#the idea of drawing this knife haunted me every time I washed this knife

[neurotraum]

hate drawing wood tbh

[ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff]

The Last Cigarette (Spencer Reid x Reader) Smut

Summary: Mr Scratch was an unsub with undoubtedly the greatest impact on the team. Even in death, he pushes Spencer beyond the preconception of his limits. 

AN: This was part of a fic swap on @imagining-in-the-margins​‘ server! This Unsub!Spencer!AU is for the outstanding @cardigayn​ <3 I hope you like it! 

Content warning: Character death, abuse of power, physical assault, murder, Unsub!Spencer, mentions of rape and attempted murder, mentions of knife wounds, unhealthy coping mechanisms

Smut content warning: AFAB!Reader, they/them pronouns, facesitting, hair pulling, overstimulation, light choking, riding, biting, praise kink, unprotected sex, dirty talk, a hint of breeding

Gif credit: @imagining-in-the-margins​ // Masterlist

Your name: submit What is this?

No one on the team spoke about what Luke did to Scratch – or rather, what he didn’t do. The BAU were far beyond tired of that man’s torments. His impact upon each member was the greatest of any unsub they had ever encountered and now it was finally time to close the book on his crimes. That included turning their gaze away from the abuse of power that Luke had taken by letting Scratch fall from that building. Not the first time the team had banded together to mask a member’s tracks.

Spencer glanced up from his paperwork. Everyone else in the bullpen was focused on their tasks, as if nothing had happened. Even Emily was at her desk and typing away at her desktop when she had been an inch away from death not two weeks ago.

Spencer’s pen tapped against the desk twice before it was placed down adjacent to his pencil pot. He remembered the details of their cover-up. That wasn’t what paused his paperwork.

His mind was straying to another timeline, in accordance to the multi-verse theory. Luke had made a choice in this universe to not pull Scratch up. In another universe, he decided to save the unsub. What happened next?

After experiencing prison first hand, Spencer could somewhat pinpoint how long Scratch would have lasted in a place like Millburn. The respect for serial killers on the inside, especially those who had tormented law enforcement, would keep him alive.

There was the chance that there was another universe where Scratch would have gotten off scot free. And another timeline where Scratch, without a gun, overpowered Luke or Matt, taking either or both of them down. Kristy had no husband. Jake, David, Chloe, and Lily had no father. Roxy had no owner.

Maybe it was better that Luke didn’t help Scratch off that ledge, that Matt had just stayed back.

Spencer could not decide what he would have done in that situation, and he didn’t have to. But that didn’t mean another version of him didn’t. To be jealous of a version of himself that did not exist in his world was a bad idea. It was out of his hands and in his head – the roof, the unsub, the choice.

 --->--->--->--->--->

“Anyone want a coffee?”

A series of murmurs rose from the team, all negative, and Luke tucked his chair back under his desk before he walked off to the SAPD break room. Spencer watched his reflection in the conference room’s window. There was an itch in his brain that spread through a nerve to his knee – bouncing it just beneath the table.

Suddenly that nerve propelled him to follow Luke. Spencer’s feet weaved him in between officers until he found his teammate switching on the station’s coffee pot.

“Change your mind?” Luke raised an unsuspicious eyebrow.

“Yes,” Spencer lied, and he collected a mug to wash up. Suds flooded in the sink, rolling out the mug and around the plughole. Spencer fixated on them, a menial hope that he could focus on something else rather than the temptation of asking Luke for details.

He had to be closer of being clean of this whole thing than he thought. Scratch was dead, the case was closed. A few more years, this would be a memory that haunted him every few weeks instead of every day.

Dilaudid was craved by a tiny section of his brain, but he knew that it would not help him at all. He needed something else to help ease the cravings. If only he had inherited his mother’s affinity for cigarettes.

“Can I ask you something?”

Luke shrugged in return, “Sure.” He had opened his palm by his side but did not reach out to Spencer’s clean mug. Spencer appreciated that. A glance at the bullpen, visible through the open door, told him that no one else had followed them. It wasn’t too late. He could come up with a question about the case, about Roxy, about anything.

“What did he look like before he fell?”

Luke’s expression sobered and soured. He too checked the proximity of the police officers outside their bubble. Clearing his throat twice, he poured the coffee into his mug and spun the handle once it was down to fit Spencer’s need.

His voice was low as he said, “He looked desperate.”

Spencer nodded while he poured into his own cup. Perhaps more caffeine would aid him, for he had scratched the itch and it had spread elsewhere. Stirring in some sugar, he took a burning sip before it had dissolved and cringed at the granules in his mouth.

It was when he’d finally swallowed them, instead of spitting out like he wanted to, that Spencer gave into the itch: “Did he say anything to you?”

“He asked me to help him.” Luke blew on his coffee before taking a sip. Even then, he still struggled to swallow it. “He begged.”

“That can’t have been easy. Thanks for telling me.”

But Luke didn’t seem like he concurred. In fact, he looked as though he wanted to make right the claim and say that letting Scratch die was the easiest decision in the world.

Spencer blinked. Luke was gone, already back in the conference room. Perhaps he’d imagined something like that. His attention shifted to Scratch’s face, morphing it until it was a stereotypical expression of fear. Spencer had heard too much of that man’s voice, but it was good for one thing: recreating the words Luke had told him.

“Help me. Please!”

Matt was back with Emily.

And suddenly so was Luke. Spencer had gone it alone after Scratch. It was just the two of them on the roof, and soon it would be one.

Scratch’s clothes were whipped up by the wind, his begging too. It was almost as though he reached up for Spencer. One last cry for help. Then he fell, silent and ragdoll-esque.

Just before the body hit the ground, Scratch was clinging to the building’s side again. When he fell this time, he screamed hysterically. It echoed across the roof until Spencer couldn’t discern it from the wind. A swell of relief spread through his body. He took a sip from his coffee.

“Reid?” Just as he had done a minute prior, Luke was lingering in the doorway. “We should get back to the conference room.”

“Right,” Spencer dropped the teaspoon onto the side. It clattered about the side, then went quiet, then hit the floor. Spencer didn’t turn to see where it landed.

 --->--->--->--->--->

What an absolute smarty pants who could just about learn to use Teams by himself. Spencer leant to the right in his office chair as his partner Y/N showed him the ropes of his new application. How lucky he was to still have them after all they had been through – together and apart.

“And… ta-dah!” Y/N made jazz hands at the monitor.

“Thank you. You’re so good to me,” Spencer straightened up, smiling at the screen, “Can I get you a reward?”

Y/N seemed to ponder on this offer, an act Spencer had seen many times and never grew tired of. Then Y/N tapped their cheek twice and bent forward. With butterflies in his stomach, Spencer tilted his chin up and pressed a lingering kiss there. There was a bashful smile across their face when they drew away. Even after all this time, Spencer was proud he could still affect them so.  

The door to his office shut behind them and Spencer looked over his desktop’s background. His students’ homework was hovering in the background, already being printed off. The printer stuttering out each page had long since been tuned out

He glanced away from it to his left and saw Y/N again. Their arms were wrapped around themselves, their body close and facing Spencer with a clear expression drawing bravery upon them. Spencer’s head then turned to see if Scratch was still dangling by the tips of his fingers. He was.

“What do I do?” Spencer asked, his voice almost torn away by the wind he couldn’t feel against his cheek.

Y/N hardly spared Scratch a glance. They had never seen him before, and they made this one time they did as short as possible. Their hand moved Spencer’s head so that Scratch was in his blind spot. They held his face and looked on him sweetly, even in the darkness around them.

They gave Spencer their answer: “Leave him.”

Scratch’s body trembled as his head rigidly shook, “Please!”

But Y/N took Spencer’s hand in their free one and they held it even as Scratch’s grip failed him. Only then did they look at the unsub and watch unflinchingly together as their tormenter fell to his death. A second later, the pair heard the body hit the ground. Spencer began to move towards the ledge, Y/N tugging him back towards the door of the roof.

“I have to see,” Spencer insisted, “I have to know he’s really gone.”

There was no pity, just empathy, as Y/N nodded their head, “Ok.” Their hands tensed together while they approached the roof’s end.

There he was, his body broken, his head smashed against the dirt. Lifeless. Gone.

Then Scratch was falling again, the last seconds of existence, and Y/N was hiding their face in Spencer’s shoulder. He was holding them tight, so that if they changed their mind about watching, they wouldn’t be able to. But he was watching everything in slow motion.

Every fraction of change in Scratch’s terror was drawn out until it was a pantomime of itself.

“Are you ok?” He asked quietly.

“Yeah.”

Closing his eyes, Spencer kissed Y/N’s head. He basked in his comfort before he opened his eyes again and drew a deep breath from the comfort of his desk chair. Then he collected the printed essays of his students, grabbing a pen to prepare for marking.

  --->--->--->--->--->

 This time Hotch was there, Jack’s face hidden in his father’s chest. Derek too, holding little Hank with all the tenderness a father could.

Spencer waved his hand towards the door, “Get them out of here. I don’t want them to see this.” He waited dutifully for them to leave, both of them sending a nod Spencer’s way.

Once the door bounced against its frame to close, he stood at the edge. He couldn’t feel the cold rushing past him, coaxing him to fall with Scratch, but he could picture hearing it. Almost deafening him to Scratch’s pleas, he turned those words up loud so that he could hear the moment the words stopped, the moment that Spencer pulled out his Smith & Wesson and shot Scratch in the head. His grip faltered instantly and his lifeless body tumbled down.

“No.”

Spencer screwed his eyes shut before looking back at the geographic profile.

“No what?”

He started. He didn’t realise that Tara was still in the room with him.

His words tumbled out quickly, “Just testing a theory, but it’s not right, it doesn’t fit.”

Nodding, Tara made her way beside him and observed the evidence collected so far, “We’ll get there. Just keep that brain going.”

Spencer planned to do just that. This daydream wasn’t as satisfying, like Nicorette mists or chewing gum. Just shooting him in the head? That was more than mercy for Scratch. No, he’d have to come up with something else to use. For the daydream of course.

He was glad that Tara was treating him normally. Not like JJ, who had checked in on him for Dilaudid before take-off. She was hovering around him like a gnat and it was starting to piss him off. Where was this energy when he was actually contemplating the drug’s pros and cons? He was determined to keep it together for the team to function and solve this case, but JJ in his peripherals was making it hard to focus. On work. Not the daydreaming. He loved her to bits, but he just wished she’d leave him to his own devices unless it concerned the case. That was the priority now.

The broken fingers of the victims sat like warped roots of a tree on the board, each knuckle shattered with a hammer. This unsub – a man in his 20s, not 30s – had such an odd post-mortem signature. Like when Ronald Weems did on the prostitutes. The ones Nathan Harris was obsessed with, wrote about, then killed himself before he could re-enact such a crime.

But it was fine. This was different. Spencer wasn’t writing these down. He didn’t need to. That, and he wasn’t about to recreate his daydreams.

“Excuse me.”

“Off for a smoke?” Luke joked half-heartedly.

Shortly after shaking off that effort at a joke, Spencer’s hand froze against the metal pole of the wheelchair access to the police station. His lungs took a deep breath of the cool Christmas air, a worthless hit. He hoped that Derek and Hotch were being the fathers they always wanted to be - that Gideon could have been.

--->--->--->--->--->

Adrenaline was what enabled him to haul Scratch up. Still, Spencer strained with his weight. He was gasping with the unsub when they were both allowed back onto the roof, Scratch’s knees digging into the floor for security and his hands still clasping the edge of the building - from the other side now.

Spencer watched, blood roaring in his ears with each panting breath. He took one deeper and let out a yell as he kicked his foot up into Scratch’s nose. Scratch rolled onto his back with a ragged rasp, blood spouting from his nose to stain everything it made contact with, and his head lolled off the edge of the building. Spencer’s chest burned with unsatisfaction so he kicked again. This time, his foot came down on Scratch’s groin. Ineffective in stopping him from standing, this was personal deliverance of pain.

He was out of breath but completely fine. He had the energy to drag Scratch back with one hand at his ankle, so now his head was beneath a solid enough surface to stomp on three times. Each one sent Scratch’s eyes rolling back further into his head.

Spencer began to use his hands. Getting close into Scratch’s space, he lay punch after punch, no pain on his hands, no. He put it all into Mr Scratch for every second he stole from him and his team until finally he stood up.

Scratch barely had enough energy to cough behind the blood pooling in his mouth. But Spencer could make out the one word he was wheezing in his agony.

“Spencer.”

Then, and only then, did Spencer draw his gun once more and shoot Mr Scratch in the neck.

The jet jolted as its wheels touched the runway. Spencer leant back in his chair, dragged as the jet slowed to a stop. He grunted, his head still catching up to that sudden jolt.

“I want you all to just go home, alright?” Prentiss was already stood at the end of the plane’s gangway, “Get some rest.”

The rest of the trip home was a blur for Spencer; it was committed to his memory but not with any intrigue. Only when he dropped his keys in the front door’s bowl did he start paying attention to his surroundings again. Y/N was powerwalking over to him, instinctively reaching out long before they made it to him.

“Hey baby!” They greeted, and Spencer enfolded them into a tight embrace, “You must be knackered.”

They swayed a little on the spot as Spencer answered, “I was.”

“Was?”

“Not after seeing you.”

His chin brushed over Y/N’s shoulder before he kissed that spot, smiling against the cloth of their shirt. His support rocked as Y/N giggled. Their grip on him tightened for a moment before they ran a hand over his tummy, the little “pouch” as they had affectionately named it. A thought ran past his eyes: that it wouldn’t hurt to start working out if he was going to do more than just shoot Scratch.

“Cheeky,” Y/N touched one of his curls as they pulled away, “Come on, let’s go to bed. Not like that.” They tapped his nose at the raise of his eyebrows.”

“I missed you,” Spencer said, not immediately after that, but when they were both in bed together, “I always do.”

“Me too.”

Y/N was unable to look Spencer in the eye. Spencer loved that they were so overwhelmed with love that they had to seek refuge elsewhere. They were just like him in that sense.

--->--->--->--->---> 

  Gun drawn, Spencer took deliberate steps stalking through the darkened apartment complex. The entire area was due for demolishing the following morning, so there were plenty hiding spaces for this unsub to jump out of. Every deep breath stilled his hands as he moved swiftly around each corner. Matt mumbled something in his earpiece about going down to the poolside.

He made his way to the third floor and followed the glowing green signs towards the fire escape.

Martin Harvey had just turned around to see Spencer. He instantly dropped the pipe he was wielding and thrust his hands into the air.

“Ok, ok, ok, you got me. Don’t shoot.”

His legs crumbled and he fell to his knees. A coward, just like the profile had said. This was too easy. No, it wasn’t actually. Interviewing those parents and friends of the victims, gritting teeth while working through red tape set up by the small town talk and the prejudices constructed long before this case occurred, none of that and none of what came prior was easy.

“Get up there.”

Harvey frowned, his eyes unsteady between Spencer’s face and Spencer’s gun, “What?”

Spencer tilted the barrel of his gun to the fire escape stairs for a second, immediately returning it onto Harvey, “You heard me.”

Shaking, Harvey took the steps as they came. His hands were still on his head. His boots made hollow clanks against the rusting metal, echoing Spencer’s lighter taps, until they came into contact with the concrete of the roof. The wind felt more brutal today. It was colder than Spencer imagined. The February chills shouldn’t dissuade him much though.

The second Harvey made a move to spin around, Spencer smacked his head with the butt of his gun. Harvey tripped forwards but remained upright. So Spencer holstered his weapon, grabbed Harvey’s shoulder, and punched across his nose. Both men let out a cry. Spencer flexed his fingers to subside the pain, but it continued to shoot up and down his bones. Another attempt, he grappled with the scruff of Harvey’s shirt then shoved him off his balance to the ground. The unsub wobbled and cried out as he fell backwards. Spencer kicked again, not as strong as the last time, but he felt the surge of power in him. Adrenaline, real and flooding his every movement. This was beyond what his fantasies had ever brought him, and he was living for it. He didn’t have to hold back anymore.

“Why are you doing this?” Harvey sobbed, trying to hide in his hands. Pathetic. The man who had raped and attempted murder on five different women couldn’t take it when a man stood up to him.

He hit Harvey once more but drew back from the opportunity for a third. Instead, he rolled the body over the edge with just enough tact to allow Harvey to make a grab for the edge.

Once more, Harvey begged for Spencer to stop.

Spencer looked down on this low life, this scum that dared to interfere with innocent lives for fun. The heel of his shoe came down hard on Harvey’s hand. He howled in pain. Spencer stomped down again; this time there was a series of collective crunches. Harvey let go with that hand, but the other was still clinging dearly to the roof.

As he stared into those panicked eyes, Spencer squatted down beside Harvey’s hands. Broken fingers flailed nearby, Harvey not strong enough to pull himself up and reach for Spencer. His thumb slid off the edge, and the pinkie finger too.

The begging faded into the background. The fear in his face, it had to be at least somewhat the same as Scratch’s. The proximity to danger was beyond comfort.

People he lost:

Derek.

Hotch.

Emily, nearly.

People he loved:

Tara.

Matt.

Penelope.

Luke.

JJ.

Him.

Mom.

Y/N.

Spencer brought down the butt off his gun onto the last three fingers holding on. His eyelids forced him to watch as Harvey fell fast to the ground, a crunch of bones reaching his ears when the ground met with him

A delicious shiver ran up Spencer’s spine. He shook his shoulders and breathed it out. There was not the extreme of happy. Felt in his heart was content in the gentle breeze, in the dull pain.

“Prentiss. He’s dead. I’m on the roof.”

“We’re on our way, Reid.”

--->--->--->--->---> 

  Paramedics had pressed the sterilised cotton against his cuts while his eyes were on the bag that was wheeled away towards the other ambulance. Spencer’s thousand-yard stare ended shortly after that; Emily walked into his view and touched his shoulder. Her embrace was welcomed greatly, as was the nap he took on the flight back.

His bag was not as heavy as he remembered it being as he drew up to his apartment. Once his keys were out the door, he dropped everything and was on his way to the bedroom for an early night when he bumped into Y/N – who was all bundled in their pyjamas.

“You’re back! In time for Valentine’s Day!” Y/N’s smile was quick to disappear, “What happened?”

“I found the unsub. He fought back, resisted. I didn’t have a choice.”

“Oh Spencer.” They hovered an inch over his face before they settled their hands on him.

A quick kiss on his lips, then they took him into the kitchen and set about making a tea for him. But Spencer didn’t really need, or want, one. He slipped up behind them, mumbling into their ear, “I’m meant to be the one taking care of you today.”

“We take care of each other, Spencer, you know that.” Y/N patted his arms that were now around their waist. Spencer kissed the spot below their ear, smirking into\ them as he felt the stutter in their movements. His lips found the side of their neck and kissed again.

“We do,” He agreed.

“You know, I won’t be able to take care of you if you keep doing that.”

“Oh, you will,” Spencer nuzzled his cheek against them, “Just not by making me tea.” To make extra sure his point was getting across, Spencer moved them around and kissed them with two fingers lightly pinching their chin.

“Your hand-”

“Doesn’t hurt. And I have two.”

Already Spencer was unbuttoning Y/N’s shirt, his thin fingers parting it open to place his cool touch against their bare skin. It shuddered beneath him, sending waves to help him map the rest of their body again in his mind. A tingle sat in between his shoulder blades as Y/N tugged at the curls in the nape of his neck.

How they got into bed doesn’t really matter. It was when Spencer’s hands pressed into the mattress that he winced away from Y/N’s lips.

“You are hurting,” They pushed to sit up.

“I’m fine.”

“You need to rest.”

“What I need is for you to sit on my face and not stand up until I say so.”

Spencer heard Y/N’s teeth knock together as they closed their once-agape mouth. “Can you help me with that?”

Y/N nodded, dumbstruck at Spencer’s words and the thumb he was dragging across their bottom lip in an attempt to distract from his injuries.

“Y/N, I’m ok. Really. It’s just a little sting. Let me love you.”

“I’m not stopping you. I’m just worried.”

Throb of each cut on his hand as his fingers fanned across their skin Grasping tight on their thighs

He only had to let go for a moment while Y/N stripped clean of their clothes Seeking refuge, he felt completely content with those thick thighs wrapped around his head. Not a single time did his mind stray to Scratch or any other unsub now that Y/N was safe from them. Calm seeped over him, fuelling his biting and lavishing his tongue upon their inner thighs

His pace enjoyed such a leisurely stroll around their cunt, the tip of his tongue gliding through each of their folds. Eyes still closed, he had the image of it soaking wet with his spit and their juices. He licked his lips once before he pursed them around the clit. His hands, now stiff and sore from stroking their hips, reached up to touch their chest. He fondled at their sensitive nipples with delight at Y/N fisting at his hair. All this, and he licked at Y/N’s clit like it was an ice lolly on a summer’s day.

When Y/N came first, they let out short bursts of breath coupled with their moans. The second time, they had to hold onto the bedframe as their body slumped forward and their clit rubbed up against Spencer’s nose. On the third, they fell off his chin, rolled to their side of the bed. Giggles fell from their satisfied smile as they curled up. Smearing the back of his hand across his mouth, Spencer pushed onto his side so he could reach them for another kiss. Y/N could barely respond and they were still laughing as Spencer pulled them into his lap. His fingers looked so pretty around their neck; he kept them there until silence filled the room again. When they reached that moment, he squeezed lightly and let out a gentle “hmm” at Y/N’s moan.

“You good, darling?” He whispered.

“Just what the doctor ordered.”

Though their lips were together, they parted in pants and smiles.

“You got one more for me?”

“Of course,” Y/N clumsily patted a hand down his cheek, “You haven’t even had one yet.”

“I don’t need one.”

“You must be the only guy to say that and mean it.”

Swallowing the statistic on how many men had said they wanted to orgasm during sex, Spencer watched Y/N struggle to sit on his cock. Their legs were shaking uncontrollably; they didn’t settle, not even in his firm hold.

His hands dragged them down onto him and over their moans he whispered, “Doesn’t mean I don’t want one.”

“I wanna give you what you want.”

As Y/N  rocked into him, Spencer shared the last of their tangy taste that lingered on his tongue. Then he found peace in resting his chin on their shoulder, rising and falling as they did.

“You wanna cum for me?”

Their words hit his ears, “Please, help me.”

A spike of pleasure ripped through his body. In an instant, Spencer flipped them over and drove his hips hard into them. His teeth sunk into the skin of their shoulder before releasing his load into them. His entire being trembled into Y/N, their ankles locked in his lower back lazily as he milked every last drop of exhilaration he could from them.

His cock stayed inside them, keeping his cum safe inside. Y/N barely lifted their head but luckily for them, Spencer’s shoulder was within their reach. They bit him in the same spot he had bitten them, not releasing him until their marks matched.

“I’m so glad you’re safe,” They mumbled against him.

Spencer tipped himself back an inch or two, “I’m happy you’re safe too.” He didn’t mind the ache on his skin any more than the others. It was a nice collection he had gathered today.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Spencer.”

--->--->--->--->--->  

 This was it, the last cigarette. He didn’t have to worry about Scratch anymore after this.

A low whistle lead Spencer to pull at his collar sheepishly, and Tara leant against his desk. At first, he ignored her, signing off the last of his paperwork. His mandatory session with the team’s therapist set fresh on his lungs without a single symptom of guilt.

“Well, well, well,” Tara teased, indicating to her neck with two fingers tapping, “Something about a life or death situation that gets you in the mood?”

“Actually, research into the terror management theory has shown that people respond to mortality reminders by bolstering their own cultural view, derogating opposing views, and shoring up their self-esteem. By this account, the effect of death on libido will depend on the meaning that sex has for a person.”

“And what does it mean for you?”

“I’m not telling you that.”

“You don’t have to,” Tara grinned, “I would hazard a guess that Y/N’s looking the same.”

Spencer shook his head playfully, “We said we wouldn’t profile each other.”

The ribbing came to a close as Penelope brushed past and announced to the bullpen, “We have a new case, in the conference room.”

Spencer dropped his finished case file into Emily’s empty office on the way to the conference room, his hand only complaining an itch at the motions of holding a pen and a form. It didn’t end as he flicked over the file’s papers while Penelope went over the details of their latest case – gruesome photos of open knife wounds the television screens.

The shrinking juxtaposition between body discoveries indicated a devolving unsub with a disintegrating cooling off period. Basically, it was an unsub not worthy of his daydreams or of his injuries.

Except that’s not what it was at all. This was an unsub to be arrested and face punishment, before more people could be hurt. Spencer didn’t need a cooling off period because he wasn’t going to do that again. He could recall his played-out fantasy in complete and utter detail, never forgetting a thing he saw.

And anyway, this unsub was definitely an impotent and disorganised man lashing out. Couldn’t hold a candle to Scratch. So why waste his time on that? Why would he have another cigarette when he didn’t need one right now?

--->--->--->--->

AN: I do not condone the actions displayed in this fic. I find unsub!AUs of the show interesting developments and the intended recipient of this fic is aware of that. I will not write a part two for this, because I do not have the motivation or idea besides Spencer getting caught and subsequently arrested.

Thank you for reading!

[aubreyprc]

In My Veins Final 2

part one part two part three part four part five(happy) 

Find the first half of this here

Again... very sorry. also i know i said tomorrow but... oh well lol😀✋

once again, tagging those who have read from the start, yall really🥰😎 hell yeah besties @hotchnisscardigan @florenceremingtonthethird @olivinesea @eprcntiss @jetaime-jespere @petit97

another big shoutout of course to @suckerforhotchniss. this was all her idea and actually if you’re going to come for anyone come for her okay?:)

TW! for/ mentions of depression, drugs, death and suicide. please read with caution if these things could trigger you, but they are only mentions. nothing graphic.

-

They bury her on a warm day in the fall. Jack stands in front of his father, the man’s hands over his shoulder as she’s lowered down. There are tears down his face but Hotch remains standing straight, holding back his emotions, watching with a broken heart as she lowered to the ground for the second, but final time.

JJ grips Will’s hand tightly as she closes her eyes, taking a deep breath, Garcia then loops her hand in hers and the woman faces her and nods, before turning back.

Penelope has tears streaming down her face as she watches, she looks over to the Hotchner’s and just wishes there was something she could do for them, but the only thing they want is her back and that is something she just can not do, no matter how much she wishes she could. She wants to hug Hotch and tell him it’s okay, that she forgives him but she can’t. All she can think about is the fact that her friend died and he didnt let her say goodbye. Again.

Spencer is standing a few feet away from her, staring at the casket being lowered into the ground as he holds his breath. He can feel Morgan inches from him and all he wants is to reach out and grab his hand but he doesn't know if he can. Ever since Emily died they’ve been… different. Spencer knows that Morgan blames him and he accepts that. It’s his fault anyway.

As the casket lowers into the ground, Hotch feels the grief for two, because along side Emily in that casket is their baby, their baby that will never be. The baby they will never hold, or name or watch grow up. He will never tell anyone about them. They don’t deserve the right, simply due to the fact that she never knew. Emily will never, ever know that they had created a life together before hers was taken, alongside theirs.

As the casket reaches the bottom with a small thud, as he and jack place some mud into the grave, along with some flowers, as he watches his team do the same, he can’t help but feel like his future is buried right there with her, and he doesn't see a way through it.

-

One month after Emily dies, he goes back to work. Jack’s started sleeping through the night again and there are no more nightmares.

Every Sunday night it’s no longer one candle the young boy lights, it’s two. Haley and Emily.

He and Aaron will sit on the floor in the living room, place the candles on the table and Jack tells them both about his week, about school, he’ll tell them he still misses them everyday and that he is still so sad but that he’s going to be strong for them. He tells them he loves them and he looks to his Dad, who will then do the same.

He’ll share a funny, but PG story about something one of the team did at work for Emily and then a funny story about Jack or Jessica for Haley. He’ll tell them he misses and loves them and Jack will blow the candles out and smile at the smoke.

Jack will go to bed then and like every other night previously, Aaron will sit on the couch, grab Emily’s jumper he keeps under it, bring it too his face and he will cry for her. For their baby. For them.

Everything in the apartment reminded him of her. Her smell still lingered in their bed, her shampoo and body wash remained exactly where she had left them, her clothes remained in his draws, unmoved. The coat she'd left still hung up next to his, her shoes still on the stand.

He knows JJ and Penelope had cleaned out her apartment weeks ago because they’d handed Dave the clothes he had scattered around there and with a sad look in his eyes, he gave them back to him.

Those clothes remained in the laundry room of his apartment. He won’t wash them. He won’t wear them again.

The mug she had drank out of the morning they had left for North Carolina still stood unwashed and untouched in his sink. Her lipstick still on the rim of the mug and he remembers the way she had smiled at him from under it as he spoke to her that morning. The way she chuckled lightly when he winked at her before trying to get Jack ready for school.

He remembers that he’d kissed her quickly before he left like he would do it for the rest of his life. He remembers it all. He doesn’t think he’ll ever forget. He doesn’t want too.

Two months after Emily dies Hotch is no better. His smiles, however rare they were in the first place, are now non existent. The team brings up depression and they talk about how he should see someone about his grief but he pushes them away with a single “I'm fine” and ends the conversation.

Jack struggles to bring his father out of his grief, he spends most of his time with Jessica, but every now and then Aaron will take his son to the park, or to the beach and they will smile, they will laugh and everything would feel like it was before.

Sometimes Jack can hear his father crying, so he jumps from his bed and walks into his bedroom, jumping onto the bed and laying next to him. Hotch will take a breath and hold back the remainder of his tears and Jack will lean over to wipe them.

“You did this for me when I was having my nightmares,” He whispers to him when he wipes a tear from his face and Aaron chuckles.

“Thank you, buddy.” He whispers back and the boy smiles.

Aaron’s grief consumes him. It’s overwhelming the way he loves her and it’s overbearing the way he misses her. Grief is all he feels. Grief, heartbreak, loss, emptiness and anger.

He wants to get over this for the sake of his son and he tries but he just can’t. It’s overtaken him and he can not get out of the pit the loss of her has put him in. He feels like he can’t even breathe without her. Everything feels harder than it should and he just can’t do it. He’s trying for Jack but it’s starting to eat him alive, the guilt, the loss, the memories, everything.

It’s a Thursday night as he stares at the bottom of an empty bottle with tears running down his face, a picture of him and Emily in his hands that he becomes haunted by the thought that his own son might not even be enough to get him through this.

Three months after Emily Prentiss died a man named Peter Lewis enters his life and from the moment the killer sets eyes on Agent Hotchner he knows that’s the one whose mind he can break easily. That’s the one who he can snap in half. With a grim smile he watches, and plans his attack.

Three weeks and two days later Aaron Hotchner is walking from the parking lot towards his car when there is a sharp needle in his neck and a voice behind him. He’s falling to the floor slowly as his mind clouds over and all he can think about is that the whole thing is sort of...peaceful.

Peter Lewis places the mask over Hotch’s mouth and let’s the drugs do their job, leaning over him and whispering..

“When you wake up.. Your precious son will be dead, you watched me kill him before I brought you here.” He smiles to himself, “You will see the person you love the most and when they hand you the gun.. you’ll know what you have to do.”

What he thinks will happen is he will see Jack’s mother, he thinks she will tell him to kill his team when they walk through the doors and that he’ll do it, before his brain snaps like everyone else’s and he’ll become Mr Scratch, leaving Peter Lewis to roam free.

What he doesn’t expect is for Aaron Hotchner to be depressed and in love with a dead woman named Emily Prentiss. What he doesn’t expect is for the man to be suicidal, the grief of losing the woman he loves and their baby almost too much for him to handle.

What he doesn’t is expect that his son was the last thing keeping him holding on.

He doesn’t expect a lot of things that he should have.

Aaron wakes with a gasp and looks around the room. He sits up and feels for his gun to find himself without it.

Looking around again he notices that he’s in a house he does not recognise and doesn’t know how he got to. He feels a slight twinge in his neck and it jolts something inside of his mind. He sees flashes of a man breaking into his house, he can hear his son screaming for him and he… he remembers fighting a man who was going after his little boy. He closes his eyes as he tries to force himself to remember more when there’s a loud sound from another room. He stands up and walks towards it, only to freeze when he’s met with the man he sees in his flashes.

“Where is my son?” Aaron asks the man, who laughs in response.

“You don’t remember?” He asks, “Think.” He tells him, and Hotch looks around his unfamiliar surroundings again.

“What have you done with him?” Aaron asks, his heart beating rapidly in his chest.

“You really don’t remember?” Peter Lewis questions and he steps towards him. Hotch watches every move the man takes but he won’t step back. Not until he finds his son. “He’s dead Agent Hotchner.” He smiles and Aaron didn’t think he could ever, ever, feel anymore pain but he was wrong. Those words slash through him like a knife. He steps backwards and takes a breath, shaking his head and looking around the room.

“You were there, remember?” Peter Lewis pushes, Hotch looks around. “A bullet.. right between his eyes. You watched…” As he hears the words Hotch’s mind starts to piece it together and… he can see his son lay on the floor, his eyes open, staring blankly at him and he remembers trying to get to him before being pulled under by whatever was put into his neck.

“You.. you killed my son?” Hotch asks, tears running down his face.

Peter Lewis just smiles before walking off slowly and Hotch wants to go after him but he can’t. His mind is foggy and it’s putting pieces together, sending him dizzy. He hits the floor with a thud as his mind clouds over once again.  

The team realise he’s missing an hour and a half after he left that night after a call from Jessica to Rossi, asking if Hotch had left yet because Jack can’t sleep unless Aaron puts him to bed.

The CCTV footage from the parking garage tells them all they need to know and they’re working immediately.

“This is bad, Rossi.” Morgan tells them as they stare at the board, “The man’s mind is already…” He pauses, “Whatever happens to him, whatever Peter Lewis does to him.. I don’t see him coming back from it. He still hasn’t come back from losing Emily.”

-

Aaron comes to again a few moments later and with a foggy mind, dizzy and confused he sits up and stands. In his mind all he can see is Peter Lewis in his apartment, Peter Lewis holding a gun up to his screaming little boy and firing. He can see Jack staring blankly at him before he sees nothing.

His phone rings then and he frowns in confusion about how he still has it.

“Answer it,” He hears Peter Lewis say from somewhere.

“Hello?” He says down the phone, looking around the room he’s in.

“Aaron?” The voice says and Aaron stops, “It’s Dave.”

“Dave?” He questions, “What-“

“Tell us where you are.” Dave commands and Aaron looks around once again, searching for windows, maybe a front door but there is nothing.

“I don’t know…” He mumbles, “He...he killed Jack.” His voice cracks and he wants to scream.

“What?” Dave questions, “Who did?”

“Peter Lewis. He’s here.. somewhere. I don’t know. But I saw it… I saw him…”

“Aaron.. listen to me.” Dave tells him sternly, “Listen.”

“Okay…” He whispers, sinking down onto the floor.

“Mr Scratch did not kill your son. Jack is not dead.”

“What?” He says, confused and shaking his head. “But-”

“But you saw it, I know. That’s what he does. He drugs people into seeing whatever he wants them to. You know this, Aaron. Fight it.”

Hotch doesn’t say anything, just remains silent while his mind shatters to pieces. Imagines of him and Emily flash before him, her laughing, smiling then her under a car. Then it’s him and Jack and they’re smiling and laughing but then… but then Peter Lewis kills his son. He see’s it happen and it looks so real.

“Aaron!” Dave shouts again, “Fight it. Fight it.”

Aaron goes to speak when theres a noise from somewhere infront of him and when he opens his eyes.. he see’s her.

“Emily?” He questions, almost as if he doesn’t believe his own eyes. She smiles and bends down in front of him. His breath catches in his throat as she looks at him.

“Hi.” She says softly, “Don’t listen to them. They’re lying.” She tells him. He just stares at her and reaches out to touch her, and when his fingers touch her skin he quickly pulls them back.

“How.. what?”

“Aaron!” Rossi shouts down the phone again and Hotch puts it back to his ear.

“Yeah..” He says but it’s obvious in the way he says it that the hallucination of Emily has his complete attention, not that they blame him, some of them even wish it was them seeing her.

“Listen to me, okay? Listen.”

“I am..” He says, still looking at Emily as she sits in front of him, a smile on her lips and he reaches out to touch her once again before freezing just before his fingers reach her cheek.

“That is not Emily.” Are the words that freeze him, “Jack isn’t dead and that is not Emily and you need to find a way out of there.” Rossi shouts.

“Why?” He whispers, “It’s her. She’s here. I can see her…”

“It’s not her, Aaron. Emily is dead, Aaron. She isn’t there. You know that.”

But he doesn’t. He doesn’t know that. He was already so broken before Peter Lewis drugged him that his mind had now shattered completely and to him what he was seeing was true. It was true and she was here. His son was dead and she was here. He had nothing left to fight for.

“Emily..” Aaron whispers again, before putting the phone down.

“Aaron you need to get out of there,” Rossi tells his sternly, “Even though the thought of a life without Emily is heart breaking and I know how much pain you’re in, there is a six year old waiting for you at home who’s going through the same thing. He needs you, Aaron.” He says, “Jack isnt dead and that is not Emily.”

There is silence for a few moments before Hotch ends the call, as as the beep of the loss of singal echos around the room, Rossi stands.

“Track that call!”

-

She smiles as he ends the call and puts the phone of the floor, his eyes transfixed on her.

“I’ve missed you.” She tells him, reaching for his hand and when she takes it and he feels it on his own, tears fall from his eyes because she’s here. she’s back.

“I missed you too.” He whispers, smiling at her. He looks at her and tilts his head into her hand when she cups his cheek and he can’t help but notice just how cold she is. He intertwines her fingers with his as they rest of his cheek and he sighs.

“Jack’s dead?” He whispers, and Emily nods softly.

“Yeah…” She replies, “I’m sorry, honey”

“He killed him..” He says and Emily nods her head again. She pulls her hand from her cheek slowly, but keeps their fingers locked together as she starts to stand. He follows her actions and when they’re stood, he stares at her.

“Do you trust me?” She asks with a smile while she locks their hands together, he nods.

“Always.” He tells her and she smiles.

“Follow me.” She says and leads him into a different room. They stand in front of a closed door and before she opens it she looks back at him.

“What’s this?” He asks her and she smiles, opening it and he looks inside. “Is that-”

“That’s our daughter.” She tells him, unlocking her fingers from his and walking towards the little girl sat on the floor. Emily crouches down next to her and they both stare at him.

“How?” He whispers, he walks in and bends down in front of them both. “They said you didn’t know..”

“I didn’t..” She says, “But I know now.”

“She looks just like you.” He tells her with a smile and she nods.

“Come on,” She says and grabs his hand again, pulling him away from the little girl who waves goodbye to him, he’s still looking behind him as they leave the room.

“Emily.. what is going on?”

“What do you mean?” She questions, standing in front of him in what looks to be a living room. It’s not one he recognises.

“How are you here?” He whispers, “You’re.. you’re dead.”

Emily stands in front of him and rests both her cold hands on his face and nods.

“Yeah.” She whispers, “But I really missed you.”

“I miss you too, god.. you have no idea.” He tells her but she’s pulling away and he wants to follow her but he can’t move.

“It’s so cold, Aaron.” She tells him, there’s tears in her eyes, “It’s so cold, and it’s so dark.” She whispers, “I’m cold…” She says again, looking at him.

“Emily-” He starts to say but he can’t finish it because he remembers her saying this the first time. How when she coded in the ambulance all she felt was darkness and cold and it’s been haunting him for months thinking what if she’s cold where she is? What if it’s dark? And to have her say the words to him breaks his already shattered heart.

“Aaron,” She whispers and he looks at her, there’s blood down her face and coming from her mouth and he’s seeing flashes of her once again pinned under a car. “I need you.” She tells him, “You’re the only place I feel safe. I don’t feel safe here. Its so cold. It’s so dark. It’s so lonely.”

He loves her so much that this is torture for him to hear this. To hear that this whole time she has been in the dark, cold and alone. He reaches out for her but he can’t reach her.

“Let me help you. Please.”

She walks towards him and presses something heavy in his hard and he looks down to find a gun. His eyes snap up to hers and she’s smiling, nodding her head.

“I love you.” She tells him, “Please. Help me.”

“But-” He wants to say what about Jack but then he remembers that his little boy was dead. His son was gone, taken by the man who’d brought him here and he had nothing left now.

He loved her so much and she’s cold, she’s scared and she’s alone. There is a gun in his hand and in one click it’s all over he can join Emily where she is and she won’t have to be cold and alone anymore. He can join Jack.. and Haley and they can all be together.

“It’s okay,” She nods as she lifts the gun for him, it’s balanced against his temples and her hands are on his cheeks and she’s so cold, he can feel it on his skin and it makes him shiver. He’s starting at her but he’s not afraid, he smiles at her and she’s smiling right back. “We’re waiting for you.” She says and then there’s people behind her. Not just people but, Jack, his little boy, he’s in his mother’s arms, who’s nodding her head in his direction and then there’s the little girl with dark hair that looked much like him and Emily he could not believe it.

He stares at Emily once more and she smiles at him.

“I love you.” She whispers to him, he sighs, nodding his head and the gun goes off.

His hallucinations fade away just as he does.

He dies instantly.

-

The team rush into the building to find Peter Lewis waiting from them on a chair in the middle of the abandoned building, laughing.  

“He was more broken than I thought.” He laughs, “I can’t even be angry that I’ve been caught. Watching him so..shattered, was better than I could have imagined.”

“Where is he?” Rossi shouts as Morgan picks the guy of the chair and handcuffs him.

Peter Lewis laughs and looks at him, “If you thought everybody you loved was dead, and the one person you loved more than anything was telling you how cold they were.. where would you go?”

Everyone freezes, before taking off in a run. Peter Lewis is handed to local PD as they search the house.

JJ runs into an empty room and spots his legs, he’s lay on the floor and for a moment she lets out a sigh of relief until she realises he isn’t moving. She walks slowly towards him, her heart hammering against her chest and she can’t breathe because surely, surely this isn’t happening. It can’t be.

“Hotch?” She calls, taking slow steps, “Hotch..” She says again when she reaches him and at first glance it just looks like he’s lay there, but then she spots the gun in his hand and the bullet hole is his head and he’s staring so blankly at her she feels like she might throw up. All she can do is scream.

It’s JJ’s scream that gives them all his location and as the blonde woman falls backwards into Morgan’s arms, they all see the sight she had.

Aaron Hotchner lay dead, a bullet hole in his temple, a gun in his hand in the middle of the floor of an abandoned building.

Rossi walks over and bends down, closing the man’s eye while he ignores the cries of JJ as Morgan holds her tightly.

“It’s okay,” He whispers to the dead man, “You rest now.”

-

They all arrive back at the BAU and the first person they break news to is Garcia.

Morgan is the one to tell her and when the words leave his mouth all Garcia can do is scream before almost dropping to the floor, collapsing in Morgan’s arms as he holds her up and brings her into his chest, wrapping his arms tightly around her.

“He can’t be dead!” She cries, “He can’t be…he can’t die thinking I hated him.” She's sobbing into his chest and Morgan holds back his own tears as he holds her close.

“He didn’t think that.” He whispers, rubbing a hand down her back.

“He did!” She cries, “He died thinking that I couldn’t forgive but I did.”

“He knows, Penelope.” Morgan reassures her, “He knows.”

Jessica and Jack walk into the BAU with no idea what to expect.

Dave guides Jessica into his office while JJ sits with Jack. They have no idea how to break the news to the six year old who is now an orphan. Every parental figure he has gone.

“He’s dead, isn’t he.” Jessica says, looking at Dave. The man nods slowly, swallowing the lump in his throat.

“His name was Peter Lewis. He.. he drugged Aaron and-”

“I don’t need to know the specifics.” She tells him, shaking her head and looking at Jack as he talks to JJ.

“What do I tell him?” She whispers, “How are they all dead?”

“Life is cruel.” He says to her, “I find peace in that he’s with Emily.”

“Where’s Jack’s peace?” She questions, looking at the older man, “He lost three parents in two years. How does a little boy get through that?”

“With time.” Rossi says softly, “With help.”

Jessica and Dave look back to the boy who sits and waits for them, not knowing that his dad had joined his mother and Emily. Not knowing he was alone.

-

In the end it’s Dave who breaks the news to him because Jessica just can’t do it. She tries, but as the boy’s eyes stare into hers she just can’t.

Dave takes over and crouch’s down in front of the boy, smiling sadly at him.

“Hey Jack.” He whispers and Jack just looks at him and he already knows what is coming. He’s been through this twice now.

“Is Daddy gone?” He asks, “Did he join Emmy?”

“Yeah, buddy.” Dave says after a few moments, “I’m sorry.”

Jack looks down, tears burning in his eyes. He leans forward and wraps his arms around Dave.

“He promised me.. Uncle Dave. He promised me he wouldn’t go away like everyone else. Why did he lie?” Jack cries into his neck and Dave just holds the boy tighter.

“He tried very hard to stay for you, Jack. Really really hard.” He lies to the boy because he doesn’t need the truth. He wouldn’t understand it. He’s better without it. There’s movement behind Dave and Jack looks up to find JJ standing there. He slowly pulls away from him and heads towards the woman. Looking at her with wide eyes and she smiles, bending down to be eye level with him.

“He lied, Miss Jennifer..” He whispers to her and she shakes her head, wiping his tears with her thumb.

“Come here,” She whispers and scoops the boy into her, holding him tightly as she stands. The boy cries into her neck because what she forgot was that she was wearing Emily’s perfume and all the boy could smell while he rested in her arms was Emily.

“You smell like her.” Jack whispers as he rests his head on her shoulder. “I miss them.”

“Me too, baby.” She says, kissing his head.

-

Jessica takes the boy home an hour later and as they lay in her bed, him resting softly next to her, he asks her a question that breaks her in half.

“Is it just me and you now Aunt Jess?” He asks her. She turns to face him and runs a hand through his hair.

“Yeah baby,” She tells him, “Just me and you.”

“You’re not going to leave?”

“No.” She shakes her head, “I’m right here.”

The two candles turn into three and as he tells his parents about his day, Jessica watches with a sad smile and just hopes that the young boy makes it through this.

They bury Hotch next to Emily four months and two days after her funeral. Jack stands in front of Jessica, watching as another casket is lowered to the ground. Spencer and Morgan stand two feet away, hands grasped together and they hold back their tears, Penelope’s hand wrapped in Morgan’s other, tears falling freely from her face. JJ and Will stand two feet away from them, Will holds her close as they watch. JJ can’t take her eyes away from Jack, the little boy who lost so much so quickly.

As the boy places a rose on each grave, the team cry silently.

“Let’s go give the other rose to mommy.” They hear Jessica whisper to him after a few moments and the boy nods, taking her hand and letting her guide him through the small walk of the cemetery to where his Mother was buried in the Brookes plot.

-

The team come by and visit Jack for a few months after Aaron and Emily’s deaths. They go to as many of  his soccer games that they can, they try to take him on days out and make him feel as though he’s still a part of their family. He has play dates with Henry and for a few months they’re doing what they know Aaron and Emily would have done for them and try and help Jack through the process.

Yet, one by one the team just stopped coming over to see him. It’s too hard. He has Haley’s eyes and Hotch’s face but he also has Emily’s mannerisms and it’s too hard for them to see it. He reminds them of all they’ve lost and soon no one comes to see him anymore and he’s never understood why everyone always leaves him.

Why didn’t anybody ever stay?

So when Jack snaps at sixteen because everybody he loves is dead and everybody else left him alone to deal with the repercussions,  it’s the team he goes after.

He manages to get all of them apart from one before they catch him.

Rossi is first because.. that was Uncle Dave. That was Uncle Dave and why didn’t he stay? Why did he leave?

He shoots him in the chest because it’s his first one and he hasn’t quite got the hang of it yet. Dave looks at him and takes a hollow breath,

“It’s okay, kid. I get it. I’m sorry I left you. I forgive you..” and he won’t stop talking. Jack shoots him in the head and just like that there’s silence. He bends down and looks at the older man. “It didn’t have to be this way Dave, but you didn’t stay. Why didn’t you stay? Why didn’t anybody just stay?”

Spencer is next because he was like a brother to Emily and a man his own father treated more of like a son than he did him and it has always upset him that after just two months without them he put them and him in the past and moved on. When he’s done Spencer, a gun shot to the chest, he moves onto Morgan because he was supposed to be the protector of the group and he had promised him he would be there but then once again had chosen Spencer. Just like he had done with his father, like he had Emily.

As they're both dying, gripping each other’s hand as they take their final breaths he scoffs because “Why should you get to die together when they didn’t?” They bring Emily and Aaron. They being him and his family.

It’s JJ next because he can’t believe that after everything Emily did for her she just left him when he was just a child with no parents. She even has a child herself and Henry was his friend and so why did no one help him?

He doesn’t make it to Penelope before he’s caught. When he’s asked by detectives and Agents why he did what he did he looks them straight in the eye before answering.

“Because they made promises they couldn’t keep, and they left me. My parents died for them and they couldn’t keep their promises.”

Garcia buries all of her friends in the fall and when a leaf falls over the middle of where Emily and Aaron have lay for the last ten years, she thinks maybe Jack sparing her what their way of saying they forgive her for not being there for him and takes it as a sign to be there for him now.

Penelope visits Jack in prison every week for five years. She bumps into Jessica every now and then and they talk about their lost friends. About Jack.

Jack spends the rest of his life in prison. Forever missing his parents and forever holding a grudge against those who left him on their own accord. He doesn’t forgive those he killed and he doesn’t think he ever will.

He has a picture of him and his mother on the wall, as well as a picture of him, his father and Emily.

“I miss you,” He whispers to their pictures one night three years later, “I’ll see you soon.”

fin

[codename-adler]

Kevin Day and his Oblivious Literature Lover, pt.V

Let’s all repeat after me: therapizing our faves helps us therapize ourselves! If Kevin can get better, maybe we all can... right? 

>>Table of Contents, TW and other parts here!

the water runs behind the bathroom door for so long that Kevin spaces out in his spot on the floor, losing himself in thoughts about the Foxhole Court (surprise, surprise)

Juliet comes out at last an hour later, freshly showered, her hair wet and springy, her face even paler than before

she goes to rummage through her tiny dresser, slow and silent like a dead walker, and pulls out multiple clothes before going back into the humidity of the bathroom

she finally comes out into the room a few minutes later, dressed in clean sweatpants and multiple t-shirts and sweaters

the one on top is a simple, XXL black hoodie with the PSU logo on the front, in washed out orange

Kevin unconsciously thinks that the blindingly bright orange Exy hoodies the Foxes have would suit her so much better

happy colors help happy thoughts, right? 

(who said that again? was it Nicky? he was probably talking about the gay flag anyways...)

Kevin is pulled from his thoughts when Juliet trudges over to her bed, lets herself fall in it and sluggishly pulls on blue fuzzy socks to warm her cold feet

he slighlty turns to look up at Juliet, and they start a staring contest from where they each sit

but Kevin soon realizes that not everything is a contest, and not everyone exists to challenge him, and Juliet isn’t the Foxes

because she barely lasts 2 seconds before lowering her gaze to her hands, shoulders tensing and fingers picking at dry skin

however, as Kevin keeps feeling out of his depth and thinks about just leaving right there and then, Juliet quietly mumbles

“If I talk, will you talk too?”

Kevin’s first thought is “I don’t have shit to say and I sure as hell wouldn’t give you dirt on me,” and it clearly shows on his face

lucky for him, Juliet’s head is still lowered, so he has time to force himself out of his fight-or-flight relfex

she isn’t the Foxes, she isn’t the Ravens, she isn’t the Foxes, she isn’t the Ravens, she-

but still, what if she is? what if this is all a scam? 

but then again, he looked for her, he found her, he spent the night, he is asking... if anyone’s nosy in all this, it’s him

it feels like at the point where he is, where they are, he’s acted far from his usual, asshole self, and he just wants to keep going... it feels good not to fight

“Yes, I will talk. If the subject stays within the limits of what I’m willing to talk about. You should do so yourself,” Kevin states, not quite softly, but not quite sharply either, like he usually does

Juliet anxiously nods, still not looking up

the silence settles back between them, the room heavy with dread, fear and awkwardness

after a while, Juliet speaks up, barely above a whisper, but in the quiet of her room, it feels like her words ring in Kevin’s ears

“If I google you right now, what am I going to find?”

and shit

anything but that

he wants to hold on so bad, just a little while more, to this nobody he’s managed to keep up with Juliet

because if she knows... then everything he’s managed to keep at bay when he’s with her will come rushing back over him, and over her too

and he doesn’t want that

it’s not shame, it’s not pride

it’s pure fear

“You are going to see very ugly things,” is all he responds, face blank and emptily staring at the wall

inside, though, it stings to say those words. because it isn’t totally the truth. exy is his pride, his reason to live, his air to breathe. but if she finds out about exy, she will also learn about the violence, the multiple “accidents”, she’ll know about Riko...

and if she knows about Riko, she’s one step closer to Riko knowing about her

“Kevin. When you say ‘ugly’, you mean you’ve had a shitty life so far, or you mean you’ve killed many people? Because you’re the man who slept on my floor all night and I’m alone, and I’m very afraid right now.”

of course he fucked it up one question in

what is he supposed to say, though? ‘Of course I’m not a murderer, but my owners are’ ? 

and the more he thinks about the correct answer to give, the more he looks like he’s searching for an excuse and the more Juliet is retreating into the corner of her bed

“Fuck, no. It means that half the cards I’ve been dealt with are extremely good, and the other half is very, very fucked up. And it’s all over the Internet. And the things that you won’t find there are the ugliest. Ugly secrets that make me even more unlikeable to my... roommates, and our classmates. A walking asshole on a stick.”

Juliet stops moving

“That’s… quite the load of bullshit, Kevin. I won’t look, okay? I promise you. But you said truth for truth. That is not a truth. But... you also said we don’t have to answer if we don’t want to. Kevin, you don’t have to. I’ll take your word that you’re not a serial killer. I’ll haunt you if you are, though. I’ll make all your spoons disappear. And kick you in your sleep.”

Kevin didn’t know how to react

it was so… easy

too easy

just like that, the subject was dropped

no pushing, no threatening knife, no mood swing

now it was his turn

somehow he could only think of Matt, of Aaron and their nights out at Eden’s, of Seth…

“Are you on drugs?” was out of his mouth before he could be careful of his tone

it sounded severe, accusing

yet Juliet did not react, not even a little bit

she just kept on looking at him, letting the silence pressure him into guiltily babbling his excuse

“I’ve seen these signs before, okay! And heard about them too. I know what addiction looks like. The sickly pale skin, the mess, the absences, the shutdowns. Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what.”

“Like a wounded animal.”

his tone was harsh enough to resemble the attitude he usually reserved for the Foxes

and he knew he’d been too rough when it caused Juliet to draw in a shaky breath

“Wow, you’re really good at that… Ever considered being a detective or a life coach? You’re actually not far from the truth… Jesus,” Juliet exhaled. “I do take drugs. Antidepressants. Strong ones. And I ran out this week. I don’t have the money. You’re currently witnessing a withdrawal combined with a depressive episode. Impressive, huh?”

her voice was so devoid of emotions Kevin was reminded once again of Andrew…

except that her face was a mirror cracked open, her pain palpable in the air between them

his first instinct was to reply ‘What’s wrong with you?’, because he genuinely wanted to know why she had to take such heavy medication at her age, and why she couldn’t afford it anymore, but he willed himself to let the words die on his tongue; try not to be a fuckup this time, will you?

however, before Kevin could formulate his thought correctly, the silence overworked Juliet too and she filled it with her story...

“I was diagnosed with dysthymia a couple of months ago. I’ve basically been stuck in a dark cloud since I was like, 15. Never went away. Wasn’t ‘serious’ enough to get medical attention, like the docs said. Fast forward last winter, I had a complete nervous breakdown at my workplace. It was pretty ugly. 911, ambulance, psych ward, psych eval, pills, and other… things. Oh, and a fuckload of bills. Even my scholarship doesn’t cover all of that. So I tried to make my prescriptions last longer by taking my medication every other day, which… Well, not recommended by your local psychiatrist. Last weekend I had to choose between groceries or pills. Now my body is missing its drugs and I’m missing major classes. So…  Ta-da…” she told Kevin, her arms slowly moving as if to present a show.

Kevin was speechless

not because he was shocked, or because he pitied her, or because he was disgusted

he was speechless because of the anger that choked him from inside

he felt such a rage at the idea that Juliet couldn’t receive the help she needed, the care she deserved

he was speechless because as anger consumed him, he realized that it was the same anger he’d felt when Jean was given back to him in pieces

he was speechless because he cared too much, now

he hadn’t even seen it coming

if Juliet were to be pulled away now, it’d feel like pulling every stitches he ever had

and all it had taken was a few months

[pathetic-has-been-rockstar]

The ghost of Christmas present

Pairing: Crowley x reader, Dean x Castiel, Sam x Eileen

Written for: @spnchristmasbingo​

Square filled: Christmas tree

Warnings: none

Summary:  You finally join the boys for the holidays, with Crowley shadowing you. Dean decides to show Jack another sliver of the Christmas experience, and brings him to cut down the Christmas tree for the bunker. You and Crowley are supposed to look for the decorations, while Sam and Eileen bake some Christmas treats. The plan is destined to change drastically when someone unexpected shows up at the bunker.

Words: 3577

Beta: @raspberrymama​ (make sure to check her works!)

my work can be found on AO3, here! If you’re interested in the whole series, you just have to click here!

When you finally make it to the bunker and kill the engine, the sun is already setting. You pull the handbrake and look at the last rays of sunlight playing between the branches of the trees, taking a deep breath before opening your car door and letting the cold air hit you.

It's been a long trip, mostly because of the slow traffic, and you are happy about the company Crowley provided. You weren't expecting him to join you, you didn't suspect that bickering with someone could make the road seem shorter, and yet it worked. He comes out from the car, fixes his peacoat and looks at you, grinning.

“See? I told you we'd make it before sunset.”

“Consider this: if you say I told you so another time, I'm stabbing you.”

“You would never kill me.”

“I never said I'd kill you. In fact, I can freely stab you without killing you. Must have a knife somewhere around here...” you answer, rolling your eyes.

You're taking your bag from the trunk of your car when the Impala comes out from the bunker's garage. The car stops and Dean and Jack walk out.

“What's he doing here?” Dean barks, hinting at the demon. You shrug.

“Hello, Dean. I'm happy to see you, too. Two days on the road are so worth this warm welcome.”

Jack giggles at Dean's expression and comes to greet you with a proper hug, to which you happily respond. You really like this new side of the kid. Physical affection always seemed somehow taboo around the boys, but thankfully it looks like you can add that to the list of things changing.

Crowley waves a hand at Jack, who doesn't get the hint and hugs him anyway, even if he draws back pretty quickly. Crowley doesn't seem happy about it, but he just smooths his coat with a vaguely disapproving look.

A pretty amused Dean finally imitates Jack and briefly squeezes you in a quick hug. He just shoots a cold glance at Crowley, who smiles at him, obviously very pleased with his retained ability to ruffle Dean's feathers. Speaking of which...

“Aren't you an angel short, Squirrel?”

“Cas is going to be back tonight, I think. Sam and Eileen are inside, hunkered down in the kitchen making... sweets, and maybe something else. Just... just make yourself heard when you walk in.”

You laugh at Dean's expression, easily guessing what's prompting this advice. The mention of Castiel made him a bit uneasy, so you grace him with a change of subject.

“What's with the lumberjack gear?” you ask, pointing at the axe laying on the backseat of the Impala.

Dean seems extremely grateful about the chance you offered him, and quickly takes advantage of it. “Oh, I'm teaching Jack how to pick a Christmas tree! I haven't done it in a million years.”

“You've done it before?”

“Yeah, years ago. I worked in one of those Christmas villages. I cut down trees, found hidden spots with the sexy ladies... fun times!”

You ignore the poorly hidden bragging attempt in favour of the easy mocking “... please, tell me you were dressed as an overgrown elf and had to wear a hat with little bells and stuff.”

“... I only had to wear a hat, but thanks for picking this up. You'll love the Christmas picture.”

You look for answers right away. That hadn't been mentioned in any of the calls or texts. “Christmas picture? What Christmas picture?”

“Ask Sammy, it was his idea!” Dean literally drags Jack over to the Impala, and waves a hand at you and Crowley, pretending not to hear your protests. You shake your head, more convinced than ever that they came up with something terrible and ridiculous that will haunt you for years to come. You grab your bag and walk inside the bunker, with Crowley right behind you.

“Well, it surely looks better when you're not dragged inside in chains.” he casually muses.

“... I wouldn't know, I lack the chained perspective.”

“We could easily fix that, if you'd like.”

You thank the fact that he can see only your shoulders, since you can feel your cheeks heating up. You know he's always been a flirty bastard, but since he's back he's been... relentless. Boredom makes him even more explicit, and definitely more careful about where he swings his punches... and you surely are an easy target. You doubt he's interested in you, also given your night shared in perfect innocence, but this doesn't mean that you're not still gloating about the way you woke up that morning.

You call for Sam and see him coming out from the kitchen wearing an apron, half covered in flour, and with something that looks like powdered sugar in his hair. You laugh and dodge his hug, but he grabs you anyway. While you try to wiggle free of him, you see Eileen coming out of the kitchen.

She signs a swift arch from her temple, smiling. “Hello!”

You finally break free of Sam, now covered in whatever was on his apron, and walk to Eileen, replicating her gesture. You hug her, as well, and you notice that she's definitely cleaner than Sam.

“... what happened there?”

“Uh... Christmas magic?” Sam tries. Eileen, calling him out, taps her palm with her other hand and rolls it over, then signs a small square. The sign for “kitchen” is immediately followed by a quick touch on her chin with a closed hand and both her indexes pointing down, “accident”.

You laugh and Sam tilts his head, bemused.

“You know ASL?”

“Just a few words, and believe me, accident is one of those I've learnt first.”

“... what about kitchen?”

“I always need to know where I can find the food, Sam. Always”, you reply with a very serious face, a second before cracking up. Just then Sam seems to notice Crowley.

“What are you doing here?”

Crowley rolls his eyes, annoyed. “Oh, yes. I can definitely tell you and Squirrel are related, you know? She needed a co-pilot, so I volunteered. I planned on leaving, but since it looks like you and your brother are equally upset by this... I'm staying.”

“Oh, no. Not...”

Eileen tugs firmly at the sleeve of his shirt, and Sam sighs, then shrugs. He looks at you, trying to ignore the smug look of Crowley.

“Fine. Whatever. Uh... we still have something to do here, can you go and take the decorations for the tree?”

“Yeah, sure. I'll set my stuff down and go... where?”

“Basement, right after the dungeon. In case you want to throw him in there, you're welcome.”

You roll your eyes and chuckle, but Crowley doesn't seem particularly amused by Sam's innuendo. He bows lightly his head at Eileen, and follows you in your room. You pass the door, and go to take the furthest one, causing him to question you.

“Didn't you sleep in there?”

“Yes. Before.”

“Before what?”

You walk inside your new room, smiling. “Before Sam and Eileen, and before Dean and Castiel” you answer, leaving down your bag and walking to the small sink to wash your face.

“Dean and Castiel?” Crowley is forced to ask, but he's distracted. You're taking away your scarf and coat, and the thing is absorbing a considerable portion of his attention. He bites his lip, narrowing his eyes on you and following even your smallest movement.

You move your hand in a “so and so” gesture, completely oblivious of what's going on with him. “Not yet, but soon. Very soon, if Christmas magic works.”

Crowley grins, far too happy about the excuse you just provided him. “I can't miss this. I'm staying, for sure.”

You shrug, wash your face and dry it off with a clean towel, then turn to him. “Fine. Bugger off now, I need to take a shower. After that, you'll make yourself useful and help me with the decorations.”

With a swift nod and a grin, Crowley leaves you alone.

Walking in the woods, Dean points at a pine tree. It looks pretty solid, not incredibly tall, and it's perfect for the purpose, with lush branches and splendid green needles. He shows Jack how to check for animals on it, and where to cut down the trunk.

Jack drinks in every bit of information, and looks at Dean trying to prove his skills. When the axe gets stuck inside the bark and doesn't seem willing to come out in any way, a clear “son of a bitch!” echoes through the calm woods, followed by a few other curses.

Trying not to laugh too openly, Jack approaches the tree. “May I?”

Dean gives up and takes a couple of steps back. “... please.”

Apparently without the slightest effort, Jack pulls away the axe. After that, he puts a hand on the cut in the bark, and the tree slowly and softly leans on one side, falling elegantly to the ground in an almost choreographed appearance. Dean looks at the tree, then at Jack, then back at the tree.

“... alright kid... time to drag that thing to the car. I know it's not funny, but it has to be done.”

“Dean, I could...”

“I said let's drag that thing, alright?”

Jack nods and starts trying to help Dean, with mixed results, but no one of them can stop laughing.

The tree has been placed at the entrance of the library. Dean stands by it, looking at it like a proud father would stare at his kid during the Christmas play. Sam joins him after a few minutes, bringing him a beer.

“Look at that, Sammy. Isn't it beautiful?”

“Yeah, it's pretty neat.”

“Where are the decorations?”

“Uh... I don't know.”

“You don't know. I left you and Eileen to take care of the kitchen, and Y/N just had to pick up the boxes. The cookies aren't ready, I see no candy canes, there's not a single wreath anywhere, no mistletoe, not a single...”

Sam interrupts him, explaining why he doesn't mean to investigate the lack of decorations. “Crowley is in there, with Y/N. They've been there... a while, I guess.”

Dean laughs. “Well, I ain't setting foot in there. Oh, and... Sammy?”

“Yeah?”

“You got flour on your ass.”

Dean doesn't even try to hide his laughter while Sam walks away, blushing like a teenager caught in the act. He takes another sip from his beer and shivers, feeling a sudden drop in the air temperature around him.

The things in the closet are pretty different from what the Winchesters are picturing. You're sitting on the floor, wrestling the lights and trying to untangle the cable with very poor results, while Crowley keeps muttering and rummaging in the boxes.

“Why does it have to be an angel?”

You turn to him, stopping for a moment before you unwittingly end up in a trap of your own making “... pardon?”

“Why does it have to be an angel on top of the tree? We already have a real one, can't we skip this, at least?”

“... what do you mean, we have a real one? It's not like we're tying up Cas and heaving him up on the top of the tree.”

“We should at least consider it.”

“Crowley, I swear to God.”

“You're no fun, kitten. I bet Dean would appreciate a Christmas bondage edition of his beau. Why do the Men of Letters have an angel figurine, anyway? Didn’t they kill angels?”

Exasperated by your fruitless efforts, you finally lift your head from the tangled mess of lights and look at him “Why are you still here, Crowley?”

“To poke Squirrel and Feathers, and to irk Moose. Why?”

“Because they are not here. And you are here, helping me. Maybe there's something else.” The last sentence slips past your lips before you can shut up. Crowley shrugs, looking at you, cocking an eyebrow.

“Do you really think I am here because I care about this tomfoolery of Christmas, and family, and sappiness?” He asks, in the tone of someone disproving a ridiculous claim. He is not there for Christmas. He decided to go with you. Surely you noticed that, you must have noticed. He travelled with you, for fuck's sake. A demon on your passenger seat is pretty hard to miss.

“I'm just saying you're in here, complaining with me about an angel figurine that we can't even find, instead of being up there, annoying them.” You start to pull and twist the wire once again, mindlessly trying to keep your hands busy and your head low. Of course he doesn't care.

“I'm not complaining, I'm trying to be rational. Their symbol is a star. Couldn't they use that? There's a bloody comet in that fairytale, isn't there?”

“Oh God, Crowley, yes, alright, no angel! No angel, ok? Just shut your mouth, I beg you.” For a second, you thought that he wasn't interested just in being a sort of Grinch, but you were obviously wrong. It's been stupid to keep your hopes high, even for a second.

Ignoring completely the way you snapped at him, he looks at you. “You know... there are more interesting ways to make me shut up, and funnier reasons to beg.”

You try to stand up from the floor, on the verge of exasperation, but you're so tangled up in the Christmas lights thread that you can't really move. Regretting already what you're about to say, you turn to the demon.

“... Crowley... can you help me?”

“Oh, sure I can. But will I?” is the predictable answer you get. You start thrashing against the improvised festive chains, but he laughs and walks closer to you. “Don't make it worse.”

You stay still, with a very annoyed expression, looking away while Crowley's hands work on the apparently inextricable mass around you, chuckling.

“How in the Hell's name did you manage...”

“... I thought to pass it around my arm to have a wider loop, but I guess it wasn't a great plan.” you mutter through your teeth, prompting more laughter from Crowley. When his fingertips graze the naked skin on your arms, you jump a little. He mercifully pretends not to notice, applying a bit more pressure and lingering more than necessary.

For a while you just sit there, feeling clumsy, but somehow enjoying the fact that his attention is focused exclusively on you. As soon as you're free from the improvised snare, you stand up and try to open the door. It'd be better to leave it open to carry the boxes more easily, but when you try the handle, you find it locked.

“Uh... that's weird.”

“... what's weird?”

“The door's locked.”

“... kitten, you don't need excuses to spend time with me.” Crowley simpers, looking at you.

“Try for yourself, smartass.”

After a few attempts, both from you and Crowley, the door stays obstinately closed. You exchange a confused stare, before you try to text Sam or Dean. You soon realize your phone has no signal.

“That's weirder. Can't you open it with your powers?”

“Iron encrusted with salt, same goes for the walls.” Crowley answers you. It's partially true, but he doesn't mind being locked in there with you. He goes to sit on one of the lower cabinets, then studies you.

“So... it looks like we have some time to kill.”

Sam is telling Eileen why he was so upset when he came back in the kitchen, putting all his emphasis on the signs for "idiot" and "jerk". Eileen quietly shrugs.

"It's not exactly a secret, Sam. No need to be shy about this."

Sam blushes violently and tries to explain himself, when the door slams behind him. He tilts his head, confused, and he tries to open it, with no success. A moment later, the air becomes colder. Eileen looks at him and hits her open palm, lifting her hand in a wavy motion, spelling a single word.

“Ghost.”

Sam furrows his eyebrows in surprise, but he doesn't question her. After all, she is quite the expert on the subject. They both rush to the tool shelf, grabbing anything made of iron they can find and the salt, standing back to back, looking around them.

“How did it come in here?” Sam asks, only to feel a sharp elbow against his back. He turns just in time to see a vaguely human form charging at him, violently shoving Eileen against one of the walls.

The ghost attacks Sam, who can't swing his piece of iron fast enough, and it locks his hands on his throat. He tries to fight back, but he doesn't manage. The piece of iron is yanked away from his hand, and he's pushed on his knees first, then with his back on the floor. His lungs start to ache for air when the ghost disappears. Eileen stands there, her hair stuck to her face, her eyes wide with worry.

“Are you okay?”

Sam nods and touches his throat, then takes a deep breath, coughing a couple of times. He then stands up, taking Eileen's hand. Apparently, the ghost has left them alone, for now.

“Where did that thing come from?”

“We really should get out of here and find out”, she answers, already starting to look around for something they can use to get out of the kitchen.

Sam hurls himself at the door a couple of times, but when he's done, he just gained a sore shoulder and a very disapproving look from Eileen.

“When has that ever worked against magic?”

“... there might always be a first time...” Sam answers, awkward.

“Looks like it's not today. Help me find something useful, come on.”

When Castiel appears back in the bunker, he's confused, for a second. Dean is pinned against the floor, apparently choking, clawing at his chest with his hands.

“Dean!”

The hunter doesn't seem to hear him, as he goes paler by the second. That's when Castiel realizes what's happening, and his eyes start beaming blue. He immediately identifies the source of danger and strides to the ghost crouched over Dean's chest.

He grabs it, and he catches the surprised stare of the ghost, a second before blasting him back in the Veil. Hopefully, this time a reaper will be able to find the soul and lead it to Heaven or Hell.

Castiel then kneels next to Dean, touching his forehead. His grace flows for a moment, healing the minor wounds left by the attack of the ghost, and Dean takes a deep breath.

“Hey... nice timing.”

“What happened?”

“I... there was a ghost.”

Castiel rolls his eyes, helping Dean to a sit on the floor. “I saw that. How did it get in here? This place is supposed to be protected.”

“Yeah, well... Kevin walked in, when he was a ghost.”

“That was different. He wasn't a vengeful spirit, he didn't mean you any harm, and he died here. This man was murdered more than fifty years ago.”

“Why was he here, then?”

Castiel's worry is quickly substituted by relief while he helps Dean back on his feet. “That's what I'm asking you. Have you brought in anything that might be connected to a murder?”

“What? No! We didn't bring anything, we just... oh, crap.” Dean mutters, looking at the tree. Castiel follows his stare and guesses what he's thinking.

“Are you joking?”

“Well...”

Castiel stands up, goes to check the tree, then turns back to Dean, raising his arms in a rare display of incredulity and exasperation. “A whole forest out there, and you pick the only tree that doubles as a tombstone for a vengeful spirit, probably killed by the Men of Letters?”

Dean just shrugs, unsure about what to say, then his gaze softens. “Yeah, I'm lucky like that. Anyway, Cas... thank you for showing up.”

“Of course, Dean. You know I...”

“You always come when I call, yes. I know. That's... that's incredible, you know? Knowing you got my back... I wouldn't know what to do without you.”

Cas sighs, not sure about the implications. He's never sure about the implications with him. “You've made it this far. I'm sure you would manage.”

Dean scoffs. “But I wouldn't like it. I'm glad you're around for our first real Christmas. Where were you?”

Castiel smiles, finally giving Dean a playful look. “You're gonna have to wait until Christmas morning to find out. Come on, let's go to check on the others.” He walks to Dean and offers him his hand. Right away, Dean grabs it and pulls himself up, smiling when he finds himself on his feet, face to face with Castiel.

For a moment, Dean stands there, just studying the angel's face. He's amazed by how gracefully his vessel aged, and at the same time he finds unfair the fact that he won't be able to see his true form.

Just as he's moving a hand towards Castiel, the sound of a slamming door echoes from the corridor leading to the kitchen. Dean rolls his eyes, slightly annoyed and immediately feeling guilty about it. He's supposed to check on everyone else.

“That's the sound of someone doing good. Hey, Cas?”

“Yes?”

“Wanna go pick another tree, once we're sure everyone's doing good and… you know, burn down this one?”

“It's probably safer, yes. I'll go check on Jack, you make sure Sam and the girls are alright.” Cas replies with a nod, heading for Jack's room.

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

Thank you for reading! 

I truly hope you enjoyed this little story. Every kind of feedback is very much appreciated, just as much as likes and reblogs!

Please, do not repost or copy my works or part/s of it, not even if you give credits.

[thevengeanceuniverse]

Touch in the Dark Ch 2.2(Tony)

Tony helped Sarah make dinner that night, deciding on a simple but filling cacio e pepe with a nice wine accompaniment. He used his mamma’s pasta maker to start from scratch and let memories of her teaching him how to use it wash over him. Sarah was wonderful and took good care of him and Peter but it still ached to think about his mamma. She would have loved the warmth of the Rogers household, loved sharing recipes and gossip with Sarah in the kitchen, the two of them giggling like schoolgirls. She was the one who would pull him to dance with her in the kitchen, twirling around to the sounds of the radio. He missed the lightness of her spirit that was so visibly absent by the time of her death. He hoped Howard rotted in hell for the abuse that he had put his mamma through.

Pushing away the dark turn in his thoughts, Tony relaxed into the lull of working with his hands, letting it sooth him. Inevitably, his thoughts turned to his recent meeting with the Russian mob lord. He was worried about how to bring up the meeting with James to Steve, about the deal they had struck. His lover was so protective that he might outright reject the idea, but Tony knew that he couldn’t live with always needing to be protected. He knew what he was signing up for when he decided to keep living with Steve, work with him and love him. But Tony was still terrified. Howard may not have been his biological father but nurture was half of the equation. What if he ended up like the abusive bastard, crossing a line he couldn’t come back from?

He thought back to the things James had described. Killing Howard had been quick, one shot to the head and he was dead. Killing someone with a knife…drawing it across their neck and feeling the blood pour hot and wet over his hand…Tony felt his stomach lurch. God, what had he gotten himself into?

“Tony?” The sound of his brother’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts. Turning around, he moved to take 9-year old Peter into his arms.

“Hello, dear one. Did you finish reading your book?” Tony murmured into his hair in Italian.

Peter peeked up, eyes shining with excitement. “Yea! Oh, it was so fun, there was this pirate and his best mate and they sailed all around the ocean saving people from an evil king who wanted to rule over everyone! And there was this girl and everyone thought she was a spoiled princess but she was really an assassin and she ended up being the one to end the king and save everyone!”

“That does sound fun, cucciolo.” Tony leaned down and tickled his little brother’s sides. “Maybe one day you’ll run off and sail the seas, huh? And leave your poor brother all alone here?”

Peter screeched and wiggled to get away. “No! I pro-pro-promise I won’t leeeeave! Stoooooop!” He dissolved into giggles.

Tony kept going mercilessly, loving the look of joy in his brother’s face. He had filled out more and had lost that pinched look of worry that had been there when they were living with Howard. Being in the Rogers' household with lots of love and food from Sarah had been good for him. For both of them.

“What in the world is going on here?” Speak of the devil, there stood Sarah with her arms propped on her hips, and an incredulous look on her face. She faked a stern look towards Peter. “I thought I sent you to get the dishes to set the table, young man. And here I catch you playing?”

“N-no! It’s not m-my faaaaault!” Peter gasped helplessly. “Tony’s torturing me Auntie b-b-because he thinks I’ll run off and be a pirate!” At his name, Tony eased up, causing Peter to sag in relief.

Sarah chuckled, eyes shining at the two boys. “Well, come on then, stop lollygagging. Grab the plates, little Captain.”

“Yes, ma’am!” Peter saluted her before scurrying off and Tony exchanged a fond glance with Sarah over the boy’s dramatics.

The rest of dinner was reasonably calmer, Sarah and Steve asking Peter about any new friends in school and his lessons while Tony watched, feeling reflective and content. He did steal a glance here and there at Steve, but when the man raised a brow in question he merely shook his head and smiled.

After dinner, Tony and Steve made their way to the study on the first floor. They spent the time after dinner together, a private moment to just talk or dance to one of the records housed in the study or even just to cuddle. Whatever it was, Steve had made sure that any business he had didn’t cut into his personal time with Tony.

Tony settled on the couch, making himself comfortable as he thought of how to bring up his conversation with James.

Steve settled next to him, leaving a foot of distance between them so he could brace himself against the arm of the couch. His blue eyes were warm but assessing when they regarded Tony.

“You’ve been really quiet tonight.” Steve reached out to cup Tony’s cheek, brushing his thumb over the apple of his cheek in a light caress. Tony held the hand to his face, turning his face to press a drop a light kiss to the palm before pulling the hand down to hold on his lap.

“Do you remember when I first came here? You told me you were holding onto Howard, that you were saving him for me so that I could choose how to end his life?” Steve nodded but stayed quiet.

Tony took a deep breath. “I went to see James today.” But Steve simply nodded again. Of course he knew.

“I decided to take him up on his offer. I want to learn how to fight with a knife. I want to be able to stand beside you as an asset.” Steve didn’t bother to address that point just yet, he just sighed as he tugged Tony sideways into his lap, wrapping his arms around him.

“Are you sure?” His voice was soft. “You’ve already had a lot of violence in your life. Dealing it out is going to take a toll on you. It will make your nightmares worse, make you more paranoid about an attack, bring up a lot of dark memories even as it carves new ones into you.”

Tony leaned his head against Steve’s shoulder. He had thought about all this before going to see James but it still didn’t make the decision any easier. There was a part of him that wanted no part in hurting anyone. That remembered how even Howard’s arguably quick and merciful death had haunted Tony and wanted to let Steve continue to protect him.

But there was another part, one that he had tried to keep buried but it burned with a dark core in the pit of his stomach. It was the part of him that was angry at being hurt for so many years, the part of him that made him pick himself up after every drunken night and treat the bruises from his father’s fists. It was bitter that the people around him had just turned a blind eye to his suffering, never stepping in no matter how loud or vicious Howard had gotten. He had stopped waiting for someone to save him years ago, surviving only so that he could look after Peter and distract Howard from trying to take his anger out on the younger boy. That part of him was vengeful against the world and it wanted to carve out its own brand of justice.

“I don’t want to be a victim anymore, Steve.” Tony’s throat ached with anger and remembered pain. “I would rather die than be helpless again. I know that this will probably make things worse and cause more nightmares. But I need this. I need to be able to stop looking over my shoulder because I know that I have no way to defend myself. I need to have the power to take my safety in my own hands to protect myself and our family.” Tony reached up to bracket Steve’s face in his hands, letting him see the determination in his eyes. “And if that means learning to chop off the hands of anyone who wants to hurt Peter or Sarah or you, I’m going to do it.”

Steve groaned at the sharp edge in Tony’s voice before dragging him close for a desperate kiss. “You have no idea how beautiful you are when you’re vicious,” Steve whispered against his lips before leaning in to nip and suck at the lushness. The darkness in his veins growing heated, Tony clutched onto Steve just as fervently. Toppling himself back towards the cushions, he pulled at Steve’s lapels to pull him hard and heavy on top his body. Steve sank into the vee of Tony’s spread thighs, pressing against him with delicious friction. Things were quickly going out of control. They had never done anything other than kissing outside of their bedroom. Even in their home, the thought of being walked in on by Steve’s mother was too humiliating to bear.

But Tony couldn’t help it. He never expected Steve to respond like this. He had been worried that Steve would want to keep protecting him, unable to see him put himself at risk. And maybe a part of him always will, Tony didn’t delude himself, he felt the same need to protect Steve especially after nearly losing him. But this, this fevered need that seemed to delight in Tony’s desire for violence had been unprecedented. If he had known Steve would react in this hungry way that made him want to have Tony immediately, he probably would have spoken sooner. Talked about fighting and making life threats every damn day.

Steve rose a bit to pull at Tony’s shirt roughly, uncaring of buttons flying every which direction. He used his new access to his advantage, knowing how sensitive Tony was. Tony moaned at the feeling of Steve tongue on his nipples, fingers twisting and plucking the neglected one like a guitarist. He hissed at the sting when Steve bit lightly at them, then quickly soothing the hurt with his tongue. Tony started to feel fuzzy, like a wildfire was running in his blood and settling in his stomach to wind tight with anticipation and need. Steve’s mouth moved further downward, pausing just above Tony’s waistline to tease while his hands stroked his inner thighs. The strokes were firm but didn’t move closer to the spot where Tony desperately wanted to be touched and Tony whined with impatience.

“Steve, Steve,” he managed to gasp out, pulling at the short blond hairs at the nape of his neck to get his attention. “Please, I can’t wait.”

“I know, love, I know, just let me,” Steve murmured, reaching out for a small discreet drawer on the side table. He pulled out a small bottle of oil with one hand as he used the other to unbutton both their fronts.

“Come here,” he pulled at Tony’s arm, encouraging him to straddle Steve’s thighs and perch on his lap. Steve drizzled some of the oil in his hand before encircling both their members together. Tony’s breath hitched at the warm slickness, undulated his hips and fucking himself into Steve’s large hand. He was so beautiful, looking delightfully debauched with his blond hair mussed from Tony’s eager hands and lips red with Tony’s kisses. But it was the heat of Steve’s gaze on him that pushed Tony further to the edge. Overwhelmed with the feeling of being pressed tightly against each other, Steve’s firm strokes on them both, Tony threw back his head, back arching as his mind blanked out with pleasure. Spilling out into Steve’s hand, he was vaguely aware of Steve coming soon after, leaning forward to press his forehead against Tony’s chest as he choked out a muffled groan with his own release.  

Tony opened his eyes at the feeling of gentle lips on his, gazing down at a smiling and satisfied Steve. He smiled back, feeling the same satisfaction in his lax limbs. He knew their clothes were probably ruined, stained with oil and other fluids and his shirt hanging half off his body but he couldn’t find it in him to care. They’d have to sneak upstairs at some point and take a shower or at least wipe down with clean cloths but that could wait a minute. Right now, he just tugged his lover back close and they traded easy, lazy kisses, wrapped up in each other’s arms.

Read more on AO3 if you want: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23556382

[bitsandbobsandstuff]

A love that never leaves (10)

Summary: Sometimes when you go looking for the past, you find things you never expected. When an accident brings him face to face with something he never knew he lost, Bucky Barnes begins to understand an age old truth – it’s so easy, sometimes, to love the things that destroy us.

Characters: Bucky Barnes x Reader Warnings: Bad language. SMUT, 18+ please.

A/N: Bucky’s reaction surprises her, Sam Wilson might bitch slap Steve Rogers, Bucky makes my favorite sandwich in the entire world because he is a skilled chef, and they have a memorable night together (please stop by if you would like a smut free recap).

But of course, you guys know me, so…I am sorry...

Links don’t work, so if you want to access the full ALTNL Masterlist, just click the MASTERLIST header on my blog.

Previously...

She mourns for Henry and the tragedy of his fate. Loving a soldier was one thing she never expected and the experience nearly killed her. The war trudges on, and sometimes soldiers pass through the village; while she always puts her nursing skills to good use, she keeps her distance.

Sometimes she sits by the creek, washing clothes in the cold water and thinking. She wishes she had the power to scrub her own brain clean, but no.

This is her penance, the one she will pay from now until the end of time.

To remember.

*****

MISSION REPORT

BOTH TARGETS UNEXPECTEDLY INFILTRATED BASE. UNABLE TO SEPARATE AND ADDRESS INDIVIDUALLY. WILL CONTINUE HOLDING PATTERN UNTIL OPPORTUNITY ARISES.

What did they find? Sweat beads along his scalp, freezing drips wetting pale hair. He needs to know, he searched that base from top to bottom, but he knows they found something. The Soldier was skittish, and her - well.

Something happened.

They will tell him. That he can promise.

All in due time.

*****

No one knows this, but sometimes when Bucky can’t sleep, he likes to draw.

Between the two of them, Steve is the real artist, no contest there. For Bucky, it’s not about drawing well, it’s about drawing something that helps him connect with his past.

So occasionally, when the nightmares are really riding his ass, he wanders to the roof of the tower with three things: his pink notebook of “Bucky Facts”, a blank pad of paper, and Steve’s Prismacolor colored pencils. He flips through his notebook and finds something he’s struggling with - and he draws it. For some reason, when he can transpose the memories from a bundle of echoes into a colorful sketch, it cements the idea in his head.

A paint by number puzzle. Words and colors swirled together to reimagine the past he's so desperate to remember.

Now, he sits on the coffee table in front of a woman who has no need to ever remind herself of the past. No need for clumsy outlines and careful colors; the endless infinity of memories locked behind her haunted eyes speaks of every color in the universe and Bucky wonders if he had to paint her memories, what colors could ever convey the horrors of her past.

He thinks she and the Soldier would have a remarkably similar color palette.

God, he hates that fact.

Her voice is hoarse from talking and she keeps swallowing, stubbornly pushing down the lump of tears threatening to melt in her throat. He understands why she was reluctant to tell him, why she said those ridiculous words.

I don’t think you’ll like me very much, when you know.

Everything about her seems so much clearer now. The hesitancy to reveal her past; the strange collection of items he found stashed around her home; her fear he would be angry when he knew her ability. Bucky gets it, he really truly does, but here’s the thing.

It makes no god damn difference.

He loves her. Nothing will change that.

“I’m sorry, Bucky,” he hears her whisper and that’s it.

Scooting forward, he drops from the coffee table to kneel before her. Wiggling himself between her legs, he wraps his arms around her waist and gazes into her miserable expression.

“Listen to me. Do you remember when you told me not to apologize for what happened to me? That is wasn’t my fault? It took me years to even start believing that, but the moment I heard it from you, it finally made sense. You did that for me. So right now, I need you to remember those words and repeat them back to me, alright?”

“I can’t -”

“You can,” he says firmly. “What happened there, what you did - it was not your fault. Do you understand that? It was not your fault. Say it back to me.”

The words are lead in her mouth. It takes several stumbling attempts, but Bucky is patient.

“It wasn’t - it wasn’t my fault,” she finally says, her cold fingers clutching his forearms. Bucky rewards her with a huge smile and buries his face against her belly. He hugs her tighter.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he repeats, his voice muffled in her sweater.

"It wasn't my fault," she says one more time. Threading her fingers through his hair, she drags her nails lightly over his scalp and Bucky leans contentedly into the touch. They sit in silence and let the minutes drift along until he finally feels her tension subside.

A peculiar thought occurs to him, then.

“The base in Poland, where you were held. I think I know it,” he says cautiously. “Awhile back, we got a distress signal from there. I saw that chair, the one you mean. I, um, sort of broke it. Went kinda nuts and tore it apart. They stuck me in rehab after that, but - totally fuckin’ worth it.”

“Good,” she says fervently, wiping her eyes with the heel of her palm. Bucky reaches up and catches her hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles and trying to lighten the mood.

“Well hey, so - you met Carter then,” he says with a grin. Her lip trembles slightly, but she tries to smile.

“I did,” she confirms.

“Wish you could’ve met under better circumstances, you would’ve had a lot in common. Steve loves telling people how often she’d bust my balls.”

Bucky tickles her and she huffs out a breathless laugh and squirms away. He feels a thousand times lighter when he hears a playful note return to her voice.

“Something tells me you probably deserved it Sergeant.”

“Won’t argue there,” Bucky agrees and stretches up to plant a firm kiss on her lips.

*****

The sun is setting when she asks if she can have some time alone. Bucky can see the struggle in her face - reliving nightmares is exhausting.

“I’ll just be outside,” she says quietly, shrugging into her coat. “Need a few minutes to - think, I guess.”

“Hang on,” he says. Going into the kitchen, he flips on her electric kettle, pulls her favorite purple mug from the cupboard, and plops a teabag inside. Grabbing her biggest quilt, he fluffs it open and wraps it tight around her shoulders; once the kettle sings, he hands her the steaming mug of Earl Grey and drops a kiss on her nose. “There, now you’ll be warm.”

For a long moment, she stares at him. Bucky watches her bite her lip, steeling her nerves to speak. He waits expectantly, his hands running lightly up and down her arms to warm her, but nothing happens. Whatever she wanted to say disappears and she looks down.

“Thank you, Bucky.”

“Anytime,” he says softly and opens the door for her. She steps onto the cold porch and sinks onto the top step, tipping her face toward the setting sun. Bucky shuts the door with a click.

Everything changes.

Stalking to the kitchen counter, white-hot rage fills his chest. Snarling at the offending photos, he snatches his phone and dials Steve, and before the phone finishes the first ring, a blond head appears.

“Whaddaya got?” Steve asks, as he rummages through the fridge.

“Are you ever not eating,” Bucky scowls and Steve grunts.

“I’m a growing boy. So?”

Rubbing his forehead, Bucky tries to organize his thoughts and figure out where to begin. The clink and clatter of silverware keeps coming through the phone and then Steve’s piling leftover containers in his arms and dumping them on the counter and out of nowhere, Bucky loses his shit.

“Steve, can you - can you just - I need you to - god fucking dammit Rogers, sit the fuck down!”

Steve jerks to a stop when Bucky’s voice scales up. Considering him for all of three seconds, Steve dumps the mess of leftovers - which all have THESE ARE SAM’S DON’T TOUCH written on them in black marker - without a word and walks away, sinking into an armchair.

“Sorry. I’m listening.”

The whole thing is insane and Bucky has no clue how to begin.

So he just starts talking.

About the woman who saved his life when he was bleeding out in a blizzard; how she called him Soldier and brought him to her home and sewed him up. How he shoved a butcher knife to her throat in thanks, before she told him the story of how she met him years ago. How her words helped him remember that bloody night in Paris.

He tells Steve about deciding to stay, about her potato soup, about how he remembered Steve telling him about the letters he got from his girl during the war, and how it felt when Bucky realized he was the Jimmy she wanted that night. He relays the story of how they met during the war and Steve sucks in a shocked breath. Bucky tells him she kept all his letters and how she let him read them again and how he asked her to marry him the last time they were in the village and if he sees tears fill Steve’s eyes, he forces himself to ignore it.

He keeps talking.

About discovering the information at the base, photos and information about the original soldier trials and how there must be someone who fired up the signal, because Bucky found recent blood and a clean black glove. He tells Steve about her ability and what Hydra did to her all those years ago and he can hear Steve’s teeth clack together, can see the furious tick in his jaw.

It smooths away for a moment, when Bucky recounts the story with Peggy. Steve always was a sap.

Bucky tells him almost everything, but saves some things for himself; he figures he deserves to have a few memories that are all his own.

Well, not just his. Theirs.

When he finishes, Steve is silent. Bucky can see the thoughts swing dancing through his brain as he works it out. Finally, Steve clears his throat.

“Okay, that’s a lot to unravel. I’m gonna have some questions, but for now I’m just gonna go with it. Sounds great.” Bucky snorts and Steve just shrugs. “What can I say? It’s fuckin’ weird, but we’ve seen weirder. I trust your judgement. Tell me what you need.”

Yes, Steve Rogers can be a massive pain in the ass, but Bucky sure fucking loves him.

“Alright. The first distress signal we got was that base near Krakow, where she was kept,” Bucky says. “They were testing soldiers there and I found more evidence here - it can’t be a coincidence. I think there’s something or someone connected, I just haven’t found the link.”

“Let’s assume you’re right,” Steve says. “What next?”

“I’m going back into town tomorrow to see if I can dig up anything else. Can you look into that Hydra fuck who was chasing her? See if there’s something we’re not seeing?”

“Got it,” Steve answers. “Say the name again?”

“First name Wilhelm, last name Richter, Romeo-India-Charlie-Hotel-Tango-Echo-Romeo,” he rattles off. “I vaguely recognize his face, but I was still new when he disappeared, and those early memories are shit. I think the story was that he deserted, but that’s all I got.”

“Going to the lab now,” Steve heaves himself to his feet and walks swiftly toward the elevators. Smashing the button, he waits impatiently and then looks down at the phone, his expression softening. “Hey Buck?”

“Yeah?” Bucky says distractedly, craning his neck to see out the window. He can still see her sitting on the steps, gazing pensively into the coming night.

“You got your girl back. I’m - hey. I’m really fuckin’ happy for you.” Surprised, Bucky looks down at the phone and sees Steve giving him a crooked grin. “You deserve this. Don’t forget that.”

Bucky nods, feels his face grow warm. “Yeah. Thanks man.”

“I’m coming out to see you both, soon as we get this sorted,” Steve warns. The elevator in front of him dings and Bucky barks out a happy laugh. The idea of his best friend staying at their house like they’re an ordinary couple, with a boring life and annoying friends who crash on their couch - it sends cozy domestic tingles skittering up his spine and he can’t fight the idiotic grin.

“You got it.”

Steve gives him a goodbye salute and the elevator ends the call.

*****

“I was thinking,” Bucky says an hour later.

Dressed in his old sweatpants and ratty Captain America t-shirt, he’s slouched against the arm of the couch. Curled tight against him, her head is tucked into his shoulder. She musters a tiny smile when she looks up. “Should I be nervous?”

“Hey,” he pouts. “It’s like you assume I’d have crazy ideas or something.”

“When the shoe fits,” she murmurs, poking him.

“Very true.” Placing a finger under her chin, he tips her face up and gives her an exaggerated kiss. “But it’s not that crazy. How about I make you supper?”

She perks up at the suggestion, her strained smile morphing into something real. “I’d love that.”

Scrambling from the couch, Bucky grabs her hands and lifts her up. “Come keep me company,” he urges, guiding her to the kitchen counter. Tugging a blanket tight around her shoulders, she shuffles with him and hops up on a barstool. Even through the layers of sadness, he sees a glimmer of happiness spark in her eyes, and honestly?

That’s all he wanted.

Digging through her drawer of kitchen towels, he finds a green polka-dot apron and ties it around his waist with a flourish. Pulling a hair tie off his wrist, he coaxes the strands into a messy bun, and then cracks his knuckles for good measure.

“You definitely look the part,” she compliments and Bucky winks.

“Alright, so this is a Bucky specialty,” he says confidentially. Rifling through the cabinets, he sets a skillet on the stovetop and starts assembling the ingredients: bread, butter, honey, peanut butter, and three bananas. “I make excellent cereal, exceptional frozen pizza, and this - fried peanut butter, honey, and banana sandwiches.”

She wrinkles her nose skeptically. “That doesn’t sound like a real thing.”

“Darlin’,” he says, reaching over and tapping her on the nose with a spatula, “where’s the trust?”

Finally. Finally, he gets the sound he wanted.

A small laugh escapes.

“You’re right. Sorry Buck,” she says, and when he sees the adoration in her eyes, he thinks his heart might explode.

Ten minutes later, he slides the gooey sandwich onto her plate and if she still looks skeptical, she gives him the benefit of the doubt. Taking a small bite, she chews for a moment and looks up in surprise.

“This is fantastic!” she exclaims. Bucky grins and takes a huge, messy bite; peanut butter drips onto the plate, a bit of honey gets stuck in his beard, and a few bananas tumble out.

“Got lots of hidden talents, just you wait and see.”

*****

One bottle of wine, and four sandwiches later, Bucky sees her stifling a yawn and proclaims himself exhausted and ready for bed.

“You go on up,” he tells her, “I’ll be there in a sec.”

While she makes her way upstairs, Bucky does a methodical loop around the small cabin. He checks, double checks, and then triple checks every single lock; every window and every door, even the fireplace flue, gets a thorough review. Once he’s satisfied, he flips the lights off and stands at the living room window, letting his eyes adjust. Feathery snowflakes are swirling again and as he glares into the moonlit night, he finds threats lurking everywhere.

The wind whistling through the trees beyond the front door. The shadows beside the weatherworn walls of the woodshed. The meandering flow of the icy creek down the slope. Before it felt peaceful and idyllic - now it seems harsh and sinister.

It infuriates him.

What does he have to do to have a normal god damn life with her? Why is there always something standing in their way?

“Whoever you are,” he mutters, “and whatever you want, you stay the fuck away from her.”

But the night keeps it’s dark secrets. With a vicious sneer, Bucky heads upstairs.

*****

Flickers of blue and orange dance merrily in the fireplace, casting a warm glow around the dark bedroom. Padding silently to the doorway, he stops.

And he drinks up the image hungrily, slotting it into his newly built box of favorite memories.

Huddled on the bed, her knees are drawn up to her chest and she gazes thoughtfully into the flames, her chin cupped in her palm. When he clears his throat, she looks over with the ghost of a smile.

“Hey, you,” Bucky says quietly. Walking to the foot of the bed, he waits nervously. For what, he doesn’t know, but it feels like the right thing to do.

Sitting up on her knees, she leans forward and skims her hands lightly up his chest, circling his broad shoulders and trailing down his arms. When her fingers brush over his hands, one a little sweaty, one always cold, she picks both of them up together and drops a kiss on his knuckles.

It nearly makes him cry.

Instead, he curls a wide hand behind her neck and finds her lips. The kiss is deep, his tongue rubbing gently against hers and it feels like heaven, sizzling hot and full of fire. God, her kiss could bring him to his knees.

But rather unexpectedly, she breaks away.

And Bucky feels his entire world tilt when she sheds her t-shirt, before eagerly meeting his lips again. Frozen in surprise, he feels her guiding his hands over her body, until his fingers are splayed across her bare skin and this time he breaks the kiss with a strangled groan.

“Are you sure?” he says hoarsely, staring intently while he struggles to keep his hands from roaming. “We don’t have to do anything, I don’t expect - “

“Please, Bucky” she interrupts softly, her cool hands skimming down his chest and he tightens his abs reflexively. “Please?”

There’s no way on earth, he’s telling her no.

Cupping her breasts, thumbs brushing lightly over her nipples, Bucky moves in for another kiss. Metal and human, his fingers circle her breasts, pinching and rolling the sensitive skin until she’s panting into his mouth and he drinks down the sweet sounds. He feels her bunching up the fabric of his shirt, wordlessly asking him to remove it, and he wants to feel her skin on his more than anything, but then his stupid head gets in the way again.

“My - my scars and everything, they’re not - it ain’t pretty,” he warns. “I know you saw them when you fixed me up, but this is different. I know that, you don’t have to - I mean, I can leave the shirt on, if you - you know, if you want.”

“No,” she says fiercely. “I want you, Bucky. All of you.”

The words are magic and Bucky sags with relief. Taking a deep breath, he crosses his arms and and he shakes only a little when he pulls the shirt off. It drops from numb fingers, and the web of thick scars looks surreal in the firelight, smooth and dark pink. He watches her eyes find the pattern carved into his skin, five ropes of raised tissue clearly outlining his attempt to claw the damn thing off in some past life.

Fucking Christ, he hates this part of himself, he really fucking does.

But of course, it doesn’t faze her.

Bringing her mouth to the joint of his shoulder, she presses her lips to his scars, and each line Bucky unwittingly scratched into his body, she memorizes with her tongue. On and on, her mouth moves against him and when she finally stops, the puckered skin feels warm for the first time in his entire life.

In disbelief, he stares at the unfiltered love in her face and he feels the faint burn of tears pricking his eyes.

How the hell did he ever got so god damn lucky?

With a rush, he slants his mouth back over hers, and pushes her back into the fluffy blankets. Crawling hurriedly over her, he settles between her legs, never breaking the kiss, while he reacquaints himself with everything. The tiny noises she makes, the feel of her body beneath him, the insistent way she rolls her hips against him. Every bit feels perfect and Bucky loses himself in her, time immaterial as he does his best to take her apart.

Because if she really does have to remember everything, well - Bucky's damn well going to give her something incredible to remember.

When her fingers trail down and hook in the waistband of his sweats, desire zings straight to his dick and he’s so close to just going with it, he really is, but god dammit, he’s a moron who’s unable to let himself be happy, so once again, he breaks the kiss with a reluctant hiss.

“Fucking hell. Wait, wait, before we do anything, I’m sorry, but I need - I have to tell you, I gotta be honest,” he rasps urgently, cursing himself in every language he knows. “There are - there were - there have been others. Through the years, I’ve been with other people. During - when I was with them. And then a couple others since I came back.”

Okay, maybe Steve Rogers isn’t a cockblock after all.

Maybe Bucky Barnes is his own god damn idiot cockblock.

Shame wells up and he tries to look away, but she immediately turns him back.

“Bucky, no. Don’t. I assumed. It was seventy years. Of course, there were other people,” she gives him a crooked little smile. “There were others for me too, sometimes. When I needed to - to cope. With the loneliness.”

There’s a wild flash of anger at her words, not directed at her, not even directed at the nameless lovers in her bed, but directed at the circumstances that put them on this path; they deserved better than this. But regardless, he needs her to understand something.

Something that shapes everything they are together.

“It was only ever you though,” he promises heatedly. “Deep down inside, it was only you. It’s only ever been you. I need you to know that.”

“I know,” she says, and she tugs him down for another toe-curling kiss.

This time, finally - he goes with it.

“I want to memorize every single inch of your body,” he murmurs. “Don’t want to ever forget again.”

So he starts at the top.

He kisses the curve of her shoulders, the delicate skin over her collarbone; he licks and sucks at her nipples until her skin feels chaffed from his rough beard. He pulls down her sleep shorts as he moves lower, fumbling awkwardly with his own sweats and tossing them both over his shoulder. At first he skips what he really wants, and instead searches out the fragile bones at her ankles, traces the smooth muscle in her calves, nips the skin behind her knee.

He holds himself back until he can’t take it any more.

And then he buries his face between her legs with a groan.

She tastes like heaven. Fuck, how did he live this long without having her on his tongue every single day? He feels her knees tip inward self-consciously and he gently pushes them open, keeping them pinned to the bed because he’s planning to stay here forever if she'll let him.

Looking down, she finds him watching intently. His dark hair tickles her thighs, his bright blue eyes burn her from the inside out, and her entire body begins to tingle. Fingers flex, toes curl, her breath comes fast and rough, and then Bucky sucks her clit hard and pushes two thick fingers into her.

Strung out and floating, she grab fistfuls of his hair and moans.

Bucky grips her leg tight and breaks away for a split second to speak.

“Come on honey, let go for me,” his voice is a low growl and she glances down to see him grinding his hips into the bed, searching for his own relief, and it’s that flex and roll, the way his muscles bunch so beautifully, that tips her over the edge. With a cry, she comes hard, clutching his face to her as the orgasm shivers through every cell of her body.

“Oh god,” she rasps, “oh god, Bucky.”

It thrills him beyond anything, the sound of his name like a prayer on her lips.

“So good,” he murmurs, still continuing the light strokes of his tongue. “You taste so fucking good.”

“That was - that was - god, Bucky” she mumbles, tripping over the words. Mouthing at the curve of her hip, he hums delightedly.

“Just getting started. Can you turn over for me?” he asks gently, and she blinks slowly, before her smile follows. Rolling to her stomach, she stretches languidly, wrapping her arms around a pillow. “I hope you have another one in you,” Bucky says lowly, giving her bottom a playful squeeze.

“I think I can manage,” she says, her voice muffled, and Bucky huffs a laugh. Planting a kiss at the base of her spine, he works his way north, his tongue tracing every bump along the way. Up, up, up, his lips cover the knobs up her back and his fingers follow, warm flesh and cool metal walking up her ribcage, until he reaches the back of her neck. Licking a slow line up, he mouths at the smooth skin behind her ear and her body twitches at the feel.

Nudging her legs open further, he shifts his hips and reaches a hand down to grip himself tight. Willing himself to stop shaking, he rubs himself between her legs, and finds her so wet and so slick from the orgasm he gave her just moments before. With his lips at her ear, he whispers his favorite words in a low rush.

“I love you,” he tells her, before he pushes himself inside.

At the feel, he goes utterly still.

It rattles him down to his god damn bones, this love he has for her - she can feel him trembling above her and she glances over her shoulder to meet his wide-eyed stare.

“I love you too,” she breathes, and her voice is the anchor he needs. Blinking rapidly, he dips down to kiss her cheek.

And he starts to move.

All Bucky knows in this moment, is her. The tight feel of her on his cock. The way her skin holds a hint of salt. The way she shudders every time he bottoms out. Every nuance of her body that he must have memorized in his past life.

Sliding his hand beneath her, his fingers find their way between her legs and he strokes her clit with every slow rock of his hips. Against the backdrop of dim light from the crackling fire, the room fills with the delicious sounds of pleasure, quiet grunts and the sharp catch of breath and the rustle of fabric as a body slides over silky sheets.

Dropping his mouth to the pulse at her neck, he sucks gently, insatiable for the thrumming feel of her heartbeat laid bare on his tongue. When he hears her breathing harder, sees her hands gripping the bedsheets tighter, feels her body beginning that faint tremble again, he abruptly changes his mind.

“Wait, please wait,” he begs, pulling himself carefully from her body and rolling her onto her back. Wide eyes meet his and time stops.

Spread out beneath him, she is sheer perfection.

Before she can speak, Bucky captures her lips again and shoves himself back into her.

And maybe it’s the strangest thing, but even without the memories to guide him, that muscle memory branded into his heart knows what to do. Just like their first time together, Bucky pulls her leg up and hitches it around his waist, thrusting into her harder. Unable to speak, unable to even look away, they watch each other, both devouring the small bits they find, in case god forbid, they ever lose each other again.

When her fingers curl around his neck, drawing him closer, he rests his forehead against hers.

“Bucky,” she whispers, his name catching in her throat, “Bucky.”

“I’m here,” he pants above her. Every thrust comes faster and his control begins to slip. “I’m here, I lo-love you, god I love you so fu-fucking much, never leaving you again, not ev-ever,” he grits out.

Anchoring his knees to the mattress, he slams himself into her again and again, hitting every nerve ending just right and suddenly she finds a universe of stars. Clutching his shoulders, she clings tight to him as her body tenses and she comes one more time.

Bucky stutters out a wrecked groan when he feels her body gripping him, and that familiar tingle hits his belly. Burying his face in her neck, he gives one last, hard thrust and then grinds himself against her, a strangled growl ripping from his throat when he follows her into that blissful oblivion.

Breathing hard, he keeps his eyes shut tight against her, willing his heart to slow. Against her neck, he sucks a wet line up her throat, back to her lips. Warm, lazy kisses ease them both back to reality and their racing hearts find a new rhythm.

One that beats together.

Muscle memory, in the purest sense.

When you cut to the heart of their story, there’s a simple truth: they’re so different from who they were together in 1944. Both have lived multiple lifetimes, filled with all the tragedy and heartbreak the world could dish out; it shaped each of them in ways the other has yet to discover.

But even though time has reshaped them into something new, there are some things that will never change.

Each touch buzzes with forgotten familiarity, the way she trails her fingers up his sweat-slick bicep, like something he remembers from a hazy dream; the way his breath catches with every slow thrust of his hips is a sound she could follow in her sleep; the way their bodies fall easily into a rhythm together, an unconscious muscle memory.

Bucky wants to run into the snowy night, wants to shout his happiness to the heavens. This right here, this is what the poets sing about. Every line, every song, every beat of a lovestruck heart. Here in her arms, he finds everything he ever hoped to have and in the fading firelight, he holds fast to the one truth he knows above all else.

Love like this, is worth any cost.

“You’re the love of my life,” he whispers, and she lays her cheek against his chest and kisses the sweaty skin above his heart.

Right there, Bucky knows he’s the luckiest man on Earth.

*****

The sun is just beginning to creep into the eastern horizon, but he’s been awake for hours.

Laying between her legs, his head is pillowed on her stomach. The sleep shirt she wears is tissue thin and satiny smooth; it smells just like her and keeps taking deep, cleansing breaths, trying to embed that scent into his memory. Bit creepy maybe, but oh well.

Dim rays of light begin to slip into the room, filtering through the tall pine trees flanking the window, and as the world begins to wake, she follows. Like a touch-starved kitten, Bucky nuzzles into her, wordlessly asking for affection and when she scratches her nails along his scalp, it feels so damn good, he gives a blissful little groan.

“I love you,” he murmurs, and she hums.

“I love you,” she mumbles sleepily and there’s a pleased rumble in his chest at her reply.

“Won’t ever get tired of hearing that,” he sighs happily.

“I’ll never get tired of saying it,” she answers with a yawn.

Still half asleep, he feels her relaxing, the comforting strokes of her fingers getting slower, heavier, and he knows she’s drifting back to sleep. Maybe he should let her, but there are these words he’s been practicing under his breath all night long and he’s getting anxious and he just wants to say them, before he loses the nerve.

“Darlin’?” he asks quietly, folding his hands across her chest and resting his chin on them.

“Hmmm?” she says, her voice a bit slurry as she opens her eyes. Bucky fleetingly thinks every bit of light in the world must be concentrated on her, because she’s the only thing he can see.

Heart racing, he tamps down the nervousness and wets his lips. He wants to do this right, wants to make sure it’s perfect.

“Would you do something for me?” he says carefully, choosing those words, borrowing that phrase he gave her back in 1944 and god, he hopes he’s returning them in the way she remembers.

At first, she doesn’t catch it, simply running her fingers down his arm, but her words are so naturally reminiscent of the past.

“I’d do anything for you.” Bucky says nothing, simply waiting. She’s confused by his silence, until he tilts his head and a slow smile curves his lips. Her eyes widen and she blinks slowly. “Bucky -“

The staccato thrum of her heartbeat is suddenly flying against his hands and his blue eyes are so bright, overflowing with emotion when he completes the question.

“Would you marry me?”

Time, normally an unending commodity, freezes. They stare at each other, Bucky holding his breath as he waits, desperate for the same answer she gave him in 1945, knowing it’s a risk, he’s taking a huge leap here, but unable to do anything except go for it.

“I want to marry you Bucky, I do, I want - I want it so - god, I want it so much. You’re all I ever - this is the only thing I’ve ever wanted - “

Blowing out a huge breath, Bucky starts to laugh. Bouncing up, he cuts her off, peppering her face with happy kisses, sloppy wet trails down her forehead, over her cheeks, on her nose, up her neck. Every inch of skin he can find he marks with excited lips.

“Shit, thank god, ugh thank god! I mean it this time, I’m getting you that ring. Soon as I get back to New York I’ll get it, you come with me, we’ll pick it out together, anything you want. Hell, I got decades of back-pay from the army, and I mean, I hate to brag, but I’m sorta rich now.”

“Bucky -“

“Whatever you want for a wedding, I’m game. If you want something big, that’s great. Something small, even better. Only thing I need is to have the team there, and Steve’ll flat out murder me if he doesn’t get to stand up with us, he’s a real bitch for attention sometimes.”

“Bucky -“

“And we can live wherever you want, doesn’t matter to me. I’d love to just stay here if that’s okay, if you don’t mind, I mean it really feels like home and I ain’t had one of those for so damn long, but if you wanna live in New York or hell, anywhere, I can make it work, I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Bucky, I���m - “

“And I’m done with work, that’s it,” he laughs exuberantly “Stark’ll be pissed, he just made me this new arm, but I don’t fuckin’ care, I got you now, I’m staying put unless they get really desperate and -“

“Bucky, stop!”

The panic in her voice is like a wave of ice water. It shuts him down instantly. Silence hangs heavy in the room before he blows out a long breath.

“Shit,” he says softly, embarrassment pinking his cheeks. “Dammit, that was - was that too much? M’sorry, I got carried away, I just - shit, I’m sorry.”

Sitting up on her knees to face him, she reaches up and tucks his messy hair behind his ears and cups his flushed face in her palms. “No, it wasn’t too much, it was - it was perfect, that’s not it.”

“Okay. Okay, so - was it something else I said?”

She says nothing, but instead she searches his face, her eyes slowly roaming over every feature and Bucky thinks for a moment that she’s memorizing him. Licking her lips, she rubs her thumbs lightly over his sharp cheekbones and she swallows hard.

“Shit,” she says under her breath. “Shit, shit, shit. Fuck.”

“Hey now, thought I was the one with the potty mouth here,” he jokes weakly. She doesn’t crack a smile and Bucky feels his stomach swoop uncertainly. “Darlin’, what - what’s the matter?”

Still, she says nothing. Longing is so heartbreakingly clear in her face and Bucky can’t reconcile it. Suddenly, she surges forward, pressing her lips to his and he catches her, folding her up in his arms. She kisses him desperately, twining her arms around his neck and Bucky still has no idea what’s going on, but it doesn’t matter. All he wants, is to soothe whatever terrible thought is upsetting her, because this is his job, this is what he does.

He loves her, no matter what.

When she finally breaks the kiss, he tries to smile. “What was that for?”

Breathing hard, she closes her eyes.

“Just in case.”

With those words, she extricates herself from his arms and climbs from the bed. Walking to the fireplace, she slots her fingers into a tiny groove on the bottom of the third stone above the mantle. It takes no more than a gentle tug, and the stone comes away easily. Setting it carefully on the floor, she reaches into the black space it reveals.

Another hiding spot.

Whatever she collects, she stares at it for a full minute, before clasping it to her chest. Turning slowly, fearful eyes lock on his face and for a fleeting moment, Bucky conjures the morbid image of someone walking to their own execution. Climbing back onto the bed, she sits back on her heels and he sees her clutching a small silver box.

“I want to marry you Bucky Barnes. I want to spend every day of the rest of my life with you, because I’ve loved you every single day since the moment we met, and I hope - I need you to know that.”

“I know, honey,” he says in absolute confusion.

“You’re the love of my life. Please remember that,” she whispers, and she sets the silver box on the bed. The lock has five numbers, and she spins each dial until it pops open. Fingers shaking, she picks up the small piece of fabric inside and holds it out for him to see.

It’s the strangest thing.

In her hand, is a ripped piece of faded blue cloth, with a familiar gray patch sewn into it; smudgy rust-red splotches color the edges like fingerprints.

Wings. Gray wings. Nostalgically familiar, because back in the war, each of the Howling Commandos wore one on their left sleeve, a mirror image tribute to the one painted on Steve’s helmet.

Including Bucky. Who wore one on the left sleeve of his coat.

The left sleeve of his blue coat.

Now, he stares uncomprehendingly at the piece of cloth. “What - “ he starts, but his voice fades. Small shivers are running through her body as she watches him, her face filled with dread. Taking a shaky breath, she whispers.

“There was one other time we met.”

*****

Next Chapter

*****

[dreamy-heichou]

Hello dear!! Congrats for 500 followers! 😁😁 Can I ask for 39 and 36? A little angsty but very fluffy in the end? The list is amazing btw, lots of good ideas especially for extreme angst but I'm not brave enough to ask for those XD

Aww thank you!! ♥♥ I’m really glad you like the list, I was so excited to make/post it!! :D I tried to make a diversified list, but that doesn’t mean I want to write big angst too, our boys deserve a happy ending! :’) (though someone requested pure angst, and I will write it, but i’m not ready for it tbh D’:)

Anyway, here are your requested prompts combined together! I hope you’ll like it! :)

Send me a prompt

36: “Shh. You’re okay now. It’s over.” 

39: “I never got to tell you how I felt back then.”

WARNING: Manga spoilers ahead!!

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

Eren’s eyes are heavy. He can feel himself slowly getting out of the deep sleep he was in, gradually regaining consciousness. For a moment, he is confused about where he is and what time it is, then he sees the red digits coming from a radio alarm indicating 3 a.m. and he remembers.

Last night, he stayed at Levi’s place for the first time. The raven always found excuses for them not to spend the night together, even though they started dating a few months ago, and Eren never tried to push his luck. He agrees with Levi to go slowly with their relationship, to not rush anything and get reacquainted with each other first.

Even if they both remember their past lives, both remember the feelings they both shared then, now is a different time and they have different lives. They ended up dating quite rapidly though, but being in a relationship didn’t change the pace they had agreed on. Levi is a very secret person and Eren respects that. He is too, or at least he doesn’t know how to express what he feels well, even though he is better at it than Levi.

However, last night was different. They ended up going to Levi’s apartment and the man didn’t say anything when it should have been time for Eren to go back home. Instead, he led him to his bedroom for them to sleep.

A small smile cracks on Eren’s face at the memory of their previous night together, and he closes his eyes once again. He is about to go back to sleep when suddenly he hears heavy breathing next to him, wondering how he didn’t hear it earlier, and turns to look at Levi. Worry overtakes his sense and his stomach drops once he is face to face with the man.

He is sitting on the bed, head in his hands, his eyes wide open but looking at nothing in particular. His breathing is extremely quick and heavy, and he also looks like he is sweating a lot. Eren approaches a tentative hand towards the raven’s arm, not really sure of what to do in this situation. Is he having a panic attack?

“Levi?”

The moment his hand touches his pale skin, Levi flinches and slaps Eren’s hand away, his eyes looking frantic and frightened, a small whimper of distress coming out of his lips. Eren immediately backs away, putting both of his hands next to his head to show him he means no harm. He feels like a knife just went through his heart.

He has never seen Levi in such a state, and thus has no idea what to do to calm him down. It doesn’t even look like Levi recognized him, still trapped in whatever illusions his brain created to the point of rendering him like this, and he has to try really hard not to get too close to his frightened boyfriend.

“Levi, it’s me! Eren! Do you hear me?”

The man seems to register his words, or maybe his tone, that Eren tried to make as soft and gentle as he could, and looks at him with eyes wide open, his body shaking uncontrollably.

“E-Eren?” His voice is weak and so low that Eren almost didn’t hear it, but he understood what he said by the movement of his lips.

“Yes. It’s Eren. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Before he has time to comprehend what is happening, Eren can feel Levi’s arms encircling his chest, his head hiding inside the croak of his neck. The sudden movement takes his breath away for a second, before he can regain his composure and focus on the man wrapped around his body. He can feel more than see Levi’s body shaking now, and he restrain himself from touching his lover, not yet sure if he can without scaring him like earlier.

“E-Eren…”

A small sob escapes his lips at the same time as his name, and the brunet’s heart shatters at the sound. Never has he seen nor heard Levi cry before, and seeing how fragile he is in that moment makes his eyes start to sting. They are the same person they used to be but at the same time they aren’t, Eren tries to remember. Levi’s armor isn’t as thick as it used to be. He is more vulnerable than before.

A surge of love and tenderness overwhelms him and he finally acts on his pulsion, wrapping his arms around Levi’s shaking figure, a hand slowly petting his hair to comfort him while he whispers sweet nothings and reassurances in his ears. Levi’s grip only grows tighter at Eren’s actions, and the brunet takes it as a sign he can go on, putting all of his feelings inside the soft kisses he puts on the crown of his hair and the affectionate caresses on his back.

“I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Eren rocks him back and forth, in relative silence, waiting for Levi’s shaking to stop or for him to say something. He thinks he knows what actually happened, but he won’t ask nor force the man to say anything.

Eventually, Levi relaxes in his arms but doesn’t come out of his hiding place on Eren’s shoulder. His breathing is calmer, slower, but still Eren waits for the man to take the first step.

“I didn’t want you to see me like this.” Levi says weakly, his voice hoarse from his crying.

“That’s why we never spent the night together before?” Levi slowly nods against his neck but says nothing, and once again Eren waits for him to break the silence.

“I… I have nightmares every night. It’s the same one over and over again. And I- I can’t…”

“I have nightmares too. You know I won’t judge you on this.”

Levi weakly nods once again, his hand coming to cover the one Eren is using to prevent them from falling backwards. He caresses it slowly, softly stroking his knuckles in a calming way. Eren knows how much Levi struggles to express himself sometimes, knows he’s probably trying to clear the mess in his head.

“I hate being this… weak. I hate the fact that this memory is haunting me every night. But I can’t- I can’t control it. And I’m so so tired, Eren.”

The brunet continues drawing circles on Levi’s back, showing the man he is there with him, for him. He has seen the bags under his eyes, noticed them a while ago, but he didn’t ask. He knows Levi wouldn’t have answered, knows Levi is telling him this now because he witnessed his breakdown, but he also agreed to Eren staying the night, so surely it means he was ready to talk about it anyway. Eren would hate for Levi to tell him all of this only because he feels cornered and forced to tell him everything. He knows it’s false, but it still crosses his mind.

A few minutes of silence after, Levi slowly starts to tell Eren all about what is haunting him. It is a memory the brunet wasn’t even aware of, something that happened while he was busy somewhere else. The explanation behind Zeke arriving to Shiganshina despite Levi being with him before. He knew it meant somehow that something might have happened to Levi, but he had other things to think about then.

However, this… What Levi went through… It breaks his heart and a wave of guilt washes over him. He is partially to blame for this. He is partially responsible for Zeke trying to get away from Levi in order to join him in Shiganshina, to the point of making the lightning spear Levi had put inside of him explode. It’s partially his fault Levi has nightmares every night now, seeing the moment of the explosion, feeling all the emotions that he experienced then.

Surprise. Shock. Fear. Pain. Agony.

Levi starts shaking again while telling Eren everything about his nightmare and the brunet can only bring him closer to him. At some point, Levi starts scratching the right side of his face and pulling at his fingers on his right hand, and Eren immediately stops him. He takes Levi’s right hand, holding it tightly, while caressing his face affectionately.

“Shh. You’re okay now. It’s over.” He kisses his face, first on his right eye, then down his cheek while stroking the other one with his thumb. “You’re not hurt anywhere. It’s just a memory.”

Eren keeps on showering Levi’s face in soft kisses until he can feel him relax under his touch, his shaking gone. He can feel Levi gripping his hand back, a little bit too strongly, but he doesn’t mind it. It shows how much Levi is in pain, and letting him grip his hand in a tight crush is the only thing he can do for him, besides being here for him.

Eventually they lie down on the bed, facing each other, their hands still linked between their two bodies, Eren’s other hand stroking Levi’s side slowly. The raven closes his eyes for a few minutes, enjoying the contact on his skin, squeezing Eren’s hand from time to time, showing him he’s not asleep.

Levi is the first one to break the silence, bringing a hand towards Eren’s head and stroking his long hair which isn’t tied up like usual. He puts a few brown locks behind his ear carefully, clearing his boyfriend’s face to see him more clearly, and Eren smiles fondly at him.

“What are your nightmares about?” His voice is very low, careful.

Eren studies his face to understand the sudden question, until he can feel Levi’s thumb caressing his hand again. Levi isn’t good when talking about his feelings, or feelings in general, but he still tries from time to time. Eren has noticed his body would show sign of his unease in those moments, since Levi talks more with actions than with words, and this is one of them. The raven doesn’t like being under the spotlight and would rather listen to someone else -Eren- talk than talk himself.

Eren tells him all about his nightmares. They are never the same, unlike Levi, but they are enough to wake him up at night, drenched in sweat, his heartbeat alarmingly fast. Sometimes they are about the day the Colossal Titan appeared, breaking the walls, resulting in his mother’s doom. Sometimes they are just about Titans in general, devouring people, sometimes he can recognize those people and see the despair on his former comrades’ faces. He also dreams about his time in Marley, the battle in Liberio, and also the one in Shiganshina later on. Levi listens to him intensely, still running his hand in his hair, his grey eyes never leaving his teal ones.

Eventually, their conversation strays from nightmares to their past memories, and from bad memories to good ones. They talk about their days in the Survey Corps, of the friends they haven’t seen in a while, of the moments they spent together. There had been very few towards the end, and Eren bits his lip in front of the nostalgia on Levi’s face. There were so many unspoken things between them back then, so many missed occasions for them to be together.

Eren bring his hand to Levi’s jaw, cupping his face while looking intensely in his eyes, a tender and wistful smile on his lips.

“I never got to tell you how I felt back then.” He softly whispers.

It started as a hero crush, but as he got to really know the man hidden behind the mask, he realized how alike they were and how they understood each other perfectly. Levi helped him grow and become a better person, more assured, and along the way his feelings towards the man became more intense and less innocent. However, Eren had been too preoccupied with freeing Paradis and his people. He had too much on his shoulder to take time to settle and listen to his desires. He had to protect everyone from their fates, Levi included.

It had been bad timing for them.

Now they have a chance to start all over again, to make things right and follow their heart’s desires instead of their soldier’s duties. They can be what they couldn’t be before, say what they couldn’t say. They can be together without endangering anyone, not even each other. They can be selfish for once and stop thinking about others. They had accomplished their duties. They deserved some rest.

Levi smiles softly at Eren’s words, bringing the brunet closer to him, kissing his forehead delicately before pressing his own against his. They look at each other for a while, without saying anything, letting the silence envelop them like a warm blanket. Their hands are still leisurely stroking the other’s face, or squeezing the other’s hand.

“Stay with me.” Levi whispers after a few minutes looking fondly at each other. Eren is first surprised by the sudden request, but his features relax at the look of pure adoration on the raven’s face. “Not just tonight.”

He doesn’t answer, doesn’t feel the need to when he can bring Levi even closer to him and kiss him deeply, passionately, putting all his feelings inside the movement of his lips against his. Levi seems eager to reply with his own kisses, showing his lover he means every word he said and even more, the ones he cannot say but which Eren can understand with his touches and body language.

They are inside a bubble of silence and tenderness, relishing the other’s presence and their closeness. It’s like time itself has stopped around them, and they savor this sensation by kissing, touching, conveying everything that they feel. The moon is the only witness of this very private and intimate exchange between the two men, bathing their bodies in its surreal light and illuminating their skins with a silver glow.

Eventually their eyes close, the face of their significant other burnt behind their eyelids with promises of a peaceful night and pleasant dreams. Their hearts are full, appeased by the warmth of their bodies flushed against each other, their breathing meddling with one another. And in that instant, they both make the same wish, born from the same corner of their minds and souls.

I don’t want to spend another night without you by my side.

[chysgoda]

GAME OVER >:3c

From the Game Over prompt

I sat on the steps of the capitol building and watched the shades go about their business in Emet-Selch’s dollhouse of a city. The irony of bringing this battle here tasted like bile but it was the safest place to hold the battle should my attempts at parlay fail yet again. The young heroes, called under false pretenses, had not listened to my pleas for caution. “Ardbert” had torn down my words at every turn, slowly casting my concerns, my weariness in the light of a villain. 

“One fool to another…” I murmured to myself echoing Adbert’s words from years ago. My fingers absently traced the vambrace on my right forearm feeling the quiescent aether that would mold into the shape of a shield when I awoke it. I’d forgone my heavy armor and dressed for the blood sands instead. My lips quirked remembering the black humor of the sands, always make sure you’ll look good as a corpse. And there would be a corpse today, death was an old friend to me and I could feel it hovering near. 

Movement caught my eye and drew it upwards to a grey bird. I watched it with a frown, it was that damned shoebill. I pulled a whetstone from my pack and turned my attention to my blade, no doubt it would find a cozy place to watch. I settled into the ritual of sharpening and caring for my blade. When the grey bird landed in front of me I paused. When it began to change I turned my head, while the shape-shifting was hardly the most disturbing thing I’d seen, I also had no desire to nauseate myself. 

“Art‘imis Chysgoda, the savior of Eorzea, Liberator of Doma and Ala Mhigo, Champion of the Source.” Emet-Selch’s voice was smooth and dramatic as it ever had been in our short acquaintance. He invited himself to sit next to me. “A rather different perspective from this end is it not my dear Warrior.” 

I finished the movement I’d paused in and set the blade aside. “Does Elidibus know that you survived our battle?”

“Given you don’t seem surprised to see me I doubt he would be.” Emet-Selch shrugged. “So you have lived to see yourself become the villain of this doomed star to which you granted a reprieve. Granted, Elidibus helped rather a lot with that. Even mortals don’t forget such debts quite this quickly.”

“You are rather chipper for a man believed to be dead.” I stood to stretch my back and secured my blade’s scabbard to my belt. 

Even sitting Emet Selch did not have to look up far to meet my eyes. He chuckled, “And you lack the appropriate drama to be the final villain of a story.”

I snorted and started to make my way down the over large stairs. Emet-Selch was waiting for me at the bottom smug smirk and spread hands saying that if I had just asked for assistance. I looked him up and down, entertaining the idea of taking out his kneecaps. “I do not intend to be the final villain of this story.”

“No, in the end, it is Hydaelyn that is to be the final villain in the story.” He reached out as if stroke my hair and pulled his hand back as I stepped away from him. “She stopped using the souls of her summoners as her pawns after the third rejoining. Since then she has sought out the souls of those who would make us heartsick-“

I rested my left hand on the hilt of my sword and pulled it so that a few ilms of shining metal gleamed in the blue-green light and the blade would draw easily when I had need of it. “Appeals to a woman who no longer lives will not sway me to your cause Hades.”

“I know my once love.” The air cracked as he snapped. Behind me, I felt a disturbance in the aether and turned to face it. There were two portals from which two black-clad ascians stepped out. 

From behind me, Emet-Selch struck like a snake and a dagger dug into my left side just above the waist. It was a deep wound and one that would kill me slowly. My healing magic would not be enough to heal entirely before a fight. He twisted the dagger viciously before pulling from my side. I lashed out at him, “Coward!” 

Emet-Selch tut-tutted at me as I awkwardly drew my sword. “Were you not the one who called honor in battle merely a way for the powerful to stack the deck? And Hydaelyn is so very good at stacking the deck in her favor and calling it the right thing to do.” 

The three Ascians started circling me widdershins forcing me to move constantly to keep some semblance of an idea of what to expect. Emet-Selch summoned his crystal staff to him and the glowing, red, flowering hovered around his opposite hand and forearm. The other two Ascians summoned weapons as well, one a great sword and the other a short sword and war hammer. I forced myself to breathe evenly, I’d fought injured before, I could do it again. I reversed the grip on my sword and slammed it towards the ground as I bent my will to bring down blades of light around me. The Ascian with the great sword hissed, but there were no other reactions.  

“For millennia the crystal mother has snatched the souls of those dear to us from the very lifestream in a desperate attempt to discourage our great work,” Emet-Selch spoke but I could only half pay attention to his words as I raised my aether shield to deflect the hammer blow from one of the other Ascians. “Deprived us of tangible hope that our plans would come to fruition. Forced our hands to kill the flesh of those we sacrifice everything for.”

Fighting one Ascian with a full strike team of eight was risky. Fighting three by myself was folly. I wove my blade and shield around me, called up spells of defense and maiming. The two weapons masters worked together seamlessly and I could not take the time to cast any kind of spell to knit the flesh Emet Selch had cut. I took a blow from the great sword on my shield but the pressure forced an awkward bend to my knees. I pushed back and sidestepped away from the arc of the sword only to step into the arc of the war hammer. 

I felt time expand. The hammer moved with painful slowness and I simply could not move fast enough. When the hammer caught me it was just above my tail, scales tore and I felt something break. I fell to my knees which then collapsed. Then the pain caught up to me. A blinding knife of pain all through my spine and radiating out from there. The two materially armed Ascians stepped back as I tried to push myself up. It was getting harder to breathe. I was able to raise my upper body with my arms but I could not get my knees up no matter how I strained. 

It was several moments of straining before I realized that I could not feel my tail lashing in agitation as it normally would have. I stopped breathing and focused. I could not feel my tail, or my knees, or my toes. I changed focus, tried to curl my toes in my boots but I could not feel the stretch or contraction of the muscles. I sucked a breath of air in as panic and terror swarmed through my veins like a flash flood I mumbled denial under my breath. Anything else I could defeat or if I couldn’t by myself I would have a friend that could help me. This, there was no mending this. There was no….

Gentle hands with long fingers turned me over on to my back. Emet-Selch caught a flailing fist and trapped it against my side as he wrapped an arm around my ribs and pulled me into his lap. “Shhhhhh… this shall pass soon my dear warrior.”

“I am not your dear warrior,” I snarled, wriggling in his grasp. It did me no good but I couldn’t just give up. 

The hand with the aetheric vine wrapped around it motioned like a stage magician and a purple crystal appeared between his forefinger and thumb. I’d seen its like before in the crystal that Lahabrea had collared Thancred with. I began to struggle more but his arm shifted and fingers dug into the stab wound he’d given me. “Enough Lilith! I will not be forced to do this again! I will not lose you, Hythlodaeus, Idunn, or Ananke to her again! I will not! I will keep you close until the ardor” 

I flinched away from him. There was desperate madness deep in his golden eyes. “I’m not her, she’s gone. Even if you succeed, your Lilith is go-“

“NO!!” I closed my eyes against the rage there. The pain was stealing my will and blood loss was draining my strength to resist. He pressed the cool crystal onto my chest above my heart. “This will be washed away, not even a bad dream to haunt you, after all, is said and done.”

I shook my head in denial, letting tears fall as I felt something hook around my breastbone and tear. I screamed scrambling to hold on to consciousness, to memory as I was being torn away from it. I cursed him in every way I knew. I begged for reprieve. I-

Hades watched as amber veins grew and threaded through the purple crystal. He blocked the Warrior’s screaming out of his mind; this malformed mind would be shucked away from his beloved’s soul shortly. Now that there were nine shards joined together, her soul was weighty enough that he could capture it. When the broken body went slack he stood and vanished the blood from his robes with a snap. He motioned to Fandaniel and Pashtarot to follow and they left the first to its fate. 

[sidespromptblog]

The End

Summary: “Was it worth it? Becoming a light side? Knowing what it would do?” His voice cut through the cold stillness of the air, and he could practically envision Virgil’s flinch, or rather how he’d attempt to hide it, before realizing that he didn’t need to.

Virgil swallowed thickly, and for a second his eyes darted to the ground. He hated it, but guilt coursed through his very veins.“Yes,”

Warning: Mentioned past abuse, sympathetic Deceit, Anxeit (can be seen as platonic or romantic), Deceit talks about “fading”, and just..a ton of feels. 

“Go away!” Virgil hissed, the words that escaped him slid past his teeth like a knife glancing across a plate, he could see the other side hold back from wincing, or at least try to. “I don’t want you here, and you don’t belong. So, get out!” He practically snarled, his nails were digging into the palms of his hands, as if that would take away from how he was sweating buckets in the other’s mere presence. He had no reason to be scared, to be worried, or to even fear the other now. And still…

He was sweating like a guilty man before a confessional.

“Okay,” Virgil’s entire back twitched at the response, shock coursing through him from his head to his toes, jolting through his veins like lightning on the surface of a deadly still pond. “I’ll leave you be once you’ve answered me this Virgil.”

Deceit’s yellow gloved hand clinched in a mockery of Virgil’s, he wasn’t even looking at the anxious side and yet he had been able to tell just what he was doing in that exact second in order to lie to him. To lie about just what they were going to talk about. Deceit could sense it, after all he had always been able to sense it. At least when it came to Virgil that was, everyone else was at least a little bit more muddled.

He could practically imagine Virgil’s narrowed gaze, the way that his dark eyes were staring scornfully back at him, wanting..no wishing that he would just leave and go. To let him be and to never come around again, to disappear into the subconscious and only appear when they had need of him. Which, Deceit already knew would be never. If they could help it, the other sides would never call on him, they would never need him. Or...they would never allow themselves to believe that, they would rather lie to themselves while he faded back into a figureless form. He’d lose his scaled face, the caplet that swished around his shoulders every time that he strode forward, and he’d lose everything that him..him.

And he would be content with that, only after Virgil did this one thing for him.

“Answer me this Virgil,” Deceit’s voice was a petty croon as he strode forward, he could feel his caplet swishing again as he took one step after another, only stopping once he felt the dip in the ground where Virgil stood. Or rather where he was crouched, “Was it worth it? Becoming a light side? Knowing what it would do?” His voice cut through the cold stillness of the air, and he could practically envision Virgil’s flinch, or rather how he’d attempt to hide it, before realizing that he didn’t need to.

Virgil swallowed thickly, and for a second his eyes darted to the ground. He hated it, but guilt coursed through his very veins.

“Yes,”

His voice was nothing more than a mere whisper, and yet Deceit heard it anyway as his lip tugged down while pinching together in a sharp frown. His fingers curled around the hem of his caplet, and Virgil knew that it was both the right answer...and the worst one to tell the dishonest side. Deceit would have hated him if he had lied, and yet...he felt utterly betrayed by the truth. Virgil knew how he worked, and it didn’t make him feel any better.

Nothing would at this point.

The dishonest side’s shoulders stiffened before drawing back, he held himself higher in a way that only a wounded man in both pride and person could do. 

“Are you sure?” This time it was Deceit who hissed the words out, “Was being pals with them worth leaving? Was it worth leaving me behind? Was it worth leaving me behind with him?” He took another half step forward, just to jerk to a stop as soon as Deceit’s foot collided with Virgil’s. The anxious side could hear his own harsh breathing, just as he could practically hear Virgil’s pounding heart. But even so, that didn’t stop him from leaning his face in until their noses bumped against one another, until he could feel Virgil’s baited but warm breath washing over his face. Until he was sure that Virgil was staring into his mismatched eyes, even if he could no longer see Virgil’s own stormy grey ones. “Was it worth me losing my sight to him?! Was it?!”

Virgil looked back into Deceit’s sightless earthy brown and golden eyes that were brimming not with hate..but a hurt so deep that nothing could heal it, a sob was barely restrained from his lips. A long time ago he would have cupped Deceit’s cheeks, he would have held him so close in an attempt to wash away the pain of both the past and the present. He would have done everything in his power to protect the side in front of him, who’s grip held onto the cane that was now the only eyes he could see with. He would have done everything for him.

Virgil closed his eyes, his fingers practically clawing at his arms, his nails sinking into his own flesh. As if that tiny pain would distract him.

But it couldn’t, it never did.

Deceit's cool breath hit his nose, the other side still hadn’t moved an inch from where he stood. “Well?” He hissed, the nearly invisible scar on his lips dragging the word the moment that it left his lips. “Was. It. Worth. It?”

Virgil knew the answer even before he opened his mouth to speak, he had pondered it every night after Deceit had revealed himself to them all. He had laid awake endless nights thinking, guilt consuming his every waking and sleeping moment until the answer was the same. He knew the answer, just as Deceit would know the answer if he even thought about lying to him. He knew it...the only problem he had would be actually telling him, confessing what had haunted him. What he had feared the very day he had left the other dark sides, what he had feared was coming for him if he hadn’t escaped when he did. Exactly what he had left Deceit to deal with...alone, alone and without him. Alone...abandoned.

His doing, his fault, and...his selfishness all rolled into one bundle.

“Yes,” The words that left his lips was little more than a whisper and yet there was not a single doubt in his mind that Deceit heard it, as the dishonest side rearing his head back. “I don’t regret it, I sometimes feel guilty that I don’t regret leaving you with him..I regret that I didn’t take you with me, that I didn’t get you away from him before he could..before he could do this to you. But...I will never regret leaving, never.” By the time that he was done, twin streaks of wet eyeshadow had drenched his cheeks, dripping onto his shirt as his bottom lip trembled. Every breath felt like a cinderblock being laid to rest on his chest, and yet he didn’t wail..he didn’t loudly sob and scream.

He just let the tears slowly drip down his cheeks as Deceit’s unseeing eyes stared back at him, while his frown slowly drifted up into a patient smile. He just watched as Deceit’s hand drifted up feelings its way along his face, before his gloved hand gingerly swept his tears away. Until there was nothing more but smudged blackness on his cheeks, and the sallow looking dark circles revealed under his eyes. Deceit couldn’t see them, but judging by the way his fingers traced them, he most certainly knew that they were there.

“Good,” His voice cracked almost immediately as his scared lips trembled as they curved into a watery smile, “Don’t ever regret running from him, or for getting somewhere safe with people who can and will protect you. I never could, so..so..” A tear rolled down Deceit’s cheek, smearing the foundation that covered with must have been a million tiny pale scars all over his cheeks. “I’m so glad that you’re safe.”

And just like that, the dam that had been holding back Virgil’s wails of grief burst open. As his face collided solidly against the other side’s chest, and as his fingers curled needily into Deceit’s shirt. Soaking up his smell that had been missing for far too many years for his liking, he cried and he sobbed for the first time in far too long as he felt the cold tears that felt like rain dripping into his hair. He clung onto Deceit, as if the mere idea of them being separated again would not only shatter him, but it would break him beyond repair.

And even so, Virgil couldn’t help the warbling whimper that crawled up his throat as soon as the other side started to pull back from him.“Please!” He gasped out, each word raking up his throat like a straight razor, “Don’t go, I know what I said...but please don’t go!”

Cold gentle hand smoothed his messy greasy hair down, and suddenly the tears were coming so much faster now as he practically clawed at Deceit determined to keep him right there forever. He couldn’t let him go, not after this, not after Deceit’s words that felt like a cold press against a blistering burn that had gone unchecked for far too long. He couldn’t let him go now that they had finally talked to one another, talked without the veil of who they were, their jobs getting in the way of things. Deceit had been honest with him, and he had been honest with Deceit. He couldn’t lose him after all of that, he just couldn’t. Not after all of this time alone, not after leaving Deceit alone after all that time.

Without anyone to help guide him, to keep him safe.

“It’ll be alright Starfish,” The sweet whisper of the lie made his entire body tremble, “I’ll go back to being a formless mass in Thomas’ mind. I’ll be different..blank, sure the next time I am called upon but...It will be okay. I promise.” His hand smoothed down Virgil’s hair once again, Deceit could feel the trembles that shook Virgil’s entire body, it was like an earthquake shattering him from the inside out.

Because...if he was really being honest with himself. He didn’t want to go either.

“Please...Please.” It was with that one solemnly whispered word that tore into his chest like a thousand daggers, gutting him in every way possible. “Please stay, stay with me.” It had been hard enough to refuse Virgil, when he had been begging and pleading like his life depended on it. But feeling the anxious side’s cheek pressed against his chest, his ear hovering over the hollow of where his heart was thudding against his ribcage. They both knew that he couldn’t do it, not again.

It took a moment, a mere split second of hesitation before his arms fumbled finding their way around Virgil’s firm muscled shoulders, and before he was hugging him even closer than before. It took only a moment, but after that, neither of them were willing to let go.

“O..Okay,” His voice cracked with that one word, and just like that, he allowed his stiff posture to dissolve.

Virgil was there for him, and never again would he allow anyone to lay a hand on Deceit.

Ever.

Tagged:

@dailypattondoodle

@thedreamer240

@snakeboicouldbegayer

[buddykins-blog]

Battle Scars

A short one shot I couldn’t resist writing about a little hurt and comfort for Catradora based on their relationship after the fighting has ended and the are both left to deal with the choices they made during the battle.

The lights in the sky danced across the night sky as all of Bright moon slept; some unfortunately slept less than peacefully as memories haunted their dreams. And to pour Catra, her dream was a nightmare that she watched from behind her own eyes, unable to do anything to change the past.

Adora was barely fending off the temple guardian, and without her sword her advantage was fading fast before she was left hanging by threads over the edge of a drop into the blackness beneath her. Then Catra came to the edge looking at the blonde hanging on for dear life, so happy to see her friend come to save her. Trapped inside her own mind Catra watched as the vision played out, this nightmare she made just for herself, this was the part she hated the most.

Her voice, her speech, it all tormented her with the lies she told. “-You leaving, was the best thing that ever happened to me.” her dream self smirked as she knelt closer to the edge.

“NO! Thats not true!” Catra screamed out in her mind peering at Adora’s horrified face. “Please! I just want to wake up! This isn’t real! This isn’t real!” She screamed into the void, her claws digging into her hair as she fell to her knees.

She knew this was all fake, just a warded and twisted memory that would only terrorize her at night; but she knew that she was the one who made it so. The sound of rocks crumbling and giving way to Adora’s grasp threw her into the pit below and her scream filled the memory.

“ADORA!” Catra’s shill scream filled with fear tore her from the nightmare as she ripped the blankets off when she practically jumped out of bed. Tears streamed down her face burning her eyes and leaving streaks down her face.

Said warrior woke with a start right next to her drawing a knife from under the pillow. Quickly realizing what was wrong she dropped the knife and wrapped her arms tightly around her feline companion. “Catra sweetie it’s okay, it’s okay.” She felt Catra respond immediately and embracing her as she cried into the blonde’s shoulders. “I’m right here Kitten, I’m right here, I’m okay.” Catra climbed onto her lap as she rocked her side to side, riding her of her worries and fears as she ran her fingers through her hair. “I’m okay Kitten, really.”

A mumbled response came from the face buried in the crook of her neck, “But I didn’t know you would be.” Catra pulled away enough to speak clearly and rested her head against Adora’s chest. “When I left you, I didn’t know you would be okay. I was just, I was so, so-”

The striped feline was cut off as Adora spoke up, “It’s okay Catra. I know it still hurts you to think about, I understand how you feel. I was selfish when I left you. I should have asked you to come with me from the very beginning.

“Because of me they wont even let you in the castle anymore.”

“Catra that’s not true and you know it.” Her voice slightly raised showing her dislike of the way her friend was thinking of herself. “I chose to live out here with you Catra, because I knew this would be more comfortable for all of us, and that’s okay. You and Glimmer even get along now, look how far you’ve come.” Adora smiled to her companion.

The feline put her hand up to Adora’s cheek rubbing it with her thumb causing the blonde to frown and look away as the makeup was rubbed off revealing scars that she had personally left. “What about all the times I hurt you?” Her voice quaking slightly, “I know you cover them up for me, because you you know every time I see them I’m reminded of the horrible things I did to you.”

“Catra, we all make mistakes-”

“No! You don’t get to use that for this!” She scolded, this was one topic that she always won over the blonde. “If we all make mistakes then where are my scars? When did you ever cut me with that sword? Where did you ever hurt me?” she held her arms out showing her point, not a single time was she ever directly hurt be Adora in their fighting. Sure they exchanged punches and kicks, rough brawls that left tender bruises; but she knew Adora always held back, so why did she always push it so far.

A warm hand was placed on her chest over her heart. “I hurt you here Catra, it hurt so deep that it drove you to hurt me. I know we can’t change the past, and I know we can’t just forget that any of it ever happened. But it showed us how much we really love each other. Before any of this we were best friends and part of a team, but now look at us.” Adora pulled Catra back into her embrace which was warmly returned. “We couldn’t be closer than we are right now despite the hardships.”

It was quite for a while as they stayed in their warm and loving embrace, Catra’s fears and worries for the night all washed away, the lull of sleep calming any remaining nerves. “Thank you Adora.” her response barely audible as her eyes drifted shut peacefully.

Let me know what you guys think, I absolutely love this ship and I had so much fun writing this rewatching the show. If you have any ideas you want to see written feel free to share, I love writing with other people.

~till next time~

[millimallow]

pt. 19 - the dead and the divine

string me up. i’ll come back to haunt you.

another story from the world of owa anthology, this time set in the barren and hostile broken eye bayland.

i have fire carved into my bones. magic, summoned by a symbol and the watchful eye of albatross makes for a spell of protection. watch we draw the runes over and over again destroying them thereafter powdered bones climb into the air. and i wait and i watch for the tide to extinguish the flames. my circle etched under your body your body in the boughs of a threadbare birch (i can see you lurch in the wind) where i’m waiting. one eye open to the sweetness of sky to the echoing wilderness only hoping to hear your voice again.

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

i’ll deny what i did every time. you ask me if i see the same things you do; i reply the same.

“no.”

it’s a natural wonder that you’re not sick of asking it, then. it doesn’t need to be talked about, is the line i maintain, never to be crossed. this makes things easier- when you’re not inquiring about it, we can live in the present and not the past. here, where the sun is high and warm so often that it can barely convince me we still live on the same planet. frost only sets in during the deep window, snow falls next to never.

i knew that there was not long between the stasis of your body and the impending snowfall. late october was too far into the snow season for reservations, though still early. my story is that i was watching out of the window for the advent of snow, instead of staring at your body, swaying in the cold wind. don’t know why i had to look at it- i watched you hang, there was no further confirmation needed. when the last breath left your body ehiron turned to me, put his hand on my shoulder and said with a deep reverence-

“your sister has received the punishment she deserves. may zhatil forgive her for this in the aftershore.”

it was then expected of me to go home and partake in the preparations for dinner. any youngest sibling privileges had been removed, of course, by your death. not to mention the extensive shunning our family had been given, even after the fact. there was nobody around to help, even if we paid them. so it fell to me to scrub the potatoes clean in the water- only then could they be salted extensively and boiled in rising waters. we had distilled the salt from the ocean, of course- what kind of bayland would we be otherwise- and looking at it gave me an idea. i was familiar with spellbooks that had detailed various ingredients that we should be on the lookout for. in case we knew someone who hoarded them, or coveted them. taking the salt in my hand, one spell came back to me.

the spell of resurrection.

rune-carved bones of a slaughtered animal. seawater and distilled sea-salt from the same source. placed into a wooden bowl under a body, vertical, set alight.

well, i wasn’t an idiot. i had a bowl, and i had the salt. we lived next to the sea- in my right hand was a knife. in front of me was a broad cattle rib, salted to provide food throughout the winter, bone extracted. our parents retreated into their room, perhaps mourning. perhaps trying to replace you with a child that didn’t inherit our cursed and aching blood. the blood on my hands shook me to the core, my mind ringing, so i took the necessary materials and ran into the night.

to where your body was hanging, and where the wind blew it around.

family dinner is inevitably ruined when your child overboils the potatoes, so having one of them executed ritually and the other escape with your only boat could only make it worse. for half an hour after i cast the spell i had no idea whether it had worked properly or not. your eyes were twitching again, and you occasionally drew in a ragged and wheezing breath, but this could easily be an equally deceased corpse behaving oddly. it was not like me, on the infantile edge of 14, knew much about the human body post-mortem. that, and i had nearly set you on fire. my ritual flame had obliterated your clothes- or at least most of them- so you wore the great white nightgown i had used to shield myself from the outdoor temperatures.

my plan, which i had long formulated as the most efficient method of escape should my own secret be discovered, was to head in a downwards diagonal towards soretta samke, which was in the south and mostly welcoming. more than the broken eye bayland, it was the sort of place where nobody particularly wanted anything to do with your business if they could help it. so at the very least, i could bury you there, and make my way down to trevailia as a dockhand. aside from knitting, sailing was and remains one of my only talents. at that point i was glad that i had learned how to navigate with the moon and stars.

you came back alive close to the coast of soretta samke. during a patch of waves and wind i had tried my best to keep hold of your body, still broadly flaccid, as my small vessel was tossed and turned around by the winter weather. so close to relative safety, my hope was almost gone.

all until your eyes snapped open, frozen in fear, rigid as if you had experienced a bout of sleep paralysis. pupils dilated in a frightening and irregular manner, breaths panicked and quick. and as it happened, the sea seemed to quiet down. one second i was barely clutching you away from the waves, the next second there was heat beneath your cheeks and the silence seemed to stretch for miles.

we washed up on shore soon after. maybe an hour later, you were lucid again. i don’t think i’ve told you this story before, and it will be hard to say it again. these things are never perfect between us, but if you ever need me once more, i’ll hold you away from the waves again.

[laschatzi]

The Man You Want To Be

Sort of a missing scene, set after Dark Waters, this was triggered by a conversation with @ohmakemeahercules. It's not exactly a sequel to  Unhappy Beginnings, where Killian told Emma about his childhood, but it kind of refers to it.

title: The Man You Want To Be

summary: Killian tells Emma story how he found out that he had a little half-brother. Yeah, painful.

word count: 2,5 k

rating: G and SL for a bit of self-loathe

also on: ff.net and ao3

Fresh air seems like a good idea after the claustrophobic hours spent aboard the Nautilus, and so they leave Emma's bug where it is, parked in front of the hospital, and walk home where Henry is waiting for them. They stop for a moment at the diner to pick up some of their favorite food and have a drink at the bar while they're waiting for it. Killian smiles a little smile to himself when he recalls the lad's words spoken to him before – See you at home – the message in them evident. It was their home, and he was as welcome there as he was in their family.

“Did you know you had a half-brother?” Emma's voice startles him from his pleasant, peaceful thoughts, and his heart sinks a little. He hoped he could avoid this talk a little longer, even if he knew the moment would come when Emma would ask him about this.

He averts his eyes and hesitates for a moment, before he finally admits, “Aye.”

“How?” she simply asks, and again, like before when he told her about the Shears, there's no reproach in her voice, no Why have you kept it a secret and never spoken about him? His Swan is making damn good on her promise to always see the best in him, but alas, not even she will be able to find anything good to see about him when it comes to that sad and shameful tale.

He scratches behind his ear and draws a deep breath. “Are you certain you want to know?” he ascertains, hoping she's going to let it go, but she doesn't.

Emma is determined to support him, whatever he may reveal; she's aware it can't be a really pleasant story, and judging by the shadows on his face, it's just another proof of the long gone villainy he can never forget. All the more important, she knows, that he talks about it and shares his burden with her.

“Yeah, sure,” she replies firmly and puts a reassuring hand on his arm.

Killian nods and licks his lips nervously. “Remember what happened with my father, when Liam and I were boys?” he begins. “What he did?”

How could she ever forget that horrible story? “Of course! He...” She falls silent and swallows hard, can't bring herself to say it out loud; too unimaginable the crime Killian's father had committed against his sons when they were only children.

He nods again. “And how I told you I saw him one more time later, and that it wasn't... pleasant?” He ends his sentence with a little sigh, dreading the inevitable. The last time he'd left it at that, but he knows that this time, he'll have to lay all the cards on the table.

“Yeah,” Emma replies, “Was that when you learned about...” Again, she lets her voice trail off without finishing the sentence. It feels strange, almost wrong, to say the name of the young man they just left at the hospital; too weird is the thought that Killian's younger half-brother carries the same name as his older, deceased brother.

“It was,” he confirms and sips at his rum while a long silence stretches between them. It's not awkward or uncomfortable, but clearly painful, and Emma wishes she could take away something of it.

“Tell me what happened,” she finally encourages him softly.

He sighs and rubs his hand over his mouth, as if he's trying to keep the words from spilling out, disgusted about the man he was all those years ago. “Before the curse,” he starts, “Regina... the Evil Queen... sent me to Wonderland to kill Cora, to have her out of the way.”

“Yes, I know,” Emma replies, “You told me that already.”

He tilts his head. “What I didn't tell you is that before... entrusting me with that task, she wanted to... test me. To see if I had what it takes, if I was the right man for that murderous mission.” He finishes the rest of his drink and puts the glass on the bar very slowly, before he looks up at her again hesitantly. “She wanted me to kill someone.” Emma frowns, obviously not understanding, not drawing a connection yet, so Killian explains. “My father.”

Her eyes widen. “What?!” she gasps. “But how... how's that even possible?” she shakes her head in disbelief. “He should have been long dead by then?”

“Aye, he should have.” Killian draws a deep reluctant breath, bracing himself for the unpleasant story he's about to tell. “Long story short, when I found him he told me he was put under a sleeping curse shortly after he'd... left us, and he was awakened by True Love's kiss.” Emma is taken aback by that revelation; for the life of her she can't imagine that someone like that would find True Love at all, could be deemed worthy of it by fate, the Gods or whoever makes these decisions. Killian sees the doubt on her face and tilts his head. “Swore he'd changed and that he'd always regretted what he'd done to us.” Emma snorts. “The woman who'd saved him had died,” Killian goes on. “I... I'd been determined to kill him,” he admits and shrugs, “but I... I changed my mind when I realized that we'd both lost so much already.” Her face softens. “Told him I'd procure a letter of transit for him and that he had to disappear, so the Queen would never know that I hadn't done her bidding.” He pauses for a moment and swallows. “That's when he told me he needed two.”

“For his son,” Emma assumes. When he nods, she asks softly, “What did you do?”

He looks down into his empty glass and is tempted for a moment to order another rum, but then he decides against it. Today, he's sharing his pain for a change, not drowning it. It's not something he's very much used to, but it feels much more relieving.

“That same night,” he finally continues, “I came back to the tavern he was running, with two letters.” Emma's eyes are fixed on his face as he's telling her his story, even if he isn't looking at her, anxious not to miss one single expression of his, to follow every frown and every narrowing of his weary eyes. “I saw him tuck the boy in, and that's when I heard what he named him.” Killian lifts his gaze to Emma's, his eyes red and weary. “Liam. As if my brother... his eldest son... had never existed.” He rubs his hand over his face and knits his brows together in the effort of recalling every detail of that fateful night, the soothing tone of his father's deep voice being everything the worried little boy needed to fall asleep – like every little boy on the world, like the little boy on that ship centuries ago. “The boy... Liam... he was scared,” he tells Emma, and she frowns sympathetically. “And my father,” he goes on, “he soothed him when he tucked him in. And he used almost the exact same words like when he soothed me, that night on the ship, before he left.”

She reaches for his hand and curls her fingers around his. “Oh, Killian,” she sighs, not less sympathetically. “That must have been a shock.”

He tilts his head. “I asked him if my brother had really been that easy to replace. And I told him that he'd been lying to his boy, just as he'd been lying to me all those years ago.” He feels the bitterness well up again, can almost taste it in his mouth and grimaces in disgust. “He swore that wasn't true, that he'd called his son Liam to honor my brother, to honor both of us.” He snorts. “And that he'd never leave his boy.” Killian's gaze drifts into the void and waits for the anger, the cold fury, to wash over him again, but it never comes.

“But he'd left you,” Emma states gently, the sadness in her voice maybe best expressing what he's feeling right now.

His eyes fly to her, half surprised and half relieved that she seems to understand what haunted him back then. But then, how could she not? They're kindred spirits, after all. And many, many times during her restless, loveless childhood and youth she'd felt the same he'd felt back then: not being worthy of love, not good enough.

His voice is on the verge of breaking when he speaks again. “I was so outraged that I even hated that poor boy. Because he got what I never had.” He stops, staring into the void again for a moment, then he refocuses and draws a deep breath, his next words coming out almost matter-of-factly. “I drew my knife, and I stabbed my father. When he fell to the ground, he reached for me and told me that I, too, could change, that it wasn't too late...” He pauses and swallows thickly, his eyes brimmed with tears now. “But it was.” Without noticing, his fingers close around Emma's in an almost painful grasp, but she doesn't mind, is grateful that he turns to her for support with that little gesture. “I stood there and watched him die,” he finally says. “And I took his bloody shirt as a proof for what I'd done and walked away, leaving that boy to his fate and not wasting a second thought on it.”

Even with the buzzing of voices and noises in the diner around them, the silence seems almost oppressive now. Emma has listened quietly, Killian's tale not really shocking her, because she dreaded, almost expected, something like this. She can almost physically feel his pain and guilt, because the sentiments are not completely unknown to her. Even if what her parents did to her of course couldn't be compared to what Killian's father had done, even if she never had violent tendencies... she knows the feeling of resentment she had for her parents for a long time, because they put something else – some greater good – over her chance to grow up with them.

It took her a long time to get over that feeling, she could admit to that now, and when she finally started to feel like a daughter... they suddenly had the desire to have another baby, so they could make up for what they'd missed with her... only that she could never have that chance; nothing would ever take away the pain of having had to grow up as an orphan. Instead, her baby brother got everything she'd been robbed of. She loves her brother, and yet... even if it was just for a fleeting moment, that resentment – she felt it.

Of course, she never had the wish for vengeance when it came to her parents, but Killian... he had been through worse, in a much darker place than she could ever think of. So yes, she understands, and she can't even judge him. A tear is rolling down her cheek, shed for him and both his brothers, shed for herself and her parents, and even for Killian's father who had received the worst punishment – being forced to abandon yet another son, one who he wanted to do right by this time.

“No, it wasn't too late,” she says in a tear-choked voice, “it was too early. You weren't ready to forgive your father.”  

He tilts his head. “No, I wasn't,” he agrees, “ but Liam... he was an innocent child, and I took away everything he had. He's so lucky that Nemo found him and saved him.” For a moment, his gaze gets lost again, but then he looks back at her and draws a deep breath, the surprising ghost of a smile, a proud one, gleaming in his eyes. “And my little brother,” he starts, affection clear in his voice, “he found it in him to end the spiral of hate and vengeance our father had set in motion. He had a knife at my throat and could've easily killed me, and he was about to.” Without being aware of it, Emma squeezes his fingers that are still laced with hers, the thought of losing Killian again almost unbearable. “But when he saw that your boy came back for me,” he continues, “and that he cared about me... he stopped. He said he couldn't plant the seed of hate and vengeance in another boy's heart.”

Despite the circumstances, Emma is blown away by the sense of family that binds two of the three most important men in her life – she has heard the story from Henry and knows that Killian was ready to sacrifice his life for the sake of getting her son back to her, but what she didn't know yet was that Henry went back to save Killian's life in return.

Then her thoughts drift back to Killian's half brother, and she smiles tentatively. “So, you made peace?”

He swallows and nods. “Sort of. We still have a long way to go, obviously,” he muses and adds, “I'm so glad he has Nemo by his side again, he can help him find himself again. He's a father figure to him.” A shadow of guilt flies over his face again, and Emma reaches out with her other hand to cup his cheek.

“That's great,” she replies, “I'm happy you found each other.”

And there it is, at least briefly, Killian's smile. “Aye, me too.” He shakes his head and snorts a little incredulous sound. “I have family.”

Emma raises her eyebrows at him. “I know what you mean,” she concedes, “but... you know you already do have a family, right? One that would literally go to hell and back for you.”

He averts his eyes and scratches behind his ear. “I know how lucky I am, Swan.”

She knows that he adds in his mind, even if I don't deserve it, and she vows to herself to make him understand that he does deserve it, that he deserves all the love and loyalty her family – their family – has to offer. Before she can think of anything to say, Granny puts a big paper bag with their order on the counter in front of them.

Emma thanks her and slips from her stool. When she grabs the bag, she doesn't let go of his hand. “Let's go home?” she suggests softly.

Killian snaps out of his musings, it takes him some effort to shake off the sadness and the guilt when he thinks of his half brother, feelings that will probably never vanish entirely. But he knows, just like his own father learned – he understands that now – that it's a vain toil to wallow in self-loathe and guilt about the past one cannot change anyway; all one can do is try and make amends by not repeating past mistakes, try and make one's future better than the past. If he's lucky enough to get the chance, he shall try and do right by his younger brother – and if he doesn't get that chance, he knows there will be other ways to prove himself; it's like he told Liam back in the hospital: he has something to live for now.

See you at home, the lad had said.

Killian smiles and brushes a kiss on Emma's temple. “Aye, let's.”

[dentelle-grise]

Your Latest Trick - Chapter 24

Long after everyone has stopped talking about Loki and his misdemeanors, his failed attempt to take over Midgard and his punishment, you meet him at a party.

(Loki x Reader NSFW) - First chapter here (can be read as a oneshot)

All chapters to date at AO3 (58K, NC-17)

Tagging my rebloggers, commenters and other folk who asked. Please let me know if you want in (or out) of the list: @joanbushur, @frenchfrostpudding, @lovely-geek, @wolfsmom1, @sigridlaufeyson, @lokislonelylady, @monitoroutside, @daniissuchadani, @devilbat, @deadlydreamersecrets @helenisabel, @stardustandangelsfanfiction, @ely-seum, @wendyrobson1978, @the-ships-i-ship, @shemart101, @dreamourbrainout, @sadghostomg, @lokilover2000, @blobfishington, @lynneth1968-blog, @deaddecade, @nardo94, @tom-fucking-hiddleston-1981, @ashesandfire, @imagines-of-the-fandom​, @beingrandomisfun​

Chapter 24: Imagine Loki making love to you in public while invisible.

Sometime in the small hours you rise, careful not to wake Loki from where he’s untidily and contentedly sprawled in the middle of the bed, and creep out in search of the bathroom. The light of dawn is only just hinting and you pull the window closed against the cold.

You edge along the wall, back past the bed, looking for a door, it must be here, you don’t remember any other rooms downstairs. But there’s nothing up here either. How come? What kind of house has no bathroom?

A poor person’s.

The wall is rough under your fingers and the air damp. So this was where Loki was hiding out. Better than prison, but desolate in another way.

You’re going to have to go outside, find the outhouse perhaps, the idea makes you shudder. You take a step toward the stairs but at that moment, Loki rolls over and you collide with a leg that he unknowingly stretches out in your path. The bed really is too small. He growls in complaint. “What?”

“I was just going to the bathroom.”

“Over there.” He points blindly, without raising his head and you see it. A door in the angle of the corner you could have sworn wasn’t there earlier. You step through and find everything there is just like home. Why did you doubt?

It’s only when dawn and wakefulness come for real, and Loki’s urging you to ready yourself to go back, scooping you up and pulling you downstairs that you see clearly that there is no door in the corner of the room, merely a table with a washstand and ewer. You don’t ask.

He stops the skiff just outside the city waters, and you float, swaddled in morning mist. The skiff becomes an ordinary vessel, bobbing on the water. Apart from the fog-bleared lights of Asgard, you could be the only beings in the universe. It's chill, but you have the furs. He uncovers a box with bread, cheese and fruit, which you share. The bread is warm, like he just got it from the kitchens. Perhaps he did.

How much of this did he plan? How much did he magic up in an instant? It doesn’t matter. You watch each other eat, a comforting reminder he’s real.

"I wish we could see each other in the day sometime." you say. You were only thinking romantically, it wasn't even a demand. But he sighs and doesn't answer and you feel a new tenseness in the atmosphere.

“What’s going to happen?” you ask,

“I don’t know.”

The most terrifyingly honest of answers.

“What about Thor?” you ask, emboldened. It’s a question you expect him to rebuff “What about Thor?” But instead he bursts out laughing.

“Oh Thor, my valiant brother. As usual, he’s protecting the realm of Midgard against great and terrible foes… its own mightiest heroes, in fact”

With that he has to struggle to stop laughing, while you look on blankly.

“Oh, I couldn't have done better myself!” he says. Then he sees your lost look and starts to explain “Oh. two of Thor’s mortal friends had a baby.” He wipes tears from his eyes. “Or rather a brain child. And now it’s trying to take over the planet and my dear brother is once more saving the day.”

“Does he know you’re alive??”

Loki's gaiety disappears abruptly.

“No.” Loki looks away, into the mist. Not starting at anything, just not looking at you. “Like I said, he’s busy.”

You don’t press. But you wouldn’t put it past Loki to jump out on Thor one day as a really bad joke and there’s not much you can do to prevent it.

You have time to make things look almost normal that morning, the time to return home so you can wash up and change at least. But fear has been growing like a knot in your stomach since Loki left you, setting you down the edge of the high esplanade, before speeding off into the mist.

What about Odin? Your disappearance would surely have been noted.

You open the door to your chambers you notice a familiar smell, sweet, like freesias.

It is freesias.

On the low table there is a broad vase filled with them. You’re confused a moment but then you see there’s a note.

In the same sure hand as the invitation of so many weeks ago, the king apologises for his absence the night before - he was called away on urgent state business.

You want to heave that sigh of relief, want your stomach to unknot, but now there’s something else worrying at it. How did he know you liked Freesias, that they’re your favorite.

You try to start the day as usual, but the question haunts you. Could it simply be because he is the Allfather?

You wonder if Loki will be like Odin in later life.

Sometimes you try to imagine you and he growing old together, but nothing of what you have with Loki has the wisdom of age. Every time you try to imagine the far future, you see yourself alone.

You get the tiniest glimpses of yourselves as a kind of Odin and Frigga. You hope that you would be as elegant as she. You try to imagine Loki's expressions emphasised by time, his hair white, and wonder what you would be to each other. You have never imagined anyone like this. And now you do and it's with one of the most unpredictable, volatile of men. Is that it. You never sought stability and it's not Loki who'll give it to you.

The heat of your relationship is hardly something built to last and there are times when you think it is all you will ever have. When you start thinking like that, the fleeting images of that older couple slip away.

Hornace is leaving just as he promised he would. But he makes a point of coming to say farewell and thank you personally. He’s happier than you’ve seen him since the accident but there’s a clear tension about the future.

“I’ve learnt all I can here, and I can hardly say it’s been boring.” He reflects.

It's true he was here for the attack of the dark elves too, when all he probably expected was quiet study.

“But I hope, for you all" he adds, "that Asgard stays ‘boring’ as long as possible.” He gives a little smile. “But I’m sure you’d be able to handle anything.”

When the flash in the sky shows the bifrost working from afar you realise he's gone and with him another chance. You wish suddenly, crazily that you'd shared your story with him. What harm would it have done? He’s off world now. He would have shaken his head at the craziness of Asgard and certainly not have shared your secret. But you weren't even tempted. Holding your silence has become second nature.

You feel a presence behind you on the balcony and turn but there's no one. You can hear healers voices, not far away just in the next room. But its not that. You know what is it, who it is. Someone very familiar. Invisible, like last night.

“Show yourself!” you say.

He doesn’t, but you’re surer than ever than he’s there. It's in the movement of the air, you’re blocked from the light movement of the wind. And there’s a hint of warmth. Not a sound though and the view is unobstructed.

Thats why you don’t even jump when you feel his arm around you.

And his hand… slipping into your pocket.

Loki leads you away from the healing rooms, guiding you with one arm around your waist, his hand still in your pocket. It feels familiar, affectionate, this closeness, but no one else can see him. So you force yourself to walk as though alone - not leaning into him as you would want, nor leaving too much space to one side as you pass through a doorway. You have to pretend he isn't there, that he's your own personal illusion.

As you make your way across the courtyard, struggling to act normal, who should there be but Asta and Dagny. And from the way they look at you they know something is off. Asta's eyes flick away the instant they settle on you, while Dagny gazes on as though in awe. Your heart stops and your feet freeze. It's like they can see Loki. This is it. Loki makes to step forward, pulling you with him but you stay where you are then falls back by your side, silent.

"Hi." Your voice sounds dead. Asta chances a glimpse at you, her eyes still unreadable, while Dagny smiles nervously.

"Hi." They say in unison, as weakly as you.

Whatever's got into them, it’s something else. It's you Dagny's looking at, not the tall handsome, but totally invisible, figure at your side. They both look troubled. What do they see? You're still standing there and no one says anything. At least they don't try to drag you away for something, to whisper some tidbit of gossip or pushing you for some. There's no pulling on your arm to come see a new dress or enjoy a snack together. You're thankful, but you're worried too, and guilty about how you’ve lied to them, your annoyance at Loki rises a notch.

They embarrassedly try to cover their discomfort, badly. Then pull away, but not before Asta touches your arm and meets your eyes again, this time you read concern. But you are already smiling, brushing them off as you feel they brushed you. You feel a pang as they go, but Loki draws you in closer.

It’s lonelier up on the battlements, just him and you and the wild autumn air.

Against your leg you feel the cold of a blade. He's got a knife and he's cut the fabric at the bottom of the pocket. You want to be outraged, but instead all you feel is rising trepidation. He’s cut a way in. Then the knife is gone and instead there are his fingers, like you knew there would be, delving, exploring, ever so slowly approaching their goal, to reach the core of you without disturbing a layer of fabric on the outside. He’s not standing close enough to you to change the way your dress hangs, but his hand is going deeper. You hold yourself taut, knowing that for appearances you mustn't flinch.

Though he says not a word, though you can’t even hear him breathe, the moves are so familiar. He knows what you like. First he caresses you through the fabric of your underclothes. Then he teases with the tips of his fingers, fighting their way around the cloth. He’s not really going to do this? Is he? But why else are you still here. Why hasn’t he whisked you off already. Because he won’t. He’s going to make you suffer for your pleasure. Experimentally he pushes one fingertip deeper, sliding into your hot wetness. Though you want to gasp you hold it in, hold your breathe. The heat inside doubles. You keep your expression unchanged, unruffled, though the wave of weakness that washes over you makes you think you might faint it this goes any further. Well then Loki would just have to catch you.

He crooks his finger and you repress a shudder, sway on you feet a little and close your eyes a second. Then open them, scared you showed something. But there’s no one here. Not until the next patrol passes.

He lets you calm down, your heart rate slow, your breathing become normal, though nothing will calm the fire within. Then, gently and meticulously, he continues.

To a casual observer you are all alone, but all the time he has you, twisted around his finger. Your world narrowed to that point where his able fingers are undoing you from the inside, while you try to stay as unruffled as a porcelain doll. Your efforts multiply the sensation and he knows it. You are burning up inside, concentrating on breathing normally when it’s getting difficult to remember how.

“Don’t move.” he says.

This is it, he’s going to kill you with this. You’re so wound up standing still is getting difficult.

“Can we go?”

“I thought you were enjoying… the view.” He murmurs in your ear.

You want to curse, you want to throw him on the ground and have your way with him. You might look as though you are standing alone, admiring the landscape and tasting the wild sea air blowing off the waves, but in reality you couldn’t care less about this place or time, and the only purpose of the breeze is to cool your heated blood.

Part of you wants to hold out. Holding out is what’s making it all the better, even though you want release like nothing in the world. You want to hold out longer than him, until he has to take you home without you begging.

Why here?

 I wish we could see each other in the day sometime.

Did you bring this on yourself.

You hear a sound behind you. Footsteps, is it a patrol? It would be expected that they pass here soon or later. Would it be normal that you looked over at them, or would it? Loki has stopped, he withdraws his hand even. You feel its loss with regret, so he doesn't want to play it quite that dangerous - you're almost disappointed, but it helps you calm yourself. Once you feel composed turn your head. And every trace of lust evaporates in an instant.

“Papa!”

The simple sight of him snaps you out of the grip of desire and into that of shame. Though your heart’s still racing.

He frowns at you. Surely its not that obvious, if you are flushes it might be from the wind. No he’s got that worried look, just like Asta. How much did he see? Surely he'd notice something’s amiss if not what it was. Papa simply knows you too well.

And you were going to tell him.

Loki removed his hand like he'd burnt it the second your father appeared but he's still standing there at your back.

"I'm so glad I found you." Papa says and there's his familiar loving smile. But underneath it he looks uncomforatble. Like the girls but a hundredfold worse. He doesn't elaborate and the silence lengthens.

"What I mean is. If there's anything you want to talk about..."

You smile and shake your head, words trapped in your throat and Loki's hand snaking out to squeeze your arm.

"I mean, if you are happy then that’s what’s important, but if there is...something... happening that is not what you want then you can always come to me. However, whenever I will find a way to get you out of it.”

You nod, perplexed, and he reaches forward to take you in his arms. Loki releases you.

You are confused by his words, angry with yourself and angry at the stupidity of Loki’s being there and yet not being there.

There’s a resignation in Papa's face as he pulls back and looks at you.

You were going to tell him the truth and if he already knows it then the chance is lost you are swamped with guilt: you lied to him as you did to everyone with your silence. And now he knows…something. He doesn’t look upset as you might expect or shocked. More like sad. You swear to yourself you will find him later. You have to explain.

It’s then that the patrol themselves arrives, jogging in formation and a change comes over him. You must have imagined the sadness, now he looks more happy, proud.

"I must be getting on."

You make to follow but what more can you say. Loki grabs your wrist. If you pulled he’d let you go. You waver. If this means the truth is out then you have to talk to Loki.

As your father’s shape disappears along the walkway and the soldiers round the corner out of sight on the other direction, you turn toward where Loki must be standing.

"Show yourself." you hiss.

He takes the other wrist in his other hand. He says nothing but draws you to him and then you’re flying through nothingness and landing in a whirl in your chambers.

“Tell me what’s going on. How does Papa know?”

“Love?” Loki whispers, not releasing you but caressing your back. You know he’ll try to seduce you again.

“No.” You say pulling back. "I should have told him myself"

“He knows nothing." Loki says innocently.

“How do you know?”

He trails a caress down your arm.

“You know him, you know I’m right. Everything will be fine.”

You want to trust him but you’re feeling too mixed up, guilty about Papa. And Loki just wants to take you to bed again. And then of course he’ll disappear again. Your anger is rising and you don’t want another fight.

"No, I..." You pull away.

Loki lets you go but, still giddy from the flying you teeter on your feet. He goes to steady you, his gaze heated, but you pull away. Before you can give in, you stumble out though the bathroom and onto the balcony, slamming the door behind you and leaning back on it.

You’re sure he will follow you. You wait for his knock on the inside of the door, trying to gather your resolve not to give in to him.

It never comes.

Chapter 25

[blinkybarnes]

Connected (Bucky x Reader) Pt.8

gif not mine

requested: okay so I was wondering if you’d be able to write something where girl!reader and Bucky have always had some sort of weird bond ever since she joined the team and one day they’re out on a mission and she gets taken by hydra and turned into a winter soldier/assassin to kill the avengers. there would be a bunch of winter soldier parallels like “who the hell is y/n” and then once they get her back she is totally broken and Bucky fluff and maybe a kiss?? idk ! love your writing btw it’s the best !!!

warnings: mentions of nightmares, loneliness

word count: 1,507

tags: @fandomlover03 @paprika0437 @hellaoppa @evolutionofkatep @mell-bell @hazelbluegold @colie87 @bowties-and-wallflowers @imaginecrushes

a/n: ahhh I’m so sorry for being away for so long and I want to thank you all for waiting so patiently. Here is the last part of connected, thank you for reading it, everyone has been so lovely and given me a lot of support, it means a lot to me. I hope you enjoy it! :)

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7

- - - -

White light shines through your eyelids, disturbing you from your sleep. You roll over onto your side and pull the thick covers over your head. But there’s no point in trying to block the light out, you’re awake now. Sighing, you throw the sheets off of you and stare up at the ceiling. There’s a light hanging from it with a dingy yellow lampshade wrapped around it. Square daylight stretches over half of the ceiling. You sit up, feeling groggy and squint at the sudden brightness. 

Beige walls surround you in the shadows. To your right, thin curtains are drawn across a square window, fresh daylight creeps in through the material and casts odd shapes across the room. The thing that draws your attention the most though is the large mirror hanging on the wall directly in front of you. It sits above a wooden dresser, a matching wooden frame travelling around the edges. You stare at yourself, your eyes still struggling to open properly. You look a mess. Messy hair, limp limbs, sagging features and crumples bed sheets. You let out a groan and flop back down onto the bed. You feel like you’ve been sleeping for hours but somehow all the energy in your body has gone. You lie there for awhile, taking in the room and it’s decor. On a bedside table, next to the side of the bed left empty, a photo frame stares at you. In the frame is a picture of yourself shying away from the camera but smiling. Curiosity makes you sit up and reach for the frame, but before your fingertips can touch it the door behind you opens and you snap your head around to see Bucky creeping in. 

“Oh, you’re awake.” He says, sounding surprised. He’s wearing a grey t-shirt which looks like it’s struggling to stretch over his muscular body. His hair brushes his shoulders, hanging limp and wet. 

“Did you sleep well?” He asks, sitting down on the edge of the bed by your feet. His soft eyes look tired.

“I think so.” You say. “Is this your room?” Your eyes scan the room, already having noticed the large boots infront of the wardrobe and male hygiene products scattered across the dresser you guessed this was Bucky’s room.

“Yeah.” He says, looking round too as if to say ‘it isn’t much’. 

“Did you sleep here too last night?” You can’t actually remember ever falling asleep last night, or where. 

“Yeah, I did.” Bucky says. You must have been in a really deep sleep to not realise someone was sleeping next to you. 

“I just wanted to make sure you were alright, keep watch over you incase you had any nightmares.” Bucky looks at you with sheepish eyes, as if he’s embarrassed to admit he spent most of the night watching you sleep. 

“Did you have any nightmares?” He quickly asks, unsure whether he’d jumped to conclusions and thought your undisturbed sleep was what it looked like. 

“No, I didn’t.” You smile. This has been the first night in months that you’ve had a good night’s sleep. No images of hydra or memories of torture crept into your mind last night, it was all just bliss relaxation, something you haven’t had in a while. 

Bucky smiles, his head tilting down. It had been his idea to let you out of the glass box. He could see how unnerving it was for you and knew it was no help in getting you back to normal. Every night in that box you lay awake, too scared to close your eyes and even though Bucky visited you everyday, loneliness was starting to take over you. Only he knew what horrors raced through your mind and being cooped up in a prison like container wasn’t going to get rid of them any time soon. The others were quite reluctant to let you roam around free when no one was really sure how stable you were, but Bucky was right. A night in a proper, comfortable bed in a homely environment was what you needed. It isn’t to say that the evil thoughts are gone, but it’s a start. 

“Are you hungry? I can make you some breakfast.” Bucky questions. He seems frantic, like he needs to make sure your perfectly okay before he can relax. 

“Starving.” You chuckle and a small laugh escapes Bucky too. A realisation washes over you. You haven’t felt something this real in a long time, you can’t remember the last time you felt properly hungry or freshly awake. The hydra days seem like a blur now, just a mixture of pain and darkness. 

“I’ll go make you something then, any preferences?” Bucky asks and you shake your head. He stands up and you quickly grab his arm.

“Wait.” You say. Panic flashes over Bucky’s face and he turns to face you.

“I just want to thank you for helping me.” You mumble, avoiding looking at him. Bucky sinks back down onto the bed, relief rushing out of him.

“You don’t have to thank me.” He says. “You did the same for me.” 

You look at him and your eyes meet. His are light and welcoming, a warmth radiating off of them. 

“But I tried to kill you...and the others.” You look away again, feeling ashamed. 

“Yeah and I tried to kill Steve but that didn’t stop him, or you.” He chuckles slightly, hoping you’ll look at him again. He wants you to see how genuine he’s being, but it’s hard when he can see self doubt is taking over you.

Bucky sighs. “I’d do anything for you...you mean the world to me and that day you got taken by Hydra...everything fell apart. I should have kept you safe, like you did for me, but I fail you...” He voice trails off and his gaze drops to the creases in the sheets. 

“We’re connected, you and I. I’ve never felt love for someone like this, it’s overwhelming.” His voice is quiet, soothing to the ear. He reaches across the bed and rests his hand on top of yours. It takes you by surprise at first but the warmth of his flesh on yours is calming. 

“(y/n) I love you...and not just like a sister or a best friend because I know we’ve said that before...I love you like a soul mate, because that’s what you are. When you weren’t here it was like a huge chunk had been ripped from me.”

His words cut like a knife, you don’t deserve this. Or rather, you’re not used to this. The thought of someone ever loving you has seemed hopeless for months, who would ever love a monster like you? And all this time Bucky had loved you. Even when you were trying to kill him, kill his friends, his love for you never changed. 

Silents salty tears trickle down your cheeks. They’re warm and unstoppable. Then suddenly you can’t contain your emotions and violent sobs shake your body. Bucky instantly reaches for you, wrapping his strong arms around your body and pulling to close to his chest. 

“I’m so sorry.” You cry, covering your face with your hands. Months of feeling so alone, so helpless are washed away in this single moment, from those single words. I love you. 

You let yourself relax into his arms, your hands grabbing at his shirt as you cry. It feels good to let everything out. Bucky smooths down your hair and presses his lips to the top of your head, he holds them there, hugging you tighter.

The tears subsiding, you pull away from Bucky and sit up. Still holding onto him, you look at Bucky with puffy eyes. He smiles at you as if you’re the most wonderful thing he’s ever seen. Absentmindedly, your hands travel across his chest and up to his face where his stubbly cheeks graze your palms. As you stare at him you think about how no one has ever cared for you this much and how you’ve never cared for anyone as much as you do for Bucky. You can’t imagine caring for someone as much as you did when you met Bucky. It was an instant connection. Like he said...soul mates. 

You slowly pull yourself closer to him, closing the gap between you. Your lips brush his, unsure of your actions. You can feel his hot breath touching your skin, waiting. Then he kisses you hard, meaningfully and eagerly. Your lips are wet with tears but they wash away in the kiss, like all the weight and worry that once sat on your shoulders. He’s passionate, never wanting to let you go. All the love he has for you is shown through his kiss and you can’t resist it. You love him too, you realise always have. Maybe that’s why his face haunted your thoughts during those tortuous nights with Hyrda. That’s why you never manage to fulfill your mission. You are his and he is yours. You are one, you are connected. 

[empresswrites]

@saboace-week Day Six: Monster

I had help by my friend Bunbo (from discord) since it plays off their Addams Sabo! Hope you all enjoyed~!!

After reading the letter, Ace had gone to the cliff and screeched his heart out in disbelief. Sabo had promised to wait until seventeen, where they would practically sail out together for being so close in age. The forest wouldn’t be the same anymore without Sabo to linger, and though Ace knew to take care of Luffy, it felt like someone ripped part of his heart from his chest, like a gaping bleeding wound. More screams to the sea left him, cursing the celestial dragons, cursing the sea for swallowing up his friend, cursing himself for not being there.

The venting left him raw in the throat, with red eyes, and dry tear streaks on his cheeks. Nothing else could leave him, never wanting to reach this point in his life so soon. It was too soon, it wasn’t ever supposed to happen like this, not like a sudden hurricane—streamlining and ruining his last amount of innocence he felt he had left. They were to sail the seas, make a name for themselves and only let the Maiden take control over their lives after setting sail. Living day by day when out on the sea, not before they were seventeen. Sabo had promised to wait, and he broke that because of the pressure and Ace deeply blamed himself for letting it happen. He should have gone to Sabo, he should have tried harder, he should have killed his father when he could.

A startle reaches Ace at the suddenly purely dark thought. Trying to calm his racing mind, he can’t help but notice he enjoyed that idea more than he first thought. It jolted to mind with no issue and blared through his mind like a mantra, pressing down to his shoulders. The blame for letting his friend die and not trying harder, it harbored down on him like the heaviest thing he could ever come across—more than the beasts in the jungle.

From then on, Ace couldn’t bring himself to turn away from those dark thoughts, especially when Magra found Sabo’s body on shore days later. It was a catalyst of breaking Ace down more. At the sight of and when the body was buried--the smell, it was engraved into him. He would never forget it. The words from people in town began to weigh down more—how they said he was the son of a monster. It made him grow more vigorous and vicious in his training—his fighting style. There were times that Ace glanced with a lingering amount of care to Luffy, but otherwise his heart was being consumed. If they thought Roger was a monster, then they were going to be in for a rude surprise when he reached out to the world.

Luffy grew a little distant, acting as himself, but one time he had admitted that Ace was starting to turn into someone else—not his Ace. It left a burning ache in Ace’s chest, but at the same he couldn’t understand how Luffy wouldn’t admit to things that he had seen to the general public. The nobles and their disgusting ways, people with their sneering and dirty tricks, not to mention the celestial dragons that took away his Sabo. Though through it all, Ace still carried a protectiveness for his little brother and knew he would do near anything to protect what he had left.

The only one that was able to quell his hatred for his father, to give him a reason to live in this damned world, and the one to seek him through everything—someone who he had even admitting to who his father was—was now dead. Sabo understood him like no one else, not even Dadan quite brought herself to his level to understand all his thoughts. The older he got, the darker the thoughts became, and Ace knew it was because he lost his last standing light—a simple glow lingering from Luffy not being enough. Once losing it, his life started to dim and his view upon everything began to become more and more dangerous.

When he finally turned seventeen and sailed away, the gathering was few and he kept it that way. Dadan was there with a few others, Makino, and of course Luffy. They were the only ones that he tolerated anyways, so he didn’t mind as he sailed off with black hat donned on his head and an orange belt that his little brother gave him as a parting gift. Ace thought of doing something to remember Sabo, but he never knew what he could do to fully giving the feeling and meaning behind it, so instead he kept the goggles found with the wreckage that had washed up.

The Grand Line was not prepared for Ace, ruthless with his dagger and fists at first. No mercy lied within his gaze, anyone standing in his way was taken out to never bother him again. They always claimed that if Roger ever had a child it would be a monster, and here he was fulfilling something that they caused all on their own. Packing up with gunpowder, filling to the brim, before setting it off with Sabo’s death. Nothing mattered, he knew Luffy could handle himself, he would have to as they were miles apart, with no way to get back to his little brother quickly or otherwise.

Ace became darkness, the devil fruit calling to him when he found it in the chest at a raid they did on an island full of bandits. The fruit was consumed after reading the notations of what it was, and he couldn’t help himself, his crew leaving him to do as he wanted. As his power become known to the world, figuring out how to gain other abilities and gaining fire, they easily named him ‘Shadowfire Ace’. The bounty set was high, and even his crew knew better than to interrupt anything he would do.

Then everything changed…

They approached the town at night. Ace liked the view along the streets when it was dark, feeling himself at home when people slept. The quiet, serenity of no one to speak, to stare, to breathe. It was something he desired once in a great while, as he had become used to his crew being themselves and even faked a fleeting smile like he was opening up every once in a while, but it was a beautiful show—Ace could hear applauds filling his mind when playing well.

Heels clicking the ground makes him groan in frustration, as he had been enjoying the peace and quiet of the night. Pulling his shadows from the path more to not make his darkness linger so long, he tries to pretend as if he isn't a dark force of nature and fire- even if that is mostly all he is these days. Dragging his gaze forward and along sleek black-heeled boots moving with ease along the stone path, clacking sharply as the other approaches, Ace slowly drags his gaze upwards. Legs are exposed from just below the knee to show scarred skin on the left side of the leg—though Ace is not sure how much by the distance and lingering night—then to shorts that are just above mid-thigh. Ace allows his eyes to trail further up—pausing as he views more of the button up shirt, where he sees that of a dark flower resting, while also seeming to be wilting. Suspenders go along the stark difference with the white shirt and not many can pull off the look, but this man did easily. Though, as he reaches the face—Ace finds that is where he feels his chest tighten as he swallows thickly.

“Ace…?” The voice lingers. The clicking has stopped and Ace can’t help but stare at curious dark eyes—not able to tell the color in the current lighting.

Sabo? His mind races at the view of what would have been an older version of Sabo. The scarring almost matched of what his Sabo had been left with when they found him along the shore and had haunted him into his dreams. Though only one arm shows from the short sleeves to have scarring, unlike what his Sabo had—as if he was trying to stay afloat on a burning plank that had engulfed both arms and most of his face and neck. 

“For, alas! alas with me!” The Sabo-lookalike’s hands shift out in a display to his words, feet shifting to slowly saunter closer. “The light of Life is o’er! No more—no more—no more—!” The scrapping of metal heels against the ground brings a shiver through Ace and he can’t find it in himself to move as he finds himself entranced by the slow approach. “And all my days are trances,” the voice is almost haunting now, but seeing a small tilt of the head and wicked gleam in his eyes, Ace can’t pull his own eyes away. “And all my nightly dreams- are where thy grey eye glances,” words tickle along Ace’s ears as he views upon a sinister smile that brings an alluring tone to everything. The other male’s legs still shift slowly to place his feet against the road while he draws himself closer to where Ace stands. “And where thy footstep gleams—In what ethereal dances,” pale lips shift in a way that pulls his attention there before a small sliver of a blade is in a hand, trailing along a chin as those eyes almost sparkle in macabre emotions, showing even in the dark a dance. It was something dragging, causing Ace to shift a small step before a stretched grin shows—within it a darkness Ace has never felt—almost looming over him. “By what eternal streams…”

The knife flickering in the moonlight is soon gone, hidden in the chest where the man’s heart lays. An overwhelming panic and fear settles in Ace at the blossoming blood along the white shirt, the man only a few arms length away from him yet reminding him so much of his best friend it’s painful to see this. It was clear that he was bleeding, but that sedated smirk confused him. Was Ace hallucinating? Did he even want to see such a sight? One with Sabo being the one to die before him in such a manner?

As this man before him like another version of Sabo that could have existed had he survived shifts, Ace jerks to get darkness to catch him and is befuddled on how to react. This man couldn’t be his Sabo, he had buried his Sabo years ago, causing him to change into a whole different person. It was something he enjoyed—changing, not burying Sabo—but it was no doubt that the body is real and not a mere illusion. As Ace removed the knife before consuming the man within his shadows, so many questions plague him. In the end, however, he had time to think over questions in the darkest depths of the forest connected to the town.

Oh how Ace had not realized how much his life would turn out with this man now within it.