#the light-dark levels didn’t have enough contrast. it’s always that.

[interroblog]

ALRIGHT!!! I think I finally figured this guy’s colors out

[lenreli]

Sunlit Station [Dreamling Week Day 3 - Solarpunk]

[AO3] | [Dreamling Week Masterpost]

More Life!Hob for the soul.

E, 1.9k. The flowers outside the station aren’t alive, he can’t feel them like he can feel planets or stars, or the tiniest insect, but the fact that humanity made them to reflect flowers, a sponge soaking up solar light or dark matter in the shape of flowers, he’s always touched by.

-

Hob has many favourite places throughout human history, places he holds close to his heart, even though they’re no longer there, whether by the change of, well, him, or by other means, he’s always had places he visits more than others. Although, one of the latest places he likes most is being near Dream, even though, by virtue of being Life itself, he can always feel Dream, it’s― 

Anyway. 

What he means to say is ― this station, in the orbit of a gas planet far away from humanity’s own Solar System, may just be a new favourite. It’s only existed for a hundred and fifty years, but it’s always amazing to see the greenery surrounding the station, constantly fed by the sun nearby, protected by any universal winds with layers of tough glass to make them grow and bloom, providing energy for the station. 

“Hob,” a voice whines and Dream soon comes to lean against his back, arms going around his waist, “the windows just came up, come back to bed,” Dream says, voice muffled by the other’s lips against his shoulder as he looks outside their room. 

“But it’s always so beautiful,” he breathes, looking outside his window to see the miles of green leaves and blue flowers on the station. Dream just groans and holds him tighter, pressing into his back. 

“Every morning,” Dream despairs into his neck. Hob smiles and looks up, seeing a mass of black flowers amongst the green. 

“Your favourites are here,” he says teasingly, pointing up, “the ones that swallow the dark matter bursts.” Those ones don’t tend to show up at their room often, the outside of the station able to move the greenery to where it’s needed most on the surface of it. Dream makes an unintelligible sound, pulling him back into bed, and Dream’s complaints ease as Hob kisses him, nipping down to his neck. “I’m sorry, I’ll let you get your beauty sleep.” 

Dream gives him a highly unimpressed look as he leaves their bed. 

-

The flowers outside the station aren’t alive, he can’t feel them like he can feel planets or stars, or the tiniest insect, but the fact that humanity made them to reflect flowers, a sponge soaking up solar light or dark matter in the shape of flowers, he’s always touched by. The station itself, a long column of metal with five rings around it, connecting to the centre is beautiful and so green. 

Inside the station however, are flowers and vines, various food gardens buzzing with life as people go about their day. So many stations and ships that humans use only have a few, enough to live by, but this station flourishes by contrast. 

Dream is sure that Hob influenced the maker’s of this station to make it so green, but Hob is quite sure he didn’t. Not that Dream would hear otherwise, sticking to his little conspiracy. 

It probably doesn’t help that he’s currently a gardener for the few floors above and below where they live, making sure that all the plant life and insects are well throughout the day. He’s known in the staff for his knack of knowing what plants need more of what. 

After checking out the food garden’s automatic water and fertilisers are working at the correct levels, he follows a particular spark of life up an elevator to the top, finding Dream on a small tablet in the roof level at the centre, known to be one of the darker places constantly. And perfect for Dream. “And what will the prolific artist of our age do this time?” He asks in greeting. 

Dream grunts and pouts, “I’m not prolific.” 

Hob grins and tilts his head, resting it on the other’s bony shoulder, “if we add up all your previous aliases works, then it’d easily be over two thousand works. Not to mention all the other works inspired your own.” 

Dream freezes, eyes very round as they stare at him in horror. “You’re―no,” Dream gapes, and Hob can almost see Dream doing the sums in his head. “That.” Dream stops, staring at his tablet like it’s a monster, and Hob worries over the potential meltdown he can feel brewing.

“As always, I’m interested in what you’ll do next,” he says softly, distracting Dream from staring at his tablet in increasing terror. “But if you want to do something else for a bit, I’d also be into that.” 

“I―I don’t,” Dream stutters, blinking in shock and Hob takes a hold of his hand, kissing the knuckles lightly. Dream wheezes and folds into his seat, hand gripping his hard in return. “I just―never saw it that way. So much,” Dream says quietly, fingers pressing into the calluses on Hob’s palms. 

“Hopefully not enough to go cuckoo on me just yet,” he replies, making Dream laugh, voice cracking at the end. 

“Maybe just don’t tell me in future, I’d rather not know,” Dream groans, free hand pulling Hob close by his shoulders. Hob uses his own free hand to pet black hair.

“Of course. I’ll keep this forbidden knowledge hidden,” he says severely, lightly kissing all over Dream’s face until he starts to giggle.

-

“Hob,” Dream whines, fingers trying to move inside the vines that are keeping his hands tied up on the bedpost. 

“Dream,” he moans, the other’s hard cock hitting his prostate constantly, pleasure brimming and overflowing, always loving when they’re like this. 

“Let me,” Dream cries out, blue eyes wet and his hands try to get out of the vines ― making Hob’s vines wind even tighter, going down his arms as Hob continues to ride him. “Please, let me,” Dream babbles, letting out a strangled groan as the vines wind down around Dream’s pale torso, feeling him breathe heavily as a vine wraps around Dream’s cock and balls, down to his thighs. 

“My pretty Dream,” he leans in, kissing Dream deeply, orgasm building up steadily with the other’s cries, the cock inside twitching as his partner tries to come, although stopped by the vines. 

Dream heaves, tears streaming down his face as he arches up, mouth slack as words fail him, leaving only needy sounds. Which is what Hob was after, Dream still freaking out about the amount of works he’s done over the centuries. 

“My beloved, my most precious,” he whispers as Dream cries out once more, feeling him slackening in the vines, giving himself over as Hob orgasms, come splattering over Dream’s pale chest. Leaning down, he goes to lick and nip up Dream’s throat, feeling him breathe evenly. “So perfect for me.” 

Dream hums, dark lashes fluttering as his partner stares at him, eyes blank. Hob sighs and rests his forehead against Dream’s, caressing the other’s jaw, thumb going up to touch the pink lips. 

“There we go,” Hob soothes, loosening the vines around Dream’s cock, rocking slowly against the hardness still pressing against that spot, “let go for me,” he whispers, nosing against Dream’s sharp cheekbone as his partner lets out a keen, and it only takes a few more passes before Dream comes inside him, filling him up. 

Dream relaxes even more, the vines the only thing holding him up. 

-

With life, there’s always death ― and he can feel it, people, planets, stars dying in a large enough scale to make him sit in his living room on the couch, feeling it all. Mourning it, becoming less of himself as a person as he feels the destruction, knowing that it was made by human hands, can feel the debris of it.

“Hob?” Dream speaks, a vine still twined around his throat as he sits in front of him, expression worried. “What happened?” 

Blinking, he can feel tears on his eyes, cheeks feeling cold from them as he comes back to himself, and turns on the TV, news showing what’s happened, grim and stark at where the star system used to be. Dream looks at the news in resigned horror, eventually sitting next to him, hugging him tightly. 

Sighing, Hob hides his face in Dream’s neck, grabbing onto Dream as more tears well up. 

-

The station and everyone on it are in a muted chaos as the news continues, as people closer to where the system was start pouring in, coming in on ships and cryopods, and there’s talk of adding more levels to the end of the station. 

Before, when these things have happened, whether by black holes or weapons, Hob retreats into himself, keeping quiet as he processes it. 

And even with that devastation, the sheer enormity of it ― stars are still born, planets still forming, people being born. Hob can feel it, grabbing onto the new life still being born, the attempts at sentient robots at a whole edge of the universe, and he holds onto it with both hands. 

“Dream,” he calls a few months later, waiting near the door as Dream gets ready for going out to do dinner. 

There’s the sounds of hairspray and soon Dream appears, eyeliner black and pointed on and Hob can even muster up a bit of appreciation out of the melancholy he’s feeling. “Yes?” 

“I want to visit,” he says quietly and Dream frowns. 

“We will discuss that after dinner, alright?” Dream says gently and he nods as Dream looks him over, Hob not getting up to his usual level of dressed up as Dream goes to their wardrobe, and he manages a smile as Dream changes his shirt for a blue one, as well as brushing his hair and putting half of it up. A change of shoes from old sneakers to pointed black shoes is enough to make Dream deem him appropriate for their dinner as Dream presses a kiss to his lips.

-

Their own spaceship is cozy, some would say absurdly small, but it’s functional enough with a good enough FTL drive that the flight out to the area of once-was-a-system is only a few days from their station. Hob aches the closer they go to it, the scar on the universe still too fresh for anything to grow from its ruins. 

“Hob,” Dream gives him a worried look from the pilot controls, worry growing as Hob stands near the airlock. 

“I’ll be fine, I just need to―” he frowns, gesturing to the vast empty space, the edges of it filled with memorials and prayers, magnetic scraps of steel attracting pictures of loved one’s, of books and pictures of the places that were. 

“Okay,” Dream still sounds worried and Hob gives him a watery smile as he enters the airlock, pressurising it so he can walk outside onto the space. Stepping outside the ship, he ― floats, pushing himself to the steel closest to him, tears appearing as he stares at the life that was. 

Taking a breathless sigh, he moves forward, the scar revealing itself to him as he drifts forward into nothingness. 

-

On the way back to their station, they put on the auto-pilot as Dream holds him, hands petting his back and hair as they soak in each other’s presence. Hob drifts, almost sleeping as Dream pulls out a book to read, melodious voice lulling him into the first sleep he’s had in a while. 

“How are you feeling?” Dream asks once he’s woken up, Dream having taken him to bed while he was asleep. 

“Bad,” he states, blinking up at Dream, “but it’ll heal. It always does,” he sighs and hides himself in the pale of Dream’s throat once again, melting on top of his warm partner. “And you’re here. Which is always nice. Even when I’m being like this.” 

“You’ve been there for me, all this time, so of course,” Dream replies. 

As they jump out of FTL, Hob looks at the station, covered in green and flowers of all colours and Hob can’t wait to see the gardens and plants he cares for. 

[Fin]

[rakatan]

the thing about comparing anakin and elzar is…we’re doing it wrong. their minor parallels don’t serve to highlight their similarities but rather they serve to emphasize their significant differences.

upon reading that elzar has yet to reach masterhood naturally our minds will gravitate toward anakin. it gives us the readers something to base elzar against while we watch his character unfold. elzar’s continued knighthood is surprising due to this innate comparison. he’s not too young, he’s not inexperienced, he’s not troubled, he’s not being manipulated into the council by the chancellor…elzar is simply not the easiest to work with. that’s all. his sporadic explorations without explanations lead his fellows to find him difficult and to the council, that reason is enough. while anakin’s masterhood being delayed is understandable, reasonable, and not unfair, elzar’s is. the difference here emphasizes that even within the jedi, those who do not fit into perfected molds are often inherently punished for doing so.

he thought it was unfair. he didn’t care about other jedi’s paths through the force—why should they concern themselves with his? he just wanted to follow his road where it led.

their reactions to this delayed masterhood also differ. this mistreatment irritates elzar since none of his innovations put others in harm's way, but his willingness to fail outshines the incredible knowledge he contributes to the order. and although he might disagree with the council’s decision he will still abide by them and listen to their judgment. it again emphasizes that elzar is older and has a level of emotional maturity that anakin was never allowed to reach.

when we learn that elzar and avar had a romantic relationship in the past our minds also jump to the forbidden relationship between a jedi and republic senator. especially considering one of elzar and avar’s first scenes elzar suggests retirement on the same island anakin and padme got married on. elzar’s differences from anakin are highlighted again when we watch him let go of avar in the epilogue of light of the jedi. elzar loves avar and he always will, but his attachment to her at this moment was not consuming him completely. avar reaches out to hold his hand and he reminds her that “we are jedi,” she invites him to dance and he declines until later, elzar describes his emotions with intensity but elzar also lets go. their relationship was never dangerous and the emotional intimacy they do maintain is enough for him.

avar was a friend. a fellow jedi master. they’d agreed long ago that’s all they would ever be. and it was enough. truly, it was.

the most common comparison i see drawn between these two is the usage of the dark side. understandably so, elzar is one of the only jedi in the high republic to tap into the dark side but the reason why he does differentiates him from anakin and even his closest peers. elzar doesn’t use the dark side to take lives, he doesn’t use the dark side to appease his own selfish desires, elzar uses the dark side to save a group of jedi. in his typical fashion elzar finds solutions and at his lowest point, in the middle of a battlefield, elzar sees that he can use his emotions to save lives. the build-up to this moment was written incredibly well, it combines elzar’s innovative mind, overly compassionate heart, and the emotional anguish that has been plaguing him for months. in contrast to other jedi and anakin, elzar has pure intentions even though his actions may not result in the best of outcomes.

"we have a jedi who does flirt to the dark side and realizes what road he's going down, where instead of embracing it, goes to a friend and says, "i need help." we didn't want elzar to be anakin 2.0." - cavan scott

the generalizations between these two often do their characters a disservice by ignoring their defining differences. differences that are intentionally being highlighted to further the contrast of each era and the contrast of the two as individuals.

[mysteriousangels]

Solo Para (Adelphia/ Maddy): Negligence

Adelphia knew she had plans tonight and was generally very committed to getting to places promptly, but she couldn’t shake the feeling in the back of her head. She knew Maddy had been going in and out of a rough patch, but that was nothing new and generally, Adelphia did as she was asked and pretended not to see Maddy’s cries for help. But Auradon was finally getting to her, and she made her way to Maddy’s place.

When she went to knock on the door and it slowly creaked open. In contrast to the setting sun outside everything inside the house was dark and ominous. She slowly walked into the darkened house and made her way to the living room on the off chance that Maddy would be hanging out there. As her eyes started to adjust, she did notice Salem in the corner, spooked out of his mind and scratching at something.

“Salem what is it you got there?” The more put-together blonde asked the cat as she slowly walked over to see what he was clawing at. When she noticed a particular shine to the item, Adelphia paused. Maddy’s talisman necklace. What in the world would drive Maddy to take that off? The one thing she claimed kept the voices of her grandmother and her cousins away, that kept her from becoming her grandmother.

Adelphia grabbed the necklace and ran to Maddy’s room, busting the door open with her shoulder since there was no time for politeness. There was Maddy in the middle of the room, it was dark, and everything was a mess. The windows were shattered, and the wind was blowing into the room lightly, with the moonlight being the only thing that light up the room. 

“Madds? You took off your necklace, you know how bad it is for you to take it off.” Adelphia said softly wanting to stay calm, so she didn’t spook the other blonde. Maddy slowly turned to look at Adelphia with tear streaks on her face. Then she looked at the ground and Adelphia gently came over to her and hugged her.

“It happened again Del. I can’t take it all the nightmare, every time I lose control, I’m a monster just like they said. I always knew I was a monster, unwanted by even my mother. Why didn’t they just leave me in that damn hole and let one of the wolves eat me? Why couldn’t I……why couldn’t I?” Maddy sobbed as she clung to Adelphia. As Adelphia held Maddy close, allowing the girl to cry the wind in the room picked up. The shattered glass in the room cut through her clothes as she held Maddy even closer. The pain wasn’t as bad as it could be, Adelphia had taken worst from her mother on the Isle a few cuts on her arms and face didn’t mean much when her best friend’s health was concerned. She knew how Maddy felt about herself and how Maddy isolated herself because of it. Although she had always taken a backseat to the girl’s problems to respect her privacy at what point did her respect turn to negligence as a friend? They all have been negligent as her friend, but no one wanted to say it or cared enough to. It was just Maddy, right? It was what Maddy had asked for and wanted since leaving the Isle, right? But the way Maddy was clinging to her told a different story and it made Adelphia realize that she should have tried harder, she should have cared more. They all should have cared more if they considered Maddy their friend.

Maddy, herself, was stuck in her head wondering why she was even still here. People claimed to care but, in the end, it was always shallow, a surface-level amount of care. But that was the relationship she forced upon people, not that anyone ever tried to fight her on it, to show they cared more. The whole point of her moving was because she was slowly spiraling, what was the point of her wearing that stupid necklace if she was still gonna be a danger to herself and others? If people would still see her as she saw herself, a monster. It was a good hour before Maddy calmed down as she hugged the girl’s waist and allowed Adelphia to stroke her hair softly. It was comforting to have someone there when she needed them and not in the aftermath. Sure, it was nice for people to come and show they cared when the hard part was over, but it was way more meaningful to be there when things were at their lowest. “You should go, Adelphia, you were planning to go out right? I’m sorry I kept you here for so long.” Maddy said quietly and slowly sat up looking at Adelphia.

“After you put on your necklace Madds. I don’t want to leave you here alone when you need someone, Stiles will understand.” Adelphia said and smiled gently at Maddy.

“Someone will make an appearance; they always do when the storm ends. I’ll text you so you know I didn’t do anything completely stupid.” Maddy gently took the necklace from Adelphia and put it on her neck. A collar that was meant to help but only served as a decoration ever since Madame Mim took it off her.

“I’ll call, okay? Get some sleep and I’ll be back in the morning.” She said and slowly got up. She quickly gave Maddy another hug and promised Maddy that even if the world was against her Adelphia would be there as her friend. Then Adelphia left the other witch’s house occasionally looking back in worry about her and if she was making the right choice.

[alexcaldownapier]

Film Project - Holidays + Week 1

I am very excited for this term and this film project. I knew I wanted to work with Ben as director for a while now. He asked me if i could shoot his next project near the end of last term. Ben and I have always worked well together and I’m glad he trusted me with his passion project: Longboard Nights. Ben and Bonnie have been trading ideas within this concept for over a year now and we feel now is the time to go for it. Late last year, concerned we wouldn’t get a green light for this project due to its high concept and reliance on practical effects, Beth and Ben put together a test shoot to see how the proposed visual style would work, along with specific practical effects (blood splatters, bone breakage, makeup). Ben and I talked through the planned shots and I put together a simple storyboard (incomplete - gimme a break it was deadline time!). I have them here with some matching stills from the final graded footage.

(Shot 1.3 at top of post)

There are some small issues I have with the footage compared to the plan. The silhouette shot, we used the mirror that was already in the space to add some depth, except, stupidly, I didn’t realise that the mirror could be moved. So instead of simply moving the *free-standing* mirror, we got Tom (our wonderful actor) to walk along the wall in a very unnatural way, so that we could see him in the mirror. 

I am happy with my use of depth - although in a reasonably small hallway, I was trying to use different light temperatures to create more separation between foreground and background - with cold light spilling through a doorway, a dim, warm light round the corner and the kitchen (the main room) be lit by a tungsten lamp. The cool light was meant to be motivated as moonlight, which doesn’t work in the footage tbh. I was trying to get the required level of contrast for the face reveal so was using quite hard light at (in hindsight) too much brightness. The reference Ben gave me for lighting this shot was from Bladerunner 2049:

Which, yeah, I don’t think I achieved. Using less light would ensure less light would bounce off the wall opposite. I also didn’t get the eye-light in. I love an eye-light - but the lights I had, even on their lowest settings were still casting too much light on the wall behind Tom. On the actual shoot I plan on getting some small torches with a small beam for use as eye-lights. A technique used in our second-year film Girl and Game in the scene where Kayleigh looks at her avatar was that the real Kayleigh had an eye-light where the avatar did not. I think it adds a feeling of life to a person’s face and I think using this technique with the final film to distinguish between the husks and our protagonist could add to their lack of humanity and the horror elements. 

I’m happy with the silhouette lighting - I used a cardboard cut out to get a more dramatic spot light.  And then the bathroom shots, while a little boring as stills work well in motion with their shaky camera work and their gritty green and red colour palette. Something I plan to carry into the final film for the more emotional moments where the protagonist is affected by the horror of these beasts.

In the kitchen, I think the lighting was not harsh enough - I wanted stronger, almost german expressionist, contrasting darkness across the room. I think flagging the light more and maybe even using the cardboard cut-out past the first shot would add more to the mood. Then, the filming of the practical effects:

The leg break, I love. While we didn’t totally ace it - a lot of takes had hands in or the angle of the leg was off - I still think it really works. Even the final take has hands in the top of the frame, but it still creates that visceral “oooof!” feeling. I think with more preparation and more tests we can make something really effective on the action/gore front.

The fake blood is something I was having some issues with in terms of the grading process. The red of the blood was a bit too similar to the shades of red found in Tom’s skin tone so when trying to emphasise and stylise the scarlet blood, Tom ended up looking really weird, so I had to prioritise his skin tones. But, in the final film, I hope to find a way to be able to bring out the reds of the blood without affecting the actors’ skin. It might just have to involve an extensive use of power windows. 

I think with this proof of concept, we should be pretty well set for getting green lit and gives a great starting point to move off from and expand and improve.

This wee test shoot has helped a lot when it comes to extending my technical knowledge and experience but I don’t think there’s too much in the visual style of this short that I’m going to carry into the final film (aside from the handheld camerawork, eye-lights and high-contrast lighting). I like to try and have my visual approach be dictated by the story, character and themes, so I’m very excited to see what Bonnie’s script inspires. But yeah, very excited, and even though I’m still making lots of mistakes when I’m shooting, I’m still hoping I can make something really fun, dynamic and impactful with Ben and the gang this term. 

In terms of our class and our brief (a strong sense of place) I’ve been thinking a lot about how to film this. While I’m still a little unclear on Longboard Night’s relationship to place and setting, we have our first group meeting next week, I was really enjoying the different approaches in the examples shown in class. Where one film used a lot of shots of the character moving through the city - closer frames in tighter spaces and wider frames in open spaces - another used some subtle techniques to make the character seem out of place in the city. I liked the film about the American in Paris - the shot of the restaurant in particular. It starts with two people in frame eating together and then the pan reveals the rest of the restaurant and our isolated protagonist. She is alone at her table with the fish-tank beside her showing both her shunning by the city and drawing our eye towards her part of the screen. The high angle also accentuates the distance between the tables, a nice touch. (I’m worried I’ve misremembered this shot, but yeah, ideas). I think the primary thing I’m interested in when it comes to creating a sense of place is understanding the relationship between the people and the place. What the place feels for the people and what the people feel for the place. How do you convey that?

I’m filming tomorrow, for a project of mine that I think fits this brief perfectly: it’s a film about Edinburgh and it’s current gentrification. [For this, I’m again with Ben and Beth, with Jenny on for recording sound, but in a twist, I’m directing and Ben is doing the cinematography]. I’m focusing mainly on how Scottish imagery and Scottish places are sold off and become a commodity, a holiday home, for the rich. For this relationship between people and place, I’m focusing in on the protagonist’s feeling of disconnect from the city, that it is not a place that they are part of. The visual style uses locked off cameras, soft focus and disparate shot sizes to achieve this sense of disconnect. The shot sizes are mainly inspired by Taste of Cherry, a film I watched and wrote about last term for Asian Cinema.

The character is framed almost exclusively in extreme wides and close-ups. He is never together with his environment. I’m taking this idea a bit further by using soft focus to further separate the protagonist. The film becomes a bit happier near the end where we lose the soft focus and go handheld as the protagonist finds themselves in places they belong. I’m excited to see how it turns out and I think taking this approach of focusing on the relationship instead of the geography could be an effective one for our final film. Here’s some of the storyboards for tomorrow and I’ll update once pre-production for Longboard Nights has kicked into gear. 

[creativebkt]

Red Rover

Curio sat at the top of yet another rocky dune. There were so many, and he had wandered so far. He shifted so that his back more directly faced the sun and continued playing with the sand in his shadow. Bored, he picked up a rock and stared at it while he rested. Carefully, Curio opened his mouth and vibrated softly. It was a tune he remembered, though not where from. As far as he knew, this scenery was all he’d seen and all he’d ever seen, so wherever the tune came from, it must have been before he actively went online.

The little tune done, Curio checked his battery levels and stood up. A bit of red dust fell from his joints as he creaked his way down the dune. It was time to continue exploring. Not that it was ever not time for exploring. That’s the way it had always been. Wander a bit, rest when it’s dark, watch the dust play in tiny winds, and use the sun for guidance. There was that one large storm a while back, though.

The storm had started out fairly normal. The low air pressure made the dust leap at the slightest movement, so Curio hadn’t worried about it. Then, instead of falling, the dust simply sat there, suspended in the air. For over a month, Curio had wandered the dust and rested and wandered some more. It was weird, though not difficult. The nuclear battery helped keep him warm as he wandered, though he did feel very lonely.

Sometimes, there were small messages Curio received, like a map sometime during his wanderings, and an image of the storm before he saw it. He didn’t know who sent them, but it was another contact. He hadn’t heard from them in a while. Hopefully the storm hadn’t scared them away.

The sound of a falling rock caught Curio’s attention as he looked behind him. His footsteps sat in the dark sand until it disappeared into a rising cloud of sand. A mental image of that big storm sent him into the nearest protective outcrop of stone. It was surprisingly easy to mark due to its contrast with the sand, and he made it in plenty of time to hunker down and wait.

When he came back online, Curio blinked at the knees curled in front of him and brushed off a layer of dark red sand. The air was still again, and the sun was out. Perfect exploring weather. At some point, his optics registered a persistent flashing as he walked. Shiny things were rare around here and usually worth investigating. He slowly motored over to investigate.

What Curio found confused him. It appeared to be some kind of corner, too sharp to be natural. Gently, he brushed off some of the sand covering it and found more. Intrigued, he began to gently dig out what turned out to be a solar panel. Whatever it had been powering, he soon uncovered it.

Buried in the sand, Curio found first the solar panels then the body of another mech. She curled over as if praying. Her panels spread wide above her, looking for sun. Curio reached down and gently lifted the smaller thing, fearing almost to break her with his simple touch. She was lighter than he expected, and completely covered in dust, and she was cold. Makers, she was cold!

However long they stayed like that, Curio looked only at her. This mysterious mech had so many scars. Her hands, still held in prayer, were chipped and dented, her feet almost made of rust instead of just covered in the red sand. Some of her circuits showed at the knee and elbow, and there were other dents and scratches elsewhere. She looked like mystery and stories, like personal contact Curio hadn’t experienced before.

At some point, Curio’s mysterious messenger sent him an image of sand, though he didn’t move. Oh so carefully, he folded the solar panels and picked up the strange, cold mech. Her face was quiet and impassive as he slowly carried her into the shelter of the nearest outcrop, careful to shield her from more of the dust before deactivating to wait out the storm.

Curio took it upon himself to carry the small mech wherever he went. She was light enough and small enough that it wasn’t too difficult, and Curio found himself reluctant to leave her behind each night. Together, they found more hills and more craters. They picked up more rocks and hid from more storms. It was an interesting and quiet journey, now that Curio had a friend.

This little piece was originally written in response to the Mars Rover Opportunity and her final transmission. There are other installments with more of the autonomous research vehicles sent to Mars, but this, I think, is the only one that really manages to catch the tone I was going for. A lot of research went on behind the scenes, and I'm personally pleased with how well-integrated it is with the story itself, and it was only after I'd first posted it to DeviantArt (under the username BucketORandomness) that I realized it contained no dialogue, which until this story had been a staple in my writing.

[rainybyday]

It started with teenage trivia. 

Danny, Sam, and Tucker were all hanging out and playing games with each other. At first, it was just pvp games with the trio taking turns beating each other and gain more points in their score board. As time went on, Danny was the only one play a level based game with both Sam and Tucker mindlessly watching him go through the ‘Underworld’ level. It was when Danny faced his first pop of color in contrast to all the black and gray did he raised an eyebrow in slight surprise. 

“Why are there red flowers in this level?”

“Their Spider Lilies, they mean death, Danny.”

“Huh.”

And that was that, 

He really didn’t think much of it afterwards, the small fact tucked away in his mind, never to resurface again. 

Until it did. 

He took notices of some red spider lilies that were left behind after defeating Undergrowth. A lightbulb went off in his mind and made the connection that maybe that's why the plant-based ghost grew such flowers in his attack. 

Then he started to wonder if the other types of plants Undergrowth used in their fights also have similar meanings.

Chrysanthemums, he later searched on the internet, also symbolizes death. Crimson roses symbolize mourning and Hyacinths symbolizes deep longing. Danny also felt amusement when he found that some lilies symbolize rebirth and new life or how Carnations and Gladiolis mean remembrance.  

But it really hit home when he found out that some flowers can mean resurrection. 

He closed his phone after that. 

Yet, just like any other teenager who faced the rabbit hole called the internet, Danny found himself going back to search other types of flower meanings and symbolizes over and over again. When it wasn’t enough, he later had a stack of books about the meaning behind many other flowers scattered around his room. It was soon after did Danny started to detail the more interesting stories and meaning behind some flowers into an empty journal. 

Slowly, Danny started to learn the study of florigraphy day by day. 

Then one day the trio of friends were walking down the street from another ghost alert (turns out to be Cujo) with Sam explaining once again why the two boys should think of becoming vegan with Tucker explaining why meat was to amazing to give up. Danny only listened to the two bickers for majority of the walk, humming once in a while. 

Then he randomly inserted himself in between the two with a question.

“Hey Sam, what's the easiest flower to grow?”

It ended with Danny going home with three types of flower seed packets and small indoor pots, curtesy of a quick trip to the store.  

Surprisingly, with some help from Sam and Jazz, he did manage to grow some blossoms in his rooms. Even with an ecto-contaminated home and ghost running around the flowers manage to survive which left Danny with a sense of pride every time he wakes up to look at the arrangement of sweet alyssums, blue morning glories, and marigolds. 

(Sweet alyssums mean ‘Sweetness of the soul’)

(Blue morning glories, while short lasting, means infinitive love, trust, respect, and honesty.)

(Marigolds have so many meanings to them, yet he likes to think of them as ‘beauty and warmth of the rising sun’.)

His pride grew into affection, and soon he was growing more pots of flowers in his room - some by his window side, some handing from hooks on the upper walls, and some growing in a small dark spot with uv lights giving them light. It didn’t take long for his room to smell of flora which Danny loved. 

His small window side garden became a room/green house. Unfortunately, with his growing obsession with growing even more flowers he had to either move his hobby somewhere else or be satisfied with the small garden he has now. 

And so, Danny picked up his packets of newly bought seeds and started to plant even more flowers in a clearing near their hid out. 

So now Danny would always tend to his garden, always find time out his day to care, trim, weed, and water his flowers with gentle hands. He would pick the ones that were always done blooming and gift them to his friends or Jazz, not wanting the flowers to go to waste. Sometimes he would press some of the flowers dry, and once he found out how, he started to take his time picking and drying the flowers that were able to become teas. 

Truly his curiosity had blossomed into a sort of obsession for the boy. 

What he didn’t expect was for ghost to like said obsession. 

Maybe like is too much of a strong word but it seems to fit more or less. 

First it started with Cujo who Danny was chasing once again for digging up holes all over some poor guy's yard. Danny didn’t even realize that the chase was leading Cujo to his outdoor garden until they were right there. Danny was already panicking thinking that Cujo was going run right through his poor flowers when Cujo did the unexpected. 

He ran around his garden. 

Danny almost lost Cujo with how much he was gawking at the scene. 

Then it was Ember who refused to fight him since Phantom had some roses at hand (he didn’t think ok! he didn’t have time to shove his flowers somewhere safe from getting burn to ash thanks) because she didn’t want to burn them. 

Danny thought it was a Cujo think, after having even more weird encounters with other ghost and their avoidance to harm his flowers, he left to ask Clockwork about it. Turns out that ghost respect flowers because they are a common gift to those that had died, and when a flower is placed on their graves, they considered it a token of respect and acknowledgment. 

That really turned his perspective a full 180. 

(Maybe that's why he felt at peace when tending to his garden.)

Since then, Danny always grabbed a basket of flowers to take and place on empty graves routinely. On Halloween he would leave bundles of marigolds, on death days he would leave forget-me-nots, and on New Year's he would place daffodils. 

His actions didn’t go unnoticed by the ghost or the rest of the town. Soon, elderly would wave him over and ask him if he could place certain flowers on their loved one's graves, small elementary kids would give him common daisies to take with him and some adults thank him when he makes him rounds. 

Heck, even some ghost started to attack less and would sometimes watch him place some flowers on the graves, and every time he placed one on their graves they would puff up with pride at the token.

Danny never felt so at peace before. With a single blossom he can hold the peace he wanted in his town. With just a little bit of respect, slowly the tricky and pranks started to slow down. 

Little by little, Amity was able to breath. 

Slowly, the death was coming to rest. 

Now 18 years of age and Danny wanted to leave Amity. Already he established himself as a peace maker of sorts, with most of the ghost staying at the Ghost Zone with a few floating around. His rounds to the graveyard because a business of sorts with people asking to buy certain flowers for special occasions which he happily gave. By now, Danny was finically stable and thought it was time to move somewhere. 

But after a bit of thinking he choose a surprisingly reasonable place to set shop. 

Danny set his sights at Gotham and her ever growing graveyard. 

(While he may be a human boy with a love for flowers, he was also a King who wish to help his people bring a Balance.)

Add more in another post: Flower Shop Au Pt2

[leviathanlazarus]

All For Me

Pairing: Danny Wagner x (F) Reader

Word Count: ~3900

Warnings: SMUT [fingering; oral sex; hand job; grinding; non-penetrative sex; tiny bit of power-play; smidge of dirty talking) 18+ ONLY

I received a request a while back on Wattpad for a super jealous, rougher than usual Danny. Well, I find it pretty difficult to write this sweet one in such a bad mood, so to speak, so you might have to level with me here. But he IS angry and he DOES want to get that out of his system ;) 

Thank you to @ascendingtostardust for the gif (fantastic name, by the way)!

---

You could feel how much of a horrible, stupid mistake it was even in the moment but everything was moving so quickly, it was too hard to stop. You kissed Jake. In front of Danny. It wasn’t totally obscene–just a quick one, a juvenile, giddy peck, but still on the lips, and not just in front of Danny but in front of everyone. Your face immediately flushed when you pulled back in stark realization and Jake was frozen, eyes wide with shock, and the entire atmosphere around you shifted into something sluggish and heavy. It felt like it took ages just to turn and meet Danny’s eyes instead and, instead of their usual light and brightness, there was a raging, dark storm brewing. You’d never seen him so pissed off, and you were too high and a little too drunk to even react as Danny pulled you away from everyone and to his car, tearing both of you away like it was a crime scene. 

“Jesus, Y/N,” Danny said once you were on the road. He’d held off on speaking at all until that point and the words came out tired. Despite the high still swirling in your head, you could tell he was going fast, the overwhelming darkness of the highway coming on suddenly as the tires spun wildly below you. “What the hell was that about?” 

His words carried a shocking calm to them, contrasting to how hard he was gripping the wheel and how abruptly the car accelerated. Danny never yelled–you weren’t even sure he was capable of it–but the intentional articulation of each syllable unsettled you. Beyond that, your own actions unsettled you–being unfaithful in any way wasn’t something either you or Danny took lightly and you weren’t even sure where all of this had come from. You didn’t have feelings for Jake or anyone else–you could only blame it on the weed, alcohol and extra-close proximity to him. Everything felt exciting, or it had before all this shit went down, and that excitement had propelled you to the nearest target. Just briefly, but it was enough to rattle you and certainly make Danny upset.

“I–I’m sorry,” you said. You weren’t even sure where to look–the head and taillights of the other cars on the highway were whizzing so fast they were making you dizzy, but you hated Danny looking as he did, with his face full of obvious tension even in the dark. “I didn’t mean to, really, Danny–”

Danny interrupting you was another sure sign he was beyond mad. “Not for nothing, Y/N, but you were getting really close to Jake all night. Is there something you’re not telling me?”

That question nearly snapped you into total sobriety. “No, Danny–Jake would never do that to you. I’d never do that to you.”

Danny’s jaw tightened before he spoke again: “You already did.” 

That stung, but he wasn’t wrong. “It didn’t mean anything. I didn’t even realize I was–”

“You know, this might be the first time you kissed someone else,” Danny started to say, his voice still even as he merged out of the left lane. “But this isn’t the first time you’ve–gotten like that. I always want you to have a good time but, man–” He stopped; you turned to look at him again.

“But what?” you asked, trying to flip back through snapshots of the night as best you could, going even further back into all sorts of inebriated nights as Danny slowed the car along the exit. 

There was a sad bitterness when Danny told you: “You get trashed and you flirt. Like, with everyone. Everyone but me, which is pretty ironic.” At the stoplight, the red glow illuminated the hardness of his face, everything sharp angles. “It doesn’t make me feel very good.” 

You bit your lip hard, not sure what to say because he wasn’t wrong yet again. You’d always been a flirt when you got a few drinks in you–that was how you’d had the confidence to make a move on Danny in the first place and thankfully, blissfully, that drunken night had led to something remarkable. You loved Danny and you didn’t really want anyone else, ever. So you told him that as the light turned green and he turned, rolling the window down so you could have some cool, fresh air over your burning face. 

“How would you feel if I did that?” Danny asked, his voice raising ever so slightly. “I mean, I’ve been pretty good at kinda ignoring when you get all handsy with other people. It doesn’t matter. But Jake? That crossed a line.” 

You knew it did. Your face continued to heat with shame thinking about how this could twist your friendship with Jake–with all of them–around in addition to perhaps ruining your relationship. “Don’t be mad at him.” 

Danny shook his head. “I’m not.” 

Dense silence lasted for the rest of the ride. You rubbed your sleeve over your mouth as if that would erase what happened; you needed water, needed a long shower. When Danny pulled into the parking lot in front of your building, you expected him to just let you go up alone but he followed you out of the car. He walked at your side, matching your pace–every buzz from the weed and alcohol felt obliterated, leaving you awkwardly sober and all-too aware of how much you’d damned yourself. 

Your keys felt heavy in your hand as you unlocked the front door and made your way to your own door, the jingling too loud as the key turned and you went in first. You left Danny behind you as you kicked off your shoes and booked it to the kitchen, getting a big glass of water from the tap. 

Danny still followed, leaning back on the countertop beside you, arms crossed, and sighed. “It had to be Jake of all people? Come on.” 

You finished the water and set the glass down hard. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, I probably fucked up that friendship forever.” You hadn’t realized how much of this sort of thing happened when you went out; Danny had every right to be mad and a sharp, splintering fear pierced through you. “Are we breaking up?” 

Danny’s face turned genuinely incredulous. “What? No. Do you want to?” 

“No, oh my god, no.” You brought your fingers up to your temples, trying to soothe the headache that had started to grow. “I’m sorry. This is so messed up. I wish I could take it back–all of it.” 

Danny gave a little huff. “Yeah, same here.” 

You looked right at him then. Quite a bit had changed in both of your lives since the first time you’d met, but the calming, gentle and genuine soul that was the very essence of Danny was still there. You knew that’d always be there, but even tolerance and forgiveness had limits. “I wouldn’t have even managed to, I don’t know, get with you without being drunk that night,” you told him. “It wasn’t random, not like all this has been–with other people, I mean. I didn’t know if you were into me at all but I thought, well, why not?” 

Danny turned and lifted one hand to your cheek, stroking your skin gently. “And that worked out pretty damn well. It just hurts to see you get all flirty with other people when we go out or go to parties or whatever. It feels like, in those moments, I don’t even exist to you.” 

You reached for his other hand, holding it in your own. “You always exist to me. I’m really sorry. That’s such a shitty thing to do to someone–to you.” 

“It’s okay,” Danny said and even though it wasn’t, the way he said those words did make it feel like things would turn out alright. “I want you to have fun. Maybe just not that type of fun.” His hand left your cheek and slid down your side, curving gently around your hip. “Not without me, anyway.”

Just that simple touch began to pull you into his depths. You wanted to soothe him somehow. “How mad were you earlier?” you asked, pressing your whole body against him and brushing your lips against his. “Like, really? How mad?” 

Danny just barely reciprocated, but then he tilted his head back and put a firm hold on your hips as if to push you away. “Pretty mad, Y/N.” 

Without him actually pushing you back or pulling back more himself, you ran your hand up his thigh to the waistband of his jeans, toying with the leather belt he had taught around his hips. “I never see you get mad,” you said, daring to press a soft kiss to his jaw. “There’s gotta be so much pent-up anger in there somewhere. Unless drumming helps–” Your words were cut off by your own surprised yelp as Danny smacked your ass.

“Sometimes it does,” he agreed, then one finger was hooked through your belt loop and he was dragging you to your bedroom with very little effort. It seemed to take even less effort for him to toss you back onto the bed and climb over you, two strong thighs straddling your hips as Danny’s hair hung over your face. You barely had a second to see if there was actually any anger showing in his face before he sealed his mouth to yours, wasting no time in licking past your lips in a messy, heated sequence of kisses. 

Strong, skilled fingers quickly undid your jeans and slid over your underwear; you hummed in surprise, melting into Danny’s kisses. This was all you ever really wanted–him. No one else. You managed to unbutton his shirt and feel his chest, his skin overheated, and run your fingers through the faint sprinkling of dark hair there. Danny’s own fingers began to stroke you over your underwear so lightly in comparison to the harshness of the messy makeout session that was still happening above; the gentle whispers over the thin fabric were still enough to make your hips buck. 

Danny tugged a small handful of hair at the crown of your head and pulled you back. “Do you ever think about anyone else?” he questioned, his dark lashes fluttering once as he looked down at you, waiting. 

You couldn’t even feel the mattress beneath you or the sheets around you. It was all Danny. The darkness of your room–neither of you had managed to get a light turned on–cloaked his usual darkness, leaving him almost as only a silhouette. The help of moonlight through the windows cast light on his face in certain angles and you looked into his eyes as best you could as you answered: “No. Never. Seriously.” 

Danny sat back on your hips completely, sparing none of his weight from settling down on you. The problem wasn’t that he was too heavy, the problem was that his ass was right against your crotch and his thighs were flexing around you and you couldn’t do a thing about it. “So when you’re flirting with other people,” he started to say, tracing his fingertips down your scalp to the side of your face, then to your neck. “You’re not thinking about them? You’re still thinking about me?” 

You were such an idiot sometimes. How many lines had you crossed without a care in the world for anyone else? “Okay,” you said quietly, tentatively putting your hands on Danny’s thighs. They were so hard, the denim strained over muscle, surely even harder from the tension brewing in his body. “I’m not thinking about you.” You pet your hands over his quads. “But only in those stupid moments.” 

“Right.” Danny grabbed your wrists and pinned one on each side, bending over you again. He was close enough to steal a kiss from, but you didn’t dare–this was interesting. A little unnerving. But still hot, the jealousy and anger that had built up inside your boyfriend slowly trickling out in a sequence that you’d never even fantasized about before, because you had been too dense to realize what you’d even been doing. 

“I wanna touch you,” you told him, attempting to break your wrists free as you also tried to rub your pelvis up against him. 

“Oh, now you do?” Danny chided, not relenting his hold over you. “What changed all of the sudden?”

You successfully yanked one wrist free and immediately went for the fly of Danny’s jeans, cupping him hard, and he himself was already hard, too. “I always do,” you said, and he grunted softly and his whole body relaxed for a brief moment, but then he reached behind himself. 

“Yeah?” Danny went fast again, shoving his hand down your own jeans, working his fingers past the hem of your underwear. You cursed and he just kept going, leaning back as he ignored your hand on his crotch, sliding his fingers inside you slow and deep. You just grabbed him harder in response, squeezing his cock until you worked another grunt out of him and his hips twitched on top of you. 

“Oh fuck,” you gasped when Danny curled his fingers and tugged lightly, then slid them even deeper than you thought he could get. Your brain couldn’t process what exactly your body was feeling, but you knew it felt damn good, and Danny looked damn fine above you. His hair was running down his slightly heaving chest, the tan skin catching a sliver of silver light and shining bright for a moment until he shifted. 

“So you never think about anyone else doing this?” Danny taunted with words and another curl of his fingers, just barely pulling out to add a third. You felt too confined by your clothes and you pulled your hands away from him entirely, trying to yank your jeans down which jostled Danny on top of you in the process. He caught himself, resting on his knees at your side, and raised his eyebrows: “Desperate?” 

You succeeded in getting your jeans off but before you could finish ridding yourself of your underwear, Danny hauled you up onto your knees in front of him. Before he could make another move, you went straight for his belt and broke it free, sending the leather flying away from his hips; next came the button and zipper, easy enough to undo with your eager hands. With his tented boxers breaking free, you grabbed his shoulders and pushed him down onto his back to switch positions, you taking your turn to crawl over and straddle him. 

“Hey,” you said, catching Danny’s eyes in the dark while you finished unbuttoning his shirt and slipping the panes of fabric away from his body. You smoothed your hands down his abdomen and then back up to his chest, resting one palm over his heart. “It’s just you. You never have to doubt that even if I’m being an idiot.” You latched your mouth to his neck before he could reply. You knew just what Danny liked–mutual adoration and lots of slow, languid touching and kissing. He smelled so good, dark, deep and musky, and you inhaled a sharp breath as you kissed your way down the soft skin of his throat. Danny moaned quietly and kept his hands in your hair, fingers just gently tangling in the strands and silently encouraging you onward. 

With your lips, tongue and teeth creating messy but loving trails down his chest and abs, you scooched down his legs and brought one hand between them, cupping once more. Completely hard, Danny was a little intimidating even after all these times, but he was never forceful or aggressive. Not even now, after you’d pushed his buttons for the last time. He laid patiently, petting your hair and shoulders, while you navigated down and down some more to finally rest between his thighs. 

Except there was one thing that he’d never done before. 

Danny pulled out his own dick and held it, the surprise of the sudden shift in the dynamic forcing you to lean back and watch. But then you were made to look back up as Danny’s voice slid through your ears like silk: “So if you only think about me, I think you should show me exactly what that looks like.” There was a little wobble to the words though, like he was nervous to even request that. You were nervous too, feeling like it was your first blowjob all over again and you had more than just a mouthful to contend with. 

The heat between your own legs would have to wait, you knew that. You had a lot to make up for. You felt Danny’s breathing pause with one hand over his stomach as you bent down and replaced his hand with your own, wrapping it around his cock as best you could. The tip of your tongue licked slowly over half his length and that was enough to make him squirm and whimper; you hid your glee behind your fist and his dick. Even if Danny was pissed, it apparently didn’t actually take too much to appease him. Even still, he deserved something good, something messy–you drooled over the head and smeared it with your palm, starting to jerk him off steadily. 

“Fuck,” Danny bit out, his hips squirming again, threatening to arch up off the bed as you wrapped your lips around him and sank down as far as you could with one breath in your lungs. “Y/N–I’m gonna–” 

You popped off but kept stroking with your hand, delighting in how fast this was all happening, at how damn easy Danny was. “Already? Jeez, Danny, you must have really been pent up for a while.” 

“Yeah,” Danny managed to say as he exhaled, letting his head fall back against your pillow. You kept jerking him off, pausing briefly to let more saliva dribble from your mouth onto his leaking cock, curious to see just how quickly you could get him off with just your hand. You took your other hand and brought it to yourself, slipping your fingers past the waistband of your underwear. You kept your eyes on Danny’s bare abdomen and chest as you slid two fingers through your own wetness. Danny’s cock twitched against your palm; you stifled a groan while you rubbed yourself, getting both fingers slick. 

“Danny,” you said quietly, stretching up along the length of his body with that hand outstretched, the slick glistening on your fingertips as you pressed them to his lips. “No one gets me wet like you do.” 

Danny lifted his head and took those fingers in his mouth without hesitation. It just made the heat below burn even hotter and you struggled not to stop stroking him just to bring yourself more relief. He kept his eyes on yours, sucking your own fluid dutifully, then sat up and pulled you into his lap. It felt so messy, all of it–Danny’s shiny lips and wild dark eyes, you sitting in his half-bare lap with your wet panties as you both panted and clawed at each other. But it felt too good already, with Danny grinding up against you and squeezing your thighs in his strong hands, to even try to move around or get anymore clothes off. So good, in fact, that you knew his thick, hard, wet cock grinding into your pussy through the damp cotton was going to get you off just as quickly. 

“Fuck, you are really wet,” Danny whispered against your lips. His hands moved to your ass, squeezing and pushing you down against him even harder. You managed to snag a bite against his bottom lip, then he pulled back and brought one hand to the nape of your neck, keeping you in place from above and below. “Come for me. I wanna make sure it’s all for me.” 

That drew a sharp whine from your chest; you blinked back at him, Danny’s eyes catching the moonlight again, and arched your back, angling yourself a little lower so his cock was rubbing right against your clit through your underwear. The wetness from yourself had grown from the precum leaking from him and everything felt sticky and hot–strands of his hair were sticking to his collarbones with a sheen of sweat against his breastbone, and you could feel the dampness of your own skin under his fingers at the back of your neck. Denim scratched underneath your thighs while Danny’s cock slid steadily against your center and his dark lashes fanned beneath his eyes for just a second before he found your gaze again. 

“Shit–I–” you stuttered, having to close your eyes while the fiery tension raged through your stomach and down into your pelvis, even your pubic bone beneath all your soft skin seeming to tighten and force its way down even more furiously over Danny. The last few words were caught in your chest while the fire burst upwards and your chest was heaving, pulse wildly racing, head a sudden burst of smoke and fog. 

Danny captured you in his arms, pulling you tight against his chest. “God, yeah,” he moaned, and with soft, open-mouthed kisses along your neck, you felt the sudden halt of his hips beneath you and the release of heat and wetness against your own. 

You kissed his lips softly while you both caught your breath and tried to slide away some of the hair that was clinging to his chest and shoulders, but it just got caught on the headboard instead. “God, we’re a mess,” you said with a laugh. You planted a kiss right between his eyebrows and relaxed in his lap, both of you spent out, finally. “I really am sorry, Danny. I love you and I haven’t been good at showing it sometimes. Like, yeah, I’d be pissed if it was you with other girls.” 

“Well, you don’t have to worry about that,” Danny said, running his hands down your arms to your hands, clasping them gently. “The only person who really ever flirts with me when we go out is Sam.”

You laughed loudly, throwing your head back. It felt so good to have this back–the humor, the giddiness, the adoration. Every insecurity and plucked nerve could be put to bed, not so unlike the way you were going to put Danny to bed once you both got cleaned up and maybe, probably, had a late-night snack to tie the whole night together. 

“I don’t know about that,” you countered, stroking his cheek. “I’ve seen girls flirt with you. I think you’re just a little oblivious sometimes. But you never flirt back with them–just with Sam. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.” 

Danny patted your thigh. “I’m sure you have.” 

You sighed. “What am I gonna tell Jake? That was so embarrassing.” 

“Just tell him the truth. I believe you when you say it didn’t mean anything.” Danny chuckled softly. “You’re just like–like a moth to a flame, I guess.” 

“Not a great comparison,” you said but you laughed, too. “I’ll talk to him in the morning. I just wanna talk to you tonight. Only you.” 

“Same here,” Danny replied, smiling softly, the moonlight slanting over his face again. “Always.” 

---

Tagging: @mountainofthesunn @bigthighsandstupidguys @dreams-madeof-strawberrylemonade @kiszkawagnergvf @chestinfect-me @woman-ina-dream  @itsametaphorbriansblog @karrotkate @edgeofgreta @silver--storms @jimmypagesandbrianmayshair @mintysammykiszka @camomillacatalina​ @mssives​

[eepy-pleepy]

It’s Not Everest (No Vacancy)

The neon “NO” is hidden behind an overgrown shrub, so Dean pulls the Impala into the motel parking lot before they can see that it is, in fact, lit.

“Awesome.” Dean says in a tone that clearly doesn’t think so, and whips the car around to pull back onto the dark road. They immediately hit a pothole and Sam’s head bumps the ceiling.

“Ow, wait, Dean, we didn't go check with the office, maybe they just left the sign lit because they can’t freaking see it–”

“No, Sam, every goddamn motel in this godless town is full up and I don’t particularly feel like walking into another musty fucking office just to have them tell me I need to learn how to read. It’s too damn late, I’m too damn tired, I’m just gonna find a pull-off where the cops won’t feel the need to be our 5AM wake-up call and we’re sleeping in Baby. Fuck it.” He emphasizes the last sentence by throwing the car into park, all seventeen feet of shiny black metal successfully hidden behind a bank of tall, scraggly shrubs off the shoulder of the road. Dean kills the engine and the early summer evening rises to fill the silence with the musical stylings of several hundred crickets.

“Dean.”

“We’ve done it before, Sam.”

“I know we have. What about Cas?”

Dean looks over at the passenger’s side. Sitting shotgun, Cas looks back at him, his eyes just a dark glint in the moonlight.

“I can just... keep watch outside.” He says.

“Bad fucking idea.” Dean snaps. “I wake up in the middle of the night and see you out there lurking, I might shoot you between the eyes. You’re staying in the damn car.”

“Dean, there’s not enough roo–”

“Look, Sammy, passing out is passing out, sitting or lying down. This is a molehill, not Everest. I just need my four hours, damn.”

Dean crams up against the driver’s side door, crossing his arms over his chest, leaning his bent knees against the back of the seat between himself and Cas. He’ll worry about bootprints on the leather upholstery when he isn’t so fucking exhausted.

“Jerk.” Sam mutters from the backseat, almost inaudible.

“Goodnight, bitch.”

“Goodnight, Dean. Sam.” Cas murmurs.

“Don’t make it weird, Cas.”

"Goodnight, Cas."

"Thank you, Sam."

Dean gives a little huff through his nose. Cas folds his hands in his lap and turns his head forward to watch the fireflies.

Dean doesn’t like it when Cas watches him sleep. Cas knows this.

But if he doesn't want eyes on him, he shouldn’t be drawing so much attention to himself. This is the fourth time inside of an hour that he’s shifted around, clearly uncomfortable with his sleeping arrangement, six feet of full-grown man trying to figure out how to make three feet work for him.

It's clearly not working out.

Dean's head has fallen against Castiel’s arm. He’s snoring gently, Cas can feel his breath warm through the sleeve of his trench coat.

He shuts his eyes. Pulls his focus down to just this, the upper lefthand side of his body. Feels the weight of Dean's head, the unyielding shape of his skull, the softness of his cheek. Cas turns his head towards him, just to better assess the situation. Not at all to feel the soft tickle of Dean’s hair against his nose and lips. That’s just an... accidental consequence.

Cas feels too big for his own skin. It’s something a multidimensional wavelength of celestial intent should be entirely familiar with, but this isn't the feeling of cramming a Chrysler building into a 5-foot-11-inch frame.

This is bigger than that.

The slump of Dean’s body across the seat means that his head is the only thing supported, and it has his neck at a bad angle. If Dean's an angry sleeper, he's even worse with a crick in his neck and Cas doesn't love the idea of being stuck in a car with that tomorrow. He can't pull Dean more flush against his side without the risk of waking him and sending him into a conniption of bruised heterosexuality, so instead, he carefully lifts his arm. It works perfectly: Dean slides forward, falling to lying down with his head in Cas' lap.

The effect is immediate. The uncomfortable pinch between Dean's brows smooths away and he takes a deep, slow breath, settling against his new pillow and sinking into an easier sleep.

Cas hasn't realized he's smiling, yet. It's a tiny, soft thing, the one he gets when he's looking at something precious.

He is.

The moonlight catches the sweep of Dean's eyelashes, the top of his cheek, the shell of his ear, gilding them silver. His lips are parted, plush and dark in the contrast of the pale light. He's slightly curled up on the bench seat and Cas knows it's to fit the small space but that doesn't mean it's not the most fucking endearing thing he's ever seen.

The short hair over Dean's ear is mussed from the way he was slumped like a grumpy turtle past the collars of his shirt and jacket. Delicate, Cas brushes it right again.

Dean shifts, pressing up into his ghost of a touch. Cas draws back, afraid he's been caught doing something definitely not on Dean's approved list of Things Just Friends Do, but Dean doesn't wake. Cas' hand hovers.

He shouldn't. He should return to looking out of the front windshield and prepare the diffusion for when Dean wakes up to find himself sleeping in Cas' lap. That's what he should do.

The trouble is, nothing short of a fucking catastrophe could pull his eyes away from this. Dean is so beautiful, so calm and easy in his slumber, and he's right here, safe and close and warm. Literally right in his lap.

Cas pets Dean's hair, feeling that dangerous constriction again, something so huge and profound it might very well burst him. Dean sleeps on.

"You should tell him."

Sam's voice from the backseat is so quiet it's barely a whisper, but it startles Cas like a gunshot. He turns his head a margin to find Sam watching him, head and shoulders against the back driver's side door, arms crossed over his chest.

"Did you say something?" Cas tries, matching Sam's barely-there whisper.

"You heard me."

"Tell him what?"

"You love him."

Cas turns his head further so he's not just looking at Sam out of his periphery. There's nothing accusatory in Sam's tone, quiet as it is, or in his posture, cramped as it may be. He looks back at Cas with nothing but the same easy camaraderie he's always shown him, like they're discussing a good book or the lovely weather, not a complete paradigm shift.

In his lap, Dean tucks one hand under Cas' thigh and nuzzles his face deeper against the fabric of his pants. Cas looks down at him again and feels ready to explode into several new galaxies.

"I can't." He breathes.

"Why not?"

"You know your brother, Sam.” Cas says, unable to stop himself from stroking light fingers through Dean’s hair again. “And I’m happy. I refuse to risk losing him in pursuit of something I don’t need from him.”

“You’re right, I do know my brother. Probably better than he’d like to believe.” Sam says. “And I think he might surprise you, given the chance.”

Cas looks back at Sam like he wants to argue, but then just closes his mouth, his jaw bunching. Sam gives a little shrug and sits forward, reaching behind himself for the door handle.

“Just some, uh… food for thought.” He says. “I’m gonna hit the head. I’ll take my time. No particular reason.”

“Sam.”

But Sam’s already unfolding out into the night air, the car rocking as his weight shifts. The crickets are suddenly much louder, invading their little bubble of quiet. In Cas’ lap, Dean twitches.

Sam shuts the car door and Dean sits bolt upright. His gun, dropped in the footwell before he fell asleep, is in his grasp in a blink.

“Sam's just gone to relieve his bladder.” Cas says next to him. Dean squints at him and sniffs, wiping at his groggy eyes, then flicks the safety back on. The gun hits the footwell again with a dull thunk.

"God. Like a damn cashew. You'd think with all that height there'd be more... storage."

Cas is carefully looking forward, and not at the red mark on Dean’s cheek that’s the same shape as the warm spot rapidly cooling on his thigh. Dean rubs at that side of his face.

“Was I…?” He clears his throat. “Uh.”

“Asleep? Yes. I thought that was the idea.”

“Lying on you.”

“You needed to stretch out.”

Dean gives a frustrated sigh. “No, Cas, man, that’s your personal space. You should have shoved me off.”

“It was easier on your neck.” Cas says, still looking straight ahead. “You weren’t bothering me.”

“That’s not the point. You gotta have boundaries.”

“What’s mine is yours, Dean. I have no qualms sharing everything I have with you.”

Dean scoffs, leaning forward over the steering wheel and tilting to pop his spine. “Jesus. You ol’ romantic.”

Cas turns his head to look at Dean. The slightly uncomfortable smirk slowly slips off of Dean’s face. His eyes drop to Cas' lips before he catches himself, and he makes a weak attempt to laugh the charge out of the air between them.

“Man, you gotta figure out your levels. Last person who looked at me like that had me thinking marriage."

“Dean, why do you say things like that?”

Dean’s shoulders shove up under his ears. “You turn eyes like that on some innocent girl she’s gonna up and devote her entire life to you, Cas, I’m just letting you know you gotta tone it down!”

“Why would I turn eyes like this on some innocent girl?”

“Because you’re doin’ it to me like you think it’s a normal thing to do!”

“Dean, maybe you need to figure out how to receive a signal without assuming the other person isn't aware of what they're broadcasting." Cas snaps, then subsides as something like fear flickers across his face.

Dean’s jaw hangs uselessly for a stunned moment.

"Cas. You–"

Cas watches him in the manner of a gazelle waiting for a sudden deadly movement. Dean's gaze flits to Cas’ lips again.

"You. Uh." He says eloquently, and his tongue darts out in a nervous motion. This makes his lips impossible to ignore, shiny and wet in the moonlight.

“It's not Everest." Cas whispers.

"It kinda fuckin' is." Dean says, hoarse.

“Forget it. You should go back to sleep.” Cas says, reaching towards Dean with two fingers. It’s his fighter’s instinct that makes Dean grab them before they can touch his forehead, but it’s something else entirely that bunches his other hand in the front of Cas’ coat and yanks him forward. Cas tumbles gracelessly on top of Dean, and Dean doesn’t give either of them time to think.

At the first touch of Dean’s lips, Cas melts. A tiny sound escapes him, not quite a sigh, not quite a moan, and he’s grasping Dean’s shoulder like it’s the only thing preventing him from falling into the footwell. Their mouths part with a soft, wet noise and Cas meets Dean’s eyes, almost too close to focus on.

His arm is pressed across Dean’s chest from his fall. He can feel Dean’s heartbeat, galloping like an outlaw with the sheriff on his tail, and he understands the feeling.

“Dean.” He croaks.

“Yeah.”

“Do that again.”

Dean nuzzles their noses together, nudges Cas’ mouth in a barely-there brush of lips. Cas touches Dean’s face, dizzy with it, feeling stubble rough on the skin of Dean's jaw. He presses forward, holding Dean’s face like the beloved thing it is, and kisses him reverently. Dean sinks against the door until he’s lying across the seats and shoves his arms up under Cas’ suit jacket, encircling his back.

The crickets play them a love song. It’s entirely lost on them.

When Sam returns, approaching the Impala with caution, he finds his brother asleep with his angel hugged against him like a large, man-shaped teddy bear. Cas glances up, clocking the motion of Sam leaning over to peer through the driver’s window, and there’s a smile on his face that Sam’s never seen on him before.

If happy was what he had been, then this? This is pure, unfiltered bliss.

Sam slides carefully into the back seat and shuts the door as gently as he can.

“I’ll save my I Told You So, but only because you look so cute.” He whispers.

“Sam.”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

Read on Ao3

[mbluee]

Red - Thirteen x Reader

for @whumptober2021​

No. 3 - STICKS AND STONES MAY BREAK MY BONES BUT…

Taunting | Insults | “Who did this to you?”

Word Count: 4,715

Warnings: blood, lots of blood, injury, near-death(ish), abandonment, so much whump, exhaustion, choking, bit of possessiveness...eek

Summary: The Doctor makes the mistake of leaving you alone, and now she must face the consequences - and so must you. Red is an awful color.

A/N: surprise! i’m doing pieces of whumptober and told no one! yes i do have a schedule!! hahahaa. hahaha. ha. you all know i can’t resist a “who did this to you?’ feat. a pretty blonde time lord. on that note, read it and weep. xoxo

✩✩✩✩

The floor below you is red, and what a pretty shade it is. Deep, glistening, red. Wine stained, rose colored. Red.

Wet, warm.

In a puddle of it beneath you, a puddle of red. How funny. A puddle of a color? Hot, fresh, new. Odd. Pretty, out of context.

Your hands are covered in it, like a paintbrush had been brought across your palms, drawn onto each knuckle. You could see the lines and creases in your skin, each dimple covered in that color. Red. Pools of it in your hands, on your clothes. Oh, not your clothes. What an awful day to wear white. Now it was red, red, all of it, red. Overwhelmingly red.

Surrounding you, red.

Beneath you, red.

The people on the floor are red. They were breathing, once, you think. Not people. Bodies.

Bloody bodies, in pools of blood, beside you, now red.

She said she was coming.

You can’t breathe very well, too caught up in the smell. No one told you blood smells.

Did she leave you behind?

Your feet are entirely numb – they only feel wet. You aren’t wearing shoes, you don’t think; Your socks are drenched. Soaked. White turned red – oh, they’re pink. Pink is a pretty color. Better than red.

She forgot about you.

Your fingertips are wrinkly. Blood was thick. It hung heavy, it weighed down your clothes. Weighed down your heart, submerged your mind. You were under the blood like you were underwater.

She left you alone.

You swallow, your mouth feels full of red. No, not red. Blood.

“She left me alone,” You think you say, but it doesn’t sound like your voice. It’s shattered, garbled. Bloody. Was that you?

Did she leave you alone?

In the sea of red comes lilac. A coat, whipping about the destructive battlefield, contrasting so sharply with the darkness of it that you almost have to close your eyes; Something tells you not to. That color, that presence. The vibrancy of it. Familiar. Safe. Home. You don't process ever saying her name, but when that bright figure whips around to face your crumpled body, you realize that you must have. A plea, a calling.

She said she'd protect you.

There was so much blood.

Her fuzzy figure breaks into a jog, boots thudding quickly across the rivers of red below. Red footprints left in their wake. It makes you sick, and your body aches; It burns red.

The Doctor kneels when she’s close enough. You want to move closer to her, to be comforted by her. She looks warm until you look to her eyes.

"What's wrong? Is this your blood?" She's demanding, her voice dark. Not light, not by any means. The color of blood, of destruction, of a deep and brewing storm. Her eyes weren't red, but they might as well have been. She says your name. A hand to your cheek.

"Who did this to you?"

Voice darker, growing bolder. Angrier. Her hand is hard against your skin, and you whimper involuntarily. You need her to be your home, and she was becoming someone you didn't recognize. The rainbows of her personality were replaced by thunder and malice. It scares you.

You startle.

She scares you.

And she stops.

It must be in your eyes, you think, or the way you flinch back at her sharpness and the cut of her touch. Usually so soft, suddenly so tight. You can’t understand it in this state of panic – maybe you would later – but right now it’s unbearable, and you just need her. Not whoever this was. Her.

“I’m sorry,” She says – guilty, regretful. Her hand softens just before it pulls away, and no, no – come back, you need her back, need that softness she just teased you with – and you reach up to grab her only to cry out in pain.

“No, no-“ The Doctor strains, falling to a pile beside you and ruining her clothes. Her knees stained red, palms turned wet. When she swipes the hair from your face, blood is left behind from the floor. You don’t care. You need her.

“I need you,” You say, without thought, automatic. It still isn’t your voice.

“I’m here.”

Her eyes are kind. Not red. Not dark, not hidden with something terrifying like before. Transparent, compassionate, home.

There she was. Your Doctor. Yours.

“Doctor,” You plead, and it is your voice – more than it was before. Bubbly, covered in stress and intensity, but it was yours again. She was yours again. “I can’t move.”

Her hands come to your side only for you to gasp in shock. It burns, sending a jolting snap through you as if her fingers shocked a painful current of electricity through your broken body, and it hurts more than it should because her hands should never cause you such pain. But it burned, and you didn’t want it to, and that fact hurt so bad that you crumble before her. The Doctor’s touch was always safe. She was safe.

But she left you alone.

And just as much as it hurts you, it burns straight through the Time Lord before you. The whirr of her sonic is all you can process through the blinding pain, and she looks at you as though her whole world is falling apart.

There’s a quick and final buzz, the flick of her wrist, and an analysis of results.

“Broken ribs. No open wounds. Oh, sweetheart-“

She catches herself, but still stares at you. Your eyes are weak and blurry when they meet her figure, but she’s so pretty against the backdrop of battle and blood, and she calls you such sweet things. Her clothes are ruined, her shoes red, and you whine without meaning to. Pathetic, maybe, but all it does is light a furious fire inside of her that you can’t quite see.

Behind that worried and gentle gaze was an impending hurricane; Eyes of lightning, steps of thunder. The Doctor pushed back that anger for your sake.

You were crumpled on the bloodied floor, and she had been ready to ravage galaxies to find you.

“I’m okay,” You tell her, trying to reassure the worried edge that covered her face with lines and regret. Your hand lifts, however slow, to touch her cheek. You’re lying to her. She knows. Your fingertips leave behind a bloody smear, and it only makes your tears fall faster – proves your false reassurance. “You’re here.”

She hushes you, leans into your desperate fingertips. You need to feel her, she needs to feel you. It’s unspoken.

You’re alive.

You found me.

“You’re here,” You repeat quietly, broken. “Don’t… Don’t leave me again. I can’t-“

“I won’t. No, never. Couldn’t.”

Each word is punctuated with a touch to your arm, your shoulder, your cheek. She leans forward, kisses your forehead so gently you must see stars. No – galaxies. Not just red. Rainbow.

“We need to move now. I’ll take you home.”

Home. When would she learn?

With her hand to your cheek and her lips to your skin, you were already there.

“Alright, then. Let’s get going. Can you do that for me?”

You could do anything for her, now that she was here. You almost forget about the blood, and so does she.

The Doctor begins pulling you to a stand.

“Slowly, now. That’s good, you’re-“

The words stop in her throat, eyes suddenly flickering down.

The Doctor freezes.

Along your neck are fingerprints. Crescent shaped marks in your skin from filthy nails, purples and blues mixing to ruin your perfect skin. Bruises. Indents. Clashing with your delicacy.

Someone touched you.

Someone who obviously didn’t know who the Doctor was, who didn’t know precisely what she was capable of. Someone who wrapped their fingers around your throat; Someone who left ugly, long-lasting marks. Someone who has just made a very, very bad enemy.

Someone who hurt you.

And her eyes go black.

“Who…” She’s straining, resisting. Body nearly shaking with the rage that suddenly ignites her, softness receding but trying desperately to keep it in place for you. You deserved that. She’d give it to you. “Who did this?”

Her fingers touch your jawline, so carefully trailing to your neck. You flinch back. Why did you do that? It’s her. Yet when The Doctor’s fingertips brush a certain spot on your skin, you cry out and drop your head against her chest before you. It hurts. You know it wasn’t her, but it hurts.

“Tell me,” She says then, tense. Withholding. She speaks through her teeth and forces herself to stay level, though you can feel her heartbeats echo rapidly in her chest. Her fingers are purposely careful against your wounds, yet you can’t help a sob when the memory returns.

His hands had covered your throat, squeezed your windpipe while you tried to scream. It was her name that came from your shrieking lungs, you think, before waking up on a blood covered floor. You needed her. She’d left you alone.

One of her hands is placed on the warmth of your cheek, the other now pressing your face into her chest. Her shirt is wet. No, wait – You were crying. Those were tears, on her shirt, making it wet. Your tears.

“Oh, no,” You say tiredly, mixed with sobs, muffled against her. “I’m sorry.”

You’re slightly delirious; Pained and needy. Her thumb grazes your cheekbone when she pulls you back, sliding across your face gently, keeping you grounded and perhaps doing the same for herself when she looks into your eyes.

“No, not sorry. Never sorry. What are you sorry for?”

You sniff again, louder, and collapse back into her chest. It’s safe there, hidden, and listening to heartbeats was steady in contrast to the terror around you.

“I’m ruining your clothes.”

The darkness in her subsides slightly, looking down at her shirt, looking down at you tucked into her.

“You…” She starts, head tilting almost in confusion before shaking it with a blink. “My clothes?”

“Yeah,” You sigh. Defeated, exhausted. You pull your head back up, straining with how heavy you feel. Your eyes are glued to the mesh of wet drops and splotches on her chest. “Messed it up. I like that shirt.”

“Do you now?” The Doctor responds softly, that sharp edge dissipating, being pushed back for another moment. Simply soft, now. Hard when she needs to be. Never hard with you.

She smiles slightly, just a tiny bit. It’s enough to brighten an entire galaxy.

“Yeah,” You tell her again. “Yeah, nice color.”

“Ah,” She settles on, smile growing. Oh, you liked that. You wanted more of that. “Nothing to worry your pretty little head over. Have got a closet full of them, and it’s certainly bigger on the inside.”

She brings a palm to your cheek, soft as can be. “Besides, you worry about the silliest things.”

You lean into her. She’s still crouched down beside you, knees on the red floor. Red floor. The feeling of dried blood covering your hands returns, and you wished you hadn’t looked down, wished you’d stayed in that moment with her and that beautiful smile. The tears on her shirt were nothing compared to the blood on her boots. You’d clean them, you think. When you got back. And you’d do laundry. Simple, soft, kind, for her. You’d erase this, rid yourself of red.

You hate red.

“Up we go,” The Doctor announces, interrupting your single-colored thoughts and filling them with iridescence. She comes to your side, slides her arm behind your shoulder blades. You lean the rest of your weight into her when she lifts your fragile form, but it still burns, and you still cry out.

The Doctor stays silent, jaw held tight. When she catches a side glance to your crumpled expression, it seems as though she’s going to say something, but she doesn’t.; It’s as though she can’t bear to speak. The hot tears that slide down your freezing face gather at your chin and drop to the red ground. Stop, no. Not red. Bloody. So bloody.

As you move forward, your eyes stay on that blood. It trails across the floor like a devilish painting, like a swift masterpiece made entirely of misery, and you feel suddenly sick. Dizzy. The red room is spinning, and the Doctor tries her best to keep you still. Her tight jaw loosens. If not for anything, just for you.

“Stick with me, alright? Got a ways to go, and I need you present. Let me get you safe.”

But you left me.

It isn’t until she stops, halts both of your moving bodies, that you realize you’d said that aloud. Your one hand is clutching to the fabric on her back. Blue. Such a lovely color.

The Doctor pauses and stares at you, taking the time to think before she speaks. Her face is furrowed, though her eyebrows have slightly risen, eyes scanning over you and looking between yours. Searching you and searching for her words. You’d never known the Doctor to do that.

There’s silence for a moment, a long second of contemplation and pain on both of your parts. Her eyes are reflective as her body stays still. You might’ve mistaken her for a statue, a paragon of grief and yearning, and something else you’re all too afraid to place. She’s as still as the dead that rest on the floor.

“I know,” She murmurs. Simple and with finality. “I know.”

You stare at her, the two of you stuck in red. The blood is tacky beneath your feet. The bodies lay limp, you stand still.

“And I’ll spend the rest of my existence vowing to never do it again.”

Your next breath is shaky. The depth of her words are deeper than the shade of blood staining your world, yet it suddenly feels blue.

“Thank you,” You tell her, because you’ve no idea of what else could suffice. Nothing could, but it’s enough for now.

The Doctor adjusts her hold, bringing her hand down from your shoulder to support your waist instead. She simply looks at you. And that’s enough, too.

Your side is melded into her hold even as you clench through the pain, not caring in the slightest because that pressure reminded you she was here. It was all red, before, but now it was blue, and lilac, and blonde; There was a rainbow on her shirt and the brightest stars in her eyes. When you’d meet her gaze, she’d smile comfortingly, like home, or a window of escape and peace. The blackhole of anger within the Doctor would dissipate slightly.

“Almost back! We’ll turn a corner there, then straight down. TARDIS is hidden in a perfectly-sized closet. Convenient, isn’t it? All spaceships seem to have TARDIS sized closets.”

You trudge forward and focus on her words, calmer than the sea of vicious pain coursing through your poor body. How did it ever get this bad? Tear stained cheeks accompanied only by grief and shock. Had it all hit you, yet? The pain was stark, but the memories were blurry. You remembered them as though it was someone else.

It had been a blast, a bang, a number of rapid shots as bright red beams of light shot through the walls. Silver weapons firing into bodies, causing casualties, missing only you. How had they missed you? Bodies strewn across the floor accompanied by your own, curled up in a ball pathetically and pitifully. What could you do? Could you have saved them, all of them? Could you have been the Doctor?

You tried. Forced yourself up from the floor as it first became bloody, faced the men who burst into the complex and reigned hell upon it’s occupants. You spoke with authority and you spoke like she would. You were the Doctor, you tried to be. And it hadn’t been enough.

“Alright there?” The Doctor asks, and she already knows the answer, but she asks anyway. Maybe a piece of her hopes it’s something it isn’t. When her eyes linger on your neck again, you have to shut your eyes and block the memory. How long did bruises last? Would the divots of fingernails leave scars?

Her hand raises, slowly, you feel it. She places it on your neck and tightens her hold on your waist as best she can without hurting you. It didn’t matter, because everything hurt. She just didn’t want it to be because of her.

“It’s foolish, really,” The Doctor says, suddenly sharp. Your eyes snap open in confusion, but her eyes remain kind as she looks to you. You blink twice and open your mouth to question her, but when she looks back down to your neck, her gaze eclipses into pure, unaltered darkness, and the words stop in your throat. “Did they think they would get away with this?”

You stare at her, her eyes still locked on the damage to your throat, and she doesn’t move an inch. Stopped in this less bloody hallway, the landscape of your pain physically behind you yet still leaving an underlying imprint. You blink, swallow.

“Away with what?”

Her eyes rise slowly, dragging across your injuries, up the span of your open neck with catastrophic analysis. She notes every detail, every prick and every discoloration, and finally reaches your eyes. They’re ruinous. Possessive.

“Laying their hands on you.”

Your lungs constrict suddenly with a tight hitch and the widening of your eyes. You think your heartrate spikes, or maybe it completely stops, or maybe it flies out of your chest. She continues to stare, and you continue to freeze under her glacial expression. There’s a warmth in the hand that wraps protectively around you, so contrasting to her forbidding eyes, so much so that you almost flinch. But you stay still, trying and failing to breathe, and waiting for her next move without knowing what to do with yourself.

She shifts. The hand on your neck comes up, thumb against the front of your chin, fingers beneath your jaw, and she tilts your head to the side in order to scan you further. Her head leans forward slightly in what you assume is a way to find any other points of impact upon your skin, but it only puts her closer to you, warmer against you, breaths on your bruised neck. You freeze entirely, not even taking the time to breathe. What was she doing?

Then she leans in. You can smell her, then, the comfort and warmth and kindness of her entire being overwhelming your senses and replacing the stale stench of blood. Your palms are wet with sweat and that devastatingly red liquid when she moves even closer, and her dark eyes glow. Really, actually, glow.

You feel an exhale against your neck before she presses her lips to that specific spot, and you gasp with a flinch. Her hand on your waist tightens once, a reassurance, and your body feels suddenly light. It’s that feeling when you first wake up after a good night’s sleep, or when you climb into a bath set at the most perfect temperature. It comes from her kiss against your skin. Igniting like a steady fire, a bright glow emitting from where she made contact, and you feel completely light once more just before the feeling dissipates. It’s rejuvenating, or fulfilling. It’s… Regenerative.

You push her away, even with weak arms, and you watch as her glowing yellow eyes recede back to their almost normal hazel. They’re abnormally grave, with an extra feign of confusion. Your hands remain on her upper arms and she keeps her body close to yours.

“Doctor, you shouldn’t have done that,” You almost snap, feeling much more alive what with the very risky regenerative energy that just coursed through you without your permission – without her better judgement. The Doctor shifts, looking between your eyes as if she never even heard you, before something with finality sets into them.

“You’re going back to the TARDIS.”

She steps forward, almost crowding you, hand still supportive on your waist in a now tighter grip. Her head tilts and leans purposely into your space, and when her eyes flicker down to your neck once more, you freeze, and she notices. Her gaze is ruinous when it returns to your own. Protective. No, more than that. Possessive.

“And before that, you’re going to tell me who did this to you.”

You scoff, blinking rapidly in complete shock at her near – no, complete – arrogance, and that twinge of something else you’d very much like to ignore during this inopportune moment. Yet you can’t help but admire her, in some strange way, even through the shock of her slightly pointed words.

You’d be lying if you didn’t admit she was a sight to behold. Emotions that had never been previously directed at you were now in the forefront of her analyzing view, and in the same way that your previous moments were tainted red, her current thoughts seemed to be covered in it. Her words were precise, sharp – not cutting into you, rather – cutting into the idea of anyone ever laying a hand on what was hers. What was hers.

It should scare you.

Up close and personal with the infamous Oncoming Storm, the same hurricane that just pressed a glowing kiss to your damaged skin. So quick to switch between holding the most immense amount of compassion for you, and then lacking any sliver of it for those who even dreamed of harming you.

It should scare you.

But look at her. Rainbow in a stripe across her chest, royal blue fabric clashing with the disgusting and tired red surrounding the two of you. Her boots are perfect for running, her pants held up by bright yellow suspenders, and her smile is like the sweetest sunshine on a particularly rainy day. You’d bask in the sunlight when it came.

For now, you’ll stand in this downpour of her and revel in that instead. Two sides of the same wondrous, unpredictable coin that is the Doctor, these two sides you’ve come to…

Oh. That could be saved for another day. Perhaps it’s simply best to ignore that tug of yearning and let her care for you in the best way she knows how. Defending you, acting as a shield – knowing well that you could stand up for yourself, knowing that you’d probably tried – and dealing her own doses of karma to those who deserved it. No, she didn’t simply interfere with time; The Doctor owned it. She could pretend all she wants about being avoidant, about keeping out of history, but you knew. When something hurt the Doctor – no, when something hurt you – there was no stopping her. It was an inevitable thing. A struck nerve turned vicious.

The nerve was struck, the damage done. So here came the storm.

“I don’t know,” You admit honestly, slightly quietly. Did you wish you knew, or did you wish you’d forget all together? Was the fleeting memory better left blurry? Or would the details help you cope with the truth of it all, and the security of now? “I’m not… I don’t know. He was cruel, and disgusting. His teeth were almost brown when he- he-“

You swallow hard, avoiding the Doctor’s gaze. “When he smiled.”

Your eyes can’t bear to raise and see her reaction, but you feel the grip on your waist tighten until you hitch your breath in pain. Only then does it soften, a thumb running over your side in subtle apology even as fire runs through her veins. Anger so hot that it was palpable. You still didn’t need to look at her to know that she was staring down at you, assessing you, mind running with every possible course of what you’d call vengeance and what she’d call retribution.

The words flow out of you now, unable to stop it when the hazy memory bombards all your previously calming senses. It burns in your throat when you speak. You hope she can’t hear the painful strain, or the clench of your teeth, but you know she does. That’s just something she knows. You.

“I tried to be like… like you,” You stress, body fatigued, worried eyes needing the comfort of the Doctor’s gaze; She was safe, though the current blackhole-like-state of her eyes reflected otherwise. “I tried so hard. So you’d be…” You take a shaky breath with your eyes closed, “So you’d be proud of me.”

You laugh, then, a dangerous thing, an almost angry thing. Pitiful, perhaps, was the better word. Embarrassed, maybe. Your head shakes in frustration. At your own failure.

“But I didn’t do it right, or I’m just not cut out for that certain thing, or they just thought I looked too… pathetic,” You ramble, eyes bouncing about the room now, looking at absolutely anything but her. You don’t know the exact expression that she wears. You worry it may be of pity. “I was alone.”

You feel her inhale take a pause, slightly, barely noticeable. A guilty exhale through frowning lips that follows.

You shift again, not acknowledging the pain of your side, or the pain in your heart. Alone. It left scars a lot deeper than the ones on your skin.

“Doctor, I don’t…“ You take a breath even if you know it won’t help. Your vision becomes fuzzy, like seeing through stained glass, and you realize that it’s the gathering of tears.

You swallow. And you look up at her.

“I don’t know why they didn’t just kill me,” You whisper. The tears brimming at the edge of your eyes simply spill at that sentence, at the assertion that you could be dead. Was it ridiculous, then, to complain about what happened? To complain that you had these bruises, because you had the privilege of being alive while others didn’t?

At least you were away from the bodies, now. But they were left alone instead of you.

The Doctor’s hard eyes soften just slightly. They still hold that impending danger, the oncoming storm you’ve come to know, but it’s gentler. Not pity as you had feared, but compassion. Kindness. Understanding. You revel in it, take that sweetness in while it lasted, appreciate the mercifulness.

But your words hurt her. Your words that told the story of fear and misery, words that told the story of when she couldn’t keep you safe as she always, always promised. You knew it hurt; You saw it in the way she didn’t know whether to step closer to you or back away. Because beneath the tender care was worry, and beneath that worry was pain, and beneath that pain was guilt. Guilt that pooled in the irises of her eyes, that tinted the hazel of them a gloomy blue. Guilt at breaking her promise. Guilt at letting someone do this to you.

“I’ll be okay,” You tell her, because what else could you say? It was true, and it seemed good, and with her by your side it was attainable. Beyond that. It was close. She healed your wounds in ways no one ever could, healed your heart even if she broke it. She fixed her mistakes, she made up for her faults – she cared about you. She cared about you.

And she hadn’t meant to leave you.

You knew that, now. You were reassured of it. The red had blinded you, but with her you could see.

“I’ve been worried about the wrong things,” The Doctor concludes, looking down at you in her arms; Her vengeance pushed away, her vibrance returning to the light. “Been so focused on who hurt you, I wasn’t even considering that you’re hurt.”

You just look at her. You know you don’t have to say anything; She’s chastising herself, replacing her actions to better suit your needs.

“Alright,” She continues, a new sweetness in her eyes, a soothing apology to your pains. “Home, then?”

You nod, and she takes a breath, and you take one too.

She hadn’t meant to leave you.

What had she said before?

I’ll spend the rest of my existence vowing to never do it again.

“Yeah, Doctor,” You say softly, and something about it is rainbow. “Home sounds good.”

[atlas-of-a-human-soul]

Broken trust, pt.2

Part one

Summary: Too quickly does the Darkling find his rogue Sun Summoner, but his arrogance will cost him. 

Warnings: slight fluff, angst

==========================

Faith – Y/N’s floated away from her a very long time ago, like a leaf being pulled away on the tide, and into the sea to become lost and alone, likely drowned. But she had faith in Aleksander. She always trusted him, not doubting he’d protect her. That’s why this is much more painful than it had to be.

“Running doesn't matter, I'll hunt you down if I have to.” Kirigan spoke through gritted teeth, as if he knew she could hear him, feel the palpable anger and betrayal he struggled to contain.

And still she ran. She ran without looking back, cutting through the forest with her breath caught in her throat. She ran, flinching with branches leaving cuts across her face, but she couldn’t stop. If she stopped, he’d find her and if he found her, Y/N didn’t know if they’d both walk away unharmed.

Finding a cave, she ventured inside. She sat curled up against a wall, shivering in the darkness. She clutched the kefta she wore in Little palace, clinging to his already faded scent. Just hours ago, his arms were wrapped around her, his lips claimed hers. She was his, undoubtedly in love with the very man who turned out to be the enemy.

A sob escapes her, whimpering as her hand covers her mouth to assure her silence. Risking being found because she needs to cry is stupid. Aleksander would expect her to cry.

“Where have you been?” The Grisha asks, breathless as it seems.

His presence alone commands awe, respect and his charisma can make any human stop and forget what they’re doing so long as it pleases him. He is magnetic, electric, someone you can get lost in before knowing what’s happening.

“Answer me.” He insists, lower his head to her level. His eyes narrow at her quivering lips, just then realizing she’s shaking.

“Leave us!” He orders the Grisha who came running once the light reached them outside the tent.

He taps her shoulder, the air around them turning static with contact, “What is happening?” Her shaky voice sounds and his eyes soften.

“You truly don’t know?” Raising an eyebrow, the Grisha steadies Y/N before letting her go. “My name is general Kirigan and you”, he points at her, his forehead wrinkling momentarily, “are the Sun summoner.”

A breathless chuckle escapes her, shaking her head in disbelief. “I’m a map-maker.”

“No”, Kirigan raises an eyebrow. He steps closer, his hands gripping her arms gently, “You are a Grisha.”

Swallowing thickly, her eyes flood with tears. One by one, they make tracks down her cheeks, stunning Kirigan.

“You need not worry”, wiping the tears off her left cheek with his thumb, Kirigan smiles softly, “I will protect you.”

Huffing, Y/N shakes her head. “I never should have trusted him.”

Suddenly, she felt her airways constrict. Gasping for air, she clutches her chest, unable to breathe or think clearly. Darkness etched into her vision, blurring it until there was nothing left. She felt her mind drift, the last she heard was a whisper she once adored.

“I’ll carry her back.” Aleksander states, his eyes never moving from her. He didn’t expect to find her, especially not as quickly as he did, but the ring she wore lead them straight to her location. Once again, she trusted the wrong person and once again, it brought them closer together.

Upon his return, he had laid her on his bed, hoping to speak to her somewhat peacefully this time around. If she could just feel the way his heart aches for her, maybe then she’d believe him he’d never do anything to bring her harm.

Groggy, Y/N groans. Her hand moves to her forehead, rubbing her temples.

“You’re safe”, Aleksander tells her, but the sound of his voice made her open her eyes wide, sitting up so quickly her vision blurred.

“St-stay away!” She pushed herself back, hitting the headboard.

“I won’t hurt you. I saved your life." Kirigan leans in, tucking her hair behind her ear.

"How? By taking my freedom, mind and identity?" She snaps at him, her nostrils flared with frustration and anger bubbling up to the surface.

"The chains are broken now.” Kirigan sighs, “You know the truth.” Wetting his lips, his eyebrows knit together, “Are you really free?"

Shaking her head, she narrows her eyes at him, "You are still my captive, no matter how beloved you once were."

Giggling, Y/N stumbles back and into the table. A few figurines fall to the ground, but it doesn’t seem to phase Aleksander who smirks as he rests his hands at each side of the table, essentially trapping her.

Raising an eyebrow, she looks up at him, batting her eyelashes. “Are you about to ravish me, oh sweet Darkling?”

Chuckling, he cranes his neck just enough for the tip of his nose to brush hers. Hearing her inhale sharply and hold her breath, Aleksander couldn’t help but peck her lips. It felt innocent enough, something that wouldn’t scare her but would satisfy his need to feel her closer to him.

“Don’t go looking for trouble, sunshine”, his lips twitch, amused how her hands have clutched his hips, pulling him closer to her.

“Maybe I like trouble”, she whispers, breathing heavily so much so he could count each and every breath passing the lips he wished her could kiss for an eternity, uninterrupted.

Biting her lower lip, her hand rests on his left cheek, caressing the scruffy beard with her thumb. “Come on, Darkling”, she teases, “What are you afraid of?”

“You”, he responds without a second thought. His response came so quickly, catching Y/N off guard. “I’m afraid of loving you”, he exhales through his nose, his clenching under the palm of her hand before he speaks again, “Afraid of losing you.”

“Please”, crosses his lips and Y/N’s heart skips a beat. Aleksander is a man of many virtues, but begging wasn’t one of them. He’s the man who demands and makes things happen. Such men don’t strike you as someone who plead often. And this was Aleksander pleading, asking her to do something irrational, to trust him, the only thing she couldn’t do.

“What could you possibly say to make this okay?” She swallows thickly, averting her gaze as if looking at him for too long could destroy her very essence.

"They called me the Darkling as an insult. You were the only one who used it as a term of endearment." Aleksander reaches for her hand, but she pulls away once again. “Let me put your mind at peace.”

Pressing her lips, she exhales through her nose, “You made me into a weapon. I'll never find peace.”

“I didn’t make you into anything”, he remarks, “You were born as my equal, to be my other half.”

Nodding to herself, she swipes her thumb under her left eye, “I sure feel like your equal now”, glancing at him she bites the soft flesh on the inside of her bottom lip, “You can still do the right thing. I believe there is a good person inside of you. The man I fell in love with must be somewhere underneath the darkness you're flaunting. Be him.”

His eyes narrow, clouded by his own sorrow, “It's too late to go back. You can't even look at me.” Standing, with his back turned on her, Aleksander allows tears to fill his eyes, “Do you even love me?”

“Of course I still love you, but trusting you is a different question.” With a heavy sigh parting her lips, she stands too. “You can’t force me to stay with you and expect unconditional love. That’s not how this works.”

Blinking fast, Aleksander refused to look at her. All she’d see is his weakness – his feelings for her have made him soft, too easily swayed by emotions and he mustn’t reveal it.

“You can’t catch sunshine, my dearest Darkling”, she wraps her arms around his waist. Resting her right cheek on his back, between his shoulder blades, she pulled him into her embrace, “You need to let me go and find my own way.”

“You’d be dead by nightfall.” He snaps, trying to push her off but she holds onto him even tighter, silently weeping.

How can she stay when every cell inside her body is screaming for her to leave? How can she leave when every single molecule she’s made up from is aching for just one more touch?

“If you love me, you’ll have to trust me”, her voice is shaky, unsteady as she feels. “Staying will make me resent you. I need some distance, time.”

“I can’t”, he shakes his head, wiping his tears away before she can see any.

“Then I need you to remember”, her hold on him lessens.

With a frown etched on his forehead, he turns to her with a lump at the back of his throat, “Remember what?” His words rip through her like glass shards do to skin, but he can barely tell if she’s shaking because he’s started to tremble himself.

A smile breaks on her lips, just as bright as the light she once emitted to contrast his. “Remember I love you.”

And once again, without a warning, Aleksander found himself on his knees.

He didn’t love her, he desired her most of all. He desired her gaze on him as desperately as the air he needs to breath. He desired her skin against his as the food he’d need to live. He desired her lips to speak his name in ecstasy more than the water as he thirsted for her light more than anything else in this world.

And in his desire for her he had lost himself entirely. He had lost his cold exterior, becoming putty in her hands. He had lost his ruthlessness he planned to aim her way, directing it to any and all who’d harm her. He had lost his resolve to stay away, so he’d give into her with all he is.

So with that desire and the loss of him, he hated her for all of it. He hated her with burning passion. He hated her so much it consumed him.

Or so he told himself so. For in the end, he did nothing to push her away.

He couldn’t.

Not now. Not ever.

Logic demanded him to stop her, but his entire logic went out the window the day he found her in his tent, stealing his grapes. He’s no longer a part of the living anymore either. She’s become his cornerstone and no matter how hard he tried to deny it, it didn’t change. It’s become factual.

He didn’t hate her, not even a little, not at all. Aleksander Morozova, Aleksander Kirigan, The Darkling, the unforgiving general, the Black Heretic, the Shadow King – all of him loved all of her, even as she had put a knife through his heart. The very heart that beat for her was now bleeding because of her. A betrayal, he realized, the very same as she had felt when she learned of his lies.

“We will see each other again”, she croaks, her tears crashing around him.

Gasping for air, he desperately fights the pain so he can keep his eyes open longer. This might not kill him, but it will slow him down. This time around, she’ll run and as she takes off the ring, he realizes it won’t be so easy to find her again.

She kisses his lips, so softly he’s unsure if it’s a well crafted dream.

“Moya lyubov'”, he manages to say as she stands and heads to the door. He can’t speak, but he’s screaming on the inside, hoping she’d look back at him. If she does, there was hope.

Reaching for the knob, Y/N sighs, glancing over her shoulder at her Darkling with unimaginable pain tearing her apart. But sometimes you have to break in order to create something more beautiful. She knew he’d hate her for it, but she walked out the door anyway.

PART 3

[rpschtuff]

Coloring Icons from Uncooperative Screencaps

Someone recently asked me how I colored my icons for Superman & Lois, a show that has some pretty severe color grading (usually yellow). Every time they tried to brighten their icons, their subject wound up glowing, completely washed out, or tomato colored. I realized my answers to them might be helpful for other people dealing with screencaps that have strong color grading, so! Here is my guide to how I color the following icons.

I always start by making a 100x100 Photoshop document.

Then I paste my image in and resize it to fit the way I like. (Use CTRL + T to resize your image and hold down shift while scaling to keep the proportions the same.)

Once I have the icon framed how I want it, the very first thing I always do is sharpen the image. When you’re working with something this small, sharpening just makes it pop. I use Smart Sharpen (under Filter > Smart Sharpen) with Amount 500% and Radius 0.2.

You might not see the difference in this above image, but trust me, you’ll notice it on your icon. Once you do this sharpen effect once, you just need to press CTRL + SHIFT + F and Photoshop will automatically apply the most recently used filter for you.

Now on to the actual coloring. All of my coloring is done using the adjustment layers, which are found above the Layers panel. These will add your effects as a separate layer that can be tweaked at any time, as opposed to the Edit menu which makes those changes permanent. (If you don’t see them, go to Window > Adjustments to make them visible.)

I always start with Levels, which is the icon that looks like a bar graph.

Click that and a new layer will be added above your image. This menu should also open. (Go to Window > Properties if it’s not there.)

You’ll see a histogram, which shows the approximate amounts of lights and darks in your image, with three sliders below it -- one black, one gray, and one white. The black slider adjusts the Black Point of your image, determining that everything darker than a certain value will display as pure black. The white slider similarly adjusts the White Point, making everything brighter a certain value display as pure white. The gray slider adjusts the midpoint between the two, making all the midtones of the image darker or brighter accordingly.

I always start with the black slider and nudge it to the right until the darkest parts of the image are looking nice and dark, but not so dark that the entire image gets lost in shadow. For this particular icon, with his dark hair and black shirt, that’s not very far at all.

Then I adjust the white lever to brighten the image. Because icons are focused on the face, I don’t worry too much about what happens to the background. I simply move the lever to the left until the person’s face is nice and clear without glowing or becoming completely washed out.

Then I bump the gray lever to adjust the rest of the image until it has the amount of contrast I want. For this image I want his face to be a little bit brighter, so I move the gray to the left a little bit.

That sets the brightness and contrast of the icon. Now on to Vibrance. I really like my icons to have a lot of color, and to accomplish that, I add a Vibrance layer. Vibrance looks like an upside down triangle in the Adjustments panel.

This will add another new layer above your Levels layer, and will open this window.

You have two sliders, one for Vibrance and one for Saturation. Saturation is fairly straightforward -- it boosts all of the colors in an image uniformly. Vibrance is a little bit different -- it boosts colors, but a bit more selectively, focusing on cool colors and colors that are more muted.

For almost all of my icons, I set Vibrance to 50 and Saturation to 10. This gives all of the colors a small boost, and the more muted colors a bigger boost.

And for this icon, that’s all it really needs. The colors are neutral enough that adjusting like this didn’t knock things too terribly out of wack. Now let’s try an image that doesn’t play as nicely.

I start the exact same way. Blank 100x100 document, paste in the image, resize, sharpen.

Add Levels. Adjust the Black Point until the darkest parts of the image are pure black without the entire image being dark. Adjust the White Point until the skintones are clear without glowing or being whitewashed. Adjust the midtones until the contrast of the image is where you want it.

Add Vibrance. Set the Vibrance to 50 and Saturation to 10.

And... yikes, that boy is yellow. Sometimes boosting the contrast and brightness can make people’s skin start to turn funky colors. But we can fix this! It’s time for my best friend, Selective Color. Selective Color looks like a box cut into four triangles.

The Selective Color window looks like this.

Unlike Color Balance, which adjusts the colors of every part of an image all at once, Selective Color lets you target only a specific color range and adjust that. So for this image, I want to only affect reds and yellows in order to make his skintone look more natural.

Note the colors dropdown at the top of the window. It’s set to reds by default, but with this image we want to start with yellows. Switch it to yellows and move the yellow slider to the left to take out some of that color.

That’s already an improvement, but he’s starting to look too red now, also. Move the magenta slider to the left as well to balance that out. Be careful not to go too far, otherwise he’ll have no color left in his face and he’ll start to look ill.

This is much better. His skin is looking a bit too dark, so I’m going to move the black slider to the left a little. This will brighten the yellows of the image and therefore brighten his skintone a little.

That’s looking much better. For some images you may need to adjust the reds as well as the yellows, but this one is good as is.

Last but certainly not least, let’s do a really dark scene. I’m gonna start with this base image.

Whenever I see that my starting image is extremely dark, the first thing I do is add a Curves layer, which looks like a wavy line going through a chart.

Curves can do some very powerful things for lighting in an image, but for this, all we really need is the blend mode. At the top of the Layers panel, there’s a dropdown that reads Normal. Open that and select Screen.

This will brighten the entire image without washing it out, as it leaves the darkest parts of the image untouched. It essentially gives a new base to start from, rather than trying to do everything from the dark original image.

Now we can continue coloring just like before. Add Levels and adjust as before. Pro tip: don’t fight too hard to make this as bright as the other icons. Just focus on making sure his face is clear. If the scene is just dark, let the scene be dark.

Add Vibrance and adjust as before.

And now we have a very orange boy. But we can fix this with Selective Color just like before.

And that’s looking pretty good.

And for one last extreme case, let’s do this very dark blue scene.

Again, I start with a Curves layer with a Screen blending mode.

Then Levels and Vibrance.

Now, in this particular case, it’s not the skintones that have gone wacky. The entire picture is just blue -- his skin, his clothes, the background, everything. So for this one, I’m not going to use Selective Color. Instead I’m going to use Color Balance, which looks like a scale.

Color Balance will open this window. While Selective Color targets specific color ranges, this will just affect the entire picture at once.

We want this to be less blue, so I’ll nudge the top lever away from cyan and towards red, and the bottom lever away from blue and towards yellow. This will take trial and error, so be patient with it.

Now some green has started to creep in, so I’ll nudge the middle lever away from green and towards magenta.

Now the colors are right, but the image became dark again as a result. So I’ll go back to my original levels layer and nudge the White Point and midtones up a little to compensate.

That’s looking pretty good. You could definitely nitpick more and push this one a lot further with other tools, but for a quick icon from a difficult scene, I think that’s plenty.

And that is how I color my icons! Some scenes are more stubborn than others, and occasionally this isn’t enough and I have to employ some other tools. But for the vast majority of my icons, those are the steps I follow -- Smart Sharpen, Levels, Vibrance, Selective Color. A Curves layer set to screen if the starting image is too dark, Color Balance if the entire scene has an extreme tint to it.

My one last pro tip is that once you set the adjustment layers for one scene, they should work for most of the other caps in that scene. You might have to make minor tweaks here and there, but the basic colors and lighting should stay the same. Just paste in your next image and add it underneath all of your adjustment layers.

I hope this has been helpful!

[wkemeup]

Vengeful Spirits┊By Any Other Name

summary: A year after the fire and the end of Hydra, Brock Rumlow's ghost is still haunting you. pairing: bucky x reader chapter word count: 10.7k warnings: PTSD symptoms, nightmares, canon level violence, angst angst angst!!, it's a revenge story babyyyy a/n: This is an alternative future that you can chose to include in your own version of BAON canon or consider as a 'what if' timeline. It was really fun to explore this side of the story and jump back into this world again so I hope you enjoy! ❤️

🌹 series masterlist <- catch up here first! 🌹

You couldn’t breathe beyond the stench of gasoline and cigar smoke. With wrists bound and tied to an old, wooden chair through frayed electrical wires, the exposed copper dug into your skin, leaving behind thin lines of ruined flesh in their wake. Blood dripped down your fingertips and onto the carpet at your feet. Tiny red dots marked into the pattern.

Along the walls, you could hardly make out the distorted image of near empty shelves, broken pots, and your books discarded amongst the soil and ruin. Pools of gasoline leaked into the hardwood floors, soaked into the pages of century old novels; ink bleeding through the paper.

“You are Hydra, baby!” Brock’s disembodied voice echoed throughout the room. You flinched at the sound as if it could cut through as sharp as the wires on your wrists. Your eyes scanned the room to find it empty, and still, his voice lingered down the aisles of your library, his presence haunting you.

“No,” you choked out, throat closing under the weight of the lump building there. Tears pressed against your cheeks. Gasoline burned in your nose.

A figure emerged from the shadows – a faint outline of the man you married, the man you despised, his face hidden by the darkness clouding around him. Still, you could smell the liquor on his breath – always on his breath.

“You are not worthy of redemption.”

You tugged at the bindings on your wrists, adrenaline thunderous in your heart. You wondered if it might push past your chest and spill out onto your lap. If your blood would meet the gasoline at your feet and blend into one.

“Stop it,” you warned, though the fear was evident in your voice.

Brock did not relent as he stepped forward, the shadows clinging so tight to his body you could not make out his face. “You are and always will be Hydra to those feds...”

A sob broke through you as he approached. You had no will to fight, no source of strength to draw upon. All you could feel was the blinding terror coursing deep into your veins with his every step; with each squeak of the floor boards, with every footprint coated in potted soil and gasoline. The cigar hung loosely at his fingertips, ready to set fire to the room around you.

Brock parted his lips, his voice slippery as a viper, “...and they will leave you to BURN!”

His hands slammed down on your wrists, his face only inches away. Your heart stopped beating; eyes blown wide. A single touch of moonlight broke through the shadows on Brock’s face and what remained was a glimpse of horror. Charred skin, ruined flesh. Raw and red and bubbling at the surface. Blistered and oozing.

The mutilated scars around his lips slithered into a sickening grin, his breath hot as flame against your skin. He dropped the cigar. The room went up in smoke. In flame and fire and fury.

A world away, you jolted forward, throat raw and aching, surrounded by the cold embrace of a dark room. It took a moment before you realized that terrible, agonizing sound was your own voice – screaming. You could only vaguely hear your name called, the gentle touch of a hand running lines over your spine. The same hands that guided yours to feel for the silky sheets covering you, to the cotton of your t-shirt, to the steady thump of a heartbeat over an exposed chest beside you.

“Breathe, sweetheart,” the voice eased again. The contrast of it – the kindness and the patience laced in the words – tugged you away from the nightmare you’d escaped from. You followed his request and slowly forced air into your lungs. “Good, honey. One more, okay?”

You nodded, doing as he asked.

Pushing past the haze over your vision, you looked around the room to find the familiar ripple of curtains over the window, the pile of laundry in the corner, your Columbia badge hanging over the doorknob, Bucky’s FBI jacket slung over the armchair.

You gasped. Bucky.

Sure enough, propped up on his elbow beside you, was Bucky Barnes. He wore that same glimpse of a smile you fell in love with but it held a heaviness in it, a sadness. The sheet sat bunched at his waist, exposing his bare chest and the scars littering his skin. Your eyes drew to the mark on his shoulder, the one you were responsible for. It raised pink against his tanned skin, healed over in the last year but still visible. Still a reminder.

“You alright?” Bucky asked slowly. His hand was cautious as he reached out for you. Slow in his movements under your gaze, so that you might have the chance to pull away if you wanted to. You held steady, relief washing through your body as his hand circled around yours.

You nodded, though you weren’t sure whether it was entirely true. Bucky didn’t press you on it as he gathered you in his arms and slowly pulled you down into his embrace. He tugged the covers back up around you, holding you as you stole a glance at the clock beyond his shoulder. You only had a few hours left before the alarm would wake you for work. You didn’t expect to get anymore sleep tonight, but it was a comfort at least to know you had time to lay soundly in Bucky’s arms before morning and responsibility took him away.

“It was Brock again,” you mumbled against his chest. “The library.”

Bucky tensed. This particular brand of nightmare had been plaguing you for weeks now. It had been almost a year now since the fire but the horrors of what you endured that night had yet to leave you. They started with vivid images of Bucky’s body bleeding out in the warehouse, the bullet you shot into his shoulder finding a new home between his eyes or buried into his chest. They centered around Brock hulling Peter into his warpath and leaving him tied and bound to the flames alongside you. But lately, your mind was particularly cruel.

Brock haunted you – taunted you. His ghost made you doubt whether you were ever really safe from him at all, if he was still lurking in the shadows, if his hand could slither out from the darkness and grip tight to your neck and drag you back to his hell. They never found a body within the flames and despite Bucky’s reassurances that he put enough bullets in the man to make sure he never took another breath, it didn’t sway your fears.

“I hate that I wasn’t there for you when you needed me,” Bucky sighed through his teeth, his grip on you holding a little tighter.

“You did everything you could. You still saved me,” you told him. Still, he carried his guilt. You could feel his fingertips run over the faded burn marks on your skin. Bumps and edges over what used to be smooth and soft. He saw them as reminders of his failings despite your pleas against it.

“I should have killed him long before then.” There was no waver in his voice. He shifted under the covers, his lips pressing sweetly to your forehead in contrast to the malice in his voice for the monster who used to share your bed.

“You were trying to do the right thing by bringing him in. Doing what you do, you don’t have a choice but to believe in the system. With all the monsters you’ve put away over the years, you should believe in it but... we both know Brock was never going to tolerate a cage.” You clung a little tighter to Bucky’s chest, settling against the steady beat of his heart.

Bucky’s response was only to curl his arm around you, holding you as close as he could manage. His lips did not leave the crown of your head. You stayed there with him, curled in his embrace, listening to his heartbeat, until the sun rose beyond the mood and light beckoned you to a new day.

***

You were standing in the kitchen washing the dishes when you saw him.

You were walking through the practice your therapist explained for dealing with your nightmares. You closed your eyes and pictured the library, the wires on your wrists, the very beginning and the start of it all. But instead of Brock emerging from the shadows, you conjured Bucky. You imagined Bucky rushing through the doors, freeing you from your chains, hulling you up into his arms and whisking you away from harm. You concentrated on every detail in his face, on the dried blood you remembered he wore along his cheek, on the open scars from Brock’s rings, on the look of relief upon his face because he found you. He found you and he saved you before the flames could take hold. He carried you away from the room that had once been your sanctuary, now only reserved for your nightmares. You held onto that version of the story with all you had.

Sometimes, it helped. Other nights, you still woke up screaming and drenched in sweat. But Bucky was there and he never showed an ounce of anything but the love and patience he swore to you. He’d hold you until your heart settled and you stopped fearing the image of Brock’s burned face when you closed your eyes. Encompassed with Bucky, it was hard to think of anyone else.

Peter was sweeping up the stray shredded cheese that had found its way to the floor in the midst of another taco night. Cheddar, your sweet orange tabby, had little interest in his namesake and was purring soundingly on the armrest of the couch. Bucky had slipped out to the corner store to pick up a few tubs of ice cream in preparation for the movie Peter had been dying to see for weeks now.

All it took was a single glance to the window for the ground to vanish under your feet.

You could only vaguely catch the sound of broken glass as it shattered, the dinner plate in shards near your bare feet. Peter rushed towards you but you couldn’t make out what he was saying. No – your focus was stolen by the figure standing beyond the darkness, hanging within the shadows.

You knew that outline. You knew that face. You’d seen it in your dreams – your nightmares – for almost a year. Disfigured and burned. But still, covered in shadows like a monster within a child’s closet. Not close enough to see details of his vicious smirk but real enough to set terror into your veins.

Peter was yanking on your arm, his voice louder now. You couldn’t move. You were stone.

“Y/n?” Bucky called the second the door swung open, the paper bag quickly discarded on the floor. The panic was etched into his voice, the same way it had been in the months after the fire when you lost yourself to brief moments of fear, when the memory of his cover you’d known as James was all that could bring you back.

He rushed in front of you, obstructing your view of the window and snapping you from your trance. His hands were on your cheeks, his eyes quickly glancing down at the shards of glass by your feet. You could feel him trying to delicately usher you away before you cut yourself, but you couldn’t let the monster escape a second time.

“It’s Brock,” you exhaled, trying to peer around Bucky’s shoulder for another look. “He’s here. I—I saw him! Outside!”

Bucky swung his attention to the window, still holding on tight to you. But when you looked again, the darkness was all that remained. No figures hidden in the shadows. No one lying in wait, taunting you. The monster had vanished in thin air.

“Sweetheart... he’s dead,” Bucky eased. “He can’t hurt you.”

You shook your head, tears brimming in your eyes. You tried to ignore the concerned look that flashed between Bucky and Peter, how their expressions of panic quickly turned to ones of pain, of aching sadness, of pity.

“N-No, I saw him! I swear I did, James,” you argued, pushing past him and rushing out towards the window in search of what you saw. Bucky hissed as you barely cleared the broken glass in your path, though he followed you without question. “I saw him. He was looking right at me!”

Bucky indulged you by taking another look out to the empty sidewalk behind the brownstone you shared together. It was quiet where you lived, away from the rush of the city and the tourists and late-night drinkers. All that remained was the faint buzz of the streetlamp at the end of the block and an elderly couple taking their usual evening stroll. They raised a hand in greeting as they spotted the two of you looking out the window. Bucky forced a smile and returned the gesture.

“There’s no one there, honey,” Bucky tried again, urging you to look for yourself. “Maybe your eyes were playing tricks on you. You know how hard nights have been lately...”

You shook your head. “I-- I know what I saw, James. I’m not—I'm not crazy.”

His face softened. Slowly his hand moved to cup at your cheek, brushing away the tears that had started to form. “I know. I know that, love.”

It hadn’t slipped your notice that it was the second time you called him James. A name that held enormous meaning to you, a name you had promised to leave in the past in favor of the man standing in front of you. Bucky – the undercover FBI agent who saved you from the prison you’d been living in. James – the enforcer to an evil organization who taught you how to love again. One in the same. And still, sometimes calling upon the version of the man who had provided the first sense of safety you’d felt in years, was all that kept you from falling apart.

You stole a glance back to the window as Bucky wrapped his arms around your shoulders, pulling you tight to his chest. It was the same sidewalk you were familiar with, no sinister creatures lingering in the shadows. It's possible you had imagined it. You were focused on rewriting your nightmares...

“Should I head home? Let you rest?” Peter’s voice nervously called from the kitchen. He set the broom back in the closet, already having cleaned up the glass from the broken plate.

You shook your head, wiping tears against Bucky’s shirt. “No, please stay. Let’s watch that movie, okay? I’m alright.”

You forced a smile though the redness in your eyes. You felt Bucky’s hand settle against your back, his fingertips soothing small circles into your spine. His scent calming you as you listened for the steady thump of his heartbeat.

“You sure?” Peter stepped forward, that sweet hopeful look on his face though a hesitancy remained in his eyes. He wasn’t convinced of your word.

“Yes.” You hugged Bucky’s waist, tugging him to the couch. “I think I must have... I don’t know... I was seeing things, I guess.”

Nightmares bleeding into the daytime. Natasha had warned you about that early on. Enduring the type of trauma you did, surviving a home with invisible bars and nearly losing your life to it... it was bound to follow you. Bucky understood how you carried it still and he didn’t shy away in fear of it. You tried to find strength in that, in his unending loyalty and patience. You trusted his word above everything else.

Brock was dead. Four shots to the chest. The fire took his body.

It had to be true.

No—It was true.

And yet, the doubt scratched its nails along the windowpane, begging to be let in.

***

“Hey, I’m not saying that I’m a better actor than Barnes, but I’m not not saying that.” Sam Wilson picked up an apple from the pile and tossed it into the air before take a huge bite out of the center. The juice of it dripped down the edges of grin.

Bucky rolled his eyes as he handed the vendor a dollar for Sam’s snack. You giggled against Bucky’s side as he slid his hand back into his pocket. He was trying to hide his laugh through a bite in his lip, but you could see past it enough to catch the slight lift in his cheeks.

“I’d say he was a pretty good actor,” you smirked. “Fooled me, didn’t he?”

Your arms were snaked around Bucky’s, holding him against your chest as you weaved in and around the busy famers’ market, so you felt it when his body tensed. That guilt complex of his couldn’t take a little teasing, though you tried.

“If he could make me fall in love with a,” you paused, lowering your voice, “Hydra hitman,” you grinned, swatting Bucky in the arm, “then I think he’s a damn good actor.”

“Alright, damn, I concede!” Sam threw his arms in the air, smiling so wide you wondered if it might touch his ears.

“You’re terrible, you know that?” Bucky snickered, leaning into your ear. His breath was warm against your skin, his lips grazing over your hair as you felt the soft brush of his laugh.

“Hush.” You snuck up and stole a kiss from his lips. It was a wonder to be able to kiss him in the open like this, surrounded by people who had little time or patience to care for the strangers standing in love at the center of a busy famers’ market. It was surreal at times, feeling like you were lost in a dream you never wanted to wake up from. But he was real and perfect and wonderful and so incredibly yours.

“Oh! Wait, I forgot the desserts for Peter!” you pulled back quickly, glancing into the busy crowd in search of the vendor with the fresh displays of apple tarts. You’d been meaning to pick one up for Peter after he got his first acceptance letter to college. They’ve been rolling in lately and piling high enough to cover Aunt May’s kitchen table, but you did promise him a new tart for every acceptance and you were about three behind.

“Go,” Bucky laughed, shaking you from his arm playfully. “I’ll babysit Sam until you get back.”

You grinned, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek you knew Sam would mock him for the second you disappeared into the crowd. The glossy imprint of your lips against his stubble was your favorite look on him, and he didn’t much mind it himself.

Shoulders bumped into yours as you squeezed through the rush of tourists and locals browsing the fresh fruits and vegetables displays along the tents. You turned the corner at the smell of cooked apples, cinnamon, and butter. Your stomach started to growl as you approached the vendor: a charming, older man with a twisted grey mustache and a flat cap.

“What can I get for you, hun?” he grinned, hands setting on his round stomach. Flour was still dusted along his apron, little bits of crumbs on his cheeks.

“Oh, I think I’d like—” You paused, catching a glimpse of something unsettling over the man's shoulder. Just a shadow, at first, blocked by the busy hustle of people walking by. You shook your head, tearing your eyes away and forcing your attention back to the vender. He offered you an uneasy smile. “The, um, the apple tart, please. And two of the—of the—”

You lost your trail of thought as the figure appeared again. Covered in darkness amongst a busy, sunny coated street. But he stood completely still, a baseball cap obstructing most of his face, though you could feel his eyes on you. You froze as he slowly lifted a hand, the flesh of it marred and blistered, and he tilted the lid of his cap.

“No. No, that’s not—He's not—” Your breathing was coming in too fast. The distorted image from your nightmares was standing mere feet away; a monster wearing a man’s skin and even that was ruined and burned.

Your dead husband stared back at you, that sickening grin curling up on his face. Your hands were shaking so violently you could hardly grasp the dollar bills as you fumbled with your wallet.

“Miss? Are you alright, deary?” the vendor called, extending a hand towards you but you had already backed out of his reach. You couldn’t tear your eyes away from Brock, from the burns on his skin or the murderous look in his stare; the gleeful expression of anticipated revenge. You were stone and marble and ice until—he stepped forward.

“James!” you screamed, leaving behind the money and the pastries as you sprinted in the opposite direction; shoving your way through the crowd, but it felt like you were swimming against the full force of a current. Your legs were shaking, your heart threatening to burst from your chest. You didn’t dare a glimpse over your shoulder to see how close Brock was behind you. “JAMES!”

You barely registered as you slammed into Bucky’s chest. Tears soaked quickly into his shirt, your sobs loud and breaking as he desperately tried to settle you. There was no space to pull you off to the side, no comfort from the busy crowd around you. You clawed at him, terrified you couldn’t get close enough, desperate to hide from your husband, from his vendetta, to protect Bucky from his wrath and—

“Y/n! Y/n, look at me!” Bucky begged, taking a tenser hold of you than he ever intended to use and forced you to meet his eye. The sting of his grip was all that punctured through the terror. You met the sharp blue of Bucky’s eyes, his brows furrowed in concern, worry lines along his forehead. “What happened?”

“It’s Brock! He’s here!” you sobbed, desperately clinging to Bucky as you gestured behind you, certain your ex-husband would emerge from the crowd at any second. “He found us. He found us! Oh God, James— he’s going to—”

“Stay with her,” Bucky ordered to Sam and he began prying your grip from around his waist.

“No! Don’t go!” You felt like a child; small and fearful and terrified beyond belief. But Bucky had that look in his eye, one that warned of danger in his path should anyone dare to cross him. You'd only seen it once – when he was on his knees in the warehouse, at the mercy of your ex-husband.

“Sam!” Bucky warned.

“I’ve got you, kid,” Sam eased the best he could. Bucky kissed your hairline before he rushed back into the crowd in search of Brock. You didn’t dare watch until he disappeared amongst the sea of people. Instead, you clung onto Sam as if he might be the only thing keeping you afloat. Maybe he was.

It was only when your breathing began to slow again with every count of Sam’s deep inhales that you started to notice the whispers around you, how the strangers eyed you and walked a little quicker as they passed by. You couldn’t make out what they were saying, but they were bold enough to hold your gaze as they whispered into the ears of their friends. Pity laced smiles at the crazy women sobbing at the center of the market.

Then, you heard footsteps come to a steady halt behind you. Sam released you from his hold and you turned to find Bucky waiting for you. He opened his arms and you rushed in.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured into your hair, apologies for tearing himself from you. It was not one he needed to make, but you nodded anyway.

“Did you find him?” you dared to ask.

When you were met with silence, your heart sank. As you glanced up you caught that same look of concern Bucky had given Peter the first time you saw Brock through the window of your apartment days earlier. Now, he shared it with Sam.

Bucky clenched his jaw, his blue eyes swimming in remorse. “Sweetheart, I—”

“Oh God... I’m going crazy. Aren’t I?” you gasped, tears filling your eyes to the point where you could no longer see the look of agony on Bucky’s face and, maybe, that was for the best. You could only vaguely hear Sam as he ushered the onlookers away, flashing his badge and grumbling angrily under his breath at the tourists who dared to sit in observation of your worst fears.

“It’s okay, honey,” Bucky eased with loving, tender kisses to your shoulder. “I’ve got you. You’re okay. You’re safe.”

He repeated it on an endless loop. Constant reassurances. Gentle reminders. You could hear the concern etched into his voice, the fear he shared with Sam, the doubt of whether his love was enough to save you from the horrors Rumlow left behind.

***

“You don’t have to stay the night, Sam,” you tried again for the third time that evening. “Please, I don’t want to inconvenience you just because I’m apparently losing my mind.”

“Are you kidding?” Sam smirked, shaking out the long, teal sheet before he laid it onto the couch. “I insist. Plus, it gives me an excuse to guilt Barnes into going easy on me at the annual field test.”

“You’re a good man, Sam,” you exhaled, arms folded tight over your chest. Your gaze drifted to the windows and the dark overcast hanging along the sidewalk. There was only a moment of relief in the emptiness you found in wait.

“Careful, sweetheart, you’ll inflate his ego.”

You turned to find Bucky leaning against the wall behind you, watching your interaction with Sam. He shook his head, a smiling brimming on his face as he approached. His arm swung casually around your shoulders, tugging you to his side before he pressed a short kiss to your hairline.

“Listen,” Bucky started, a more serious tone in his voice, “I appreciate you coming out here last minute. I didn’t feel right leaving her on her own after what happened at the market this morning.”

Sam softened, his teasing grin turning gentle into a thin line. “She’s family, right?” He winked at you, tugging a smile back to your face. “Go find out what Fury wants. I’ll hold down the fort until you get back.”

“And I’ll just be asleep anyway,” you added, though you wondered if Bucky could hear the uncertainty in your voice. You weren’t sure you’d be able to get much of any sleep at all while he was gone, but it helped to ease your mind knowing Sam wasn’t too far away. Even if your mind was playing games with you, the safety of having at least one federal agent in the apartment was a relief.

Still – Bucky’s jaw clenched as he nodded. He was better at reading you than you gave him credit for. He turned you gently in his arms to face him, a finger tilting at the bottom of your chin to hold your gaze.

“I promise I won’t be long. I’m sure Fury just has a new vision for recruit training he wants to run by me and that man’s schedule waits for no one,” Bucky chuckled, trying to sway your tension. It didn’t do much to etch the stone from your muscle, but you gave him a smile. It was enough. He sighed, pressing out one in return though it held a heaviness in it. “We’ll deal with everything else tomorrow, alright? Bruce is a good man, Y/n. He’ll know how to help you.”

You nodded, holding your breath at the mention of the doctor. He was a trained psychiatrist who specialized in PTSD and had worked with the Bureau for years. You figured most of his work was done with the men and women who worked alongside Bucky and Sam, but he knew his way around trauma and the dangerous monsters it carried. He could help, you told yourself. You weren’t crazy. You weren’t going to lose Bucky to this.

“I love you,” Bucky said quietly, though it held a certainty to it that pieced together the frayed edges in your stomach, the doubt and fears that lingered there. It was as if he could read the fears on your face and put them at ease before they could take root as he said, “we’ll get through this together, okay?”

“Okay,” you murmured, pressing your face to his chest. You took a final inhale of his scent, holding it as close as you could manage, before you let go. “I love you, too.”

You tried not to linger in the hallway after that. The apartment felt too big without Bucky around and though Sam did his best to draw out your smile, the exhaustion from the market had drained you. Your head was buzzing, your mind unfocused. Sam had noticed pretty quickly when you started to zone out, eyes fixated on the wall behind his shoulder, and he gently eased you to your room.

“I’ll be right out here you need anything, okay?” Sam reminded you with a soft tap on the edge of your door.

“Thank you, Sam.” You weren’t sure how to apologize for the events at the market, how you’d clung to him and sobbed, terrified that your dead husband was following you. You didn’t dare allow yourself to imagine what he must have thought of you in that moment. Still, the warm color of Sam’s eyes and the sincerity of his smile were enough to sway those thoughts a little while longer.

Then, you were alone.

You pulled the blankets up to your chin, curling against the side of the bed Bucky slept on. You could still smell the faint scent of his shampoo on the pillow. You tugged it against your chest, holding it as if it were an extension of him.

This helpless feeling was not one you were used to. Not anymore.

You couldn’t remember feeling this afraid even when you were living under Brock’s roof. Part of you wondered whether the risk of losing the security and safety and comfort you’d gained in his death was what fed into your fears and accelerated their momentum. When you were married to Brock and complicit to Hydra, you had little to lose, little to gain. You were able to go through the motions and survive.

But now?

Now you had something worth living for. Now, you had Bucky. You had your job back, your friends. You had Sam and Natasha and Steve. You had Peter and May. You had the light of day and freedom and love.

The very thought of it being stolen from you scared you far more than Brock ever could. And still, it was his face that haunted you. It was his face in your nightmares and following your shadows.

You kept your focus on the closed door to your bedroom, watching the flickering of the television light between the cracks and listening for Sam’s muffled laugh through the walls. You waited and waited and hoped that Bucky would return before the demons came for you, but sleep swept you away in luring embrace.

***

You woke suddenly to the sound of muffled gunfire. Jolting up in your bed, you clutched at the sheets, at your pajamas, at your hair, wiping the sweat from your skin. Your hand settled against your heart, trying to focus on the rhythm, but it was too fast. It wasn’t the steady, reassuring pace that Bucky carried. You groaned, pressing the heels of your palms into your eyes.

Just a dream, you told yourself. It was just a dream. It can't hurt you.

You turned to the door to find the light from the television still sliding through the edges. Sam must have forgotten to turn it off before he fell asleep. He was known for his love of old detective dramas. The gunshot from the show must have lingered into your dreams.

You slumped back into the bed, heart still pounding. Beyond the door, you could hear the creek of the floorboards under heavy steps. Maybe Sam was still awake. There were plenty of snacks in your pantry and he had teased Bucky mercilessly about eating all of his cheese puffs. The thought helped to ease the panic from your veins as you forced yourself to close your eyes.

Bucky will be home soon. Go to sleep. You’re fine.

But then the footsteps inched closer. They paused right outside the door, their silhouette blocking the stream of light from the television. You rubbed at your eyes.

“Sam?”

He didn’t respond. Instead, the knob began to turn. Slow. The hinges of the door crying as it crept open. The sudden influx of light was harsh against your eyes, forcing you to squeeze them shut. His face was shielded by the backdrop of light and the blur in your eyes. Whether it was from exhaustion or leftover tears from your dreams, you weren’t sure.

“Sam? What’s wrong?”

Again, nothing.

There was something wrong in his movements. He was too stiff, too quiet. He looked like something out of your nightmares – cold, sinister, calculating. The room shifted around you; the safety you’d known in its walls peeled back by the edges of sharp, unyielding claws. Whatever crept towards you in the shadows was not Sam Wilson.

You stared at the figure as it approached, suddenly terrified to take your eyes off of it. Your vision began to burn, unable to so much as blink in fear of what the creature would do. Beyond the door, you heard a faint groaning, nails scraping along the floorboards. Your name was called in a familiar voice, panicked but faded, weak.

The figure lowered his hood.

“It’s good to see you again, baby.”

“No.” You scrambled backwards on the bed, shifting as far away from the distorted figure as you could manage. Your hands were shaking as you brought them to your lips. “No-- This isn’t-- This isn’t real.”

But Brock Rumlow stepped forward into the light and began to laugh. When his hand gripped at your wrist, you felt the nails dig into your skin. You gagged against the harsh burn of liquor and raw flesh. The adrenaline that rushed into your veins was visceral and agonizing – it burned as deep as the flames in your dreams.

Something pinched at your neck as your movements began to slow, your vision doubling. A syringe was in Brock’s hand as he stepped back, watching as you struggled to maintain consciousness.

“It’s... it’s not real,” you murmured again, trying to convince yourself beyond what your mind already knew to be true as you stared down the figure of your ex-husband.

And still, he laughed. It was the last thing you heard before the darkness caved in.

***

Bucky paced along the hallway outside of Director Fury’s office. It had been over an hour since he arrived and Fury had yet to see him. His message had indicated that it was a time sensitive issue. It was the only reason he begrudgingly agreed to leave you alone for the night after what happened in the market. Sam was with you, Bucky reminded himself as he ran a hair through the roots of his hair. You weren’t alone.

Then, when Bucky was about ready to barge his way into Fury’s office, the door opened. Agent Hill walked out carrying a half dozen folders in her arms, her heels clicking against the hardwood floors as she passed by. She seemed surprised to see Bucky waiting, but still, she made a short gesture to let him know the director was free.

“Sir,” Bucky started, stepping into the office. “You asked to see me?”

Fury was standing with his back to the door, facing out to the open windows and the bright lights of the city. Slowly, he turned over his shoulder, eyeing Bucky suspiciously. He took a step forward; his unnerving silence proving a bit too much for Bucky’s present impatience.

“Sir, I don’t mean to press,” Bucky exhaled, “but it’s been a rough day and I’d like to get back home as soon as I--”

“What makes you think I want to see you, Barnes?” Fury scoffed, settling into his desk. He popped the lid off the bottle of bourbon he kept hidden in the bottom drawer. Bourbon poured into the crystalline glass.

“You paged me two hours ago, sir,” Bucky said, setting the small flip phone on the desk. It was the only device Fury had agreed to use to call in his agents when needed; even if Bucky’s latest missions were held behind a desk or on the training field with the new recruits.

Fury cast his single eye at the phone, narrowing on the last message received. He read it over twice before he tossed the phone back to Bucky. He shrugged.

“I didn’t send you that message.”

Bucky froze, the phone feeling heavy within his grasp. “Sir?”

“Our message system was hacked several hours ago,” Fury said. He leaned in over the desk, studying Bucky through a less than unsettling gaze. “That’s why I called Maria in. I don’t know who sent you that message, but it wasn’t us.”

Bucky read over the message again. It was in the same cadence Fury always used in his messages, the same phrasing. HQ meeting 1hr. Short. To the point.

“Why would someone want to lure you back to base, Agent Barnes?” Fury inquired, leaning back into his chair, but Bucky could only vaguely hear what he had said. He was too busy staring at the phone, his grip clenching so tight around the edges he might snap it in half. His heart was pounding so loud, it muffled in his own ears. He could hear the rush of his blood through his veins.

Because he realized in that moment the message had little to do with luring him back to base. No – the sender had a much more terrifying purpose in mind.

To get you alone.

***

“Y/n!”

By the time Bucky made it back to the apartment, he was drenched in sweat. It soaked through his white button down, leaving the material transparent and wet, clinging against his chest. His hands were shaking as he struggled to get the key into the lock, fumbling over it several times before he shouldered his way inside.

His stomach dropped at the first sight of blood.

“Sam!” Bucky sprinted across the room, dropping down hard on his knees and into the expanding pool of crimson red soaking into the cracks of the floorboards. Sam was laid on his stomach, hands outstretched as if he had been crawling. A streak of smeared blood was in his wake. He’d been trying to reach the bedroom before his body gave out.

With shaking hands, Bucky rolled his friend onto his back, desperately searching for damage.

It was then he found the bullet wound embedded in Sam’s stomach. Bucky tore a glance back to the bedroom as he pressed his hands to the wound, stopping the bleeding the best he could.

“Y/n!” Bucky shouted again, desperate for you to appear from behind a locked door, unharmed. But there was no response in his echo. You did not call his name or any other.

“I’m s-sorry, Buck,” Sam’s weakened voice jarred Bucky from his trance. He looked down to find Sam’s eyes on him, though they were heavy, barely focused. Sam’s hand curled around Bucky's wrist. “S-She’s gone. He took her. I... I tried to—”

“I know, buddy,” Bucky eased, his voice breaking in the effort. “I know. It's okay. Save your strength, alright?”

As quickly as he could, Bucky dialed Steve’s number. He didn’t have the energy or the willpower to explain what happened, but he managed to order for an ambulance – one that would ram its way through New York traffic if it had to. Steve confirmed he was on his way and Natasha would be shortly behind. No questions asked.

“Buck,” Sam choked out, blood dripping at his lips. “Tell Y/n I’m--”

“I’m not telling her shit, okay? You tell her when—” Bucky clenched his jaw, tears slipping down past his cheeks, “You tell her when I get her back.”

***

It felt like an eternity before Steve and the ambulance arrived. Sam had faded in and out of consciousness enough times to make Bucky question if he would ever hear his friend ruthlessly tease him again. Still, in every waking moment, Sam did his best describe the intruder. There were few jokes, little smiles; he nearly drowned in his own blood before he could finish.

Sam couldn’t offer any more details beyond the hooded figure that had taken him by surprise. Bucky couldn’t tell if it was Sam’s delirium, but the description he gave sounded like something constructed of nightmares. He described a monster.

He was passed out by the time Steve arrived.

Bucky fell back onto the floor as the paramedics took over. He could only vaguely register Steve’s hands grip tight around his biceps and hulling him up to his feet long after the sirens had faded away and all that remained on the floor before him was the faint outline of Sam’s body. He tried not to pay attention to the blood coating his hands and soaking into his shirt. Sam’s blood. Blood he spilled trying to protect you. A task Bucky had requested.

“I’ve got footprints,” Natasha’s voice called from the hallway. Steve ushered Bucky to follow, though he felt like he was still stuck in a trance. None of it felt real, even as Natasha kneeled to more closely examine the imprint of the shoe outlined in blood.

“What happened here, Buck?” Steve asked, though he knew there was no good answer.

Bucky shook his head. “I don’t know. I—I can’t do this again, Steve. I can’t lose her—I can’t—”

A flash of gold caught his eye. Bucky followed the reflection into the bedroom, almost in a trance. He stilled as he approached the bed, finding a small, gold ring sitting just on the edge of the mattress. Thick. Rusting. An emblem of a skull at its center, surrounded by six long tentacles.

Slowly, he picked up the ring, holding it in the palm of his hand. The tears had faded on his cheeks, replaced only by the cold burn of vengeance growing like fire through his veins. He shoved the ring into Steve’s hands as he approached, answering the question before he had a chance to ask.

Bucky moved on a warpath to the safe. He wasted little time in loading his handgun and slipping it to his waist. A second followed and he strapped it to his thigh. When he stood again, Natasha and Steve were watching silently.

“You going to stop me?” Bucky questioned, a cold determination icing his voice.

“I didn’t last time,” Steve confirmed, stepping back.

Bucky gave him a short nod as he passed by. He didn’t bother with a coat.

“Hey Barnes,” Natasha called just as he opened the front door. He paused for only a moment, a short glance over his shoulder as she approached, her expression as cold and calculating as his own. “Make sure he’s dead this time.”

***

When you woke, you tried to feel for the cool silk of your bedroom sheets. You searched for the comfort of the warm body beside you and the gentle thumping of an easy heart. You sought out the slight dip of the mattress and the brush of air from the fan overhead. Instead, you found your hands were restrained behind you, the skin burned under thick ropes.

You sat up slowly in effort to ease through the blinding headache dizzying your vision. Dirt was caked into your nails and brushed along your skin, grass below your exposed legs. Still in your pajamas, you felt the sting of a twig as it scratched your thigh.

It took a moment before you recognized your surroundings. Away from the comfort of Brooklyn, you realized you were immersed in acres of woods. To your right, just barely through a short clearing, your heart dropped at the sight of ruined remains of a home you had lived in for years. Most of it had been bulldozed away after the fire, but pieces still remained. Enough that you still recognized the proximity to your nightmares.

“Welcome back to the land of the living, baby.”

You flinched at the sound of his voice – Brock's voice – as he stepped out from the shadows. No longer shielded by the distorted visions in your dreams or the promise of safety under the guise of a twisted imagination, there was little doubt that the man who stood in front of you was anything other than the head of Hydra itself.

“Takes a while to get used to, doesn’t it?” he scoffed, gesturing to the burns coating his skin. He was almost unrecognizable; the darkly handsome features on his face obstructed in the fire. What remained instead was a glimpse of the evil he carried in his heart, a sickening display of karma unfolding upon his body and mocking his existence.

You couldn’t help the laugh as it escaped. Perhaps it was shock or maybe you really were losing your mind, but the falter in Brock’s expression was reward enough. He was expecting you to remain in your fear of him, to be able to hold it over you. Your laughter was not what he had been anticipating and it read clear as day upon his face.

“It’s what you deserve,” you spat, tugging at the ropes around your wrists as you rose to your knees. Tiny stones dug into your skin but you urged yourself to feel power in the sting of it. To let it ground you to your strength and remind you of what was real.

“Deserve?” Brock hissed, his upper lip twitching. Anger twisted and consumed the little parts of his expression he still had control over. “You want to talk about what is deserved?!”

You tried not to react when he pulled a handgun from his waist and cocked it. The barrel of it aimed at your head, his finger on the trigger. You tried to keep the cold, uncaring expression Bucky had worn that night in the factory – unafraid in the face of evil. He’d been on his knees then, too. But still—your jaw clenched and Brock grinned.

“How is it that my cheating, whore of a wife and the traitorous son of a bitch who destroyed everything I ever built get to live happily ever after?!” Brock sneered, crouching down to your eye line. He drew the edge of the barrel along your cheekbone, sliding it down your throat, though you tried to pull away. He grinned. “You want to talk about what is deserved? Huh? How about I take back what belongs to me?”

You clenched your jaw, unwilling to meet his eye. Instead, you kept your stare on the tree beyond his left shoulder, the one you could see from the window of the spare bedroom you moved into after you gained the courage to fall in love with James— with Bucky. Its trunk was charred in the fire but it still stood. It still remained. Worn, but still strong.

“Maybe, I keep my promise to our mutual friend? Barnes, isn’t it?” Brock taunted. He used the barrel of the gun to brush your hair behind your shoulder. This close you could see the divots and raised edges of his burns. They coated every inch of his skin. “I told him he’d find you in pieces one day. That his betrayal would follow him the rest of his life and I’d rip you apart just to spite him. But hell, I didn't forget about the part you played either, baby. Maybe I’d like to ruin you a little too... just for myself.”

The barrel traveled alone your collarbone, dipping down to your chest, drawing a line between your breasts and down to your navel. Even through the scarring, you could see the look upon his face – the grin as he licked his lips.

You gritted your teeth. “Fuck you.”

Brock laughed at that, deep and low. Sinister. He wiped away the spit that had landed against his cheek. “I like it when you're feisty.”

You felt for the ground behind you; wrists bound you brushed your fingertips along the grass until you came upon a small rock. A small ounce of relief nestled into your chest; the rest filled with a steady determination. You started to saw it against the ropes.

“How the hell are you even alive? You should be dead,” you said in an effort to keep Brock talking. You could only hope Bucky was on his way to you, if he even knew where you were.

Time was a commodity you didn’t have, but you could stall as long as you could. Maybe... Maybe you’d see him again. It was what kept you going, what gave you the courage to face your demon standing before you.

“Four bullets to the chest and a burning house later, here I am... rising like a fucking phoenix from the ashes!” Brock shouted up to the skies. He stretched his arms out to the side as if he were absorbing the cheers from a stadium worth of admirers. “I’m invincible, baby! You can’t kill me!”

“You're not special, Brock. You’ll die like any other man,” you spat, reveling in the slight shift in his smile. The rock broke through a single piece of twine; a small dent, but it was something. “James will find us and when he does, he’ll kill you.”

Brock’s face dropped to a cold frown. “Not if I kill him first.”

“Would that make you feel like a man?” you jeered, like poking a snarling bear with a short, pointed stick. “To kill the man I left you for? The man I fucked in your house? The man I traded a mansion and millions for just to escape you?”

“Shut your fucking mouth before I—”

“What?” you taunted, shouting out to the trees and the birds and whatever else could hear you amongst the woods. “What the fuck are you going to do to me, Brock!? What else can you possibly take? I am so fucking tired of being afraid of you! I am done walking on eggshells and screaming in the middle of the night and looking over my shoulder!”

“Is that so?” Brock was laughing now, as if your defiance was little more than a show, as if he might peer behind the curtain and find you shaking and crying in the corner. But he’d done more than cage you all these years. He taught you what it was to live with a demon, to know a monster by name, and you were tired of letting it take root in your home. You'd sooner burn it to the ground.

“You’re nothing to me,” you said coldly. “You are nothing but a weak, pathetic little man who didn’t deserve a damn thing from me, so you resorted to taking it. Blackmail and extortion and threats. You got off by making me feel small and alone in that house and I’m done. I won’t live the rest of my life in those fears.”

Brock rolled his eyes, pacing slowly in front of you as he stepped over broken twigs in his path. Snaps like bones under his feet. He ran a hand soothingly over the barrel of the gun, admiring it. “Barnes is a bad influence on you, baby. You think you’re so brave now, don’t you?”

You tightened your jaw, wiling your breaths even. “You can’t hurt me anymore.”

Brock lunged at you, nails digging into your jawline as he forced you up to your feet in his grasp. The rock sawed through half the width of the rope as his nails drew blood on your skin. His breath was hot a flame against your cheeks.

“I’m the one holding the gun, baby,” Brock sneered. “I can still do a whole hell of hurt to you before I end your miserable life.”

You met his eye as if you stared straight into the heart of the devil. You let the fires consume you. “I’d like to see you try.”

The ropes snapped at your wrists and you threw yourself on him, sending both of you crashing to the ground.

“Fucking bitch!” Brock cursed, trying to shove you off of him, but you’d taken enough lessons with Nat to know how to immobilize an attacker.

But then you spotted the gun laying only a few feet away and you realized escape was not your intention. Brock must have followed your line of sight because he jolted enough to sporadically crawl towards the weapon.

You both lunged for it.

***

“Nat, are you sure this is where he took her?” Bucky said as he pulled up to the drive of a home that was now in ruins. He looked around the perimeter and saw nothing save for the acres of woods beyond the property.

“It’s what the profile suggests,” Natasha replied through the car speaker. Bucky could vaguely hear the clicks of her keyboard on the other end of the phone. “Rumlow thrives on drama, Buck. He’s going to bring her back to where it all began. And well, where it ended, too. He wants revenge. Bringing her back to the house puts him on an advantage.”

Bucky slid the car into park. “Keep looking anyway. I’ll call if there’s news.”

He reached for the keys, only pausing when he heard Natasha sigh. “Bring her home.”

Bucky nodded, not sure what else he could say, and turned the car off. He thought you were already freed of your past, thought that you were safe from the demons and monsters in your nightmares. He’d convinced you they were little more than your imagination playing cruel tricks on you. If he’d only listened, if he just believed you... maybe you wouldn’t be at the mercy of Brock Rumlow. Again.

He stepped out onto the driveway, staring up at what remained of the home he fell in love with you in. He shook his head, pinching at the bridge between his eyes, and jogged towards the woods. He didn’t dare call out your name in fear of what Rumlow would do under the pressure. Instead, Bucky concentrated on holding his breath and the warm touch of metal in his hands. His weapon was his grounding point. The bullets inside would not miss their target this time.

Bucky felt like he was starting to run in circles when it happened. Loud enough to jolt his heart out of pace, for the trees to shake as birds flew up into the air.

BANG!

BANG BANG!

BANG!

Four gunshots. Bucky sprinted as fast as he could, following the echo. Leaping over stray roots in the ground and swiping aside branches as they cut his arms.

He emerged into a small clearing to find you standing at the center, a gun held tight between your hands as you stared down at an unmoving body at your feet. Rumlow laid amongst the dirt, on his back, blood pooling at his chest.

“Y/n?” Bucky called gently, though you didn’t look in his direction.

Rumlow’s hand flinched and before Bucky could release his safety, you fired off another two shots. He did not move again after that. His face bore the ghost of surprise, a faded grin turned to shock in the moment you first pulled the trigger.

Bucky took a cautious step forward, your name again on his lips, but before he could get it out, he stepped on a twig, the sharp snap of it startling you as you spun in his direction, weapon now aimed at his chest. Bucky threw his arms in the air.

“Easy, sweetheart,” Bucky said as calm as he could manage, his gaze flickering to your finger still held against the trigger. It was like you were seeing straight through him. “It’s just me. It’s just me, honey.”

It took a moment before the realization flashed behind your eyes.

“James?” You lowered the gun until it hung loosely at your side, your voice nearly breaking over his name. The relief in it was enough to overwhelm him. He nodded, stepping forward and gently easing the gun out of your hands. You released it gratefully.

“It’s over,” you said simply, leaning against Bucky’s chest as you stared down at Rumlow’s body. Six total shots. Five littered over his chest. One planted between his eyes. Bucky let a hand run against your hair, his lips pressing to your crown. Small comforts he could offer.

“Are you alright?” he asked, though his stomach was aching in dread. He knew there was no comforting answer to that question, not after the hell you’d been through tonight, but he hoped nonetheless.

“I am now,” was all you replied. You couldn’t seem to take your eyes away from Rumlow. It was like you were committing it to memory – an image to draw upon when the nightmares came – to remind yourself that he was dead and it had been at your hands.

“Thank you for coming,” you murmured against his shirt and Bucky started to wonder if you were still in shock. You said it as casually as one might after a dinner party.

“Hey, I’ll always come for you,” Bucky promised, an oath he’d never once doubted. Still, he sighed. “Looks like you didn’t need me though, huh?”

“I’ll always need you.” You stepped back out of his hold and this time, you looked more like yourself. You offered him a soft, tentative smile. “But it’s nice to know I can take care of myself, too.” Your gaze flickered to Rumlow. “He underestimated me again.”

“His last time,” Bucky confirmed, pride in his chest.

“I’ll have to thank Nat for all the defense classes,” you grinned. It was a strange kind of normal to be teasing as you stood over the dead body of your ex-husband, who was definitely very much dead this time.

“I’m sure she’ll be thrilled,” Bucky chuckled.

“And Sam! Sam always volunteered to stand in as—” You froze, eyes wide as your hand clapped over your mouth. “Oh my God, Sam. What happened? Is he okay? Is he alive?”

“He’s in surgery now,” Bucky replied quickly before the panic could completely set you over the edge. “Come on, I’ll bring you to the hospital. I want to get you checked out anyway.”

You nodded, leaning into Bucky’s side as he guided you back towards his car. “What about Brock?”

Bucky shrugged. “I’d rather leave him to the animals, but I’ll talk to Steve. We’ll take care of it. You’ve done enough, sweetheart.”

“Can you call Peter?” you asked as you spotted Bucky’s car in the distance. “I know it’s not rational, but I want to make sure Brock didn’t-- that he didn’t do anything to go after Peter, too.”

“Of course. You want him to meet us at the hospital?”

You smiled, a wash of relief in your eyes. You nodded.

Bucky opened the car door for you, helping to ease you gently into the seat despite the hiss of pain you released with the movement. He tried not to pay attention to the rope burns on your wrists. He’d ask the nurses to pay careful attention there. You still had scars underneath from the last time.

Bucky took an extra moment as he closed the door behind you, standing straight and taking in a breath of fresh air. The chill of the cold, starless night around him was almost a comfort as he tried to center himself. There would be time for the guilt complex nagging at the back of his head later. But right now, you needed him. He could be strong for you.

When Bucky slid into the driver’s seat, you set your hand on his right forearm almost immediately. He drove with a single hand on the wheel, his right resting against the clutch. The contact was warm and welcomed and it helped to drive out his own monsters as your thumb brushed along his skin.

“We’re okay, aren’t we?” you asked quietly as the remains of the mansion drifted out of focus in the rearview.

“That’s a loaded question, sweetheart,” Bucky replied. He shifted his arm to let your hand slide down into his. His fingers curled around your own and he brought your hand to his lips. He kissed each knuckle one by one as he kept his eyes on the road. “If by ‘okay’, you’re asking if I’m still here with you, if I still love you as much as I did this morning, or a year ago, or the day I met you? Then yes, honey, we’re okay.” He paused, taking a deep breath. “But if... if you’re asking because I didn’t believe you when you said Rumlow was alive, because I wrote off your fears as nightmares and let this happen to you and—”

“We’re okay,” you told him sternly, tugging your intertwined hands to your own lips. You pressed a kiss to the back of his hand. “This isn’t your fault, Bucky. We had every reason to believe he was dead. This shouldn’t have happened. But it’s not because of something you did wrong. This is on Brock. Only him.”

Bucky nodded. He felt for the slight squeeze of your hand against his; that beautiful, little reminder that you were there with him no matter where his head wandered.

“He’s certainly dead now,” Bucky exhaled. He smiled, catching your eye. “You’re incredible, you know that?”

You laughed and still he was the sweetest sound he’d ever heard. “I don’t know if incredible is the right word. Vengeful, maybe. Pissed off. Scorned.”

“Strong. Fearless. Determined,” Bucky countered sincerely. “I know what it took for you to do that. I’m... I’m just really proud of you. You fought with the devil and survived.”

You sat back in your seat, staring at the trees as they passed by with a content look on your face. Relaxed for the first time in months.

“I wouldn’t give Brock that kind of credit,” you shrugged. “He was just a man. He doesn’t get to be anything more. He doesn’t have that kind of power over me. Not anymore.”

Bucky clenched his jaw in an effort to hold in the light beaming from his chest. He stole a quick glance at you, watching as you sought out the stars through clouds. His brave, wonderful girl. He wasn’t sure ‘proud’ was even strong enough anymore.

“You know Sam will hold this over you for at least a decade, right?” you laughed, shooting Bucky a teasing smirk despite the dirt on your face and the leaves still caught in your hair. You’d been through hell and you were still smiling.

“Trust me, I know,” Bucky groaned with a short shake of his head. He couldn’t help but return your smile. “I’ll give him three years and then he’s capped.”

“Three? How generous of you.”

“He’ll survive with almost no serious damage and a new battle scar to show off,” Bucky rolled his eyes. “Three is pushing it.”

When he caught your eye again, his cheeks were hurting from how wide he was smiling. There were near tears in your eyes from laughter. He wasn’t sure what god to thank for you, for bringing you back home to him in one piece, for letting you smile and laugh and hold joy in your heart after all that had happened to you. But he would thank them all.

***

Thank you so much for reading! ❤️ If you enjoyed this fic, please consider supporting me at my ko-fi account ✨

[ddarker-dreams]

Wanderlust. Yan Diluc x Reader

Warnings: Typical unhealthy yandere behavior. Word count: 1.2k.

For such an expansive land, you’ve come to know every nook and cranny in Mondstadt. 

The best shortcuts to take to avoid hilichurl camps, which time of year the local produce gives a bountiful yield, even the names of traveling merchants that come and go. This intimate knowledge is a testament to years spent in this nation. What bloomed as pride in your heart warped into prickly thorn-covered vines, that chain you down in place. Familiarity became mediocrity. 

Each day blended with the last like watercolors, an amalgamation of harmless shades, as inoffensive as the last. This discontentment with life had you lamenting to the Knight’s of Favonius’ Kaeya. Somehow piecing together your troubles through drunken ramblings, he had offered you advice.

“Why not travel?” 

It was a simple suggestion, said half-jokingly, that resonated with you the rest of the night. After feeling his words follow you a week, you relented. Bag in hand and ready to see the world. Goodbyes were temporary, you know you’ll be back, it’s a matter of when. Excitement flutters in your heart -- excitement that you haven’t felt in years -- at what is to come. The limitless possibilities, memories to be made, and possible experiences aplenty. Friends old and new alike had wished you well on your journey.

Now all that’s left is to take it. 

You hadn’t even made far in the path to Liyue when he showed up. 

Blocking the sun from your view, Diluc stands tall, his face is relaxed, unlike his rigid posture. He looks down at you through thick eyelashes, adjusting his gloves. You don’t move, confusion clouding your senses. Why is Diluc here? Where your other companions had sent you off in kind, Diluc did no such thing. Not that you had expected sugary words from the notoriously impassive man, but having known him a majority of your life, came an expectation of getting something. Even a lackluster “Good luck”, would’ve sufficed. 

Did a guilty consciousness bring him here? For some reason, you doubt it.

He jumps down from the hill on which he stood, landing softly on the grass in front of you. The air feels tense with unspoken emotions. Your heart leaps into your stomach, hammering without relenting. Diluc’s stare is smoldering. Deep, vermillion hues never depart from your own gaze. Taking a deep breath, you decide to break the silence.

“Is there something you need? I don’t think I left an unpaid tab at the tavern.” 

Diluc doesn’t acknowledge your lighthearted comment. “You truly intend to leave?” 

The question, though inoffensive on a surface level, is a trembling lid over boiling water that threatens to overflow. 

“Not permanently. I just want to explore.” You respond, shifting your weight from one foot to another. Why do you feel like a child being scolded by their mother? Diluc takes a step closer to you, presence imposing.

“Explore, huh,” he says more so to himself than you. Another step. “I was hoping you’d abandon this troublesome idea.” 

You don’t want to hear anymore. If he came here only to belittle your ambitions, then you’ll leave, simple as that. There’s no reason for you to stand here and deal with this on what is meant to be your eventful day. Dealing with Diluc’s protectiveness is a thing of the past. He grabs your wrist when you go to walk past him, your Vision subconsciously activating at the unwarranted touch. Gust swirls around you both until you calm your emotions. 

“You’ll be endangering yourself for no reason.” 

A noise of frustration leaves your lips, eyebrows knitting together in displeasure. “I can handle myself. Listen, I don’t know what’s wrong with you lately, but you have no right to boss me around.”

His grip tightens when you try to tug yourself free. 

“I’ve seen it all myself,” Diluc’s voice is dignified and unwavering, in contrast to your disgruntled tone. “You don’t know how dangerous the world is. How much evil there is. Stay, it’s far safer here.” 

You want to be understanding of his sentiment. Diluc might not be open in his feelings for others, but you’ve come to learn he expresses his care in more subtle ways. He’s lost a lot -- you remind yourself -- but hasn’t everyone? It doesn’t give permission to enforce your views and desires on others. It’s like he hasn’t learned anything. 

“I’m not a naïve, defenseless child. I’d appreciate it if you stopped treating me like one.” You wish you didn’t have to be harsh. Diluc’s stubborn as his adopted brother, even if he’s better at hiding it. With a final pull, you manage to free your hand. It’s unfortunate that you’re leaving on tense terms, but it’s his own doing, you reason. There are better ways to express concern over someone’s safety than to make unreasonable demands. He’s always failed to recognize this.

You fool yourself into believing he’ll let you leave until hearing the sound of metal cutting through the air. Cold, hard steel presses again your neck, and you freeze in your tracks. What is he--

“If I had wanted it, you’d be dead by now,” Diluc is impossibly calm, walking in front of you while maintaining his claymore against your neck. You shiver at the sharp blade hovering above your skin. “You’re not weak, no, but you’re not strong either. This foolishness will be your grave.”

No longer will you withstand this insult, having had enough of this back and forth. Any self-restraint you had remaining snaps, as do you. “How can you be so oblivious…? Is this not the exact reason why I couldn’t be with you anymore!?” 

His grip around the hilt of his blade tightens. That struck close to the heart. You still feel vindicated in your actions, having been pushed to this point due to his actions. Chest heaving, you test the waters by moving forward, only for him to remain unwavering in his stance. The blade stops just shy of piercing your flesh, your resolve as firm as his. 

Diluc doesn’t respond to your enraged exclamation. Whether it’s because words escape him, or the ones he has to say are too hurtful, you’re uncertain. His eyes narrow when you move again, lips contorting into a deep grimace at your challenge. Craning your neck in the same direction as his blade, he moves it just far away as not to puncture skin. Despite Diluc’s harsh words, he’s still soft on you, it appears. 

He clicks his tongue. “Stubborn as you’ve always been.” 

“I’m leaving whether you like it or not, so stop making this so difficult.” 

“So I’m the difficult one?” Diluc tilts his head, finally lowering his blade. “Maybe so. But if being difficult is what keeps you alive, then so be it.” 

You’ve seen him in action before. His swift, agile movements followed up by roaring flames have always been a breathtaking sight, making you question if he’s even human. The air smells of burnt ash as he springs forward. Everything is dark and you feel far too light, your brain not even registering his movements before it’s too late. At his movements, you fall unconscious, only to be caught in his arms before reaching the ground. You feel like you’re floating as Diluc secures you firmly against his chest. 

“Hold it against me if you must. But… I cannot let you part from me yet.”

The wind that was meant to extinguish his flames had only served to fan them. 

[hotwings0203]

An Ode to the Unseen

Thinkin about readers who feel self conscious, readers who feel like they’re not happy with their weight, readers who don’t feel girly enough or feel too vulnerable because of whatever height they’re at. I’m thinkin about readers who suffer from body dysmorphia, who shy away from looking at themselves in the mirror to avoid seeing their scars, body hair or acne. This is for the readers who feel too submissive and feel like a pushover in their lives, and this is for the readers who feel like they’re too fiesty and not soft enough. It doesn’t matter if you feel like you can’t relate to the stereotypical tropes in writing, or if you feel like you can’t act like a perfectly constructed Y/N in real life, this ones for you💖

A/N: Hello to all reading! I made this on a whim just to tackle some of the insecurities lesser described characters in stories might feel, but this is in no way meant to exclude anyone at all! We all have beautiful bodies, and should own up to it even if we don’t always see the problems we face in writing. Some of these topics might be sensitive to readers or trigger memories that might be disturbing to others, so please heed the warnings! Also the Hawks prompt at the end gets pretty nsfw, so heads up for that hehe

CW: dubcon, manipulating, fluff, slight angst, EDs, body dysmorphia, kidnapping, abuse, degradation, some nsfw, yandere, language, insecurity

You’re ever feeling not particularly happy with your face or body because of an acne breakout, or a rash that won’t go away? Maybe a birthmark that you try to cover up with makeup? Even stretch marks or scars from surgery?

You can bet your ass shigaraki will notice the way you can barely glance at the mirror some days just so you don’t have to see your own reflection when it’s time to go to bed with him.

His obvious and intense stare makes you fidget and gets your skin crawling, but he says nothing that night when he holds you a little too tightly-tighter than most nights he’s with you. The sound of his raspy breaths lulls you to sleep, but when you wake up he’s already gone, out on another mission or at a meeting with the Yakuza.

You feel groggy and gross, and going to the bathroom just to look in the mirror again to see whatever ails your body and/or face does nothing to stop your groan of misery.

You do your business all while turning away from your reflection, not wanting to see a second more of your discontentment staring right back at you while you wash your face, brush your teeth, and meticulously do your hair.

Finally making your way downstairs to the bar, you sit on one of the barstools and hold your head in your hands, not wanting to meet anyone’s gaze and no doubt seeing their disgust at your ailment.

But you look up when a soft whirring sound and purple-black tendrils of smoke appear before you

“Young master L/N,” Kurogiri says. “Have you been feeling alright? You retired earlier last night and had the most uncomfortable of expressions on your face, I couldn’t help but notice.”

No matter how much you despised or were wary of Tomura, you knew his caretaker, Kurogiri, had your back. He was respectful of your space, and if he knew you weren’t in the mood for talking then he wouldn’t push you

And so you told him your predicament, opening up about your problem spot(s)

“It’s so embarrassing, Kurogiri. I feel gross and I feel like everyone’s looking at me,” you mumble, putting your head down on the cool polished wood countertop.

He’s silent for a moment or two, before the tendrils of his supposed hands warp into a small portals. They appear again immediately, producing a couple of bottles and place them in front of you.

You raise your head slightly at the sound of sloshing liquid and rattling pills as the bottles are lined up before you in an orderly fashion, and you eye them suspiciously.

“What’s this?” You ask, picking up a tube as your curiosity is piqued.

“Young master Tomura Shigaraki had warned me beforehand of your reclusive nature when you ponder on what cannot be controlled, and sent me a list this morning to pick up some medication that might help you, should you need it. He asked me to bring back every item as soon as possible, so you wouldn’t feel the need to procure anything by yourself and strain yourself unnecessarily.”

You scoff, not buying the surprising act of affection. “So, what, he’s just doing this so he doesn’t have to look at my disgusting (body part of choice) anymore? He wants to come back and see some perfectly molded pet to stare at all day?”

Kurogiri shakes his head, however.

“I know how the young master is perceived to many: abrasive, immature, and brash in his thoughts and actions. He has a long way to go in terms of maturing in the way he views things, and unfortunately he was not blessed with…the best of upbringings, so he truly doesn’t know any better, as you already know.”

You wince internally, feeling slightly guilty now.

“But,” he continues slowly, “he was not born with evil in his heart. He’s just bitter with society, and is desperate for others to know his pain and see the world for what it really is towards those who are suffering. That’s why he is so taken with you, young L/N. Before you came here, he observed your mannerisms and was thoroughly attracted to the way you could see through people’s surface level facades. Although your views on the world may differ here and there, he is desperate to show you that he understands your suffering, and that he’s there for you-“

“-yeah, well, he has a funny way of showing it,” you mutter darkly, memories of chains and dark rooms and various marks on your body flashing through your mind. Even if Kurogiri was telling the truth, it would take some time for you to come around and even begin to try to give yourself to Shigaraki. He was just too volatile, too rough and negligent of your wants and needs. He lashed out at everything you did, and made you feel like nothing you ever did was enough to please his shifty nature.

“Yes, I can understand you bitter feelings towards him,” the black and purple mass hummed in thought. “I have tried explaining how a human girl is to be treated, however, and he is slowly trying to learn. I feel as though he may feel embarrassed at times from his lack of knowledge at such simple social norms, and that is another factor of his frequent temper tantrums. He might be the leader of a powerful villain organization, but when he realizes he has no knowledge of making friends or keeping relationships, it’s an embarrassing blow to his ego. Especially with you, he is especially sentimental and touchy regarding topics that pertain to you. He often will sit here in silence after you two have a, uh, little spat, and hesitantly will seek my advice on how to make things up to you. ”

And you realize with a grimace that he’s right-there are days after you both have a big blowout(usually over the most pettiest of things, maybe you turned away from him while sleeping and he took it as a sign of disobedience, or maybe you didn’t greet him when he came back from an especially tiring mission and he used that opportunity to take his pent up stress out on you) that he’ll come back after storming out of the room only to creep back in hours later with various trinkets in his hand.

You’d be alerted of his presence when the pitch black room is blessed with a yellow ray of light from the opening creaky door as he enters, and you will yourself to continue breathing slowly, as if you were still asleep. But he’s so quiet and stealthy as he comes closer to you, it’s hard not to be surprised and flinch or jump when his arm reaches over you just to place one of your favorite snacks on the cracked dresser next to you.

It’s hard to keep your head down on the dusty pillow and keep your curiosity in check when you feel him breathing down your neck as he lays a stuffed animal on the blanket next to you, and you often wonder where he knows to buy such fragile and innocent things.

Your aesthetic that he so closely has memorized from each singular color to the details of your favorite patterns make a stark, disturbing contrast to his greying, deadly aura. It’s almost impressive that he pertains each gift to your taste when he’s feeling especially sorrowful

“But nevertheless, the master has asked me relinquish these to you as soon as you came downstairs. And, just between me and you,” he leans closer and you do too, finding yourself wanting to know this secret side of your captor even further, “he was muttering something as he left, something along the lines of not wanting you to feel like you had to use these products. I think he was trying to say that he never wants you to feel as though you have to make up any part of your body you feel insecure about to him. He wants you to stay the same way you always are, and if you never adjust to your surroundings here, then he at the very least wants you to be comfortable in your own skin, blemishes and all.”

“This may or may not come as a surprise to you, but he himself knows what it’s like to feel insecure about his own skin and body,” and it comes across so ridiculously innocent and striking to you that such a lethal character such as the infamous Shigaraki would have the same problems a normal, functioning member of society would have: skincare and body insecurity. But the lines, scratches, and scars that litter his face can attest to this notion. How often did he himself avoid looking in the mirror for, not wanting to see his translucent skin, the clawmarks that left bright, angry trails up his face and down the sides of his neck, the cracks in and around his lips and eyes? Is that why he left his hair down skit covered his face, and the hand on top covering him whole more often on than not?

And so you finally open the lid to the tube, testing the feel of its contents that promise your mutinous skin some time of relief.

The door suddenly bangs open, and the man of the hour himself slinks in, nails idly scratching the underside of his jaw as he mutters under his breath to himself.

He lifts his head and sees you and kurogiri at the bar, a tube of ointment in your hand , the lid opened in testing as the rest of his presents are in array all around you.

As if you were accepting them.

As if you were accepting him

He feels his face beat up and his deteriorating body starts to prickle and sweat. He merely scratches harder, his mumbling continuing as he slowly makes his way over to you

You watch his little unsure shuffled towards you, and you can’t help it when your heart twinges as you take in his hopeful yet cautious expression, no matter how hard he tries to stifle any vulnerable emotion

So, in a moments decision of truce you quickly lean forward to whisper to Kurogiri one last favor before turning to see a new light of your captor

“Before I go, I need some things from you, please. By tonight, do you think you could pick up some self care things at the corner store for me? I’m talking face masks, lotions, Vaseline, and hair products.”

“I think if I see him accept himself and care for the body he’s in least for one night, I could be happy in my skin, too.”

Feeling conscious about your weight, whether it’s over or under your preferred look? Please, don’t make Kiri laugh at your naivety

You groaned as you stood on the scale, the numbers reading back at you seeming more mocking than simple statistics

You weren’t meeting your preferred weight, and it was beginning to take a harsher toll on you now more than ever with Kiri around all the time

It was easier to ignore it when you lived by yourself in secluded bliss, where the walls of where you lived couldn’t talk or pass judgement about your eating habits, the times you did or didn’t keep up with yourself as months of promising to do the Chloe Ting workouts turned into forgetful reminders that dwindled down into barely passing thoughts.

Where you had your own, carefully chosen friends who could relate and share the secrets of their insecurities, the little area of pudge that just won’t go away, that upper area of their arms of legs that refused to build muscle even after months of eating straight protein and going to the gym.

You got to choose your own happiness, you got to choose if you wanted to spend countless hours scrolling through social media with your coworkers, gazing in envy at the hundreds of models people swooned over, or if you wanted to call it a day and eat a whole bucket of cookies and cream ice cream while watching a sappy rom com, just because it made you happy

But now, not so much

You could tolerate Kiri gradually distancing yourself from friends who he thought didn’t have the “best interests” for you

You could patiently follow the chipper rules of his house to wait for him when he got home, greet him at the door in nice clothes, and sit down to eat dinner with him

You even started getting used to having his eccentric, loud friends over who bustled and teased you around when Kiri invited them over for a boys night even if that “boys night” ended in them being hurriedly ushered out as he caught a glimpse of you in an accidentally-provocative apron

But your sanity and self worth was slowly started to snap like an overstretched rubber band when it came to trusting your body. Your mutinous, betraying body that just didn’t do what you fucking wanted it to do, that was constantly compared to the models friends Kirishima would bring around, like Mina and Jirou

They were angels, of course, so, so sweet to you

Constantly reassuring you that the new dress your captor boyfriend practically shoved you in in his eagerness to see you in red (his color) fit oh so well on you

They tried to convince you that no, the dress wasn’t stretched too tight on you to be considered healthy, and no, it didn’t need to be shrank in some places either

They tried, they really did

Unfortunately for them however, their relentless support didn’t hold a candle’s light to the body builders and Pilates instructors Kiri would model with for health magazines almost every month

They could never understand what it was like to be in constant doubt and shame when you feel your seemingly mismatched figure, their bodies reflecting healthy proportions in every nook and corner, skin and smooth and soft as a baby’s, with glowing reflections of perspiration

And you always seemed like the only poor unfortunate soul who sat in the corner, sulking and watching ripped muscles and leaned, toned limbs mingle amongst each other to socialize and effortlessly slide inside various apparel that of course fit their body and shaped them in ways you couldn’t even dream of

And it didn’t help that night after night, Kiri would hold you on his lap, bouncing his eager knee as he shoveled bite after bite of food into your unwilling mouth

He infantilized the hell out of you, convinced you were too naive and self-loathing to see your true beauty and how he had to take it on himself to show you what he saw in you

It made you feel pathetic, and helpless. Maybe that’s what you were though, maybe that’s really what he was trying to show you

You felt like you deserved it, anyways

So you stand there, on the weighing machine, feeling the last shreds of self confidence slip down and out of your body, akin to the light tears that splash on the marble bathroom floor.

“Babe? What’re you doing?”

Aw, fuck

You quickly brushed away your tears and stifled your imminent sobs to avoid being coddled as usual by the gentle giant who stood behind you

It frustrated him to no end, no doubt. It didn’t matter how often he’d sit you down and kiss you all over, letting you know how much he loved every precious inch of your body, it didn’t matter how gently he’d cradle your face to force you to look into his eyes just to tell you how beautiful you were, how lucky he is to have kidnapped you

It was never enough for your fragile heart, and he saw it in the way you flinched under his praise and shrunk under his loving gaze that raked over your body that he compared to an angel’s

As if you thought he was a liar, just saying it for your sake

As if you didn’t believe his words, as if you didn’t want to believe his words

As if you were disobeying him

“It-its nothing Kiri, just PMS,” you mumbled, the snot in your nose making you sound nasaly and shaky

“Your period was two weeks ago, and none of your symptoms have ever made you throw up.” He says with a raised eyebrow, his arms crossing as he leans against the doorframe

So he did see you slip out after dinner and head straight for the toilet, huh?

Busted

If he wasn’t so worried about you, he would’ve ditched the mild tone kept up for your sake and had you bent over one knee with a red ass just for lying to him

But from the way you quickly step off the scale and attempt to squeeze past him tells him you aren’t just being hard-to-get, you’re not in one of your resistance fits

And he thinks he knows exactly what’s causing you to not-so-subtly shift your eyes from the weighing scale back to your own body, as if you hadn’t already been doing that for weeks now

He just has to make sure

“Did someone say something to you?” He catches your arm and gently yet firmly prevents you from slipping past him outside the bathroom, away from him

“No, no, seriously I just felt sick, I think I ate something weird,” you try to laugh breezily but the waver in your voice does nothing but further increase Kirishima’s aching heart for you

“You sure? ‘Sure I don’t need to go talk to someone who maybe said the wrong thing to you?” And although his cheerful voice holds nothing but playful jest, the dark glint in his eye does nothing to indicate that all he wants is a friendly talk, especially when he tightens his grip on your arm and pulls you so close that you’re nose to nose with him, looking right at him with tears eyes and flushed cheeks

There’s no point in pretending anymore. He might seem like an airhead, but he’s not one of the city’s top hero because of his airy, gentle nature

“Ugh, no Kiri, no one said anything to me. I just…” you trail off, not wanting to feel the inevitable embarrassment you’ll feel when you tell him the truth

How disgusting you feel when you see his buff, toned, chiseled body that’s akin to a Greek God’s compared to yours

How you long to secretly have the right figure to one day be worthy enough to be deemed his partner in a modeling gig, just once, just to feel like you’re worthy of him and his equivalently built body, a body that reflects hard work and perseverance

Something you seldom see or feel in your own mass of distorted limbs

“What is it?” He pleads softly, begging you to let him fix anything for you, to let him be a man good enough for you

You look into his ruby red eyes that hold a puppy-in-love expression, and when you find only adoration for you in them, you can’t help yourself for falling into the trust and care you so desperately want in that moment

“I’m…so tired of not feeling good about myself. About feeling overweight, underweight, seeing bits of pudge and flab in one area and then seeing some thin and gangly areas in others. Like, I just want my body to be normal, to be healthy like all the people you model with. I feel like nothing I do or eat or wear makes my body look how I want it to look, and no matter how much I try it’s so hard for me to see the beauty of what you see in it.”

And finally you can’t bear looking at him anymore, so you squeeze your eyes shut and turn away

Much to his credit, he pulls you in and nestles your head against his chest, letting your tears and snot wet his tank top

“Oh hun, is that all this is?”

You roll your eyes and try to pull back from his chest, but he doesn’t allow it as he simply holds you there, shushing you and rocking you back and forth

“Kiri, that’s a pretty big thing for me.”

“I know, but…why are you so concerned about how they look anyways? I mean, that’s their job, right? To look good for pictures!”

“I don’t understand,” your voice comes out muffled against his shirt.

“What I’m saying is,” he chuckles and soothes a hand through your hair, “is that you shouldn’t compare yourself to people that have nothing to do with your daily life. Like, you wouldn’t compare yourself to a firefighter right? ‘Cuz thats their job, to save people, not yours. Similarly with models and shit, that’s their job to look good. You didn’t sign up to be a model, so you shouldn’t stress yourself to look like them. Plus, it’s not like it has any affect on what kind of person you are on the inside, you feel me? I’ve met some pretty nasty and rude people with killer bodies, but can you guess how much respect I had for them?”

You nod slowly, still not fully grasping his confusing logic but sort of getting the underlying meaning to it

“But it’s hard not to compare my body to theirs when you’re constantly around them.” You admit. “It feels like I’m not good enough either to be next to you when I’m just sitting on my ass, not doing anything” You grip his shirt and let the last of your tears out, accepting his soft and heavy hands stroking against your back and up and down your shoulders

“So? Do you ever see Sero or Denki modeling next to me? Or Mina and Jirou?”

He did have a point.

“No,” you say slowly.

“Exactly, because models and bodybuilders have a job to dedicate themselves to a life of working out. They do it because that’s what a majority of their life goes to get paid for. It’s all superficial, that’s not how the average person is, like the friends I mentioned. Otherwise the whole world would be full of people walking around with ripped abs and giant pecs. Could you imagine some lanky dude like Denki sporting a 12-pack and ripped pecs?”

“Hell no,” you laugh breathlessly, the image so horrifying to you both that you feel the vibrations of his boisterous laughter rumble through you and soothe your emotions.

“Now you’re getting it,” he speaks into your hair, the smell of your shampoo flooding his senses and getting him dizzy along with a treacherously rising boner

“Plus, what kind of man would I be if I picked my girl out just because of the way she looked? I mean, don’t get me wrong, you’re beautiful-no, beautiful can’t even begin to describe you. Your palms feel so soft compared to mine, your arms are so beautiful when my hands are wrapped around them, your thighs are just the right size, your stomach is such a comfy pillow for me to lay on, and don’t forget your plush, slick, tight pu-“ he rambles on and you can’t help but yelp and clap a hand over his overworked mouth as his shower of body positivity starts turning more lewd…attesting to the bulge you begin to feel pressing against your leg.

But it’s funny, you can’t seem to find yourself being mad at him as your face flushes and you see not ill-intent and perverseness in his warm eyes, but pure and honest devotion to you and to the words he truly means

It softens your heart, and you use a finger from the hand smushing against his mouth to lift and stroke the side of his cheek, conveying your gratitude to him.

It seems he understands, as he takes his forced moment of silence with patience and just looks at you, hoping this time you could really see what he felt for you.

“The thing is,” he says after a minute, gently taking your hand away and turning you around so that you both were facing the mirror, “I love you because of who you are. If I wanted to date some model, I would’ve done it by now, trust me,” and you swat your hand against his chest as he stifles a laugh and turns you to look at your own reflection in the mirror.

“I didn’t take you just for your body. I took you because of the way you smile, the way your laugh is so soft sometimes and then all roudy and crazy and loud the next. I love you because of how passionate you talk about the things you like, the way you deal with problems, the way you treat others. All these things make me want you, so damn bad.”

He lightly rocks his hips into your backside so you can really feel how much he wants you, and you let out a soft gasp

He doesn’t let you move, however, he just holds one wrist in his meaty palm and holds your jaw in the other, positioning you so that you meet his wondrous gaze in the clear reflection.

He knew he was never known to be the smartest in his class, having Bakugo drag him by the teeth to pass class itself, so he hoped you could overlook his lack of vocabulary that so desperately was trying to tell you that loving you went even beyond anything he could barely articulate.

Leaning towards your ear, his breath tickles your lobe as his sharp teeth graze over your goosebump-riddled flesh.

“And if it takes all night to show you how much you and your perfect body mean to me, I’ll gladly take out any words that don’t do the job and show you physically how I feel. And just the way you are, too.”

If there’s one man who could not give one less of a fuck about how dainty, small, feminine, or easy to handle you may or not be, it’s the birdman himself: Hawks

Running errands with him when he allowed it was hell, though it should’ve been a paradise you felt owed for.

It was bad enough that when you hesitantly asked him what would look good enough to wear when you walked next to him as the Number Two hero’s captive girlfriend, he merely shrugged and said “Whatever you want.”

Which was not of any help, due to his excessive mood swings and possessiveness spiking at the most seemingly harmless things, such as you talking to the checkout worker at a branded store, wearing a skirt that he deemed was for “sluts who put out for attention”, or even not looking directly at him enough when he was talking to you.

So just to play it safe, you decided to wear jeans and a cute blouse, one that you thought did well for your figure and yet remained modest enough for Keigo’s liking.

He gave you a warning look before opening the door outside, silently telling you to behave yourself in public

You always did, of course.

It was never enough to keep him less suspicious of you regardless.

Deciding to bag some groceries first, he kept a tight grip with your hand as you both inconspicuously tried to navigate the winding back alleys, avoiding people and waiting in intervals to pass the street

He had a black cap on with a red feather embroidered at the top, sunglasses and a beige and white jacket that had a high collar for covering his face-you might be lucky to have the freedom to wear what you wanted to a certain extent but Hawks wasn’t so lucky

His wings, of course, couldn’t be concealed regardless of what he wore

The two of you luckily manage to snag a few stores here and there, the groceries in both his and your arms weighing down on your bodies, his feathers doing little aid to help when his wings started sagging under the bulk as well

Which is where you both were finally caught by a gaggle of fangirls

You passed the cafe they gathered around outside, and barely had time to register their squints of suspicion at Hawks and his poorly-shrunken vermillion wings before you heard squeals of recognition coming from their group a couple feet back

He swore under his breath, crushing your hand in a death grip and attempting to speed up further away from them

But the Number Two hero wasnt fast enough for his own good, this time

It was almost inhuman how quickly they caught up to you and swarmed around, effectively cutting you two off from trying to escape

They shoved papers, phones, various body parts and markers in his face, trying to get him to sign each and every article they had on themselves

And poor you were caught in the midst of it, being carelessly jostled around as each girl tried to force her way closer to him

The volume of their excited devotion and praise of him was making your head hurt, and you wondered how Hawks was managing to put up such a flawless, easygoing smile and responding to all their questions and comments without having a panic attack or snapping at them

After a minute or two of pure chaos, with the help of numerous feathers the hero-now-victim finished most of the autographs.

“Well, girls, thank you so much for your support and time, but me and my lady should get going now-“

“-wait, that’s your girlfriend?” One asks pointing at you in disbelief

You give her a weak smile and little wave

“Yup, the one and only!” Hawks beams at you with pride, holding you in an endearing headlock

“Wow…you guys are so cute!” Another chimes in after a few moments of silence, and you try your hardest not to fall into your same old patterns, to not embrace your old thoughts and insecurities with such open arms

But old habits die hard, and they certainly aren’t dead yet

Especially when the first girl thrusts a shiny phone at you, fluttering her lashes and baring her teeth in a poor imitation of a smile. “Would you be a dear and take a picture of all of us with him?”

“Uhh, sure, yeah, no problem.” You decide that getting this whole ordeal over quicker would be the best option for you

But as quick as you want this to pass, you can’t help but take an extra second to see the difference in your hands and hers when you take the phone from her hand

While her smooth, small and soft hands are seemingly unmarked, her acrylics accentuating her feminine form, you feel as though your larger ones should hide in shame in comparison

You’re not a slob, not by any means when you go out with him. But what was previously just you feeling comfortable in your own skin of knuckle hair, cuticles here and there, and nails bitten short from the cold stand anxiety of living with such a volatile man starts to turn into a realization of how different you are to these people who are trimmed to perfection

You shake off the sinking feeling in your heart and back up with the phone as the rest of the girls and Keigo line up for posing

The details in the phone camera do nothing to ease your growing timidity

The screen reflects what you see right in front of you- smooth hair, not a frizzy strand in sight blowing with the wind, perfectly manicured hands that are so delicate and small compared to your boyfriends’ gripping his upper arms, desperate to feel the hero’s assets.

They’re all at a perfect height with him too, the heels and boots they wear so easily lining them up at his chest level so they have a perfect view of his pecs and upwards

All of them are so beautiful and uniform, so dainty and careful with themselves. If one of them said that they were dating Hawks, you’d believe that they were worthy of it too

You snap the picture and hand the device over, trying to hide your trembling bottom lip and frigid hands

The girls thank Hawks a plethora of times, give you some once-overs as well as slight sneers and faux waves, and you both head on your way back home again

You’re quiet that night while making dinner

It’s chicken pad thai, one of his favorite dishes handmade by you

No matter how shit you feel your cooking is, he insists you make him a 3 course meal while he takes a shower, leaving a feather behind to watch over you

Usually it’s fine, usually you ignore or absentmindedly swat away the plumage’s less-than-innocent rendezvous trailing around your body, floating behind your neck to tickle you, “accidentally “ falling in your shirt or wedging itself down your pants (no doubt commanded so by Hawks)

But today, it’s silent and still, precariously perched on the edge of the kitchen counter as it observed and picks up the various sounds and vibrations of your movement as you bustle around the kitchen

It picks up on the way you chop the onions a little too aggressively with your large, clumsy fucking hands

Another reminder of how different you are than the average Hawks Fangirl ™

How they sashay and swing their hips around in a perfect circle when approaching him, while you stumble and trip over your own damn feet, the epitome of clumsiness and gracelessness

The feet which never endow heels or boots often because of the height difference it gives you and Keigo, because of the way you try desperately to adorn different slouches and postures to not look so out of place and awkward around him

And while you’re stirring the pasta in its sauce, the feather also picks up on the rhythm of your shattered heart

Shattered so when you remember how the girls sneered at you because you weren’t femme fatale like them, how you just stood there like a fucking mannequin while they cooed well placed praise, and how eloquent sentences flowed from their tongue like honey

You could only wish you ever spoke like they did, or adopted any of their mannerisms that seemed so natural and effortless like them

Your aching heart thudded dully while you scrutinized your miserable self, and flared up into a kicking rate when you realized you shouldn’t even care what your captor or any of his fan girls thinks

In fact, this was all his fault.

You slammed your mixer down, tapping your fingers against the countertop deep on thought

The vibrations the feather picked up was the last straw of its patience, as it alerted its owner to come and address you

Mumbling under your breath at your predicament, you banged around pots and spoons in your anger, failing to notice the plumage silently join its approaching owner, the water from his shower dripping down his wet shoulders and hair

“What’s goin’ on chickadee? It sounds like you’re tryina’ tear down the kitchen.”

You barely spare him a glance over your shoulder as you take in his bare torso, only a towel wrapped around his midriff

“Nothing. Just finishing up dinner,” you mumble.

“It doesn’t sound like nothing. It sounds like your hearts racing a mile a minute. So I’ll ask you again- what are you so upset?”

He yanks a stirring spoon from your hand and uses his grand wings to turn you towards him, a condescending pout on his face as he amusedly takes in your furrowed eyebrows, heated up cheeks and shaking fists.

He wants to keep pushing me? Fine, then I can play his little game

“You wanna know why I’m upset? I’m upset because I’m here against my will, creating problems for myself that I never even wanted in the first place!”

You jab a finger into his chest and his eyes narrow at your impertinent tone.

“Now wait a sec’-“ but you cut him off immediately, nose to nose with him now as you continue to blare at him

“I’m upset because I never feel fucking good enough for my kidnapper. How pathetic is that? Any time I have to beg you on all fours like a fucking dog to go outside I end up regretting it, ‘cause all I see is how flawed I am!”

He’s staring at you with wide eyes now, actually bewildered at the turn your ranting came to. So it’s not just about being kept here against your will, you’re actually upset about not feeling good enough for him?

“Those girls today…they were so perfect and feminine and beautiful and they had such small fucking hands that would fit perfectly in yours like mine never do, and perfectly pedicured feet, and had such pretty voices, fuck, I mean I’d date them too if I were you!”

You ignore the rage and bafflement in his expression, he looks at you like you’re crazy and maybe for the moment you are as you keep mouthing off to him

“So why don’t you, huh? I mean I only go out with you a couple times a year, but you see them almost every day! Girls who have hair that flows like goddamn waterfalls, girls who you could pick up and throw around so easily or at least girls you’re not embarrassed of.”

“I’m clumsy, I can’t walk with grace, I’m not at a height that’s easy for you to look at me with or thats even considered sexy, I probably don’t even weigh anything around you that people would call worthy of being some fit bitch for you!”

At this, you sink to your knees in front of him, almost spent out. You can’t bear for him to see your face, no doubt scrunched up in tears and snot with mussed strands hovering around your face like you just got electrocuted.

Another thing to ridicule yourself about, a fucking crying face. You don’t want him to see another ugly trait about you that he no doubt will snicker about behind your back.

“Isn’t that why you never let me out? Because I’m not cute or good material for tabloids, right? I don’t look good enough or act right for the Number Two hero, and that’s why you’re embarrassed, right? It’s been so long since I tried to last leave so I know you trust me-that means the only reason you hate going out with me and covering yourself up is because you can’t stand to be seen with such a fugly-“

“That’s enough.” His cold voice booms louder than yours, and you startle at that.

“Look at me, Y/N.” The tone at which he speaks leaves no room for argument, but when you continue to look down he snarls and detaches a feather, forcing your head up with it.

“You keep calling yourself all these things, but don’t tell me that moronic is another word you’re gonna add on, right? I mean you can’t possibly be that stupid enough to believe all those things you just said.”

You glare at him, sure that this was just a way for him to get you to shut up.

“I thought living with the Number Two hero would let some intellect rub off on you, but I guess it’s the complete opposite, if anything. Because you seem to have forgotten your place in my house.”

You yelp when suddenly a multitude of other feathers zoom towards you, pulling at your limbs and clothes as they lift you into the air, suspended to a height a couple of feet above Hawks’ eye level.

He just stands there with an eerie smirk on his face as he watches you flail around midair, trying to regain your balance.

“It doesn’t matter if you’re 6’3 and have bigger hands than me.”

With a flick of his finger, the feathers are directed to slam your body into the ground, leaving you wheezing on your back.

“And it doesn’t matter if you’re 4’7 and fall over yourself every time I call for you.”

He stands above you now, hands in his pockets and he smiles down at your curled up body. You look at him cautiously, unsure of what he’s playing at.

“You’re mind because I want you. I want everything about you, your heart, your mannerisms, your soul, your movements-they all belong to me and only me.”

He crouches down to a kneel, gently running a hand through your hair before turning it into a fist and yanking your head up to face him.

“And there isn’t a goddamn thing that’s gonna stop me from having you, when I want, and how I want. You think you have a chance of leaving me, or me leaving you when I, in your words, ‘go out and see beautiful girls like that all the time?’ If I haven’t left you for them by now, I sure as hell never will.”

You decide for now to take the backhanded compliment about being able to leave in silence. In a messed up way, he was proving his loyalty, and right now you needed all the reassurance you could get.

“And why the hell do you care how you look in public anyways, huh? Are you trying to seduce someone?”

You frantically object, and he sneers at your desperation. “Good, because it should only matter what I think, and you wanna know what I think?”

You stare at him wide eyed now as he pulls your head closer to him

“I don’t give a flying fuck if you think you’re some foxy slut or if you feel like a clumsy oaf. Because you wanna know why?”

He starts unzipping his fly with a handy feather, and you mentally berate yourself for pushing him to a point where he has to ‘prove his love’ to you, knowing where this was heading.

“Because when you’re sucking my cock or lying underneath me, it doesn’t matter how tall or short you are. When I tell you to take your clothes off and hump my foot like the good little bitch in heat you are, I don’t care how much you weigh. I’m still choosing you to be my fuckmeat, my obedient play-toy when I want, and I’m doing it with all your ‘flaws’, aren’t I? ”

You cringe when his tongue flicks out against your earlobe and down your jaw, your endeavors of trying to shove him away proving fruitless as he just snarls and bites your neck.

“Even if you think you don’t have the prettiest, smallest, biggest, or smoothest hands, they’re still the hands I’m choosing to play with my balls, yeah? I mean, you should be proud of your fucking sexy and lewd body…look at what it does to me.”

He gestures to his exposed member now which is hard against your thigh. You bite back a whimper as he begins to tear open your shirt with one free hand as the other slips down your pants.

“So be a good girl and show me how proud you are of being mine.”

[cheekygreenty]

I Know You part 2 - The Darkling x Reader

I knowwwww I took my time writing this but I think it deserves another part? Let me know 🥰

Read part 1 here.

You missed the warmth of the Little Palace and you hated that you missed Aleksander's warm embraces even more. As the tracker led you further up north, Alina and Mal reminisced on old memories and ultimately you stopped listening and kept to yourself, leaving you at the mercy of your own thoughts which were solely devoted to your intense betrayal. How could I of been so blind? You loved this man with your whole being and up until a week ago you would've gone to the ends of the earth for him and he had the audacity to lie to you. My Aleksander never existed, he was a figment of my imagination.

'Let's set up camp here.' Mal said putting his pack down with a wince. His shoulder was still badly wounded, your poor patching up did little to soften the pain. You pulled out your provisions and shared them with the others, thinking back as to whether selling the horse was a wise decision for mere hardtack.

'What do you think the General will do once he finds you with me?'' Alina never mentioned Aleksander's name and you guessed it was to avoid being questioned by Mal.

'Probably brand me a traitor and kill me.' You faced the truth head-on 'He was about to lock me away before I escaped and I'm guessing he's even angrier now.' You blurted as you chewed on the flavorless biscuit.

'Why are you here then? You can get away from Ravka, go to Ketterdam and never look back.'

'He'll find me, Alina. I might as well do something meaningful before I die.'

'What if he won't kill you?' Mal spoke up.

'I'd rather he did.' The thought of being Aleksander's prisoner struck a somber note in you and not for the reason they assumed. You didn't trust yourself enough to keep up your broken heart in Aleksander's presence for too long, that kind of love doesn't fade and around him, you were a slave to that emotion.

'We'll find the Stag and I can defeat him Y/N.' Alina sounded hopeful but at her words, you recoiled. Firstly, you knew she would fail, possibly killing Mal in the process but secondly, her statement ignited a brief spark of anger in you, a feeling of protectiveness for the man that was willing to take your life away from you. Stop being foolish. The man has killed countless times and will continue to commit atrocities in the name of power. You're better than that.

The rest of the night carried on as usual, Alina applying a salve to Mal's wound and you sitting against a tree, contemplating your life. Perhaps you should go to Ketterdam. You have connections there that would hopefully prevent you from becoming an indenture, but those connections could be used against you, a way for Aleksander to find you. Perhaps Novyi Zem would work for you. Alina and Mal had spoken about escaping there if she failed to defeat the Darkling, but you knew it was pointless. You had been by his side long enough to know there was truly no way you could hide and survive.

You know the parts of me that I showed you. His words echoed in your head as you tried to settle to sleep. Although you had uncovered his true face, you clung to his words like a lifeline. He showed you his loving side, he told you his name and his complicated relationship with Baghra, his mother. He trusted you with those things and he loved you, so he said. I do love you.

The tears came once again like they did every night. You had quickly come to understand that Alina and Mal were blind to your waterworks and were under the impression you hated Aleksander and wanted him dead as much as they did. If only they knew you fell asleep dreaming of his arms around you, whispering sweet nothings like he always did.

The snow was a thick blanket now as you approached the Fjerdan border. Mal was certain the Stag would be found any day now and with each passing moment spent dredging through the snow, you cursed your decision of coming with them. You haven't been of much use to the pair on the journey anyway, except letting the wind carry the smoke away when the fire was burning or blowing snow out from the trees when you settled for camp, but Alina insisted you were necessary. From Mal's behavior, you gathered he felt uneasy around two Grisha, so maybe Alina wanted you here to know she wasn't alone and her powers weren't strange.

You listening half-heartedly as she explained to Mal she was the one who needed to kill the animal but stopped when you heard a rustling in the distance.

'That way' Mal noticed too

'Hang on'

'What are you doing'

'I need to get closer to it' You blocked them out, your senses wholely devoted to watching the magnificent Stag. Saints, it's even more beautiful than I imagined it.

You saw her reach out and touch its snout, a light dome so bright erupting from their contact you shielded your eyes away. In doing so, you noticed the faint outline of a blue kefta in the trees, quickly heading for you.

'NO' you tried to block the shot but it was too late, the dome fell apart.

'The animal is not meant for you' Zoya bellowed as she fought to secure the stag.

You fought her in return, desperately attempting to knock her and the others off their feet but two strong hands caught you, restricting your movement.

'Take her' You heard his voice before you saw the contrast of his black attire against the snow. You fought against the soldier keeping you trapped, thrashing and kicking with all you could muster, completely ignoring the screams and shouts erupting from Mal and Alina.

He came to face you, eyeing you up and down, as if searching for any injuries. Even in the dark, you noticed the tiredness evident in his eyes with a hint of desperation. But no relief or love directed to you.

'Ivan, subdue her' was the last thing you registered before your eyes closed shut and deep sleep came over you.

***

You woke with a start, having felt no time pass in your dream-lacking slumber. The snow from earlier was replaced by lavish silks and drapes in a warm tent, his tent. You would recognize the eclipse sign from a mile away, especially on the embroidered cushion beneath your head or on the buttons of the coat you were donning. His kefta. He must’ve put it in you while you were passed out.

There were no cuffs around your wrists or restraints around your ankles as you lay in his comfortable cot surrounded by the sound of a crackling fire in the stove that always brought some level of comfort to you.

There was nobody in the tent with you, but you suspected a guard was posted by the entrance flap to ensure you didn't try anything stupid. You hesitated to get up. Will he be waiting for me? You didn't want to face him or fight him. The thoughts of a civil conversation with him withered away the more you reflected on your throbbing feeling of betrayal, but there was still that small voice in the back of your head, or rather your heart, that wanted to forget about everything and just lay with him like you did every night. The conflict caused you to cry yet again that night for exactly the same reasons as before.

You finally got up once the last tears dropped, your light footsteps carrying you over to the small fruit bowl sitting by the lamps. It was rewarding to taste the sweetness of a grape after so much time spent eating hardtack and hard cheese, all Saints willing, you'd never have to look at those things again. You heard the tent flap open and slowly, you turned to face Aleksander.

'You've been crying.' He observed and took off his heavy cape, laying it carelessly on the cot you had just slept in and standing away from you, keeping his distance although his own heart dropped to see you in such a state.

'Do you blame me?' Your voice was strong despite your appearance,

'I hope you are well-rested. The journey here mustn't've been very kind to you.'

'It was better than being your prisoner and rotting away in a cell in the Little Palace.'

'Do you really think so lowly of me Y/N?'

'I don't know what to think Aleksander.' You hugged his huge kefta closer to your body, enjoying being enveloped by his scent. Another thing that brought you comfort.

'I never lied when I said I love you.' His voice grew softer but you willed yourself to ignore it. The small voice told you to run up to him, kiss him, hold him and tell him you loved him too, but the logical part kept you firmly planted in your place.

'If I recall correctly, you said 'I love you but'...'

'You never stuck around to what I wanted to say next.'

'I doubt it would have fixed this.' You gestured to the lengthy space between your bodies and he took it as an opportunity to walk closer to you.

'Is there anything we can do to fix this?' He asked desperately and your heart leaped in your chest but it didn't last long as his hand caught your attention, The Stag.

The realization flooded over you with a jolt of pain for the second time in two weeks. Unable to hold it back, a bone-shattering sob erupted from you at the impending doom he was about to unleash on Ravka.

His eyes followed your own with anguish so obvious it hurt him, but he had to avert them fearing if he watched your pained expression any longer, he would rip out the amplifier himself without a second thought just to stop the heart-breaking sobs shaking your body. He reached out for you but stopped himself, the last thing she needed was his comfort of all people, he thought.

But you yearned for him despite the situation, so when he stepped closer once again, you rested your head on his chest still uncontrollably crying.

‘Why are you doing this’ your hands now held a deathly grip on his shirt, but all he could think about was the fact that you sought his touch out first, maybe there is some hope left.

‘For Ravka, for all Grisha.’ The answer felt automated and scripted but it was all that remained of his goal. There was nothing else, no one else, that would benefit from this except him and her.

He wrapped one arm around you and when you didn’t pull away, his other arm went to your waist, pulling you close and pressing his lips to the top of your head in an attempt to soothe you. Ironically, it had the exact opposite effect as you cried even harder because despite everything he’d done and everything he was about to do, you didn’t want to leave his side.

The conflict was rampant in your head and part of the shed tears were in an effort to calm your mind.

‘I’m going on a skiff journey across to Novokribirsk in a couple days. I wish for you to go back to the Little Palace.’ He spoke but didn’t loosen his comforting hold on you.

‘Why?’ You managed to croak out.

‘You want to come with me?’

‘I don’t know’

‘Let’s sleep. You’ve had a long day.’ He only briefly let you go to take off the kefta he placed on you earlier, but he was right back at your side as you settled against his chest on the cot. Although you had only just woken up from Ivan's induced sleep, your mind was tired from the self-hate your logical side spewed at you.

‘This is wrong. They’ll hate me for this.’ I hate myself for this.

‘If it is so wrong then tell me to go away. I’ll listen.’ You knew he would but you wanted him here with you.

‘Were you ever going to tell me?’

‘Yes. But I stopped myself after seeing how happy you were. I couldn’t bring myself to stop that.’

‘And look where it brought us. Look at me now.’ You raised your head from his chest and looked him in his onyx eyes. They radiated affection and forgiveness, both of which you were ready to give him. I’m a fool for this.

‘And I will spend the rest of my life trying to make you happy Y/N.’ The determination in his voice pulled at your heart, for the next thing you knew your lips were on his, kissing him as if there was no tomorrow.

-----

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