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ghostxrose · 2 months ago

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𝑫𝒊𝒆 𝑭𝒐𝒓 𝒀𝒐𝒖 | 𝑩𝒂𝒌𝒖𝒈𝒐 𝑲𝒂𝒕𝒔𝒖𝒌𝒊 𝒙 𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓

Part One |

Summary ~ The news of you getting killed in action hurt Katsuki far worse than any villain ever could, than any villain ever has, and he’s died before. But when the details, or lack thereof, of your death reach Katsuki’s ears, there’s too many things that don’t add up. So, while avidly ignoring the concerned words of his friends telling him to grieve and try to move on, Katsuki starts his own investigation into your “death.” Where exactly this path will lead him, he isn’t sure, but he’s hoping it’s back to you.

Tags/Warnings ~ Fem!Reader, canon-typical violence, character death (kinda🤭), undercover work, angst, eventual fluff, slight themes of body/image/identity dysmorphia/derealization, shady HPSC tingz, more tags to come as the story develops..

Note ~ Hi Lovelies, it's been awhile..😅 Anywho, this is the fic from this teaser that I posted almost two months ago, heh.. Please know that I love and appreciate all of you!! Hope you all enjoy the read! <3 <3 <3

Ps, if the summary sucks, I'm sorryyy. It might be temporary because I kinda hate it, but I didn't want to give away too much🥲

“No one can know, Ms. L/N. Absolutely no contact at any point. Not with your friends. Not with your family. Not with your fiance.” The HPSC Director’s stern tone is almost as hard as the steely look in their eyes.

“I understand, Director-” You firmly assure, forcing confidence and determination to hide the fear lingering beneath.

“I should hope so. Just remember that you signed up for this willingly.” The Director cuts you off with their daunting words, something in their tone sending an unpleasant shiver of fear down your spine…

𖤛 𖤛 𖤛

“She’s gone..”

Katsuki can remember those damned words being sputtered by your stupid fiance clear as day. He remembers how he was reluctantly dragged by Kirishima to the apartment you shared with that lame-ass extra on the basis that he needed to discuss something with everyone. “Everyone” meaning the group of people that you had been friends with since UA. People that extra was only friends with because he was in a relationship with you.

“I said, she’s gone..”

Your dumb ass fiance had repeated in response to Katsuki’s disbelief-ridden question. But he still hadn’t quite understood what your fiance had meant. Where had you gone? On a mission? On a vacation? Did you run away as a means of breaking up with this extra that you had claimed you loved? Katsuki was struggling to understand why so many people around him had dissolved into tears.. Or maybe he hadn’t wanted to understand.

“-she’s dead..”

Kirishima had dumped the ice-cold reality of your fiance’s words over Katsuki with a hand on his shoulder and a teary, sympathetic look on his face. Clarity had run through him like an electric shock, and for just a moment, his normal facade had cracked. But the only person who had seen the anguish was Kirishima seconds before Katsuki shoved his best friend’s hand off his shoulder and stormed out of the apartment.

Everything had felt so surreal and suffocating, and he was panting by the time he had burst out of the main doors of the apartment complex. All he wanted was to go home to his own apartment where he could feel his feelings in private, but Kirishima had driven. So, he started walking, staring ahead blankly as the cold winter air bit at the exposed skin of his face and neck. Unfortunately, the cold had done nothing to wake Katsuki from the nightmare he had been so sure he was having.

Since that day, Katsuki has been repeatedly going through the five stages of grief. Every time he thinks he’s finally accepted that you’re gone, that feeling of something being off with this whole situation pulls at the back of his mind and sends him right back to the denial stage. He tried to talk to Kirishima, Midoriya, and Ashido about it, but they just looked at him with such pity and sadness that it made his skin crawl. He still doesn’t understand how everyone else has just accepted that you’re gone. Even your dumb fiance accepted your death without question and has moved on to a new relationship. However, the fact that the extra was able to move on so fast just makes Katsuki wonder even more just why you had ever wasted your time with that loser.

Katsuki’s therapist believes that the reason for his setbacks in the grieving process, along with his feeling of something being off, is due to the regret he feels. Regret for never telling you how he felt about you. Regret for letting you waste your time, effort, and love on some sleazebag who only ever just gave you the bare minimum. But his regret isn’t the source of this feeling sitting like a rock in his gut, at least, not in his opinion.

His suspicions started a few months after your death when he had asked your fiance for the full story behind what had happened to you. The guy told Katsuki that he was contacted by the HPSC, and they told him that you had been killed in action. That was Katsuki’s first red flag. Typically, HPSC officials would go to the home of the next of kin, and deliver the news of their loved one’s passing that way. The fact that they had called your fiance is extremely weird.

The second red flag that had been raised in Katsuki’s mind came after he had asked your fiance if anyone from the HPSC had come by to bring him in to identify your body. Your fiance had given Katsuki a strange look as he shook his head. He told Katsuki that he was only given the address to the funeral home where he had picked up your ashes. It had taken everything in Katsuki to not make a face at your fiance, he was truly astounded that someone could be so blindly trusting. Then again, the majority of the population isn’t aware of the kind of shit that the HPSC pulls in the name of “good”.

The last red flag that caught Katsuki’s attention and pushed him to believe that something was definitely off about your sudden death, he found on his own. He had stayed late at his agency, waited for everyone to leave, and spent the night in his office searching through every reported crime that had been made in the area of your patrol route from the day you supposedly died. The area you had patrolled that day has always been known for being pretty sketchy with the crime rates and villain activity there being pretty high. Even so, you were a very capable hero, it’s one of the reasons why Katsuki admired you so much. He knew that you could have handled yourself in nearly any situation.

When Katsuki had finished reading through the nearly 60 reports made that day of nothing but low-level activity in that area, it was pretty much confirmed in his mind that there was something that the HPSC was hiding. As he had sipped on what was probably his fifth coffee, he couldn’t tell if he was moving further away from or moving closer toward becoming the “string-covered-conspiracy-theory-board” guy.

𖤛 𖤛 𖤛

Sitting at his desk, Katsuki lets out a heavy sigh as he fights the urge to rub his tired eyes because he knows that’ll just irritate them further. Finishing up his written patrol report, he pushes it off to the side, mentally assuring himself that he’ll file it away properly later. He slides his keyboard closer to himself and hits the space bar to wake his computer, then types in his password when prompted. One hand shifts over to the mouse, and he opens the database program. He goes through the process of uploading a clear photo of your face, then hits the button. It’s not long before he’s zoning out while staring at the rapidly changing faces in the small window next to your photo.

He’s done this every day since his doubts about you being dead surfaced. He’s never gotten a single hit, but he can’t stop running the program. He can’t stop any of his efforts to find you because just the thought of giving up and accepting that you’re gone makes his chest feel so tight that he can’t breathe. He doesn’t care how long it’s been or how long it’ll take, you’re out there and he will find you.

Even if it has been two years.

Two. Fucking. Years.

It’s been two years since you died. Two years since your (ex)fiance held a private “Celebration of Life” for close friends and family. Two years since the HPSC announced your death to all of Japan. Two years since a public vigil was held so that the country could come together to honor your memory.

Two years since everybody so easily ate up a ridiculous lie without question.. everybody except Katsuki.

“Pretty sure your therapist suggested that you stop doing this, man..” Kaminari’s voice coming from right next to him forces Katsuki back into reality.

“Fuck off, Dunce. You don’t know shit about what my therapist says.” Katsuki growls out, shoving Kaminari away from him and into Kirishima.

“I overhear what you tell Kiri sometimes..” Kaminari admits under his breath before realizing that maybe he shouldn’t have if the death glare on Katsuki’s face is anything to go by.

Once he feels that Kaminari is properly shaken, Katsuki lets the matter go, for now, with a heavy sigh, “What are you extras even doing here? Go home.” He mutters, giving into the urge to rub his face while leaning forward and bracing his elbows against the desk.

“C’mon man, you know why we’re here.. Go get changed, then we can drive over together,” Kirishima says gently, carefully, like Katsuki is an unwilling child. It pisses Katsuki off for a multitude of reasons. The main one is that there’s a difference between acting petulant about going somewhere and refusing to attend some stupid annual dinner to honor someone who isn’t even dead.

Katsuki’s lip curls as he lets out a sigh of frustration, and he leans back in his desk chair, sending a look to Kirishima, “This shit ended in disaster last year. I don’t know why any of you thought it would be a good idea in the first place to bring a group of grieving people out to their “dead” friend’s favorite izakaya. Why try to make a tradition out of ugly crying and public intoxication? How is that ‘honoring Y/N’s memory’-”

“Jesus, dude.. maybe you would understand it if you just accepted that she’s gone already!” Kaminari snaps uncharacteristically, making Katsuki pause his rant to stare at him in shock as the electric blonde rushes out of the room.

Kirishima let out a tired sigh, watching Kaminari’s retreat before looking back to Katsuki with a not-so-subtle hint of disappointment in his eyes, “Come or don’t come, Katsuki, it’s up to you. Just don’t judge how the rest of us decide to heal.” Kirishima says quietly before walking out of the room.

Katsuki lets out a low growl through gritted teeth as he scrubs a hand over his face. He leans back in his desk chair and glares at the computer screen. Guilt bubbles in his stomach from upsetting his friends, much to his frustration. He doesn’t want to go to that stupid izakaya. He wants to stay here in his office like he does every night continuing his search for any signs of you. He watches the database program sift through faces for a moment longer before cursing softly and standing from his chair.

Tags List ~ @emmaiscool22 @rosy-hollow @ch3rryjampi3 @maddie-rose-1 @lilac-heartz

Divider credit ~ @saradika-graphics

#bakugo brain rot #bakugo katuski #bnha #bnha bakugou #katsuki bakugo x reader #mha bakugo katsuki #mha bakugou #bakugou x reader #mha #mha fanfiction #x reader #bakugou katsuki x you #bakugou katsuki x y/n #fem!reader #fem reader #bakugou katsuki x fem!reader #angst #shasta rose writes

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cherryite · 17 days ago

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overthrown - part 2. the sword

summary. in your grief, mark offers a shoulder to lean on and a visit from the oracle provides a way to even the odds against the dark gods army (word count. 5.8k)

content. princess!reader x prince!mark, fem!reader, strangers to lovers, slow burn, angst, yearning, hurt/comfort, fantasy au, saving the world, war time activities, found family

warnings. MDNI!!, depictions of violence, blood and injuries, loss of family, grief, rex being a dickhead lowk, survivors guilt, eventual smut (not this part)

author's note. omg it's finally here!! it only took me 5 million years lol. but we're getting into the thick of it now and i'm SO excited heheh! as always, i live for comments and stuff so feel free to discuss with me!! enjoy!

taglist. @pickledsoda @heartfully10

previous/next

plot/ world info character index

It’s been a week since you’d last truly talked to anyone other than High Queen Debbie and Pippin (though you aren’t sure that counts, since Pippin is a cat). You attend meetings with the rest of the heirs. You sit there, quiet, distant. Cecil drones on about battle formations, supply lines, magical contingencies, anything, any strategy that might buy more time until they know what to do. Everything goes in one ear and out the other. You nod when you’re expected to, speak only when you absolutely have to, and leave before anyone can even attempt to talk to you.

You always return to your quarters as soon as you can. Sometimes you cry, sometimes you just stare up at the ceiling. Debbie, in all her loveliness, visits on and off. She typically doesn’t knock anymore, just slips inside like she belongs there, providing you silent companionship. She never asks you to talk. She just sits, quiet and calm, and brings you small things she thinks will do you some good. A fresh set of paints to get smeared on the many canvases that litter the room. Clay you haven’t used yet sits in the corner, mocking you.

Once, she left a note folded beneath a box of pastels. It read: “Make something.”

Art has always been your way out. When you were younger, it helped you pretend. You drew dragons in the margins of your scrolls, painted your dreams across the walls of your room until the maids started complaining. Aaric had incantations. You had brushstrokes and your mind.

Now, painting is all that keeps your hands from shaking. You paint your brother, over and over, chasing the way his eyes gleamed when he smiled. You can’t get his eyes right and it devistates you. You paint your mother, her eyes, her hands, the way her hair used to fall in soft waves when she wore it loose.

Debbie doesn’t say much. She’ll sit beside you, close but not crowding, her presence solid and unshakable. She’s grieving too. You know that. You forget, sometimes. But she lost someone as well, her husband, the father of her children. You can’t imagine how hard it must be to carry all of that. To lose so much and still wear a crown, still represent the crown. Debbie never falters. She still holds court. Still attends council. Still rises with the sun. Doesn’t wander the halls like a ghost.

And you can barely leave your room.

Pippin curls at your feet as you press your forehead against the crook of your arm. His purring fills the air, calming you, pulling you to sleep. You tell yourself you’re just tired. That you’ll get up tomorrow. That you just need time. Perhaps you’ll just fall asleep here, on the small desk of your quarters, amongst the paintings of your family.

“Mark!”

Hearing his name, Mark turns, his eyes landing on his younger brother, Oliver, who’s bounding down the stone corridor to him. Considering how young he is, he’s stayed fairly positive in his father’s absence. He’s young, only seven, and endlessly curious. Most days he’s too caught up in practicing his magic to notice the tension in the air. Or at least that’s what Mark tells himself. The small boy bounces towards him, he’s clutching a lopsided bouquet of flowers in his hands, which are covered in dirt. His smile is so wide and warm that Mark can’t help but grin in return.

“What’ve you got there, Oliver?” he asks, voice soft and warm as he ruffles his brother’s already messy black hair. Oliver beams up at Mark, obviously unphased by the fact that his white tunic is soiled with earth.

“I went to the gardens,” he explains proudly, his little hands wrapped around the stems of the flowers, “Mama said the Princess is sad. So I made her this!”

Mark tenses and bites his lip.

You.

He hasn’t seen you, really seen you, since the day you arrived in Viltrum, over a week ago. Aside from small council meetings, you’ve been absent from the training sessions the rest of the heirs partake in. Mark can hardly blame you though. Rex drives him up a wall half the time, Rae and Eve are both nice, but because of his duties he doesn’t know either of them well yet. He’s not sure they would understand the turmoil you're going through, the magnitude of your grief. You walk the halls like a ghost. Always quiet. Always distant.

Your dresses always flow around you as you walk, always dressed in blue, the deep, stormy hues of your homeland, like the sea had followed you here, curling around your ankles and pulling you under. Mark thought you were floating once when he caught you wandering the halls, before he remembered you possessed no magic, only a captivating loneliness.

“That’s very kind of you, Oliver,” Mark murmurs, though something in his chest pinches as the boy tugs insistently at his hand. “I’m sure she’ll like them.”

Oliver pulls him along before Mark can think to protest. Mark’s eyes widened as his younger brother pulled him towards the grand staircase that led to the living quarters. At first Mark thinks Oliver is taking him to his room to play, he veers right instead of left down the hall, down to where your quarters were. Mark feels his heart stutter in his chest.

“You’ll go with me right Mark?” Oliver says, peering up at him with wide, expectant eyes. “Mom said you would!”

Mark just nods and his throat has suddenly gone dry. Nervousness prickles over his skin as he finds himself and Oliver right in front of the room you’ve all but holed yourself up in. Oliver peers into your room, the door is ajar, that alone is surprising to see.

Oliver knocks his little fist softly against the door. There's no response for a second and Mark almost leans down to tell Oliver that they can give the flowers he picked to you another time, when a soft voice calls out.

“Come in.”

Mark feels his heart pound in his chest, his heart leaping against his ribs.

Oliver drags him across the threshold of your quarters, directly into your safe space. They’re much like his own, beautiful bay windows, a large bed, ancient stone lining the walls. But there's one thing in the room that Mark doesn’t have; nearly a dozen canvases littering the floor, propped up on furniture. Swaths of color crawl across canvas and wood. There’s a pulse here, steady and quiet and aching. His dark eyes finally land on you, Oliver lets go of his hand, bounding over to you cheerfully.

You’re sitting at a desk near the window, a large lump of clay resting on what looks to be canvas to protect the wood underneath it. The lump of wet earth roughly looks like a bust, much like one of the sculptures that lined the walls of the castle. It doesn’t have a face yet, but there’s care in the shape of the brow, the line of the jaw. Your hair is tied up, away from your face, a few flyaways framing your face. You’re wearing a simple dress, light blue like the ocean in the early morning. The sleeves are pulled up, revealing your clay covered hands, grey reminisce coating your nimble fingers as they slide over the brow bone of the sculpture.

Mark stays in the doorway. He feels awkward, out of place, because this is your safe haven. Because he feels like an intruder. He nearly winces at the thought of him possibly invading your privacy.

Oliver reaches you, and you turn to look at the young boy as he holds out the flowers he massacred the palace garden over. Mark can see the weariness in your eyes, the way you don't seem fully there. And yet, a soft smile quirks at the edges of your lips at the sight of the young prince in front of you.

“Hi Princess,” Oliver starts, his voice is boyish and excited as he speaks, “I picked these for you! All by myself too!” His tiny hands shove the flowers out to you, an array of sunset yellows, blues, and soft purples, much like a sunset in Ephia. Mark watches as your tired expression softens, dipping your hands in a basin of water to rid your skin of the clay.

“All by yourself huh?” you question gently as the young boy nods, rising from your chair. “Why don’t we put them over here, by the window?”

You retrieve the empty vase from the corner of the desk, lifting it carefully with one hand, your other still wrapped around Oliver’s small fingers. His grip is warm and sticky with garden dirt, the flowers crumpled slightly from his excitement. Clay dust streaks your arms, smudges your pretty dress, accompanying some of the dirt from Oliver’s hands. Mark watches from the doorway, struck by how little you seem to notice, or just how little you care. After the flowers find their home in the vase, sitting prettily in the bay window, Mark watches as Oliver looks up at you.

“Do they make you feel better?

You don’t answer right away. And then, gently, you crouch down to his level. The soft fabric of your skirt pools around you like ocean foam. You rest your hands on your knees, fingers still streaked with clay and ash, and you nod.

“They help.”

It’s quiet again, though it’s not uncomfortable. Oliver breaks it.

“I’m sorry about Aaric.”

The name hits the air like a stone dropped into still water. You tense, just barely, but Mark sees it. Of course he sees it. Your brother's name sounds strange when spoken aloud, stranger still coming from a child who never knew him.

“I’m sure you miss him. It’s hard not to miss brothers.”

Mark watches the interaction, the air of his lungs caught in his throat. You continue to look at the young boy, your expression seemingly unchanging. But Mark sees the way your lashes lower, the way your breath catches, the way your hand twitches slightly, like you're restraining yourself from reaching for something that isn’t there.

“Thank you Oliver,” you respond, “Nothing is as special as a brother.”

There’s a pause again. You’re still crouched there, on the balls of your feet. And then Oliver, full of innocence and something akin to wisdom, tilts his head.

“I could be your brother too, if you want,” Oliver says, innocently, like he doesn’t know the weight it holds, “I’ve never had a sister before.”

You stare at him, your mouth parted slightly. Even from his place at the doorway, Mark can see how your eyes water ever so slightly, as they glisten in the light from the sun. The silence hangs in the air again, before you break it.

“Okay,” you respond, your voice quiet and soft. “You can be my brother.”

Oliver makes a quiet but pleased voice in this throat, a mix of a giggle and a hum of agreement. The boy turns to look at Mark, seeking his older brother's approval with a smile. Mark can only manage a nod and a soft smile, trying to bury the thick ache that’s rising in his chest. You’ve looked so unreachable since you arrived in Viltrum, a drifting, distant presence in the castle walls. This is the first time he’s seen you here, truly here.

“I should go tell Mama,” Oliver says brightly, already turning to the door. “She said it would cheer you up and I knew she was right!”

You stand, watching his tiny form as he exits your orbit, brushing your palms against the fabric of your skirts. “Thank you again, Oliver. I’ll take good care of them.”

The boy just nods, like it wasn’t the single brightest movement of your week so far. And with that, he’s out the door, brushing against Mark as he leaves. His small feet patter down the hallway, little clicks of his shoes, as he leaves a lingering warmth in his absence.

The quiet that settles after his departure is different than before. Not empty, just still, natural. A kind of hush that makes you aware of your heartbeat, the soft creak of the castle stone, the way Mark is still standing in your doorway like he’s unsure if he should step further in or leave you to your solitude.

You don’t meet his gaze right away. Instead, you busy yourself with the water in the basin, dipping your hands into the water again, swirling your fingers to rid them of the remaining clay that may have lingered.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d want company,” Mark says, finally finding his voice; it’s low, a bit awkward, but careful, “I, um… I hope that was okay,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “He wanted to bring them himself, and… he thought it might help.”

You turn your head, flicking your hands to rid them of water, your eyes meet. “It did”

Mark can’t help the shy smile that curls at his mouth, “That’s good then.”

There's a beat of silence again

“He’s sweet,” you murmur, glancing at the vase in the window, “You’ve done well as a brother.”

Mark tentatively breaches the entrance to the room, a few steps inside your sanctuary. His dark brown eyes skim over the canvases that litter the room, the sculpture by the desk, finally landing on you.

“That’s all my Mom for the most part,” he replies, pausing a second before speaking again, “but thank you.”

You nod softly, like your thinking to yourself as Mark slowly steps further into the room, his boots tapping against the floor. He leans, almost nervously, against the frame of your large bed, his eyes still on you.

“I-uh- I see him in your art,” he says gently, gesturing towards one of the many paintings that rests by your feet. “Your brother. Aaric.”

Mark can see the way your breath hitches as he says your twin’s name, but you don’t turn. You don’t hide like you’ve been doing since you’ve arrived. You’re quiet again before speaking.

“Everyone keeps saying how sorry they are,” you whisper. “But no one says his name.”

Mark’s voice is soft as he responds. “Names are heavy. But they deserve to be carried.”

You finally meet his eyes again, and for a long moment, you don’t say anything. He doesn’t rush you. He just waits.

“I feel useless,” you admit, the words like glass in your throat. “All I can do is sculpt. Paint. I don’t have magic. I can't fight like the rest of you. I can’t protect anyone. Not even him.”

Mark steps forward, closer this time. “You’re not useless.” His heart is racing, beating heavily in his chest, because he can barely believe you’re confiding in someone. Confiding in him.

“Then what am I, Mark?” you question, your voice is quiet and hollow.

“You’re someone who’s grieving. And still breathing. Still trying.”

The silent part goes unsaid, the part where he says, ‘just like me’. Your spiraling and he can tell, just by how your head tilts to the side slightly, how your hands grip at the fabric of your dress. You blink hard at him, as he continues to speak.

“I could help you,” he says carefully. “If you wanted.”

He watches as your brows furrow slightly, pinching together on your face. “Help me?”

“With your swordsmanship,” he offers, his fingers twitching from nerves. “I mean. If you want. I’m not saying you need it. I just thought, it might make you feel safer, or more prepared, then I’d be happy to help.” He clears his throat as he finishes, watching you to see what reaction you’ll have.

Your lips part slightly in surprise, the emotion flickering across your expression. He can feel you studying him, his face, his body language, like you’re trying to decipher the sincerity behind his offer. He wonders if you see it how he meant it. If you see no pity. No expectation or pressure. Just something solid, something for you to lean on.

You nod slowly, “Okay.” Mark barely sees it, but he notices the dash of light in your eyes. It’s fragile, but very real. He can feel the tension roll off his shoulders, the weight not so heavy anymore.

“Okay,” he repeats, and there’s something sweet and boyish in the way he speaks. Almost like it's a relief you didn’t push him away, extending your loneliness. The light of the sun tickles the vase in the window, full of flowers, shining around the room. Neither of you moves, basking in the scent of clay and the fresh smell of flowers.

“Meet me down in the training yard tomorrow morning?” he offers you, treading carefully as to not overstep. “Cecil said we could have the day off from council meetings.”

“Okay.” Your words are quiet, hesitant, but not in a bad way. He nods and Mark takes this as a cue to leave you to your thoughts, backing slowly to the door. He places a hand on the frame, glancing at you again.

“Rest well tonight,” he says gently. “It’s… good to see you out of bed.”

You give him the barest, tired smile. “Don’t get used to it.” He nearly feels his heart stop, because you haven’t smiled like that since you’ve got here. His eyes linger on your face for a second, trying to chase the smile on your lips, remembering the moment you joked and smiled, despite your grief. Mark inhales sharply, and then he’s gone, the door clicking softly behind him. He leaves and you’re left with your sculpture, your clay covered hands, and the faintest flicker of something warmer than grief. Hope.

The sky is still caked in a pale haze of the morning when you make your way down to the training, the soft glow of the rising sun creeping through the windows. The birds chirp sweetly and mist rolls over the cool castle walls. You walk onto the grounds, hesitant, but as soon as your boots hit the dirt, you steady yourself. This isn’t the first time you’ve wielded a sword, certainly not the first time you’ve been in a training yard either. You used to watch Aaric train with your father in the training grounds back at home, magic heavy in the air. This feels different though. It doesn’t take you long to realize Mark is already here.

He stands near the far corner of the yard, his own sword held comfortably in one hand. You can feel the crackle of magic emanating from him, drifting through the air. It almost makes you stop, because you can just tell it’s strong, powerful; much stronger than any magic user you’ve ever met. You push the thought aside despite the shiver that runs down your spine, taking in his appearance. He’s in simple clothing, navy tunic, dark trousers tucked into worn boots, and the sight of him, so unassuming despite the weight of what he carries, makes something shift quietly in your chest. He’s a prince, an heir, and even in simple clothes he looks it.

You had half expected him to have not shown, had second thoughts on training a princess who’s been wandering the halls like she’s half dead when she should be helping with a prophecy to save the realm. But as you look up, Mark has already spotted you and straightens instantly, eyes slightly wide. His lips curl into a small, uncertain smile when you meet his gaze. He lifts a hand in greeting.

“Hey,” he says, voice laced with something between relief and anxiety, “you came.”

You nod, “You said tomorrow morning. Would be rude to not come” A tiny smile quirks at your lips.

His smile is a little sheepish, but bright, “Right. I did.” He walks over to you, his sword still clutched in his hand by his side. He raises his arm, holding out an extra sword to you. You observe the sword he’s extended to you; it's a bit dull and not flashy, perfect for practicing. You reach for the hilt, something about the way his fingers brush against yours sends a shot of warmth up your arm. It’s nothing, nothing at all, but your heart skips a beat anyway. He silently observes your stance, your grip on the blade, your demeanor. He looks like his hands are twitching, his fingers itching to correct.

“Here,” he murmurs, adjusting your feet gently with his boot, then your shoulders with the lightest touch of his hand. “There. That’s good. You’re holding it a little tight, though. Try to loosen your grip. You’ll tire out faster if you’re too tense.”

You glance down at your hands, feeling the tightness in your fingers. You breathe deeply, trying to take his advice. Mark watches, his gaze softening as he waits. The air between you shifts, he’s giving you space, but it’s a space that feels kind. You adjust your stance based on his instructions, and you feel lighter, more confident.

You attempt to swing, like you were taught as a young girl, a small twinge of confidence in your movements. But the sword feels heavy again, and the movements feel awkward. You mess up your first few swings and the blade doesn’t connect properly during a few basic strikes. Your breath catches in your throat, frustration creeping in like a shadow. You feel embarrassed, because Mark is watching you struggle. And because you caught sight of the other heirs watching from above, leaning on the guardrails of the hallway above that's exposed to the training yard. You puff out a heavy breath of air.

“Maybe I’m not cut out for this,” you mutter under your breath, sword drooping slightly in your hands. You try to hide the frustration creeping into your voice, but it’s there. You want to be good. You want to prove that you don’t need magic to stand on your own, to prove you do belong in this prophecy, but everything feels foreign, awkward.

Mark takes a step toward you, shooting a glare up to the balcony when he hears Rex laughing, followed by a shriek because Eve elbowed him in the side. Mark opens his mouth to speak and you prepare for him to be upset but his voice is gentle, like he’s unsure of how to approach. “You’re doing great,” he says softly, low enough so only the two of you hear. “You really are. And… I know it’s frustrating. But the thing about learning is that it’s okay to struggle with something at first. You don’t have to be perfect.” You glance at him, a small breath catching in your throat. You look down at the sword in your hands, trying to breathe through the knot in your chest.

“Really?” you ask, not quite believing him, but you deeply want to. To take his words as law, provide yourself some comfort. “You think I’m doing well?”

Mark nods, his gaze is soft, in the morning sun his eyes are like the chocolates your mother would make for your birthday; dark brown with wisps of caramel throughout. ��Yeah. Definitely. You’re not giving up, and that’s what counts.”

You stare at him for a second longer than you should, gripping the hilt of the sword so tightly your knuckles burn white. His words, simple as they are, fill something empty inside you, a little more than you expected. Something tight eases in your chest.

“Thanks, Mark,” you say quietly.

He flushes, averting his eyes away quickly, his hands shifting nervously. “Of course,” he says quickly, clearing his throat. “You just need to keep going, alright? Keep practicing. You’re doing fine”

You nod, your feet now planted in a steady stance. It’s not perfect, but it feels solid. His words provide reassurance, any anxieties or fears you had melted a bit. You square your shoulders, lifting the sword back into position, the cool metal shines in the sunlight. “Okay. Let’s try again.”

Mark smiles, his eyes flickering back toward you, warm and reassuring. He steps back into his own stance, sword raised, and waits for you to move, only nodding his head slightly.

You swing and you find that the next few strikes come more easily. You’re still clumsy, still unsure, but with Mark beside you, guiding you without being overbearing, helping you without pushing too hard, it feels more like something you can manage. You even hear a few quiet cheers from above, Rae and Eve calling down to you in encouragement.

“That was a good hit!”

“Nice one!”

After a while, you pause, lowering the sword. Your muscles ache from swinging the heavy weapon around. You’re breathing heavily now, but there’s a sense of accomplishment that’s starting to creep up your spine. You wipe at your forehead with the sleeve of your tunic, brushing fallen strands from your eyes. Mark watches you for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, he steps forward again, his voice quieter than before. You can tell he’s barely even winded by the way he speaks, his chest rising and falling steadily.

“You’re getting it,” he says, his words like a balm to the anxiety swirling in your chest. “You’re really getting it.”

You exhale deeply, the smallest of smiles curving your lips. “Thanks. I don’t think I could have done it without you.”

Mark’s face flushes again, you would just chalked it up to exertion but there’s something deeper in his gaze now. You see something soft, maybe even vulnerable. You’re unsure what to do with that, so you fiddle with the hem of your sleeve. He looks like he wants to say something more, but then the moment passes and he clears his throat, awkwardly running a hand through his black hair.

“Want to keep going?” he asks, his voice almost sheepish now.

You nod, already feeling the faintest spark of hope that maybe, just maybe, you might be able to do this after all.

You stir from the kind of sleep that’s so heavy it swallows you whole. The kind that only comes after exhaustion has settled deep into your bones. A day of training with Mark had left your muscles aching in a strangely satisfying way, a reminder that you are slowly becoming someone else. Someone capable. After weeks of training, most of your days are spent sparring with Mark under the realm’s pale sun, you’ve grown stronger. Eve often joins when she can, striking precise, pink colored magic curling around her like a second skin. Rae pops in now and then, when she feels like it. Rex mostly watches, leaning on the stone walls of the courtyard, eyes lingering just a little too long when it’s Rae beside you. But you try not to think about that part though.

You sit in council meetings now. You speak, often of plans, possibilities, ideas. Debbie nods when you talk. Sometimes she even smiles, in that quiet way she does when she’s thinking of something long ago. You wonder if she sees your mother in you. You walk the gardens with her and Oliver, whose tiny hands are always full of flowers by the time you return to your chambers. He insists you need more color in your room. You don’t argue. Not when he calls you ‘Sis’ and begs.

Mark visits more often too. At first, it was just to ask if you wanted to train more with him. Then it was to bring you an extra ration of sweets from the kitchens to cheer you up on bad days. Then, as your friendship progressed, it turned into sitting on the balcony with you at night, your cat curled in your lap, the stars blinking sleepily above. He listens when you talk about Aaric. About your parents. About Ephia and the salt in the air back home. About how you miss it. And he speaks too, about his mother, about the weight in his chest when he sees her trying not to cry. About his father, the ache of not knowing where he went wrong, not knowing how to cope with him dying. His voice is soft when he talks. Kind. A little unsure, sometimes, like he’s afraid you’ll think less of him. You never do.

Though hope shines amongst the darkness you had found yourself in since arriving at the Viltrum Empire, you still struggle, grief is still a heavy weight around your neck. Aaric’s face is still painted on canvas, sleep still evades you like a deer avoids open fields in hunting season. You still wake up crying some nights. You still feel painfully, cruelly plain in a castle full of magic.

You still question your place in the prophecy, especially when you witnessed Mark and Eve training a few days ago. Watching from afar, you couldn’t help but feel out of place again. Their magic had crackled like lightning, sparking against the sky with such ferocity it had made you shudder. Eve floated above the ground, runes circling her hands. Mark had burned with power, casting light and shadow with every breath he heaved. And you… you had just stood there. You, with your sword and your aching muscles. A girl with no magic. Just grief and cool steel and paint stained fingers.

As you lay in bed, contemplating the past month, sleep has come easily to you after what feels like a lifetime. After stripping off your clothes, releasing your hair from its constraints, the plush of your pillow brought you to a deep slumber. You think you get a few hours in, but you aren’t sure, because when you open your eyes it’s dark.

Your training sword leans beside the bed, its blade glinting faintly. Something feels wrong. Off. There’s a prickle on your skin, a shift in the air.

Rubbing your eyes, you peer out into your room. Your eyes widen instantly, snapping open at the sight of… you aren’t even fully sure looming at the foot of your bed. It glows faintly, its form shifting and vast, made of deep, swirling blues and purples. It looks like a figure sculpted from the stars themselves. The air leaves your lungs in a single, sharp breath. A scream tears free before you can stop it, echoing through the stone halls.

You grab your sword without thinking, adrenaline coursing through your veins. In one swift motion, you swing the blade up, trembling, pointing it at the figure before you. Your breaths come quick, panic gripping you like a vice.

“Who are you?” you demand, your voice shaky and your hand that's grasping the hilt of the blade trembles. Even though you shake, you hold your ground.

It’s voice speaks, but it makes your head hurt with how it sounds; it sounds like billions of voices, all kinds, mixed together, speaking at the same time. Ancient and childlike, feminine and deep and strange. The sound scrapes against the inside of your skull.

“I am the Oracle,” it says, it’s tone neutral, flat. “And you are the princess of Ephia.” You can faintly hear a commotion down the hallway, you wonder if you’ve woken people up with your scream.

“I am,” you say, voice quivering, “what do you want?” Your throat feels impossibly dry.

“I want to assist,” the Oracle says and the air feels thick, “I have information for you. That will ensure your victory against the Dark God and his army.”

You’re quiet, eyes trained on the Oracle, your sword still pointed directly at it.” Footsteps grow louder in the fall, you can fairly hear Mark, Rae, and Debbie’s voices. You must have woken them.

“I thought you only aided House Grayson,” you say cautiously, choosing your words carefully, “I’m not one of them.”

The form is quiet, almost like it’s assessing you before it speaks again.

“I may speak to whomever I please,” its voice is despondent, causing a shiver to run up your spine. You stay quiet, your heart racing in your chest.

“Thala’s Blade,” it whispers, like it’s a secret, “will be the key to your success.”

You almost falter. Thala’s Blade is a fairytale. For those who believe the story about the Gods’ sacrifice, how magic came about the realm, Thala’s Blade is well known. It's said it once belonged to Thala, the Goddess of Hope. The legend says she hid the blade, one that could resist magic, crumble even the strongest spells, right before the Gods’ gave their magic to the realm; a safeguard in case someone became too powerful for their own good. A blade from the last breath of a God. Your head spins, because the Blade is fiction, a legend, a fairytale mother’s told their children when they were young. But the Oracle stares at you like it's the truth. Your fingers tighten over the hilt of your sword.

“How do we find it?” you say slowly, testing the waters. The Oracle is quiet for a second.

“Where the Gods’ once rested their heads,” it says, cryptically. “That is where you will find it. Hope must wield the Blade, or the realm will fall.”

With a crash the door to your room bursts open, Mark and Rae stand in the doorway, magic crackling at their fingertips. Mark freezes when he sees the Oracle, who simply shifts to look at him.

“Hello Gods’ Born,” it says, barely audible before it disappears, the space it occupied empty. The room is still.

Your sword lowers, your knees give way, and you collapse onto the bed in a daze. Adrenaline still courses through your veins, your skin still tingles. Mark rushes to you, falling to one knee at your side. His hair is messy, black strands fall over his forehead.

“Are you alright?” he asks, his voice thick with concern. You see Debbie enter out of the corner of your eye, lingering by the door. You can tell she’s unnerved. “You screamed. We… I thought-are you hurt?”

You shake your head, still trying to catch your breath. “It was the Oracle,” you whisper. “It was here. It spoke to me.”

Rae exhales sharply, stepping forward. But Mark is still kneeling beside you, his warm hand hovering near yours, uncertain, afraid to overstep.

“I’m okay,” you breathe. “I think.”

Mark doesn’t say anything for a moment. His brows furrow. He’s thinking, he appears far away for a moment.

“What did it say?” Rae questions, her voice is soft with sleep as she adjusts her glasses on her face. You swallow, your eyes flitting between everyone in the room.

“Thala’s Blade, it’s real,” you swallow thickly. Mark’s dark eyes search your face, an unreadable expression on his face. “We have to find it. The Blade is how we win.”

#clart talk #my writing!!#my fics #invincible #invincible x reader #mark grayson x reader #mark grayson x you #invincible fanfic #mark grayson #invincible x you #invincible au #x reader #overthrown fic

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strawbeerossi · 2 years ago

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Anger Management

Pairing: Fem!Reader x Spencer Reid

Description: You and Spencer broke up months ago over him talking to someone else. Whenever she dies and he’s left to grieve, he likes to take his anger out on you until one day you have enough.

Content/Warnings: Non descriptive break up, mentions of Maeve (I’m a Maeve hater), Spencer is an asshole, Dom!Spencer, office sex, unprotected sex.

Word Count: 1.5K

Kinktober Day Nine: Hate Sex

Navigation || Kinktober Masterlist || AO3

Spencer had always known that he was a creature of habit after learning the things he liked and disliked. He strayed from trying most new things, nor did he ever spend his time going out of his way to communicate with new people. He enjoyed his simple yet equally complicated existence.

He had a stable job, he had a home, plus he had a huge combined family with his work colleagues. Besides you.

Once upon a time, he loved you. The both of you spent every waking moment together at home and at work, enjoying one another’s presence and taking care of one another. Once he met Maeve, that changed though. He’d began to spend his time talking to the woman who he swore up and down was just his doctor who was helping him with his headache problems.

The more they talked, the more you realized that had to be a bullshit lie. What kind of doctor makes her patients go to a payphone just to have a consultation or to discuss your issues? She felt like it was suspicious. They had secret conversations, things Spencer wouldn’t dare discuss after the fact. If you were honest, it pissed you off.

That was why there was an explosive fight, one where you were deciding on packing up all your shit in the apartment and you were leaving. You didn’t have to sit around and take it so you weren’t going to.

You’d transferred departments for a while after that, knowing the BAU couldn’t be home with your ex boyfriend still there. You’d moved on to Counterterrorism, which was an alright job. Paid the bills, you just preferred where you knew that you belonged.

Going for months without talking to Spencer and having no interest to, you thought you were recovering pretty well.

Until you got a call from Aaron Hotchner. Spencer was on bereavement leave and they were down an agent, which you’d briefly heard the long story of Maeve being stalked and ultimately shot in front of Spencer. He was practically begging you on the phone to come back, long enough for them to be fully staffed so cases could be solved timely and efficiently.

Which you did. It ended up with you putting in a transfer to come back to the BAU. Things went downhill after that though. Spencer was still going through the stages of grief and most of the issues and hard feelings he felt were taken out on you. He’d make sly and shitty comments regularly, things you did your best to ignore. He was grieving, it didn’t make it okay but you really did try to cut him some slack. The things he said were deep cuts, insulting your intelligence at times just to see if he could elicit a reaction.

That wasn’t the Spencer you knew, the Spencer that you loved. You just assumed that version of him was dead and buried along with Maeve.

Today wasn’t a day to bother you though. After weeks of suffering from verbal abuse, you were tired of it. You’d woken up in a bad mood as is that morning, dreading what was to come the minute that you walked into the bullpen. A mood that Derek would jokingly say was because you just woke up on the wrong side of the bed.

With the desk setups, it was no surprise your desk was across from Spencer’s, how lucky could you possibly be? You were looking through the stack of files you desperately needed to sort through when Spencer came in. Joy.

“You know, if you actually made forth an effort to do your job when it needs to be done, you wouldn’t have the pile of work you need to blow through.” He was getting started early, placing his satchel on the underside of his desk while retrieving a book.

Without missing a beat, you picked up at least four of the files and tossed them carelessly onto his desk. “Then fucking help lighten the load since you are so concerned about it.” You snapped, which caught Spencer by surprise. You’ve been a quiet punching bag since he got back but here you were, snapping at him. That only fueled his fire.

“I’m not concerned about it, I’m giving you advice.” He had his own attitude while picking up the files before throwing them back to your desk. “I think you need to stop being so sensitive. It’s not a good look for you. I’m offering you advice.”

“No. You’re being an asshole and I’m getting tired of you taking every ounce of anger out on me! Who the fuck do you think you are?” You asked, hands slamming on your desk while you were pushing yourself to stand. The commotion had garnered the attention of every other agent in the bullpen, even Aaron and Dave watching from the windows of their office. You knew you’d be embarrassed later but you felt so good right now for standing up for yourself. As you stormed out of the heavy glass doors, everyone turned their attention to Spencer, who was in a stunned silence. “I’ll go talk to her.” He cleared his throat. He felt rage festering inside of him after that little display, however he kept himself grounded as he was heading out of the bullpen in search of you.

He eventually found you in one of the vacant offices, a frown on his face as he was quickly stepping inside and closing the door. “That was ridiculous.” He wasn’t here to apologize, only here to argue even more. “No, it wasn’t. I hope that I humiliated you infront of every agent in that room.” Venom dripped from your tone as you turned to face him, face red from anger. “I’m so sick of your bullshit. You think just because you lost someone that you have a right to make my life a living hell?” You asked, stepping closer to jab your finger into his chest. “Because you don’t. I’m sorry that whatever her name is died, I truly am. I’m tired of giving you a pass because I feel bad for you!” You spat.

That was the final straw for Spencer as he backed you up against the nearest wall of the office. “I knew you would try and bring her up into this!” He scoffed, both of you staring at each other in a tense silence. Within a flash, your hands were tangled in Spencer's hair while he was slamming his mouth into yours, the frustration and anger all melting into the kiss as he had you pinned to the wall behind you. “I’m so fucking sick of your mouth.” You murmured against his lips and made Spencer grunt. “Like I’m not tired of your bullshit.” He murmured, his hands quickly working on the buttons of your pants while working on tugging them down.

The haste was returned as you were working on his belt before tossing it somewhere in the room while tugging down the pants hugging his waist. The kiss was abruptly cut off as he was flipping you around, your body now facing the wall. It was for the best that you didn’t look at him, moreso because he’d pissed you off so much that you just wanted to use him for your own relief. You deserved this, even if he didn’t. He had a similar sentiment, your panties being pulled to your mid thighs.

The thick tip of his cock was breaching your sex without warning, mouth falling open while you were letting your forehead rest against the wall, mouth agape as his thick cock was bottoming out. “Oh, my fucking god.”

There was no time to waste, the large hands resting against your waist while his thick cock was pistoning inside of your tight cunt, a bruising grip keeping you in place. “Fuck. How does it feel to be a useless hole? Lord knows that nobody ever wants your fucking input or opinions.” His words were low, hips roughly snapping into yours as the echo of your skin smacking together filled the empty office.

“Spencer-” You began before one of his hands was over your mouth, muffling any attempt for you to speak. “Shut up.” He growled. You both had issues together but this encounter really symbolized that. Spencer used to be slow and sweet, hardly ever cursing or telling you some of the filthy things that had been falling from his lips. A moan was muffled against his hand while his eyes fluttered shut.

“Gonna cum. You’re gonna take everything that I give you.” His lips were against the shell of your ear, the words making your mouth fall open. With a few more thrusts, it wasn’t long until his spent was gushing deep inside of you, the feeling causing you to hit your own release shortly after.

Instead of getting the treatment that you were used to, he was pulling out of you and pulling up his boxers and pants. “Might wanna clean yourself up.” He commented, fluffing out his hair while walking to the closed office door.

The last thing you heard was the door open and the footsteps out of the room followed by a slam of the door.

That was one way to get over an argument.

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queenmarytudor · 4 months ago

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BECOMING ELIZABETH REWRITE

I’m so sorry this is like 2 years late lol.

After my re-imagining of The Spanish Princess Series 2 (as well as a proposed series revolving around Mary I’s adolescence) here I am, constructing a more historically accurate version of the Starz series Becoming Elizabeth.

I mixed two rebellions (Kett’s and Prayer Book) together and shortened the episode count, because we did not need six episodes of Thomas Seymour!

This is Elizabeth learning from a variety of mentors to actually... become Elizabeth, Gloriana!

Episode One - Replete With Sorrow

In the middle of the night, Lady Elizabeth Tudor and Prince Edward are woken from their sleep and told their father, King Henry VIII is dead. They embrace weeping as the men bow before their now king, Edward VI.

The pair go to court, which is clad in black for mourning. There, they have an emotional reunion with their step mother Katherine Parr and older sister Mary.

The three siblings dine together, reminiscing fondly over their father. Edward asks Mary to attend his coronation; she politely refuses, saying she needs to go and oversee the new lands their father’s will granted her. Talk turns to marriages; there is already rumours that Edward is to marry Mary Queen of Scots as their father’s wishes made clear.

A proud Elizabeth attends Edward’s coronation. At the banquet afterwards, Katherine introduces the newly crowned Edward to Archbishop Thomas Cranmer. They discuss expanding his father’s religious policies. Overhearing, and jealous of the dowager queen’s influence, the Duchess of Somerset Anne Seymour begins to argue with Katherine over precedence and jewels. Elizabeth watches on, a careful observer on how to react. Thomas Seymour interrupts, erasing the tension and making the irate King laugh. Katherine casts him a grateful glance. Elizabeth is charmed/smitten by him.

As the Duchess leaves, Katherine says Elizabeth must pack her things as she is going to live with her away from court if she finds that agreeable. Elizabeth is ecstatic, as is Katherine.

Weeks pass; it is spring.

Elizabeth sits with her cousin Lady Jane Grey, being tutored by her schoolmaster William Grindal. The two constantly try to beat the other in languages, etc. There is a fierce rivalry between the pair.

Elizabeth walks with her governess Kat Ashley and lady Isabella Markham in the gardens, still clad in black. She complains about Lady Jane Grey, who always tries to beat her in lessons. Her father would not have stood for it. It is clear she misses him.

Katherine calls the trio inside, where she is standing with Thomas Seymour. She reveals she secretly married him a few weeks ago, and he is now to live with them.

At dinner, the pair quiz Elizabeth on what she has learned. They’re impressed; Thomas compliments her and Elizabeth flushes, pleased at his attention. Katherine leaves, claiming she feels sick.

Thomas talks of grief, saying he knows it well after the death of his sister, her brother Edward’s mother. He says her father wouldn’t want her to grieve him forever, it has been several months now and she shouldn’t feel guilty to be happy again. He reveals he saw her in the garden earlier looking upset; she tells him what had happened. He assures her she is better than Jane in every way. Elizabeth smiles and bids him good night.

In bed, she sighs dreamily to Isabella and Kat about Thomas Seymour; did they know he had commanded her father’s army? They warn her to be careful but she ignores them.

The next morning, she is woken by Thomas and Katherine tickling her. Winking, Thomas offer his hand. Flushed, Elizabeth smiles and takes it hand eagerly.

Episode Two - Noli me Tangere

Katherine and Elizabeth watch as Thomas storms about. He is annoyed over his brother being made Lord Protector of the King and he has nothing. Elizabeth approaches him and asks if he is okay. He says can’t Elizabeth ask her brother for help for him? Elizabeth is uncomfortable. She doesn’t have that much power. He begs jokingly on his knees, kissing her hand then her cheeks, and she laughs giddily, the tension disappeared as they talk.

Katherine and Grindal tell her and Jane Grey that Edward is releasing a new prayer book in English, not Latin with the help of Archbishop Cranmer. Katherine supports it. As a result, Grindal gives Elizabeth an updated list of work.

Elizabeth is involved in her studies, avidly reading. She rebuffs Thomas’s playful advances, saying she is busy with work her tutor Grindal gave her. Thomas is peeved.

Later, Katherine angrily asks Elizabeth if is true what Thomas told her - that she had been embracing her tutor William Grindal. Confused, Elizabeth bursts into tears and refuses it. Katherine apologises and comforts her, blaming her confusion on her current state - she is pregnant.

The next morning Thomas comes alone to Elizabeth’s bedchamber as Katherine feels ill. Elizabeth fears she is avoiding her because of what happened with Grindal. She wonders who would make something like that up. Thomas says someone jealous of such a beautiful and smart girl, hinting at Jane Grey. Elizabeth is incensed. Thomas diverts her with more tickling, then suddenly slaps her behind. She jumps, startled and laughs uncomfortably. Kat orders him away while Elizabeth is dressed. She hears Katherine and Thomas fighting in a room nearby over him going to Elizabeth’s room without her. Miserable, Elizabeth puts her mourning dress back on.

While walking with Isabella and Kat in the gardens, Thomas appears and says he told her she looked better in colours, not black. He chases her around, with Katherine suddenly appearing and joining in. She holds her down as Thomas slashes Elizabeth’s mourning dress to pieces. The pair of them are laughing but Elizabeth is close to tears.

Later that night an upset Elizabet talks to Kat, who says tomorrow morning she won’t let Thomas near her into her bedchamber. He protests his way in anyway, shaking the hangings as if he is to get in. She pulls her bedcovers up and Kat tells him to go away in shame as he tries to kiss her. He leaves laughing, saying he will get her when he returns from court.

An ill and extremely pregnant Katherine writes to her husband, and asks Elizabeth to arrange a messenger to get the letter to him. On the outside of the letter, in Latin, Elizabeth writes “Thou, touch me not”, then crosses it out and writes instead, “Let him not touch me”.

She devotes herself to her studies, and when Thomas finds her on his return, she is frightened. He doesn’t see her obvious distress, tossing her book over his shoulder, stroking her cheek and begging him to forgive her for the dress incident. She nods, and he pulls her into a tight hug Thomas Parry witnesses.

She is abruptly dismissed by a cold Katherine to Anthony Denny and his wife, Kat’s sister. Elizabeth is upset, and her stepmother softens a little, assuring her this is the best for all three of them.

Episode Three - Hope Prevailing

At the Denny’s, Elizabeth is devastated to hear of Katherine’s death in childbirth.

Her new tutor, a French preacher Jean Varon, instructs her in the new doctrine and the French tongue. They talk about the new prayer book; Elizabeth thinks it is a good thing but Varon says there are rumours the common people will revolt.

Elizabeth returns to her old childhood home of Hatfield House, and has a moment of peace with her ladies and Kat.

They are interrupted by Thomas Seymour visiting. He seems unhinged. Thomas proposes marriage, but Elizabeth is horrified and refuses. Kat thinks he would make a good match considering his status, but she stands firm. She tells her lady Isabella she will never marry, after seeing what happened to her father and mother.

While walking in her estates Elizabeth witnesses angry peasants tearing down fences. Her preacher Varon tells Elizabeth the people have rebelled against enclosure laws, but chiefly the new prayer book.

Elizabeth learns Thomas has tried to kidnap Edward VI and shot and killed the king’s dog during the kidnapping attempt.

As a result, Thomas is arrested for plotting to kill the King, his brother and King’s Protector, the Duke of Somerset, and marry Elizabeth.

Privy Councillors arrive in Hatfield to question Elizabeth, while Kat is taken to the Tower.

Elizabeth is interrogated. She denies any knowledge of Thomas Seymour’s actions, saying her reputation is being defamed and she wants a proclamation put out denying rumours of any relationship with him.

She gets her wish, and writes to Edward Seymour to say thank you for the proclamation as his brother Thomas is executed. She is informed the rebellion has been ruthlessly supressed by John Dudley.

With the threat of an uprising and Thomas Seymour both disappeared, Elizabeth gets an invitation to visit the King for Christmas. She is anxious to please him and declares she will wear white for her innocence from this moment on.

Episode Four - Christmas

1550 bottle episode focusing on the awkward Christmas dinner with the 3 Tudor siblings!

Upon her arrival at court, garbed in angelic white, Edward rewards Elizabeth with Kat being returned to her. She embraces her governess lovingly. Elizabeth is invited by Mary’s lady, Susan Clarencius, to play cards. She accepts.

Mary questions Elizabeth, unsure whether to believe the claims issued of her innocence. Mary has also heard about an updated prayer book being released that Edward himself has had a hand in. Elizabeth reiterates her innocence. After, Mary tells Susan privately that Elizabeth is so like her Mother...

Edward is preparing for the feast. John Dudley informs him that Edward Seymour does not have the nerve to tell him, but he will. He has broken the king’s betrothal to Mary, Queen of Scots, who is now engaged to the French Dauphin. Edward is furious.

The table is set for a magnificent feast. The trio begin amicably enough, reminiscing on their shared childhoods with their father. However, soon the tension overwhelms them, with all their emotions coming out. Mary begs Edward not to release his new prayer book, but he replies he is not a child, he is King. Elizabeth tries desperately to keep the peace between the oldest and youngest Tudor siblings. The night ends with Mary leaving, ignoring Edward. King Edward orders her servants to be arrested, and has a furious monologue to Edward Seymour. His brother had taken advantage of his sister and stepmother, and Edward himself had taken him to Windsor - a prison! John Dudley was the one who had the nerve to tell him he has ended up breaking his betrothal to Mary Queen of Scots, who is now engaged to the Dauphin of France. He will look an idiot as her mother Marie of Guise is visiting his court soon! He has obvious and ominous shades of Henry VIII in his behaviour.

In the aftermath of the evening, Edward Seymour is arrested and beheaded. Edward, backed by the Privy Council, announces John Dudley is to be the Duke of Northumberland and new Protector of the Realm due to the loyalty he had shown him in suppressing the rebels, promoting the new religion and aiding the King.

Elizabeth congratulates her friend and John Dudley’s son, Robert, who has arrived at court to celebrate the advancement. He is full of joy; he has married a lady, Amy Robsart.

King Edward, overhearing, is happy for them. He thinks it is time for Elizabeth to marry.

Episode Five - Sister Temperance

Several months have passed. Elizabeth and Edward are watching bear baiting. Whilst the beasts fight, Edward goes through a list of various potential suitors for his Sweet Sister Temperance. Elizabeth is non-committal.

She is saved from further answer by their sister Mary, interrupting the event. She and the large company of people with her all wear prayer beads as Mary begs for her servants to be released. Both Edward and Mary end up crying, and he eventually promises to release them. She leaves, begging him not to think badly of her.

Marie of Guise is to visit court soon, and in the absence of a queen Edward nominates Elizabeth to host her. Jane Grey comes to court as part of the festivities and her and Elizabeth’s old rivalry flares again.

Robert Dudley finds it amusing, especially when the King falls into fervent conversation with their cousin on Protestantism.

Edward is taking more of a leading role in state, having talks with Archbishop Cranmer about the new and improved prayer book. Some wonder if the Lady Mary and others of the old faith will rebel again; John Dudley says he’s stopped one uprising, he’ll finish another if it happens.

Marie of Guise visits court. Elizabeth talks with her about the young Scottish queen Mary, her daughter, and her marriage, and the challenges of ruling a country.

During the festivities, Elizabeth and Robert Dudley are having fun together. Robert says his wife doesn’t like court, and reveals his father is trying to convince King Edward to marry Jane Grey. He laughs, guessing from her sour attitude Elizabeth would not accept her as a queen.

Episode Six - Troublesome Waves

John Dudley wishes to exchange one of his houses for hers, and Elizabeth is not pleased. She reluctantly agrees when Robert visits, taken by his charm. He says she need not fear, for her brother Guildford is marrying Jane Grey now, not the king, who is ill.

Elizabeth sets off to see her brother, but is turned away by his guards.

She is extremely worried about her brother, turning to prayer.

Elizabeth is asked to relinquish her claim to the crown via a grant of more land and money. She refuses.

She talks with Kat and Isabella. Because of Mary’s obvious religious differences, she has come to believe she will become queen upon Edward’s death.

News breaks of Edward’s death/Jane’s accession/Mary’s rebellion. Elizabeth is upset, grieving, incensed with betrayal that her brother has looked her over. She is urged to act by her ladies. John Dudley and Mary both send messengers; she listens to both and plays them against each other then feigns illness, arming her guards for protection as she waits for the outcome.

Mary proves victorious and Elizabeth makes orders to go to London.

Elizabeth greets Mary, assuring her she was preparing her servants to bring them to help her cause. She watches statues and crosses be put back up with foreboding.

Jane Grey and Guildford Dudley are sentenced to die, while John Dudley is executed. Elizabeth comforts Robert.

At night, she sneaks out in secret to see her old tutor Jean Varon. He wants to leave England, but she orders him to remain, telling him not to leave or abscond, but for he and other followers of Protestantism to show themselves in the streets. They need to fight back against what Mary plans! Varon nods, and tells her now Edward is dead they look to her for guidance and hope for the nation.

Elizabeth attends Mary coronation. The new French ambassador, Antoine Noailles, introduces himself. He says Marie of Guise spoke highly of her, and that the crown would look good on her head... Elizabeth gazes at it thoughtfully, and merely smiles in response.

#you can probably tell I ran out of steam after the first two episodes lol but I really wanted to show an accurate portrayal of her abuse ins #*instead of the romanticised shit we got #becoming elizabeth #elizabeth i #elizabeth tudor

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doctorbitchcrxft · 4 months ago

Text

Am I Making You Feel Sick? | Supernatural Series Rewrite | A doctorbitchcrxft original | Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader

Warnings: literally every warning ever, y/n's in a rough ass spot dude, hallucinations, recovering from a sexual assault (PLS HEED THIS WARNING THIS CHAPTER REFERS TO THIS HEAVILY), slightly toxic relationship dynamic, mentions of torture, discussions of religious trauma, discussing parental death, discussing major character death, isolation, depression, discussions of anxiety/not eating bc of it, y/n's personality is changin', man. off the rails fr, canon violence, canon gore, nightmares

Word Count: 6509

A/N: TEEHEE my first original episode!!! this episode is very heavy (obvi bc dean just died) but i still hope you guys enjoy it!!!!

IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT:

the first episode of season 4 will be published on January 18, 2025 (how is it 2025 already). I do apologize for the delay, but I want to make sure that my writing is absolutely perfect for you guys because I love you very dearly.

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

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What a curious animal you'd become.

Killing was a part of your job. You danced with death on a daily basis; nothing about the concept was unfamiliar to you. And yet, everything you felt was completely foreign.

Grief: a simple word to encapsulate such a complex feeling. You thought you'd grieved before, and of course, you had. But losing Stephen, your mother, and your father couldn't even begin to scratch the surface of what losing him felt like.

Dean was gone. He was gone, and there was nothing you could do to change it.

The first day was his funeral. You and Sam refused to let Bobby burn his body; each of you knowing your insistence was due to a desire to go make demon deals yourselves. You were sure Bobby knew, too, but he said nothing. He simply helped Sam fashion a coffin out of a tree they cut down while you tried to piece Dean back together.

Tears fell on the stitches as you worked, water dampening the blood that had dried around the edges of the wounds. You did your best to clean the wounds gingerly, and you briefly laughed at yourself for being so careful when he wasn't even alive anymore. You quickly collapsed in a heap of sobs, biting the side of your hand nearest your pinky to keep yourself quiet.

Brushing his hair back, you would bend down occasionally to press kisses to his forehead. You cradled his head in your lap until the position you were in got uncomfortable. Feeling a lump in the back pocket of your jeans, you took out the wallet that was stowed there and tossed it aside. In the process, the little slip of paper Dean had given you at Christmas fell out.

Remembering what it was, you smiled fondly. It was his "coupon" he'd given you to redeem when he passed. It was a sweet gesture in an incredibly fucked up way, but your heart just hurt as you ran your hand over the pendant still around his neck.

You stared at his handwriting for a while, remembering when he'd jokingly asked you for cursive lessons after watching you write in your journal. His handwriting was admittedly horrendous, but you found it adorable. There was nothing you wouldn't do to see his hands move again.

You kissed the paper, folded it up, and stowed it in the only pocket of his jeans that wasn't ripped. The amulet felt foreign around your neck, but its weight brought you a slight bit of comfort.

Come to think of it, you'd never watched a loved one die. You'd had to kill your parents after they were turned, but that was completely different from watching the life drain from someone you loved with every bit of your soul.

You felt like you'd never leave that day. You'd never stop reliving those last few moments or his last words to you. Dean was never good with words; he showed his love in other ways. But his final profession of love to you was absolutely what you needed to hear, and yet, you felt no sense of closure.

Sam helped Bobby lower the casket into the ground, and you marked it with a cross they'd made from two extra pieces of wood.

As soon as you'd shoveled the last bit of dirt over the casket, you kissed Sam's cheek, then Bobby's, then sped off in one of Bobby's cars aimlessly.

****

You hadn't answered calls from Sam or Bobby since Dean's funeral.

You had forgotten how hard this was; being alone.

From the time your parents died when you were eighteen to the time you met the Winchesters at twenty-six, you'd been almost completely alone. Every day was spent in complete silence. You wouldn't speak unless spoken to, or unless it was necessary to move a case forward. Sure, you enjoyed music on road trips, but the car wasn't filled with laughter or witty chatter.

Hunting wasn't exactly a lively or rewarding profession. It never felt like your life was your own; it was always spent in the service of keeping everyone else safe. As a child, you frequently questioned why that was your responsibility. Your father would always tell you, "Because that's how we've always done it."

As far as you knew, everyone before you in your family had been hunters. You were the last surviving of a long line of hunters that your father always told you dated back to the birth of the first vampire. You weren't quite sure if that was your father over exaggerating, but you grew up believing this was what you were destined for.

As a young woman, you didn't even entertain the idea of doing anything else with your life. You had no skills, no documentation, no money, and no family. Where else could you go aside from diners to search the morning paper for an interesting obituary?

When you met Bobby, you thought that maybe things could be different. He'd found you after a hunt gone wrong against a werewolf, holding your insides together with your hoodie wrapped around your waist. The scariest part of your scrape with death was that you weren't even afraid of dying in that moment.

Steven had been the light of your world. You felt such a maternal relationship with him given the unbelievable amount of time you spent taking care of him while your parents were away, and his death truly hit you the hardest.

Your grief lessened with the passage of time, but you'd learned recently that all you'd done was numb it. You never truly healed from the loss of your parents and brother.

However, despite the tedious and often strife-filled existence you led, you were happy. At least, you believed you were happy, because you hadn't ever known what that felt like; that was, until you met the Winchesters. The little friend group you formed with them was your light in the darkness.

You felt cheated. If there was a god, he was a merciless bastard for giving you the best thing you could've asked for and ripping him away from you so soon.

Over and over, Dean's screams from that horrific night echoed in your mind. No amount of music could drown out the sounds rattling around your head.

That was when you were awake. When you would sleep, though, you’d dream of his experience in Hell.

The first time it’d happened the night after his funeral, you heard Dean screaming yours and Sam’s names over and over again, begging for help. And the next night, it happened again. The dreams of his experience in Hell were only becoming more vivid. Hooks tore through his flesh and kept the skin taut as he dangled over the demons who'd come to torture him. The nightmares were becoming so bad that you were afraid to sleep.

You'd wake with a start to the sound of Dean screaming your name, voice raw and pleading. You couldn't take it anymore.

It was as if he was just out of your reach. You were frozen in space just too far from Dean. Seeing him should have comforted you, but this was only hurting you further. You would have rathered never see him again than continuously watch him go through something so horrific.

The thing that finally broke you completely was a dream you had about Dean talking to you while he was tortured.

"Oh, god, (Y/N)," Dean cried as a demon called Alistair ripped into his flesh, "(Y/N), it hurts, help me, please! God, I can’t fucking take this anymore!"

When you awoke from that dream, you knew what you had to do. Somehow, someway, you were going to get a ticket to the pit, and you'd drag him out yourself. Even if you couldn't, at least you'd get to see him again. You'd tried to make deals, but no one would budge. Thus, you became desperate.

****

You abandoned your phone and laptop and continuously swapped out the cars you stole; only black cars, though, to help conceal you in the night. Every few weeks, you decided you'd switch out the wig you wore. Sometimes, you'd stuff your clothes to make your body shape change or steal a pair of reading glasses from a drug store to skew your appearance further.

After the Mystery Spot in Florida when the trickster made you believe Dean was dead for six months, you weren’t quite ready to go as far as you were willing now. Now, with the assurance that Dean was truly suffering given your recurring, horrible dreams, you were done.

The first stop on your mission was the prison where your life was changed forever. You'd been stalking the man responsible for a little over a week now. Avoiding the watchful eye of the Winchesters' old friend Deacon was difficult, but you managed. At last, the day came where you'd confront him.

In the dark of the guard's home, whose name you'd learned was Evan Kirkpatrick, you waited with a chloroform rag in your hand.

You didn't even allow him to turn the lights on before you were dragging his unconscious body out to the van you'd stolen.

****

In the middle of nowhere in Montana, you'd found a cabin when you were around twenty-two years old. It became your safe house when you needed it. Not even the Winchester brothers knew about it, and you preferred it that way. You knew if you'd told Sam about it, this would’ve been the first place he'd look for you when you first disappeared.

You had the guard securely tied to a chair in the center of the room. You played one of the records that had been left in the cabin and whistled along to it.

Sheets of plastic covered the floor beneath Evan's and your shoes to make for an easy cleanup when you were done with him.

The man before you slowly started to awaken. You remained seated comfortably next to the record player, face unchanged from its numb expression you seemed to permanently wear these days.

The guard groaned, head rolling side to side to try and get his bearings. When his eyes settled on you, he seemed to sober up immediately.

"Oh, fuck," he panicked, immediately trying to yank his way out of his binds.

"Hi," you said nonchalantly. "Remember me?"

"Listen, I'm sorry, okay?" he whined. "But this is fucking crazy!"

"Oh, you're sorry," you laughed coldly. You stood and approached the table you set up with all sorts of weapons next to him just out of his reach.

"Lady, look—"

"No, you listen to me," you spat, getting in his face. "We're gonna play a game. Every time you say 'no' or 'stop,' I'll drag it out even longer. Then, maybe, you'll really be sorry."

"I am! I am!" he cried.

"Y'know, for some reason, I don't believe you." You picked up a pair of pliers from the table beside you.

"No, no, please!" the guard wailed.

"What did I say about that word?" you taunted.

****

Hours later, the man in front of you was on the brink of death. His entire body was littered with remnants of your work, and you were ready to deliver the final blow. Seeing this man made you physically ill, and you were just ready for it to be over.

And so, you ended it at point-blank range. You picked up the chair, the plastic mat, his body, and you dragged them outside to be burnt in a clearing outside of the cabin.

You watched it all burn emotionlessly, the numbing having returned to every one of your limbs.

'I'm coming, Dean. I promise.'

****

As you’d mentioned to Dean, your father insisted upon you and Steven learning different methods of torture when you were younger. He thought it would enable you to survive them easier as well as be able to get the information you needed from the various creatures you hunted.

As much as you hated to admit it, you were good at it. As fucked up as it was, your father had taught you how to detach from the reality of what you were putting another human through and focus on getting what you needed.

What you told yourself you needed from the guard was a way to ensure you would make it down to Hell. However, in the back of your mind, you knew you’d done it because you wanted him to suffer just as you were suffering.

You knew you’d need to continuously do horrible things for your plan to work. You hoped that you would attract the attention of a demon you’d allow to use you for a ride downstairs, or a crossroads demon would find you so enticing because of your deeds that they’d make a deal with you.

In truth, you knew that logic wasn’t sound. However, you were so desperate, you needed something, anything, to occupy your time and make you feel you were getting closer to seeing Dean again.

You never considered yourself the emotional type before losing him. The trickster's comparison of you to Full Metal Jacket would sometimes provide you a lifeless laugh given how well he'd predicted all you'd become.

The nightmares were relentless. You tried every form of soothing yourself to sleep— meditation, a sound machine, smoking before bed— anything to possibly change your night terrors, but nothing worked. Every night, Dean was torn apart in front of you brokenly crying yours or Sam’s name.

While you were awake, you would find your reflection staring back at you as you were on the day of your assault. The guard uniform, mussed up ponytail, and scratches on the side of your face had returned; undoubtedly due to your sleep deprivation and rapidly decaying mental state.

You’d see flashes of Dean’s body laying on the ground in the shadows of the cabin with the gashes the Hellhound had given him or the heads of your parents’ monstrous forms. Steven appeared several times with half of his face torn to shreds, just as you’d found him in his car so long ago.

Smoking weed didn’t help; neither did Xanax. Nothing could supply you reprieve from your anxiety-ridden days. Your anxiety was driving you to the point of being unable to eat. Exhausted, high, anxious, and malnourished, you passed out curled up in a ball on the couch. That time, a different dream disrupted your sleep.

You awoke in the middle of a clearing in the woods. The sun streamed through trees of an almost unnatural green, and the grass felt too pillowy soft beneath you.

You sat up to find a bush burning beside you.

"Seriously?" you cursed at the sky. "A burning bush? I'm not fucking Moses."

"You'd do well to mind your tongue in my presence," the bush replied.

"Well, excuse me, but you're a bush. In my dream. I don't have to do what you say," you answered.

"I'm not a bush, (Y/N). And I'm not god, either. My name is Uriel," the voice said.

"Is that supposed to mean something to me?" you snarked, crossing your arms over your chest.

"It will. I am an angel. I have been sent by god to recruit you for a mission of the utmost importance," Uriel answered.

"Yeah, right. You're an angel," you scoffed. "How come you don't have a harp and fluffy wings?"

"Frankly, your human depictions of us are insulting," replied Uriel. "I cannot show you my true face or true voice; it would blind and deafen you."

"So.. bush..." you trailed off. "Wait, why am I even entertaining this? You're not real; this is just a dream."

"I was told you were stubborn," Uriel said more to himself than you. "How have you been sleeping?"

You scoffed. "If you're a divine being, or whatever, you should already know the answer."

"I do. I am the one who bestowed those visions upon you," Uriel replied.

"Oh! Wonderful." You suddenly had a realization. "Wait, visions? They're not dreams?"

"No, (Y/N). Those were all very real," Uriel explained. "Michael greatly admired your craftsmanship." The angel was undoubtedly referring to your torture of the guard; you hadn’t done anything else in the last month.

"The archangel?" you questioned. "Why would he—?"

"Because that skillset is why you have been chosen for this mission," Uriel replied. "Angels, like demons, need vessels. But we need willing participants. In order for us to carry out our work, we need you to find them. Michael believes your handiwork will help us find these vessels."

You considered. "And what do I get in return?"

"You humans and... reciprocity," the angel remarked disdainfully. "All you need to know is this will help get Dean out of Hell. You know what he's experiencing presently, and I will continue to show it to you until the work is done. Do we understand each other?"

You nodded, stomach turning. "I gotta be honest, though, man, I don't know how much more of seeing Dean like that I can take."

"You will take it for as long as I say you must," he responded forcefully, the bush erupting further into flame with his anger. "Michael believes it will give you incentive to get the job done quicker. This is not up for negotiation."

Your jaw clenched in anger, but you knew better than to argue. "What do you want me to do?"

"Hunt," Uriel responded. "Find suitable vessels. And, if they do not agree to having an angel possess them, use force."

"You've gotta know no one's just gonna agree to that."

"Precisely why we've enlisted your help, (Y/N)," the angel replied monotonously.

"What, do I just pick randoms off the street?" you scoffed.

"You'll know them when you see them," Uriel answered.

"How do I even know this is real anyway?"

Before you could get an answer to your question, you woke up.

You sat up with a start and turned to look out the open window you had certainly closed before you went to sleep. And just outside, a bush you'd never noticed before was burning.

"Great."

****

It was nearly humorous; the times when you'd switch out your car and hear a growling dog, nearly resulting in an innocent animal being shot in the head. You'd then realize you weren't shooting at a Hellhound, and it would all come rushing back to you. Sometimes, you'd flip through the channels of the radio and find the classic rock station and immediately start sobbing. Even saying his name out loud hurt.

No respite from the nightmares was ever granted to you. There was no opportunity for you to dream of those quiet moments with Dean; no escape from the horrible reality of Dean in Hell and you becoming some angel's weapon.

You felt like you were going crazy. You didn't feel entirely convinced to join in Uriel's game— if that had even been real— but you would do anything to help Dean. Night by night, you saw him worn down even further. His resolve was breaking, and his voice was raw from screaming your name. It broke your heart to pieces.

A few days after Uriel's visit, you went out to a town a state over to get groceries. Suddenly, you made brief eye contact with a tall black man. There was nothing particularly remarkable about him, but your ears began ringing as soon as you laid eyes on him.

Out of nowhere, you thought, 'Uriel.'

Discreetly, you turned out of the grocery store and began to follow him. Your hands were buried in your hoodie pockets, and you kept your head down low to avoid suspicion.

However, despite the gun you were gripping in your jacket pocket, you knew you couldn't kidnap him now; it was the middle of the day, and people surrounded you.

So you followed him. For a few days, actually. You got to know his and his family's routine and when he was most likely to be alone. Finally, your opportunity arose. His daughter and wife had gone out for the little one's dance class, and night had fallen.

You frantically pounded on his door. You pretended you were having car troubles and were new to town, so you had no friends to call.

You felt horrible because this man was so nice to you, but you would do anything for Dean. Under these circumstances, that definitely scared you.

You took your crowbar and knocked him over the head hard, then shoved him in the backseat of the stolen sedan you drove. Needless to say, you'd have to switch it out urgently.

****

Finally, you got back to your cabin. You dragged the man into it where new sheets of plastic had been laid over the floor and walls.

You securely tired the man to the chair placed in the exact center of the room and waited patiently for him to wake up.

You turned on your favorite of the cabin's records— "Laughing on the Outside" by Bernadette Carroll— and whistled along.

Slowly, the man came to.

"Sorry about all this," you said earnestly when he became completely alert. "It's my job. It's complicated, y'know?"

"Who are you? What do you want?!" he asked frantically. "Whatever it is, I’ll— I’ll give it to you!"

"Perfect," you replied. "Then this shouldn't be difficult at all."

"What is it? Money?"

"Oh, no, no, nothing like that," you said. "Now, listen, you're gonna think I'm crazy, but—"

"I do already, don't worry," the man snarked, pulling at his restraints.

"I like you. Honestly," you commented, offering a small smile. "You believe in god?"

"What does that—"

"Just answer the question, please," you said evenly.

He nodded timidly.

"Well, one of his angels needs your help. Uriel's his name. And all you gotta do is say yes," you explained. "He just needs to borrow your body for a bit."

"What?! What the hell does that mean?" he panicked.

"Just say yes." Your voice remained monotonous, but there was a slight pleading to it.

"No! No way!" he said.

You sighed and got up to approach your tools. "I really didn't wanna have to do this."

****

Finally, you wore the man down. It didn't take him very long, to be fair, but it was much more difficult for you to torture an innocent person for an angel than it was to torture your rapist.

Uriel seemed to notice your confliction. He stood from the chair having healed the man's wounds from inside his body and crossed the room to you. "Be not afraid, (Y/N)."

"I'm not... but thanks, I guess," you replied.

"I can tell you're troubled. Keep in mind, if you choose to stop now, you will never stop dreaming of Dean in Hell," he asserted while he turned away from you.

"Hey, wait a second, that wasn't part of our deal," you said, following him.

"We don't have a deal, (Y/N). I gave you an order," he replied calmly. His even and monotonous voice was both comforting and unsettling.

"But... what about Dean?" you protested.

"We're not saving him for you, child. No one's that special. God has his own plan for Dean."

You rolled you eyes and turned away.

"What is it?" Uriel questioned.

"I'm just not buying this whole 'god has a plan' thing," you said, an edge of anger in your voice. "If he did, that would mean he planned for me to kill my parents. He planned for me to get raped. He planned for Dean to go to Hell—"

"He did," was all Uriel simply replied with.

Your face went slack in shock. If you didn't hate "god" before, you certainly did now.

"I'll be seeing you, (Y/N)."

When you turned around, Uriel was gone.

****

You spent the next few days angry. Sure, the good things in the world were part of "god's plan," but so was genocide and the Holocaust. You could not wrap your head around how a loving and just god would include such terrible things in his "masterful plan."

Then, you went numb again. You always thought that proof of the existence of a higher power would make you feel better, but it had done the exact opposite. Nothing you did seemed to matter anymore; everything you did felt like being a pawn in a game you didn't know you were playing. Dean's suffering was god's plan, and you hated god for it.

But you did as told. Nothing would stand between you and seeing Dean again, and you would do everything in your power to keep him from suffering any longer. So you continued your task. As upset as you were at the idea of torturing innocent people for a god you'd lost all faith in, you would do it a million times over for your love.

The second of the vessels came under circumstances similar to the ones you'd found Uriel's: a trip to the gas station where an overwhelming, ear-piercing sound rang through your head.

'Zachariah,' you suddenly thought. Your heart broke at the sight of the elderly man at the pump across from you as he was to be your next victim. However, you steeled your nerves and carried on.

****

Why did people pray? If they knew their god was creating horrible situations in their lives as part of his master plan, would they continue to? Or did they just have that much faith in his “benevolence” that they’d pray anyway?

With the information you had now, it all seemed pointless. You felt the way Dean did: a husk of a human to be used as a weapon. With a cosmic being pulling the strings, you didn’t feel in control at all. You had never been in control. God had planned for you to suffer the way you were now.

At fifteen pounds lighter than you’d been when Dean first died, you looked sickly. Your skin had no color, your eyes were sunken and lifeless, your hair had lost its shine, and looking at yourself in the mirror disgusted you. As time kept creeping forward, you began to see yourself not only in your guard outfit, but holding the tools that were torturing Dean from your dreams as he hung on the rack behind you.

The first time you saw that, you screamed. You jumped back from the mirror in the living room and fell to the floor, bringing the lamp and an end table with you. Shards of glass from the lamp’s lightbulb pierced your skin, but your rapidly thumping heart drowned out the pangs and pricks coming from your right palm.

It had been two months and seventeen days since Dean went to Hell. You weren’t consciously keeping track, but something in you always knew how long it’d been.

You began to adjust to only sleeping for two hours a night. Sure, the bags under your eyes and paling face protested, but forcing yourself awake was better than seeing Dean like that. The demon responsible for ripping Dean apart just to put him back together and start again, Alistair, had a face that was burned into your mind. When you were done with all the angel business, you'd be killing him yourself.

Every night, you saw Alistair approaching Dean and providing him with an offer: if Dean wanted to get off the rack, he'd have to put other souls on and torture them himself. If you were honest with yourself, you were slowly becoming more and more desperate for Dean to take Alistair up on his deal.

Uriel had explained to you that time moved differently in Hell. What was two and a half months on Earth was more like twenty-five years in Hell.

The nightmares didn't stop. If anything, they became worse. It was as if Uriel could sense your hesitance and was making your task that much harder to leave incomplete.

Your hesitance was in torturing the old man that was to be Zachariah’s vessel. He and his wife had just adopted a cat, and the three lived an apple-pie life. The idea of stealing this elderly woman’s husband and putting her in the same situation you were in now was weighing heavy on your heart.

You learned the couple had a daughter who’d passed away a few years ago. It brought the two closer to each other, their grandchildren, and their son-in-law, as she’d been their only child. Despite their close relationship, though, you knew they needed a miracle.

You learned that the angels seemed to pick vessels who were down on their luck. Uriel’s vessel’s sister was in the hospital dying of breast cancer.

“Uriel, they needed healing. This guy didn’t want his miracle to be a fucking angel possessing him,” you argued. Fighting with the being was futile, but you couldn’t stand by idly without giving any push back.

“(Y/N), what more of a miracle could he ask for? He has been a devout servant of the Lord since he was a child, and god decided to answer all his prayers.” His voice was strained with barely contained anger, and his patience was draining rapidly. Still, you pushed on.

“You said he could kick you out at any second, right? I’m surprised he hasn’t fucking done that yet. ‘Angel of the lord’ my ass. You used me, a pothead dropout to do your dirty work instead of doing it yourself. I would’ve kicked your manipulative ass out the second you—” You were cut off when the angel backhanded you powerfully. His voice was dangerously even when he spoke again. “Another word, and I will make sure you never see Dean again.”

Still in shock and hurting from the blow, you nodded weakly. When you turned your head back to where he was standing, the angel had disappeared.

With a moment to allow what had just happened to settle in, your breathing became rapid and labored. Tears swam in your eyes, and your knees buckled.

You were barely clinging to your sanity. Uriel was growing impatient with you and informed you Zachariah was, too. When you reminded yourself that you were simply a pawn in a cosmic chess game, you returned to your task.

The elderly man’s screams broke your heart.

“Please, please, just say, ‘yes’,” you begged him. “I don’t wanna do this to you.”

“Then, don’t,” the man sobbed. “Just let me go home to my wife.”

“No, I can’t, sir, I’m sorry.” You were barely holding back tears of your own. “Didn’t you pray for a miracle? This is it.”

“I wanted my daughter back, not some psycho with a knife to get me to agree to… ‘angelic possession’,” he replied.

“The pain will all go away if you say, ‘yes’,” you told him. “About your daughter, from this—” you gestured to your knife and the cuts on his body, “all of it. Just say, ‘yes’.”

Finally, finally, he nodded.

You sighed in relief. “Thank you,” you told him.

But when you looked back up at him, the man had already been possessed by Zachariah. “Took you long enough,” he grumbled, wiping his hands off on the man’s sweater.

Uriel was a complete dick, but he looked like a sweetheart in comparison to Zachariah. Luckily, you didn't see Zachariah so much. Three months had gone by since Dean's death, and you still saw Alistair providing Dean with his twisted offer. You knew Dean couldn't hear you, but you screamed for him to take it. You knew he'd never forgive himself, but you couldn't watch the man you loved in so much pain anymore. He had become your whole world, and your world was crumbling with each passing day.

Then, finally, Dean accepted.

Alistair hummed as he approached Dean, and you could do nothing but watch from the sidelines.

A demon was individually removing the muscles from Dean’s arm, unfazed by his horrible cries. The skin had clearly been brutally ripped from it as his shoulder looked like it had been mauled by a wild animal.

“God, fuck you,” Dean panted.

Alistair tsked. “There’s that attitude I love so much. You know the drill, sweet cheeks, what'll it be?”

For the first time since you’d dreamt of Dean’s experience in Hell, he hesitated.

“What’s this?” Alistair gasped dramatically. “Don’t tell me you’re going soft, Deano.”

Dean hung his head low, unmoving and not answering.

“I need an answer, De-an,” the demon sang.

Without picking his head up, Dean mumbled, “I'll do it.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

“Sorry,” the demon hummed, “didn’t hear you. What was that?”

Dean grunted, “I said, I’ll do it!” with his voice cracking.

“That’s what I like to hear,” Alistair chuckled, a sickening smile spreading across his face.

As much as your heart broke for him, you were slightly relieved that his physical pain was over. However, you knew you had to get him out of there. The psychological torture of hurting others who didn't deserve it would break him completely, and you had to keep him from that somehow.

Something was unsettling you about all this, though. Despite how unsettling your situation was to begin with, you knew there was something the angels you'd been working with weren't telling you.

Uriel especially would act as though he wanted your job done as quickly as possible. However, when you explained it was only through "divine intervention, or whatever" that you were finding these vessels, and you had no control over the speed at which you found them, he'd get angry and cold. But he wouldn't press the issue with you.

The number of vessels he'd assigned you to find was weirding you out, too: seven. You knew seven was a heavily spiritual number through your upbringing in the Catholic Church. However, you couldn't quite put your finger on what was happening.

Half of you wanted to reach out to Sam and ask him his opinions. Your rational mind knew, though, that he'd never believe what you were saying and would quite possibly never look at you the same again.

That brought on a more troubling thought; when Dean saw what you'd become— a cold, lifeless shell of the girl you once were— what would he say? Would he even want to see you anymore? Would he still be able to love you?

You had to cover the mirrors in your cabin because the sight of yourself was making you sick. If Dean looked at you the way you looked at you, you didn’t think you’d be able to live with yourself.

Aside from disgust, immense anger was the next thing to come to your mind. You were angry at yourself for allowing yourself to become so consumed with Dean’s death. Rationally, you knew you shouldn’t have allowed yourself to fall so hard; to rot from your ever-present anxiety. You knew you should have gone to get help. And you supposed if you were a normal person, you would have. If you’d had a partner who died at a young age, you likely would have cut your losses, gone to therapy, and moved on. However, given the information you knew now— that you could save Dean— you weren’t going to give up on him.

You buried yourself in your work to keep yourself from going insane. As twisted as it was, the repetitive nature of your assignment was almost... peaceful? You were sure that couldn't be the proper way to describe your feelings, but it was the only word you could come up with.

Perhaps it was that the gruesome work had become mundane. It gave you yet another chance to completely dull the world out until you heard that wonderful "Yes! I'll do it!" from your victim.

Those words brought you the briefest moment of joy because it meant the horrible deed was over, and you were one step closer to seeing Dean again.

WatchingDean try to swallow his tears and maintain a steely expression while he tortured some poor soul under Alistair's direction became harder and harder every night. If you weren't set on killing Alistair before, you certainly were now. You wished so badly you could reach out to him and hold him.

Finally, after four long and torturous months, your task was complete. You'd found the last vessel for an angel you hadn't quite committed the name of to memory and prayed to Uriel to come to you.

"There. I did what you asked," you said. "Now, go get Dean."

****

That night, you sat on the couch in front of the television inhaling a bowl of cereal. You'd frequently turn the news on to see if there was any new information on demonic omens, any trouble Sam had gotten himself into, or sometimes, just the weather.

“Authorities are searching for this woman—” a grainy image of you wearing a wig, a hood, and jeans appeared on screen, and he supposed it’d been caught on CCTV, “—whose identity is unknown, but she has been potentially connected to at least seven murders over the past four months; all of well-respected, family-oriented men across multiple state lines. She is considered to be armed and dangerous, and if you have any information, please call—”

Your bowl and spoon clattered to the floor. "Oh, fuck."

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#dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x y/n #dean winchester x you #dean x reader #dean x y/n #dean x you #dean winchester #supernatural #supernatural series rewrite #spn #spn series rewrite

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venomvalley · 1 year ago

Text

(DON'T) FIGHT THE FLESH

chris redfield x gn!reader x leon kennedy // 9.4k words

summary: It starts off as a workplace affair borne from physical necessity. You love the distraction and Chris loves to help people—no emotional strings attached. Until Leon Kennedy shows up, a guard dog with sharp teeth and sad eyes, and things (feelings) get very complicated.

warnings: 18+ ONLY (penetrative sex, blowjobs, deepthroating); heavy themes of alcohol abuse; everyone is traumatized; brief mentions of blood/gore

notes: this is the first part of an eventual poly fic and everyone is dysfunctional right now but it gets better. im so sorry about the word count. set after vendetta

>> read on ao3

There’s blood on your face and the target is dead and the world keeps moving. Soldiers, medics, agents all mill about, preparing body bags, grouping up for post-mission discussions, weaning off the adrenaline. The fight is over. You should be happy.

But it never ends. Next week, another rat will skitter from its hole and you’ll be sent off to another part of the world to face a new set of inevitables. Strife is inevitable. Evil cannot exist without good, but fuck—when was the last time you felt something good?

Back on base, the teams join to break out a fifth of whiskey in equal parts celebration and mourning. Paraphernalia in any other circumstance, but you survived. Spike gave his sacrifice. Everyone deserves it.

A single wall separates the common room from where you reside post-shower, scrubbing fruitlessly at the blood beneath short-clipped nails. Though muffled, you catch whirlwind anecdotes of good times passed, shared with an enthusiasm only drunkenness can perpetuate.

Fifteen minutes into staring at a well of pink sink water, after scrubbing your cuticles raw sans progress, you relent. The blood will stay with you until it doesn’t. Maybe it’s meant to be. A reminder, a lesson, a manifestation of consequence.

Once upon a time, someone told you that the worst thing a person could do is grieve alone. Humanity thrives on connection—a sentiment written in the literal stars overhead, in a time where aliens align more with longing than conspiracy. What a pitiful plight of humanity, always searching for companionship, truth, breakthroughs. Finding love in the strangest places.

Funny then, that you struggle with that final step over the threshold. You lean against the door frame and count your team and come up short, and a surge of nausea leaves you gritting your teeth. In part, you’re to blame for your own spiral. Death happens. It happens as often as sunrise, as flowers wilt, as conception itself. Your leadership isn’t good enough to cheat the inevitable, however badly you wish it to be true, and shouldering that kind of pressure was bound to break you the moment death knocked on your front door.

Outside, you join the other smokers sat in a wonky circle made up of folding chairs and opened beers and cigarettes, and everyone looks smaller without all the gear. Five in total, only two faces you recognize—one being Chris Redfield himself. Icon, legend, hero, but tonight you can’t bring yourself to care. The blood is there. He’s just another man.

Everyone is exhausted, that much is clear. Reads in sunken eyes and slumped shoulders and Lieutenant Reeves even nods off in his seat in the corner. It’s always like this. The aftermath. The weight of leadership.

You take the unoccupied seat beside Chris (servicemen thrive off of routine, and habits form after twenty-one days—you’ve surpassed stone-set by an extra one hundred and eighty-three) and he’s kind enough to offer you a lighter. Not that you need one, but you appreciate his small attempt at support. He gets it. The first time, the first death, is always hard.

He says nothing at first, and neither do you. Not much for small talk, too weighed down by the shackles of grief. It’s a relief. You nibble upon leftovers of another conversation and smoke your cigarette until the filter begins to dissolve with a cloying, bitter smell. Kinda reminds you of burnt hair. A little.

Maybe you’re just imagining things.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he says, leaned in close enough that you taste metallic rot at the back of your throat. He showered a short while ago, cropped hair still damp, but the stench still coats his skin like an oily film.

Gore probably leaks from your own pores.

When you reply with a simple nod, he sighs through his nose, opaque smoke billowing into the space between you. It dries out your eyes but covers up the smell so you lean into it and, by proxy, him.

“Listen, I get it. I do. But your team needs a leader now more than ever. You can't afford to dwell on it.”

You know. You know. You've seen death at its most peaceful and its most gruesome. Most days you blink and the blackout darkness bleeds red. You've patted Death on the back and brushed shoulders with ghosts and shaken hands with skeletons. You've experienced the end a thousand different ways. But this is different.

You shake your head, not to disagree, but to filter away the thoughts that aren't helping your spiral. “I could've—”

“Stop.” His voice mumbles quiet. More quiet than you've ever heard him. He smells of gunpowder and body wash and tobacco and resignation, and your eyelids flutter. “You know that's bullshit. Can't stop the inevitable.”

He's right. You know he is. And you meet his eye and the air between you shifts like a thunderclap back toward reality.

One minute you’re on the front patio smoking, and the next you’re being fucked (hard, angry, just the way you need it) into the mattress with Chris’s mouth on your neck and your pants caught on your boots. He's a heavy weight against your back, a choking fullness inside you. A travel-sized bottle of lube sits just out of reach and every thrust is slick and noisy, the mattress creaking with each snap of his hips, and you can't help but revel in his selfish hands.

On the field, his touches are simplified down to necessity, a professional on all accounts, a convolution of sharp edges ripe enough to cut. On more than one occasion he's dragged you back to safety by the scruff like a disobedient puppy, and you've seen him manhandle soldiers unconcerned with their own self-preservation.

Here, alone, he takes and he savors and the rasp of his callouses liken to baptism against your waist and back and chest. His teeth seek permanent indentation along the curve of your shoulder, a kind of dying-star desperation that in thirty years his place in your life will forever be fossilized by your reflection in the mirror. The pain is exactly what you need, and he knows that, and such intuition scares you.

But here’s the thing about Chris: he doesn’t do one night stands. This situation—whatever you can call it—is more of a symbiotic relationship months past conception. A situation coincidental to when you became smoking buddies. You need the skinship and he loves to save people. The first week post-mission is hell to spend alone. Sex helps you feel something good. You both get your orgasm then say goodbye then fly off to opposite ends of the world for an indeterminate amount of time. Until the next time you meet again.

And there is a next time, as always. Deadly circumstances, per usual. But there’s a wrench thrown in the routine: a new player. A DSO agent with a name you know well.

Leon S. Kennedy. He keeps that middle initial close to his chest, cups the mystery like a baby bird who lost its nest. A mother that flew too close to the sun. He’s an asshole when you first meet him at the debrief, your judgements proven right (the pre-deployment gossip keeps you occupied and you can’t help but internalize a few common threads), but Chris swears up and down that this isn’t him.

He knows him via his sister who escaped Raccoon City—Ground Zero—by the skin of her teeth, which is where S.T.A.R.S. and Wesker and Jill Valentine and Chris himself come into the picture. A whole clusterfuck of horrible luck and wrong-place-wrong-time coincidences and intersecting relationships, and look. Chris has a history. Leon does, too. Trouble sniffs them out and chases them up trees like it’s the universe’s full-time hound dog job. But you’ve expended too much energy and time and blood into The Cause, and you’re stubborn to a concerning degree, so you refuse to back out now and let everybody else take all the credit.

The bird touches down ten miles from the FOB, a humvee awaiting the transport of your crew. You recognize Nav, a communications expert best known for tracking the shipment of a B.O.W. across three different European countries. Your new stand-in for Spike.

His crooked smile stings. “Glad to be here, boss.”

The FOB is little more than five large tents and a sea of desert. Egg-frying heat. Before you even step onto the sand, sweat pools beneath your gear and stings at your eyes.

Your team is here on surveillance, employed once again by the BSAA. Redfield’s doing, no doubt. He keeps his circle close.

Chris meets you at the gate, a flimsy thing held together by scrap metal and prayer, and the driver waves you off once bags have been collected and taken to the bunkhouse.

“Really giving us the royal treatment out here,” you say, fetching the crushed pack of cigarettes from one of the pockets in your fatigues.

“Being the best means you get the least resources.”

“It's more like your people hate me.”

“Or they know you love low profiles.”

Your team spends the next two days settling in, making friends, playing cards on some rickety fold-out table much too small for the five-to-seven people that crowd around it at any given time.

You stay close to Chris on instinct. A connection borne from an all-work-some-play arrangement and the knowledge of his doggish loyalty aided by how fucking good he is at his job. You trust him with your life—a sentiment held by everyone who's met the man. His reputation precedes him.

Things start out well, and things quickly devolve. You're stuck in the desert with two dozen people who don't know how to sit the fuck down, who would rather die than wrestle a moment of silence with their thoughts. And then, a week in, Leon Kennedy steps out of the humvee looking fresh off the front page of a magazine. Fresh gear, shiny guns, a head of hair not flattened down by grease.

His hiring was an expensive one, and the American government never fails to show off.

Your team looks on in poorly-guised, bitter disbelief. He's groomed, probably had a nice meal, maybe watched a show during his flight, experienced the luxury of air conditioning. You're a little pissed about it, too. Standing and sweating beneath the sun because there are too few fold-outs to seat everybody and Redfield's team stole half of them to play musical chairs (there isn't even any music).

At least you have a stockpile of cigarettes. The one luxury the BSAA left you with, all thanks to Redfield's influence.

Chris moves in close to greet him, and you miss Spike. He would've shaken you by the shoulders, made some silly comment just to see you smile. Always good at that, you suppose: timing. Now, your memory of him is tainted by the sight of a broken, emptied-out skull. You never knew blood could be so red.

You blink and Leon stands before you, Chris at his shoulder. There's a sharp order of be nice written in the squint of his eyes.

From the ground behind you, Taylor snorts. You choose to ignore her.

“Well,” you say. “You are a sight for sore eyes, Agent.”

He leans to the side, just enough to look past you. Blue eyes more stark than you remember, a pinprick sea amongst miles of sand. “I can see why. I wouldn't even let my dog stay here.”

You perk up at that—finally, some common ground. “You have a dog?”

His brows dip and your heart shatters a little. “Figure of speech.”

Suddenly you're back in bootcamp. The days are impossibly long, every muscle in your body retains a perpetual state of exhaustion, your peers fail in their efforts to befriend you. The drill sergeants are harsh, punishing (when it rains, your fingers always itch for a mop after that endless week of thunderstorms and sidewalk punishment).

You've always hated being told what to do, hated the politics that came with military life, and they all but beat the spark out of you within the first six months.

Everybody always asks you why you joined in the first place, and you answer the same exact way: I had some things to escape from. A half-truth. Really, you just wanted somewhere you could belong. A family. You believed the stories about brothers-in-arms and that's the fault of some younger, more idealistic version of you.

But you're tired.

You nod your head as Taylor snorts out a laugh and Chris shifts on his feet. It's humiliating. You're eighteen again and the drill sergeant told you to wipe the stupid fucking smile off your face. You were trying not to cry.

“Right.”

You were never meant to belong.

Chris sits on the balcony of your apartment in a shitty chair almost too small for his bulk, his third cigarette of the hour lit at the end in sunstorm orange, indentations of his teeth scarred into the filter. It's the first time your intimate relationship has ever breached the walls of a military base. An ultimate display of defiance, a rage against the military industrial complex that leaves the teenage version of you cheering somewhere beneath all the dog-teeth brain matter.

He looks different like this, less a legend and more a regular man indulging in post-coital habits. Dressed in nothing but a pair of plaid boxers and the dog tags he forgot to leave at base yesterday (there's something hot about that, though—the lip stain of forbidden fruit). The sweat has yet to dry on his neck, the bridge of his nose, dark curls of chest hair matted to his skin.

He looks up at the flick of your lighter, a gunshot cutting through the silence.

“You're chainsmoking,” you say, shuffling over to the unoccupied chair beside him. You move the plastic ashtray closer to you.

If he notices the way you favor a hip when you sit down, he doesn't comment on it. “I already have a mom. Don’t need another.”

He shuts down like this sometimes. As if the ghosts that plague him, dormant most days, return to torment his psyche. His thoughts make him angry, and he needs somewhere to store all the baggage. You tilt your head and the bites along the curve of your neck sting and you almost purr at the sensation. If your body is his graveyard, you'll swallow the dirt and the bones with pride.

You can't remember a time when you prioritized faith, but the crinkle of his pretty eyes when he grins at you makes you want to believe in some form of God. He sits before you rough-worn and weary, and the smoke from his cigarette curls and bleeds into starshine sky, but his cheeks puff up when his smile deepens and you know. You know.

You're fucked.

After the sweep of an underground facility and the acquisition of fresh new intel, HQ sends you a continent over to delve into salty seas and wade through lush rainforests. There's more waiting ahead, but at least you found a cure for the humidity.

The beach you stumbled upon is small, more pebbled than sandy, but it's quiet enough to hear leaves rustle and birdcall and the voice of your thoughts, and the streak-skied sunset steals your breath as you sink down into the water. A chill that settles deep, spikes your heart rate, tethers you to consciousness—

(what a cruel thing existence can be).

Redfield slips between the trees, boots loud enough against the grass to alert you to his presence. He appears less daunting in casual clothes, yet every bit a Captain—military perfect posture, a severe twist to his brow stamped to permanence years ago. Your spine straightens at the biting call of your name, his voice thick with exhaustion. Habit, second nature, an imperceptible reaction to the dominance of your betters.

Blend in with the locals. Keep a low profile. Find out who Simmons is.

Some parallel-universe, optimistic version of you would consider this a vacation, so if Chris wishes to break your solitude, he'll have to get wet. You swam far enough out that your toes brush plant life, submerged up to the neck.

Be honest: you just want to see him squirm.

“Care for a swim?” you call upon his approach, unphased by the cross of his arms or the glare on his face that warns of a verbal reaming.

Nobody leaves the safehouse past dusk. You're breaking rules by roughly an hour and a half, but the call of water proved too urgent to ignore.

You also like to cause a bit of trouble.

He offers up a shrug, mouth twisting into an echo of a smile (you think he's forgotten how to do it after years of cutting teeth and breaking fingers). “No can do. Forgot my speedo.”

“Would you believe me if I said I was naked under all this water?”

“Not for a second.”

“You are the antithesis of fun.”

“I get that a lot.”

His eyes are black as midnight, and each passing minute bathes more of his silhouette in sharp-edged shadows. A branch overhead bisects his face into two halves, perfectly centered on the bridge of his nose.

“I could write you up for this,” he says, a hint of danger to his tone. Warning. Your stomach burns hot.

“But you won't.”

He steps just out of reach of the incoming tide, marked clear by a sharp line in the sand between wet and dry.

You try again, a hairsbreadth away from desperation. Urgency. “Swim with me.”

As a child, you played games that none of your peers wished to join. You used to beg them—c'mon, please? just for five minutes, it'll be quick—to the point of tears, until resignation finally set in. Nobody wanted to be around you. You played alone and you ate alone and you read books alone.

This isn't like that—at least, it shouldn't be. You're a troublemaker and he's just doing his job. But still, that childish desperation rears its ugly, disfigured head, and you grin at the sound of his caving sigh. Corrupting the straight-laced Captain… like something out of a trashy paperback erotica.

He takes off his boots first and your heart surges into your throat. Sagging realization almost drowns you beneath an incoming wave of water (he would break rules for you), and you swim closer to shore to meet him.

At the tree line, a silhouette appears, human in shape. Chris follows the line of your wide-eyed stare, every muscle in your body tensed up at the first whiff of danger. Until the shape steps forward into the kiss of moonlight, and you aren't sure whether relief of irritation floods your system.

It's Leon Kennedy. Definitely both.

There's a sadness settled deep inside his bones that the rumors never prepared you for. He walks closer, kicking up sand with each step, and the lighting pales him to a ghostly mirage. Back at the FOB he kept to himself. Spoke when spoken to. Occupied the same chair like he paid for it, all crossed arms and scowling at anybody who dared breach the invisible line of his personal bubble. Everyone except for Chris.

There's a history here you fail to pick up on, a thickness that cloys in the air. Words left unsaid, a silent grudge years in the making. But beneath all the rot, therein lies an unshakeable foundation built on trust.

“I thought we had a curfew,” Leon says, looking more hollow than human from where you stand half-submerged.

Still, the blue of the water could never compare to his eyes. You remember their vividness even as they are now, bathed in shadow by his brow.

You wonder for just a moment (Spike’s voice echoes inside your head: you spend too much time in the clouds, Lieutenant) what he looks like when he smiles. How long it's been since the muscles worked.

“I'm a bad influence,” you say, and for a moment, when their eyes meet, you think you've disappeared into the ether. A buoy treading water.

They share in silent conversation before Chris nods toward the direction of the safe house. “Let's head back.”

The glare he gives you holds no room for argument.

You wade back onto the beach and the sand sinks between your toes. If you stood here long enough the beach might just swallow you up, and the thought shouldn't be as comforting as it is.

Nearby, your clothes sit in a pile, half-buried in sand by the wet-hot wind that pools sweat at the base of your neck. The weather is a stifling scorch, made even worse on the walk back by trees that trap in humidity.

Leon falls back to walk beside you, bathing the forest in an uncomfortable silence. You have nothing in common, and he possesses the social prowess of a rabid dog, but maybe that's the thing that draws you in. You have a penchant for picking up strays. Hell, your entire team is a patchwork quilt of sewn-together outcasts too talented to be thrown aside and forgotten. Old dogs can, in fact, learn new tricks. Teaching them how is your specialty.

You get it.

He rubs a palm over the stubble at his jaw, gaze trained on the canopy above. The creatures here are active at night. Noisy. A fluttering insect catches your attention before landing on a nearby branch. Moonlight casts deep shadows upon the terrain, bathes the ground in sharp cuts of jagged shadow. You pass beneath a large leaf and Leon disappears entirely for half a second.

“So,” he says, tone flat as a board, as if he'd rather bloody his fingers clawing on tree bark than speak, “you're the friend I've heard so much about.”

You can't see his features well in the low lighting, but the cut of his gaze sears you. Dark circles—shades of deep blue and faded purple, the color of bruises—a mile deep, rings of blue framed by midnight black and vessels of red. Like he hasn't slept in weeks, like he just came back from an extended bender. It's—

“I guess so,” you say, because you can't ask about the scabs on his knuckles, or the long-healed scar on his cheek, or why his eyes seem so sad.

There are a thousand Leon Kennedys in your line of work. The same story told a thousand different ways. You recognize the signs of epidemic, the symptoms of deadly viruses, and the man before you belongs to a sub-category pockmarked by trauma.

You look at him and see the choke chain pulled tight around his neck, scarring where the skin's grown around each metal prong. Yours probably looks the same.

But it's none of your business, you suppose. You lock your bullshit up tight and tuck it neatly in the back of your brain that grows cobwebs, and then you let it rot. Not your fault if the miasma sometimes leaks through.

Leon exhales a scoffing laugh. “To be honest, I didn't think Chris had friends.”

A grin twitches the corners of your lips, and you glance ahead to spot the broad width of Chris's back before he ducks under a low-hanging branch. A warmth stokes to flame, curls a tender smoke around each of your ribs. “We knew each other before the BSAA. To be honest, he's the only reason I joined. Gave this big speech about saving the world and shit, I couldn't say no.”

He nods and looks at you with softened eyes. “Yeah. He has that affect on people.”

It's the first thing you and Leon Kennedy have in common.

Chris promised Leon a drink.

You find yourself sat at some bar in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, him on one side and Leon on the other. It's packed, and the music is a touch too loud, and the crowd is rowdy.

Nobody says a word. Not when things ended the way this last mission did.

Failure.

The bartender, some grumpy man with a long, greying beard and a permanent scowl on his face, sets a whiskey down before you. The glass sticks to the tabletop when you pick it up, and you can't remember how many drinks you've had but you know that the trip back to the safehouse will be a hazardous one.

A thousand people dead. Too late to stop the bombing of the small village Umbrella pinged as their testing ground. A travesty, a massacre.

The alcohol burns inside your mouth, burns all the way down to your empty belly and leaves behind a wave of nausea. You wonder how packed the bathroom in this place is.

There was a little boy.

You deserve the burn. Deserve for it to consume you, to eat away at your viscera until acid bleeds from you pores.

You killed a little boy.

Someone grabs you rough by the curve of the neck, pulls you back, curls an arm around your shoulders.

“Hey, we're heading back.” Taylor, voice loud to beat out the music, slurring in your ear. “You gonna be alright?”

You've seen dead children before. Dozens of them of all ages, all manner of decomposed. Victims of Umbrella. Collaterals of evil. But you've never been the cause of it. Never been the perpetrator.

It cuts deep. Cuts deeper when you think of Spike. All the people you've failed.

Our lives revolve around death, he had told you one night, sat swaying on a barstool a lot like this one, and one day we're gonna be consumed by it. Can't have your cake and eat it, too, as they say. Gotta exist in one plane or the other.

She shakes your shoulder, grip rough without all your gear, with more alcohol than blood in her veins. “You good?”

You blink in shades of red. “Yeah. Just be careful on the way back.”

When she goes to leave, Chris catches her by the elbow. Says something you can't hear over the music, but she glances at you and nods her head. You don't care enough to find out.

To your right, Leon sweeps a hand through his hair. Leans over to stare at you beneath hooded lids. “You get used to it.”

There it is. The chain around your neck pulls taut, and you choke back the bitter tang of whiskey in your mouth. Might as well choke on your words while you're at it.

He handles his alcohol too well. A worrying observation in any other circumstance, but you'd be a hypocrite to accost him and an asshole to deny him his coping mechanism, however harmful it is.

What good is living a healthy life when you've one foot already in the grave?

Your fingers itch for a cigarette. The pit of your belly craves a dirty mattress and a bottle of lube and the man at your left who keeps nudging his elbow into your arm each time he sets down his drink.

A hypocrite, you'll never be.

So you settle for the cigarette and say nothing when Leon waves the bartender over.

“Been doing this for almost a decade, and I'm still waiting,” you say, head balanced on a sweaty, sticky palm. “Don't think I could ever get used to killing kids.”

Beside you, Leon takes a long few gulps from his drink. “Yeah, that's… different.”

You grow bold from the whiskey sloshing around in your stomach and lean in close, well past the boundary of his personal space. Behind the long-dried sweat and the brandy on his breath, you smell the death that lurks beneath his epidermis. Like a dog that's rolled in a rotting corpse, bits of viscera still trapped in its fur.

“Have you ever killed a kid?”

He glares at you from the corner of his eye, throat bobbing as he swallows. “Too many.” Choking down the memories.

He's pretty and perfect, ruddy at the tip, thick all the way to the base. The perfect size to deepthroat (long enough to choke off your breath without the stretching pain). You tried it once with Chris and the last inch or so made you tap out, and you remember vividly the pinched grimace on his face, almost pitying to the way your eyes leaked with tears as you coughed away the searing burn.

I warned you, he had said, leaned up against the wall of some unused supply closet. The start of your workplace affair.

And now, you find yourself on your knees in some dirty back alley, Leon's cock swallowed all the way to the base. A small, insignificant victory, but the taste of him—salt-musk and skin–washes away the blood that sticks to the roof of your mouth.

You pull away and work him over with a spit-slicked hand, hissing a breath through your teeth. You look up to find his chin dipped toward his chest, pretty eyes glossy and lidded, a deep blush spread thick over his cheeks and nose. Cute. It's cute. He's cute.

Maybe that's the whiskey talking.

(Not like you have a history of fucking your coworkers or anything.)

The thought sobers you a bit, and your hand slows. Your gaze sharpens.

“Good?” you whisper, just loud enough to hear over the rhythmic schlick of your fist.

Your conscience flares in a sharp thump against the part of your brain still functioning, and you wonder what Chris would think if he saw you like this. You can envision him now, all disappointed and frowning, maybe a little hurt in the squint of his eyes. He'd bitch at you for being so irresponsible, because fucking around with him has nothing to do with feelings, but shit. What you wouldn’t give to see him jealous.

Then Leon huffs out a breath, says, “Please,” in such a pitiful voice that—

Well.

You can unpack all this later.

Your focus shift backs to the man before you, smile devilish and wide as his head thumps against the brick. “Please what?”

“Fuck. Don't do this right now.”

You shift on the hard pavement, knees screaming in pain. But you can tolerate it. His mouth falls open, exhales a choked off moan when you circle your tongue over the sensitive nerves of his frenulum, and nothing else matters.

The sight of him flayed open, vulnerable, needy is intoxicating. A sharp contrast to when you first met, how he soured at the sight of you and licked his teeth like he craved to grab hold of your arm and shake.

You take him into your mouth again, hollowing your cheeks around each inch in a slow savor of the weight against your tongue, and you think you might go a little crazy when he cants his hips and curls a hand around the back of your neck.

“Gonna—I need—”

You moan around him, the best invitation you can manage, and he's quick to take it. The pace he sets sends fire licking up your spine, hurried and quick, long pumps that tease at the sheath of your throat but never breach. You steady yourself with a hand on each of his thighs, thumbing at the downy-blond hair covering the skin.

He's nice about face-fucking you, the alcohol half-worn off. Cradles your head like he either loves you or the way you swallow his cock, shoulders pressed flat against the brick wall to steady himself. Generous with his sounds (Chris communicates in heavy breaths and grunts, but Leon gets into it, and you aren't sure which you like best).

There's something wrong in the way you compare the men, as if they aren't the antithesis of each other down to each individual atom, but maybe that's the appeal. The best of both worlds.

He pulls out of your mouth after a heaving sigh, foamy spit spread from root to tip, connecting in a thin string to your bottom lip.

“Sorry. Can never finish when I drink,” he says, breathless, frustration bleeding through each sluggish syllable.

“Don't worry. I can't either.” It's an anticlimactic end to the night when he pulls up his pants and stuffs his still-hard cock back into his underwear. Says, “It'll go away in a minute,” when he catches you staring at the obvious bulge stretching the fabric.

You move to stand, knees almost buckling from being bent for so long. A clear sign of your age, a body composed of weary bones and ground-down joints and nerve damage. The inevitable effects of a dangerous, active career.

When you stumble, he steadies you with a firm grip around your bicep. Quick to pull away when you right yourself.

A pang starts directly behind your eyes. You need a glass of water.

“Do you want me to…” he trails off, nodding to the space between your thighs. No doubt you've leaked through your pants, your own need mostly forgotten to prioritize his.

But that's okay. Your brain shut up as soon as you got your mouth on him and that's all you care about. Mission accomplished. You can just rub one out when you get a private moment (who knows when that'll be).

“Don't worry about it.”

“Oh.”

“Not that I'm not interested, but the others are probably wondering where we are.” And by others, you mean Redfield, still left hunched over at the bar.

There had been a silent agreement with Leon after your conversation. A shared understanding that, yes, this was a very bad idea, but adrenaline and alcohol and drowning memories always ends in poor decisions anyway. The weight of inevitables.

You can't remember who followed who out the door.

The silence that follows is unbelievably awkward. Leon can't go back into the bar just yet, and you don't wish to leave him alone. But you have no idea where to go from here. With Chris, the transition progressed naturally: smoking buddies to confidants to friends to fucking each other after an adrenaline-fueled disaster of a deployment (huh, a common theme). The reasoning makes sense: you both need a good orgasm to stave off the stress every once in a while. The tenderness you harbor for him is an inconvenient side effect.

Regarding Leon, there's no history here. You share in trauma, yank against leashes attached to the same hand, hold a similiar respect for Chris. Nothing but overarching ideals posing as interpersonal commonality.

But you have a soft spot for strays. Especially the feral ones with sharp teeth and a mean streak.

Leon adjusts the crotch of his pants, kicks out a leg, and you exhale a laugh. He's frustratingly, awkwardly endearing.

(it's just the alcohol it's just the alcohol it's just the alcohol)

You clear your throat, a bashful heat creeping up the nape of your neck. “Thanks. For the—ya know, the distraction. I needed it.”

He nods, turns on his heel, and leaves the alley.

When you walk back inside, Chris is already gone.

And then the world floods. A solid week of heavy rain that, as you lean against the railing of your balcony, seeks to swallow the cars down below on the street, already halfway up the wheels. A rogue bike floats down the street. The water is deceptive in its surface-level calmness, but you know what lurks beneath. Step in the way of nature and be swept off your feet. They'd find your body half a mile away, lungs filled with muddy run-off.

You've never been religious, and faith has eluded you since you were young—don't think you've ever believed in anything besides the sanctity of life—but the street flooding below reminds you of the popular Christian tale. Two of each animal, a great ark, the end of times (the first of many).

You turn to Chris, stood just inside the sliding glass door that leads onto the balcony. “Do you believe in God? Any of ‘em?”

The wrinkles on his forehead deepen, and you remember a time when his eyes held life. They still spark, but sometimes you fear his anger setting him ablaze. Much to be angry about these days: injustice, evil, fighting for a dead-end cause.

The dead can still burn. You know that well.

There still exists moments where his face smooths out, like the few hours of rest he steals at night, but the damage is already done. Fine lines permanent, a testament to the long-flooded chasm of his worries.

“Never thought about it, really.”

Water pours off the edge of the balcony above, a light spray misting your face as the wind switches course and blows the rain sideways. Your feet shift inside a shallow puddle, just deep enough to splash. A chill forms beneath your skin, raises gooseflesh along your arms and legs, the weather a mere accomplice to the problem (many at this point, some identifiable and others still stuck in the stage of repression) that took root inside your bones.

“Not much to believe in anymore, is there?”

Behind you, he sniffs. “It's been that way for a long time.”

Then he steps out onto the concrete, shuts the glass door with a dull thump. A lighter flickers, barely intelligible over the noise of the storm. A moment later, the cloying smell of tobacco hits your nose, and a hand comes into view out of the corner of your eye.

An offering. The cigarette pinched between thumb and forefinger a sacred gift from a man like him.

“You sound like you need it,” he says, bare chest fitting nice and warm against your back, and you relax into his bulk on instinct.

Always instinct with him.

He's kept his distance since that night with Leon in the alleyway. You know he knows. Tries his best to pretend, to regain the dynamic that changed as soon as you dropped to your knees and unzipped Leon's pants, but there's no going back. And you don't know if you want to. With a life hand-woven by fuck-ups and guilt, you rarely experience the absence of regret, so when you woke up that morning and continued on with your day and Leon crept closer than normal, engaged in muted conversation over the flight back home, you decided you wouldn't change a thing.

Maybe you're too selfish. Too self-serving. Too desperate for a way out of this, but—

Chris's beard rasps over your jaw, lips hot when they press to the skin. A hand slides beneath your shirt to rest flat against your stomach, the muscles there tensing.

—shit, you think you deserve indulgence every once in a while.

But he never escalates past the fluttering kisses along your pulse, a languid savor to the way your heart beats for him. The same way you savor your cigarette. An unusual intimacy that you aren't sure how to cope with. What it all means.

So you ruin it, just as you ruin everything good in your life.

(People like you don't deserve goodness, no matter how hard you grasp for it.)

Fat droplets of pouring rain dissect the thick fog of smoke you exhale. “You saw us, didn't you?”

The fingers on your belly curl inward, almost possessive. Like he wants to burrow elbow-deep inside the cavern of viscera and curl your intestines around his hand—the perfect makeshift leash. You wouldn't mind if it was him.

It's always been this way, hasn't it?

“Of course I did.” A sharp nip to the curve of your shoulder, and your hips twitch forward, a hiss choking off at the back of your throat. “Thought you hated him.”

“Almost dying has a funny way of bringing people together.”

“We know all about that, don't we?”

You hum in agreement as his hand climbs higher, squeezes soft at the curve of your ribcage, fingers protecting each brittle bone. Re-learning your body, testing its limits, searching for… something.

“You said it yourself, Chris. People like us don't get the luxury of romance. Dating, marriage, kids. They're pipe dreams. Gotta stave off the loneliness as best we can, but,” you stamp out your cigarette on the wet metal railing, and it cries out with a hiss as water seeps into the filter, “even the sex is a lie. We know it is.”

A lie you gorge on until your heart swells, bloated and tender to the touch.

His mouth is on you as soon as you sit on the couch, already stripped bare below the waist by two sets of desperate hands. Didn't even have a chance to close the door to the balcony with him shoving you back inside.

The sight of him (an inspiration, a legend, a hero) on his knees never fails to stroke your ego, and he meets your eyes with a grin. Slicks his hand between your legs with a chest-purring hum.

Chris, for all his skill, possesses a one-track mind. He hones in on outcome, completing the mission, point A to point B. As such, he doesn't care for distractions. Takes control—prefers giving to recieving any day of the week. And although the sight of him kissing up your thigh conjures heat at the base of your spine, you have another idea.

“Wait,” you say, already a bit breathless, and he sits back to listen. A good, obedient dog. “Move to the couch. I'll be right back.”

You yank your shirt over your head as if it catalyzed every single problem in your current life and leave for the bedroom. Need lube—a must where his size is concerned.

You return to him lounging on the couch, his bulk sagging its very foundation. An impossibly large, commanding presence, and you're unsure how the very idea of him doesn't collapse your room into a gravity-swallowing blackhole.

He is man. You've seen him bleed, seen him laugh, seen him on the brink of death. And yet the tangibility of his existence awes you even now, after all these years.

The stretch conjures between your legs an impenetrable pressure, made slick by all the lube. And he gazes up at you, seated naked in his lap, with all the reverence of a creation bowed before the altar of its god.

To be perceived is a terrifying ordeal. One you try not to think much about. But here, there's no hiding place brave enough to shelter you from the doggish fealty in his eyes. It's terrifying and wonderful and humiliating, and if you aren't careful, you'll begin to crave the feeling of being wanted.

A dangerous thing, loyalty.

You kiss him—a wet, hurried mess of a thing; tender flesh caught between canine teeth; calloused hands guiding the intensity with a palm against your jaw and the other gripping your waist, fingers sticky with lube. He's as big as you dream about, your insides stretched snug and velvety and slick around him.

He breaks off the kiss with a grunt caged behind grit teeth as you begin to ride him in a slow, grinding rhythm.

“Like this?” you ask, solely for your own amusement (love the way his cheeks get all pink), because you've fucked him well enough to know what he likes.

Still, though. To hear him say it is to be well-fed.

He hums, eyes downcast to the place where your bodies join, both hands a steadfast grip on your hips. Guiding, coaxing, savoring.

The sight of his bottom lip tugged between his teeth almost undoes you. And then he looks up at you with the prettiest, puppy-dog brown eyes, and the world stops. The sun burns and burns and burns until flesh melts from bone.

In the aftermath, cuddled naked and sticky together on the couch, a new star is born, nurtured by the warmth of your bodies. You kiss him, and gravity collapses in on itself.

The rain stops.

A conversation transpires at some hole-in-the-wall bar in Birmingham, Alabama. Why Leon chose this place you'll never know, and why Chris chose you to tag along on this two-person manhunt eludes you even more. Something about needing support, back-up, a friend he could trust. And you said yes. Of course you did.

But he seems to handle the situation just fine.

You lounge in a booth within sight of the bar where the two men sit. Leon slumps over the bartop and Chris rests an arm across his shoulders, both of them leaned in close to keep the conversation private. You feel like you have no right to watch, like the moment was not meant for your eyes. They speak like they've conquered lifetimes together, an intimacy you don't think you could ever fully understand.

You take a sip of your beer and trace your eyes over the sticky woodgrain of the table.

After a few minutes—somewhere between five and thirty, when you've already begun to nod off in your seat—a shadow passes over you, then another.

A large hand claps you on the shoulder. “Let's go.”

You sip on the rest of your beer as you follow behind the men, Leon stumbling over cracks in the pavement, cresting the tumultuous wave of drunkenness. Chris holds him steady by a hand fisted in the back of his leather jacket, and you feel much like a wraith. Intangible, inconsequential, tethered to the earthly realm by the beer bottle that sweats a chill against your palm.

It would be sad if sadness wasn't such a permanent facet of your life.

The motel Leon leads you to is a run-down thing. A few cars scatter around the parking lot, cigarette butts litter the concrete walk that leads to each room, and the lampost nearby blinks in a coincidental mimicry of morse code. As Leon attempts to unlock the door, you stare through the swarm of moths to where the dark-light rhythm spells out

H-E-L-P H-E-L-P H-E-L-P.

You didn't sleep too well on the flight over.

His room fares no better, caught in the sharp-toothed maw of a week-long bender. A red flag, a mental health hazard that leaves Chris sighing as he helps Leon over to the stained, naked mattress he calls a bed. He leaves one leg half-dangling off the side, some trick you learned during the early days of training when every weekend ended in borderline alcohol poisoning and the room wouldn't stop spinning.

A few feet over, you spot a thin sheet and a blanket on the floor, crumpled into a mound of itchy fabric. You choose the blanket to drape over him, wrinkled all to hell, but he doesn't seem to mind. Holds it close to his chest in a loose fist while his other hand grabs your shoulder.

“’m sorry Redfield dragged you into this mess,” he says, eyes bloodshot and unfocused, a certain sway to his words that sends a pang to the deepest part of your chest.

You've been here before, many a time. Can't count the days you wasted sleeping in bushes or heaving over a toilet or so drunk you couldn't even stand, because the alcohol felt good until it didn't, and even now you find something meaningful in the hammering of a morning-after migraine—pain means you're alive, Chris likes to say.

You slip up sometimes (a lot), forget your sober vows when the hardships need a good drowning. The ethanol kills them for a little while, but they always come back. You fool yourself every time into believing the next drink will be different.

It makes sense now. Why Chris chose you to tag along. You stare down at Leon and some parallel-universe mirror image stares back. The beer in your stomach settles like a molten rock.

“You have nothing to apologize for.” A sentence you wish to tell some younger, dumber version of yourself, before you stopped believing in redemption. “Just sleep it off, okay? We'll be here when you wake up.”

You and Chris share the threadbare couch in silence, curled up on either cushion. He twirls one of your shoelaces around a finger, then unravels it, then twirls it again, over and over as the sound of Leon's rhythmic snoring fills the room.

“Thanks for coming,” he says, cheek pressed to the back of the couch as he looks toward a hanging cobweb on the cieling. “It's hard to talk him down when he gets like this.”

“I think you handled it well.”

He exhales a tired laugh through his nose, the shadows under his eyes deeper beneath the pale of moonlight. “Only because I knew I had a backup plan.”

“And what would that have been?”

His lips twitch into a grin. “We drag his ass out of there kicking and screaming.”

“Damn. I'm almost sad the talking angle worked.”

“You would be.”

The comfortable silence stays steadfast for all of twenty seconds before you look over the back of the couch to where Leon lay.

“I hate to see him like this,” you say, wrinkles forming between your brow. “You know those kinds of people, where you can take one look at them and know they've been through hell?”

Chris hums.

“He's definitely one of ‘em.”

He shakes his head after a long moment, brows raised. “You have no idea.”

No. You don't. But it puts his behavior into perspective. Straddles the hair-fine line between excuse and explanation. Hard to develop meaningful, lasting relationships when everyone around you routinely drops like flies.

The night drones on, and on, and on. You should be able to sleep anytime and anywhere at this point, but the two sets of snoring seeks to do your head in. That, and Chris effectively shoved you off the rickety couch in his sleep and stretched out upon the cushions. But that's okay. He needs it.

Night turns to day somewhere between your anxious pacing around the room and your decision to take the floor, and you wake sweaty, a bit addled amidst unrecognizable surroundings.

Until you recognize the voices sounding from the opposite side of the room. Your hip screams when you rise to your feet, and you're dying for a drink of water and the cool breeze from a fan.

“Morning, sunshine,” Leon says, looking no worse for wear after the previous night. Hair a bit tousled, clothes wrinkled, but bright-eyed and aware. It's both infuriating and relieving.

“Definitely not a good one,” you grumble, because it's far too early to be awake and why are you even here in the first place? Chris could've handled it himself.

(God, you need to chug a glass of cold water. Swallow down a few ibuprofen while you're at it because pain makes you a certifiable asshole.)

Even in your youth, you hated mornings. Hated missing out on sleep, stumbling around for the better part of thirty minutes because nothing could get you awake. Hated the anxious, seven a.m. rush of the world.

A shit career you found for yourself, given that fact. Can't remember the last time you slept a full eight hours (your extracurriculars with Chris notwithstanding).

“I’m not a fan of mornings, either,” Leon says. Passes you a half-empty bottle of water from the nightstand, and you would hate to know how long it’s been there.

Long enough to taste earth-bitter and flat, but it hydrates the inside of your mouth to a blissful degree. You down the rest in three big gulps then squish up the plastic in a fist. The lukewarm water shaves down the edges of your teeth that crave something to chew on; a certain kind of clarity that rears its head only when your needs are met.

“Thank you,” you say, capping the bottle and tossing it beside him on the bed.

He nods. “Don't mention it.”

Chris leaves to smoke a cigarette outside as Leon begins packing what few things he brought with him. You plop down on the edge of the bed, unsure of how to breach the topic of his mental stability. But you feel like you should say something.

“So. How are things?” A rough start given the stare he cuts you with. “I just mean… well, you don't have to suffer alone like this. Chris cares about you, and I do, too. We wouldn't be here otherwise.”

Almost dying has a way of bringing people closer together.

He shoves a rolled-up shirt into his bag with a weary sigh. “I can handle it.”

“I know you can. But I know that shit gets heavy to carry around, so—”

“Yeah. I got it.”

You sit in a silence for a moment, the fabric of his jacket rustling as he scoops it off the floor then shakes the dirt off. Maybe you should clean a bit, take some stress off the workers. But Leon pins you with a look when you ask him for a broom. Says, “This is a motel. Nobody gives a shit.”

You sit back down.

Filth has never disturbed you. You've slept in places that weren't fit for human life, drank water swarming with viruses (in your defense, the order hadn't come through yet, and you suffered through half a dozen antidotal injections as punishment), but it's about the overarching intent of Leon being here. Whether a perfect reflection of his ground-through psyche or his self-taught deservedness for suffering, you aren't sure. It makes you sad regardless.

He sets his bag by the door and settles into the shitty couch, and you trail behind him. “Ya know, it took me a really long time before I ever felt like I could open to anybody. But once I did, it just… it felt nice. Can’t tell you how many times Chris saved me from myself.”

He scoffs. “Sounds like him.”

“He’s just trying to help. But you have to want it.”

“I don’t. Obviously.”

You nod. You've spent enough time around broken people to know when to shut up, to stop digging, and there's a blaring red stop sign over his head. “I know. But when you do, we'll be here.”

Chris Redfield is man, and he bleeds, and he flinches away from pain. He hates needles something fierce yet regularly requires them due to the job. One such example of the comedic irony that lives within him.

So you hold his hand while the stern-faced nurse begins an IV. He's pale in the face, grip weak, sweaty on the palms. Lucky to be alive. A mark of his mortality the deep, serrated gash slicing through the front of his thigh. A gnarly thing, makes your stomach drop when you think about it.

The nurse discards the needle and extra gauze then steps out in a rush, closing the door behind her. Beside you, tucked beneath two hospital blankets, comically large in the bed, Chris breathes a sigh of relief.

“So. How do I look?”

“Like shit.”

He winces, shifting his uninjured leg beneath the sheets. “Gonna be here a while, aren't I?”

“Probably not. Longest part'll be the PT.”

He shoots you a stern glare that tells you to shut the fuck up—a very rare showcase of off-the-field command. “It's not that bad.”

“It is that bad. You're lucky you still have a fucking leg.”

The air of the hospital room thickens. You know the unspoken, chain-of-command line you tread, the luxuries afforded to you because of the softness in his heart where you placed your claim. One such example: you can yell at him without reprimand. Best used when he's being a tunnel-vision dumbass.

You blink and the world bleeds red and there you are, back on the field with a roll of gauze in one hand and a tourniquet in the other. Nobody can find the goddamn medic and he'll be bled out by the time they get here. You bark orders to your team as the writhing mass of limbs and teeth begins to drag itself across the bridge, and you think of Spike.

Chris yowls at the last few turns of the rod.

Not again.

The missions grow more dangerous with each deployment. He denies this over and over and over, says the worst spike of bioterrorism was after Raccoon City, when Umbrella threw caution to the wind and stopped caring about cover-ups. When the government did it for them, when technology wasn’t like it is now.

But frequency and impact are two very different things, and you know an inevitable, a fork in the road, is soon to come.

That's always how these things end.

#leon kennedy x reader #chris redfield x reader #resident evil fanfic #chreadereon #series: don't fight the flesh #my fics #ns/ft

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etherealising · 2 years ago

Text

chapter four | to burden natalie berzatto

masterlist | ↢ previous chapter | next chapter ↣ |

pairing: platonic!natalie berzatto x f!reader | slight carmen berzatto x f!reader | slight the bear crew x f!reader | male!oc x f!reader |

summary: your lack of competent decision-making after mikey’s death puts natalie in a compromisng position.

wc: 8.1k

please remeber you are responsible for your own media consumption. if any warnings trigger you DO NOT READ!

The smooth music filtered out of the record player, a rich voice singing through the house painting the atmosphere with a calm vibe. The two occupants were gathered in the living room, sifting through the last of the boxes that contained small decorations and keepsakes. Discussing what would look best where and what should have been left behind in the move.

You looked over your shoulder to check on Nat, her sudden silence cause for concern. Circling over to her you realized what had stolen the words from her lips. You maneuvered to stand behind her, looking over her shoulder at the framed photo in her hands, the two of you silently reminiscing.

You placed your head on her shoulder as she let out a quiet sniffle, her emotions heightened due to her condition. “You looked so beautiful that night,” you let out a quiet laugh before moving to stand next to Nat, eyes still focused on the framed Polaroid in her grip.

It had been a year and it still wasn’t easy to look at any pictures of Mikey without feeling like your chest would cave in. You hadn’t seen this particular picture since his passing, the grief too much, all memories painting your west coast apartment shoved into a nondescript box.

You understood now why it was so important to label your boxes when moving. If the box in front of Nat had some type of label on it, you knew for sure it already would’ve been shoved into the dark recesses of your closet.

“You can just put that one back in the box,” you left Nat’s side to continue going through your box, pulling out the book designated to sit on your coffee table.

Natalie watched you from her side of the living room, a small scowl painting her face as she watched you so easily disregard a memory that had once been so special to you. She looked back down at the picture, your bright smile staring back at her as Mikey and Richie leaned in to kiss your cheeks. A fond memory of the three of you the night of your senior prom.

Looking back at you one last time Nat let out a sigh before walking over to the mantle and setting it on the corner, visible for everyone to see. She understood how much Mikey’s death affected you, but there was no way you could heal from the hurt if you never allowed yourself to live in the uncomfortability of grief. It was something you had to want for yourself.

Nat had half the mind to keep digging through the box, eyes catching on another memory. Not wanting to sour the first night in your new home, she replaced the cover, doing her best to act as though she wasn’t curious about the box of memories.

The doorbell rang as you were looking for a place for the picture of you and your mom at your college graduation. Carefully sitting it on your coffee table you made your way to the door making sure to grab your wallet on the way. You opened the door to see the pizza delivery person standing there, giving them the money and a tip before thanking them.

“Oh that smells delicious,” you laughed as Nat followed behind you to your decent-sized kitchen. The two of you grab plates and a slice of pizza before heading to your couch.

Setting your plate on the coffee table, you left to quickly grab two wine glasses and the sparkling cider Natalie and Pete bought you as a housewarming gift. Stopping to grab a bottle of water from the fridge for Nat just in case the cider upset her stomach before taking your seat on the plush couch.

“I’m happy you’re home Baby.” Your eyes met Nat’s before you moved to pour yourself a healthy amount of sparkling cider, ignoring Nat’s laugh at the full glass in your hands. You raise your glass in a mock toast, at least one of you was happy that you were back.

“I guess it's good to be back. Nice to be around people that care about me,” the grateful smile sent Nat’s way as a form of thank you.

Natalie deserved more than a pathetic smile and both of you knew it.

You had been relatively alright after Mikey’s death, which came as a surprise to everyone. Your impromptu stay in Chicago after the funeral was a way for you to keep an eye on Natalie and Donna, occasionally helping Richie at The Beef when you could.

But you had to return to your own life eventually, and when you did shit spiraled out of control for you.

People always drone on and on about the five stages of grief and how it affects everyone differently, and you never thought that statement to be more true than when you stepped foot in your apartment upon your return from Chicago. Grief is supposed to come and go, you were doing everything that everyone was telling you to do. Following all the steps, checking all the boxes. Forcing yourself to try and heal, to feel your emotions as much as you would allow yourself to.

But at the end of the day, it was just you, an apartment full of memories, a voicemail you were too scared to ever listen to, and the shadow of your grief following behind you.

You experienced all the denial, anger, bargaining, and depression and you waited and hoped for the acceptance to come. But all that ever came was the cycle of grief replaying in your life like a bad dream.

You had thrown yourself into your work, anything to forget about the pain Mikey’s ghost left behind. And when your psychiatrist recommended a prescription to aid with your anxiety, you accepted. Anything to escape the shadow of a man you once knew appearing in your apartment on late nights.

But then the prescription wasn’t enough, and the alcohol you once used to numb everything had lost its edge, your days just turned into functioning as best you could. And then there were times you couldn’t even remember the previous day, the last five minutes, falling asleep on the couch.

You had become dependent; dependent on the alcohol and the drugs, and the way they made things all better for a short time.

And then you had woken up in the hospital one day, with no memories of how you got there, no care for what happened to you.

The figure in the chair next to you helped you to escape the fog in your brain. The woman you had known your whole life looking down at you with a tear-stained face, her hand tightly clutched around yours, her presence all the more confusing.

The silence in the room was too loud for you as you just watched the blonde, the lack of emotion on your face breaking the woman down even more. When the doctor came in to explain what happened it shocked you. Not because of the severity of the situation, but because you couldn’t remember a thing.

The theory was that you had been mixing prescription drugs and alcohol for some time, a truth you already knew and were purposely partaking in.

You were at your apartment after work winding down from the long day, pregaming for a night out with your co-workers. The Ativan you had taken earlier at work already put you at ease. You were trying to get to your patio for some reason but had trouble with the sliding glass door.

Too inebriated to unlock it you had essentially thrown yourself against the glass until it finally gave way to the weight of your body and you ended up face down covered in glass and the pool of your blood.

Not fazed by your injuries you collected yourself, glass and all. Grabbing your keys from the counter leaving to whatever destination you had in mind. Somewhere between removing yourself from the mess of your ruined sliding door and stumbling out into the hallway, you swallowed two more pills.

According to the reports, a neighbor found the mess of your body in the hallway, making it a mere few inches from your door before your body succumbed to the deadly cocktail swirling inside you.

In October of 2022, 8 months after Michael’s death; you would overdose.

You were broken from the haze of memories as you felt a dip in the couch. Natalie came to sit right next to you head resting on your shoulder, you gently laid your head on top of hers. You owed Nat your life.

A quiet sniffle left you, losing the battle to keep your emotions under wraps. “You’ve done so much for me Sug, and I…I’m sorry if I haven’t shown you enough appreciation.” You felt Nat’s arms wrap around you, squeezing you into a side hug as the two of you sat in each other’s presence.

It was no secret that without Natalie and Pete, you might not have been experiencing this moment. You for sure wouldn’t have gotten your shit together if you were still all alone on the West Coast. Nat had gone out of her way to find the best treatment facility on the East Coast for you, it had been decided that you would make the move back to Chicago when you were released.

So while you were away facing the consequences of the darkest moments of your life. Nat was at home picking up the pieces of your life while also trying to keep hers intact, not that you realized or cared back then.

Nat and Pete sold the family home that was still in your mom's name, nobody needed to ask to know that it wasn’t healthy for you to live in or across the street from a museum of memories. The couple got you a good deal on a quaint home not too far from them, the leftover money put towards the rest of your savings.

Natalie Berzatto, a miracle worker in your eyes had somehow pulled strings to get you an interview with the Tribune. So yeah, you owed Nat a lot more than placating smiles and cheap pizza.

“Are you sure you’re ready for tomorrow?” You shifted positions at Nat’s question, the two of you now sitting criss-cross applesauce, facing each other on the couch. You gave a small nod, fingers playing with your fuzzy socks.

“I don’t have much of a choice,” you let out a small laugh. “I can’t expect you and Pete to babysit me forever.” You smiled up at Natalie, the prospect of writing again caused a sense of excitement to stir within you. It felt like the only thing you had left, the only thing you were still good at. Although you had almost completely fucked up your life, you still had your writing, and that was a start.

“Maybe we can meet up for lunch after?” You didn’t want to celebrate too soon, you hadn’t even got a job yet, but the idea of a lunch date with Nat sounded like the best form of indulgence you had allowed yourself in a while.

The night continued with the two of you talking, Sugar doing her best to catch you up on all that you missed sans any mention of a certain blue-eyed baby brother she had. As the night began winding down the two of you cleaned up the mess of your dinner, before you sent Nat on her way with promises to fill her in after your interview tomorrow.

Making sure your kitchen was cleaned to your liking, you made your way into your room to begin settling in for the night. A knit crew neck you had meant to return to its rightful owner once upon a time, becoming the basis of your pajamas after a relaxing shower.

Settling into bed you couldn’t help but lie awake, mind racing with all the different scenarios that could play out tomorrow. This was your first night alone in your new home and the reality of just how alone you were slowly began to sink in. You knew Nat would always be there for you if need be, but she had her own life to live, the beginnings of a family in her near future.

All you had at that moment were your racing thoughts and the regrets of a life you had almost ended too soon.

You sat in the lobby of the Tribune leg bouncing nervously as you waited for your meeting with the editor-in-chief, resume, and copies of your work sitting snugly in your tote bag. You knew Natalie had already sent over your information, but your nerves forced you to believe that being over-prepared would be necessary.

The sound of the receptionist calling your name caught your attention. She was standing a little ways away from you waiting for you to follow her, you gave a nervous smile before rising from your seat and following the rhythmic click-clack of her heels down the hall. As you watched her walk in front of you, you thought you may have been a little underdressed in your casual street clothes, but you forced yourself to push your thoughts aside. They’d be judging you for your backlog of work, not your choice of attire.

The receptionist lead you to a corner office, the frosted glass of the exterior providing a sense of privacy. Ushering you into the empty room she let you know that the editor you’d be meeting with would join you shortly. You sent her a small thanks before walking into the room, eyes catching on the minimalistic decorations scattered around the office.

Your feet lead you to the wall of windows situated behind the desk, the view reminding you of an office you had occupied so many months ago. You looked out over the Chicago skyline, it still felt so surreal to be back in this city.

The face staring back at you something you were still learning how to get used to. The scars that decorated the right side of your face were healing up nicely considering how deep some of the glass had gone.

You jumped at the sound of the door closing, someone entered so swiftly you hadn’t even heard them, or maybe you were just too wrapped up in memories of a past life. You hurriedly turned from the window not wanting to seem rude, the man who had entered the room caught your eye before gesturing for you to take a seat at one of the two chairs in front of his desk.

You felt a little less concerned about your fashion choice as your eyes followed his Levi-clad legs as he settled into the chair behind his desk. You could feel your nerves returning, not knowing what to expect from this interview. In the most humble sense you had forgotten what being interviewed felt like, not having to go through the process since getting your first big journalist job straight out of college.

“Nervous?” Your leg stopped bouncing as the man’s voice met your ears, a shy smile curving your lips.

“Here I thought I was being subtle,” you tried to joke hoping to relax yourself a bit. The responding chuckle helped somewhat, so far the man sitting in front of you didn’t seem like too much of a stickler.

“Never thought I’d see the day you were nervous in front of me Baby,” you tried to control the look of disgust you felt begging to paint your features. You were grateful for Nat’s help but you were sure this was a mistake.

“I’m sure HR has their hands full with you.” You mumbled, the roll of your eyes showcasing your irritation. “Thank you for the opportunity sir, but I don’t think this is a good fit for me.” You reached out to the chair next to you where you had sat your tote bag wanting to get out of there as quickly as possible.

“No wait,” the sound of the rolling chair moving rapidly caused you to stop, seconds away from rising from your chair. You turned your attention to the figure in front of you eyebrows pinched together.

“It's me, Hayden,” your brows furrowed even more, your mind searching your memory for that name. “I…uh, I took you to senior prom. We met in our creative writing class that same year.”

You felt your eyes widen as your mouth formed the shape of an ‘o’, eyes darting to the pristine nameplate facing you on the desk. The name ‘Hayden Ivanovski’ staring directly back at you.

“No fucking way.” The whisper traveled easily through the silent office, Hayden’s echoing chuckle caused you to let out a small one of your own. “I’m sorry, it's just nobody but close friends and family even call me that anymore. And, I really wasn’t expecting to see you.”

You watched as he nodded, you could see it now. The boy you once knew in the maturity of his face, hadn’t changed much but it was enough that you wouldn’t easily recognize him if he passed you on the street.

“Uh, the porn stache sure is a uh choice,” your hand raised to gesture to your upper lip, you couldn’t help the smile curving your lips.

Hayden laughed head dropping as he resumed his seated position. “Divorce makes you do crazy things,” your smile faltered, you hadn’t meant the quip as an invitation to discuss any personal grievances. “No need to look so sad, it was mutual.” He shrugged the topic off like he hadn’t given it a second thought in a long while.

You nodded your head distractedly, “Enough about my failed marriage, how have you been?” You gave him a small smile, mind going blank as you thought of the best route to take this conversation.

“I uh, almost died five months ago,” the laugh ripped from Hayden’s chest, the last thing you were expecting to hear. You watched as he found your eyes, his smile disappearing as he took in the harrowing look on your face.

“You-you’re not serious are you?” The question almost caused you to laugh.

“As serious as my overdose was,” you watched as Hayden shifted in his seat, the air easily became uncomfortable. “Sorry coping mechanism.” You laughed the topic off, you had assumed Nat told him when she booked you this interview.

“So um, when does the interview start,” your leg began bouncing up and down again, the nervousness returning. If you hadn’t already made a bad impression you were sure exposing your less-than-stellar life choices definitely lost you the job.

“Nat didn’t tell you?” You stopped your brows from pinching together, the constant frowning sometimes the tiny scar between your eyebrows. “I don’t need to interview you, you’re an amazing journalist. I hired you the second Nat told me you were moving back. That is if you want to work here.”

“You’re not just hiring me because we went to prom together, or as a favor to Natalie are you?” Nat had helped you to get your foot in the door, you had wanted to secure the job because of your merit.

You watched as Hayden quickly shook his head, “While it is nice to reconnect with you, we need some experience in our newsroom. I know before your uh… incident you were working as a travel journalist, and the pay here wouldn’t be the same. But you’d still have full control over the stories you write, although you might not write as often as you’re used to.” You nodded along listening to his explanation. The fact that this was happening failed to resonate with you.

“So, the position of Managing Editor is yours if you want it.” Hayden sent you a small smile awaiting your response, he did his best not to focus too long on your scars as he stared in your direction.

“As long as I can write and edit then I will happily work for you,” the large grin spreading across your lips stretched the small scar stitched into your upper lip.

The smile on Hayden’s lips matched yours as he walked around the desk to shake your hand. The two of you sat there going over the expectations that your new role required, Hayden explaining the environment he tried to uphold at the paper.

You finished the meeting off with a tour of the floor the Tribune occupied, the one you’d mostly be working on. The two of you caught up a little as he input you into the system and created your badge so you could easily come and go as you pleased. You learned that he married Marlene Buchanan, a girl you went to high school with. The ink of their divorce still drying after only being finalized two months ago.

He invited you out to lunch but you had to rain check explaining the plans you made with Natalie promising the two of you would work something out in the future. He walked out with you, the two of you parting ways once you left the lobby.

You stood on the sidewalk taking in the crisp Chicago air. Your life was finally starting to feel like your own again, and even though you had only secured a job, the inevitable weight of doom that followed you was beginning to feel a little lighter.

Natalie was pacing in the office quickly moving to close the door as the chaos sounding through the building caused a headache to form. She knew Cicero would be there in the next hour, and that the money problem was their biggest issue in getting the new restaurant up and running.

The urge to call you was immediate after speaking with Cicero. Nat knew how much you cared about this place, and regardless of what anyone else thought she wanted you to have a say in any decision they made now that you were permanently back in Chicago. And she’d be lying if she said the reserved funds that came with you weren’t also a reason to invite you to this meeting.

Shouts could be heard through the door as she finally made her mind up, you two had plans for lunch anyways so you could just meet her and the two of you would leave together. Any excuse Nat could think up to call you would help her.

Sighing she scrolled through her contacts before forcing herself to press on your name and just call you. She listened as the phone rang, part of her hoping you didn’t answer her call, the hope immediately dying as your voice sang through the speaker.

“Nat, hey! I was just about to call you,” She smiled at the light tone in your voice, a tone she hadn’t heard in quite some time. “We still on for lunch?” The question caused her to take a deep breath, it was now or never she either asked you or she didn’t.

“Yeah of course. Uhh but would you mind meeting me at The Beef?” She was hoping the question came across as nonchalant, she called out your name as the line went quiet, sure you had hung up on her.

“Nat, I’m not sure I’m ready for that,” the apprehension in your voice made her feel guilty for even asking you in the first place.

“Listen, Baby, I know how you feel but we’re making a big decision today and I feel like you deserve to have your input heard,” she waited for a minute before continuing. “If it triggers you we can leave immediately, no questions asked okay? I just…this might be good for you.” She bit her lip as she waited for your response, she would be okay with whatever you decided but at least she had put the opportunity out there.

“I think I can be there in 45 minutes,” the tired sigh that escaped your lips matched the way Nat was feeling.

“Thank you, Baby.” She listened as you said your goodbyes before hanging up the phone, Nat was sure if she didn’t already have morning sickness she would’ve thrown up from that phone call alone.

It was exactly as you remembered it. Not that you had expected the exterior to change in the year since you’d been there. Although not physically changed things felt different, it no longer felt nostalgic as you stood there looking at the newspaper-covered windows. You could feel the anxiety eating away at you, the sick part deep inside of you wishing you had something to numb your feelings.

You could hear the faint sound of an alarm blaring with how close you were standing, the sound helping you to focus on the things you could control. You hadn’t come all this way just to look at the old building’s facade, and part of you didn’t think you could take disappointing Natalie by walking away. Nat wouldn’t have been disappointed in you though, but since your accident, you were scared to ever see that look in her eyes again.

The deep breath of fresh air filling your lungs helped to cool you down a bit. The pairing of your puffer jacket and scarf felt a bit suffocating.

In through your nose out through your mouth, a few more deep breaths were all you allowed yourself before forcing your hand to grip the door handle and step foot into a building that might haunt you for a lifetime.

The constant screeching of the alarm was so loud it made you glad that it drowned out the sound of the bell ringing above the door. Your eyes traveled around the restaurant, it was the same but it wasn’t. Little things missing telling you that some type of work was being done.

“As I live and fucking breathe!” The loud voice you would recognize anywhere drawing your attention to the dining area, Richie’s large figure taking up the doorway.

You shared a small smile with him. Subtly adjusting your scarf to cover the most noticeable scar lining your face, you watched as the older man took steps to close the distance between the two of you. The tall man quickly pulled you into a tight hug.

You hadn’t realized how much you needed a hug from Richie until you were snuggly pressed against his chest, the warmth of his body helping to relax you. The unconscious thought crossed your mind that you might have never experienced one of these hugs again if you hadn’t made it to the hospital in time.

The love Richie was pouring into the hug caused your eyes to water, Mikey’s passing bonding the two of you, the loss of someone you both loved so much bringing the two of you impossibly closer. But not close enough for him to know the path you had taken after. And not close enough for you to want to burden him with being just another addict in his life.

He pressed a gentle kiss to your head before pulling away, the annoying alarm still blaring at full volume. You stepped back to give him space, “You been fucking around in the crawl space Richie?” The question paired with your signature grin as Richie let loose his boisterous laugh.

“Of course, you’d fucking know about the alarm.” Richie’s disgruntled mumbling met your ears.

“Hey, Richie, could you please turn that goddamn motherfuckin thing off?” The voice of Cicero filtered through your ears. “It’s making me insane!”

“My bad Uncle J, Baby just walked through the door and shit like a ghost. Fucking Mikey booby trapping crawl spaces and shit.” He poked his head back into the dining room to let the occupants know he somewhat had the situation under control.

“Mikey’s fuckin Kevin McCalliper-,” The responses correcting Richie caused you to let out a small giggle, the noise bringing a smile to Richie’s lips.

You continued standing with Richie as he spoke to somebody on the phone, the long one-word password he gave made you chuckle. Pretending you knew how to help Richie was an excuse to not join the conversation going on in the back for a while.

While the blaring alarm was causing your ears to ring, the loud noise was a buffer between your impending thought and the inevitability of being back in this restaurant. The sudden quiet was the only sign that you would have to face a now unavoidable situation.

“Here lemme take that,” Richie reached out expecting you to give him your scarf and jacket. You hesitated, your wardrobe feeling like a sense of armor for the time being.

“Uh, I’m actually pretty cold. Thanks, Rich.” Your hand shot out to pat his bicep, head jerking in the direction the voices were coming from. “Sugar in there?” You didn’t need Richie to reply to know the answer.

You followed Richie’s lead as he headed to the back, taking a deep breath to still your nerves, not all too sure what you were getting yourself into. You watched as Richie pulled up a chair next to Cicero for you, taking your tote bag out of your hands as he gestured for you to sit. You smiled politely, giving him a small nod as you moved further into the room.

Three out of four familiar faces stared back at you, the look on Nat’s face indicating how much it meant for her that you showed up.

“What is this an intervention?” You made the joke as a way to cut the tension that had filled the room, the silence felt even louder as Nat said your name in a reprimanding tone, the joke not being funny to her one bit. You shrugged before moving to sit in your designated chair, shooting a small smile to the dark-skinned woman who was eyeing you from across the table. Your eyes easily avoided the blue ones you knew too well.

You listened as Nat cleared her throat, all attention focused on her. “So uh, I invited Baby here because I think she deserves to be a part of this decision.” Four eyes flashed to you as you awkwardly adjusted in your seat. “And, um she has a decent savings account.”

A snort left your lips at Natalie’s rushed words, her ulterior motives for inviting you here reminding you a bit of her mischievous brown-eyed older brother.

“Sorry uh, big fan of your work. But uh, how do you play into all this.” Your eyes drifted to the unknown woman, a smile played at your lips, a feeling of shyness sweeping across you at the fact that she had any idea who you were.

“Family friend.”

“Old acquaintance.”

The three other people at the table looked between you and Carmy, eyes darting back and forth at both of your explanations. You couldn’t help the cackle you let out, missing the look of panic shooting through Natalie’s eyes. You couldn’t recall a time you would ever describe your relationship with Carmen Berzatto as an acquaintanceship.

“Baby is a close family friend,” Nat interjected before any other response could be given. “A friend we should be thankful for even considering investing in the restaurant.”

Your eyes finally found Carmy’s having a hard time taming the smile threatening to spread across your lips. The false confidence you were exuding helped you not overthink the situation you were in.

The conversation picked back up where it had left off after you entered. You sank into your seat shoving your hands into your jacket and tucking your chin into your scarf as you did your best to pay attention. You couldn’t help but let your eyes travel across the mostly empty dining room, memories of a life that no longer felt like your own clawing to overtake your senses.

Up and down, up and down. The tick you gained while in recovery helped you to remain in the present your leg working overtime as it bounced to keep you focused.

The voices talking around you are drowned out by your wandering thoughts. Thoughts that had you re-evaluating your relationship with Natalie.

It was no secret that you had become a selfish person after Mikey’s death, every decision you made was to benefit you, and if someone else somehow benefited from it then good for them.

That was the reason you stayed in Chicago so long after the funeral, telling yourself that the remaining Berzattos needed you, that you were staying to make sure they made it out of the deep end alive.

But that was a lie, you stayed because you were too afraid to face your own emotions, afraid to face your grief head-on. Even now you could say you stayed behind to ensure Donna and Sugar were okay, but deep down you knew that you stayed because you didn’t want to be alone.

You helped Richie at The Beef because he needed you, needed to know he wasn’t alone. In all actuality, it was you who needed them, you who had become dependent on people grieving just as much as you.

The same could be said about your substance abuse after returning to your reality. The idea of never being able to talk to Mikey, see Mikey, or hold Mikey was all just an excuse you used to justify your indulgences.

You constantly told yourself that it wouldn’t be fair to burden Sugar or Richie with your hurting, that they didn’t need to babysit you while trying to heal themselves. That when your memory became spotty and you missed more than one of Sugar’s calls, it was because she didn’t need to put up with you and your problems.

And then unintentionally or not, you became Natalie’s problem. Not even letting her brother’s grave grow cold before you forced her to face the idea of losing another person she spent her whole life loving.

You pleaded with the universe for Nat to wipe her hands of you. To let you waste your life away and rot like you were starting to. To turn her back on you, because how could you so easily fall into the same vice as Mikey knowing how much it affected him; knowing how much it affected the people who cared for him.

How dare you pretend as though no one would give a shit if they had to bury you mere months after putting Michael to rest. How fucking dare you be so selfish.

There were nights in bed where you’d lay awake questioning your intentions. Had you purposely thrown your life away because you knew Natalie would come to your rescue? Did you somehow manipulate Natalie’s good nature into digging you out of a hole you were so far gone in you couldn’t bring yourself back from?

You always got on Natalie about putting herself first, and how she needed to stop stretching herself so thin for everyone else. And then you went and almost fucking died, and you forced her to take on a role she had been playing her whole life.

You had willingly ruined your life and forced Natalie to face the consequences.

If there was one thing you learned in your recovery, it was that getting clean, staying clean, and becoming a healthier better version of yourself should never be done for someone else. You had to want it for yourself, but damn if seeing Natalie’s face didn’t push you to get your shit together you weren’t sure what did.

“500,” you weren’t sure where the confidence to speak up came from, not even entirely sure what the balance in your savings account even was. Your unfocused eyes now staring directly into Natalies. “That’s my offer.” You quickly glanced around at everyone else unsure as to what they were even talking about but needing to put your stake into the game.

“Like $500..or,” your attention turned to the other woman, her voice trailing off indicating that she indeed was asking a question.

A chuckle parted your lips as you shook your head. “No, I mean 500K.” You made sure to look at each person across from you individually, instilling how serious your offer was.

“Bullshit.” The sound of Carmy’s voice startled you, sure he had been speaking this whole time but it's not like you were paying that much attention.

You scoffed, eyes rolling in tandem with the sound. “I thought you needed money Carmen,” the name slipped through clenched teeth. You turned to face Nat. Your final numbers would be decided between the two of you, “Nat?”

“100.”

“450.”

“120.”

“375.”

“200,” you hesitated for a minute. The triumphant smile on Natalie’s lips caused your eyes to narrow.

“250, or I walk.” You leaned forward hands moving to lay flat atop the table, a small smirk played on your lips. Your leverage was total shit and Nat knew that there was no way you’d walk away from this project.

“Deal.” The smile on your lips faltered as you faced Carmy again, his annoying crystal blue eyes staring daggers into you.

Clearing your throat you slumped back in your seat, hands moving back to hide inside your pockets. The meeting finished on a good note without a hitch, with the restaurant gaining an extra 250K to put toward inevitable expenses.

You quickly stood from your seat moving to escape any awkward reunion that may have sprouted between you and Carmy. The interest in meeting Carmy’s partner was pushed to the back burner as you made your way through the restaurant, looking for the one other person you wanted to speak with at the moment.

Maneuvering through the kitchen you found Tina not too far from what you remembered to be her usual station. You leaned against the wall watching her work, the effort she was putting into saving burnt and rusted pots bringing a small smile to your face. You shrugged off your jacket and slipped the scarf from around your neck.

“Need some help?” The hesitation in your voice was evident. You weren’t sure where you stood with Tina, you knew how she felt about Mikey and how much his choices affected her. The thought of relaying the past few months to her was too much for you to think about at this moment, you had time, and when you were ready you would confide in her. But for now, there was no point in ruining a much-needed reunion.

You watched as Tina jolted, not prepared to hear your voice. “Ay, dios mío!” Tina turned to you hand raised above her heart, eyes wide. “Why the fuck are you sneaking around the kitchen.” You listened to the older woman’s voice scold you before making your way in her direction.

Not giving her another second before throwing your arms around her, you probably should’ve made sure it was okay, but there was nothing like a mother’s endearing hug to let you know that everything would eventually be okay.

The two of you stood in each other’s embrace in the middle of the kitchen. Neither of you said a word as your quiet sobs began to echo off the walls. You were crying for Mikey, and for yourself, and for all the lives the both of you had ruined, whether they knew it or not.

You were apprehensive to step foot back in this establishment so soon. But it had easily shown you all the things your life would have missed out on had you not allowed Natalie to get you the help you needed.

Carmy’s head perked up as he noticed you exit the kitchen with Tina. His irritation began to rise as he laid eyes on you, Sugar had blindsided him with your arrival. He hadn’t even known you moved back to Chicago, let alone that you had any interest in getting The Bear up and running.

You looked different. His eyes immediately caught the obvious scar tracing along your jaw. The tip of it started a few centimeters below your chin before meeting your jawline and finding its end just before your ear. It was a gnarly scar and he knew for sure the amount of stitches you needed must have been painful.

Carmy was also sure you didn’t have that scar a year ago, nor the smaller one that was carved into your upper lip. He would’ve taken notice, you can’t spend 48 hours with someone and not be able to recall all the puzzle pieces that were specially made to create them.

He watched the two of you approach the group at the counter, you hanging a little farther back than probably necessary, pretending to occupy yourself with the bare walls. Carmy might’ve smiled at your awkwardness if he wasn’t so confused by your presence.

A distracted farewell to Tina left his lips as he tried not to be so obvious in his study of you. His eyes refused to meet Sugar’s as he could feel her watching him, watching you.

Sydney’s return gained his full attention, forcing himself to focus on something else other than his thoughts that were racing and full of you. The clearing of your throat as you finally made your way to stand next to Sug had all six sets of eyes focusing on you.

You didn’t just look different. From the very few interactions the two of you shared and Carmy’s constant people-watching, you seemed like an altogether new person, the confidence and surety he was used to seeing in you was dull.

“I don’t mean to impose, but I was kind of hoping I could take on a more involved role in all of this?” Carmy’s eyes squinted as your hand raised in a flourish to signify you were talking about the restaurant.

You were met with silence. Carmy was too distracted by being in your presence after a drought without you, and Sydney still hadn’t even been truly introduced to you.

“Shit, sorry.” Your hand shot out to shake the woman’s hand as the two of you introduced yourselves. Although she read your articles, mostly your profile stories highlighting various chefs, it was different to be formally introduced to the person behind the stories.

“I uh, actually read most of your articles.” Carmy watched as you brightened up a bit your writing something that would always bring you joy. “I had to cancel my subscription though.” The sound of your laugh went straight to Carmy’s heart, he hadn’t realized how much he missed the delicate sound until hearing it again in this moment.

“I actually have a proposal for you three,” you paused, making sure everyone was paying attention before continuing your explanation. “What if I highlighted the renovation? I was..uh…before,” you had to stop yourself and take a deep breath to ground yourself.

“I was profiling The Beef and Mikey before he…yeah. Um, so I was thinking I could maybe continue that with The Bear,” you stopped to make sure everyone was following along, sending Carmy a small smile before continuing. “We could profile the team, give people a behind-the-scenes look into the renovation, and who’s behind it. I would publish it, it would be great PR and might help to fill seats.”

The following silence made you feel insecure about your proposal. “Maybe just give it a thought. No pressure or anything uh just let me know if there's any interest.” Your voice trailed off as your confidence continued to plummet, Carmy’s blank eyes doing nothing to quell your nervousness.

You turned your attention back to Sugar, a silent plea to leave in your eyes. She nodded “Uh, Baby and I had plans so we’ll be heading out.” You sent the two chefs in front of you a forced smile before hurriedly returning to the kitchen to pick up your jacket and scarf you left there. Call it cowardly but slipping out through the kitchen’s back door seemed to be in your best interest.

The fresh air whipped against your face like a blade, and the immediate change in temperature helped to relax you. There would never have been a perfect time to make your return to this restaurant, and maybe it wasn’t how you things to go, but you felt an immense pressure off your shoulders.

The hard part was over, you made it through the door, walked past the remnants of Mikey every time a specific spot reminded you of him.

It wouldn’t always be like today, you knew that. Some days would be harder than others as you worked through your struggles and allowed yourself to feel the loss of Mikey. One step at a time, it was cliche but it was really how you had to live your life from now on.

Being around Carmy would continue to be hard for the time being. You had essentially watched his brother deteriorate, watched as his mind no longer became his own. And you too had almost become a victim to the whims of your drug-addled mind.

You wouldn’t force a relationship with him and would make him privy to your shortcomings when you were ready. But you told yourself you would be okay if he wanted nothing to do with you, the choices you made would not be easy to come to terms with. And if Carmen Berzatto decided he was finally done with your constant disappointment in his life, you’d just have to accept it.

The sound of Natalie’s footsteps pulled you from the labyrinth of your mind, a small smile sent her way as the two of you made your journey far from this lot of memories.

Carmen stared at the outlines they had hung along the walls, eyes following along with tasks that needed to be completed to open in six months.

He didn’t want to admit it but he was a little bummed out that Sugar returned to the restaurant without you. Any small glimpse, or interaction he could get with you he would swallow like a man starving. The chef stood there doing his best as his counterpart gushed over meeting you, doing his best not to cringe at his two worlds colliding.

Carmy wasn’t sure if he could keep it professional while you worked alongside him on the renovation. Sure you would be doing your own thing in tandem with the work that would get done. But surrounding himself with you in an already stressful time in his life and an even more stressful environment wasn’t something he was prepared for.

He let his mind wander, thoughts of what happened to you in the year since your visit drowning him. Carmy had no clue what happened after you left that night, no clue what had seemed to connect you and Sugar more than you already were.

Seeing you again made his chest hurt. Seeing you was like a hot poker being shoved through his heart, unbearably comfortable but all so warming at the same time. He wanted to know you, know what had changed you since the last time his fingers had traced your skin.

Carmy knew the two of you were nowhere near as close as you had once been. Unsure if you’d ever share a connection like your past one. But he knew while you were here, in Chicago, surrounding yourself with him, the two of you would be given equal opportunity to put this years-long game of cat and mouse to an end; it was just a matter of who bit first.

a/n: well…here we are. i know this might read like baby’s life is just gonna be sunshine and rainbows from here on out but i can promise its not. she is a deeply flawed character with a lot of shit to figure out and a half baked relationship with everyone’s favorite chef won’t fix that. i’ve been around addicts my whole life so i have an understanding of what they can be like, i want to iterate that in no way am i romanticizing addiction. my personal experiences with functioning/addicts DO NOT make me an expert on this topic in anyway, but i do use those experiences to write for baby. i’m always here if anyone needs to talk. i hope you all enjoy <3

taglist: @hawkins-2000 @elliesbabygirl @allbark-no-bite @anakinswh0re3005 @rexorangecouny @thecraziestcrayon @fruitcupsworld @nishinoyahhh @lilylovelyxo @ridingthehotmessexpress @noas-ark @jadeittic @hellokittyever @luvr-bunnyy @sxgees @fandomhopped @is-this-a-febreze-commercial @kravitzwhore @chanluuvr @readingwiththereids @chims-kookies @ladygrey03 @ferida-kahlo @wanderlustnightwanderer @how2besalty @armydrcamers @jointherebellion215 @jackierose902109 @blkbxrbie-esther @ajordan2020 @head-slut-in-charge @magnet-girl @thebookwormlife @sevikasblackgf @writers-hes @senassn @bunnysthngs @khena @kailyn-g05 @ovaqma @fire-treasure-iii @frequentnosebleeder

unable to tag: @gcidrvsh @awatt31 @cauliflowerpatch

#carmen berzatto x reader #carmy berzatto x reader #the bear fic #carmen berzatto angst #the bear x reader #carmen berzatto x you #carmy berzatto #carmen berzatto #all i ever knew only you ₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊#[aiekoy] chapter 4 #carmy the bear

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arabellasleopardcoat · 6 months ago

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Lay me down (Helaena Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: Helaena cannot sleep. You offer to keep her company, but find yourself addled by the same malady she has.

Warnings: None! Just the Princess and the Pea, and grief. Also, friends to lovers.

A/N: This one was hard. Little hope in regards to comments.

“Helaena. Helaena.” The dowager Queen says, voice harsh. “Helaena, are you even listening to me?”

And you do not mean to listen in. You really don’t. But her tone is so urgent, and you are only a few benches away from them, hands joined in prayer.

You had asked the dowager Queen if you could tag along with them today, promising to leave them pray privately. You had your own grief to keep you company, after all.

The news of your betrothed’s death reached you this morning. He had fallen during a battle near Duskendale, marching with the Royal Army under command of Ser Criston.

Your eyes were swollen from so much crying, your nose sore and raw. You had liked the man. Perhaps not as a lover, but he had been very cordial towards you, constantly writing and sending you trinkets. You had considered him a friend, and always found yourself excited to open his letters.

Now, your friend was gone, and your father had callously informed you that you were back in the marriage market. Not even an afternoon had you been allowed to grieve. The Sept was your sole respite from his constant nagging.

“Helaena. Please. Do try to pray.” The dowager Queen begs of her daughter, holding her hands. But the Queen only makes a sound of discomfort, trying to avoid her touch. “It will make you feel better.”

“I have not slept.” She weeps, face twisting in agony. Her whole body cringes away from Queen Alicent.

“It is only normal, after…” And you cannot bear it. Cannot bear to hear them discuss their loss, their own grief, when you are suffering through yours. You get up, choosing to move towards the altar.

You will light a candle and leave. The carriage will provide the same solitude you sought by coming here.

“That has nothing to do with it. Something is wrong. Wrong with my room. Can you stay with me tonight?” Queen Helaena untangles herself from Queen Alicent, who seems desperate to hold her.

“Helaena… I cannot… The lords and…” Her mother is clearly unwilling. A wave of pity for the Queen hits you. Your heart feels torn to shreds already from the loss of a friend, you cannot imagine what it would feel like to lose a son.

Were you her mother, you would hold her all night if she asked. Or even sit by her, if it helped her feel less alone. The Seven knew you would have liked your father to support you in your grief.

“I’ll do it.” You offer, bravely. A few tears have fallen down your cheeks. You barely realize, focused on her. This is something you can do. You can help her. Comfort her. “I’ll stay with the Queen tonight.”

“Were you listening to..?” The dowager Queen’s voice is harsh, grating in your ears. A tad embarrassed, you lower your eyes, but do not apologize nor take back your offer. You had been eavesdropping, of course. But they weren’t trying to be quiet either.

“Yes. She will.” Queen Helaena says, absently. And that is it.

That night, you find yourself in the Queen’s rooms. After her son was murdered, she moved into a more spacious and better guarded chamber.

There are no maids in sight, so you draw the curtains shut yourself and blow off some candles as the Queen changes into her nightclothes. When she comes out of the bathing chamber, she sits on the bed and offers you a hairbrush, in absolute silence.

You wonder if grief has taken her voice, as it has taken yours. You have not brought yourself to even name your betrothed aloud because a knot makes itself known in your throat each time you try.

Instead of trying to hold what will surely be an awkward conversation, you obey her. You are careful to touch her as little as possible when unpinning her long, blonde hair and brushing it until it shines. Then, she gets under the covers.

“Lay next to me.” She pleads, eyes closed. She pats the space next to her.

The bed is marvelous. You are warm and tired, the covers just the right weight for you to feel comforted under them, but not smothered.

You turn to face her. But the Queen has her back to you. You quietly say your nightly prayers and blow off the candle.

It is then that it starts.

Queen Helaena lets out a sigh, rolling on her side. You tense.

“Can't you feel it?” She asks you, face scrunched up in discomfort. “This bed is so uncomfortable.”

Buried under her blankets, warm and safe, you disagree. But you sit up regardless.

“Shall I get you another pillow?”

“Leave it.” She scoffs, throwing her pillow away.

Her tossing and turning doesn't stop the whole night. You understand why the Queen dowager didn't want to stay with her.

You continue to offer her to change her pillows, to fix the bedding, but she denies you every time. When sunrise approaches, you have resigned yourself to just laying there, watching her twitch restlessly. You had given up on sleep a long time ago.

But a night is enough to convince you. Something is wrong. Not with the bed, but with the Queen.

She requests your company again the next night. This time, you come prepared. Your fear of whatever is happening to her has turned into a dull sort of pity.

“I have brought you chamomile tea, but also Milk of the Poppy. Perhaps it might make you sleep.”

“I would like to try both.” She says, reaching for the vial of Milk of the Poppy without hesitation. She downs it fully, face strained. The lack of sleep has taken its toll on her. The dark circles under her eyes are darker than they had been yesterday, her cheeks a tad more sunken.

No one can go without sleep for long. This, you know.

The two of you lay down on the bed, and this time, she falls asleep. You allow yourself to drift off, knowing that the dose was big enough to have her rest the whole night.

Milk of the Poppy is addictive. It probably is why the Maester hasn’t given her any, but the Queen needs to sleep. A night of good, deep sleep will be enough to get her by a few days.

It feels like only a few minutes after when you jerk awake. Still in the clutches of sleep, you frown, wondering what is wrong. You can feel something is; otherwise you wouldn’t have woken.

You turn on your side and notice the space next to you is empty. Your eyes open. Had someone entered and taken the Queen? You would have thought it impossible once, considering the Red Keep the safest place on earth. But after the death of Prince Jaehaerys….

You sit up and find her on the rocking chair, eyes bright as those of a cat. Her gaze is vacant and she doesn’t reply when you call for her. Alarmed, you shake her shoulder. Has the Milk of the Poppy poisoned her somehow? By the Seven, what had you done?

“There is a beast… Oh. It’s you.” The Queen says, after a few minutes of you frantically trying to get her attention. Her voice is rough, as if waking from a deep sleep. Her hands cradle your face, as if committing your features to memory. “It’s you.”

You do not sleep after that. Neither does she. For some reason, you do not feel tiredness. You are glad to be awake. Queen Helaena’s eyes are all pupils, and she doesn’t look tired either. You need to keep an eye on her.

So you do. The both of you pace the room, sit on the bed, alternate places on the rocking chair. Neither of you sleep.

It is then you realize. There is something wrong with the bed.

The third night, the two of you ask the Maester for a concoction to help you sleep. A herbal tincture is delivered to Helaena’s rooms, and both of you each drink a cup.

Nothing happens at first. The two of you sit, side by side, on the bed. As you wait for sleep to come, tucked under the blankets like overly excited children, the Queen turns to look at you.

Her eyes are wide and unnerving. Tonight, her pupils are normal, and she smells of herbs. You find yourself feeling impossibly shy, her gaze too lucid, too attentive. It feels as if she sees you to your very soul.

“My name is Helaena.” She offers you, after a while. “I would like to use yours, if you allow it too.”

“Of course.” You mutter, softly. And as you look away from her, the strangest thing happens. You see yourself, sitting on the floor and playing with a silver haired boy. You sit up.

The image of yourself ripples. You are now laid on the carpet, and the Queen… Helaena cradles your head on her lap.

You see your mother, sitting on the rocking chair. There is the Queen dowager, kissing Ser Criston.

“What in the Seven..?”

“So you see it too, tonight.” Helaena says, voice dreamy. Her hands come to your shoulders, pressing you back down on the bed. “It is like this for me. Always.”

“What is happening?” You start to panic. You can tell the images around you aren’t real, but more like ghosts. It frightens you. Are they dead? But you just saw yourself. It can’t be that. “What is this?”

“Dreams. Futures. Some of them. Some shall never pass.” You get a glimpse of yourself again, cradling the boy. The Prince, you realize. Prince Jaehaerys. “They are my dreams, and yours too.”

“Oh.” Despite your frustration at not being able to sleep, you find them beautiful. You watch the little princess chase the boy, both playing with a ball. It's peaceful.

The two of you spend the night awake, surrounded by children’s laughter. And if you drift a little closer, no one’s the wiser.

It all seems so peaceful, it doesn’t occur to you of what consequences it might bring. You do not feel your creeping exhaustion, but you begin to look it. There are dark circles under your eyes, your cheeks grow more gaunt.

As you are having breakfast with the Queen dowager and the Queen, it occurs to you that you do not want to eat plain toast. You wish to ask one of them to pass you the small, yellow cube that is laying on top of a plate. Much to your horror, you cannot recall the word for it.

“Could you please pass me the..?” And you point because you cannot name it. It’s yellow, and you use it to spread over the toast, but you do not know its name.

“The…?” The Queen dowager asks.

“The…” You point to it. You spread it over the toast with a knife, you wish to say, but you can’t remember the word. It begins to upset you. A sudden urge to cry out of frustration hits you, making your eyes water.

“Oh, not you too.” The Queen dowager says, annoyed, as Helaena passes you the plate containing it. “What are the two of you doing? Playing a game?”

“What do you mean, my Queen?” You frown. What is she referring to?

“Helaena and you. Is that what you do at night, plan the tricks you will play on us?”

Her statement only serves to confuse you further. You frown.

“You should stop it. If you must, do it during the day, you both look too gaunt for my liking. Honestly, pretending not to know words…”

“Helaena…” The Queen dowager sends you a withering look, so you correct yourself. “The Queen is forgetting words too?”

“Honestly! I have had it with you two, girls. We are at war.” The Queen slams her hands on the table. “It is not the time to be playing tricks.”

She leaves the room, huffing. It is only when she is out of earshot that Helaena speaks:

“I have been missing words too. I think it’s from the lack of sleep.”

“Gods.” You say, cradling your head between your hands. You really need to sleep.

Helaena hums. The two of you start placing small notes on the objects in her room that very night.

“This is the hairbrush.” You read the next morning, flabbergasted. “It serves to brush your hair. Comb it through.”

“Pass it to me.” Helaena replies, taking it from you. “I think it is done like this.”

She passes it through your hair. You wonder how you could forget such a heavenly feeling.

The next and last night is nowhere near as heavenly. Helaena and you hug on the bed, terrified out of your minds. You had tried drinking another herbal concoction. Tonight, Helaena’s dreams weren’t so pleasant.

There were two dragons, one large and dark-colored, and a red one. They were shrieking at each other, and roaring. Spitting out flames. And the two of you could only watch as they set ablaze the room.

“Enough! Enough!” You suddenly jump up, and begin to try to drag a terrified Helaena out of her room. You manage to do so, and you lead her to your room. Both of you settle on the bed, cheeks still wet with tears.

You fall asleep still holding hands.

The next morning, a maid comes and changes the sheets on Helaena’s room. As she shakes the pillows and the mattress, a single pea rolls to the floor and hides underneath the dresser.

#helaena targaryen x you #helaena targaryen x reader #helaena x reader #helaena x you #helaena targaryen #helena targaryen x reader #helaena x oc #helaena the dreamer #hotd fanfic #hotd x reader #hotd helaena #asoif/got #asoif fanfic #asoiaf fanfic #hotd fic #helaena fluff #queen helaena #hotd

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hero-deserves-to-be-happy · 1 year ago

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What Hero's Attempts to Comfort Sunny on the Night of "Two Days Left" Tell Us About His Character

Hi Hero Enthusiasts, let's talk about one of the only times Hero talks about himself and his grief in the entire course of the game...

It is easy to see this as just usual, selfless Hero being in-tune to others' emotions and trying his best to help any way he can. On the surface, Hero appears to be well-adjusted and at a sense of peace with what happened. When he reassures Sunny that Mari "would always want [them] to be happy even if it was without her" thereby encouraging him that it's okay to move forward and find healing, the player of the game believes him. Arguably, even Sunny believes him to a certain degree, but the real question here is: does Hero believe himself?

Let's Discuss Under the Cut...

(Warnings: OMORI spoilers. Heavy themes including death, grief, depression, and guilt).

It really says a lot about Hero that this scene is one of the only moments he talks about himself and his grief in the entire course of OMORI though it makes sense in the context. Being such an empathetic person, Hero could probably fairly easily pick up on the fact that Sunny was thinking about Mari in the piano room in the middle of the night, so, of course, he would start talking about her in attempt to comfort him.

However, it does beg the question: is it deeper than that? Is Hero so quick to put this together because that's what he, himself, was doing in the piano room in the middle of night? If Hero was there to grieve Mari, it would make sense that he so easily jumped to the idea that Sunny was there to grieve her as well, but he immediately stops everything and pushes aside his own grief and his own feelings to try to comfort Sunny.

On that point, it is clear from the context that Hero is only sharing what he thinks will be helpful or comforting. He says "It has been hard for me too" to show empathy, to try to tell Sunny that it's okay that he still misses Mari and that he isn't alone in missing her. He expresses his own complicated feelings surrounding how (he believes) she died, but he ultimately reassures Sunny that Mari would want them all to be happy even in a world without her thereby encouraging him to find healing and to move forward.

There is a painful irony in hearing this from Hero knowing that after losing Mari, he curled in on himself and spiraled into a deep depression that was all-consuming and that the survivor's guilt almost destroyed him. He just shut down and stopped living until eventually, he threw himself in his school and extracurricular activities, always striving to stay too busy to fall apart. Even his choice to pursue a degree in medicine will require years of school with long hours of study and clinicals, then residency, and eventually work itself. As a doctor, Hero can really just hide in his busyness, and that's really all he seems to want anymore.

Though Hero would be the first to wholeheartedly insist to Sunny that Mari would want them to learn to be happy again and that they can find healing and move forward, the truth is that for Hero himself time stopped when Mari died. Life stopped. All of his dreams for the future died with her, and given his survivor's guilt, he honestly thinks that's what he deserves, regardless of what Mari would have wanted for him (but that's a topic for another discussion). For now, to summarize, there is something so lost and listless about Hero in the Real World after Mari's death. He doesn't really know what he wants out of a life without Mari besides not hurting anyone and staying so busy that he just doesn't feel anything anymore.

But despite his best efforts to remain completely numb to it all, that grief and that pain inside of him doesn't go away, and no matter how hard he may try to push it aside, it's still there. He has just locked it away, brushing it under the rug or slamming it behind the door--whatever it takes to be able to function and not drown in it again, because (as the end this scene itself ultimately showcases), Hero is still overwhelmed by it all.

This is reason enough that he doesn't talk about it and doesn't want to talk about it, but arguably another, possibly even bigger reason is that Hero is terrified of being a burden on others. When looking at this situation from the outside, one would think that Hero would have a lot of support and understanding given that so many of his loved ones are also grieving Mari. Everyone grieves differently but there can be a powerful comfort in surrounding oneself with people who also experienced the same loss and who also knew and loved that person. This moment with Sunny could have been an opportunity for Hero and him to really empathize with each other over having lost someone they both loved (albeit in different ways), but Hero would never ever, ever even dream of talking about his grief with Sunny or with Basil, Aubrey, and Kel for that matter. He sees himself as their "Big Brother" and because of that, he feels he constantly has to push aside anything he may be feeling or may want for himself to take care of them. And there is an added problem here that he doesn't feel he has done a very good job of that.

He blames himself not only for Mari's death, but for Kel, Basil, Aubrey, and Sunny's pain as well. Their friend group is fractured--the day's events at the lake have proven that, and in a way, Hero feels like this is his fault. If he hadn't been so depressed and broken himself, he would have been able to help his brother and his friends who have always felt like siblings to him, but he was too weak, too helpless and now they're fighting amongst themselves and miserable.

He feels he has no right to talk about his problems with them, but the truth is, he feels he has no right to talk about his problems with anyone. And this goes back to his one (1) fight with Kel (which, honestly probably deserves its own analysis post one day). Kel was terrified to see Hero spiral into such a dark place and felt like he is losing his brother. When he finally confronted him about it, however, Hero snapped--finally crumbling under the weight of everything that has gone wrong and all the pain he has been carrying around alone. It was, arguably, the one and only time in their lives that the two had ever really fought, and it (most likely) remains one of Hero's greatest regrets. He now lives in fear that his relationship with Kel is permanently and irreparably damaged--that nothing he could say or do and no amount of apologizing could ever erase that distance between them. Hero is terrified that Kel will never really open up to him again and that he'll always feel like he needs to walk around eggshells around him. He is scared that Kel must think he hates him, and he can't bear the thought that it's all his fault and no amount of apologizing will ever make it right.

The whole experience leaves Hero broken and overwhelmingly guilty (even though no one blames him Kel least of all), and while he does come out of the worst of his depression, he is still depressed. He hasn't found healing and closure. All he has really done is gotten better at hiding how miserable he is because he is terrified of ever hurting anyone in the same way he hurt his brother. Vowing to never be responsible for causing pain to his loved ones because of his problems, he buries and represses his emotions and his pain--managing to hide them from everyone but himself.

This is made all the more apparent when, as soon as Sunny leaves, Hero breaks down into tears overwhelmed by his own, repressed grief.

From this incredibly vulnerable moment (arguably Hero's most vulnerable moment in the entire game), it becomes clear to the player that all of the "well-adjustment" and acceptance Hero had been displaying up until this point is, at least to a certain extent, for show.

Hero is not okay. He just wants everyone to think he is.

#omori hero #hero omori #omori sunny #omori #omori analysis #omori meta #hero character analysis #omori spoilers #thanks for reading

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moonieandi · 7 months ago

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snapshots pt. 10 | stanley pines x f!reader

Summary: pictures paint a thousand words, and it’s time you take some of your own

warnings (TW): swearing, discussions of death, grief, familial-loss

tags: mutual-pining, character background, familial bonds

notes: HELLO ALL! I am doing much better and settled into my new apartment :) ive had a rather hectic couple of weeks and it may take me a couple more to really transition into my new space and job so there may be some breaths between updates for now!! Does this chapter reflect some of my own experiences? Of course, it does. Was I always gonna write this chapter? YES- this chapter is a reflective/background for our beautiful reader/doc’! The formulative next chapter is BIG BIG BIG (unless i think something is missing in which it will be thrown into said plot between this ch and the next “formed” one) but okay! I missed u all! Apologies for the lack of actual… well STAN in this ch lol

word count: 4.5k

| masterlist |

Her childhood home’s walls’ were scattered with differing picture frames. If you were to ask her what she remembers most distinctly about her abandoned corn-field house she would recount the countless pictures her grandmother collected and stretched across every inch of the hallways between closed doorways. She’d recount most distinct the presence of her mother, only ever in picture form, and the bearing weight of her grandmother's ire.

Not to say the older woman hated her. No, she constantly breathed everlasting love at her. But when she tilted her head in certain lights her grandmother would remember that she was not actually her daughter. She had existed in the shadow of a dead woman for a long time, in that home. Her grandmother didn't have a waning memory though, only a waning heart. Forget herself in between her blame and love for the young child she was to take care of.

As she grew with age she began to sympathize with her grandmother more and more. To lose a daughter so young, to have to raise the thing that tore her apart. It made her grandmother sick at times, and she didn’t have the heart to fault the woman for open palms and harsh words.

Her grandfather was quite a pillar in her memories though, a lasting good memory of the house and her childhood. He’d come home with dirty hands from fields and fold her into his arms every day, anyway. Some of her favorite memories are shucking corn on the porch with him, the sun cresting over the skyline, and crickets chirping between. She’d talk, and he’d listen. He was a quiet man, a content one, but he also carried a certain grief in his eyes when he’d look at her at times. Something she blamed herself for entirely.

Reasonably she could compartmentalize that the death of her mother was not her fault, even without a therapist. Her mother was young when she fell pregnant with her, still in high school, had just gotten her driver's license. She knew, could reason, that she held no fault in this. In the entire situation. Besides her looks, she blamed herself plenty for that, she blamed herself for not doing more to distance herself from those picture frames.

It’s why her grandmother forgot at times, why her grandfather looked most grieved when the sun set just right over the dinner table. She looked remarkably like her mother, a perfect picture replica in just the right shadows, just the right cadences.

It’s why her grandmother didn’t take down the pictures, truly. Pictures of her mother in her prom dress, of her first and last Christmas under the tree. Of her mother in the backseat of her grandfather's old Buick, of her mother in the golden-crested corn fields just outside their back door. Because there was no point in forgetting because she haunted them every day. Her face was proof enough of that.

She didn’t have any pictures of her own, any hung up anyways. She had the official ones done, of course, the yearbook photos and the prom pictures her friends’ mother took for them. But that’s where it stopped and ended. It was her own secret grief, but wasn’t comparable to the glint in her grandparents' eyes. So it stayed that, a secret.

She dreamed of a simpler life at times. That she was her mother. That the pictures were her own, that her (grand)mother kissed her goodnight, and that her (grand)father didn’t hesitate when he hugged her. Dreamt of a life with her very own lover, dreamt of a life filled with children and apple pie and Christmases at her (grand)parents' house. She dreamed about that fantastical American dream, of wrap-around porches and pastures full of fireflies. But this too stayed a secret, until her junior year of high school.

School came easy to her, and it usually served as a much-needed reprieve from her mirrored hallways. Come five years old she most looked forward to early mornings and car rides with her grandfather. Her caregivers were always drowsy in the morning and forgot themselves in the darkness of early September. Her grandmother would kiss her goodbye, and fold a packed sack lunch into her small hands. Her grandfather would lean in closer, and read blurry newspaper headlines off to her, like she cared to be known and be seen. Soon though, these mornings disappeared, with age.

From the ages of fourteen to almost eighteen years old she did everything and anything to impress them, to distress them, and to upset them. She wanted them to capture her achievements in scrapbooks, and laugh over misadventures she would get into, much like they did with her mother's memory. She figured that’s how one lived, in shadows and stories.

She joined every school club, then quickly quit them. She excelled in writing and sciences alike, and then quickly failed them. She earned enough money to buy her first beat-up car, then quickly veered it into the nearest ditch. She snuck off, broke locks on doors and off windows, ran through fields, and came home late with mayhem in her wake. Prayed that the back porch light would be on, that her grandfather would be back there, on the porch, smoking his cigars. That he’d have that awful look on his brow, that he’d look at her different, speak to her like she wasn’t a shadow, carry a cadence in remembering her name in his anger. She hated when he didn’t remember her the most, even if the memory wasn’t a good one.

For the longest time, her grandfather was her favorite person, even if he stumbled over his words, and misspoke her name at times. It almost didn’t matter as much to her, because he had a predisposition to always apologize, unlike her grandmother.

She could always count on him being on the back porch, during the fall and summer and spring months. He had a favorite wooden chair, no cushion in site. Most would have called him a rather stiff man. Stiff in his gait, stiff in his politics, and he usually had a stiff drink on him. But he was a warmth that she didn’t wish to forget, she was his only granddaughter, the last line of his family.

Her grandfather, while quiet, was an amazing listener, and had a plethora of solid advice to usually dish out most nights. But he was only open for certain hours and seasons, only ever when he was outside and only ever when the sun hung low in the sky.

Most of her actual problems she never had the guts to voice to the stoic man, she mostly spoke of school, of subjects and passing friends and any gossip she could get her hands on. Her grandfather was a nosey man, funnily enough, and enjoyed listening to whatever she could sparse from the school halls that day.

Their topic that night, though, had her grandfather sitting in a longer silence than she was comfortable with, a stiff drink balanced in his left hand. Her grandmother had scolded her during dinner, for not having looked into colleges to attend as of yet. She was in her eleventh year and hadn’t even considered truly attending. She knew a handful of other female students who didn’t even plan to go, she figured she fell into that category also. Figured she’d wind up much like her grandmother was now, doing the dishes while her husband lounged. Something her grandmother claimed she didn’t mind but something she was still having a hard time wrapping her head around.

Truly she did not know what she wanted to do after graduation. It still felt like she had so much time, but in all honestly that illusion was fading. She knew something for sure though, that she didn’t have a desire to go to college. She wouldn’t even know what for, and she wanted to be close to home. Closer to the shadow she lived in and in suffocating hallways. She didn’t know anything else.

Perhaps that’s what her grandmother meant, that she didn’t mind, because she had no mind in it at all. She didn’t know anything else, anything other than this house and her husband and the child that had torn her own apart. It wasn’t a comfort it just was.

She liked routine, despised change, and preferred her adventures in corn and soybean fields. Preferred late nights with friends with windows rolled all the way down in convertible cars, and preferred stiff drinks with her grandfather on the shaded porch. So she would stay. She said as such at the dinner table too, something her grandmother didn’t take too kindly to. Having her (grand)daughter speak back to her.

She didn’t break the quiet tension between them that night on the porch. She’d love to forget what happened over the dinner table entirely. The heat in her grandmother's eyes, the ire behind her twisted words. That she would leave, would seek better for herself out there in the world. Educate herself and move on from this home, from suffocating walls, and from them. That's what she figured her grandmother really meant, that in some twisted way, she wished to be rid of her. Hated living with a mirror of her daughter around every corner. The old woman could take down sun-stained pictures and be rid of the image of her forever, rest peacefully knowing she’s finally pushed her so far away. Fold what was left of her mother into boxes and ship it all away for once.

It made her bitter, at the time. She resented the older woman on and off for years. When she was younger she didn’t understand it all, couldn’t quantify her grandmother's grief, tucked herself into corners, and disappeared into nooks of fields and sheds to distance herself from heated looks. At seventeen it had transformed into an equal distaste. Nothing she did seemed to shape up to the image her caregiver had of her, and she grew tired of attempting to evoke even the slightest of positive emotions from the woman now. The only time she was ever at ease is when she forgets who she even truly is. How was she to pretend to be someone she didn’t even know? She couldn’t even compartmentalize the depth of her own self. She was still a little girl in her mind, still six and begging her grandmother to hang their family portrait that she had drawn on the fridge. She didn’t have it in her to beg anymore and didn’t have it in her to even define who she was.

Looking back at it all, she realized she was never supposed to know. People change all the time, she had changed. It all just depended on who you surrounded yourself with. In that home, in those fields, and on those gravel roads she had no one. No one but a fading grandmother and a tired grandfather, and perhaps it wasn’t even fair to continuously implore that she stay. She wouldn’t be who she is now, wouldn’t recognize herself even now if she hadn’t left. And if her grandfather hadn’t convinced her of such.

Her grandfather broke that tension between them that night. She remembers distinctly his words that he spoke between them that night.

“You can live here sure, but could you die here?” He spoke abruptly, nursing his cup along the wooden edge of his chair.

She scoffed, shaking her head, fixing her eyes to the fields beyond. “Now that’s just dramatic as hell.”

“I’m being serious.” He sips his drink, humming along the rim of his cup. “You can see yourself living here because you do now, but can you see yourself dying here? Would you be happy to die here?”

“What are you even talking about? Happy? To die?” She shifts her eyes back to him, his own eyes glassy.

“Your mother never made it out of here. Never so much as had a life beyond this plot of land. I dreamed of her being free of it one day.” He sighs like it choked his throat and was too heavy on his chest to admit. They didn’t speak of her often, at least not when he was as sober as he was now. “ Happy, out there somewhere.”

“Was mama not happy, grandpa?” She implores, figuring he may be being the most honest he’s ever been in this moment

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Your mother was the brightest thing in the room. But people grow up, get older, and sometimes those bright things die. I wanted her to get out, explore new bright things, things to push off the dying parts of you.”

“So you think I should go?”

“I think one day, when they put people to rest, that the dirt matters. I think you should find new dirt, kiddo.”

She shakes her head, burying it in her palms. She can feel the pent-up tears, feel the shake of her shoulders before it makes its way from her stomach to her lungs. “I’m scared though, pa’.”

“Good.” He hums, a comfort to his deep voice. “Humans are scared of things they don’t yet know. Soon, new dirt won’t be so scary.”

She leaves that discussion on the back porch, and her grandfather does not discuss it again in her presence. He really only needed one conversation to sway her, make her consider. She kept it to herself though, felt too private to consider out loud across dinner tables and porches. She was afraid to admit that it… scared her. The thought of leaving the only thing she’d ever known, leave behind the firefly fields and the four corners of her bedroom. Perhaps she’d even miss the four corners of the picture frames, and the call of her name from the room over.

Her grandfather's health waned that last year of high school. He soon forgot where simple things were. Forgot where the utensils drawer was in the kitchen, and wondered where the lamp in the corner of the living room was when he turned his back. She learned that memories fade in waves and that there are acts and paragraphs and distances between forgetfulness. That when he’d turn and forget to take his shoes off when he got home from the fields it would evolve into him forgetting where their gravel driveway was. That’d he’d forget numbers and words to describe things. That he’d forget soon, how to spell his name, and how to properly hold a pen. That soon he’d forget how to climb the stairs, and then forget how to put one foot in front of the other.

Forgetting who people were always seemed to come last because categorically it was the most painful to forget. She suffered through being called by her mother’s name for months, she never had the strength to correct her wilting grandfather. But watching the man forget his own daughter was different, and she grieved differently for her and her own mother that last month of his life.

After he forgot for good and faded from this plane into the next, it upset her, even more, to watch her grandmother do much of nothing about it. She waited in anticipation, for the rage and denial that came with death. She recounted the stages of them in her head for weeks, but never witnessed her grandmother falter in all that time. It angered her beyond anything she knew up until then. It exploded in her face one day when she came home to her grandmother folding away picture frames into boxes in the living room.

It took her only a moment to find it was exclusively her grandfather’s pictures she’d plucked bare from the walls. Holes were left empty along the living room, nails protruding from the blank white walls behind the many portraits. How could she fold him away into boxes, remove him from walls and from corners of the house, like he wasn’t still here, in every room they passed through?

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Her grandmother turned, her usual quirk in her brow and downturned look in her eyes. “Language, girl.”

“No.” She stomped forward, ripping the frame from her caregiver's grasp. “Why the fuck are you putting him away.”

“Enough.” She scoffed. “I’m not putting him away.” She waves her hands around the living room, to his recliner chair and the lamp he would turn on each night to read his newspaper. Points to his books of sudoku on the coffee table and his empty T.V. dinner tray he’d set his late-night hot coco on. “He’s still here. He’s right here.”

“No.” She pushed back and away from her grandmother. “Why would you put his portraits away? Why would you take them down?”

Her grandmother shakes her head, hands on her hips, a weird look of defeat on her face for once. “I won’t be interrogated about my interior design skills.” She moves around her, back through the open doorway into the kitchen light.

She runs after her, picture gripped in her left hand, her right continuously running over her chest, self-soothing. “No!”

“Yes!” Came her grandmother's reply from her position bent over the kitchen sink, going back to washing sudsy dishes that she left to soak.

“Why?” She begged, stepping closer to her grandmother's back. “Why the pictures? Why the fucking pictures, ma’?”

Her grandmother doesn’t wilt, twisting her head to look back at the girl she had raised, the girl she had raised twice now. “What?”

“You know what I’m talking about ma’ don’t play dumb!” She never would have ever called her matriarch that in her right mind, but the disrespect felt inconsequential in the visage of her anger. “Why the pictures?” She held up the portrait in her left hand, facing it towards her grandmother.

Only then did she melt in front of her, suddenly looking younger than she’d ever remembered her grandmother. Eyes teary and hands soaked from the kitchen sink she reached for the frame, holding it in weathered hands, tracing the portrait with slight fingers.

It struck her, that she could not drum up a memory of her grandmother ever crying in front of her. Her caregiver had always been headstrong, stubborn at her worst, and mellow yet firm at her best. But never a wavered figure. She remembers now, the woman’s age.

It has her moving forward, has her reaching for her grandmother's shoulders for the first time in forever, shuffling the smaller woman to the dinner table. Pulling the chair out and allowing her grandmother to compose herself while sitting at the unset table.

It’s her grandmother that breaks that hanging tension, breathing out around her tears and stuffed nose. Chuckling at the image now held in her hands.

“It rained right after this picture.” She couldn’t stop laughing now, bent over, and holding the image between them. “He took me out for a picnic, set up the stand for the photograph and everything. Then boom, ten minutes later we were caught in a thunderstorm! We were a good mile away from his car.”

It was unlike her meticulous grandfather to not have checked the weather. Something she questioned out loud to her grandmother.

She sighed, a tilt of her head that still spoke of her love for the man that haunted them both now. “He was so nervous that day, he forgot to check. He was going to propose that day, he told me later. Had it all planned out, but then forgot to check the weather.” The first thing he’d ever truly forgotten.

They both laughed, staring back at the framed photo of her grandfather and grandmother sprawled out on a checkered picnic blanket.

She looked back at her grandmother, finding the older woman was already staring back at her. Her frail hand reached out, tucking frazzled hair behind her ear. Moving her hand back over her cheek to her chin, tilted her head up to face the older woman's head on.

“I’m sorry.” A break in her grandmother's voice. “I kept them up because I thought it best. I thought you would want to know her.” To know her mother. “But it was selfish of me. To keep her up on all these walls.” Her thumb was firm on her chin now, tears leaking down her own face now, too. “I didn’t make any room, for you here.”

“I’m not her, ma’.”

She sighs a smile on her face suddenly. “You aren’t my daughter.” Moved her hand back, to cup her cheek again, palm warm against her. “But you are not nothing to me.”

“I know, ma’.” Her grandmother moved, wiping tears from her cheeks.

“But you need your own space now.”

She nods, understanding what her grandmother finally meant. She needed her own walls and space and dirt. She needed to leave, and find her own four corners and hang her own pictures, and she knew her grandmother would help her get there too.

“Do you want it?”

“Huh?” She startles, turning her gaze to Stanley beside her. The camera in front of her was brand new, and a stupid turquoise blue. Turquoise like her mother's bike, in that one picture, hung along the wall right before her grandparents' room. Turquoise still, that bike was, rusty around the chains, when she found it stuffed in the back of one of the many sheds on her grandparents' farm one summer when she was but thirteen. Turquoise, which she loved to hate but secretly adored. Perhaps it was her favorite color, her mother's, that is.

He’s waiting beside her, his arms full of odds and ends he found in the thrift store. Things he would tear apart and resew into new things- weird attractions to entice customers into their homes to pay the bills.

She laughs, struck by his ridiculous tactic of not grabbing a shopping basket in favor of stuffing his broad arms full of odds and ends. Easier to steal, he claimed, when you don’t have a shopping basket.

“Nah.” She lies. “Color just reminded me of something.”

He shrugs, goofily dropping something from his arms. He bends over to pick it up, narrating out loud to get a smile back on her face. Anything but that deep contemplative look on her face and that scrunch in her brow.

“I’m bending over now. Definitely didn’t just spot something on the bottom shelf that I want… definitely didn’t just get that also.” He stands again, shuffling things around in his arms. “That thing may or may not still be on the bottom shelf.”

She laughs, taking some things from his arms and heading up. “Come on, you don’t need much else here. Let's get some dinner already.” Already thinking of the order she’d get at Greasy’s.

They check out without a hitch, mainly because the teen at the register barely looks up from their magazine to take their money. Stan jokes about the potential to have just left the shop with their arms full without having paid a dime.

“They didn’t even look up! We could have just booked it, hun!”

“No, we couldn’t have!” She laughs. “Plus I don’t wanna get some poor kid fired, Stan.”

He huffs, pulling her door open, then putting their bags in the back seat of the car. He doesn’t make another comment until he gets to his own side, sighing slightly in the front seat while pulling something out of his inner coat pocket.

“Now-”

“Stan don’t tell me you took that dumb salt shaker from the bottom shelf for real.”

“No, hun.” He laughs, handing over a flash of turquoise. “Just this.”

She smiles unconsciously, holding the ugly camera in both her hands. Bringing it up to her eye to see out the camera, checking the back of it for the film. She can’t help but tear up, about something as stupid as the potential to finally take her own pictures. Something she forgot about even wanting between everything else. Next, she’d have to get out of the car and roll around this new dirt she found herself on.

His doc’ was a terrible liar. He knew she wanted that camera as soon as she stopped in front of it. She kept passing it in the store, kept wandering back in front of it, but never reached out for it. Just… stared. He didn’t wanna figure on the significance of her fascination (unless she supplied it readily), only wanted to figure how she’d brighten up the room if she had it. So he took it.

It was the best thing he’d ever stolen her. Between her snatched spoons and stolen diner crayons, this felt more significant. More purposeful, more solid between them. He knew she wanted it, so he got it for her. It felt significant, and it made her heart ache for the young girl surrounded by all those pictures that acted as twisted mirrors. He didn’t even know, what it meant to her.

“Thank you, Stanley.” She smiles at him, all bright like he predicted. The edge of a tear along her eye, so he reaches and folds her into his broad shoulder. He grazes his lips along her hairline, humming close to her ear like he knows she enjoyed. Perhaps it was like that thing she did, soothing her hand over her heart and chest. Maybe the warmth of him and the vibration reminded her of four corners and hallways and home. At least he hoped, stupidly.

He brings her back out, reaching over her and buckling her in as she smiles stupidly at him and then back at the camera back in her lap.

“To dinner!” He exclaims, turning the cars’ keys to begin their journey to Greasy’s for their yearly anniversary dinner.

She’d have to get some picture frames, for them.

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