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gubler-me-up · 4 years ago

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Perfectionism

Request: HELLOO, I’ve had an idea for literally months in my head but I wouldn’t be able to write it as good as you 🥺 Would you mind doing a Spencer reaction to his crush having bad body dysmorphia that they’ve been hiding from the team (they’re working for bau) but at a case or smn someone they’re interviewing comments negatively on their body and they break down once they think they’re alone? But Spence sees and reaches out and it’s really wholesome and soft? I’m a sucker for angsty fluff I’m sorry 😔

A/N: Thanks for the prompt anon, much appreciated! I hope this does justice to your well thought-out idea. I hope it satisfies all your angsty fluff needs! Side note, to everyone of my followers/readers I hope you know you’re beautiful and finding love/happiness within yourself takes time, but trust the process, loves ❤️ Enjoy!

Category: Angsty fluff

Content warning: Swearing, mention of violence, self degradation

Word count: 2.3k

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You stood in front of the mirror inside the police department’s washroom. You finished applying another thick layer of foundation on your face. You knew applying this much makeup to your face wasn’t good. Your dermatologist even recommended against it and advised you to let your skin breathe for a while to prevent over clogging your pores. He didn’t understand the problem of doing that though.

Without the concealer masking the dark circles under your eyes, you’d probably look dead. Maybe even worse. Without the foundation, your acne and healing acne scars would definitely bring unwanted attention to your face. It was certain to happen.

You had to wear them all the time, especially at work. You thought of how JJ probably never had to go through this. Her face was free of any sort of marks or blemishes. She always looked alive with her bright blue eyes with no heavy bags insight. No wonder Spencer had a crush on her a few years back.

Your thoughts were interrupted by the vibrations of your phone on the bathroom counter. You looked down to see Spencer’s name pop up informing you it was time to interview the suspect. A sigh left your mouth as you started packing up your products into your travel beauty kit.

As you walked out of the door, you noticed Spencer at the end of the poorly lit hall leading back out to the main lobby. When he noticed you were walking down the hall towards him, he smiled and waved. Sometimes you thought he was the cutest genius in the world.

“Hey, didn’t know you were waiting for me,” you said.

He shrugged. “Thought it would be nice for us to walk to the interview room together.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

He nodded as you both started walking towards the interview room. You couldn’t help noticing he kept on looking at you. Especially your face. What if he saw your acne scars? Or even the acne itself? What if he was just noticing how strange your face looked?

You stopped walking. “Why do you keep staring at me?”

He stopped walking as well as he gave you a questionable look. “What?”

“Is there a reason you keep looking at my face?” You asked.

He shook his head. “No, no reason, I just-”

“You just what?” You said before he even finished his sentence.

Spencer was taken back by your tone. Your words made it seem as if he was attacking you. You could tell from his confused facial expression. Before he could get a chance to pull his words together, you started walking again.

“Forget it. Let’s just focus on this interview.”

Spencer watched as you walked by him. He trailed behind you, trying his best not to say anything else. You knew you shouldn’t have snapped at him the way you did, but you couldn’t bear the possibility of him pointing out a flaw. You just knew he could see everything you tried so hard to hide.

As you two reached the interview room door you felt Spencer gently grab your arm. You turned to him to see how concerned he looked. Before you said anything he made sure to get the first few words out.

“Y/N, I’m sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable back there. Whatever’s troubling you I’m here to help you get through it,” he assured you.

You smiled. “Thanks. I appreciate you, Spence. For now, let’s put what happened behind us for now and go interview this guy.”

Reid smiled as he gently squeezed your arm before letting you go. It felt nice having him reassure you, but he didn’t even know what he was reassuring you about. Maybe he didn’t notice your facial imperfections at all. Maybe he was genuinely admiring your face.

You opened up the interview room to see a dark-haired, middle-aged, white man sitting across the table. He was well put together with a buttoned-up blue shirt, black tie and his hair was slicked back. Physically he matched the profile perfectly. He looked as if he exuded arrogance as your profile detected the unsure would be like. He tried to keep a cool and emotionless demeanour, but by his furrowed eyebrows and wrinkling forehead, he was becoming impatient.

“Hello, I’m agent Y/N Y/L/N and this is Dr. Spencer Reid. Adam Boyer, correct?” You said as you and Spencer took your seats.

“Glad you can read documents, agent,” he scoffed.

“I wouldn’t get so smart-mouthed yet, Boyer. According to some sketchy transactions between you, John McNeil and Robert Morrison it seems as if you have a lot to hide for someone so vocal,” you said.

He squinted his eyes at you. “What does this even have to do with anything?”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but those two men are dead. You were the last person to contact both of them the day they died. A transaction of over half a million dollars goes missing and you get mad and-“

“I don’t know what you’re trying to imply, agent, but I didn’t murder my colleagues over money. My company makes more than that in a day, so spare me of your pathetic accusations.”

Before you could reply, Spencer jumped in to level out the tension between you and Boyer. He opened a file on the desk and pointed to a bank statement.

“It says here on your financial records your company is $1.5 million dollars in debt. We discovered Robert Morrison and John McNeil both gave you back their shares of the company to equate $500,000, which is legally a breach in the company’s contract for workers, including yourself, to share, distribute or give away company shares without a reasonable cause. According to the list of reasonable cause you failed to mention bankruptcy or were too arrogant at the time to force something like that happening to you,” Spencer said.

With everything he said, you could tell Boyer’s cool exterior was wearing off. He looked glossier in the face, started fidgeting with his tie and refused to look directly at Spencer. He decided to direct his attention to you instead.

“Well, isn’t that a huge mistake on my part, ain’t it?” He asked directly to you.

“Huge mistake or huge flaw in your plan of getting away with murdering your colleagues? I think it’s the second one, Boyer,” you said.

He leaned back in his chair without breaking any eye contact with you. He folded his hand in front of his chest. You had to admit he made your feel a bit uncomfortable.

“What else do you think?” He asked.

“I think you murdered your colleagues when they found out you had taken back their share of the company to pay back your debts. They would have ratted you out, got you fired from your own company or even worse, the whole company would have shut down and you’d have nothing left.”

“Nothing left,” Boyer said seemingly to himself.

“Yes, absolutely nothing. Your wife divorced you, took full custody of your two boys and now you spend your days throwing your money-approximately $1.5 million dollars-on trying to buy love from escorts,” you said.

It was as if something had woken up inside of him as he almost pounced across the table. Both you and Spencer got out of your seats with Spencer using his arm to block the front of you. It was as if it was a natural instinct for him to protect you before bracing himself.

“Sit down,” Spencer demanded.

“At least I have escorts willing to ride my dick. You couldn’t even pay a male stripper to look at that face of yours. Where’s the pretty agent who was in here before? If I’m going to be accused of a crime, I’d rather be accused by someone half decent looking. Get my fucking lawyer on the phone,” he proceeded to yell.

Though you shouldn’t have felt as bad as you did by the words he said, you did. The blunt force in his voice was vicious. The way he looked at you in disgust. His disgust was too real. He was bold enough to look at you the way everyone wanted to, but was too cautious to do it in front of your face.

“I’ll get your lawyer on the phone, you psycho,” you whispered before turning around to leave.

“Don’t forget to bring the real eye candy in as well, sweetheart,” he said.

You didn’t bother looking back at him or even Spencer. You felt your eyes get heavy with tears and knew it would be terrible to show weakness to such a vile suspect. You rushed out of the room before Spencer could stop you or even follow you close behind.

You rushed towards the washroom as your tears were at the brim of your eyes. As you reached the door, you paused. What if someone was in there? What if Emily or JJ saw you crying? You retracted your steps and decided to go to the family washroom instead.

You didn’t even wait until the door was fully closed before letting out your tears. You heavily wept to yourself as you replayed everything he had said to you. Spencer probably stood there agreeing with everything he said, word for word. Your face being hideous, JJ’s beauty surpassing the little you had, no one wanting you. You backed up against the wall to avoid the mirror, to avoid the disgusting reflection in the mirror.

The only reason you looked up was that you heard the washroom door open. You saw Spencer peak in. When he saw the tears running down your face, he didn’t hesitate to go over to you with concern written all over his face.

“Y/N, what’s wrong? I hope he didn’t get to you,” he said as he reached out his hands.

You assumed he was going to try to wipe the tears from your face, so you pushed away his hands. You couldn’t stand the thought of him touching your face if he thought it was hideous. You didn’t even want him looking at you directly. You looked down to avoid your face being in the presence of his.

He attempted to lift your head up by placing his hand on your chin. You flinched at his touch and moved your head out of his grasp. New tears started to spill from your eyes as you looked at him with despair.

“Can you stop, Spencer?” You wept.

He looked at you confused. “Stop what?”

“Looking at me. I know my face is ugly, okay? Everyone knows and it’s just degrading for you to pretend not to notice,” you snapped at him.

“Y/N, what are you talking about? There’s nothing wrong with your face.”

“Spencer, I know you see it. My acne and acne scars. It doesn’t help that my face is always shiny and my cheeks are chubby. You don’t have to pretend to be blind to it for the sake of my feelings.”

“You thought I was looking at you earlier because you think I think you’re ugly? Y/N that couldn’t be further from the truth.”

You rolled your eyes. “Then why were you looking at me? Be honest.”

“Because I think you’re gorgeous.”

“Ugh, Spencer, you don-”

He grabbed both your hands in his big ones, grasping them tightly. You looked down at your hands in his and then looked up into his eyes. He looked longingly at you. You could see the genuine look of love in his face.

“Y/N, I know what you’re going through. Body dysmorphia’s not an easy thing to fight off by yourself, but I want to assure you every day that I think you’re the most beautiful person I know; both inside and out.”

You let out a deep breath as you felt round three of tears coming to your eyes. Honestly, you couldn’t think of a moment you felt genuinely pretty. His words could move mountains.

“But if Adam Boyer could-”

“Please don’t let a psychopath make you feel unsure of yourself. He only belittled you because he lost control of the situation and decided to target you. His idea of a perfect girl is someone he can dominate, which makes him disgusting not you.”

He let go of your right hand as he wiped away a tear making its way down your face. You grasped his left hand hard as he touched your face. It still made you feel uncomfortable, but you were happy Spencer cared deeply for you.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have touched your face if you’re not comfortable with that yet. I know it takes time to breakdown this idea of what perfect is especially with so many beauty standards being pushed by society, but I’ll be here to help you realize you’re the most beautiful you. I wouldn’t want you to be any other way,” he said.

You smiled at his words as you wiped away the few stray tears running down your face. You had to admit you liked it better when he did it. You leaned your head back, took a deep breath, let it out and then looked at Spencer.

“Thank you for being you. I wouldn’t want you to be any other way as well,” you said.

He smiled. “I’ll always be here for you, Y/N. If you want me to be that is.”

“I do. I really do.”

“Maybe after we’re done with this case we can do something together to help you remember the beautiful person you are.”

“I’d love that.”

You both walked towards the washroom door. Spencer made sure not to let go of your hand until you two left the washroom. You felt as if he wanted you to grasp onto the positive energy he had for you. You felt uplifted in a way. This must be the benefit of the Spencer Reid effect.

—–

MASTERLIST

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hanoella · 3 years ago

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Affettuoso- With Feeling (Part 2)

Pairing: Bucky x Pianist!Reader

Set after the events of TFATWS: In an effort to start over and make a home in Louisiana, Bucky meets a friend of Sam’s who ends up being his landlord. With only a driveway to separate them, he finds that he’s not the only one looking for a fresh start.

Series tags/warnings: Slow Burn, Eventual Bucky x Reader, Mentions of Domestic Abuse, Canon Level Violence

Part 2 Word Count: 3.5k

Read Part 1; Read Part 3

Autumn

A few days passed and the temperature had started dropping to one appropriate to fall. Each morning, Bucky had gotten up to exercise. And each morning, he opened his curtains to see that the house across from him remained unchanged. Lights that never turned off. No noise whatsoever. If it weren’t for your car in the driveway, he would’ve thought that no one lived there.

On his runs, he was able to see various things that needed fixing, like a fallen tree that was slightly in the way of a path or a pothole in the driveway he could patch. This morning though, instead of his run, he decided he was going to look around the back of the house, which was fenced off into a yard. From the gate, Bucky could see an old in-ground fire pit in the middle of the yard, closer to the screened in patio of the house than the far end of the yard, where the grass was overgrown- he would have to get on that.

The sound of a vehicle crunching on the gravel driveway caught Bucky’s attention. He walked from the side gate to the front porch where a man in a postal worker’s uniform was straining to get a large box out of the truck. Jogging over, he helped the older man set it down on the ground.

“Phew, thank you kindly sir,” the older man huffed as he took his hat off and wiped the sweat off of his forehead.

After taking a few moments to catch his breath, he walked around the side of the mail truck to grab a tablet from the front seat.

“Can you sign for this package?” He asked as he handed the tablet over to Bucky.

“Uh, sure.”

As he was signing, you came out the front door with a bottle of water in your hand. Bounding down the steps, you handed the cold water to the postal worker.

“Sorry, I would’ve been out earlier but I saw that you were working so hard, so I went back to grab a water for you.”

Bucky handed the tablet back as the older man thanked you.

“I appreciate it, ma’am. Do ya'll need help getting this inside?”

You looked at Bucky who shook his head.

“I think we’ve got it from here.” He said.

“Okay folks. Have a nice day.”

The postal worker turned around and got back in his truck. As the car started to roll forward, he lowered the window and waved while saying,

“It’s nice to see a kind young couple move into this area!”

With the truck halfway down the driveway, there was no chance to correct him. You looked at Bucky, mouth slightly ajar before shrugging it off with a small laugh. He chuckled as he awkwardly scratched the back of his head.

“He seems like a sweet guy.” You said as you watched the truck disappear behind the trees.

“Yeah.”

You stood there for a moment in silence before you spoke.

“So…”

“I’ll help you bring this in.”

“Okay, great, because there was no chance I was going to get this in by myself.”

You watched as Bucky lifted the large box with ease. As he went up the porch steps, you quickly passed him to hold the door open for him.

“I’m pretty sure that’s my bed frame, so you can set it in the room at the end of the hall.”

He turned to head down the hall, being careful to not bump into any walls. Entering the open room, he saw a room with plain white walls and a light sand-colored hardwood floor. Delicate sage green curtains moved ever so slightly as the breeze brought fresh air into the room. There was a mirrored closet with clothes that was cracked open, a small white table close to the ground, some boxes stacked in the corner of the room, and in the middle of the floor was a mattress covered in sheets, blankets, pillows and a laptop paired to some over ear headphones. He set the box down leaning against the wall.

“Ah, sorry about the mess, I haven’t had a chance to really get anything set up.” You say as you pass him to open the curtains wider.

“It’s alright, I’m sorry you had to sleep on the floor.”

“Oh, that’s alright. I still had the mattress so it wasn’t bad.”

Another pause. Bucky cleared his throat.

“Do you want help putting it together?” He asked, gesturing towards the box.

You sighed in response.

“Yeah, actually, I could. I’m sorry to trouble you.”

“It’s no trouble.” He replied, seeing you smile tiredly from the corner of his eye.

You grabbed a pair of scissors sitting on the vanity and started opening the box. Once it was open, Bucky pulled out a large fabric cream colored headboard. You tried not to be too impressed at the fact that he pulled it out with one arm, flexing the muscles in ripples. It felt wrong to ogle so you shook your face slightly and dug into the box.

The material of the headboard was similar to canvas, reminiscent of the old cloth bags that flour used to come in when he was a child. As he set it down against the wall, he ran his right hand over the cloth one more time before letting his hand fall off.

The sound of you pulling out the metal parts to the actual bed frame snaps him out of his lull. Setting them down gently on the floor one by one, you attempt to make conversation.

“So, how’s the apartment? Is it okay? Do you need anything?” You asked, trying to hide how slightly out of breath that you were. Bucky walked over to grab the rest of the metal bars out of the box before you could try.

“Yeah, everything’s great. Thanks…”

There’s a lull as you fish the bag of screws and the instructions from the bottom of the box.

“Great. I couldn’t get down here soon enough to check everything myself. The real estate agent took pictures but it’s definitely not the same as laying your eyes on it in person.”

You open up the instructions and Bucky stands awkwardly before deciding to sit on the floor across from you. He leaned back onto his hands and enjoyed the fresh air circulating in the room. The slight chill was nothing compared to all the cold he had faced in his lifetime. That meant he could get by in a short-sleeved shirt and jeans. You, however, were bundled up slightly more. Bucky’s eyes trailed over you slowly as you focused on the instructions. Your hair was tucked back behind your ears in an attempt to keep it out of your eyes as you read, forest green shirt was layered with a cozy open cardigan. The black slim-cut joggers had fuzzy mid-calf socks layered over them to keep any warmth from escaping. Bucky wondered how much more you could possibly layer when the Winter comes and the true cold settles in the area. Before he could think about that, you flip back to the front page of instructions and tentatively spoke.

“Okay, so I think I get it…”

---

The next hour or so consisted of you telling him what parts went together and him screwing them together. It settled into a good flow, with scattered conversation sprinkled in between.

“So, how’re you enjoying Louisiana?” you asked casually as you skimmed over the next set of instructions.

“I haven’t been here long. It’s… different than New York,” he said as he twisted the screw in. At his prompting, you handed him another one. “Everyone’s friendly. It seems like a tight-knit community.”

“They definitely are,” you mused. “Brooklyn, right?”

He looked up at you, causing you to blink and then avert your gaze.

“Sorry,” you started to explain. “I saw the Smithsonian gallery during my last visit to New York… Do you ever have people recognize you?”

“Sometimes,” he said quietly, pausing for a moment before continuing on. “When I do get recognized, it’s not usually the kind of people I’d want to recognize me.”

Bucky thought back to shortly ago in Madripoor. Definitely not the kind of people that he wanted to recognize him. He shook the thought out of his head and continued.

“It’s strange to think that all those people who pass by the exhibit just know me now.”

You reflected on when you saw the exhibit. Right in the middle was a cutout of Bucky Barnes: Captain America’s Right Hand Man. The few paragraphs that were featured at the exhibit did not seem to fully encapsulate the man sitting in front of you, carefully screwing the metal pieces together.

“I think they know about you, but they don’t know you. There has to be more to James Buchanan Barnes than three paragraphs written by someone who’s never actually met you.” You say, meeting his eyes and raising your eyebrows comically.

For some reason, hearing his full name unnerved him. It made him antsy. He didn’t have any experience with being the center of any positive attention, and all of a sudden, your focus on him was scorching. He looked away and cleared his throat.

“Yeah, I suppose so.” He said gruffly.

You smiled gently before looking back down at the instructions to try to put him back at ease. It was funny, watching someone with such a hardened exterior be flustered so easily. There was definitely more to Bucky Barnes than meets the eye.

---

Bucky sat by himself, screwing the last piece in. You had left a few minutes ago to grab refreshments and hadn’t come back yet. He stood, dusting off his hands and pants before stretching his back and looking at the completed project. Picking up the mattress and all the blankets piled on it, he gently set it on the frame. Now it looked like you actually lived here. It was simple, but cozy.

The smell of butter and cheese wafted into the room, grabbing his attention. Looking up at the clock, Bucky realized it was almost noon. He followed the familiar smell to the kitchen where you were cooking, hair tied back and light-yellow apron. The delayed drinks were gathering condensation on the counter behind you. You looked over at him and slipped the apron over your head.

“Ah, sorry. I figured you could handle the last few screws so I started making lunch as well.” You said sheepishly.

“No, it’s fine. Thank you. It’s all done.”

He watched as you took the spatula and lifted a sandwich onto a plate, golden brown from toasting in the butter, matching the plate next to it. You had made the both of you lunch. Taking a knife, you cut the sandwiches in half and hand him the plate with the warm one that had just come out of the pan.

“It’s a grilled ham and cheese. I hope it’s okay.”

“You didn’t have to.” He responded, watching the melted cheese drip down the sides.

You shrugged. “I wanted to. Thanks for the help.”

“Thanks for the food. Do you need help assembling anything else?”

Your gaze flicked to the boxes leaning against the hallway. He looked behind at them and back, raising an eyebrow. Sighing in defeat, you spoke.

“… Yeah. But Sam is actually coming over later to help so you don’t have to do it now. If you do still want to help, you could come over then. I’ll be ordering dinner so you don’t have to worry about cooking. Though, please don’t feel like you have to. You’ve already done so much today.”

Bucky hesitated. He didn’t want to invade your life too much. After all, you were a woman living alone in a new area, the last thing you probably wanted was a strange man turning a contract into a forced friendship because you were polite. But then again, you had just moved down here. Of course, you needed a lot of help in the beginning. Soon, things will settle back to normal and then you’ll be back to just being neighbors who see each other outside occasionally.

“Sure. I’ll be back later when I hear Sam pull up. He doesn’t follow directions anyway so you probably need someone to supervise him.” He joked.

You smiled up at him.

“Great. You must be tired. You can take lunch to go and bring the plate back later.”

You didn’t want to keep him. He wouldn’t have minded staying. But he was still new to being an actual person again. His social battery was a little drained, and he appreciated the easy out.

“Okay, I’ll see you later.” He said, giving his classic low-key three finger salute.

“Bye,” you replied softly as you watched him open the screen door and walk down the porch steps. Lightly padding down the hallway, you peaked into your room, seeing the final product. It was sweet that he put the mattress down and you noticed he had also straightened out the blankets just a little. What a sweet gesture. He was a gentleman. Despite the gruff. You padded back down to the kitchen and sat at the counter to eat. It always felt wrong to make so much noise. You were just one person. One tiny insignificant useless person.

---

Bucky sat at his kitchen table, finishing the sandwich that he had started to eat on the way in. His attempt to eat it while it was still hot was so worth it, the bread still warm and comforting. As he took his last bite, he traced his finger on the little pattern of flowers and leaves on the border of the sage green ceramic plate. All of the little homey, slightly old-fashioned details were very reminiscent of home. Not his previous apartment in Brooklyn. But home back in the 1930’s when he was growing up. It was comforting. He sat back in the chair and closed his eyes, dreaming of a world that no longer existed.

---

Later, Sam knocked on the door way and shouted up the stairs through the screen door.

“Hey, anybody home?”

You bounded down the stairs and unlocked the screen door to let him in, giving him a hug in greeting.

“Woah, woah, don’t make me spill the goods,” he said with a laugh, holding the two cases of beer up.

“Good to see you too,” You joked.

Bucky saw the interaction from the garage window that faced your porch. He wondered if there was something between you two and quickly shook the thought from his head. He wasn’t jealous, just curious. It didn’t matter. After all, you were Sam’s friend first.

People can have friends, idiot. What does it matter to you? He thought to himself as he walked down the stairs to the garage.

Walking across the gravel to your front door, he knocked on the screen door as well.

“Come in!” You yelled from upstairs.

He opened the front door and walked up the stairs into the living room.

“Hey, Buck! How’re you settling in?” Sam said, giving him a hug as well.

“Good, it’s really nice out here.” He replied after they had separated.

“Good. I’m glad. You look like you finally got some rest.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that, he was over early this morning, hauling around a bunch of heavy stuff and putting furniture together.” You interjected, bringing the bottle opener in from the kitchen.

“Let me guess, he completely messed it up? Turned your table into a chair or something like that?” Sam teased. Bucky slapped him upside his arm.

“Despite the picture you painted of him, he was extremely competent.” You said while trying not to laugh at Sam’s face of fake hurt. “Now come on, there’s a beer fee, you get one beer for every piece of furniture you put together.”

“I’m the one who brought the drinks though!” Sam protested, following you down the hall to the room where the boxes were.

Bucky smiled a bit as he listened to you both squabble. Friends or not, it was nice to have someone else to annoy Sam with.

---

“You sure you’re okay to go pick up the food?”

You looked up at Bucky from where you sitting on the floor, reading directions while Sam, who was ever so slightly tipsy, was trying to get a leg of a night stand to fit straight.

“Yeah, I’m good. He looks… busy. And it’s probably better for me to go out this late. You know, ‘cuz you’re a woman... lady.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“Not to say that you’re not perfectly capable of handling yourself, I just mean… uh…”

“Pff-”

The laugh that Sam had been trying to hold back escaped from between his lips loudly as he covered his mouth. You rolled your eyes but regardless, a smile crept up on your face.

“Ignore him. I was just giving you a hard time. It’s very chivalrous.”

You paused thoughtfully.

“On a serious note, that’s very sweet of you. I appreciate it. You can just charge it to the card I gave you.”

He nodded and started walking down the stairs to the porch.

“Be safe!” He heard you call softly down the stairs.

“Will do.” Bucky instinctively responded.

The screen door shut behind him as he made his way across the driveway to where his own motorcycle was parked. A sleek modern black sports bike. Something he’d bought when he wasn’t ready to look at Steve’s old cruiser. He’d put the cruiser in the garage to work on and keep safe.

He mounted the bike and started it, the engine coming to life. He went to check what time it was on his phone when he realized he had left it inside. Swinging his leg over, he started to walk back up to the front door when he heard your conversation with Sam from the open living room window.

“Feeling at home?” Sam asked. There was a short silence before you answered hesitantly.

“Something like that.”

“How you holding up?”

“It’s been okay… lonely… I just can’t believe I let it go on for so long.”

Bucky hadn’t realized he had stopped in his tracks, eyebrows furrowed as he listened.

“The people who are trapped in the abusive relationship themselves always have a harder time seeing it than anyone else.”

Bucky blinked in surprise as Sam continued.

“It’s like that thing they say when you’re cooking with frogs. If the water’s boiling when you first put them in, they’ll hop right out the pot. But if you put the frog in cool water and slowly heat it up, they’ll stay, no matter how hot it gets. The more gradual the process is, the less likely they are to realize that they’re in trouble before it’s too late.”

“Yeah…” Your voice sounded heavy. Burdened.

“He was nice at first, wasn’t he?” You asked rhetorically.

“He was.”

“Fooled me…”

“Fooled me too. I never would’ve introduced him to you if I had known that’s what he was like. I should’ve known there was something off about him. I should’ve sensed it during the support group he came to at the VA.” Sam said regretfully.

“Hey, it’s not your fault, Sam.” You said, chastising him. “At some point, I knew that things were heading in the wrong direction. He got so angry. So spiteful. I knew I had stopped loving him and started being afraid of him. But then everyone was dusted, and I didn’t have anywhere else to be, anyone else to be with besides him. Being somewhere new by myself would bring struggles I couldn’t prepare for. At least with him, I knew what to be afraid of. Then everyone came back and he almost killed me. I guess I was just a poor little froggy.”

You tried to ease the heaviness of the conversation by being lighthearted with the last sentence. But there was still a sadness in your voice.

“Still. I wish I could’ve helped you when you broke your shoulder.”

“Don’t feel bad, Sammy. I ended up just fine. I’m here now. The only thing I regret is letting him trash my piano. It was old, but I grew up playing that thing.”

“I know how much it meant to you.”

“It’s okay, it's a new start. Besides, you were off fighting to be Captain America! Rightfully so. If this was the sacrifice I had to make for the right man to be able to take up the shield, I would’ve broken my other shoulder too!”

Sam must have given you a death glare because you laughed suddenly and your tone changed to defensive.

“Kidding! Kidding. Yeesh. But seriously, I’m proud of you. And thank you, for helping me start over.”

Bucky unclenched his hands. He hadn’t realized that he had gotten tense. Turning around, he headed back to the bike. He didn’t need his phone. He didn't want to let on that he overheard. Getting back on the bike, he waited until he heard laughter to sneak down the driveway, masking the fact that he was just now leaving.

Once he got out on the road, he sped up- letting the wind sting against his face and cool it down. The thought of a man using his own strength to hurt what was supposed to be his other half- it made him so mad. No wonder you were scrambling to get out here. He hoped that you never had to go through anything like that again.

Rest assured, if he can do anything to prevent that from happening, he will.

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes #bucky imagine #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky x y/n

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just-a-quirkless-loser · 5 years ago

Text

The Days of Your Youth

Young Enji Todoroki x F! Reader

Hanahaki Trope + BNHA Universe

Words: 5.9k

Warnings: Angst, Enji is an asshole, sexual content, A bit of the redemption arc at the end, graphic descriptions of violence, Characters are 18+

Asagao flowers bloom so beautifully in Sakai; what a shame that Musutafu is four hours away from those gorgeous flowers. So, you knew whenever Enji came bearing the dark blue edged flowers with purple insides, that he had endured the voyage to get them. It was small things like this that made you fall in love with him. If only you didn’t, then maybe you'd still be alive.

The two of you met in your youth when you both attended U.A. High School, both of you having dreams of being the number one pro-hero for the next generation. You hated him at first, which is understandable seeing as he’s brash and cares for no one but himself. He always argues with you, he doesn’t hold back during training, and he has an unhealthy obsession with your childhood best friend Toshinori Yagi, known to the public as All Might.

Your quirk was strong, the ability to heal from any wound and regeneration of your limbs but, he made you feel trivial in comparison to him.

“You can take a bullet, great. How useless that would be in a battle with a villain? You can’t even inflict any damage,” his words stung. All your life, you’d been ridiculed as having a “rescue” quirk, always being told that you’d never have the chance to fight “real villains.” You wanted to prove them all wrong...although, you didn’t prove anything in the end.

Because of the nature of your quirk, you were often paired with Enji whenever it was time to spar. He’d hit you with his fire, blistering your skin with no mercy. He’d knock your teeth down your throat, making you cough blood at his feet. He’d choke you with your own support weapon, making you feel weaker than what you thought you were. He made your life a living hell. So, how did you fall in love with him?

Your love didn’t happen overnight. Actually, the relationship between the two of you changed drastically after that day. The day is clear in the archives of your mind, almost like you’re watching a movie through your own eyes.

“Are you sure you can handle Todoroki today?” you were walking to the training rooms with Toshinori Yagi. He loomed over you as he glanced anxiously at the man in question. Everyone knew about the obvious tension between the two young men however, that day was different. Something primal was lurking in Enji’s glance whenever he looked your way.

“Regeneration, remember? I’ll be fine,” you pat the large man on the back. “Plus, I don't think he could kill me even if he tried.”

“I’m just worried. He’s off today. More confrontational.”

“He’s like this every day, Toshi. He’s probably just on his man period or something.”

“...Y/N, you do now men don’t have menstrual cycles? Right?”

“Yes, Toshi, you’ve told me dozens of times. It’s just a metaphor...till I can get some proof,” he facepalms as you rub your hands together to mimic scheming hands. “He’ll have to take his clothes off eventually.”

“You’re a menace to society; I love it,” you lean against each other as you laugh, attracting the attention of your classmates. “But, seriously, I’m worried.”

“Toshi, I will be perfectly fine. What’s the worst that can happen?”

***

“More! Get up,” you were gripping the right pant leg of Enji’s training suit, trying to pull yourself up to face him again. You body begged you to stay down but your mind -your pride- forced you up. The right side of your face was scorched. One of your eyes was missing from its socket. The guns you normally wield for support were thrown elsewhere, leaving you vulnerable to his onslaught. “You’re pathetic. U.A. isn’t meant for the weak. You don’t belong here with us.”

“You don’t get to tell me where I belong,” you charge to attack, switching your technique at the last minute so you could throw a hard jab to his abdomen. He countered with raising both of his fists above his head in a gorilla fashion and slammed them down on your spine, once again taking you to the mat. But, this time you heard a crack from your spine.

“I don’t know why you waste my time. Sensei just needs to let Yagi and I fight,” you laid at his feet paralyzed. However, the inability to move doesn’t hinder your ability to speak.

“Awww, Todoroki, you miss your boyfriend? I knew you had a hard on for him,” and, while you felt there was nothing wrong with being homosexual, you knew Todoroki was a traditional man who wouldn’t want a rumor like that to be spread. You snicker at his silence. “Must be true if you haven’t denied it.”

Words are meaningless if he can show you with his actions. He wastes no time dropping to his knees so he can lean over you, pushing you into your back as he slaps your face from side to side.

“You,” smack. “Have,” smack. “Issues,” smack.

“ENJI,” you hear Yagi yell in the background as rushes in to save you from your beating. Toshinori’s strong hands pull Todoroki up by the scruff of his neck, looking at the bloody mess your body has come to be, checking to see the rise and fall of your chest before he deals with the man he’s holding. “You could have killed her!”

“She can’t die,” to prove his point, Enji encircles your form with a ring of Fire, the smoke clogging your lungs as your skin is barely holding its form. However, you don’t feel the familiar tingling sensation of your regeneration.

“It doesn’t matter if she can’t die. She’s still human!”

“I’m making her stronger.”

“You’re abusing her,” they both glance down to see that you’ve stopped twitching. You look like you’ve been hit by a land mine: body bloodied, bones exposed, missing limbs. The smoke has cover you in a fine layer of soot, the particles of your own flesh smothered in your nose. “Fuck, Y/N? Y/N?! ANSWER ME! PLEASE! SENSEI!”

There’s only a few things you can recollect clearly. You were rushed to the hospital and you could hear the urgency in Yagi’s voice. If you closed your eyes long enough, you could still see your Sensei’s face looming over yours as he tried to get your attention. The smell of Enji still invades your nose whenever you remember how he sat next to you in the ambulance. You think he felt guilty for letting his desire to measure up to Yagi blind him once again. It’s just a shame that you had to be beat close to death’s door for him to feel remorseful.

You awoke to an obnoxious beeping to your left, a throbbing pain in you head, and a nuisance fire wielder to your right (you had to do a double take to make sure he didn’t beat the sense out of you).

“You’re awake.”

“No thanks to you,” he winces.

“Let’s just be thankful you’re alive.”

“Unfortunately.”

“That wasn’t a funny joke.”

“Who said it was a joke?” you spot Asagao flowers on your bedside. “Who brought the flowers?”

“I did.”

You move to sit up but hiss and grab your side. “Welp, that’s new.”

“Take it easy,” Enji rises and gingerly presses you back into the bed.

“You expect me to believe you spent eight flowers just to bring me flowers?”

“Yagi told me they’re your favorite. I figured it’d be a good way to start amending for what I’ve done.”

“You almost killed me. All because you have a superiority complex that I’ve done nothing to fuel. And, you call yourself a future hero?” you snort. “Oh, wait, let me correct myself, you call yourself the future NUMBER ONE hero!?” you turn to face him so he can’t escape your eyes. “Everyone’s right about what they say about you. You’d do anything if it meant you’d have a chance at facing Toshinori. You don’t care how many people get hurt in the crossfire. As long as you win this competition Toshinori doesn’t even know he’s a part of,” you laugh at the irony.

“What part of ‘I'm sorry’ do you not understand?” Enji growls as he pushes your body into the hospital bed, face coming to stare you down.

“What part of ‘you almost killed me’ do you not understand?” you return his energy with a sneer. “You don’t intimidate me; I’m not some bitch that will tuck her tail and run just because you try to throw a hissy fit.”

“You’re playing with the wrong person, little girl,” he fingers caress the side of your cheek.

‘Once again, this dude has issues.’

“I’m definitely playing with the right person. You need someone to knock you down a few pegs,” and this was when the doctor came to check on your condition, catching Enji and yourself so close that your foreheads were touching. His hands were parted on the sides of you as he puffed out some smoke through his nose.

“Sorry, lovebirds. I should’ve knocked. I’m Doctor Sugo and I have a few questions,” you nod in comprehension.

“Fire them off,” you intentionally use those words to make Enji tense. After years of verbal, physical, and psychological abuse, this was your opportunity to exact your revenge.

“You came in with extensive burns, missing limbs, choking around your neck, blackened lungs, and, it looked as though you died from asphyxiation. Your sensei notified us of your quirk, however, your behavior was reckless and had unforeseen consequences. I doubt you burned yourself alive. Did someone try to kill you?” this was your chance to end Todoroki’s chance of being a hero and end this silly game he’s created in his mind. It would’ve been easy.

“No, we were sparring and it got intense. Enji wanted to stop but I’ve been pushing my quirk limits to the maximum with the coming of our graduation. He lost control of his quirk,” you’ve never been the type to do things the easy way. “I apologize for the trouble my actions have caused.”

“Are you sure this wasn’t a young-domestic abuse situation?” he eyes Enji’s burly frame.

“No, Enji would never hurt me,” to prove your point, you intertwine your fingers with his and kiss the back of his hand, maintaining eye-contact with him. He blew more puffs of smoke into your face.

“In that case, I’ll notify your Sensei of what happened. Just let me check your vitals and I’ll leave the two of you to talk,” the whole time the doctor was in the room, Enji kept blowing smoke. You figured it was something he did when he was uncomfortable but, you couldn't be sure this was the first time you witnessed something like that in person. You both waited a couple of seconds after the doctor left before you continued the actual conversation.

“What the fuck was that?”

“That’s the first time I’ve ever heard you cuss...Do it again,” he gives you a pointed look.

“Answer the question.”

“For someone that’s ranked at the top of your class, you’re pretty dense. It’s simple; I’m blackmailing you.”

“Why?”

“Because, you need to be held accountable for your actions and, selfishly, I want to make your life a living hell. It wouldn’t be practical to let a strong quirk like yours to be sent to prison for attempted murder; you’re useful to the world and there’s no way I can’t acknowledge that you’d be formidable if you chose to become a villain due to my inability to keep my emotions in check,” he just stares. You spot Toshinori in the door frame and wave. “Toshi! Come in. I was just explaining to Enji what’s going to happen to him from now on.”

“Y/N,” he said in a warning tone. “Are you sure this is a good idea. He tried to kill you.”

“Shut it, Toshi. You’re too loud,” you roll your eyes. “Yes, I’m sure. This is perfect.”

And, it was perfect. Graduating U.A. High felt unreal at times; it felt even more bizarre as you managed to become a pro-hero alongside your friend, Toshinori, and your personal butler, Enji. Yep, he became your butler as a way to repent for his actions (his words, not yours) and you actually found his company enjoyable when he wasn’t engrossed with beating Yagi. He’s dedicated to the tasks you give him, even if they’re demeaning like walking around with a collar (the press had a field day with that one) or task oriented (like making you fresh coffee whenever you please).

“ENJIIIIIIII,” you’ve taken to bothering him immensely. “Put on this skirt.”

“Y/N, I’m not putting on that skirt. It would tarnish my image.”

“Hm, guess I’ll have to call Sensei. He'd probably believe me if I said you attacked me again. I mean, I’m just an innocent woman. I could just say I was scared the first time,” and that’s how Enji Todoroki was seen wearing a skirt for training multiple times. In all fairness, he looked like a menacing kitten. And, you've grown to like him. Maybe, it was his guilt for almost murdering you but, he found himself showing you tenderness as well. He just couldn't hate you no matter what you did.

“You idiot. I told you not to jump in front of me,” he was carrying your limp body in his arms as though you were his bride. Holding close to his heart, he could feel the warmth of your breath on his chest.

“Why wouldn’t I? I can’t have you dying on me yet. I haven’t gotten you to dress in drag yet,” blood spills from your ears as you blank out of consciousness. There were plenty of times you protected Enji from a villains attack and each time you told yourself you did it because you wanted to continue to blackmail him to be by your side. But, you just wanted him to yourself.

As the years roll on, you find yourself getting closer and closer to him, just barely missing his flames. You became used to patrolling with him as the Pro-Hero ‘Zombie.’ You enjoy going to Sakai in search of the perfect flowers. You treasure being able to see him every day. But, it’s not all peaches and cream.

“Enji, get over it. Toshi worked hard to be first,” you’re arguing again. Two years after the incident and he still hasn’t let go of his yearning to be the best. While sometimes you want to admire his hard work, you can’t help but question his motives. He’s lost the very reason he wanted to become a hero.

“Toshi just leaves to go to America, didn’t tell you, comes back to climb the ranks of the hero charts, and you’re just okay with that? Meanwhile, you lose your mind on me after I don’t answer your call on the first few rings?” he’s sitting on your bed, his jogging pants hanging down dangerously low on his navel, a few red hairs peeking at you. You lick your lips.

“I’m not saying what he did was okay but, you’re blowing this out of proportion. You’re twenty years old. You need to let go of this foolish rivalry,” you throw your legs over his lap. “It’s not healthy.”

“I’m not having this argument with you again. You always take his side,” you slap his chest, gulping at the strong pecs. You wonder how’d they feel bearing down on your back as he-

“Y/N, are you listening?”

“Flamehead, you know I don’t listen to dumb shit,” he puffs out smoke in irritation. “But, I’m not taking his side. I just think we’re getting too old for this.”

“That’s what you always say,” and you laid there with him watching t.v. The conversation ends like it always does but, you can tell Enji isn’t upset with you. It’s the same routine you always follow whenever he wants to talk about Toshinori’s “false achievements.”

Somehow, you end up cuddled into his chest, head pressed firmly into his neck as you feel the warmness of his pulse move underneath you. His arms keep you against him, caging your legs around his hips (it takes a lot to keep your mind from wandering off).

His fingers play with the exposed skin of your back, leaving scorching trails around his fingertips.

“Are you hungry? I still can cook-” Enji’s phone goes off. He gets up and softly pushes you to the side, answering his phone as he absentmindedly rubs your hair. He’s soon getting up to get his things, pulling on his hoodie and ending the call, staring at the phone for a few seconds.

“Who has you up and in a hurry?” you’re kneeling at the edge of the bed, his jacket in your fist to keep him from leaving.

“My finacé’s family.”

‘Fiancé?’

“Fiancé? Who is she?”

“I don’t know yet. All I know is that her quirk is the perfect compliment to mine, which is the only thing that I need,” he’s pulling away. You’re speechless. Is-Is this jealousy? Is this bubbling fury jealousy? Is this small pain jealousy? Is this mind-numbing sensation jealousy? You can't be jealous. Not of some woman you don’t even know. “I have to go. I need to get ready to meet her?”

“B-But, you don’t even know her!”

“I know she’ll ensure that I beat All Might,” so, that's what this was about. Another last ditch effort to win something with no prize. You should’ve known those touches meant nothing but, how could you when they felt so tender? “Plus, you shouldn’t care. Soon, we’d both have to leave and start our own families; this would have had to happen eventually.”

“You don’t love her. You just want to beat him,” you slump down, your calves touching the back of your thighs as you feel a stirring in your chest. “I just don’t want you to do anything you’ll regret when you’re older.”

“That’s not your concern. I’ve got to go.”

You cough up an Asagao flower, staring at it with trepidation.

‘Oh shit.’

The next time you see him is two weeks later. His hair is still styled upwards, his scowl has deepened making him look older than what he really is, his eyes darker than before. Both of you sit one a rooftop, starting over Musutafu. His body is curled in on itself, the flames of his suit keeping you warm in the brisk fall night. Part of his arm is slung over your shoulder, drawing you into his side.

“Have you ever been in love, Enji?” you see him puff out a few smoke clouds, a telltale sign that you've either made him embarrassed or uncomfortable. “Like, real love? The type of love that doesn’t go away no matter how much you try to kill it?”

“You know I don’t have time for sentiments like that,” he looks at your wistful expression, wondering to himself how you manage to look even more breathtaking than the last time he saw you.

“But, what if you could fall in love? What if things like time and being a hero didn’t matter? Wouldn't you want that?”

“No, there’s no girl good enough for me or my love,” such sweet lies sound true coming from him and that burns you more than his fire ever has.

“What about marriage? Kids?”

“You already know I have an arranged quirk marriage. I met her and she is adequate enough to give me a child fit to be the number one hero of the new generation.”

“Jeez, you sound like you’re quoting a business proposal.”

“It is business,” he sounds like he’s scolding you for not knowing this. You feel your stomach fill with more flowers and you feel some crawling up your throat. It’s suffocating you but, you chalk that up to your nerves bothering you. “I’m guessing you brought this up because you think you’re ‘in love.’ “

“I know I am,” you stop your sentence to cough into your arm, catching a few Asagao flowers in your elbow. So, this is how you’re going to die? Dying from a disease that even your regeneration can’t save you from? Choking on flowers because Enji can’t reciprocate your feelings? “As you can see, it’s one sided.”

“Leave them alone. Feelings go away,” but, they didn’t. It just got worse and worse and worse. Because, as much as you knew you should leave Enji, you just couldn’t. Your heart longed for him. Your heart belonged to him. And, Toshinori couldn't understand why.

“Y/N, please, I don’t understand why you'd die for someone that wants nothing to do with you,” Toshinori chided. “Get the surgery. They can take the feelings out. I’ll be right by your side to help you.”

“You’d never understand, Toshi. You'd never understand waking up every morning, wanting someone so bad you have no motivation to do anything but lay in your own tears. I’d rather die loving him than pretend I never felt these feelings at all.”

“But, why?”

“Because, he’s hurt me so much; this is my last ‘fuck you’ to him. Because, I know one day he’ll change. One day, he'll want to see me and I'll be dead. I want him to feel the same pain that I feel now. He needs to feel my rage, he needs to feel my abandon. HE NEEDS TO FEEL ME!”

“Y/N, I’ve already lost Nana. I can’t lose you too.”

“I love you, Toshinori Yagi. Be great for me,” and that’s the last thing you ever said to your childhood best friend.

***

When you opened the door, Enji wasn’t expecting to see you only in a long shirt, tuffets of a flower stuffed in your mouth.

“What the fuck, Y/N? You look like shit. You can’t open the door like that,” he comes in and you immediately cling to him.

“I love you.”

“What?”

“I’m in love with you Enji.”

“You can’t be.”

“But, I am,” you hold one of your saliva covered flowers to his heart. Your eyes are tired and barely stay open but you can't take your eyes off of him. “This is for you. All of them are for you. Loving you is killing me,” you laugh at the irony. Who would’ve thought Enji would end up killing you anyway?

“Then, stop,” Enji rips the flower from your fingers and throws it to the side. You dive for the flower, causing him to follow you down to your floor. “Let it go.”

“I can’t. It’s all I have right now,” you’re sobbing while retching up flowers. His arms encase you, almost like he’s trying to keep you from falling apart. “I can’t just let go. I can’t just stop loving you, Enji.”

He doesn’t really say anything to you. Maybe, he’s too stunned or maybe he’s too afraid he’ll say the wrong thing but, he finds that it’s better to just hold you.

“Enji, could you do something for me?”

“Anything.”

“Could you make love to me?” he can’t deny you your wish with how pitiful you look. So, he scoops you up in his arms and takes you to your bedroom, heart pumping hard at what he’s about to do. He’s getting married in a week yet, he’s here about to give his body to you.

Laying your body down on the bed, he watches as your covers fan around your head like a halo and, for a moment, he wonders if that’s what you would look like as an angel. Ethereal and tired. The air in the room is growing hotter as he sweats, nervous to strip you down. He’s no stranger to sex but, this is the first time he’s ever focused on someone else’s pleasure.

“Just, lay there.”

“What the fuck else am I going to do? Run off,” he chuckles. Leave it to you to find some comedy in your weakest moments. He starts with stripping you of your long shirt -actually, his shirt that had gone missing the last time he stayed at your house- and stares at your body, naked and exposed to the air.

He takes a few minutes to take in your beauty, ghosting over your skin as he watches you quiver in anticipation. Your eyes are blown and a petal is on your cheek, reminding him of what had happened to you. Your hands wrap around his forearm as you silently beg him to touch you.

“Always have been needy,” when he kisses you, it makes your toes curl from his smokey breath. Envisioning his taste held no comparison to what he really was. It’s like he was breathing his smoke into your lungs, making sweat bead on your skin.

His hand grasps your neck and you moan at the warmth that he gives you, toes curling at the pressure he puts on your throat. The flowers slide down your esophagus, allowing some of your essence to mix with his. He’s weighing you down into your mattress as he’s ripping off his shirt, buttons flying everywhere as he tries to shimmy out of his pants. His kisses trail down the column of your neck and he’s groaning at the way you whine. Your body reacts so wonderfully to his touch.

“You should have told me sooner; you could’ve had all of my cock before this,” you giggle at his attempt of dirty talk. It’s weird to have the proper and correct Enji speaking naughty in your ear. “Damnit, woman, will you stop laughing? I’m trying to be romantic.”

“I can’t help it. You're like Recovery Girl whenever she tries to be cool.”

“Why did you have to bring her up?” he drops his head on your navel. “Are you trying to kill my erection?”

You did a mouth zipping motion and laid your hands on his shoulders, looking down your body to catch him staring at you as he licked below your belly button. The sensation of his textured tongue against your smooth skin is almost enough to send you into your orgasm. He brings his arms up to grab your breasts in his hands as he continues to slide down to your slit. Your smaller body is completely open to him as he tongues your small clit, keeping your legs spread around your head.

“Enjiiiiii, please,” you beg for your release. The inner sadist inside of Enji preens as you beg, his mind thinking you look beautiful at his mercy with a few tears in your eyes. He plunges his tongue inside your hole, only shallowly fucking your tight hole. He brings one of his hands beside his mouth, which is an awkward position for his large frame, and pushes his finger inside your tightness till he’s met with some resistance. You’re met with wide eyes.

“You didn’t tell me you were a virgin.”

“You never asked.”

“I’m serious, Y/N. If I didn’t find out, were you just going to let me pound into you,” he smacks your thigh as a way to punish you.

“As long as it’s you, I’d let you use me like a doll,” the words incite a new type of fire in Enji’s body. He gets hotter as he enjoys the words of someone that’s completely submitted to his control.

“Then, I’ll use you till I can’t use you anymore,” he places one last kiss to your hole and slivers up your body. Everything about this moment is perfect for you; the man you love is hovering above you as he looks at you with adoration and desire.

“Are you ready?” His forehead is leaned on yours as he wavers on top of you, his cock kissing the entrance of your folds. You can’t speak due to the flowers that are lodged in your throat, so you nod as you stare into his eyes. For the first time, you can feel the love he has for you. If only this moment could last forever for you as it would for him.

The first few moments of him stretching you make you whimper in his ear, your nails cutting into his back as you try to ground yourself in the moment. He tries to push into you at a slow pace, bottoming out and sitting there for you to adjust. Your pussy clenches him like a vice, testing his self control as he wants to grab you by your waist and use you like a fuck doll.

It’s hard not to scream when he pulls back slightly and snaps his hips into your own. Both of you are breathing into each other's face as he fucks you with slow, deep thrusts, pulling your hips to meet his thrusts in an angle.

“Such a problematic woman. Couldn’t just tell me you loved me,” you whine as he sits up on his knees and begins to fuck you with fevor. His cock rubs against that spongy spot in your pussy, pushing you toward your first orgasm. “Such a bad girl. I didn’t tell you to cum yet.”

“Enjiiii please fuck please I’ll be good for you,” he smiled through the pleasure that rips through him and pulled out of you to lay on his side behind you. He wasted no time lifting one of your legs and pushed into your heat, fucking you deeper in this position. He could now see the way you try to push your hips against his, fucking you with a patronizing smile.

“Such a horny girl,” you moan into your hands as you try to hide yourself from his gaze but he rips your arms away from your face, forcing you to scream for him. He makes it a point to fuck you harder as he’s addicted to your beautiful voice. “Scream for me little girl.”

“Dadddyyy gonna cum again,” your tearing u again as he keeps brutalizing your pussy.

“Oh I’m daddy now,” he’s grunting as he feels you clench again. You give him no answer as you cum once again, this time pulling him into his orgasm as you feel him spurt deep in your womb. But, even though he cums, he doesn’t stop. He’s determined to fuck you into oblivion.

“I’m not done with you, keep cumming in my cock,” your toes keep curling as you try to push away from him. However, that makes him wrap his arms around your shoulders and slam you down on his cock, keeping your legs spread as he fucks you so hard some of his cum is dribbling down the side of his cock. You’re shaking hard as your pleasure blinds you, the pressure in your abdomen building in a different way.

“Fuuuuckkk Enjiii, I-I- love you,” clear liquid squirts from your pussy as he slows down his thrusts. You lay there in your juices with his cum splurging out of you once he pulls out of you completely. He leaves you there as he runs you a bath, leaving you to think about what just happened.

He didn’t say he loved you back but, you hoped he would. With gentle hands, he put you into your tub, softly rubbing your hair like he had done many times.

“Y/N, we need to talk,” you smiled over at him. His pants were pulled back on his hips but he couldn’t meet your eyes. “You know I care for you and you know I wouldn’t want to hurt you but, you need to get the surgery. I can’t just love you the way you love me and, I don’t want you to die because of that. I’ll pay for the surgery. I’ll pay for you a new apartment and everything. I’ll even-” you droned him out.

“You know,” you shiver in the warm water as you start to tear up. You hacked up flowers and continued with a shaky voice. “I thought that having sex with you and telling you would make it go away. I thought that maybe, just maybe, I meant more to you than what I thought. I’m such a dumbass. You’ll never love me; you’ll never love anyone but yourself. Why can’t you just be a man and tell me I’m nothing to you compared to whatever the fuck you have with Toshinori? IT’S BEEN YEARSSSS,” you croak out as you sob, your heart hurting. “AND, YOU HAVEN’T CHANGED AT ALL. You’re still the Enji Todoroki that tried to kill me. I just tricked myself into thinking that you were a different person.”

“Y/N-

“Get out,” you turn to the shower wall, too heartbroken to stomach the sight of him.

“Y/N, just listen to-”

“GET OUT,” he goes silent as he looks back at you from the door frame. He wants to say something but, the thought of ruining his future keeps him silent. He leaves with a look of pity for you.

“I’ll leave money for the surgery on the table by your bed,” he calls before he leaves, the door slamming pushing you to your last limit.

And, he left you there to you die in your bathtub alone, body worn from the sex you had with the man that you knew you couldn’t have emotionally. Your flowers soaked up the water as they kept falling, your eyes glued on one of the bruises he left on your leg. It’s too painful to try to move, so you lie there as your quirk does nothing against the disease. Getting the surgery would have saved you but, your body and mind would still remember the pain of your first and last love.

Per your request, Toshinori has your body cremated after they perform the autopsy. The young hero, grieving the loss of his best friend, doesn’t contact Enji to inform him of your timely death. He’s pained that he’ll never see you smile or hear your jokes or call your name and hear you respond. You're gone and part of him feels like he’s the blame. He can’t help but think that things would have turned out differently if he told Enji that he never cared about being the number one hero.

As for Enji, he doesn’t look back as he goes on to have his family. He goes on to marry his wife that he’d always compare to you (her hair wasn’t vibrant as yours, her voice wasn’t as smooth as yours, her eyes don’t set him ablaze like yours did). He goes on to have his kids and he wonders what they would look like if they came from your womb. He goes on to be the number one Pro-hero yet, he doesn’t feel like he’s won anything. He goes on to have a decent relationship with Toshinori yet, he feels as though he’s missing something -someone-.

“Toshinori, do you have Y/N’s number?” he called Toshinori one day, tired of letting his pride get the best of him. He’d grovel at your feet, stay by your side, sleep at your doorstep till you find it to forgive him.

“Enji, she’s dead.”

And, he sits in his house alone. His family has left him, their bonds slowly resurrecting from the dead but still fragile. His career being the only thing he has left, slowly showed him how truly unprofilling his life has been. His love for you, eating away at his heart. Why did he have to be better than Toshinori? Why couldn’t he tell you how much he loved you? Why did he let the both of you waste the days of your youth?

He coughs a single Asagao flower, the process of his unrequited love beginning. Because, let’s face it, how can you return his love if you’re dead?

——————————————————————————-

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@orokayagi @sakurashortstack @sinclairsamess

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bluejayblueskies · 3 years ago

Text

the before, the after, the in-between

Chapter Six: mixed reunions Words: 4.2k

Relationships: Jon & Daisy, Jon/Martin, Daisy & Basira Tags: Post-Canon, Scottish Safehouse, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Mute Jon, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies

Work Summary:

There was no knife, no blood, and Jon was not dead. And when he heard a strangled noise from beside him and looked over to see Martin standing in the doorway of the safehouse, flung open and letting in the frigid bite of near-winter and sunlight, there was sunlight, he felt such a dizzying, intense wave of relief that he could hardly breathe around it.

Then, he opened his mouth to say Martin’s name, and nothing came out, and all of the relief fell away in an instant.

Jon wakes up in the safehouse in October of 2018, alive and well but without the Eye and without his voice. In the days that follow, he finds himself confronted with a world that has reset itself in space and in time, a version of himself that is no longer the Archivist, and the fact that death during the end of the world had not been so permanent as it had seemed.

Chapter Summary:

Basira seems happy to see you, Jon writes.

Daisy exhales slowly. “Yeah. She does.”

Jon waits for her to elaborate. When she doesn’t, he sighs, taps his pen on the paper a few times, and writes, And is that a good thing or a bad thing?

Daisy stares at the page a long while. Just when Jon thinks she’s not going to answer him at all, she says, “It’s… good. Just odd. Feels… like she shouldn’t be.”

Read on Ao3 (link in source)

Or read below:

(cw for mentions of gun and knife violence, mentions of death/murder, mentions of blood)

Stars are just beginning to fill the sky when there comes a knock at the door—two crisp taps, unhurried, but with a heavy insistence that has Martin standing from the couch quickly, mumbling, “I’ll get it,” and crossing the room while Daisy and Jon watch from where they’re still sat on the couch.

“Hel—oh, yes, come in,” Martin says as he opens the door and Basira immediately pushes past, her eyes scanning the room in front of her with a firm intensity. “Nice to see you too,” he mutters as Basira’s eyes find Daisy, and a wide-eyed expression crosses her face so quickly Jon can’t pin down what it’s meant to be.

“Daisy,” Basira says, and then she’s across the room and standing in front of Daisy, hand halfway outstretched towards her. “It’s… it’s really you?”

Daisy’s hand twitches where it’s clasped in Jon’s. He gives it a subtle, reassuring squeeze. “It’s really me,” she says quietly.

Basira’s eyes scan Daisy’s face, the outline of her body, as if searching for imperfections. After a moment, her eyes find Daisy’s again and she nods, as if confirming something for herself. “Right,” she says, retracting her hand and dropping it to her side. Next to him, Jon can feel Daisy tense slightly, though her face remains carefully calm. Basira takes in a deep breath, lets it out, then steps forward and wraps her arms around Daisy’s shoulders, bending down at an awkward angle to do so.

Daisy goes rigid for a moment before softening. Her hand slips out of Jon’s as she tentatively returns the hug, her hands ghosting across Basira’s shoulder blades and her fingers tracing the hem of Basira’s hijab. Basira exhales again sharply, gripping Daisy a little tighter as she does so, and says, “I thought you were gone.” Her voice is even, but there’s a layer of desperation underneath it that makes it sound choked at the edges. Jon suddenly feels very out of place, and he tries to subtly shift towards the other end of the couch to give them space.

“I was,” Daisy says, voice muffled by the fabric of Basira’s hijab. “But now I’m not.”

Basira laughs a bit unsteadily. “Right,” she says again. “I… I wondered if you were back. Didn’t want to think about it too hard, though. Just in case.”

Daisy is quiet for a moment. Then, so quietly Jon almost doesn’t hear, she says, “I’m sorry, Basira.”

Basira grips her tightly for a moment more, then pulls back so she can study Daisy’s face. “Don’t be. You didn’t force me to do anything. I made you a promise, and I kept it. That’s just how it was.” She exhales slowly. “Besides, none of that matters now. You’re back, and that’s a good thing. God knows there’s enough that’s wrong in the world right now.”

Daisy sits very still, a strange sort of tension keeping her rigid. “You’re… not angry?”

Basira frowns. “No. It was hard, but it wasn’t… it wasn’t you, Daisy. You were trying to be better, before, but you did what you had to, and so did I. It’s just how it was; no point in being upset about it.”

Daisy looks down at a point just beneath Basira’s eyes. “Yeah. No point,” she echoes. After a moment, she says, “You’ve been… okay, then?”

Basira’s lips purse. “I’ve been managing. Finding my own way. Dealing with…” She waves her hand in the air, an encompassing gesture, and Jon doesn’t miss the way her eyes flick over to him. He’s not particularly fond of it, though he fights back the scowl. “It’s been a mess.”

“You said it’s been bad,” Martin says, coming up behind the couch with four mugs of tea carefully balanced in his hands. He passes the first one to Jon with a thin-lipped smile, then to Daisy and Basira in turn. “What does that mean?”

Basira sighs and blows across the surface of her tea in an attempt to cool it. “Well, after you… reset the world? Which we’re going to have a long conversation about, by the way.” She looks pointedly at Jon, who looks pointedly back and takes a sip of his tea to hide his glower. He’s still a bit irritated about the whole… group decision situation. Maybe more than a bit. “I woke up in the Institute, still sitting at the same bloody desk I’d been working at when everything went to hell. I knew something was off straight away, because that feeling of being watched? It just wasn’t there. Didn’t matter how, didn’t matter why—it just wasn’t. So I assumed that the plan worked and the Fears were gone, but I didn’t know yet that we’d been thrown back in time or whatever. Got up and started looking around, trying to figure out where Georgie and Melanie went. Yeah, it was weird that everything looked the same, but I’d seen weirder.”

Basira takes a long sip of her tea. Out of the corner of his eye, Jon sees Daisy shift, setting her still-full mug on the side table and tapping her fingers on her thigh in a rhythmic pattern. He thinks, for a moment, about reaching out, but instead, he just curls his fingers tighter around his own mug. “The place was pretty empty,” Basira says finally. “Before the change, the blood and stuff was all cleaned up about a week after that last attack on the Institute, and then it was just me and a few others. Rosie, a couple of people from Artefact Storage. The people who’d survived and who weren’t smart enough to just… stay away. Rosie was still at her desk. She looked like she’d seen… well. She looked like she’d seen what the rest of us had seen. And…”

Basira exhales slowly, and for the first time, she looks… hesitant. Like she’s not sure she should continue. After a moment, Martin says, “And what, Basira?”

Basira looks down into her tea, her jaw set. “And him. Elias. Jonah. Whatever. Just… sitting behind his desk when I opened the door to his office. Like nothing had even fucking happened.”

A shock of something simultaneously icy cold and red-hot laces up Jon’s spine, and he nearly drops his mug. He looks at Basira with wide eyes, even as he thinks that it makes sense, of course it makes sense, everyone who died while the world was wrong came back, of course he would too, why would it be any different. He remembers the sensation of the knife tearing its way through Jonah’s throat, the heat of the blood as it had dripped down his hands and wrists, tries to juxtapose the image of Jonah lying dead on the Panopticon floor with the image of him sitting alive and well and breathing behind his desk once again, and feels sick. He doesn’t realize he’s been holding his breath until the exhalation rips its way harshly out of his throat like it’s been punched out of him. He barely feels Daisy’s hand as it wraps around his, barely feels it as she takes the mug of tea from him and settles it on the floor so it won’t spill. He registers the brush of another hand against his arm, and he hears Martin’s voice from beside him, saying with concern, “Jon? Breathe, love. It’s all right, just breathe.” Then, to Basira: “Christ. He’s alive?”

“Was alive,” Basira corrects, and just like that, all of the air crashes back into Jon’s lungs and he takes a deep, rattling breath, his eyes focusing on her face as it twists into something that might be called a smile if one were being generous with the definition. “I… I didn’t really think. Just pulled my gun and pointed it at him. No Eye, no contract. No reason not to kill him. I wasn’t planning to shoot him, not really, but then he started rambling about- about apotheosis and failure and second chances, trying to convince me that there was no need to be hasty, that we could work something out. Called me Detective again. Just the same slimy bullshit, but without all the bravado and without the collateral.” Basira sighs and looks up from her tea, glancing at Jon with something unreadable on her face. “Melanie was pissed that I didn’t let her stab him.”

Jon makes a choked noise that he thinks, after a moment, might be a laugh. It’s devoid of any amusement, though, and might be bordering on hysterical. Beside him, Martin says quietly, “Shit. Well, uh. That’s… that’s good, at least?”

Basira grimaces. “Sure. It’s great that the bastard’s dead—again, I guess, assuming that you did kill him before everything went back to normal—but things are still a disaster back in London. I’ve been trying to keep them from tearing down the whole Institute, though don’t ask me why I even care about the place after all this. People are angry.” Basira taps her fingers on her thigh in thought. “It’s… probably for the best that you guys ended up out here, actually. Things haven’t been good for the people in charge of domains. They got ahold of Simon Fairchild, and it… it wasn’t pretty. There’s been some chatter about leniency towards the less actively malicious former avatars—I think that came up after they found Callum, actually, which… yeah, that’s a whole thing—but…”

Basira shrugs. But people wouldn’t be so forgiving towards the person who ended the world, Jon thinks with a wry, twisting feeling in his stomach. He fiddles with the notebook where it sits on his lap, but he doesn’t open it. After a moment, Basira continues, “So that’s the state of things, basically. Even though everything’s technically fixed, there’s still a lot of damage, and Georgie, Melanie, and I have been handling it as best we can. Though I think Melanie’s of the opinion that we should just let the entire Institute burn. She’s probably right, but…” Basira shrugs. “It’s just a building full of scary stories now. Might be able to make some use out of it.”

“Right,” Martin says with a sigh. “That’s… a lot.”

“Yeah,” Basira says, sounding weary. “It’s… it’s nice to have a break. To just appreciate the fact that everything’s better now, you know?”

Better for us, Jon thinks bitterly, and he can feel the edges of his mouth twitching into a scowl that he forcibly represses. He doesn’t think pointing out that they’ve condemned an infinity of other worlds to suffering for their own peace of mind would be beneficial, given they’ve already driven that argument into the ground and then some. Besides, he thinks as he rubs his thumb over the spine of the notebook, that would require him to open the notebook and writing it down, and Basira doesn’t know about his voice yet. He’s too tired to hear whatever surface-level pity she might be able to conjure up for him.

“I’ve missed you, Daisy,” Basira says, an increased vigor in her voice as she turns to face Daisy. She looks like she wants to reach a hand out towards her, but she doesn’t. “It’s been… hard. Being alone with all of this. I’ve had Melanie and Georgie, but I… I could use my partner.”

Daisy stares at her for a long moment. When she speaks, her voice is slightly more hoarse than usual. “You want me to come back to London with you.”

Basira nods, a slight frown forming on her face. “Do you… not want to?”

Daisy is quiet for a long moment. Her eyes stare down at the floor, focusing on nothing at all. “I don’t know,” she says finally, the words tense and choked, like the honesty of them pains her. “I… I need to think.”

Basira watches her for a few seconds, something stiff and rigid on her face. “All right,” she says at length, a touch of surprise and resignation lacing her voice. “That’s fine. I can’t stay past tomorrow, though—I have to get back and deal with what’s going on back in London. If you don’t want to…” Basira’s mouth flattens into a line. “It’s fine. I’ll understand.”

“It’s not—” Daisy cuts off with a frustrated noise, almost a growl. “I just need to think.”

“All right,” Basira says again, more placating this time. “I… won’t rush you.”

It’s quiet in the room for a long moment. Finally, as if at a loss for anything else to say and falling back on instinct, Martin offers a tentative, “Would… anybody like something to eat? You’ve been traveling all day, Basira, I don’t know if you’re… er, hungry or not.”

Basira stares at Daisy a moment more. Then, she sighs and says, “Sure, why not.”

“Great!” Martin says, sounding relieved. “Let me just… I’ll see what we’ve got that’s quick.”

He stands, and Basira stands in tandem with him. “I’ll help,” she says. “I’ve got some… things I want to talk to you about. And then after we eat, we’re going to discuss…” She gestures in the general vicinity of Jon and Martin. “Everything.”

Jon curls in on himself slightly. Martin just sighs and says, “Come on, then.” They disappear into the kitchen, and then Jon is left with Daisy on the couch, the faint clatter of cupboards opening and dishes rattling settling into the background.

Now that they’re alone, Jon reaches over and bumps his hand against Daisy’s, a silent question. When she turns her hand over, he takes it in his, threading their fingers together and squeezing firmly. With his other hand, he awkwardly flips the notebook open, ignoring Daisy’s sound of amusement as he clumsily takes his pen in hand and balances the notebook at the same time, and writes, Are you okay?

Daisy pauses for a few seconds before responding. “Yeah,” she says simply.

Jon waits for her to elaborate. When it becomes clear that she’s not going to, he writes, Basira seems happy to see you.

Daisy exhales slowly. “Yeah. She does.”

Again, Jon waits for her to elaborate. When she doesn’t, he sighs, taps his pen on the paper a few times, and writes, And is that a good thing or a bad thing?

Daisy stares at the page a long while. Just when Jon thinks she’s not going to answer him at all, she says, “It’s… good. Just odd. Feels… like she shouldn’t be.”

Jon raises an eyebrow and gives her hand another gentle squeeze. After a moment, Daisy continues, “Even after the coffin, there had been this… weight, between us. I knew she was glad I was back, but I could also tell she was disappointed. She tried to hide it but, heh, she’s always been easy to read for me. She wanted the person I was before, and I knew that, deep down, she was frustrated that I wasn’t that person anymore. I was never… angry with her about it. I understood. Basira’s practical, always likes to have the upper hand. And me choosing to ignore the Hunt… it wasn’t practical. Not for her. She was happy to see me, but she also wished it was a different me. It just… feels weird that it’s not the same now. I’m different, and Basira doesn’t like different. She doesn’t like change.”

There’s been a lot of change lately, Jon writes. Then, while Daisy’s reading his words, he continues, She went through a lot after you were gone. With everything that’s happened, the world the way it is, I

Jon pauses, and Daisy waits as he taps the pen on the paper, leaving little half-formed dots of ink where it makes contact. After a moment, he sighs and finishes, I think she’s just glad that you’re back. Whatever version of yourself that may be.

Daisy looks towards the kitchen. There’s the gentle murmur of voices, too quiet to make out any words above the sound of things sizzling in pots and pans. “Maybe. I… don’t know.” There’s a pause, and then she says, quieter, “Maybe she’s just glad that I’m not a monster anymore.”

When Jon goes to write, she squeezes the hand of his she’s still holding tighter, shaking her head. “Don’t. It’s… complicated.” She’s quiet for a long moment, looking away from Jon and focusing on the faint light streaming in from the kitchen. “The parts of me that she valued the most,” she says at length, “the ones that made me a good partner, that made me strong—they were all that was left by the time she found me after the change. They were all Hunt. And I knew when she looked at me, when she pointed her gun at me, that she saw me. Not the Hunt, not some… monster. Me. But I don’t… know if she believes that it was really me.”

Daisy grimaces, like she’s not happy with the words. Carefully, giving Daisy time to stop him if she wants, Jon writes, You don’t know if she accepts that all the worst parts of yourself are still yours.

Daisy is quiet for a moment. “Something like that,” she says finally. “She… she said it wasn’t me. That the person she hunted through the apocalypse wasn’t me. And I don’t know how I’m supposed to tell her that it was. That it is. It feels like…” Daisy blows out a breath. “Basira’s good at compartmentalizing. It makes her a good partner, a good… hunter. But if I go with her to London, and she just… puts everything that happened during the change behind us, I don’t think things are going to last.” Daisy huffs out a laugh. “She’s stubborn. I like that about her. Can also make things… difficult.”

Jon laughs through his nose and writes, Yeah, Martin’s like that too sometimes. He hesitates, then continues, So what do you want to do?

Daisy studies his face for a moment. “What do you want me to do?” At his look of surprise, she continues, “I can see it on your face. You have an opinion, so just… spit it out. Write it down. Whatever.”

Jon scowls. I do not, he begins to write, before his hand stills, leaving the sentence incomplete. He takes a deep breath, exhales, and scratches the words out with a bit more force than is strictly necessary. Next to them, he writes in thick, dark lines, I want you to stay. Then, quickly after: But you should go with Basira.

Daisy reads the words and hums. “Why?”

Because she’s your partner, Jon writes, irritation and a strange sort of sadness mixing in him and twisting his lips into a grimace, and because she needs

“I meant,” Daisy says, bumping her knee against Jon’s to cut him off, “why do you want me to stay?”

Jon blinks at her, surprised. He looks down at the paper, holds the pen tightly for a moment, and then writes in careful, neat letters, Because I like you. Does there have to be another reason?

Daisy hums and, after a moment, shakes her head. “No. I guess not.” She bumps her knee against Jon’s again, a bit firmer this time. “Thanks. But you’re wrong, you know. About Basira.” Daisy looks at the kitchen again, where the sizzling has stopped and there’s the faint clattering of dishes. “She doesn’t need me. She’d be fine without me. Always has been.” She sighs. “And so would you.”

Jon nods and squeezes her hand. I know, he writes.

Daisy sighs again, leans her head back against the couch. “I think,” she says after a moment, “that… I have to do what’s right for me. Not me and Basira, just… just me.”

Jon is about to ask what that entails when Martin’s voice floats over from the kitchen, telling them that the food’s ready. Daisy doesn’t say anything more as she stands, snorting softly as her maintained grip on Jon’s hand pulls him to his feet as well, and together, they head into the kitchen.

The first half of the meal is spent in relative quiet. Basira keeps shooting looks at Martin, who returns her gaze with something firm and unyielding. Jon shifts in his chair and nibbles on his cheese toastie, trying very hard not to grab his pen and start tapping it on the table just to fill the tense, awkward silence between them all. Finally, Basira finishes her sandwich, looks at Martin again, sighs, and says, “Martin filled me in on what happened.” Then, at Martin’s glare: “What? I’m not talking about it. I’m just… acknowledging it.”

“Good,” Martin says, pinching his toastie just a bit too firmly between his fingers. “Because there’s not much to talk about. Which is why we agreed not to talk about it.”

Irritation washes over Jon, and he tries to squash it down. He can’t help the way his knee starts bouncing under the table though, and he takes a sullen bite of his toastie. Not much to talk about. Sure. For a moment, he entertains the thought of dropping the sandwich unceremoniously, grabbing his notebook, and scribbling out, Thanks for asking for my input before telling Basira your version of events and saying that there’s nothing to talk about, but he pushes the thought away and takes another, bigger bite to distract himself. It’s fine. Martin’s… Martin’s right, it’s not the time.

(He’s still upset that he didn’t even get the slightest say in the matter. It’s fine.)

Rationally, Jon knows that Martin is just trying to avoid what would probably turn out to be a long, spiraling, extremely upsetting conversation-turned-argument. Irrationally, he wants to push the words we’ve condemned a thousand realities to hell; are you happy now? into Basira’s face and watch her try to defend herself. Was it worth it? he wants to ask. Was it fucking worth it, just so you can have your happy ending?

He doesn’t ask. He knows what her answer will be, and he doesn’t want to hear it right now.

It’s fine.

“So,” Basira says, not so much breaking through his thoughts as driving a battering ram through them, “the Fears are gone. For good. And they took your voice with them.”

“Basira,” Martin hisses.

“Just making sure I’ve got all of my bases covered,” Basira says defensively.

Jon glares at his plate. He sets his sandwich down, suddenly no longer hungry. He takes a deep breath, looks up at Basira, and nods. His fingers itch towards his notebook; he keeps them still.

“Hm.” Basira taps a single finger on the edge of her plate. “That… that makes sense, I guess. What with Annabelle’s whole… thing.”

Jon’s stomach squeezes. Throat tight, he nods again, looking away. His eyes land on Daisy, who’s sitting beside him and watching Basira with something unreadable on her face. Her toastie is sitting on her plate in front of her, completely untouched. Then, stiffly, as if preparing herself for a difficult truth, Daisy says, “I... know a little bit of BSL. Picked it up back when I was still a PC. It’s not much, but… it’s something.”

Basira looks at Daisy, her finger stilling on the side of her plate. When she speaks again, it’s quiet, and she doesn’t sound surprised. “You’re not coming with me, then.”

“Sorry,” Daisy says roughly. “Just… need a bit of time. Soon, I promise, just…”

“… just not now,” Basira finishes. “It’s… all right. I understand. Honestly, with things the way that they are out there right now, it… it might be for the best. Just until things settle down.”

“Yeah.” Daisy picks at the edge of her toastie. “You’ll… be safe, though?”

Basira takes a deep breath, and when she lets it out, her lips settle into a smile, thin and bordering on humorless but still warm in its own way. “Always am.”

Daisy laughs a little, just an exhalation of air through her nose. “Right.”

It becomes clear that none of them plan to eat more, so Martin and Jon clear the plates and stack them in the sink while Daisy and Basira sit at the table. Basira says some things to Daisy in hushed tones, and Daisy responds under her breath, and Jon takes wet dishes from Martin and wipes them down with a towel and stares out the window into the darkened sky and focuses on the sensation of cloth under his fingertips so he doesn’t lose himself in the inky black swirling thoughts that are threatening to drag him down.

“Hey,” Martin says quietly by his side, letting their fingers brush as he hands him another dish. “You all right?”

No is probably the honest answer. Jon is sure that Martin can see it on his face even as he nods and busies himself drying the plate in his hands. To his eternal gratitude, Martin doesn’t push, even as his mouth flattens and he continues scrubbing the dishes in the sink with careful, methodical motions. Jon is sure that, at some point, something will crack and Martin will push. Push until it all breaks and shatters and crumbles into a million tiny, sharp pieces. But for now, Jon dries dishes and scratches his thoughts into the back pages of his notebook where they’ve begun to pile up into messy tangles of words and emotions and focuses on the fact that, when Basira leaves in the morning, Daisy will still be here.

That, for now, he thinks, will have to be enough.

#tma #the magnus archives #jaisy week #jonathan sims #daisy tonner #basira hussain #martin blackwood #my writing #my fic #before tag #4.2k... how did this chapter get so long ;___;

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khaleesiofalicante · 3 years ago

Note

Yeah, here I am once again. Appearing after the chaos I created 😂 but OMG WE HAVE ONLY ONE CHAPTER LEFT?? AND THEN THERE COMES THE ANGST?? I'M READY😎

I'm glad to inform you I finished the homework and I have only two assignments and two exams left that I will today :)) It was like:

Me: Maybe I should do this tomorrow??

Brain: But what about Dani?? And the chapter??

Me: Fuck, you are right, I need to do this :(

But anyways, here I am:

"He had been woken up by music, by love, by violence and by nightmares. And out of all those times, out of all those centuries, this was easily his favourite way to wake up." just the beginning and I'm having lots of feels🥺🥺

“Happy anniversary,” Magnus grinned against the other man’s mouth. “Happy anniversary,” Alec whispered. Fifteen years.Fifteen years since Alec Lightwood loved one man so much that he had changed the world for him." 15 YEARS? HRJWKDJDJ LOVE THEM💙

"Magnus understood why his son was acting all over the place. The boy was supposed to take up the position of Consul after Alec" *singing "Oh baby, no baby, you got it all wrong baby" *

"Next thing he knew, Alec was on top of him. His mouth was on Magnus. Where, exactly, Magnus didn’t notice – or care. He liked Alec everywhere." OH WELL, THAT ESCALATED QUICKLY! 😏

"Not the kind of banging he had hoped to start the day with to be honest." OH god😂😂 I love this man. He is the bane of my existence!” (I just- The puns are killing me 😂)

“It might be karma, darling,” (He got a point. Karma is a bitch)

“Since when do you have a problem with excessive glitter?” (Yeah Alec, Your excuses are getting worst 😂)

"You better do it, or I will tell everyone about your secret" YOU LITTLE SHIT!

"That child is the reincarnation of Christopher Lightwood!” 😂😂 i literally scared my dog cause I laughed so hard!!

"There were whispers and rumours all over the shadow world that Angel Raziel had given up on Alec’s Clave." OH THE FUCK NO!! I SWEAR I WILL THROW SOME HANDS AT HEAVEN!! "Because if Magnus found out Raziel was the one causing all this pain for Alec, he would march up to heaven and set the bastard on fire himself." FUCK YEAH. I'M COMING WITH YOU!! 🔪 🔪

“Livia Blackthorn had been listening through the Idris wards to gather pieces of information that might be crucial for Alec’s Council.” I KNEW IT. I KNEW IT WAS LIVVY!!

Selena is Ragnor’s favorite!!! I LOVE IT

“The shadowhunter was a good influence on him. Magnus hoped Alec would see it sooner rather than later.”😂😂 You love him Alec and you know it!!

“She walked over to Magnus and hugged him tightly. And he sensed it immediately. The second heartbeat.” What?? WHAT??? I ALMOST SCREAMED. OMG. OMG

“Magnus stared at the necklace. The necklace he had bought in the 19th century for Camille. The necklace that had ended up in the hands of Will Herondale and then his sister. The necklace that had belonged to the Lightwood family for generations.” OMG SHE IS GIVING HIM THE LIGHTWOOD NECKLACE!!! THAT THING LITERALLY COMPLETE THE CIRCLE. BELONGED TO MAGNUS, CAMILLE, WILL, CECILY, ALL THE LIGHTWOODS AND THE MAGNU’S SON!!

I'm freaking out now because Izzy doesn't know??? Or maybe she does???And it's waiting to tell them?? I feel like a worried parent!!!

“But he knew it was all part of growing up. He would never pressure them to talk about their feelings or force them to make themselves vulnerable. All he could do was be there for them when they were ready to let it all out. “Do you want to tell me about it?” Magnus asked. He tried. Just in case.” What do I see here? Parenting doing right💙💙

“If you want love, you must be willing to accept the vulnerability that comes with it.” I just. This man gives the best advice ever!!

“I’ll try,” Rafael promised. “I don’t like lying.” “I know,” Magnus smiled. “So much like your dad.” But Alec did lie though. Magnus pushed the thought away. (Why is this such a rollercoaster??)

“His children were so much like his husband that sometimes it made Magnus wonder if they needed him at all. It was a ridiculous thought of course. But it stilled swam around his head. Sometimes a part of him thought it would be better if Alec had been the one to stay back and Magnus was the one to leave. The kids would be better off with Alec, his mind said. He always knew what to do with them.” IT'S NOT OK TO MAKE ME CRY WHEN I HAVE AN EXAM IN 3 MINUTES!!

Back from my exam 😂😂 And don’t worry. Just got one mistake :))

“Max of course was wearing a white t-shirt and jeans. His regular look. But just below the pearl necklace wrapped around his neck was the Lightwood necklace.” YES. MAX WEARING THE LIGHTWOOD NECKLACE!!

“Alec walked out of their bedroom a moment later, and Magnus quite literally felt his heart stutter. Fifteen years. Fifteen years of loving and Alec still made his heart stutter.” They are the reason I believe in love💙💙

“If Magnus wasn’t wrong, he could see the thin layer of kohl under Alec’s blue eyes. Alec rarely enjoyed wearing makeup. But he rarely enjoyed saying no to children too. Magnus threw Rafael a grateful smile and the boy winked back.” Magnus and Rafael getting Alec to wear makeup is my will to live 😂😂

“The words died on Alec’s lips when his eyes fell on Magnus. The man sighed as he stared at Magnus. Fifteen years. Fifteen years and Magnus still took Alec’s breath away.” Jagcydwjendieu I’m emo

What?” Magnus asked coyly. “Is it too much?” “You know damn well it’s not,” Alec hissed and pulled Magnus towards him. “You look perfect. How do you look so perfect?” “Because I am standing next to you,” Magnus smiled.( They bad/perfect flirting it's just *chef kiss*)

“Bapak is a good looking one in the family,” Rafael pointed out. “You are the chaotic one and I am the smart one.” “What am I then?” Alec asked dryly. “A sack of potatoes?” “You’re the sexy one,” Magnus grinned. “A sexy sack of potatoes.” (THAT FAMILY IS KILLING ME IN THE GOOD WAY💙💙)

Magnus nudged Rafael on the back. The boy sighed and walked to his brother. “Come,” he took Max’s hand and led him to his bedroom. “Let’s find you something nice to wear, okay?” Max mumbled again but followed Rafael anyway. (I just can’t with all the love this family has!!!)

“Nope,” Alec said. “They are stuck with me.” “And you’re stuck with me,” Magnus replied. “I wouldn’t be anywhere else, Magnus,” Alec randomly speaks poetry… And he says he is not good with words??

“Selena was wearing a blue crop top with the words “MIND YOUR OWN UTEREUS” written in gold. David was in a simple sky-blue t-shirt, the colour of Max’s magic.” OK BUT THEM?? THEY’RE BEAUTIFUL

“Max hadn't changed his clothes. But he was wearing a blue leather jacket that belonged to Rafael. He looked happy about it.” I said it once and I will say it again. They are the definition of siblings

NO!! IT'S TIME FOR THE TOAST. I’M GOING TO CRY!!

"To Alec and Magnus - for being themselves and inspiring everyone else to do the same." CHEERS TO THAT BRO!!

“Isabelle,” Magnus called gently. “Let’s go easy on the champagne tonight, yes?” YES IZZY. I’M WORRIED ABOUT YOU AND YOU NEED TO REST AND BE PROTECTED OK? OK

“The argument of “who gave the best gift” had started when Jace and Izzy had gotten drunk on vodka. It didn’t help that Alec had gotten drunk as well. All three Lightwood siblings had then proceeded to have an argument about who had the best spouse. The whole night had been drunken chaos. “

“So, Magnus had let his husband be that 18-year-old boy again. The boy who got drunk and fought with his siblings and sang songs about Magnus’ pretty eyes” 💙💙💙💙 This is just to pure

Ok, I feel like this is the chapter of the snippet from a long time ago. The one of Alec and Magnus in the closet while Mavid were talking, but I’m not sure

Why couldn’t this boy just cause chaos during his travel year like the rest of them? Why did he actually study and do his research as recommended?😂😂LMAOO

“Magnus didn’t know why. But the room suddenly felt rather hot. Poor David noticed his discomfort and came to his rescue. But unfortunately, the rescue attempt only made it worse” David, I love you with all my entire heart, but seriously??

DANI, NO! We have already been through this!! I have trauma out of this!!

OK, ok. It could have been worst

“But the time for talking was done. They were living it now.” I SWEAR I’M NOT CRYING!!

“Afraid of what?” Magnus asked. “I’m afraid you won’t find me attractive,” Alec said so quietly that Magnus barely heard it (MY HEART!!)

“But death is so much better than this. It’s so much better than waiting for the day you look at me and I no longer see that spark in your eyes.” THIS. THIS WAS THE DEAD OF ME

Fuck, i have an exam in 5 minutes and now I’m crying

Finally out of the exam 😂 This teacher literally asks us a question from the guidebook and if it's not 100% what it said there, then we fail

But going back to this HOLY SHIT I LOVE MAGNUS!!

“Did something say something to you?” Jace demanded, standing up angrily. “Because I swear by the angel-” “Nobody said anything, Jace!” Alec rolled his eyes. “I own a mirror!” “And is this mirror broken or something?” Isabelle asked incredulously. “Alec, honestly!” (I BELIEVE IN LIGHTWOOD SIBLINGS SUPREMACY!!)

“Yeah, man!” Simon nodded. “You are objectively good looking.” “Objectively good looking?” Jace snorted. “Excuse you, but my parabatai is smoking hot! He is a freaking prize, okay? If we had a magazine for hot shadowhunters, you would be on the cover page. Every single issue.” “Okay, that’s enough!” Alec interrupted. “Magnus, are you happy? Now all my friends have told me I am pretty.” “I said smoking hot,” Jace corrected. (*Sighs* I fucking love parabatai)

“Dad, I don’t know why you are so worried,” Max said in a bored tone. “You’re a total DILF.” David choked on his champagne and Jace patted him on the back. I’m dying jajdhuwejdjkew😂😂

“It means Dashing and Irresistible Looking Father” Singing again *Oh baby, no baby, you got it all wrong baby* Idk when this turned from Alec feeling self conscious to Thirsting Over Alec Lightwood-Bane but I’m here for it. Seriously. My mom is in front of me. She thinks and doing homework. And I’m just trying to keep a straight face (so hard) This is not working. I’m about to scream😂😂

2I can’t understand how you could look at yourself and not see what I see.”

“They stared at the picture on Max’s wall. The picture of Max and Rafael grinning ear to ear when they had visited Peru to piss Magnus off.” THOSE LIL SHITS!

tiEvery me they call each other baby my skin clears and i have three more years of life

“No,” Magnus managed a smile. “Sometimes things are just sad. So, you need to let yourself be sad.” 💙💙

“It’s Max!” Alec said. “We have to hide!" “Hide? This is our home!” (OH BOY😂😂)

I KNEW THIS WAS GOING TO HAVE THE SCENE!! “When I die, I will love you from my grave,” David said now. “I will love you from heaven.” WHY DO THEY ALL SPEAK POETRY?

Don’t let him go, Magnus whispered to Max inside his heart. Don’t ever let him get away.” MAVID IS JUST SO FUCKING BEAUTIFUL!

“He wondered how strong a person must be to not give up on guardian angels and the idea of heaven after being dragged through hell by his demon of a father.” My boy is strong af

“I don’t believe in angels or heaven,” Alec said then. “But I feel blessed to be loved by you too.” Magnus smiled against Alec’s neck. “Stop stealing David’s dialogues.”💙💙 I have said this to much but I love them

“For the rest of the night, they danced and laughed and drank and smiled. Of course, there was the sadness of time hanging over their heads. But they ignored it. They focused on the love in front of them.” These lines are just amazing

“And sorry,” David said quickly. “I apologize if I said something out of turn before. I didn’t mean to cause any trouble-” BOY COULD YOU STOP BEING PERFECT??

“For what it’s worth, I don’t think it matters who you brought the necklace for,” David said, his blue eyes on Magnus. “Everything you do is out of love, Mr. Lightwood-Bane. And I think that’s beautiful.” EVEN MAGNUS STAY SPEECHLESS!!

“That’s not what I meant,” Jace shook his head. “David and Max. A shadowhunter and a warlock. They are together. They are happy. That’s cause of you, Alec. You and Magnus did that.” Magnus smiled at this husband. “Listen to your parabatai. He gets wise so very rarely.” YES THEY DID. I’M SO FUCKING PROUD!

“But he did it now. For Alec. Because Alexander Lightwood always has been and always will be his only exception.” The Malec feelings I’m getting from this are to much

“Magnus smiled. “How do I look?” “Immaculate,” Alec whispered. In the mirror, Magnus could see himself. His dark hair was woven with strands of gray. He had wrinkles on his face, just around the eyes. When Magnus smiled, his eyes crinkled.” OMG OMG!! I’M CRYING

“Magnus took Alec’s hand in his and put it over his heart. “Promise me you will stop smoking.” THANK YOU MAGNUS. LITERALLY THANK YOU!!

“I don’t care how they look at me. I care how you look at me," Alec smiled softly. "Because I only ever look back at you, Magnus.” Alec says these things like they aren’t worth a museum

I would never tell you what to do with your body, Alexander. But-” “Well, you tell me sometimes,” Alec snickered against his mouth. “Stop making jokes to avoid serious conversations,” Magnus slapped his husband on the arm. “That’s my thing.”😂😂

“Magnus stayed awake that night. He stayed awake and told his brain to cherish every single memory from tonight. That’s how Magnus spent every night. He would stay awake and ask his mind to remember.” THIS IS SO BEAUTIFUL AND ACCURATE I ACTUALLY FORGET ITS NOT CANON

“And then he dreamt.In his dream, he saw them again. But they weren’t smiling this time.” :) Seriously?? SERIOUSLY? I’M SO DONE, YET I’M STILL HERE??

Ugh this was so beautiful i just can- I closed Tumblr so I didn’t get spoiled 😂 Amazing as always and I’m just going to have Malec feels for the rest of the day.

P.s. I was listening to One Last Time by LP and got even more emo 💙💙

This whole thing me so emo wtf 😭😭😭

I love your reactions so much 🥺🥺🥺

Also you reading fanfiction minutes before the exam is such a big dick move istg never change bro 😎

#lbaf

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coldmorte · 3 years ago

Note

Hey! I really really like your blog and all the Dutch content, and I read your posts on Molly and Dutch and I just felt like sharing my thoughts :) If you don’t feel like it, just ignore this

I like Molly, even though I agree that she’s very much a snob and very paranoid at times.

It’s always felt very clear to me that Molly really, truly loves Dutch. And love makes you do stupid, desperate things (just look at Arthur).

Molly’s interaction with Abigail is about Dutch’s love for Molly, not the other way around. It’s Abigail saying that Dutch doesn’t love her and Molly lashing out (probably to protect herself from the truth).

This is brought up again in An Honest Mistake, when she talks to Arthur about Dutch, questioning how Dutch seems to him. When Molly says, “I really love him, you know,” Arthur averts his eyes and doesn’t look at her. I’ve always seen this as Arthur knowing Dutch doesn’t love her in the way Molly wants him to, if he loves her at all.

I’ve always seen Dutch as being kind of ahead of his time when it comes to certain progressive ideas (especially as it pertains to race), but when it comes to women, he’s very much a product of his his time. The way he talks about them and to/at them, whether it’s Molly or Abigail or Mary-Beth or Sadie, is often either dismissive or condescending.

While he doesn’t outright say it, the way he acts around the women at camp has always left me feeling like he prefers women (at least the ones he takes an actual interest in) to fit into the roles society has carved out for them; they have to be beautiful and docile and romantic-minded for him to take an interest.

You’ve said yourself, that Dutch deals with a lot of self doubt and that stems from wanting to be seen as a great and powerful man, who the people in camp can look up to, and women (especially young women) were (and to some degree stil is) seen as symbols of status. Molly is a beautiful woman from a wealthy family; she could have anyone she wanted, and she chose Dutch and ran away with him, leaving her old life behind – that’s the ultimate powermove on Dutch’s part.

I’ve always thought of Dutch as a romantic, the way he talks about love and how it’s the one thing worth living for, and I believe that he may have at some point actually loved Molly or at least convinced himself that he did, but the second he grows tired of her and realises that he doesn’t actually love her, he’s moving on to another, younger woman.

His inner romantic and his ego and need to be perceived as powerful are at odds with each other, and as the game progresses we see how his romantic and kind side wilt under the weight and pressure of his responsibilities as a leader and his need to be perceived as powerful and a great leader.

Those are my thoughts at least :)

Hello!

Thank you for the ask and the kind words! That really does mean a lot!! 💜💜💜

I am very grateful for your message, and no!!!! I don’t want to ignore it!! That wouldn’t be very fair of me, as I feel like you bring up some good points to discuss. Also, I appreciate the respect in your message and for taking the time to write so much out! I’d be happy to give you some of my time in return 🥰

(Warning: SPOILERS below)

I’m going to take your points one at a time here. So, starting with liking Molly, it’s totally fine! I don’t want to be too negative on my blog, and I don’t want people to feel like they have to think the same way I do. That wouldn’t be any fun, so it does make me happy that you can enjoy her character. I don’t want to take that away from you!! By all means, love her to your heart's content!!! ❤️

Furthermore, though I don’t personally like Molly, I don’t think she was a truly bad person. Just like every other character in the game, she had flaws and made mistakes. I primarily wish I could have gotten to know her better because she was presented during a very dark time in her life. I feel like this affected my perception of her, and I might have seen her differently, if I had gotten the chance to interact more with her character (especially outside of the RDR2 timeframe). Everybody deserves not only to love somebody, but everybody also deserves to have faith that the person they love can truthfully say the same back to them. I felt bad that Molly died such an unhappy, loveless death.

About the love Molly had for Dutch, I agree that she loved him. My point in bringing up infatuation was to primarily highlight the reason and the degree to which she honestly loved him. Did Molly love Dutch for the man he was, or for the idea of the man he was? Maybe, it was a mix? I am not sure there is enough information to give a conclusive answer to this (as I somewhat mentioned before).

To be fair, the same thing could (and should) be asked of Dutch. Did he truly love her, or did he just love the idea of having her at his side? Again, it would be fascinating to see the early part of their relationship. It would answer a LOT of questions. You mention that Dutch arguably saw Molly as a symbol of status, and I agree that it was very plausible. I think, to some degree, both Molly and Dutch saw each other as being favorable for what they represented, unfortunately.

In regard to the interaction between Molly and Abigail, I realize my response was unclear about this (that’s my bad). I'll try to write it better here, but this is really complicated to put into words! I'll do my best!!

What I said was that Molly got angry at people she “perceived” as challenging her love (this was subjective to her POV and not necessarily reflective of true reality). My original answer was not objective (nor was it meant to be - I was trying to write this part from her POV), and there are a few layers I want to analyze here. First of all, from an objective perspective, you are correct. The conversation between them was ultimately about Dutch not loving Molly the way she wanted to be loved. However, the first thing Molly did was state to Abigail that she loved Dutch. If she didn’t see this point as being in question, why did she feel the need to immediately justify it before saying anything else? To me, it seemed like she needed to actively prove that she loved him to others.

This was also seen with Karen and Arthur. The conversations with Karen were confusing because they didn’t have much context, but perhaps, that was the point - to show the extent of Molly’s paranoia (in other words, that there was no context and that she was imagining Karen to be against her out of insecurity). Molly continually complained that Karen said bad things about her, and she insisted that she not only loved Dutch, but that he loved her as well. Then, as you mention, Molly emphasized to Arthur that SHE loved Dutch (it was not directly about his love for her). Again, by constantly having to profess her feelings, it was as if she thought people were doubting her on some level.

But here is where the contradiction comes in - I believe that Molly was smart enough to know that this doubting wasn't entirely genuine. She knew it was never really her love that she should have been concerned about. Although, by focusing on herself, it was a way to deflect from her insecurity regarding Dutch and the fact that she knew, deep down, he didn’t truly love her (at least, not anymore). That’s why she got so upset when Abigail, for instance, brought this point up. As soon as the conversation shifted from Molly’s love to Dutch’s love, she lashed out and stormed away.

So, to try to summarize this all up, what I am trying to say is that Molly “perceived” challenges to her own state of emotions as a means of shifting away from her concerns about Dutch’s feelings. She knew her "perceptions" were really more like lies to herself. Molly wanted the conversation with Abigail to seem like it was about her because she felt she was more in control of that and could handle it better. From a neutral perspective, the conversation was definitely not about Molly - it was entirely about Dutch, which Molly knew (she just didn’t like Abigail directly pointing it). I hope my response makes more sense? Sorry, if I am still being confusing!

Now, as for Dutch and his progressive ideas, I think a lot of them were formed in his youth. Little information was given about his childhood, but he did seem pretty sensitive about the fact that he grew up fatherless. His dad died in the Civil War (a conflict primarily centered around the issue of slavery and states’ attitudes towards it), while fighting on the side of the Union. One reason Dutch was probably so progressive in regard to race was because of his anger over losing a parent to racially-motivated violence. Racism seemed like a waste of time and life, so he was bitter towards people who still harbored racist sentiments. He knew firsthand how destructive they could be.

Minimal insight was provided into Dutch’s relationship with his mother, other than the fact that it was quite strained and unhappy. He left home at a young age and essentially disowned her. He obviously didn’t keep in touch with her, judging that he didn’t even know she died until years after the fact. Could this have affected his attitude later in life (towards women)?

I suppose it’s possible. Maybe, Dutch would have looked better on women, had he been closer with his mother. I consider his attitude towards women as pretty average for the era. It’s not entirely fair to compare him to Arthur, who was very progressive for the time and definitely above normal standards. As you say, I think Dutch was a product of his time. In RDR2, he didn’t come across as physically abusive, nor did he overtly sexualize women. However, he did seem to expect women to act in a subordinate manner. It's not great (and I certainly do not agree with his attitude), but again, the contemporary standards in regard to gender roles did not exist in 1899.

Lastly, I COMPLETELY agree about Dutch being VERY romantic, sentimental, and idealistic. This wasn’t just limited to interpersonal relationships either - it also fit his entire perspective of America and the values he held dear. Just take a look at some of his quotes:

“The promise of this great nation - men created equal, liberal and justice for all - that might be nonsense, but it’s worth trying for. It’s worth believing in.”

And:

“If we keep on seeking, we will find freedom.”

In the beginning, he had such high hopes and strong faith that he could find a way to live free from social and legislative demands. Compare that to the end, where he started to say things like:

“You can’t fight nature. You can’t fight change.”

And:

“There ain’t no freedom for no one in this country no more.”

Dutch wanted to believe that there was a chance to live free from the threat of control, but as he started to lose people he loved and got closer to losing his own battle, he started to take on a much more cynical tone. He began to realize that his romantic notions and idealistic visions of life were not always obtainable - no matter how hard he tried to reach them - and it broke him. This change in his life outlook was kind of similar to his interpersonal relationships. When he realized they were a lot of work and not always happy/perfect, he seemed to grow frustrated. Love requires a lot of patience and energy. Despite full effort, love still does not always succeed.

Also, I just want to add that I think Dutch knew he had a problem with his pride, but he tried his best to maintain his tough, confident persona because he didn’t want to be perceived as weak. He definitely realized he messed up in putting his pride first in the end, but at that point, it was too late. Whatever was left of his idealistic aspirations in life died with Arthur up on that cliff.

Anyhow, I’ve said more than enough. I’d like to once again thank you for the ask!! I hope my response was worth the time to read and that it makes sense. Feel free to share any more thoughts you may have!!!

~ Faith 💜

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buckyskorpion · 5 years ago

Text

11 hours - part five

Pairing: Biker!Bucky x Reader

Summary: bucky is the mystery you can’t wait to solve. if you can get out of his bed long enough, that is. a biker au.

Warnings: gang-typical violence, sex scenes, alcohol mentions, probably more to come so stay tuned

A/N: alright things escalated VERY QUICKLY but shit had to go down sometime. i hope you enjoy! and sorry for the delay, i really been goin thru it recently. this part is 7k to make up for it lmao i wont be taking tags for this so please dont ask.

title taken from 11 hours by wet | playlist | my ko-fi

masterlist

It’s a big day. You had held Bucky’s hand as you stood in the doorway to his apartment, playing with his rings so you didn’t have to meet his eyes. You were nervous, not because you didn’t trust Bucky but because with every secret spilled you felt like a layer of your skin was being peeled away. But you’d held his hand and told him to pick you up tonight from your office. You handed him your business card, a physical embodiment of trust you hadn’t given to anyone else. It wasn’t your apartment address, sure, but it was something and Bucky held the card with the biggest, boyish grin on his face that melted your heart.

The real reason you’re so nervous is because if whoever followed you from Bucky’s apartment is following Bucky, then they’ll follow him right to your office door. You’d had a long talk to yourself in the bathroom mirror the other night, however, and decided you weren’t going to let a hypothetical stalker ruin yet another relationship for you. Not that stalkers are common in your life, but using any excuse to distance yourself and cut people out is most definitely your regular MO. Not this time.

That being said, stalkers aren’t common in your life so you are, understandably, fixated by it. You are sure it has something to do with Bucky because you don’t believe in coincidences and the guy literally followed you from Bucky’s apartment. The big question is, was the stalker after Bucky or were they after you? Since you have next to nothing to go on, you aren’t exactly on your way to answering that one yet. But you’ll get there, eventually, and you’ve got some ideas.

In the meantime, you wait for Bucky and attempt to tidy your organised mess. He’s meant to show up at seven on his bike, but seven is going on eight and he’s yet to show. You try not to picture the worst or convince yourself you’re being stood up, even though that’s what it feels like. The one time you give out personal details and he doesn’t show. That would be your luck. You kick a filing drawer closed a bit too harshly, the metal clanging loud in your deafeningly silent office. Whatever. It’s not like anyone is left in the building to judge you because Bucky is over an hour late and every other office in the place is long empty.

You water your desperately dry indoor plants, even the one on top of your bookshelf - a testament to how hard you’re trying to distract yourself from the imminent heartbreak. You stand on tiptoes on your swivel chair to reach the crispy fern, something your dad would yell at you for if he could see you, but he can’t so you just pray the wheels don’t slip out from under you. It’s a very precarious precision for you to be in when someone bangs your office door open and stumbles inside, that’s for sure. You nearly break your entire body falling from the chair, but catch yourself on the bookcase before any real damage can be done.

The invader slams the door shut behind them, making you flinch once again as you spin around to face your would-be attacker. Only it's not someone breaking and entering - it’s Bucky, panting heavily and bleeding from his temple while he turns slowly on his heel and assesses every corner of your tiny office for threats.

“Bucky?” you call out, hesitant to approach and startle him incase it’s not your office that he’s seeing. His dog tags hang out the neck of his t-shirt when they’re usually always carefully tucked under the fabric, and you notice now he’s not just bleeding from his head but somewhere under that shirt as well. He looks over at your voice and it takes a second for him to focus properly on you, shoulders visibly slumping, closing the space in three quick strides.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, pulling you bodily into a crushing hug. You wrap your arms around his waist, carefully holding him in case he’s got even more injuries you can’t see, but he squeezes you so tight you find it hard to breathe. He has one arm around your shoulders, that hand tangled in your hair and he presses your head into his shoulder. You feel him nose into the hair at the crown of your head, breathe in deep, let it out in shudders.

“You’re hurt,” you say into his t-shirt, and he shakes his head while still pressing his face into your scalp.

“M’fine, s’just blood,” he mumbles, barely coherent, so you let it go for the moment. You let him hold you and you hug him back, splaying your palms flat against his back and pressing him impossibly closer to you.

Eventually, you peel yourself from him in order to give him a once over. He smiles down at you like he’s amused, but you hardly find the situation funny when Bucky’s blood is literally all over you, now. You take his hand and make him sit on your swivel chair, spinning uselessly in the middle of the room from where it slid out from under you and rolled away. There’s a first aid kit in a box near the window, because you can never be too careful, and you take to soaking gauze in alcohol solution instead of speaking. You don’t trust what would come out of your mouth right now, anyway.

Luckily, Bucky fills the silence for you. He bites his lip as he looks over at you, taking in the tense set of your shoulders and jerky movements as you dig around for bandages. Then he says, “I got caught up, I really am sorry.”

You nod, but you still don’t speak. Instead you grab your supplies and move over to Bucky, avoiding his eyes as you assess the one wound you can see. Bucky has a thin cut from the corner of his eye to his hairline, shallow but bleeding profusely due to the thin skin there. You suck in a deep breath and start dabbing the soaked gauze on the wound, outside to inside, watching as the white turns coppery red with every swipe. Your stomach twists at the sight, and to your horror, you find you could almost cry.

“Doll,” Bucky says, eyebrows creasing up as if he’s just as upset as you feel. He hooks one big hand around your thigh, tugging until you let him manhandle you onto his lap. “I mean it, I didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”

“I don’t care that you were late,” you snap, clenching your jaw until you can get your flash of frustration under control. You drop your hand from his face, curling up further onto Bucky’s lap despite yourself as his arms come round to hug you to his chest. His bloodstained, most likely injured chest. You take a deep breath and ask, “What happened?”

“You wanna know?” Bucky asks. When you finally meet his eyes he doesn’t seem to be shutting down, shutting you out like you expect when it comes to talking about Bucky’s biker lifestyle. He just looks sad, and you let yourself soften just a bit to run your fingers down his jaw.

Bucky’s eyes flutter closed when you touch him, and you say, “I already told you - I just wanna know. No secrets.”

“No secrets,” Bucky affirms, smiling as he opens his eyes again. The corners are tight, though, as he starts to explain. “One of the things we do - the gang, y’know - is run protection details. Me and Sam were on it, supposed to be a simple job, but we got shitty intel and ended up having to fight our way out of a crappy spot. We got out, finished the job, but it definitely didn’t go to plan. ”

“Protection for what?” you ask. This is the most open Bucky has ever been when talking about his gang, so you’re not going to pass up this opportunity for a bit more information.

“For who,” Bucky corrects, smiling at you like he knows what you’re doing. He starts stroking up and down your shoulder blades as he talks, soothing the both of you it seems. “Rich businessmen, low-level politicians, mob affiliates - anyone who’s got a target on their back and need to get from point A to point B. They’re easy jobs for us ex-army guys and they pay well.”

“Better pay than fixing cars, I bet,” you say. Your attempt at levity works and Bucky grins. The way it makes his face turn young and open is so at odds with the trickle of blood down his cheek.

“Gotta be able to pay for your drinks somehow,” he says, and you slap his shoulder. He mock-winces and says, “Hey! I’m bleeding, ya gotta be nice to me.”

“Don’t gotta do shit,” you mumble, reminding you to press the gauze you’re still holding back on the wound on his temple to stem some of the bleeding. He hisses for real this time, the sting of the alcohol probably burning a bit, especially so close to his eye. You press a kiss to his cheek and in apology and Bucky hums, tightening his grip around your body to hold you close again.

“M’sorry I ruined our night,” he says, “I wish I could promise it won’t happen again, but I can’t.”

“Don’t be sorry,” you say, and he meets your eyes, slightly confused. You smile and say, “Not when you’re hurt. I know what I signed up for, I just want you to be ok.”

“What if, one day, I’m not ok?” Bucky asks, serious now, and you take your time before you answer him. His cut is clean of dried blood, and it’s stopped oozing any more. You doubt it’ll get infected so you should bandage it up but you can’t make yourself move from Bucky’s lap. Not just yet.

“I’ll fix you up,” you say. “That’s what we’re doing, right? Taking care of each other.”

Bucky blinks, once, as if allowing your words to download in his brain like a data file. Then he kisses you. He slides a hand up to cradle your head and presses soft, slow kisses to your lips like he’s got all the time in the world. He came storming in like a hurricane but now you’re in the eye, calm and quiet settling over you both as you cup his jaw and kiss into him all the tenderness you're too afraid to say. You mend his bleeding head and adrenaline-addled heart while he soothes your fear. Taking care of each other, and it feels nice to let someone else do that for once.

You know what Bucky is leaving out. The I hurt people admission, the fact he might have killed someone tonight, that the blood on his shirt isn’t just his. You really thought you’d care more - about the not knowing, about the truth of it, about everything. But he’s breathing and alive underneath you, trailing kisses and stubble burn from your mouth to your cheek to your temple, and all of those superfluous details become white noise. You’re surprised to find the simple fact that Bucky is alright is enough to supersede all the gaps you would usually itch to fill.

Bucky spins you both, tucking your legs up closer so you don’t overbalance as he looks around your office in a dizzying circle. A spike of nerves makes you feel sick for a second but Bucky smiles as he looks around, like he’s pleased with this part of your life he’s been able to see, and it makes you feel less afraid.

“This is where the magic happens, huh?” he asks, and you laugh at his teasing. “It’s very normal.”

“What did you expect? Like ‘Sherlock Holmes’ or something?” you ask. Bucky shrugs, mouth twitching like he’s trying not to laugh.

“Maybe,” he says, then squints at you like he’s considering something. “So, no violin?”

“No violin, and no Mrs Hudson. I make my own tea,” you say, grinning up at Bucky even though he’s being stupid.

“Yeah, right,” Bucky snorts, “Pour your own wine, you mean.”

“Are you calling me a drunk?” you gasp, reeling back from Bucky and almost sending yourself off his lap and onto the floor. Bucky grips you tighter, laughing at the offence written all over your face, and then extracts an arm to point meaningfully at the half empty bottle of red by the side of your desk.

“The evidence speaks for itself,” he says. You fold your arms in a huff, if only to have him kiss the top of your head in a silent apology.

“You stick to the gang stuff, I’ll stick to the investigating,” you huff, and Bucky kisses you again until you wipe the frown from your face.

“Alright, smart girl,” he says. He stands, holding you up like it’s nothing and you can’t deny how hot that is, even if he is being condescending to you right now. He sets you down on your feet and smooths out your jacket, the warmth of his hands seeping through the leather as they pass over your shoulders and down your arms. He links his fingers into one of your hands, smiling down at you, and says, “Can we rain check dinner? I think I need a shower.”

Bucky stands unnaturally close to you as you lock up your office and head out, scanning the street while you lock the back door and set the alarm system for the building. He takes your hand wordlessly and leads you to his bike, parked haphazardly on the sidewalk and just begging for a ticket. He hands you a helmet but is looking over your shoulder, not at you, and both of those things are worrying - you’ve never known Bucky to wear a helmet, let alone offer you one. You didn’t know he owned one. You feel fidgety, your skin crawling like you’re being watched, and Bucky must feel it too because he’s a bit rough in manhandling you onto the bike as quickly as possible.

“Bucky,” you say, and he twists around to give you a clinical once over - much like you’d done to him when he’d come to you bloody and breathless. You feel sick to your stomach, guilt and fear twisting in your gut, as you ask, “Do you think someone followed you here?”

Bucky’s face is impassive, but you’d like to think you know him well enough to read the tick by the corner of his eyes as a silent, muttered, shit. He licks his lips and says, “I can’t know the answer to that for sure.”

“But there’s a chance,” you say, and your heart is hammering so loud you barely hear your own voice. If someone finds your office then they find you, and the carefully constructed bubble of anonymity you’ve created is shattered in the space of a second. But you knew that, that’s what Bucky asked you on his couch - will you stay? Knowing Bucky is the antithesis of your comfort zone, will you stay anyway?

“Nothing is going to happen to you,” Bucky says definitively. You scan his eyes for trace of a lie but there is none. Bucky’s jaw is set, and he reaches up to grip your chin and hold your gaze on his, making sure you hear him. “Just like you said - we take care of each other. I’ll always take care of you.”

You let out a shaky breath, one you hadn’t known you’d been holding, and Bucky kisses the trill of fear away. You feel like you’ve dived off a cliff face, Bucky holding your hand all the way down the precipice of trust you’d promised yourself you’d never cross. But Bucky promises he’ll take care of you and god, it’s stupid but you want him to. You want his to be the arms you land in at the end of this free-fall. Even if, given who Bucky is, that’s the most dangerous place to be.

“Speaking of no secrets,” you say, more of mumble into his mouth than anything. Bucky pulls away, adorably puppy-like look of confusion on his face, and your stomach twists with guilt. “Remember the night of the party? At Sam’s bar?”

Bucky nods. He’s twisted uncomfortably on the seat of his bike and the helmet you’ve yet to put on is digging in o your stomach where you’re holding it. This isn’t the best place to be having this conversation but Bucky’s promise has made you brave, and if you don’t go against your own word now you never will. Not once have you ever spilled details of a case before you’d cracked it. This isn’t a case, you have to remind yourself. This is your life.

“That morning, when I left,” you say, omitting the fact it’s the first time you ever used his front door and will most certainly be the last, “someone followed me from your building. I shook them off, but they were waiting for me to leave and I don’t know if they were casing your apartment or if they were there for me, or what. I’m sorry, I should’ve told you, I just-“

“You just what?” Bucky doesn’t sound angry. Worse, he sounds cold. Shut down, clinical, and the way his face has pinched off makes your heart break.

“I didn’t know if I could trust you,” you say, looking down at your lap to avoid the way he’s looking at you like a stranger. Saying it out loud makes it sound so much worse, but it’s the truth and Bucky deserves that at least. “To be honest, I’m still not sure. But I want to. If I’m going to trust anyone, I want it to be you.”

It’s several moments before you’re brave enough to meet Bucky’s eyes again. He is coming back to you slowly, the shutters pulling up from his eyes as confusion seeps out. He scans your face and says, “Usually I would tell you that’s a really stupid idea, but I think you already know that.”

“Stupid ideas are kind of my thing,” you say, and that makes Bucky smile. Relief is bone deep, hits so hard you could slump from the bike in a pile of goo. He’s not mad. In fact, he leans forward in what must be a truly uncomfortable twist to press his forehead against yours and closes his eyes, breathes in deep. You follow suit, so ridiculously relieved you still get to do this while simultaneously trying to control the adrenaline rush from handing over what feels like you’re entire life to someone else.

All your life it feels like it’s always been you versus the world. Your dad raised you that way, to rely on no one but yourself so you can never be let down, not even him. It feels wrong on a cellular level to trust Bucky like you are so blindly doing. Every instinct screams at you to run, to figure this out on your own, that Bucky would normally be one of your main suspects in a regular case. But here you are, showing Bucky all your cards, hoping against hope that you won’t live to regret it.

“No more secrets,” Bucky says, and you nod. You feel his eyelashes tangle with yours as you move, pressed so close like this, and you open your eyes to stare at the veiny lids covering his. “Next time someone follows you, you tell me.”

“Yes sir,” you say, grinning at the warning pinch he gives to your hip.

“Let’s go to the shop,” Bucky says, pulling away from you and turning back to gun his bike to life. “The guys can help us figure this stalker shit out.”

“The guys?” you ask, and your chest does something painfully restrictive at the thought of letting more people in. “As in, everyone? Like, your gang?”

Bucky laughs, like the way you say ‘gang’ is so goddamn amusing, and throws you one last look over his shoulder. You tug the helmet on as he revs the bike, suddenly regretting every other time you’ve gotten on this thing without one, as Bucky says, “Yeah, doll, my gang. That’s kinda the whole point - we help each other out.”

You hadn’t really thought of it like that before. Truthfully, your mind had been filled with shady drug deals and bloody fights, turf wars and tattoos and angry men on bikes. Bucky’s friends and the nights you’ve spent with them seem like a different world, the joy and love entirely removed from the illegal life Bucky leads outside of your reach, but you have to remind yourself - they’re one and the same. Your Bucky cannot be removed from the biker you’ve been kept seperate from.

Clinging to Bucky’s waist, you say, “Sounds very after school special for a gang, tough guy.”

You can practically see Bucky grinning just by looking at the back of his head as takes off, the streets of Brooklyn peeling away as heads for White Wolf Mechanics. Your anxiety and fear sheds off as well, floating away in strips down the tarmac like an outer layer of skin. You feel vulnerable, all new and exposed as you hold Bucky close so you don’t fall. That’s what makes it feel bearable - Bucky’s back against your cheek, the hand he places over yours against his stomach when you pull up at a red light. His promise, echoing under the rumble of the bike beneath you. I’ll always take care of you.

~~~

The shop looks closed from the outside, but you can hear a low bass-line from the street and people laughing somewhere inside. Bucky brings you round the back, the roller doors out front closed this time, and into the back rooms you’d yet to see since that first visit a few weeks ago. To your left you see what must be Bucky’s office, but the room he tugs you to looks more like a bachelor pad living room than a mechanics break room.

Sam and Steve lay sprawled on leather couches, beers open on the coffee table made of old crates stacked together. The Killers pumps through a very, very nice sound system which Natasha is quietly singing along to where she lays on top of the pool table, legs kicking off the edge to the beat. Her beer rests on her stomach, rising and falling with every breath, and she doesn’t even raise her head as she waves at the two of you entering. Sam lifts the icepack from his eye to look at you, grinning wide, and kicks Steve in the shin to get his attention.

“Barnes is back,” he says, rolling his eyes as Steve blearily blinks awake from what was clearly an unplanned nap. Steve focuses on you and Bucky, eyebrows drawn down in confusion, and Sam adds, “and he’s brought his girl.”

“Shouldn’t you be at dinner or something?” Steve asks, then seems to remember himself and smiles all big and perfect at you. “It’s great to see you again, by the way.”

“Quit brown-nosing, it’s embarrassing,” Sam says, and throws his icepack at Steve’s head. He swats it away, squawking at the wetness it leaves behind on his hand and cheek, which makes Sam grin.

“I need a beer for this,” Bucky mutters so only you can hear, which makes you smile. You lead the way to the minibar in the corner, right by the bookshelf full of video games and the cardboard cut-out of Guy Fieri (you don’t want to ask). Bucky follows, grabbing your hand and tugging you back into his chest as you walk - even without the watchful eyes of the other gang affiliates which usually follow you at his parties, Bucky seems hell bent on making sure everyone knows who you’re here with. Even his closest friends.

You can’t say you entirely mind.

“So, to what do we owe the pleasure?” Natasha asks. She’s sat up now, twisting on the pool table to face you both as Bucky grabs you some beers. Sam and Steve still continue to argue about nonsense on the couches and are ignored by the three of you for the moment. However, they stop bickering as soon as Bucky speaks again.

“Someone’s been watching my building,” he says. The silence is thick, and you feel almost guilty for ruining their fun night with your stalker woes. Bucky hands you a beer and looks at you pointedly, eyebrows raised. You take a sip before you follow his not-so-subtle direction to start talking.

“I was followed home the morning after Sam’s party at the bar,” you say. You have the full attention of Bucky’s closest friends, and you can’t help but feel a little intimidated. You take a deep breath and decide to look at the situation like you were debriefing a client on a case - remove yourself from the equation. “There was a man smoking against the building next to Bucky’s. He followed me about four blocks before I lost him. He was over six foot, caucasian, brown hair and stubble.”

“Sounds like every white guy,” Sam says. “You could be describing Bucky, for all we know.”

“Yes,” you say, frowning. “If I was putting a tail on someone, I would make them very nondescript. Makes sense, right?”

“And you’re sure he was following you?” Natasha asks. You glance at her, but she doesn’t look like she’s condescending you or anything. Surprisingly, she looks like she believes you far more than the other two men in the room. Maybe your trial by fire proved to her you know what you’re talking about, so you nod.

“Definitely. Either he knew I was there and was waiting for me to leave, or he was watching Bucky’s apartment and would have followed anyone who came out of it. Without more information I can’t be sure if he was there for me or Bucky.”

“You’ve never seem him before?” Steve asks. You shake your head, and he says, “Could you describe him a bit more detailed? I might be able to draw him.”

“Sure,” you shrug. “Or, we can just wait until he shows up at Bucky’s again and follow him.”

Bucky does not like that idea at all. He practically growls, grabbing your elbow and turning you to face him as he glares at you. Roughly, he says, “Are you fucking insane?”

“What?” Mildly annoyed, you tug your arm from Bucky’s grip and say, “If this was a case, that’s what I would do.”

“This isn’t a case. This guy is going to be a hell of a lot more dangerous than some rich businessman cheating on his wife,” Bucky says, voice raised to an almost shout in one of the quickest escalations you’ve ever seen.

A switch flips in your brain, and you see red.

“Thank you for the condescending analysis, Bucky,” you snap. You ignore Sam’s muttered ‘oh shit!’ for your own health and sanity. “But you have no idea the kind of people I’ve dealt with in my life. I can manage a fairly mediocre stalker.”

“A fairly mediocre stalker who works for someone who won’t hesitate to use your hamstrings as handcuffs,” Bucky hisses. He steps towards you, chest brushing yours as he breaths deep and ragged, and oh- there’s the Bucky you’d been missing. The guy who’s still wearing clothes stained with blood, most of it not his, angry in an incandescent kind of way which reminds you he could hurt you in many more ways than just a broken heart. He leans down to say into your face, “This isn’t something you fuck around with, alright? There’s a reason why I’ve kept this world from you.”

“I thought we said no secrets?” you say, raising your eyebrows. You will yourself to hold your ground, even if you are shaking like a leaf and your words come out soft in the face of his anger. Like you’d poked a pin in his chest, Bucky deflates. He backs off of you, face crumbling from anger to guilt as quickly as he built himself up there.

“I won’t let you get hurt because of me,” he says, shaking his head. The switch in your brain flips back, all indignation and pride fading away. He’s still trying to take care of you, just like he promised. Already it’s abundantly clear you’re not going to make that easy for him, and you wonder how long it will take until he gets sick of trying.

“This isn’t going to work if you don’t trust me,” you say, gesturing between you. “I let you into my world, now it’s your turn. I know it’s dangerous - I could have left, remember? But I’m here. So let me be here.”

“If someone touches you-“

“I’ll get over it,” you say. Bucky stares at you like you’re crazy, and maybe you are, but it’s true. “You said you were going to take care of me - how’re you gonna do that from all the way over there?”

You don’t mean the other side of the room, the valley of the pool table and the metaphorical arms-length which which he’s keeping between you. There’s only so much Bucky can hide from you before you either dive right in or walk away. This is the turning point.

“Fine,” he says. He looks physically pained as he scrubs a hand over his cropped hair, but at least he’s not angry anymore. “I still think thats a fucking stupid idea.”

“Like I said,” you say, offering him a smile he shakily returns, “stupid ideas are kind of my thing.”

“Uh, can I say something?” Sam asks, breaking the illusion that it was only the two of you in the room for that particular argument. You both turn to look at him, and he almost backs down with the weight of both your gaze. He carries on, however, saying, “I’m glad you guys have had this breakthrough in your relationship, but that doesn’t really help us in figuring out who this guy is. Or who he works for. Or why he followed you. Or how he knows where Bucky lives in the first place.”

“We could go around and ask,” Steve says, shrugging at Natasha’s eyeroll. “What? Baseball bats really jog people’s memories.”

“Why don’t we ask the private investigator for some expert advice,” Natasha says, giving you a look that seems to say men, right? You’re still trying to get your head around the image of Steve threatening someone with a baseball bat when you’ve seen him with his own puke on his jumper singing Sweet Caroline into a toilet bowl.

“Well,” you begin, darting Bucky a look but he seems to be listening and not getting ready to yell at you again, “since apparently following the guy is off the table for now, I would start with me and Bucky. Enemies, bad blood, someone with an axe to grind. Pull at some threads and see what happens.”

“That shouldn’t be hard,” Sam says, “Bucky’s got more enemies than friends.”

“So do we all, punk,” Bucky grumbles, glaring at Sam. “We’re in a gang.”

“This ain’t about me.” Sam holds his hands up in mock innocence, grinning big like he gets unrivalled joy from making Bucky’s face do the twitchy, dark thing it’s doing right now. The impact is somewhat lessened by the swollen, black eye Sam’s sporting from the mission gone wrong today, you assume, but it doesn’t curb his enthusiasm.

“I can put together a list of the most recent run-in’s you’ve had by tomorrow,” Natasha says to Bucky, ignoring the bickering with practiced ease. “Until then, we should put some protection on your building.”

“You guys have bodyguards?” you ask before your brain can tell you that’s a dumb fucking question. All three of them laugh, Bucky hooking an arm around your shoulder to ruffle your hair as he tugs you into his side. Point taken, you think as you pout under Bucky’s arm.

“I’ll stay in the spare room,” Steve says, swinging himself off the couch to his full, ginormous height. That image of him with the baseball bat starts to take a bit more shape in your mind, and you don’t doubt for a second he could offer some extra protection where the stalker is concerned. To you, he asks, “You don’t mind if I third wheel?”

“It’s not my apartment,” you say, attempting to hide your blush under the weight of Bucky’s arm. You are unsuccessful, if Sam’s smirk is anything to go by.

“We’ll survive one night, punk,” Bucky says, giving you a squeeze. “Or just buy some earplugs.”

“Gross!” Sam cries, flailing an arm around. “Too much information!”

You have a feeling akin to whiplash at how well these people are taking a stalker and potential threat on their lives. Joking around, Steve fake-moaning just to make Sam scream, Natasha laughing until tears form in her eyes at the antics of two grown men chasing each other around the couches like school children. Glancing up at Bucky and the warm look he’s giving them all, you suppose it must be lot less scary to face something like that with friends. Family, you think, as Sam crash-tackles Steve into the couch and smothers his face with a pillow.

“You’ll be alright?” Natasha’s soft voice manages to scare you, jolting under Bucky’s hold as you turn from watching Steve and Sam to find her right by Bucky’s other side. She’s looking up at him, lips pressed into a firm line, and you remember the last time you were here - James is the only family I have. Maybe some are taking this development a bit easier than others.

“Always am,” Bucky says, using his free arm to punch her lightly on the shoulder. She gets him back, much harder, and you feel Bucky wince away from her and into your side. “Serious, Natashenka. I’ll be fine.”

“Good,” she says. Smirking, she adds, “I’ll kill you if you aren’t.”

You look back to Steve and Sam before they can notice you eavesdropping, a hot, honey-thick feeling melting through your skin. You want to know what that feels like in a way which burns; to have people who have your back like that, and your dad doesn’t count because he literally has to. You understood Bucky’s gang even less than you originally thought - he’s not just a biker, a criminal, a hit man or an ex-army vet turned enforcer, whatever the case may be. He’s a guy doing what he has to do to protect the people he loves, because he’s surrounded by them. You’ve never had to protect anyone but yourself.

You tuck yourself closer into Bucky’s side, letting the warmth and smell of him consume you. That’s gonna change, you think. This feeling in your chest is telling you that change is already happening.

~~~

Steve does not have to get ear plugs to survive the night, and you make both him and Bucky coffee before you head off. Shower, new clothes, work - all that normal people stuff you have to do. Steve, golden in the morning sun with the brightest smile on his face, and Bucky’s moody scowl at the early hour and dark rings under his eyes, wave you goodbye. You kiss Bucky’s pout before you go, letting him grab your ass for a second before you slip away.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” he says, and Steve snorts like there’s some joke you’re missing.

“I’ll go out the laundry window,” you say, as if this is a new development and not your usual routine. “Nobody’s gonna follow me, promise.”

“Hmph,” is all Bucky says and then you’re really gone, racing down the stairs and out the window like you always do.

Sorry Bucky, you silently think towards his apartment as instead of making to cut through the gym parking lot, you wrap back around his building and scan the street from behind the bins. Sure enough, opposite Bucky’s building with a baseball cap on and another cigarette, stands the same dude who followed you the first time. You really weren’t lying - stupid ideas are kind of your thing.

You make sure you’re hidden by a group of pedestrians as you slip out the side alley of Bucky’s apartment building and walk away from your stalker. He doesn’t notice, and you manage to walk a block and cross the road without him any the wiser. Your roles have switched as you hang out at the news-agency a few doors down from where he’s waiting, pretending to flick through a magazine. It’s easy to take a few picture of him over the top of the page with your phone, grainy but useable for when you show Bucky later.

You can deal with Bucky being angry at you, because you know how to do your job and this is the most efficient way to get intel. It’s always easier to ask for forgiveness than permission.

Eventually, you watch your stalker watch Bucky and Steve leave his building. It’s 9AM and they head to their respective bikes, revving off down the street in the general direction of Steve’s tattoo shop. Your man hunches his shoulders and pulls out his phone, taps into it for a bit, before he walks off in the opposite direction to Bucky and Steve. Not following them, then. Your stomach twists as you fall into pace a few people behind him. Just following you.

He gets on the subway, which makes it very difficult for you to remain unnoticed but you manage to sit at the internal doors in the next carriage and watch him through those. He gets on his phone again, talking to someone with evident frustration if his clenched jaw and balled fist is anything to go by. He gets off in Manhattan, walks a few blocks, before ducking into a darkly lit bar called the Lerna. You decide it’s probably best not to follow him there, but you snap a few photos on your phone of the bar before doubling back out to Brooklyn.

You call Bucky as you go, a bit jittery at the incoming argument you know you’ve created, but you can’t help but feel it will be worth it. Now you have something to actually go off - a face, a name, some concrete facts. Much better than stabbing around in the dark. A few rings go by before Bucky picks up, saying, “Miss me already?”

“Get over yourself, tough guy,” you say, but you’re smiling. Maybe you do miss him already, just a bit. You were so focused on getting your information you didn’t get to fully savour Bucky this morning, all tanned muscles and tattoos, all yours. You force yourself to ruin the moment by saying, “I’ve got some information for you.”

“Me too,” he says, which surprises you. “Nat’s gotten together some potential candidates for your stalker. Have you got time to come to Steve’s tattoo place?”

“Sure,” you say, beginning to pick at your nails as the nerves set in.

There’s a beat of silence before Bucky must realise what you’d said before, and he doesn’t sound nearly as light and playful anymore “You said you had information? On what?”

“I’ll just show you when I get there,” you rush out, closing your eyes at the way Bucky sucks in a breath like he already knows what you’ve done. “Don’t be mad.”

“Oh, I’m not mad,” he says, as if through gritted teeth. “I’m fucking livid. Please tell me you didn’t follow that guy this morning.”

“Ok, I won’t tell you,” you say. “See you in twenty.”

“You’re dead meat,” he says before you hang up.

It could’ve gone worse, you muse as you round the corner to the subway station. Sure, Bucky threatened you with lethal violence and sounded even angrier than he’d gotten at the shop yesterday, but you can still imagine him smiling at his phone as you hung up the same way you’re smiling at yours now.

You text him the photos with a quick, Don’t say I never do anything for you xx

A minute after the photos deliver, Bucky is calling you again. You frown down at his caller ID, confused - you were on your way, why is he calling you back already? But before you answer that question, someone grabs your arm and tugs you away from the subway steps and into an alley instead. His grip is bruising, unbreakable, even as you scream and kick before he shoves a gun into your neck and you fall deathly silent.

“Scream and you’re dead,” the man says, hot on your ear. You can’t shudder away, his vice grip too tight and the cold steel on your jugular paralysing. You twist a bit to look behind you despite yourself, your stomach bottoming out at the familiar face which grins back at you. Baseball cap, brown hair, stubble - just like any other white guy. He sneers at you and says, “Not so clever now, huh?”

All you can hear, as your stalker marches you down the alley and into a waiting SUV with a gun to your back, is Bucky’s voice yelling this isn’t something you fuck around with. You’d let him say ‘I told you’ so a thousand times if it meant you got out of this alive. Hopefully, the phone tucked into your back pocket will be enough to save you. You hope Bucky is listening, the call you just managed to answer still catching the grunted conversation your kidnappers are having. You’ve never needed someone before, but god, do you hope Bucky’s got you now.

Part 6

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eyeofthedrgn · 3 years ago

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A Heavy Battle Symphony Chapter 12

Trigger Warning: language, mental abuse, verbal abuse, physical abuse, violence, depression, anxiety, panic attacks, self harm, self-esteem issues, sexual abuse (only alluded to briefly in future chapters), drinking (comes up late in the story) just a lot of trauma, angst, smut

Word Count: 2265

Notes: More smut! Enjoy! :)

Chapter 12 - Somewhere I Belong

I wanna heal, I wanna feel like I'm close to something real

I wanna find something I've wanted all along

Somewhere I belong

The holidays came and went, Rowan was back at University. His Solstice gift from Rowan was on his nightstand. It was a photo Elide had taken of them last September before leaving for Uni. They were hugging in the front yard, Lorcan's face buried in silver hair. He stared at it every night before he fell asleep.

After two weeks of having Rowan home and being more physical with each other, it had been a hard transition when he left again. He had grown accustomed to Rowan’s bed and Rowan’s arm draped over him every night after finding sweet release with each other. Lorcan had taken to using his hand and thinking of the man he loved. It was never as good, but at least it helped him sleep.

There were fewer nightmares too. Which meant he was less exhausted and he was starting to get restless.

After throwing on some sweats and a fleece lined hoodie, he went downstairs to ask Barb if there was something he could do. He couldn't find her. It was Saturday, baking day, so he was expecting her to be in the kitchen. Luckily for him, there were some fresh goodies made, he snatched a freshly made pastry from the counter, popped it in his mouth, then promptly grabbed two more. They were delectable.

He looked out the window over the kitchen sink at the backyard and saw a fresh coat of snow on the ground as well as a fresh set of footprints. Time to investigate. He slipped on his boots and followed the trail as he finished the pastries. It ended at what he thought was just a boring old tool shed, but he was only partially correct. It was old and had tools, but it wasn't boring or a shed. It was a shop.

As soon as he saw the tools lining the walls and the gorgeous work table in the center, he was in awe. His jaw slackened and his eyes darted everywhere. Looking around, he felt his fingers twitch like they needed to use the tools around him, like he belonged here.

Barb was sitting on a stool at the work table, crying. She looked up.

Lorcan gave her an apologetic look, he hadn't meant to intrude. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt. I was just.. I'll go." He started to turn when Barb stopped him.

"Don't go. I just come out here sometimes when I miss Ellys. This was his shop.” She wiped the tears off her cheeks. "He did woodworking in his spare time." She looked around fondly and ran her hand over the well loved work table. Lorcan didn’t really know anything about Rowan’s dad, he never talked about him. He wasn’t even sure how long he had been dead.

"I keep thinking I should sell it all, but I can't, so it just sits here and collects dust."

Unsure of what to say, Lorcan looked around at all of the hand tools around the shop again. He walked over to the wall and touched one of the tools.

"Those are wood planes." Lorcan turned to look at her with a question in his eye. "You are more than welcome to come out here and learn to use these tools. Gods know Rowan won't," she chuckled. The corner of his mouth turned up. They both knew Rowan didn't like to get his hands dirty.

He was definitely intrigued by this new discovery.

"I can tell you're interested. There are countless videos online to help you learn and there are a few books inside that could help as well."

"You wouldn't mind if I tried?" Curiosity was getting the better of him. "If I used your husband's tools?" He was surprised that she would let him touch such precious items.

"Oh, honey. I would love it if they were used again." She gave his shoulder a squeeze and went back into the house.

Lorcan slowly worked his way around the shop, looking at everything. There were so many different tools. Mostly hand tools, only a couple power tools. There was a half finished project on one of the benches. It looked like it was going to be a decorative box. He ran his hand over the wood, a layer of dust coming up on his hand. It still needed sanding, but it looked like all the parts had been cut and ready to be assembled. Mr. Whitethorn just never got the chance to finish it.

Looking at the direction of the house where Barb now was, he had an idea. He would finish that box for her after he deemed himself good enough. She deserved to have this piece of her husband and she did so much for Lorcan, it seemed like the least he could do.

It felt nice to have a goal. That evening after dinner, he pulled the woodworking books from the shelf and read, curled up on the couch next to Barb while she watched her shows and knitted.

++++

Rowan was sitting on the couch in the apartment with Aelin and Elide. They were sprawled all over each other, they hadn't really been able to catch up since classes started up again.

Elide brought up Lorcan. Rowan hadn't talked about him much. Not because he didn't want to, but everything they were and everything they did was new. To both of them. Rowan almost felt like he wanted to keep it all for himself. Sure Rowan had had a couple boyfriend's before that he never shut up about, but they never meant anything and it felt fine gossiping about their sloppy kissing or weird habits. But Lorcan was completely different, it felt like they were made for each other and he almost wanted it to just be a secret.

"So how's Lorcan doing? We didn't get to see him over Solstice break."

He chewed on his bottom lip, deciding how much he wanted to divulge. "He's doing a lot better. I really think therapy is helping him." Rowan leaned his head back on the cushions.

"Any progress in the touching department?" They knew he had issues with being physical because of his past, being abused does that to a person.

"Oooh, we need all the details!" Aelin chimed in. Even if she did have mixed feelings about Lorcan, she always wanted juicy details.

Rowan rolled his eyes and tried to hold his smile back, "Things are improving. Faster than I thought they would." Trying to be vague, assuming Lorcan would not appreciate this conversation. No, he definitely wouldn’t.

Both girls' eyebrows shot up. "Do tell."

Rowan fiddled with the edge of the blanket as he spoke, "We've made out now. A lot." He really didn't want to get into more with them, those details were precious to him. He thought back to how it felt having Lorcan under him, the sexy as fuck look of ecstacy on his face every time he came.

"That's not all, is there?" Aelin wriggled her eyebrows. His thoughts snapping back to the conversation at hand.

"No, but I don't feel like telling you." He untangled himself from the girls and sat on the edge of the couch.

"Oh, come on! Please!" Aelin fell off the couch just to get on her knees in front of him to beg.

"We won't tell or make fun of him, you know that,” Elide reminded him.

Rowan sighed and ran his hand through his hair. Giving in he sighed, "Fine, but be nice." He leveled a glare at them. Not entirely sure he should be telling them.

"Of course."

"We had.. fun." they both squealed. "It was basically just a lot of dry humping. Really fun dry humping," he quietly said matter-of-factly, trying not to make a big thing out of it, even though it was definitely a big thing.

"You say that like this isn't a big deal. I think this is great! The fact that Lorcan has come so far and that he feels comfortable enough with you to feel so vulnerable is wonderful." Elide had turned to face Rowan and was trying not to cry. She had always had this odd connection with his boyfriend, even though they didn’t really talk, that he would probably never understand.

Rowan put his hands over his face, he shouldn't say this, but he couldn't help himself now that he had started divulging his new found sex life. His voice was muffled, "He almost passed out the first time."

Aelin yowled and collapsed on the floor, giggling. "Oh my gods, if he were anyone else, I would pick on him so hard!" Rowan glared at her. A short pause after she picked apart his words, "First time!? It happened more than once!?" Both girls squealed.

"Don't even-"

"I won't! Don't think so little of me!"

Ding

Rowan pulled out his phone. "Speaking of Lorcan."

They girls oohed.

Lor: I miss you.

He smiled at his phone as he replied.

Rowan: I miss you, too, love.

Rowan set his phone down.

Aelin and Elide had started talking about Lysandra and Manon. They could never be silent.

Ding

Lor: I wish you were here in bed with me. Your bed is so much more comfortable than mine.

Rowan: That sounds so much better than listening to Aelin and Elide gossip. Also, I love that you're in my bed. I wish I were there.

Lor: I wish you were on top of me.

Rowan: Oh, love. I would love to make you writhe under me. But maybe you could touch yourself and think of me?

Lor: I am.

Oh, Gods. Lorcan was touching himself in Rowan’s bed. He sucked in a breath, eyes wide as he read and reread the last couple of texts. The girls looked at him, eyebrows raised. Suddenly his loose pajama pants weren’t feeling so loose anymore.

"What?" Aelin asked with a cocky grin.

"I, uh, I-" Rowan got up and stumbled past the couch.

"Have fun with the sexting!" Aelin hollered.

Rowan closed his door and laid on his bed.

Rowan: You are? Gods I wish I could watch.

A minute passed. Shit. Was that too forward?

The typing bubble appeared.

Lor: Over spring break, I want you to touch me.

Rowan: Oh fuck babe. I would love to. I'm getting hard just thinking of it.

Lor: Touch yourself with me.

Rowan groaned as he slid hand into his sweats and gripped his already hardening, velvety cock and pulled hard. Gods, he was so turned on right now. His lover was in his bed at home, touching himself. Fuck, why did he have to be four hours away?

Rowan: Your wish is my command, my love.

Lor: I love you. I haven't been able to stop thinking about you.

Rowan: Me either. Fuck, I want you.

Rowan had never sexted before and he would be damned if it wasn’t sexy as fuck, even if typing was a bit more difficult with one hand. He hoped Lorcan was butt ass naked in his sheets. The buzz of his phone pulled him from his thoughts.

Lor: I'm close, love. I can't stop thinking about you riding my leg.

Fuck.

Rowan: That's all I want to do right now. I want to press my hard cock against you. Feel you against my leg. I want to hear you say my name.

His phone buzzed and Lorcan's photo popped up on the screen. He answered. Was this really happening? Damn, he was fucking turned on.

"Rowan." Lorcan's voice was breathy.

Rowan cursed. "Oh gods, Lor. I want to touch you so bad." Lorcan moaned. "I want to hear you come, baby." He had learned over Solstice that pet names really seemed to do it for his boyfriend.

"Rowan." He groaned. Oh how he loved how his name rolled off his lover's tongue.

"Come for me, sweetheart."

He heard Lorcan's breathing catch and whimpers leave his lips. "Ro."

"You're so sexy, love." He added a slight twist to his ministrations. "Oh, fuck."

"Your turn. I want to hear you." Lorcan was breathing hard.

Fucking gods above.

"Lor, fuck." Rowan started stroking himself harder and faster. He moaned.

"Come for me, Rowan. Come for me."

Rowan grunted and groaned, "Lorcan, oh fuck. I'm coming, Lor and it's all for you." He milked his release as he moaned.

His breath caught as he heard Lorcan say, "I love you."

After catching his breath, he returned the sentiment, "I love you, Lorcan. More than anything."

A soft hum sounded in his ear, followed by a comfortable silence.

Then, he heard over the phone, "You're so sexy."

Rowan chuckled, "You're the one who called so I could hear you orgasm."

Lorcan laughed. Rowan's heart ached to hear more of that sound. "Gods, I love you, Lor."

"I love you, too." Rowan could hear the smile in his voice. "I'm gonna go to sleep now."

"I'll join you. Sleep well, my love."

"You too."

"Goodnight."

"Night. I love you."

"I love you." That was always the last thing they said. They never said bye. His phone lit up when the call ended. He stared at the picture on his lock screen until he fell asleep which didn't take long.

The picture was of Lorcan sleeping, curled up in his arms. He snuck the photo one morning during Solstice break and immediately made it his lock screen.

____

Thanks for reading! Let me know if you'd like to be tagged.

@thenerdandfandoms @starlightorstarfire @tanvee1231

#rowan x lorcan #rowcan #rowan whitethorn #rowcan fanfic #lorcan salvaterre #linkin park #heavy battle symphony #crackship #throne of glass

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themasterisathirsttrap · 4 years ago

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Putting Out Fire (With Gasoline) Ch. 2

Guess who’s still alive and just posted a new chapter of Putting Out Fire??

(Still sort of on hiatus, but now having some bursts of creativity, so sorry for the wait and enjoy!

Wow, this chapter took forever. I genuinely forgot how much plot setup happens in the first 10 minutes of 10x11. Very dialogue-heavy from the actual episode this time, but I promise for future chapters should have a better flow. Let me know what you think!

Chapter warnings: Nothing huge this time, aside from violence. But I will place warnings for future chapters))

@twistedgoddessoftimelords

@anteroom-of-death

@justaproudslytherpuff

@hallospaceboyy

@shawtyhadthemapplebottomjeans

As you stood huddled behind Missy, flanked on either side by Nardole and Bill, you felt far more apprehensive than you cared to admit.

Despite this, when you caught Bill’s uneasy look in your direction, you gave a small reassuring smile back at her. You moved closer and playfully nudged her with your elbow, causing her worried expression to soften into a small smile.

You could tell your friend was on edge and not keen on the idea of Missy taking the lead for the distress call mission the Doctor drafted up. You felt the thrum of nerves too, but you knew it was important to keep a calm face if there was any chance of showing the others what you had seen in the Time Lady.

It wasn’t even The Time Lady with whom you had something of a confusing relationship with that had you on edge. You had the feeling that she actually was wanting to take on the Doctor’s challenge to be him for a day, and do it well enough to rub it in his face.

Sure, you didn’t doubt she definitely would scare the lot of you just to make you squirm, but the root of your wariness was less the Time Lady and more knowing that you were jumping at the first distress signal the TARDIS picked up.

Despite knowing the Doctor for months now, you hadn’t quite gotten used to his cavalier approach to life-endangering situations. You had truly only been on a few adventures with him in the TARDIS. This partly had to do with the role you had accidentally adopted with Missy, and partly because you preferred your adventures with little bit more research and more calculated risks than jumping in and hoping for the best.

“Don’t you want to at least do a little digging before responding to the first distress call you find?” You had asked as the Doctor locked in coordinates to the distress signal. “Well, they’re in distress, there’s no time,” he responded brusquely, pulling down a lever beside you as you folded your arms. “You have a time machine. How do we not have time?” He huffed at you, turning his head to give a deadpan stare in response at the fault in his own logic, but you couldn’t help but shake your head and crack a smile as he waved his hand in dismissal.

“He thinks it’s more fun that way, ” Missy teased. To which the Doctor shot an annoyed look in her direction, but didn’t otherwise correct her.

“Figuring out what’s really going on is half the fun. If the Doctor wants to see how I do playing as him, we might as well go with full authenticity. Complete lack of foresight and all.” Missy offered with a sly grin and spun her umbrella with a flourish.

The Doctor had rolled his eyes at her before letting them rest back on you. “It’ll be fine. I promise,” he assured with a quick pat on your shoulder as he passed you.

Yet, now, standing in quiet anticipation as the TARDIS landed, you felt far less sure.

Maybe you were being ridiculous. The Doctor had done this god knows how many times, and it clearly had worked out for him.

But you’re not the Doctor.

You tried to shake yourself off that sudden, stark thought.

“Showtime, ladies,” Missy announced, breaking you away from your thoughts. She met your gaze for a long beat, a smirk playing on her lips as she adjusted her feathered hat to tilt further forward on her head, and tapped the floor with her umbrella for emphasis.

You almost wanted to say something, but didn’t know what. The moment passed as she turned away and swung the TARDIS door open. Upon her first step out its doors, she struck an exaggerated pose, her hand resting on her hip with confident ease.

“Hello. I'm Doctor Who,” Missy said, drawing out the name and pausing for dramatic effect. She stepped out of the TARDIS with a small hop. “And these are my plucky assistants, Thing One, The Tolerable One, and the Other One.” She continued, seemingly addressing no one in particular into an empty control room.

The three of you step out of the Tardis behind Missy. Even you stop yourself from rolling your eyes, but otherwise remained quiet as you reached up and adjusted your, clunky earpiece that fit pressed uncomfortably against your ear.

Nardole sighed behind you and stepped to the side, gesturing to your little group. “Bill. Nardole. Y/n.” Nardole said in a flat tone. “--We picked up your distress call,” she continued, ignoring the bald android and offering an exaggerated wink towards the security camera above as it mechanically adjusted and appeared to zoom in to examine you and your companions.

“—and here we are to help, like awesome heroes.” Missy added, clearly enjoying herself as she swung her umbrella around and gave an extra twirl across the room as she approached the center. She must have felt your eyes on her, as her head suddenly whipped back towards you with a smirk and sent another wink in your direction.

“Yeah, we're not, we're not assistants—“ Bill corrected flatly, annoyed and unamused, but knowing that her words would likely have little influence on the Time Lady.

“Okay, right, what, so what does he call you? Companions? Pets? Snacks?” Any retort you might have tried to muster immediately died in your throat as an alarm began to blare around you, the room’s lights flashing from blue an ominous red. “Oh, someone's watching.”

Evidently unphased by the new development, Missy began to sway back and forth to the tempo of the alarm, kicking her heels out with each step to the rhythm. “Well, that's quite a good beat, really, isn't it?” “—Yeah. Maybe we should be moving on?” Nardole piped in, his wary voice a stark contrast from Missy’s apparent nonchalance.

“Yeah, and he calls us friends,” Bill cut in defensively, visibly shifting from annoyed to mildly offended. “Ew, Doctor. But think of the age gap. “

You knew she said it to irritate the Doctor. But that didn’t stop the quiet huff of indignance from slipping past your lips. It stung a bit more than you cared to admit, your heart sinking slightly at the comment.

You folded your arms across your chest and subtly angled yourself away from her in hopes that she didn’t catch a glimpse of your disheartened expression.

Missy set her parasol down on a nearby chair and unpinned her hat. “Stop mucking about and concentrate.”

The Doctor spoke up again through the earpiece. “Nardole, do something non-irritating. “

“On it, sir!” “Time Lords are friends with each other, dear,” Missy continued, ignoring the Doctor and sounding almost bored as she looked at her reflection in a glass panel. She paused at the reflection and adjusted her hair and examined the state of her makeup, before blowing an exaggerated kiss into the air.

“Everything else is cradle-snatching.”

At that statement, you were truly bothered.

“Sounds a bit limiting,” you shot back, an edge subconsciously creeping into your voice. You still avoided looking in her direction and studied the surrounding control room panels and monitors with feigned interest.

“Glad to hear you think so highly of our company,” you added, furrowing your brow.. Maybe it was stupid to think she saw you as a friend.

You only had visited her nearly every day for the better part of a year. You didn’t realize that you hadn’t even made her species requirement for friendship.

While attempting to mask the layered emotions connected with that realization hitting you, you barely even registered Nardole and the Doctor’s voices as you attempted to keep your expression mostly blank.

Part of you knew that she was likely saying it just to get under Bill’s skin. Yet, you couldn’t help but note that she spoke the words with a little too much conviction to make you think it was entirely a lie.

“Oh, it's a big one. Ship reads as four hundred miles long.”

You tuned out mentally from the rapid back and forth over the earpiece and quietly moved to sit on the nearby chair, ignoring the weight of Missy’s gaze on you.

You didn’t bother looking up and reclined into the seat, propping your elbow up on the armrest and supporting your head on your hand. You dimly realized you might have resembled a bored child as you kept your blank expression, your gaze drifted across the room and looking everywhere but at the Time Lady.

“And a hundred miles wide,” Nardole added. “It's big, even for a colony ship,” the Doctor’s voice sounded through the earpiece

“Anything else?” Your attention shifted again as Missy looked upward, something suddenly catching her attention. You followed the direction of her gaze and your eyes widened.

“Oh, wow.” “It's heading towards a black hole. “ “No….” Missy’s voice suddenly sounded pensive, as she stared up at the black hole through through the circular glass window. Her attention broke away from the black hole and you cursed yourself quietly as you made the mistake of meeting her eyes.

Her words were directed at the Doctor, but her gaze lingered on you. She studied you for another long beat, something unidentifiable flashing in her eyes as her lips twitched downward into a frown.

Whatever silent moment you might have just had passed as the Doctor chimed back in through the earpiece.

“No, it isn't!” “It was,” Missy corrected, studying the ship’s navigational readings overhead. “--heading towards a black hole, until somebody noticed. Now they're trying to reverse away from it. Engines are on reverse thrust, see?” Her tone came off a little less biting than before. You found yourself nodding idly and gazing up at the ominous vortex swirling above you.

“Oh. Well, it's succeeding,” Nardole noted. “Yes...very, very slowly. “ Missy added, seeming to almost float towards where you sat with a casual, predatory grace.

“Explains the distress call, I guess.”

“So, a four-hundred mile ship, reversing away from the gravitational pull of a black hole. Are we having fun yet?” The Doctor asked.

Missy hummed in a pleased sound of agreement, and you nearly jumped at her voice being suddenly close to your ear, teasing in a light voice. “See? We’re having fun. You can stop pouting now, pet.”

You blinked in surprise, tilting your head back and opening your mouth to retort, but a sudden crackle drew your attention back to the wall in front of you. A large screen buzzed to life and the face of a man appeared on the monitor, his voice heavily distorted by static. “Hello? Who's there? Hello? Please report status. “ Missy had already darted half-way across the room towards the screen. You stood, your curiosity getting better of you.

“Oh, hello,” Missy chimed, “What have we got here?”

She studied the man on the screen, casually resting an elbow atop what you assumed to be a pilot chair.

“You're probably handsome, aren't you? Well, congratulations on your relative symmetry. “

You couldn’t help the scoffed laugh that emitted from you at the comment, earning a sidelong look from Bill.

“Who are you?” the man on the screen said, almost accusatory, scrunching his face in confusion.

“Well, I am that mysterious adventurer in all of time and space, known only as Doctor Who,” she said with one arm raised in a dramatic gesture and gusto that wouldn’t have surprised you if she had rehearsed.

You had moved beside her to get a better look at the screen and blinked in surprise as she suddenly wrapped an arm around you and gripped your shoulders with a squeeze. “And these are my disposables, Exposition, Sidekick, and Comic Relief. “ “We're not functions,” Nardole said with a grimace. “Darling, those were genders. “

“--Please, stay exactly where you are for your own safety,” the man on the screen continued, sounding unamused by Missy’s explanation.. “He likes me. So exciting,“ she looked to you with a conspiring look. “I'm coming through,” man on the screen said before the feed abruptly cut-out.

You looked towards Nardole and Bill in alarm, but Missy seemed not at all phased by the man’s brusque announcement. “Hurry, my stallion. And if I'm in the shower, just bring me some beans on toast. That's roughly human flirting, isn't it?” Missy offered you another wink, and you slowly shook your head in skepticism. Her hand briefly brushed across your shoulder as she stepped away. Bill’s face scrunched in confusion. “So, why do you keep calling yourself Doctor Who?” Missy tilted her head, hand resting at her hip as she narrowed her eyes at Bill’s question. “Because I'm pretending to be him. Because that's the whole point of this ridiculous exercise.” She spoke slowly, the scottish enunciations in her voice stronger with each word.

“It's not an exercise, it's a test.” The Doctor said, jumped back in, his voice distorted by a crunch heard on the other side of the line.

“Are you eating?”

Again, the amplified crinkle of plastic through the earpiece. “No. “ The Doctor countered unconvincingly like a child caught in a lie. “Yeah, well, don't test me eating crips!” Missy snapped in irritation at the notion.

You wandered over by Nardole to peer at the screen of the computer he was typing away at with a stern expression.

You couldn’t make sense of what any of it meant, all unintelligible numbers and alien code you didn’t understand, but it still felt more engaging than the listless banter that already was giving you a headache.

“—Yeah, but he's called the Doctor, so….” Bill continued, revisiting Missy’s prior statement. Missy didn’t miss a beat, “--He says, I'm the Doctor, and they say, Doctor who? See, I'm cutting to the chase, baby. I'm streamlining. I'm saving us actual minutes,” she added, leaning into each movement and snapping her fingers at each word for emphasis.

“Yeah, okay, whatever,” Bill scoffed, turning away from her. “—Also it's his real name.” “It's what?” Bill said, abruptly spinning back to face the Time Lady. You actually did roll your eyes that time at Missy toying with Bill. Missy slid into the seat beside her, ignoring Bill’s question.

“Slow today, Missy,” the Doctor commented. “All those screens have been angled to a single viewpoint. But not originally, they've all been moved. “ “Which means? “ “Giant ship, single pilot, but not designed that way. Something's happened to the others.” “Yes. And now It's time for you to figure out what. “ With an electronic whirr, the group’s attention shifted to the CCTV cameras moving abruptly and settling onto them. “Uh oh...Someone else has noticed us.” Nardole’s voice remained low, but he rose to his feet in alarm, glancing around with caution.

“Look’s like Big Brother’s not happy…” you attempted in a weak joke, eyeing the camera warily.

“Sorry, what do you mean, it's his real name? Nobody knows the Doctor's real name. “I do, because I grew up with him, and his real name is Doctor Who.”

“-Bill, she's just trying to wind you up.”

“--Chose it himself, you know, trying to sound mysterious.”

“And then he dropped the Who when he realised it was a tiny bit on the nose.”

“--and Mistress isn’t?” you countered. Missy raised a brow, regarding you and your sudden cheekiness with mild amusement. “Well, yes it’s my name, but I go by Missy now so it’s not the same, is it? It’s called subtlety. ”

“Missy, we both know subtlety isn’t in your vocabulary. Now stop teasing them and focus.” “Is she serious, though, Doctor? Is your real name Doctor Who?” Bill pressed and you half-groaned, hoping they would just drop it and figure out exactly who or what was coming. As if on cue, you heard the soft ding of an elevator and looked up as a set of mechanical doors slid open at the far end of the room. You took a harsh intake of air as a bald man with blue skin emerged through the doors, decidedly not friendly, as he raised a gun and pointed it immediately in the direction of your group.

“Oh, you're blue! Nice. I should go back to blue. Ow!” Nardole began in a far-too cheery voice, causing you to jab your elbow harshly into his side to possibly improve your chances of not being shot.

“And armed…” you added under your breath, careful not to make any sudden movements as he visually swept the room and rounded the control panel. You now noticed his erratic, jerky movements as he circled back again, training the gun at each of you.

“Stay where you are!” he ordered. There was a desperate, wild look in his eyes.

You froze, eyeing the man cautiously before stealing a glance at Missy. She appeared calm, but her expression was decidedly stoic. “Stay calm. He's very frightened,” the Doctor warned, his voice mostly even, but betraying his alarm at the situation.

“Deary me, I thought you were handsome, and now you've gone all cross and you're pointing a gun at me,” Missy’s voice dropped from teasing to low and threatening.

“Is this the emotion you humans call spanking?”

If you weren’t fearing for your friends and your own safety, you might have blushed at the way Missy’s eyes lingered on you at the word ‘spanking’.

But the moment was unfortunately undercut by the unhinged alien man pointing a gun at you.

“Are there only four of you? Are any of you human?” the man raised his voice at the word, an an anger and fear in his voice that made your stomach churn.

You sucked in a sharp intake of air as he stepped forward, jamming his gun in front of Nardole’s face. Nardole immediately held his hands up and started shaking his head.

You cast a worried glance at Bill, who met your eyes with fear that you had no doubt was mirrored in your own.

Dragging your attention back to the man, you now noticed the sweat beading across the man’s brow and the slight tremor in the grip on his weapon. Behind his efforts to appear in control, you began to suspect that something happened here that had left him utterly shaken.

“What has happened to this ship and how long have you been here alone? You're looking very sickly,“ Missy pressed. “Two days,” he replied before turning towards Missy in an accusing tone. “Are you human?” “Oh, don't be a bitch.”

The man grimaced. “How did you get on board? Is that your capsule?” “Yep,” Missy replied without hesitation, pointing her thumb over her shoulder at the blue box.

“No.” the Doctor countered.

The man shifted away and up to one of the display panels. You realize that he’s staring at the illuminated numbers above another set of metal doors.

“There, look!” the man pointed across the room, rushing towards a set of display panels.

You knew none of you were out of the woods yet, but you couldn’t help but release a breath you hadn’t realized you had been holding at the new distance between you.

Now that he had taken his attention elsewhere, your eyes urgently surveyed the room. You needed to find something to distract him for at least long enough to knock his gun away to buy time. “Three lifts. They're coming,” the blue man spoke again, his voice laced with panic.

He appeared to be right. One hovered at level 0718, and the other two on 0930. “Who’s coming?” you ask. “Super-fast inertia lifts,” Missy noted, nodding towards the display. “Well, what's inside? What's coming up here?” “Things. I don't even know where they came from,” the man shook his head in dismay, fidgeting and becoming more visibly agitated as the numbers dropped with each second. “One of you must be human. They only come up if they detect human life signs.”

Floor 350

“What for?” Bill asked. “They take them away,” the man replied.

“Away to where…?” you pressed, eyeing the man with skepticism. “I'll be right with you.” The Doctor announced abruptly, doing little to ease the growing dread in your stomach.

“Which of you is human?” the man shouted again, causing you to jump at the sudden intensity of volume and emotion in his voice. Training his weapon on each of you with an edge of desperation in his movements. you didn’t dare make a sudden move.

The doors of the TARDIS abruptly swung open, the movement making the blue man pivot and retrain his weapon towards the new arrival. You watched as the Doctor emerged, his arms raised and movements slow, but his keen gaze acutely trained on the danger in front of him.

You froze at the unexpected voice that spoke up. “Me. Me, me. I'm human,” Bill began, and your eyes snapped towards her in alarm. Immediately she locked eyes with you for a brief moment with a loaded look, making the sounds of protest die in your throat and fade into a mortified silence.

“I'm the only one. Just, just me,” Bill continued, her voice firm and assertive despite the fear evident in her eyes.

You bite your tongue. It was all you could do to stop yourself from shouting at her to stop talking and let the Doctor convince the man his systems must have made a mistake. Even that wasn’t enough to stop yourself from the mounting desire to tackle the man while he was distracted. Just to do something to stop this stranger from pointing a gun at your friend.

The only thing that muted the impulse was a sudden sharp sensation at your wrist. A sensation like a vice grip of needle points pressed against the flesh of your forearm and you didn’t need to look back to realize just who was responsible.

Missy stood silently beside you, her movement obscured from the stranger’s view, and her grip stung as she dug her nails down with near bruising insistence. A silent warning to not do anything impulsive.

It was almost sweet, coming from her. But only when considering how little regard you knew she held for human life. You didn’t doubt your arm would be adored little half-moon bruises when she let go. Grimly, you realized you’d be satisfied with simply living long enough to even see them form, given your current predicament.

The Doctor froze at Bill’s proclamation, fear now morphing his shocked expression to one of horror. He nearly leapt forward in desperation, pleading with the blue man. “Please stop this. Stop right there, now.”

“I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, but you're the reason that they're coming. “ The man raised his weapon again. “Put it down. Put that down now,” the Doctor repeated, his voice calm despite his fearful expression. The man shook his head, holding the gun steady with resolution. “They won't come if she's dead.”

Floor 45

“You don't need to do this,” the Doctor pleaded, slowly moving closer with his hands raised to show himself as unarmed. “I can get her off this ship. I can shield her life signs,” the Doctor continued his attempt at persuasion. “You know what, Doctor? I said this was a bad idea,” Bill said quietly, tearing her eyes from the man with the gun and addressing the Doctor directly.

Floor 26

“Please, listen to me. Look at me. Go on, look at me. That's good. That's very, very good. Now, do you see this mad woman sitting in this chair? Her name isn't Doctor Who. My name is Doctor Who.” “—It's not, is it?” Nardole muttered and you fought the urge to slap the friendly android in that particular moment.

The Doctor nearly stood within reaching distance of the man. You suddenly recognized something in this careful posturing that gave you a spark of hope for the situation.

The Doctor aimed to disarm him. Now, he just needed to buy a couple more seconds. Your eyes flicker back to the number display as the lift seemed to pause between floors 8 and 7.

Floor 7

“—I like it. You don't know it yet, but in a short time, you will trust me with your life. And when I save you and everyone on your ship, one day you will look back, and wonder who I was and why I did--”

Both you and Doctor knew he was rambling to buy time, but the sound of the lift’s ding at arrival caused the blue man to suddenly flinch.

You heard the gun discharge before registering what had happened, and your stomach dropped in horror.

“—Bill!”

“—You fucking bastard.”

#reader insert #missy x reader #missy dw #missy doctor who #missy #missy x reader fanfic #missy x reader x simm #gomez!master #simm!master #mostly exposition here but still #the master x reader #doctor who #doctor who fanfic #master x reader #Putting out fire #fanfiction

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ashintheairlikesnow · 4 years ago

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WIP Wednesday: Whumptober Previews, Take 2

I still have a few more to go, but I am in the final stretch for writing my @whumptober2020 pieces! I already posted one preview of what I have so far (you can see Days 1-12 here), so here are previews for the rest of what I have written - and sneak peeks at what’s planned out but not written yet!

Whumptober starts tomorrow - we’ll see how you feel about my work this go-round! Last year, Whumptober Day 1 introduced Daniel Michaelson. This year... it starts with Danny, too.

Day 13:

“Vanni, they thought he was you.”

“I know, Ridley!” Rossi never snapped at Ridley, but here it was, and Connor forced in a hitching, shaky inhale around the tremendous, inescapable weight pressing down on him, determined to keep breathing long enough to understand. “I know they did.”

“And they fucking poisoned him and then dumped him to fucking die-”

“I know!” The two men went silent for a second, Ridley staring with shock at Rossi and Rossi glaring furious towards the window without looking back. Connor’s breath, rattling in his struggling lungs, was the only sound in the room.

Day 14:

Peter glanced over his shoulder, back towards the house. The thermometer had climbed a little more, reading 98.5 degrees Farenheit now, and Peter blinked as he shivered again, swallowing without any saliva. His mouth felt dry, and strange. Why was he shivering - how did he have goosebumps - if it was almost one hundred degrees?

As if he’d heard Peter’s thoughts, the side door opened and Micheal came out, wearing his weekend outfit of slim black slacks and a pale heathered gray t-shirt, what Madam allowed him to wear. He was carrying a glass of water with ice and a little striped straw stuck in the top. The black shock collar he was never allowed to remove - not yet, Madam said, not until Micheal learned how to be silent without needing encouragement, to her satisfaction - cut a wide band across his neck, the black box small and nearly perfectly blended in at the back.

“Peter,” He said in a low voice - not quite a whisper, but just as quiet. “I brought you a drink, I-” He looked up, squinting towards the sky. “It’s hot. Should you be out here?”

Day 15:

He drops back to the ground, groaning, eyes fluttering open and shut, before he reaches out to grip onto Ora’s arm again. He turns to look at them, and his eyes are glowing so brightly he can see the reflected light on Ora’s face, the flicker of yellow against their irises. There are things that move beneath the light in Ryan Michaelson’s eyes, and he no longer feels them pushed back under the surface of his skin.

“I’m so fucking hungry,” He whispers, and his fingernails dig into Ora’s arm until they begin to bleed and whimper, but they don’t - can’t - pull away. Not until he lets them.

They will be lost in his eyes until he decides to let them go.

Day 16:

Count to ten, Tris! One… two...

Her voice is so loud he jumps, but when he looks to the left, nothing’s there. Just the white walls, plain and featureless, white tiles that were smooth under his fingertips back when he was allowed to touch them.

Everything is cold, and the boy has been shivering for so long that his muscles ache from the constant tense-and-release, tense-and-release, struggling to keep him warm.

Day 17:

She giggles a little, then glances over her shoulder, mouths something at the cameraman. Oliver can guess what. Edit that out.

Kelly Donahue doesn’t want the episode to be aired with her giggling like a schoolgirl at a bit of idle flattery. Well. Everyone has their things they like to hide, don’t they?

She has her giggle. Oliver has a teenage boy locked in his bedroom.

Day 18:

“Your mother,” Patrick interrupted, with gentle violence, “believes that you are squandering an opportunity.”

“An-... a what-”

“We respect your decision - and your brother’s - to refuse interviews, especially at his early date.” Patrick sounded like he’d rehearsed this answer, delivered with the same smooth cadence he had during his speeches before the Board of Directors. “But, considering the effort it took us to find you-”

“The effort it took Nate to find us,” Ryan corrected, ice growing along his veins at the same time it took over his voice. “Nate. It was Nate who watched the videos, it was Nate who talked Abraham into showing him the yard, it was Nate who spent fucking night after fucking night trolling fucking satellite photos to try and find us. Don’t act like the effort came from you. It came from my brother’s goddamn fiance.”

Day 19:

“If this is a trap, I’m going to owe Gavin fifty bucks.” Vera checked and rechecked her handgun, as though it would suddenly be less loaded than it was just a few minutes before. Her jaw was set in a grim line, eyes flashing a kind of damped-down fire, embers ready to spark. Her thick black hair, showing growing hints of gray, was pulled into a tight bun at the nape of her neck, and she wore a pair of black pants and a tucked-in t-shirt, ready for the fight she was definitely expecting. “I don’t want to owe Gavin money, Isaac.”

“It’s not a trap,” Isaac replied, making his own nervous check and recheck of the table and chairs. “I don’t think it is, anyway. My instincts are saying it isn’t.”

“Your instincts-”

“My instincts have been spot-on for a decade, Vera. Just trust me on this. She let us pick the day, the time, the location… she let us give her the location with less than four hours’ notice, even. If this is a trap, she’s piss-poor at setting it.”

Day 20:

He’d been flying, and the fall had been worse than the arrow, at first.

The sudden burst of white-hot pain had stunned him, caught him mid-spin enjoying an early-morning chill, and sent him tumbling to the ground below.

He’d heard his own frantic keens of panic and fear as if from a distance, and then they’d been drowned out when he slammed into the trees, feathers flying all around him as they were ripped free by the branches he smacked into one after another on the way down.

Day 21:

"Mmhmmm. Christopher. Stanton." Nat listens for a long time, then says quietly, "No known health problems. Autistic."

Jake looks up, and Nat calmly looks back at him, while speaking into the phone. "Yes. Yes, I'm confident. He is sensitive to fluorescent lights, scared of needles, and terrified of sedation. Yeah, I realize that I just described the exact environment we’re sending him into.” Chris whimpered, and Nat’s voice went ragged, her eyes closed tightly against the sight of his face pale, sweaty, twisted with pain. “Listen. Just-... just put on the fucking papers that Christopher Stanton is fucking autistic, because that's what my goddamn rescue is - I'll sell someone else's firstborn to fucking Satan if he isn't, mark my fucking words - and we're wasting time while he gets worse!"

Day 22:

Rossi picks the glass up and just as he tilts it up to his lips, Connor rears back and up on his knees and swings one of his hands, the black leather ‘paw’ smacking into the rim of the glass and spilling it in an arc across Rossi’s suit, onto the table, soaking his cards and hitting the next person at the table right in the eyes.

“Connor, what the fuck?!” Rossi’s voice isn’t furious, not yet - he’s too shocked to get beyond the simple surprise.

Day 23:

The drugs in his system weigh him down, he is too exhausted to understand what’s happening or how to begin to fight it. His eyes keep trying to close and stay closed, and he whimpers, forcing them back open.

“Pozhaluysta…” He groans, collapsing forward against the heavy solidity of the man, the soft tailored fabric of his expensive suitjacket, the scent of clove cigarettes that clings to him like a woman’s fingers clutching tightly. “Pozhaluysta, otpusti menya…”

Day 24:

“My name is Melody,” The girl said, nearly extending her hand, but then she realized the creature’s right hand was nothing but wickedly sharp talons, and it was bound in front of him to his left. “Oh, I’m sorry. What’s your name?”

The creature blinked once, twice. Watched her, tense and maybe suspicious, and then shook his head. “No… no name.” He spoke slowly, as though words came only with difficulty but a soft little trill sounded under one voice, layered it with another. “Pet.”

Day 25:

“Wh, where, where, where-where, where am, am I-”

“Sssshhhh.” The person in the dark blue uniform presses a plastic-gloved hand to his shoulder as he tries to sit up, pushing him back down. “Hey no, you gotta stay steady, there. Don’t move.”

“Please-... please, sir, h-hurts-”

“Not sir,” The person says, gently, a bit of auburn hair falling over their forehead. “Can you see?”

“K-Kind... kind of... hurts-”

“Sssshhhh. I know. I know it does. Just hang on. Tori’s going to help me get you some paperwork going. Don’t worry, kiddo.” The person pats him, lightly, and then looks up, brown eyes scanning the hallway outside. “You’re not the first we’ve pulled through this.”

Day 26:

Calon Nie hummed to himself, tapping talons on the floor, watching the boy sit so still, as though stillness could protect him from the dangers of the world. “Good. Failed, you, to keep new eyes. Costs a life, to give something new. Killan Josta, human boy, he fail Calon Nie. He fail the life given, when eyes don’t work. Did not respect sacrifice.”

“I’m… I’m sorry,” The boy said hoarsely, curling in on himself even more, his wings instinctively curling protectively around him. “I… I don’t want anyone to d-die for me. I didn’t mean to-... I didn’t mean to fail. I, I tried to p-pray for them, to stars, to-”

“Paugh! Mysteries do not hear you.”

Day 27:

Jake answers, and on the other side of the door, the old woman stands holding a large cardboard box in her arms, her grandson present, as nearly always, at her side. He holds a large box, too - so big, in fact, that only the top half of his face is visible.

“They’re sayin’ it could be a week before we get power back,” Ruth says, with a world-weary sigh. “A full-on week. We figured we’d bring you some supplies.”

Day 28:

Ora Collins is hungry.

Day 29:

Jake is a tall man, but the emergency room always made him feel so small. Even now, part of him rehearses the scripted stories. I fell while climbing a tree. I crashed my bike. I tripped going down the stairs.

He has lies to tell today, just like he always has, but today the lies are for Chris, not himself.

He’s my brother. No, different dads, that’s all. His mom lives a few states away, I handle all his medical stuff.

Day 30:

(AKA Possession, Part 2)

Ryan and Nate take down Abraham Denner.

Day 31:

Danny is left for dead.

#ash does whumptober #whumptober previews #whumptober prep #whump

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xantchaslegacy · 5 years ago

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Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Multiverse

A quick and dirty rundown of some of the premier MtG planes, ranked by how nice a place they would be to live. Very subjective obviously, and I’d love to hear if people agree/ disagree/ have any strong feelings on the matter at all~ I stuck mostly to planes where I felt enough was known about it to make a tentative judgment call on its general safety/ enjoyability.

Note that for the below list, the criteria is that you are a) a human, who b) is primarily interested in living a long, peaceful life c) ideally with minimal external control by outside powers.

1) Kaladesh

– Periodically corrupt government, but overall a plane which offers lifestyles for urban and rural preferences, has plentiful clean energy, and supports both the arts and the sciences for public benefit.

2) Kylem

– Not many options for a quiet life, judging by the admittedly small sampling of the plane seen so far. Does seem to have a fairly lower fatality rate for all that, and Cloudspire City ranks high on places to visit for a fun time.

3) Eldraine

– Surprisingly benevolent monarchy, even verging on democratic in areas. Dangers of wilds exist, but odds of random monster death are reasonably mitigated compared to other planes. Limited career options for the layperson, though more fields open up if willing to take on the life of a knight.

4) Equilor

– Peaceful but dull, which is basically exactly the criteria for this particular test.

5) Dominaria

– Lots of world to see if you fancy adventure, and a diverse number of places to settle down if you don’t. Options for scholars, warriors, farmers, traders, artists, and writers alike. Currently no pending apocalypse, but the track record is not so good. Death machines just a few layers of dirt down.

6) Alara (Bant)

– Not a bad life to be had, if a bit over-codified. Even life as a warrior is not bad, at least pre-conflux. Peaceful and well-ordered, and passes the criteria for this list, albeit only for a brief period of time.

7) Theros

– Many options re: career path, from farmer to warrior to philosopher to herder. Do have to contend with sudden, violent death from monsters, minotaurs, or gods getting bored, so constantly on edge, probably.

8) Ravnica

– Pretty much the gold standard for variety in life paths. Entertainer, provider, lawyer, doctor, scientist, artist, spy, usurer...the world is your oyster if you’ve got the gumption. Semiapocalyptic events fairly frequent in recent years, though nothing has stuck. Very few options for the non-urban inclined that don’t involve joining a cult or grafting new parts onto your body.

9) Shandalar

– current status a bit unclear, but a great plane for anyone looking to incorporate casual magic into their day-to-day life. Likely still a ripe target for planeswalker visitors looking to harvest the rich mana therein.

10) Fiora

– Fairly interesting and relatively low-key place to live if you keep your head down and out of the hardcore politicking. Rural living options exist.

11) Plane of Mountains and Seas

– limited information, but seems pretty chill.

12) Bablovia

– here for a good time, not a long time.

13) Alara (Naya)

– Not too bad, if you don’t get stepped on. Mostly jungle living, but if you’re down with that, there are fun adventures to be had.

14) Kamigawa

– Sure, your Daimyo may occasionally invoke the wrath of the sizeable and omnipresent spirit world, casting the whole of the plane into bitter, arcane civil war, but in any other situation you’ve got a fairly diverse and interesting world to live in, and nowadays there’s even a pair of spirits protecting you from extraplanar threats.

15) Lorwyn/Shadowmoor

– Depending on the side of the aurora you find yourself on, you will either want to seek out the elves for sanctuary, or avoid them at all costs. Lorwyn is pleasant enough, if you resign yourself to not seeing any other humans, and are good with extremely rural living. Watch overhead for giants at all times.

16) Alara (Esper)

– Long life options available, if you are good with artifacts™, and cool with swapping out some of your fleshy bits. A wee bit classist.

17) Kephelai

– peaceful and ordered enough, but definitely leaning on the oppressive side of the political spectrum. Not the most fun people to live among, either.

18) Regatha

– Some like it hot; some might not.

19) Muraganda

– The perfect plane for all you paleo diet enthusiasts out there. Living might be a little too bare-bones and dinosaur-filled for the average person.

20) Ixalan

– A few options here, all pretty narrow. Piracy and vampire imperialism both involve a life of violence and in the latter case, a high degree of servitude. Sun empire pretty viable option for humans comfortable with dinosaurs, and, as of the most recent story, going full aztec.

21) Tarkir (Khans)

– A varied lifestyle options to pick from. Very few leisurely ones available, barring a life of deceit and treachery with the Sultai. Inter- and intra-clan conflict more or less unavoidable, but not of a disastrous scale that you’ll find on different planes.

22) Zendikar

– Excellent opportunities for forging your own path in life, and endless options for adventure. Lacking in safe places to settle down and live without sudden death by avalanche/tidal wave/typhoon/ eruption/ sinkhole/ eldritch horror.

23) Mercadia

– Opportunities for rural and urban living, if you are at peace with living in a trash heap/ dust bowl. Forest living is an option if you don’t mind the mercenary raids, but at least others will have your back. Options for piracy as well, though not as flashy as the Ixalan variety. No apocalyptic events to worry about, which puts it head and shoulders above a few other planes on the list.

24) Gargantikar

– See Segovia; this time, it is you who gets stomped. May be ideal for anyone who saw Disney’s jack and the beanstalk and decided life on a giant kitchen table was the life for them.

25) Segovia

– Oh jeez, please be careful where you step. If you could just – we’ve got a lovely hundred acres of pasture for you to take a seat in if you would just take care not to step on OH MY GOD YOU’VE KILLED THEM ALL (Yes, Segovia corrects for scale with planeswalker visitors, but I stand by the joke)

26) Serra’s Realm

– Fairly peaceful in theory, but the oversight is pretty strict, and it’s no good if you’ve got a fear of heights. Very limited time to enjoy living there if floating fields and angels are your jam.

27) Vryn

– Regularly corrupt government, in constant conflict with other major power over contested energy sources, with everyone else placed firmly in the middle of the meat grinder.

28) Innistrad

– You can certainly live long as a vampire or free as a werewolf, but as both are of dubious desirability for the average person, this plane will rank a bit low.

29) Mirrodin (Pre-besieged)

– Prospects for living a quiet life exist, with major caveats regardless of which human society you wind up in. Basically take your pick between constant danger of attack, subservience to another species, living in a place not designed for habitation by any form of life, or some combination of the three.

30) Tarkir (Dragons)

– Much narrower lifestyle options than the khans timeline, and higher odds of dying within your own clan, though which dragon you end up under makes a huge difference in the quality of life. Dromoka and Ojutai probably the best options if your goal is longetivity.

31) Ulgrotha

– Dead/ dying plane, and the management sucks.

32) Rath (pre-overlay)

– Mercadia situation amped up to 11. Oppress or be oppressed, with an uncomfortable middle ground where you will experience both. Also a generally hostile landscape due to nanomachine silly putty.

33) Alara (Jund)

– Spicy Naya. Probably can last a while if you’re quick on your feet, but no one dies of old age here.

34) Amonkhet

– Dead/ dying world, even if it wasn’t host to a horrific logan’s run/ hunger games inspired colonialism. Not so bad short-term, if you want to work on your beach body. At least you have a god looking out for you, unlike...

35) Alara (Grixis)

– The living hunted for their life-force...hellscape of zombies and demons...Grixis fails most of the criteria for the list, but you’ve got a slightly more sporting chance of survival here than with some of the planes further down.

36) New Phyrexia

– NOT GREAT

37) Phyrexia (Nine Spheres)

– Pictured above: the worst place in the multiverse, as a backdrop to the most wonderful person in the multiverse

#mtg #planes #xantcha

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stusbunker · 5 years ago

Text

What Lingers Within: Seven

A Supernatural Fan-fiction Mini Series

Featuring: Past Dean Winchester x Female Reader

Written for: @thisismysecrethappyplace

Prompt: Amnesia

Word Count: ~4700

Beta’d by the amazing @itmighthavebeenintentional

Aesthetic by @thoughtslikeaminefield

A/N: Set in season 11. Flashbacks are still in italics. Blood and gore, show level violence.

Series Masterlist

^*^*^*^

Every time Dean got the phone call, it hurt. It wasn’t just the leaving, but the wanting to go that ate at him. It was still one of his jobs, and he wasn’t ashamed of it, but leaving her to do it kept getting harder. He tried not to take it out on Bobby, but so was the curse of the messenger. Since Sam was gone, it just hadn’t been the same.

He scribbled the details down as he listened, giving single syllable responses until Bobby was out of intel. He thanked Bobby and said he would keep him posted. She wouldn’t be back from work for another hour. He could make his plans, chart his course and drag his heels so he could say goodbye to her face. Or he could get on the road and figure it out on the way, leaving the worry-masked reassurance in her eyes for another hunt.

When had he become such a coward?

Dean tore a layer off the notepad by the phone, giving her the what and the where. He promised to call her when he stopped for the night. He didn’t bother to sign it. Once he was out the door, the wet spring air filled him with earthy possibility. It was good to be on the move, to go through the motions, the thrill of the hunt beckoning. Dean almost felt good about the case, just like he almost forgot he had someone waiting for him to get home.

^*^*^

Sam must have won because you ended up in Kansas afterall. While you crawled out of their Chevy and into a massive underground garage fitted with some of the oldest cars and motorcycles you had ever seen in person, you didn’t know what came next. Suddenly, hit with the alienness of your surroundings you held your breath, and hoped the blind trust you had in Dean and his brother was enough. That leaving with them had been the right choice.

Sam gave you a half smile and tossed your bag over his shoulder.

“Come on, I’ll show you around.”

You felt Dean watching you with Sam and you couldn’t help but glance back; the furrow in his brow could have been from annoyance but it felt more like a question. A silent check in.

“Yeah, okay, thanks,” you answered Sam before you took a deep breath through your nose and nodded, hoping you weren’t intruding.

The bunker was unlike any place else, part boarding school and part fall out shelter. The size was overwhelming, but the design uniform enough not to be too disorienting. By the time Sam showed you the kitchen Dean was already cooking dinner. Forearms bared and towel over his shoulder he looked completely at ease. The sight of him washed over you, excitement and relief warming you from the outside in. You had no reason for the emotional shift, and yet it felt good, right.

“That smells amazing,” you croaked out, following Sam down the short set of steps.

Dean leaned over the pot to take a whiff. “Yeah, well, it’s just chilli. Can’t screw that up too much. Got a few before it’s done. You get a room yet?”

“Yeah, Sam put me in number 15, I think it was?” You looked to Sam for clarification.

“13,” Sam corrected, which earned him a side eye from Dean.

“Alright, well, go get cleaned up. Just gotta put on the finishing touches.” Dean grabbed bowls off the shelf and you took the hint that he had something to say to Sam. Sam was clearly amused, but he just shrugged off your concern. Cautiously, you turned to climb back out of the room.

A faint ‘really, Sam?!’ reached you down the hall.

^*^*^

You had stuffed yourself on chilli and crackers, having forgotten how long it had been since the burgers at the seedy motel. Dinner wasn’t exactly awkward, but you felt out of place in the conversation which included searching for cases and touching base with other hunters. You tried not to ask too many questions, but if someone were to show up, you wanted to have an idea of who they were to Sam and Dean.

You laid staring at the blank wall, desperate for a show to distract you. The sheets were an old starched cotton, but they were clean. You weren’t falling asleep. It had very little to do with the fact that less than 36 hours before you had suffocated your boss in an abandoned subway service tunnel, and very much to do with the fact that Dean Winchester had entered your life and promptly saved it. Twice.

Once you understood what was the matter, you were suddenly knocking on Dean’s bedroom door. Which, thanks to Sam, was the one next to yours.

He didn’t answer.

Just as the impulsivity drained away, leaving you alone in the cold hallway standing in your comfiest pajamas that weren’t really pajamas, the door opened.

“Everything alright?” Dean asked, headphones tucked around his neck.

Shit. You gaped at his bright eyes, unable to answer him and wishing the floor would open up and swallow you whole.

“I, uh, I don’t know why I bothered you. I’ma go back to bed,” you sputtered. But then he touched you, deft and warm, his palm dragged from the ball of your shoulder to just above your elbow.

“It’s okay. I don’t really sleep after the rough ones either,” Dean murmured, voice soft but deep. You hadn’t realized you had closed your eyes until he leaned closer, the heat of his body melting your bubble until you forgot what personal space meant. “Come on in.”

You felt his hand fall away like a severed lifeline.

You looked around Dean’s room as he wrapped up the impractically long audio cable and put the headphones away. It was almost regimentally clean, but the personal touches made it far more welcoming than your room. Even if most of the decorations were weapons.

“What were you listening to?” You tried for small talk.

“Jethro Tull.” He gave you a nearly bashful smile. Thick as a Brick was one of your favorite albums.

His room was definitely warmer than yours was.

“Is it weird that that makes me happy?” You asked as you plopped into his desk chair.

“Not at all,” Dean reassured before he sat on the edge of his bed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “You wanna talk about it?”

He really was that kind. In your experience, guys that looked like Dean were only nice for as long as it was absolutely necessary, but he was the real deal.

“Do you?” You countered, watching as he licked his lips and cocked his head waiting for your explanation. “What if the reason I can’t sleep isn’t guilt or paranoia or --- I don’t know--- trauma?”

“Sometimes there is no rhyme or reason, you know. But something’s on your mind, so spill.” Dean sat up, face insistent, but not angry. Guarded and waiting. You thought about curling up in his lap and letting him play with your hair, longed to burrow your face in his neck and breathe him in. The thought froze and wedged itself inside your ribcage; terrifying because you were bold enough to attempt it. You needed only the slightest push.

“Tell me about how we met, the first time.” Your words made you both blanch, but once they were out, they felt like the best thing you had said all day. “Please?”

Dean looked at you like you were asking for a kidney, and he was considering doing it without anesthesia.

He stood up suddenly and pushed up the sleeves on his thermal. “Okay, yeah. That’s fair.”

He walked to his dresser and dragged open the top drawer while you waited for him to continue. He pulled out a handful of old photos and sat back on the bed. He started leafing through them until he found the one he was looking for, he flicked it around in his fingers toward you like he was handing out a business card.

“That one’s gotta be the earliest picture of us I’ve got. I ran into you after a quick salt-and-burn, Sam had ditched me for this, well, evil skank and I was feeling sorry for myself and pisssed at him and the only thing that kept me from starting a bar fight that night was the way you were eying me. Like I was some puzzle and not a loose canon. Anyway, this was taken about a month later. I weaseled my way back to town and somehow convinced you to grab a cup of coffee after your shift.”

You looked down at the photo, the booth was covered in cut out construction paper hearts. Your hair was longer and you looked like a deer in headlights in the photo, but what made you do a double take was the way Dean was grinning. You couldn’t believe how young you both seemed.

“Like an idiot, I had forgotten it was the weekend after Valentines, but the lady who ran the diner insisted on taking pictures of each of the couples that came in,” Dean explained.

The flash had muddled the fluorescents, but you had known those old metal rimmed tables and maroon vinyl booths anywhere. “This looks like the inside of Ma’s Table,” you whispered.

“Yeah, we were like the last people to show up before closing, but they took care of us.” Dean searched your face.

“What?”

He gave you a sad smile. “I guess I was hoping something would click and I’d get you back. Like if I hit the right memory, all of yours would suddenly resurface or something.”

You felt a shiver run down your back. You forced yourself to swallow. He wanted you back. “Sorry.”

“Nah, don’t worry about it. I mean, it’s my fault anyhow.” Dean cleared his throat and looked back to the stack of pictures in his hands, avoiding eye contact as you both composed yourselves.

Then you did something very stupid. You took two crouching steps over to the bed to settle yourself beside him, and looked over his shoulder at the next photo. “You could still keep telling me about them. Can’t hurt, right?”

Dean hummed, not in disagreement, but at your poor choice of words.

“Sam took this one at Bobby’s. Bobby, uh, was like a second dad to us. Lived up in Sioux Falls,”

“Like Jody?”

“Like Jody, yeah, uh, she’s the sheriff and he was supposedly the town drunk,” Dean chuckled. “Best person to go to for intel, one of those tough as steel, but soft on the inside type guys.”

“Hmmm, sounds like someone else I know,” you purred, before plucking the creased photograph out of Dean’s grasp. Dean was hauling you around a junkyard on piggyback. You couldn’t remember doing that since you were a kid. By the look on your face in the photograph you were either terrified or shocked by it, Sam had snapped the shot at just the right moment. You couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Oh my god, what were you thinking?!” You reprimanded.

“I was giving you the tour, but you were SO TIRED from the trip up there you didn’t want to walk,” Dean sassed back.

“Okay, that sounds like me,” you admitted.

“Uh-huh,” Dean huffed. “You know I can’t stop thinking about before. Not just the times I have pictures of, but how much you helped me. Sam was gone, for awhile, everyone thought he was dead and, uh, you helped me pull my head out of the bottle. You were so good for me.”

As much as his honesty dripped through your resolve like honey, it left a nasty after taste.

“But not good enough to keep around?” You didn’t try to hold back.

“It wasn’t like that. I, uh, I left before the thing with the demons and Cas wiping you.” Dean turned to face you, dragging one knee onto the bed that brushed your hip before he buried his stocking foot under his other leg. “We had already broken up.”

“What happened?” You asked, surprised, without any judgement.

“I’m the job, Y/N. I am not built for stability or a cookie cutter happily-ever-after. Sam came back from the dead wrong, long story, and I used him as an excuse. But honestly, I had already started checking out. I was using hunts like a junky uses drugs. Hiding from you because I knew there was more wrong with me and I didn’t want to bring that home to you.”

You hugged your knees, body completely on his bed, and let that revelation settle into what you knew about Dean and the timeline of your relationship. “But then why was I still on some demons’ radar?”

Dean sighed and rubbed his temple. “Because I kept tabs on you. I checked in, every so often, just make sure you were safe.”

“You watched me?” You balked. “You know that sounds really fucked up, right?”

“Yeah, well, I’m paranoid, so sue me. You do this long enough and you will be too.” Dean deflected.

You let that hang in the air. He hunched back over the remaining pictures, hands tense and shoulders tight. You didn’t want to fight, you just wanted answers. “Kind of a self-fulfilling prophecy then? You were worried about me, so you came back, and the demons found out you did and only then they attacked.”

Dean pursed his lips, ruefully. “Sounds about right.”

“But you were able to stop them,” you offered.

“Yeah, after you almost killed Sam,” Dean corrected.

“You still saved me.” You looked down at your hands. “That’s like three times, just that I know about. I’d say I owe you.”

“Honey, you don’t owe me shit,” Dean cupped your cheek, drawing your gaze to his. “I wasn’t kidding when I said you saved me from myself. We ain't even, but you're not the one in the red, you hear?”

You reached up and held his hand to your face, soaking in the steady strength of his palm.

“Is that why you’re letting me stay here?” You held your breath.

Dean looked away and whispered, “You know why we brought you home.” Then he pulled his hand back to grip the edge of the mattress.

“Because I’m a fugitive?” You broke the tension with ease, letting your legs fall into lotus pose. “You usually consort with wanted criminals?”

Dean shook his head and smirked. “Kind of par for the course. All our friends are either cops or criminals, and I’m usually playing cop.”

“Probably not the best time to make a handcuff joke, but I so want to!” You laughed.

“Oh, I bet you do,” Dean sighed and scratched the side of his head with his free hand. “Here, you can have these to look at, maybe something will click for you. But I’d like them back, when you’re done.”

You gently added the pictures to the two already in your hand. “Thanks.”

It felt like the time to go back to your room; looking over Dean’s memories without any recollection or context would possibly be harder for him to watch than it was for you to decipher.

You unfurled yourself from Dean’s bed and made your way to the door. Dean met you halfway, showing you out. Just as you had stepped into the hall, he had more to say.

“Look, I know when I talked about taking you to Jody’s, that wasn’t exactly rolling out the welcome mat, but I am glad you’re here.”

You couldn’t help but smile. “Thanks for having me.”

“See you in the morning, Y/N.” Dean sent you off with a little salute.

Luckily, you remembered there was most of a six pack left from dinner. You quietly helped yourself to the remainders before settling into the lonely bed in the appallingly generic room once more. You rifled through the pictures, determined to find something you could recall. Something significant enough to make everything spill out of the recesses of your mind.

But nothing changed, it was obviously you in each one, with Dean at your side in most of them. You were happy, of course you were, no one takes pictures of arguments or tears. But more so, you were happy together.

It was surreal seeing the span of the relationship in the half dozen pictures; understanding time’s progress by the small nuances of split lips or hair cuts or changing seasons. There was one taken in the apartment Dean had mentioned you shared, you had broken your leg and presumably Dean had taken the picture of you from the cast up.

Then you came to the last photo, one with Sam and Dean wedging you between them. You were laughing, but also making the most obvious goo goo eyes at Dean. You wondered who snapped the picture of you all on the trunk of the impala. You still owned the boots you had been wearing.

Eventually, your eyes zeroed in on the shirt Dean wore beneath his jacket, the same two toned flannel that you were wearing as a pajama top. The one that you always wore when you sought comfort, the one that was so ratty you should have thrown out ages ago. The one you couldn’t bring yourself to get rid of.

You gulped down the rest of your beer before setting the pictures onto the desk. You might not have any memories of Dean, but something inside of you certainly had held onto feelings for him. Feelings you didn’t know how to process anymore. With a heavy sigh you let yourself try and sleep them off.

^*^*^

Her smile turned into a snarl as it made her slam the knife into Sam’s gut, black eyes never leaving Dean’s face, drinking in his agony.

Dean’s voice cracked, but he kept reciting the exorcism, plowing through it even though he was frozen in place by the demon’s mental strength. It laughed, ruthless and ragged, almost a bark as she started to cough it up.

“Oh, Dean,” it tutted. “Too little too late.”

Then it turned the knife on her.

Time stopped, but Dean only hesitated for a moment, long enough for the blade to pierce right below her collar bone. Without even realizing he had been released, Dean lurched forward, final words shouted with all the fury and fear he had in him.

She fell to the ground before he could catch her, blood soaking through her shirt. He snatched the knife from her hand to try and temper the bleeding. Dean carefully wiggled them over to Sam, and as he held both of their wounds closed, he prayed for a miracle.

Dean knew the feel of blood as well as he knew the wear of the leather of Baby’s interior; opposite poles of familiarity. He was caked in the life that drained away from those he loved, and yet he could only see his own failure. He wouldn’t let go, he couldn’t, but he needed help and if the angel couldn’t answer him, maybe something more mundane could.

He closed his eyes and removed his hand from her shoulder, whispering his apologies as he searched for his phone. Her name was both a plea and a reminder, the hope and the loss oozing from him as thickly as the blood filled Sam’s belly.

Dean’s fingerprints smeared against the numbers, but then a deep voice stopped him middial.

“Dean? What happened?” Cas materialized before Dean hit send.

^*^*^

You slept through lunch, starting your first full day in the Wincehsters’ home groggy but steady on your feet. You told yourself that you had been reading too much into the feelings Dean’s memories had elicited. You were just empathetic and probably emotionally strung out over the whirlwind of the past couple weeks. You clearly couldn’t be in love with the man. No matter how kind, or handsome he was. He was essentially an acquaintance, no longer a stranger, but not yet a friend.

A savior, not the solution.

You found both Dean and Sam in the library, feet up and heads down, like a pair of flannel clad bookends. It was quite the picture, two well built guys studiously pouring through books for their next case. It made sense, but it also was such a specific level of hot that you definitely had to swallow before you could make your presence known.

“Hey, sorry, I guess I needed sleep more than I thought,” you offered, shrugging as you approached the massive table that had been covered with materials and laptops.

“Don’t sweat it,” Dean replied. “You eat? There’s some leftover chili, but we just had sandwiches for lunch. If you want, I can fry you up a grilled cheese?”

“Nah, it’s fine, I’ll make myself a sandwich. Thanks.” You brushed off Dean’s enthusiasm.

After preparing it, you trudged back to the library, plate in one hand, and a strong cup of tea in the other. You pulled a chair up to the clearest side of their work space and set up camp.

“What are you looking for?” You asked honestly, head tilted as you eyed the gold foiled title of the book in Sam’s hand.

“Uh, we’re looking into an entity known as the Darkness. It was originally locked away by God before the Earth was created, but it's now loose. So, we’re looking for weaknesses or ways to trap it again,” Sam explained tentatively.

“You’re trying to do something that God did originally?” You clarified.

“What Sam isn’t saying is that, we let her out. So, it’s on us to put her back,” Dean broke in.

“Her?” You felt suddenly out of your depth.

“Yeah, she’s actually God’s sister. Kind of a light and dark thing, we think,” Sam continued. “She goes by Amara.”

You didn’t miss the cringe that Dean tried to hide at the name, which meant that Sam definitely caught it as well.

After a few minutes of heavy silence you couldn’t help but ask, “How would one manage to let out an ancient dark power?”

“Very stupidly.” Dean sighed, not looking up from his book.

You finished your food and started to idly peruse the books stacked between you and Sam. You tried not to smile when you caught one of the brothers’ now familiar silent conversations. You didn’t have anywhere else to be, the least you could do was try and give them a little help in return. If they had a problem with it, they’d have to actually say it out loud.

They didn’t stop you.

A day turned into three, which became a full week of navigating their process for research, which started after Sam’s morning runs and ebbed off before Dean’s afternoon tinkering. You added yourself into their unofficial cooking rotation, not exactly acing their gas range, but managing to feel like you were close to earning your keep.

Dean always offered to do the dishes on your cooking nights.

You stayed back to help dry, preferring to work beside him, even in near silence, than retreat to your room early. Sam had found you an old laptop to stream on, so you had something to distract you from the barren walls and the slowly increasing nightmares. But that night the next season could wait, especially when there was Old Spice and the grounding grumble of Dean’s voice.

“Hey now, you with me?” Dean asked, waving his sudsy hand in front of your unfocused stare.

Your face burned, but you managed to smile through it. “Yup,” popping the ‘p’.

“You know you haven’t said anything about the pictures since your first night here,” Dean tried to be casual about bringing it up.

“Yeah, I guess I was waiting to see if anything came back,” you admitted.

“And?”

You turned to face Dean, his hands gripping the edge of the sink, leaning down so he was at your height. He knew by the apologetic look on your face and you could see his disappointment before he could fully retreat from the vulnerability.

“How’d I break my leg?” You took a plate from the rack, spinning it carefully in the towel as you waited for him to let you back in.

“You know I’m not exactly sure, you never gave up the whole story,” Dean licked his lips and shook his head. “I came back from a hunt and you were hobbling around with only one crutch. Somehow managed to get yourself to the hospital and home, even though I know they don’t let you drive with a cast. I think you were trying to either hang up new curtain rods or you fell up the back steps bringing them home. Because they were left in the trash, still in the plastic. But you insisted you ditched the old curtains to let in all the natural light you could.”

By the end of the story you were both giggling. It nearly made sense and yet it was so funny to hear how he figured it out despite your stubborn pride keeping you from admitting you had hurt yourself doing something stupid. Or presumably stupid.

“That’s why you took the shame photo? Because you needed physical proof I am a spaz?” You teased.

“Honey, I don’t need proof, we both know you are alive by sheer dumb luck at this point,” Dean taunted back.

You held up your towel in mock surrender. “Touche, but also? Too soon.”

“Oh come on, I wasn’t even talking about that!” Dean huffed in exasperation. You defiantly jutted out your chin, and snapped your hand closed like a mouth shutting. He rolled his eyes, before he suddenly splashed you with a gush of dirty dishwater. You squealed and swatted blindly at him.

Dean caught you at your waist, tugging the towel from your hand so he could wipe your face clean. You slowly stopped struggling in his hold, relaxing against his firm chest before you opened your eyes to see him looking back at you with nothing short of adoration.

Oh god, what were you doing?

You stood there, in Dean’s arms, for mere moments, but they felt like a lifetime. A lifetime where you had never been stripped of your past and he had never had to choose your life over his happiness. A lifetime you wanted desperately to relive.

“Sorry.” Dean released you. “I got the rest, you can hit the shower, don’t want you to catch cold.” He motioned to your half soaked tee and you nodded, rubbing your upper arm as if the suggestion of a drop in temperature had given you goosebumps and not the separation from his warm embrace.

“Backing out when you started it, real smooth,” you threw at him, walking backwards out of the kitchen.

Dean sighed and snipped back, “Would you watch where you’re walking, please?! I don’t want to have to drag your ass to the infirmary already.”

You couldn’t help but smirk, with your tongue firmly planted in your cheek, as you spun expertly on the ball of your foot before heading up the steps.

The smug high from your banter melted away with the pelting shower, the reality that you were needlessly toying with a man’s emotions sank into your every pore. You were not the woman he remembered, and you still didn’t completely know who Dean Winchester was or had become in the meantime. You needed to cool it.

An hour later, you restarted the same episode for the third time, because you could not focus on the new character’s introduction long enough to figure out why they were relevant. Couldn’t your mind just shut up?!

You don’t know where it came from, but slowly you realized you were speaking aloud, not to yourself, but to the angel you had yet to officially meet. You were praying, each word ripping something inside of you the moment it left your lips.

“Please let me remember him. Let me be who he needs me to be. Let him see me as I am and not only who he lost. Castiel, if you can’t fix my memories, then even the score, take me from his. Give me even footing or let him have a fresh start, too. Please, help me. Help us?”

^*^*^

Series tags: @tiggytaylor @vicmc624 @kalesrebellion

General SPN tags: @flamencodiva @dolphincliffs @dontshootmespence @thoughtslikeaminefield @fangirlxwritesx67 @dawnie1988 @mrswhozeewhatsis @cosicas-cuquis @foxyjwls007 @tumbler-tidbits @defenderrosetyler @ericaprice2008 @princessofthefandomrealm @wingedcatninja

^*^*^

Read on: Chapter Eight

#supernatural fanfiction #what lingers within #dean winchester fanfiction #dean wincehster x reader #dean angst #amnesia #blood #demon possession #dean x reader #spn reader insert #spn fanfic #dean winchester fanfic #dean fic

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harrisonarchive · 5 years ago

Photo

*Correction: Apologies for the typo in the originally posted caption above -- 2000, of course, not 2002. Slip of the keyboard.

On 30 December 1999, George and Olivia were nearly murdered in their own home. CW: It's a horrific event; please be aware that there are details of violence.

"George and I were saved by desperation, love of one another and the Grace of God. My husband was a whisper away from death and the possibility that Abram could have attacked our son Dhani before reaching us was unbearable." - From Olivia's court statement, Nov 2000

"'[George] was wearing a black, quilted Issey Miyake jacket, and in the chest pocket was a thick layer of gardening notes he'd folded up and put there. Later, they found forensic evidence of knife stabs through the paper,' she said.

Still, what truly saved Harrison were the actions of his wife. [...] George, seeing that Abram was now grabbing Olivia by her throat, staggered upward to rejoin the battle. 'There was a moment during the struggle,' Olivia said, 'that I noticed that this silk hanging we had on the wall was getting covered in blood, and I thought, He's winning. He's going to kill us. We have to step it up and do this.' [...]

'[George] told me that his mind focused on letting go, leaving his body in the way that he wanted to go,' Olivia said. 'He thought that he was being murdered, and he didn't want to die on someone else's terms. He told me, "I was lying there, thinking, I can't believe this is happening! Well, I'd better just start getting with God, preparing."'" - Vanity Fair, 3 Oct 2011

"George was badly injured and, just when he thought he was going to die, he had to get up and fight the guy all over again because he’d come after me. If it had been one of us on our own, we would have definitely been killed." - Olivia Harrison, Liverpool Daily Post, 13 Oct 2003

"George was viciously attacked in his house, stabbed many times. That really upset me. I felt it had a lot to do with George's death, really. I feel that. I think that he was on his way up, recovering, and it really took a lot of wind out of his sails." - Tom Petty, Conversations With Tom Petty

"I vividly remember a deliberate thrust of the knife into my chest and immediately felt my chest deflate and felt blood enter my mouth. I believed I had been fatally stabbed." - George Harrison in a written statement to the court, Nov 2000

"As I went into the main hall my mother was lying at the bottom of the stairs. [...] I ran up to her and she said, ‘It's OK, Dhani. It's OK, honey.’ I noticed her lips and mouth were very dry and I shouted at one of the police officers, ‘Get her some water.’ I then asked, ‘What happened?’ She said, ‘Daddy is upstairs, he is badly hurt,’ or something similar. She then said, ‘I'm OK. Go to him.’ I knew that what was upstairs was much worse. I put my hand on my mother and said repeatedly, ‘I love you.’ [...] I could see my father down the landing just inside the bedroom door. I went up to him, entering the bedroom and kneeling to assist him. Due to the amount of blood, which I find hard to describe, I was immediately covered in it. There were two pools of blood on the floor, blood on the walls and lots of broken glass. [...] My father said something like, ‘It's bad Dhan, it's bad. He stabbed me up a lot.’ [...] [Dhani repeated over and over] 'Stay with me, Dad.' [...] He was drifting, he looked even paler in the face and he was groaning and saying, 'I'm going out.' He made little sense and I knew he was losing consciousness. [...] He said, ‘Dhani, I'm going, I'm going.’ His eyes were rolling. I could only see the whites of them and he said, ‘I love you Dhan.’ He was strapped in and covered in blankets and we manoeuvred him towards the stairs. By this time the attacker had been removed. We got to the top of the stairs and at that point my father looked at me. He said, ‘I love you Dhan.’ One of his eyes rolled back independently of the other eye. Throughout his ordeal, my father's words were broken with coughing and spluttering. Then he said, ‘Hare Krishna’ and he closed his eyes. At this point he drew a very strange, deep breath. His mouth puckered, he drew his cheeks in and he sucked in his bottom lip. This breath made me react immediately. I shouted, ‘Dad, you're with me, listen to my voice. It is going to be OK. Stay with me.’ His face was contorted and he had not taken a breath for some seconds - an alarmingly long period. As I finished shouting he breathed out and opened his eyes. I have never seen another human being dead or alive - and I have seen my grandfather in his coffin - look so bad. My father was now back with us and I kept up the encouragement, hoping he would stay conscious. We were nearly halfway down the stairs when he went again. I again screamed at him, ‘Dad, stay with me and listen to my voice.’ I vividly remember saying, ‘This is the worst it gets. From now on, it's only getting better. I want you to focus on getting better. We have hit rock bottom, it is only getting better.’ I kept repeating this so he could focus on my voice. At the bottom of the stairs it happened again and again I repeated the process and thankfully he came back. My mother was still at the bottom of the stairs with a blanket wrapped around her. She was covered in blood and had a very nasty head wound. She was saying, ‘I'm cold, I'm cold.’ She said to my father, ‘It's OK, honey. You are going to be all right.’" - Dhani Harrison in court testimony, Nov 2000, Mirror, 19 Nov 2000

"[T]he man who tried to murder my parents wasn't locked up and now works in a Citizens Advice Bureau." - Dhani Harrison, Evening Standard Magazine, 26 Jun 2006

"It definitely took years off his life, you know. Cos if you're trying to fight cancer and then you're trying to stay alive for something like that, you know... It's gotta... it's gotta take it out of you." - Dhani Harrison, Living In The Material World

"[The attacker] takes all music literally — it is the Beatles at the moment, but a few weeks ago it was Oasis. He has been running in pubs shouting about the Beatles. He hates them and even believes they are witches and takes their lyrics seriously." - The attacker's mother to a newspaper in 1999

"It was premeditated, [the attacker] did come to the town some weeks before and... and was looking for where George lived. I mean, he was actually trying to get Paul, but I think he just couldn't find him. And he was very sick, very florid schizophrenic. But... but he was deemed 'not guilty by reason of insanity,' and I think it should have been 'guilty but insane.' And that's where I think the law, you know, could be changed." - Olivia Harrison, NPR, Mar 2004

"George was coaching me, I have to say. And George was very brave and people don't know that. Because he had already been injured and he had to jump up and bring him down to stop him from attacking me. You know, he saved my life too." - Olivia Harrison, Dateline NBC, Nov 2002

"Tania and I immediately jumped on a plane and flew to stay with him and Olivia at their home in Oxfordshire. We were relieved to find them both home, battered and bruised, but alive. We could so easily have been flying for their funeral. George proudly showed me his seven stab wounds. Some were both entry and exit wounds where the kitchen knife had gone right through him. One had punctured and collapsed his lung, leaving George dangerously short of breath, with his lung filling up with blood as he lay on the floor, chanting. 'I thought I was dead, Eric,' he said. Carried out to the ambulance, covered in blood, he said to his appalled house managers, who had just started working for him, 'So, what do you think of the job so far?' If you can imagine the ultimate nightmare, an armed intruder in your home at three thirty in the morning, breaking windows and screaming at you to come downstairs, you pretty much have the picture." - Eric Idle, The Greedy Bastard Diary

"I was briefly left alone with the policewoman, who had been taking notes. I asked her what happened, but all she would say was, ‘I think that Mrs. Harrison is one of the bravest people I’ve ever met.’ I don’t think any of the readers would like to contemplate fighting for their lives in their own home for seventeen very long minutes." - Jools Holland, Barefaced Lies and Boogie-Woogie Boasts

"But even in such an extreme situation, George was absolutely resolute to determine his life and his death himself. And he would have died then, if I hadn’t struck the attacker down with a fire poker. When you meditate, it’s about contacting your inner self and overcoming the physical body. George thought, as injured as he was: you’re not going to steal this moment from me. I don’t know how many people would survive a test in this way. That’s why it was a gift that he went peacefully in his sleep two years later." - Olivia Harrison, translated from Süddeutsche Zeitung, 25 Nov 2011

"Thank you for your kind thoughts, flowers and messages of concern and compassion for our ordeal. Your kindness and love were a great help and a desperately needed contrast to our unfortunate experience. We would like to wish you and your families a happy new year and hope it will be a peaceful and loving one. We hope to see you again soon. George, Olivia and Dhani Harrison" - New Year's card from the Harrison family

"Olivia and I are overwhelmed by the concern expressed by so many people. We thank everyone for their prayers and kindness." - George Harrison, AP, Jan 2000 (x)

#George Harrison #Olivia Harrison #Dhani Harrison #quote #quotes by George #quotes about George #George and Olivia #George and Dhani #1999 #30 December 1999 #1990s #harrisonarchive #Friar Park #fits queue like a glove

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themockingcrows · 4 years ago

Text

Companionship Through Circuitry ch. 6: Setbacks

Bro/Hal cw: blood, violence, deathclaws, and a generally bad day in the wasteland

Journeys are never without their inherent dangers. When you're living in the wasteland, it's to be expected. Doesn't make them suck any less, though.

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20942408/chapters/64071430

I spy with my little eye-

“Hal, pick a new game already.”

I can assure you this is the best game to play out here.

“Fine,” Bro said, exhausted. They’d been traveling for days on the remains of the highway by now and there was no sign of a proper township. He smelled, his back and legs hurt, and despite having plenty of food water was always a precious commodity. He also had at least four letters to send by now, including a few sketches and schematics he’d designed after toying with the Furby body some more, in case Dave wanted to get his hands on a little guardian bot of his own. The kid was smart, even he’d be able to handle basic scripting to make a functional system for it. Surely someone else he was buddies with could figure out an AI of sorts for it, too.

True, it would have been easier to follow another path by now, but following the main point of the highway just seemed the best, most direct route for him. Who’s to say it was brahmin who made the trodden paths that led further into the wastes, or humans? What if it was mutants, or worse, deathclaws stalking the wastelands? Scuttling parties of mole rats or vicious dogs.

Would you like to know what I spy or not, Bro.

“I don’t want to know, but I’ve got a feelin’ you’re gonna tell me anyway aren’t you.”

Correct! I’ll give you a few hints.

Bro groaned in irritation.

“A bloatfly,” he guessed off the bat.

No, though it is annoying.

“As annoyin’ as you? Why isn’t there a fuckin’ mute option on these shades..”

Your second hint is that it’s bipedal.

That perked him up somewhat. Bro scanned the horizon further off for signs of a city or outpost, a wanderer, a courier. Anyone. Instead what he saw was the lanky, sharply pointed edges of a juvenile deathclaw. A definite pain in the ass, but nothing he couldn’t handle.

“...And how long have we been in deathclaw territory for, Hal?”

Uncertain, my saved map mentions shopping centers, not deathclaws.

“Ooh, shopping centers?” he said. “Put a peg in it, if we find somewhere to trade soon we might do a run back to grab some more supplies for trade and keepin’.”

The deathclaw is still nearby, you know.

“I can avoid it if I want,” Bro said, taking out his sword. A juvenile would take some fast work, but he knew he was good for dispatching the monstrosities, and people paid good money for their clawed hands, even the small ones. Hell, even he wanted some bits off of one sometime, though mostly for show. How sick would a deathclaw fang necklace be, after all?

You appear to be approaching the small one instead of fleeing.

“Watch and learn, Hal,” Bro said as he shifted his weight and began to run. Aching feet or not, his boots cut into the crisp cooked layer of topsoil and sank ever so slightly with each step. The deathclaw noticed him and turned, beginning to awkwardly run towards him, long limbs ungainly but just as deadly as an adult. They met in the middle, Bro’s sword singing off the armored hide of the creature’s forearms, taking a chunk with it as he went. The deathclaw lunged for his middle with a shrill noise, catching a chunk of shirt on the end of one of its spiky hands, but just missing his tender vitals. He turned, and used the momentum to slice at the space where its behorned head connected to its body, the sword sliding against softer skin. Staggered, the small deathclaw stepped forward, then tottered back unsteadily as it began to bleed out.

Bro lifted a foot and kicked the creature backwards to its spiny back, then followed with the sword to spear its chest, cranking the blade to the side once it glanced off a rib, forcing downwards till it stopped moving. Planting his boot on its chest, he yanked his sword free and swung it in the air a few times to rid it of blood, and smirked. Fuck, that felt good. Nothing like taking out a little nightmare to give a nice rush of adrenaline and dopamine. Hell, he wouldn’t even say no to a smoke or a drink right now, ride that high long as he could.

Excellent, now how do you intend to deal with the mother?

“Mother?” Bro asked, about a half second before he felt something plow into him like a freight train, sending him flying and pain searing through his right shoulder blade. He landed flat on his face and skidded before rolling over, hand on his sword raising it defensively and other hand reaching for his gun.

Shit. Shit, shit, this was definitely a mother death claw, the hide was darker than usual. He must’ve just killed one of her brood. Not a good look for someone not interested in dying in the middle of nowhere. He fired a quick two shots, missing the first and nailing her in the left eye with the second, though it only seemed to make her more enraged after a brief second of shaking her head. She raised a hand and slashed downwards where Bro was scooting backwards, forcing him to block with a weakened grip before the second slash sang home across his chest, blood spurting where her claws shredded flesh and fabric alike. One of the straps of Bro’s bags was severed, leaving him half dragging it as he continued to try crawling backwards, firing till his clip was empty.

Hal was urgently trying to tell him something, but Bro couldn’t hear anymore, couldn’t think, could only focus on the burning in his chest and the taste of copper in his mouth. Things were flashing through his mind as he stared down the deathclaw, who was raising both of her hands for a double slash that he wouldn’t be able to block in the slightest. Things he still wanted to do, to say. Memories.

Dave the day he left home to travel to the city, bag on his back and barely a look back as he wove past the traps. Dave as a lanky tween, perched by his side on the counter top as he cooked an omelette for them both, telling him a joke that he still didn’t think was funny but that he’d laughed at anyway. Dave at five, sitting on his lap as he fiddled with a new project that would eventually become a birthday present game for him, looking up at him with big red eyes almost full of tears when he refused to tell him what he was working on.

Dave, still struggling to put weight on as an infant as Bro kept him warm on the sofa through a bout of fever, trying to coax him into eating just a bit more from the bottle, wondering if he should make the trek to find a doctor or keep hunkering down and hoping it would work itself out. Being scared out of his fucking mind about this tiny, sick thing in his arms and on his chest, worried he’d break if he moved wrong.

This wasn’t fear he felt. It was acceptance. Dave being sick or hurt was fear, even when he’d been the one to hurt him in the preparations he’d run repeatedly over the years. A deathclaw? This was his just rewards for being cocky without backup. He wanted to have time to apologize to Dave, like he always really meant to.

He wanted to apologize to Hal, too, for not managing to take him to get his body. For getting his hopes up about Dirk and then dying with him in the middle of nowhere. Maybe the shades would get crushed by the deathclaw after he died, spare him much misery. They’d both just go out like a candle in the breeze and nobody would be any the wiser.

A shot rang out, and blood spurted from the side of the deathclaw’s head. She staggered, stomping her sharp feet on his abdomen and legs as she adjusted her balance and snarled in alarm at the new threat. More shots, each one more precise than the last, till finally one hit the same eye he’d shot earlier, and the beast went down on top of him. Though his ears were still ringing, Bro could feel his pulse slowing down and everything going darker as the feeling of faintness took over.

Bro. Bro!

“Sorry, Dave,” he mumbled, blood on his lips and eyes unfocusing as red eyes stared at him. No, wait, not Dave. “Hal..”

AMBROSE.

The last thing Bro was aware of was a high pitched repeated beeping pattern ringing out from the shades on his face, a signal he knew so well. Anyone out here could recognize SOS when they heard it, but Bro couldn’t care anymore who did hear it.

Darkness claimed him.

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

“...p. See? I think he’s waking up! Jake, push more fluids!”

“I’m going as fast as I can, don’t you think he’d bl-........”

“...ver if we don’t. Sometimes you have to do dangerous things in a time of crisis, just pu-...”

“...rry chap, we’re doing our best. Why were you playing with a deathclaw mot-...”

“...’s going under again, God damn it why don’t we have more gauze!”

“...aid last time we wouldn’t need that many, let me check his ba-...”

“....tting sick, stupid coat, ugh! Hand me a clo-...”

“...ehozaphat he’s rolling in meds and chems! Lookit all this, it’s a kings ran-...”

“...ab whatever you can, inject him with at least two, and hand the alcohol to me so I ca-...”

“...nk he’ll make it? He’s in an awful way, Jade. We’re still at least a few miles out fro-...”

“...re he’ll make it, we just need to hur-...”

...ve him. Please. Pulse is falling at an alarming ra-...

“...re trying our best, believe me, it’s up to him if we ca-...”

...n’t lose him to-...

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

When Ambrose woke, it was to clean sheets and a bright light coming from a window. He reached up to touch his face and panicked to realize the shades weren’t on him any longer, looking around as he tried to sit stark upright to look around. Tried being the correct term, considering when he got a few inches upright his abdomen and chest sang with burning pain and forced him to lay back on an aching shoulder. Sighing an exhale, Bro took the room and himself into account.

The room itself looked to be a standard medical setup for a scap town, shelves of supplies and a few more beds shoved into the same room with him, a shabby gray curtain sectioning the space off from another area. He was laying on a cot with the aforementioned clean sheets, which were a hell of a commodity, and wrapped what felt like head to toe in bandages. His chest had padding underneath that seemed fresh enough, as well as his abdomen, and another bandage seemed to be wrapping his shoulder. His forearms had bandages, a shift of his legs revealed smaller areas of wrappings and-

Bro snatched the sheets and lifted them upwards, looking down towards his groin in worry. Okay. Phew. Dick still there and in one piece, no need to panic. Thank fuck.

Were you honestly more concerned for your dick than me? Came a voice from the top of the shelves, arms folded in and tucked at an angle to not get damaged or in the way.

“To be fair, I’ve been attached to my dick longer than you,” Bro said, giving another try at this standing thing and getting as far as sitting upright before he had to stop, dizzy. He was also connected to an IV he realized, two bags half drained already and the tether attached to his arm carefully with another bandage and some tape to keep it from moving. One of the bags was unmistakably blood. “Where’s my stuff.”

I’m fine, thank you for asking. I can really tell you were concerned for my safety after being nearly disemboweled. I can also tell you’re just dying to know how you went about not dying.

“My stuff, Hal.”

In the other room, safe and fucking sound.

“Thank you. Gimme a second and I’ll come get you,” Bro said, running a hand through his hair. He realized with surprise that it was clean instead of gritty with sand and dust and blood, freshly washed like the rest of him. Someone had taken care to wash him thoroughly it seemed. Hell, even his fingernails were spotless. Shocking. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d been this squeaky clean, it was almost a shame he didn’t remember it. “How long have I been out?”

Almost a week.

“Jesus,” Bro rasped as he finally stood up on shaky fawn legs, reaching for the IV stand for balance before making his way over to the shelf, naked as the day he was born save for the bandages. He groped for the shades hurriedly when he started feeling faint again, and had just grabbed them when the curtain pulled back.

A tall girl with dark skin, shocking green eyes and long wild hair tied back into evenly sectioned ponytails stood owl eyed behind large round glasses with a single crack in the left lens, a stethoscope around her neck and familiar leftover military gear covering her from head to toe. She frowned, and immediately rushed forward to grab Bro by the elbow and middle of his back, steering him back to bed.

“How long have you been awake!” she asked. “Why didn’t you wait till someone came to help you? Are you in pain? Do you need any water? Food?”

“Few minutes,” Bro said, more than a little startled. He sat and covered himself soon as he could, but the young woman didn’t back off in the slightest, swooping close to shine a pocket light in his eyes, checking his pupils.

“Has there been any bleeding? Any night terrors? Do you have any numbness or weaknesses?”

“I feel like shit, but otherwise,” Bro said, grimacing and jerking his head back from her grasp as she turned the light off.

“I’ll get Jake to bring some lunch in for you, I’m glad you’re not running on glucose anymore. Actually, I’m glad you’re running at all,” she said with a grin. Her canines were strangely sharp looking. “My name is Jade Harley, and I’m half of the reason you’re alive right now.”

“Is the chap who tried to cuddle the wrong end of a mother deathclaw awake yet?” asked another voice from beyond the open curtain.

“He is! Get some of those mirelurk cakes and mac and cheese, please?”

“I’ll bring some of that slackjaw jerky too, I imagine he’s half starved for real food,” said the male out of sight, before Bro heard distant sounds of dishes and metal scraping metal.

“...So what, you a doctor?” he guessed.

“We both are, in our own right. My cousin, Jake English, is the one who spotted you first out there. The primary reason you’re alive, however, is because we’re both sharpshooters! There wouldn’t have been much left to save if we hadn’t pegged that bitch into the dirt,” she said enthusiastically.

Bro’s lip twitched in amusement. This person couldn’t have been older than her early twenties, but she was a doctor? And a sharpshooter?

��So who really saved me?”

Jade’s smile sharpened somewhat, looking predatory. “I don’t think I’d tease like that when you’re still so weak. All it’d take is a cushion to take you out right now, I bet.”

“Sorry, just. You’re so young…” he trailed off as another figure entered the room with a dinner tray. This person didn’t look much older than Jade if he was a day, face clean shaven and hair styled but messy, standing at about the same height. He looked much more solid, though, shoulders broad and chest straining a little at the fatigues shirt he wore, and his demeanor seemed much sweeter than his cousin at first glance. More innocent somehow, or somehow less aware of the intensity of their surroundings.

“Here you are, I’ll get some juice for you as well in a few ticks. First time I’m seeing this much of your outside as opposed to your inside since we got you scrubbed down!” he laughed, setting the tray on Bro’s lap. The food smelled fresh and was warm on his thighs beneath the sheet, mirelurk cakes looking greasy and delicious, mac and cheese that smelled plenty creamy from the box, and some kind of soft looking jerky rubbed with spices that made his mouth water as much as the fresh stuff before him

“Try to eat slow,” Jade warned him as Jake trotted back out of view for a moment and came back with juice as promised. “Hope apple’s okay! It’s what we’ve got.”

“Apple’s fine,” Bro promised, tucking into the mac and cheese first, eyes closing in bliss. Salty, creamy, rich. He could feel it flooding his system already, a body starved for nutrients beyond the bare minimum of functioning and safety. Once he shoveled a second bite into his mouth, he slid the shades onto his face and grinned a bit when haughty red eyes looked at him. Hal was clearly annoyed, angry even, but those eyes were full of concern too.

“We’ve got tea too, though not everyone enjoys what we brew,” Jake chuckled.

“Their loss, it’s delicious,” said Jade with a shake of her head.

Scans show temperature readings as normal. Pulse normal. Pupils overly reactive to light, but not abnormal.

“I hope he didn’t talk your leg off,” Bro said. “He’s kind of annoyin’.”

You have terminal stupidity, I propose an immediate lobotomy to put you out of my misery.

“Will you knock it off for ten seconds and let me eat before rippin’ me a new one?”

It’s true. The doctor said so. You’re just stupid.

“You were snuck up on by a creature twice your size in the wasteland,” Jade pointed out with a smirk. “Though I’m glad Hal’s giving you a positive reading. He was quite useful while we were saving you.”

“How much did he talk,” Bro wondered aloud.

“A bit,” she admitted. “We discussed why you were traveling, though he wasn’t that talkative about details. He let us know about Dave when you kept saying his name, in case you didn’t make it. He wanted us to be sure to let him know, and to send your other letters.”

“You’re a long way from home,” Jake chimed in, taking a seat on the nearest bed to talk while Bro shook his head and went back to eating. “But it’s all fine now. Er.. mostly.”

“How much do I owe you,” Bro said almost immediately, breaking a mirelurk cake in half with his fork before stuffing it into his mouth. He’d worry about manners when he wasn’t sitting in a room with two strangers who’d apparently saved his life and seen him in more detail naked than anyone else had in years.

“We’ll figure out caps in a little bit,” Jade said. “You’re going to need to stay here a while longer either way, and we had to use a lot of your medical supplies.”

“Helped ourselves to a little bit of your food as well, but mostly it was the chems and supplies we needed at the moment. Lucky for us you were damn near carrying a medics inventory on your back!”

“Yeah, I just got through a vault,” Bro said. “Place hadn’t been looted yet till I got there.”

“A vault!” Jake interjected excitedly. “Was it like they say, all sterile and eerily perfect?”

“It was full of the people who used to live there, and they weren’t human anymore,” Bro said simply.

It was quite a show to see that many feral ghouls get put down in one go.

“Oh, that doesn’t sound very dapper.”

“Vaults rarely are. They’re either fulla deadly shit, full of a shit load’a nothin’, or fulla people who don’t want you to bother them because you’re all gross from bein’ outside and they know you just want the goodies they’ve got.”

“My grandpa was from a vault,” Jade said with a grin. “He’s the one who raised both of us, taught us everything we know.”

They traded conversation for a time while Bro continued to eat, though it waned when he finished and looked exhausted, surprised that the very act of eating took so much energy out of him. Jake took the tray away and Jade performed a followup examination as Bro settled back tiredly on the pillows. Before she left, he requested his belongings, or what was left of them.

He had an important letter to write.

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

Bro’s head ached sickly by the time he finished writing the letter, nearly as much as his heart, and his eyes were wet. He didn’t dare to rub at them, nor to even draaw attention to them, but the fact he’d cried while pouring his fucking soul out onto the page wasn’t something he’d admit to anyone. Hal, bless him, remained quiet aside from occasionally offering a correction on a phrase to make it sound better. At first Bro had resented the dictation, but found the changes in wording to be a positive thing, eliminating double meanings. What he ended up with was the letter he’d envisioned sending Dave when the deathclaw was about to do the killing strike, and the fewer mistakes and misunderstandings that could arise from it was for the better.

It took another few days of resting, eating, and conversing with the doctors before Bro was strong enough to go for walks around the town. First thing was first: he paid express for his letter bundle to be sent to Dave along with some money, the most recently written one marked URGENT in bright red stamped letters. Secondly, he got himself a cola and drank the entire thing in one go. The doctors had been kind enough to spot him some clothes, since his shirt was ruined and his pants were scrapped in the moment by bloodshed and emergency bandage use on top of their general wear and tear. The down side was he hated fatigues… but hey, beggars couldn’t be choosers.

He was settled with another soda at the little bar and grill early one morning, having shared breakfast with Jade and Jake once more (his own recipe this time, which only Jake seemed enthusiastic about once they’d tasted the product), but wanting to just sit outside and enjoy the early morning before the sun really got going on cooking everything in the wasteland to death. Hal was quiet, watching as well he presumed based on the little target viewers moving around every time someone moved.

What do you plan to do if you don’t get a reply?

“Keep goin’,” he said with a shrug, taking a sip. “I’m not expecting a reply to any of my letters, but he knows which way we’re headed if he wants to write back. Kid knows how to use a map of settlements to send ahead of the curb if he wants to.”

...I was worried I lost you too, back there. But you’ve never once apologized to me yet.

“Apologized for what?”

For nearly making me watch someone I care about die. At least the first one had the decency to not die while wearinng me on his fucking face.

Bro was pensive and stretched his long legs out from his seat before tipping it back on its hind legs, balancing in place as he took another sip.

“I promise I won’t die while wearin’ you, then.”

You f-

“I wouldn’t wanna hurt you at all.”

… That is acceptable I guess.

#bro strider #lil hal #stridercest #brohal #my fic

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