looks like concern painted over clear eyes, making her forehead scrunch up. “Why did you do that, you stupid girl?”

Why did I do- oh….right. I jumped in front of her. I heard a fight break out, I was trying to get civilians out of the way of bullets. I saw a goon point a gun at this woman who had been helping me get people out of the way, and I jumped in front without thinking. (Y/N), you fucking idiot. What are you gonna do now that you’re bleeding out on the floor? You sure as hell can’t watch that bad b-movie anymore, that’s what you’re NOT gonna do. Oh fuck, it’s going black again and my hearing is becoming more muffled. Is this it? After all I’ve been through, this is how the universe if getting me to finally die? Could be worse….god she’s stunning.

*everything goes black*

I’m in a basement in my firefighter suit, trying to get to the cries for help I keep hearing. The further into the basement I go, the further away the screams become and the darker and smokier the room becomes until the flames consume me. I can hear myself breathing heavily, shaking….shaking….shaking….

I’m jolted awake, sweat covering my face and neck…where the hell am I? And who’s hands are squeezing my arms? Another beautiful woman? Am I in heaven? I move to speak, but she stops me “Hey hey it’s okay. You’re gonna be okay. Just don’t move.” She gets up to leave and I’m left in this bed by myself. It’s a semi-comfortable bed, the walls around me look like they’re rock? Cement? I don’t know, there’s not much lighting other than a few candles that are lit and a light coming in from under the door from which the woman stepped out of. I see black figures moving underneath…who are they? Are they gonna hurt me? Before I can start trying to answer my own questions, the door opens gently, revealing the woman who was just over me, shaking me awake, with her hair slicked back into cornrows revealing a beautiful young face. Behind her are two men, walking tightly close to each other…are they holding hands? Right behind them is the woman who I jumped in front of, whose hand was covered in my blood. She looks so relieved yet angry….or is that fear I see?

They come rushing in to check on me, but they keep their distance. They look awkwardly at me like they don’t know what to do with themselves. The one who steps up is the youngest looking of the group, the woman who had been over me just a moment ago. “Hey, you’re safe now. My name is Nile. We’re here to help you.” She starts toward the bandages over my diaphragm, but then stops suddenly when she sees my muscles twitch. She looks up at me questioningly, nonverbally asking for permission to touch the bandages. I nod after a beat, bracing myself for the pain I know I’m about to feel. I try to look anywhere but where she’s touching, out of sight out of mind kind of thing. I’m clenching my jaw, probably on the verge of cracking my teeth, and looking up at the ceiling. That starts losing its appeal and my eyes wonder over to the people looking over Nile’s shoulder paying close attention to what she’s doing, taking mental notes. The two who are closest to Nile in proximity are two men; one with curly hair and a darker complexion compared to his counterpart, who is holding him tightly by the hand, his thumb rubbing over the other’s knuckles.

The woman behind them is looking on, quite pale, and with cuts littering her face. She looks uneasy, but also intimidatingly gorgeous and stoic. She’s smaller in stature compared to the other two gentlemen, so just south of 6 ft? Her angular dark haircut only adding to the severeness of her eyes, leaving nothing soft about her. Before I can shift my eyes to avoid being seen gawking at her, she moves her icy blue eyes from the bandages to my (E/C) ones. Something close to sorrow flashes in her eyes. The softness is alarming, but just as quickly as it appears it leaves her face. She turns her attention back towards my bandages, which are just about done being wrapped up. It still hurt, no matter how much I was trying to distract myself. Nile and the two men behind her admire her handy work. I’m trying not to cry from the throbbing, hot pain radiating from my upper abdomen, and I’m trying not to look at the woman behind them so as not to make it awkward. She’s the protector of them, I can tell. How she’s hovering over them like a hawk, wide eyed and alert.

Before I can ask any questions, the two men behind Nile finally realize a person is attached to the bandages and introduce themselves. “I apologize for staring, my name is Joe, and this right here is Nicky.”, he says so lovingly, with his hand lightly squeezing the back of Nicky’s neck. It’s quite beautiful. It makes me feel mushy inside. Nicky nods at me and smiles, I smile back and reply, “I’m (Y/N). Thank you for looking after me…but where am I?” Nicky replies, “No, it is us who should be thanking you for--“, before he can finish his response the woman behind him interjects. “You are at our safe house. We will keep you safe here while you recover, but it would be in your best interest to leave as soon as you are better.” Joe and Nicky look back at her and start speaking in what sounds like Italian, “Non possiamo lasciarla andare senza una spiegazione, Andy.” “Che cosa?...”, she bites back, her voice lowering as she continues. I speak a little Spanish, but in her hushed and rushed biting tone, it was hard to understand her, but I know she was disagreeing with what they had just said.

I sense tension and move to sit up. “I shouldn’t stay here longer than I have to.” Nile moves to get some pillows propped up behind my back. “That’s not necessary, you’ll stay here as long as it takes. We can’t risk you getting hurt or worse if we could’ve prevented it. You need fluids, I’ll be right back.” As she leaves she throws a glance to the other three who are arguing in a hushed tone. I’m too tired to try and eaves drop and understand what they’re saying. It’s obvious I’m not wanted here for too long, so in a day or so when I’m feeling better I’ll just leave in the middle of the night or something. Nile comes back with some water, some slices of bread, and fruit. “I don’t know how hungry you are, but you should try to eat something.” “Thank you”, I nod. “We’ll leave this door closed for some privacy, but open just enough so you can holler if you need anything.” She, Joe, and Nicky all smile at me and turn to walk out. The woman I saved stays behind for a moment and awkwardly hovers over the corner of the bed, her eyebrows furrowing as she’s contemplating on doing or saying something.

Finally, she speaks, “I’m Andromache, but you can call me Andy.”, and with that she moves swiftly out of the room, almost without sound.

What the fuck did I just get myself into?

[sleepypeaky]

amore?

michael gray x italian american male reader

wc: 1.5k

warnings: mentions of death, scars, you know the drill

request: My gay italian ass self would LOVE a Micheal Gray fic, but like, not sure he would like a guy who's italian after that fucking Luca incident.. and I dont know if you write for mlm..

a/n:  I hope you enjoy! idk why i made it so long but when i get a plot in my head i mean,,,,,

also i always try not to describe the readers features so everyone can be represented and i full mean for that when i say early on that michael sees him as italian. I personally dont look italian besides my nose- somehow the like 2% irish overrided it- so obviously this is a little off but i didnt know where to fix it

1927

Michael sat in his desk chair facing the window.

He was in New York City, he was the head of this branch of the company.

But he still felt like something was missing. Naturally, part of that feeling was from the fact that he had been exiled from his home. But the other was something else, boredom maybe, depression, loneliness. 

He sighed and turned back to his desk, where his meetings planner was open to the days page. 

His first meeting was a clandestine one, booked under a guise of what it really was. It was always intriguing, Michael thought, running a company that was a front. 

What he knew of this client was they were attached to one of the city’s hundreds of speakeasies, what these prohibition inhibited Americans called their secret pubs. And he assumed the client was coming to purchase some quality booze from the Shelby Company Limited.

What he he didn’t expect was who they were going to send. 

Normally the heads of the pubs sent someone to broker the deal in their place, a tall weasel faced man usually, who reeked of alcohol from every pore. 

Instead, when his secretary opened the door, an incredibly striking Italian lad strode through.

-

You weren’t expecting to see a man like that behind the desk. You figured it’d be some slimy old guy getting rich off of the illegal cash. Not a charming and incredibly handsome British boy.

-

“Uh hi, I’m Michael, Michael Gray.” He held his hand out to you and you shook it.

“I’m (y/n) (l/n).”

 He offered you a seat. 

“You’re not from around here are you?” You said.

He chuckled, “What gave it away?”

The deal was done in barely a half hour. But somehow you both found yourselves at lunch. 

“So how did you find yourself in, well, this line of work?” Michael asked.

“Well it’s pretty simple, there’s always work for people who don’t mind taking risks.” Michael smiled at that. You continued, 

“but I could ask you the same question.”

“Well lets say that this is one of the less illegal ventures of my family. And as you put it, risks are lucrative.”

“Ill cheers to that.” You smiled and raised a glass.

-

The lunches happened again, and then again.

Soon you were meeting daily, making up further excuses for getting to know each other.

-

“My family is, well, its complicated...” Michael chuckled one day as you were at lunch.

You smirked, “Michael, i’m Italian. My family is fucking nuts, trust me, your’s is no worse than mine.”

With people who had said that to Michael in the past he had laughed along and said sure, he was sure you meant it. Probably not in the same way, but he was in no position to argue.

“I might work in the illegal pub world, but some of my family is fucking nuts,”  You began. “My parents are fine, they came over from Italy before the war and brought my grandma, who i’m convinced my grandma used to be a spy or something in Italy. At least 3 of my cousins are working for the mob. It easy work for us, we’re all connected to one family or another between here and the old country.” You noticed a dark look on Michael’s face, a typical reaction “Dont worry, not the big guys like the Black hand, we don’t mix with Sicilians, they think they’re better because they live on an island.”

You went on for a bit more, just basic family outlining. And then it was his turn.

Michael went into the abbreviated version of his past (how he was taken and adopted) and the Shelby’s endeavors- the betting to drugs, smuggling, alcohol. Eventually he got up to the Changretta execution and John.

“John was killed by the Black hand in December ‘25.” 

“Stronzi, I’m sorry.” You cursed. 

He rubbed his right shoulder, “Yeah, after that my cousins decided to take down the boss, unfortunately I made some stupid decisions that could have ruined the plan and ended up exiled here.”

He took a weak bite of food. You tried to lighten the mood.

“Well, you weren’t kidding when you said you’re family was complicated.” 

You both laughed.

Shortly after this lunch you were both walking back to his office when a group of black clad men passed by on the street. They passed by without issue, but you saw that Michael paled and clenched his jaw. They were blatantly Black Hand. You saw he was rubbing his right shoulder again, nd you now figured it was a nervous habit. You endeavored to take his mind off it and started a new conversation.

-

About a month following this, you had brought Michael to the bar where you worked. You danced to the jazz and drank heavily, both getting caught in the energy of the decade. 

You ended up back at his office, now the only ones there, and he cracked open a hidden bottle of Shelby malt. 

Now both of you were on several glasses of liquor from the night, you found yourself floating in and out of conscious perception. Though you came to, suddenly, when you realized your lips were quite incriminatingly interlocked with Michael’s. 

Your inhibitions lowered, you continued gladly. And before anything progressed you both passed out drunk on his office floor.

-

You didn’t talk to him the next day. Mostly because your hangover was so severe you thought you would have permanent brain damage, but also because you were not sure how to proceed.

It would be easy to pretend like nothing had ever happened. To blame it on the booze, or just claim you didn’t have any recollection of the night. That was also gnawing at you, what if Michael didn’t remember?

It would be easy to just move past it, but did you want that?

-

Michael still felt the slight pressure in his head after 2 days. He rubbed his eyes and put the cigarette back to his lips. He was sitting in his apartment contemplating. He knew what he wanted, but did he want to risk it.

The door buzzer rang as he stumped the cigarette out. Who was calling at this hour? He took his pistol from the table.

He walked along the passageway to the door, he unlocked it and looked through the crack.

His heart skipped a beat and he released his grip on the gun.

“I got your address from your secretary.” You said. “I hope that’s o–” 

Michael cut you off by pulling you inside and kissing you against the shut door. You gave in to surprise and kissed back, pushing him through the hallway. 

Without breaking you unbuttoned your shirt and let it fall in your path. He broke for a breath of air.

You kissed him again and began to unbutton his shirt. He pulled back quickly to say something, but it was too late. You had already seen them.

Two knotted scars on his right shoulder.

“Michael what-”

“I didn’t want to tell you.” He looked down. “I was scared.”

Still in shock you watched as he finished unbuttoning his shirt. Low on his abdomen were two more scars. 

Suddenly in your mind you connected the signs, talking about john, the Sicilians, and the instinctive rub of his shoulder.

“They shot you too.” You said in a barely audible whisper.

Michael only nodded.

You walked forward and reached a tentative hand out to one on his shoulder. Tears prickled your eyes. You walked around to his back, you hand trailing over the soft skin before finding the exit scars from 3 of the bullets.

Michael turned to face you. 

“I didn’t think you’d ever find out.” 

You nodded.

He put his hand behind your head and guided it back to his. 

-

“What do your parents think?” Michael asked later.

Your head was tucked in the curve of his neck, your arm laying over his bare chest, playing carelessly with the sheet draped over it.

“My dads not really invested around to care, i think he knows but it’s just brushed over. Ma still thinks that maybe if she pushes the right Italian girl at me i’ll change. But honestly?” You laughed. “You’re catholic, she’ll be over the moon.” 

Michael smiled and threaded his fingers through your hand.

“What about you?” You moved back a little to see his face better, “Does anyone know?”

Michael let out a deep breath, the one that normally proceeded any talk referring to his family. 

“There was always so much going on that i didn't have much time to process, much less let anyone else see it. There were girls, i wont lie. That may have thrown them off. Even now, i think there is so much actual bad going on that what i do wouldn't make any of them bat an eye.”

“Is this what you want?”

He looked at you,

“I didn’t know until now.”

You breathed. 

“And?”

“More than anything.”

And he kissed you again.

☾ ✧ ☾ ✩ ☾ ✧ ☾ ✩ ☾

☾ ✧ ☾ ✩ ☾

☾ ✧ ☾ ✩

☾ ✧ ☾

☾ ✧

☾

[sandoriyon-p]

selfish | carlos oliveira x reader [request]

Ah, yes, angst! Thank you so much, dear anon!... *grabby hands* Please, more, more of angst for my soul!

“How could you be this stupid?!”

“Yeah, yeah, you already asked that. It’s the fourth time now, stop repeating yourself.”

The sound of your arguing broke the silence in the underground the very moment you walked in. It wasn’t loud, but you had a feeling it was loud enough for people in the subway cars to hear it too. You wondered what they thought about such a situation - it didn’t take long to come with one, certainly a very right conclusion: they were very tired with the noise you two were making… and, honestly, so were you.

“Stop repeating myself? It’s not something I can stop talking about, not just like that! You nearly got yourself killed, Y/N!” You really wished Carlos would stop screaming right next to you - he made it so tempting to simply put your hands over your ears and ignore him.

At the same, you could see his hands gripping onto his gun harder than he should be, and yet, you said nothing to that. If he did that hard enough, maybe he would actually break it in half. And that would surely end “the discussion”.

In your shallow ignorance you tried to remember why Carlos was actually angry at you. Did you say something insulting? No, certainly not. Maybe you nearly shot him while aiming at a zombie? No, of course not. Your shooting skill was too sharp to make such a mistake.

What was it then?

Ah, you remembered, just in the same moment you heard a shout of your name.

You nearly got yourself killed, like Carlos said. Or maybe…?

The whole circumstance didn’t look that horrific. You two were supposed to leave the subway and clear the place around it from all undeads you could find. It sounded like a simple thing, but after a moment, you realized you could find a lot of supplies laying around too. Indeed, most of them were left next to zombies that, you were more than sure, were already taken care of.

Spotting the ammo for your gun, you swiftly moved to gather it. There was a zombie behind it, but that didn't concern you much. Still, you decided to use your knife first to see if it wouldn’t try to “wake up” suddenly. Three slashes met with no response; it was safe to make your move.

Yet, when you crouched down to take what you wanted, the changed civilian grabbed onto your leg suddenly. His teeth became visible, ready to drown into your skin, but you were faster. With a sharp tug, you quickly stepped back and put as many bullets as you had left in its head. 

Then… actually, no. You didn’t, in fact, get yourself killed. You just nearly got yourself bitten by a zombie.

What you did was stupid, yes, but you couldn’t leave the supplies behind, especially now, during a freaking apocalypse. At the same, even when you nearly got yourself bitten, you knew you had the whole situation completely under control. You were not a civilian anyway - you knew how to use a gun and protect yourself. You knew to be always aware of your surroundings, ready to jump into the action or escape a dangerous situation.

Carlos was exaggerating things, to put it simply - that was what you thought.

Yet, that didn’t annoy you (perhaps from his perspective the whole situation looked… much worse) - the fact that he didn’t want to stop talking about it was what made you annoyed.

You could hear him still speaking about your stupid action, how dangerous it was and how fatal it could end. His voice was too loud, it made your head throb.

You just wanted for him to stop pointing out your mistakes. For him to finally shut up.

Suddenly, you turned your whole body towards Carlos’ direction, making him stop in his tracks, “Listen, I know how dangerous it was, but should I really leave the supplies behind just like that? We’re in the middle of the apocalypse and you cannot rely forever on Umbrella to provide us stuff!”

The anger was written clearly on your face and Carlos saw it. Yet, that didn’t stop him from responding, with his voice loud and annoyed as yours, “You think that’s a good reason to get yourself into danger? No, it’s not! And you don’t even think how other people would react to such stupid acts of bravery!”

“I do it, all the time! I think about the others - I want to save them! But how in the world can I do that if I don’t have anything to protect them with?!”

The grip on his weapon became harder and harder - obviously he was trying to not the anger control him. So far, you had to say, he was doing a very poor job.

You wanted to use the moment of sudden silence to speak what you still had in mind, hoping it would finally end the discussion. However, Carlos was faster than you.

“Alright then, Y/N, go! Go outside and get yourself killed while gathering unnecessary supplies to protect the civilians! Be as selfish as you want to be!”

You heard him, clearer than everything else. His words made your blood freeze.

Enough was enough.

You wanted to say so many things, to explain yourself, to remind him you were a professional. However, you limited yourself with biting your lips, until they would bleed.

No words left you and, at the same time, you noticed a change in Carlos expression. It looked like… he regretted what he had said. You could see that in his next action as well, in how he suddenly stopped gripping onto his weapon and tried to approach you gently.

You wanted nothing of that. You just wanted to be alone. Far from him.

Remaining speechless, you firmly shook your head and turned around to walk further into the subway. Your tempo was fast, nearly resembling a run, but no matter how fast you were moving, you couldn’t escape Carlos and his calling for you to not go away, not now.

His earlier words, however, about your selfishness, about how you should just go out and get yourself killed, for real that time, were louder than your name on his lips.

Nobody asked a thing when you stepped into one of the subway cars. All of them seemed to act like they were very interested in something… something else than your and Carlos’ argument. Yet, you could still feel their curious stares on you. They probably thought that the fight was too serious to let your relationship survive.

To hell with them. They could think what they wanted and you wouldn’t give a damn.

The anger started to become weaker and weaker as you found an empty spot in the farthest part of the subway cart. You were alone and could finally gather your thoughts… to look at everything from Carlos’ perspective.

You knew he was… concerned about you. Maybe more than he should be.

Your relationship was still “fresh”, barely three months old. You were good friends first, sharing jokes during the hardest times or embraces during your “friendly dates”. 

But then, you both realized it wasn’t enough. You wanted to be together. To love each other, not just to like each other.

And God, you loved each other so much. That was more than certain. You always made sure to protect each other, to make sure the other would not end wounded. You were always… so protective of each other.

Protective and afraid that something awful would happen.

You and Carlos felt the constant fear - no matter what, it was always there. Waiting, to wake up in the worst moments. It invaded your dreams, making you see the situations where your lover would die, again and again, and you couldn’t do anything to stop that.

You and Carlos never wanted for those dreams to turn into reality. You tried really hard to never let those dreams turn into reality.

But that was nearly what you did. You nearly got yourself killed - because you forgot about the nightmares.

You were selfish and you let yourself forget about them. Forget about Carlos and his own fear. You were selfish because you put yourself under civilians and above your boyfriend. Above his own fears and nightmares.

Tears were falling down your cheeks, but you failed to notice them. 

Until someone, with a gentle touch, wiped them away.

Carlos was suddenly sitting next to you, leaning forward to catch a look at you while not invading your personal space. He held a soft smile, the softest you had ever seen on him, with his own eyes holding tears.

For a long moment, you two didn’t say anything. You simply sat in silence, looking at each other, trying to understand what the hearts could not say. It was comfortable, peaceful… loving.

Still without words, Carlos’ eyes fell on your hand. You could feel his hesitation as he moved his own hand towards yours, taking it gently. His fingers started to caress your skin slowly as his lips alternately fell open and became closed, again and again. It was obvious he was fighting with himself, looking for the right words to tell you. And you remained silent, waiting patiently for what he had to say.

Finally, Carlos took a long breath and looked into your eyes again, “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I… shouldn’t have said all those things.” You knew it - you could see it in his expression. Yet, you still said nothing and he took that as a sign to continue, “I really shouldn’t have. And, of course, I didn’t mean those words - I don’t want you to go there, to risk your life like that. I don’t want you to die.”

You could see the tears in his eyes more clearly. They threatened to fall down his cheeks - they were actually falling down his cheeks, you realized. Yet, Carlos did nothing to wipe them away. He kept looking into your eyes, his voice so soft, so quiet, “I was scared. It was like my nightmare was so close to turn into reality. I saw you, getting bitten.” More tears started to fall down - they could be heard in his voice too, “I saw myself, killing you to not let you get transformed into it.”

A mere thought about it made you shudder; you knew Carlos noticed that. You knew he wanted to gather you into his arms to comfort you. To protect you from the nightmare that threatened to appear again.

And you let him do that.

The embrace was tight and yet no words of complaining left your lips. Instead, you hushed the man you loved, your hands resting on his back as his rested on your waist. Once again, you simply sat like that, in silence, comforting each other.

“That will never happen and you know it.” The words left your lips, softly, barely there, and they made Carlos embrace you even harder, “The nightmares we have will never turn into reality.”

You knew that he didn’t believe you, not completely. That it wouldn’t stop the tears from leaving your and his eyes. That you probably just wanted to comfort yourself and him, hoping it would keep the fear away.

But it was pointless, so, after a long moment, you let yourself capture his cheeks in your hands.

“I just need to remember the man who cares about me, who loves me, who wants for me to be safe. The man who I need to place above me as well.” And when his eyes found yours again, you smiled widely and added: “I’ll continue to be selfish, but I will not let his nightmares turn into reality.”

[sp00kworm]

2388 - Start Log

Pairings: None

Warnings: Murder, Animal Death, Child Death.

---

A/N: This is based on some very vague headcanons I have about Revenant’s past and I wanted to write in a new kind of style. 

---

Revenant held the small recording in his hand, his metal fingers stretching at the alloy as he looked at the unmarked, thin chip. It was black and sleek, tiny in the scale of things, but somehow untouched out on that dust bowl planet. His burning orange eyes shifted to focus on it again before he stood from the chair and slammed open the door to the lounge room, leaving with a grumble towards Elliott who was on his way in. The man jumped out of his way with a high-pitched screech and watched him stalk down the hall. Revenant made sure to hunch his plated shoulders before he climbed the stairs and stalked down the hallways of the dorm area, making sure that none of the others were following him before he opened his room and closed the door. It was dark and dusty, but the Simulacrum was quick to pull open his drawers to find the one item he really wanted. The chip reader. He pulled the old technology from the drawer and opened the small insertion plate with a claw. The hole cover popped open and he placed the chip inside and flicked the holoscreen display up. The blue light was dull with age, but it flickered to life before displaying a blurry image and the option to play.

 In front of him sat himself. He had relatively short, blond hair pulled back with a fine toothed, ivory comb he remembered buying from a group of hunters. He reached to his chest pockets subconsciously. He always kept it in his breast pocket. With a growl he swiped at the play button and heard it click. For a moment it was quiet as the ghost of himself looked to the high window in the metal wall. He rolled his blue eyes and leaned back in the chair as the sound of a giant, heavy loader holo-vehicle roared. The engines seared the microphone for a moment before the assassin sighed and reached to undo another button of his shirt. There was a discarded head scarf and cloak on the chair behind him as he played with a knife along his fingers. The audio crackled and popped before synching properly and pausing. Revenant hit play again when it was finished and listened.

“Start Log. 2388. It’s been twenty-eight hours since I eliminated the target and counting. I’m in a safe house by the delivery routes back into the city. Shit hole of a back water place. Its barely a city, more of a god forsaken dustbowl. A place like this for a mafia causing so much trouble.” The blond man scoffed at the screen before the sound of a pistol chamber snapping came through the static. He raised the pistol before unscrewing the silencer and pulling the magazine free with a practiced movement, “One bullet to the back of the skull. Executioner style. I capped him in front of his latest little conquest. She screamed a lot. I got blood on my boot covers. They’re camel skin. I better get reimbursed for those.” He took apart the gun with practiced ease, the pieces set along the table in a neat, perfect line, from start to finish, “Anyway. Targets dead and I’m waiting for transport back. Hammond have left me high and dry again, for the third time this year. I wonder what I could do to get some more special treatment from them.” Kaleb grinned with white, perfect teeth, his cheek bones cutting an impressive figure before he reached to touch the scruff along his jaw. He scoffed at it and reached into his waistcoat for a long, thin shaving blade.

 The blade slid open and was brandished like a weapon, the metal flashing before he raised it to his cheeks and dragged it over the new stubble, brushing it away onto a small tissue he also had, but it didn’t stop him from continuing to talk around the blade. Revenant reached for his face and ran his fingers over the scratches in his metal cheek bones. He relapsed often into his human habits, not that he would ever admit it.

“I would get it if these guys were some big-league assholes, but they’re barely an issue. I’ve seen worse, but I suppose this is what stealing weapons will get you out here. The Outlands have never been fuckin’ kind.” He threw the slip blade on the table in front of the camera, “I’d know that better than most.” Kaleb looked the camera in the lens, and Revenant wondered if he had been speaking to someone in that moment as his lips twisted in contemplation, “Fuck it. It’s not like anyone will ever find this.” He leaned back in his seat and started to pick up each piece of the pistol, looking them over before he screwed them back together in slow, precise movements of his wrist

“The Outlands is a shit hole. It always has been since Mister Hammond decided to colonize it. Sand, shit and people killing each other. Its always been the same, despite what they all say. Murder, homicide and genocide.” He paused putting together the gun in order to open a small satchel, and pulled free a packet of tobacco and rollers, Kaleb continued to talk as he took the leaves and placed them into a white paper, “Even this shit was fought over. Hybrid tobacco with no tar. Cartels killed villages over it.” The paper crinkled quietly as he put the filter in and rolled it up, tapping the end against the table before he snapped open a metal lighter and lit it, puffing for a moment before he blew smoke out of the side of his mouth, “The Outlands are a cess pit, that’s what I’m saying.”

 His old self smoked for a while before he held the cigarette in his lips and squinted, getting back to work on fixing the last pieces of the pistol back together with a little grease from another bottle from the satchel, “But its where literally everyone was born now. Earth’s been dead for a long, long time. Including, yes you might have guessed, me.” Kaleb span his pistol and cocked the chamber before he slid the magazine in again and pulled a bullet up into the chamber, “I was born to some power plant family, or so the Matron said. Six months old and they threw me on the doorstep before the plant went bust and blew. I’m not surprised somehow, but the orphanage wasn’t derelict. It was funded for by Hammond. They took kids into the programs there. I wasn’t an exception. I was scouted at fifteen into the special ops program.” A haunting smile spread across his face, “I killed a captain at fourteen, that’s what got me enlisted. It got better though, guns were much easier to use than knives from the kitchen and Matron never did like me taking knives and running with ‘em.” He took his cigarette from his mouth and flicked ash off the end, “Kaleb where has the neighbours dog gone?!” He screeched, “Always nag, nag, nag that woman.” He grumbled as he took another drag, “She probably meant well in the end. Too bad what happened to her as well. I put a pillow over her face when I got enlisted. No survivors allowed. The rest died in the fire.”

 The ash was building up in the clear glass ash tray now, “The Matron wanted me to go anyway, its not like she ever loved us or any of that stupid holo-film shit.” He scoffed and played with his cigarette end, “I used to like animals…well, like was a strong word. I used to test them. There was a hundred stray dogs near us, so I used to take pieces of my dinner and see which would come and take it from me. Whichever dog came close, if they could do a trick, then I gave it ‘em. If they followed me, well I used to like knives, you can guess the rest. They’re easy to trick. Cats though, cats were much better fun. I could never get one to come near me. It’s like they knew I had a knife somehow. One came close once, but it got away, screaming, and biting me before it got up a tree. It stayed there the whole day sleeping until I got bored. I didn’t see it again, but I started taking rats and mice from the kitchen for them. They liked the chase I think, just like I did…Or maybe they just liked me killing the dogs, huh?” He let out a long, raspy, dark chuckle before he stubbed out his cigarette and looked at the lens again, “Why the fuck am I spilling my guts to a recording? I’ll be dead if anyone finds this…well, maybe I just want that challenge.”

 His finger appeared before he chuckled again and pushed his fingers together, “The days at the academy were boring in comparison. I wasn’t allowed out of the facility. I wasn’t allowed knives. I wasn’t allowed to do anything that I wanted. I choked a boy to death on the mat. The prick decided I was a ‘country bumpkin’, so I decided he wasn’t worth the air he breathed. He was purple when they found him. I was careful, I bleach wiped his neck and my hands. They never knew it was me, but I got harsher training for it. They suspected it was me, but there was no evidence.” Kaleb rolled another cigarette before he rummaged for a can in his bag. He pulled out an all-in-one shake from the pack and drank it down without so much as a minor twitch. Revenant remembered them. They tasted like milk and iron, “Otherwise. I do this because I’m good at it. I always have been good at it. Best in the business. I do the dirty jobs that others won’t because of morals.” He reached for the button, “And that’s about it. End log.” The recording ended as he blew more smoke out of the side of his mouth.

 Revenant looked at the black screen for a moment, orange and black optics spinning to adjust, magnifying in and out before he snapped open the port again and tore the chip free, anger burning his chest. He growled and crushed the chip between two clawed fingers. His processors saved the data and he sat back on a chair in order to move and hide the data from those responsible for uploading him. He didn’t need anyone knowing these things. The chip sat in his palm in tiny, crushed pieces of plastic and metal.

“The past is dead.” He muttered before he unlocked the window and threw the pieces out of it, “Its best it stayed buried.” Revenant growled again before he moved to his charging port and slid the wire up into his chasis.

[lovelikedestiny]

4. Booker: How shall I win back

Warmth in every curl of lip,

keeping first watch every night.

Finding out that he may have sentenced one of the people who never failed him to final death with his original plan was not on Booker's checklist. Standing up? Yes. Fighting the urge to drown his inner pain in alcohol before noon? Also. Finding his place back in the family he betrayed? Hell yes!

But not that. Never that.

It is true that in his worst moments he looked - poisoned by jealousy - at the happiness Joe and Nicky had with their mutual immortality. That he was angry because he would never be allowed to have something like that ever again. That he hated it when Nicky and Joe were so careful and loving to take him into their family and not to exclude him because he didn't deserve their kindness.

But even then, Booker never wished to destroy their happiness in any way. Because even if the love of the two for each other is obvious, being part of their family meant being loved by them. To bask in the warm glow of their relationship while Nicky prepared humming food in the kitchen and made interjections in the remarks of the day, which Joe told Booker with such funny expressions, fake voices and hand movements that Booker laid laughing under the table. Nicky's and Joe's love belongs only to the two of them, but it gives so much more to those around.

It reminds Booker that he is not completely alone and has support. A home. Every day it shows Booker the good they are fighting for. It reminds Booker how to live when all he wants to do is die.

Congratulations. You did a great job.

He probably even deserves that he not only betrayed his family now, but also started to destroy them from the inside. The agony of knowing he did this to Nicky will burn and burn in his chest, between his ribs for eternity, and for one cruel second Booker thinks that this is only fair if they can't find a cure for Nicky. Because compared to Joe's pain if they should lose Nicky, his guilt is not even a fraction.

Oh god, Joe. His best friend. Bad jokes, stupid but fun actions, joint soccer games, a bright grin. All of this is wiped away like dust and reveals the almost broken mirror underneath, the glass of which is showing more and more cracks.

The silence that follows Copley's revelation cracks in Booker's ears, pushing him down and crushing him with its weight. It would be so easy if Joe showed any sign of anger at him. If he directed angry words at him, hit him and made him bleed because the physical pain would distract Booker from the gash that is opening in his heart.

Booker could handle an angry Joe, shit, that would be exactly what he'd deserve. They let him into their family again, put their trust - at least the trace that existed - in him and now it turns out that Booker is the wolf in sheep's clothing in their midst. God, Universe, you assholes, now would be a good time to strike me with a lightning bolt.

But Joe does nothing, and Booker bites his tongue so hard that he can taste the metallic flavor that has been their companion for centuries. Just like Death, who reaches for them with bony fingers but couldn't hold them. Until now. The idea that death at that moment could reach out its fingers to grab Nicky is unbearable for Booker.

Still completely motionless, Joe sits next to Nicky and looks blankly at Copley, who closes his laptop so quietly as if he were afraid that any noise would tear them out of their silent state. And then Joe turns his head painfully in slow motion. Not to look at Booker with anger and hatred and disgust, but to look at Nicky, which is much worse for Booker than an angry Joe. Because the silent scream that leaps from Joe's face at Booker hits him like a fist in the stomach. It takes a lot of effort not to double over.

Nicky has still fixed his eyes on Copley, his face unfathomable, untouched as a surface of water, but Booker knows that Nicky always tries hard not to let anything out when the rage inside him is all the more violent.

This knowledge is not helpful to Booker's emotional state. Even though Nicky doesn't look at Joe, there is the kind of creepy and impressive communication between the two that Booker has not seen for the first time, and Nicky reaches for Joe's hand, which is already moving towards his. Joe's fingers easily find Nicky's and when Nicky brings Joe's hand to his lips and kisses it, Booker mentally throws himself out the window because Joe was right. He's a selfish asshole and Nicky and Joe pay the price for it...

When Andy finally moves, Booker barely swallows his sigh in relief and Nile's attitude changes too, turning to the leader they all see in Andy and whom they always rely on.

Her ice blue eyes pierce Booker and she jerks her head, carefully controlling her noble face. “Booker, come with me. Nice work, Copley, now at least we know what kind of shit we're up against.”

She whirls around and marches out. Uncomfortably, Booker gets up and follows, more slowly but obediently. Every step drives the splinter of his failure deeper into his body.

They go to the patio door, which Andy pushes open carelessly and she only comes to a stop when they stand in the middle of Copley's garden. Whatever Andy has to say, Booker is more than ready to hear. He knows he got them into deep shit.

With her back to him, Andy stares at some nearby trees, and Booker takes waiting as a form of punishment in itself. "Boss, I-" he starts, has no idea what he's getting at. Only that he can no longer stand the silence that whispers to him traitor, failure, murderer, exile.

Lightning-fast Andy pulls the gun out of her waistband, turns half around and shoots him in the right leg.

The crashing shot startles a couple of birds, and Booker is too surprised when his leg gives way and knocks him half to one knee to make a painful sound. But that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt.

He grunts suppressed, but literally embraces the pain. Leaning on his other leg, he starts to straighten up, but Andy shoots him in the other leg and Booker grinds his teeth as he lands face first in the cool grass.

The gunshot wounds burn and Booker soaks in the earthy smell of the ground as he feels the injured tissue contract again and pushes the bullets out of the wounds. It's questionable whether Andy will shoot him again, but Booker is ready to take it.

"Fuck!" She finally growls and after Booker has rolled onto his side, he discovers that she has put her gun away again. With hands trembling and cramping with pent-up emotions, she paces back and forth in front of him, buries one hand in her hair and pulls on the dark strands in frustration. “It should have been one of us, Book. Might have been, fuck!” She kicks a stone that is probably some kind of design in Copley's garden. "Fuck, fuck, FUCK!"

Booker lets her scold and curse and kick the stone and sits up because there is nothing he can say to allay her anger stemming from underlying fear and concern.

"Get up, you fucking asshole!" Andy finally hisses at him and Booker obeys the order with his head bowed. He doesn't blame Andy for the gunshot wounds or her insults, she always tends to speak out when something has shaken her to the bone.

You killed her baby brother.

Shut the fuck up, Booker instructs his inner voice, gritting his teeth, as he has done since he and the others took different paths on the banks of the Thames.

“Why couldn't it have hit me? I'm already mortal, damn it!” Andy gives the impression that she would like to shoot something or demolish one of Copley's raised beds. “Both of us, Book, have been so sick of this endless life and have only seen the burden of many lonely years with no light at the end of the tunnel. And Nicky and Joe, of all people, who saw time as a gift, have now got what we both have always hoped for. Life ain't fucking fair. But why Nicky?"

Why the heart?

Continue reading on AO3 ;)