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pendragonfics · 1 year

Text

i’m yours

Paring: Happy Hogan/Reader

Tags: gn reader, no pronouns, working holiday, slice of life, implied sexual content

Summary: Disastrous weather strikes, and Happy and ____________ are snowed in at their place before a Stark convention. Who's to the rescue?

Word Count: 1,067

Current Date: 2023-01-18

To everyone but Tony Stark, hosting the latest expo at a fancy snow village in the north island of Japan was absurd. It took hours of flights, tight squeezes, jetlag, fumbling essential documents and sleep deprivation, but it was over. You stood in the doorway of your cottage for the fortnight, eyelids heavy, sliding suitcase heavier.

“I know you’re dead on your feet, but if you don’t move into the cabin, you’ll let all the hot air out,” Your husband’s voice came from behind you.

He’s right, and the warmth from the wood oven is heavenly. So, you shuffle in and shuck off your snowshoes as Happy dumps his duffle onto the chair by the door. Your hand finds the light switch for the main room, and all at once, you’re blinking, taking in the rustic charm of the place.

“I’m almost afraid to go into the bedroom and find a little girl who ate our porridge,” Happy snarks, eyeing the door beside the kitchenette.

“It’s perfect,” you mumble. “…I’ll unpack in the morning.”

“We could have been here hours ago if we took the jet.”

“Coach is perfectly fine, Happy.” You almost trip on the split-level floor between the entrance and the main room but steady yourself. “The ozone doesn’t….”

“I know, I know,” Happy takes your elbow, and together, you make your way into the bedroom. It’s a queen mattress, smaller than yours at home, but the sheets are a white woven pattern that feels soft against your skin. You strip your bottoms off and crawl under the sheets, otherwise fully dressed. “Don’t you want to take off your –”

“Too tired.”

He makes a noise of ascent as you snuggle into your pillow, and for a second, you hear his footsteps tap away. “Harold…” you murmur. “It’s almost midnight. Lay with me.”

“I’ve got work to do,” he says.

It’s almost sunrise when you feel the bed dip on the other side, and you feel his hands cradle your face gently as he places a kiss beside your nose. You fade back into your dreams, now with the comfort of another within reach.

---

The alarm goes off, but you don’t reach your phone in time to neutralise it. Bright white sunlight streams into the room, and blinking, you remember you’re not in your apartment in southern California. The house is pleasantly warm. You pad into the main room, take the spare blanket from the end of the bed, and make your way to the kitchenette. There’s no kettle, so you start to boil water on the stove for coffee. The view from the window above the sink is gorgeous. No houses are on this side of the building, just deciduous trees full of white and a snow-capped mountain in the distance.

Whoever stocked the cabin before you came is now your favourite person because the fridge has all milk known to humankind and some and a half loaf of pre-cut bread too. The coffee-making process goes well, and soon, two mugs of piping hot joe are in your hands as you make your way back to bed.

“Hmm?” Happy stirs at the smell of his cup on the bedside nightstand. “Oh, you’re a goddamned angel.”

“That’s me,” you smile.

Then the alarm goes off again, automatically snoozed from its previous iteration. As you quiet it, you notice the wall-to-wall notifications from your husband’s boss’s assistant. You pass the phone to Happy, who accepts it mid-gulp.

“Is your phone flat?”

He nods, scrolling through the texts and missed calls. It might be your phone, but it’s Stark Enterprises data, and you’re in no need to learn their trade secrets off their payroll. The lawsuits, let alone, what it would mean for you as an Avenger, would be hell on earth. But it seems Happy is there right now, by the colour of his face. You take his cup from him as he starts to hurry off the bed into the main room to delve into his duffle.

“Honey?”

“The main vendor has pulled out, the workers for the set up are on strike, and to top it all off –” He shouts from the other room, half a leg in his suit pant and hopping to put the other on, “and all this snow has stopped everything!”

“That’s…that’s a lot.” You place the cups on the floor by the bed and start to walk over to him. “Pepper can’t be expecting you to change the weather, Harold.”

“I need to try,” he shoves on his snow boots and swings open the front door. “Sit tight, hon. I need to –” There’s no way he’s leaving the cabin. The snow has drifted onto the porch, rising to his eye level. “Crap.”

You take the phone from him and close the door. It seems you might need to suit up, after all. “Get the laptop and start a video call. I’ll contact Stark.”

He melts a little and kisses your neck. “God, I love it when you’re bossy.”

Soon enough, you have your fellow Avenger on the phone. Stark has a tiny espresso in hand and a pen in the other, taking notes. “You know, I’m glad you’re in my entourage, ___________; what would I do without you?”

“Wither away?” You cock an eyebrow. “I’m yours.”

It takes forty minutes, two more cups of coffee, and payback from a friend of Tony’s friend, but it’s sorted. The main vendor has been replaced and paid handsomely for the short notice, the construction workers have been paid in advance, and Tony has his old Iron suits on autopilot, working with the local council to shovel the snow. Throughout this process, Happy has been pacing the cabin.

“I can send one to your place to get you out from there,” Tony offers.

You shrug. “You can…give me an hour.” You put your coffee down. “I’ve got something I need to do first.” You can see the corner of his lips turn up, words about to come through the video call, but you close the session and the laptop. He was one hell of a cheeky bastard, always trying to get the last word. “Happy? It’s done.”

He approaches the doorway. “My saviour,” he exhales sarcastically, but you know he means it. “How can I ever repay you?”

You cast the laptop aside and beckon him. “We’re on vacation. Let’s enjoy ourselves.”

#happy x reader #happy hogan x reader #happy hogan/reader #marvel x reader #pendragonfics #chaotic--lovely

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pendragonfics · 1 year

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I am relly sorry to keep bothering you with my request but you write victor perfectly, like his character come out directly from the movie origins, so there is another where Victor and his frail had an argument he go away for a bit to drunk on it I assume and then when he returns home he finds Her sleeping on the couch waiting for him then later that same night She sneaks up into his bed because there is a thunderstorm and she is feeling lonely how He will react ?

VERY LATE, SORRY but here is your story!!

contrast | victor creed/reader

#susie pendragon speaks to the void :))#ask tag

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pendragonfics · 1 year

Text

Contrast

Paring: Victor Creed/Reader

Tags: gender neutral reader & GN pronouns, fights, conflict resolution, romantic fluff, triggers: alcohol abuse/alcholism and thunderstorms

Summary: After a tiff with Victor, Reader spends the night on the couch. It isn't until a storm comes over the farmhouse that they realise they need to be closer to him.

Word Count: 2070

Current Date: 2023-01-11

The hissing almost swallows his words beneath the just-pulled beer tab, but you catch it. It’s hard not to, as he barely opens his jaw these days to utter inhuman noises. You stare at Victor and wait for one of you to give way. The argument would not be made if he had listened to you, yet here you are.

His eyes are primal as he looks over the can, piercing your gaze.

“What?” he snaps.

“It’s nothing,” you retort. “If you even care.”

If you had dreamed that perhaps you’d be talking back to the Sabretooth himself a few years ago, you would have thought you were unwise, let alone asking for a shorter life span. Maybe that might be anyone else, but sometimes you could manage it. Not many people were this close to the man. Not many people shared this much with Victor Creed, yet you were still one of those he clashed with, albeit with his claws withdrawn.

“I’m too tired for this shit.” He barks.

“And I’m trying to communicate with a brick wall.” You throw your hands up in exhaustion and push your chair back to rise from the table. “But at least the wall would have something to say for itself!”

“Are you calling me an idiot, __________?” The can finds the table forcefully, making a harsh noise as it connects with the surface.

You can smell the drink wafting from his hot breath, yet you’re not in that proximity to your partner. It’s days like this when the liquor finds him that sets you off. It may wet his lips, but the stench of hops, of the acidic sting of bourbon that takes you back to the years of your childhood, when your lack of autonomy and the adults partaking would result disastrously for you.

“Stop putting words in my mouth!” You ball your fists, squint your eyes, and hold yourself in a tight embrace.

He grunts in response, but you feel your jaw tremor as sobs ricochet from your belly to the room. You can’t see well through the sting of tears, and stumbling backwards, you rush for the door. You’re smart enough to snatch the key fob and click the front door behind you. You don’t hear footsteps following, and you cross the snowy paddock to the detached garage.

Years ago, when you were shorter, younger, and impressionable, you lived under your father's roof. He was newly widowed, and with the agony of sadness that made its way into his heart, he drowned himself in the golden water from bars and bottle shops. You learned to take care of yourself young and distrust the drink. It left your father, a kind, intelligent, loving man, a vacant lot where once a palace stood.

Sometimes he was loud. More often, he was violent.

One night, you ran from him and slipped into a snowbank at the lake near your house. You should have died. Somehow, you breathed the water and stayed dry despite being submerged. A neighbour clearing snow found you the following day, head above the ice and fully clothed, alive.

You stare at the keys and realise you snatched the wrong set. Unless you wished to use the tractor, nestled in the barn until the weather warmed, there would be no radio and heated seating to take your mind off Victor and the plague of memories. It wasn’t unpleasant to sit in the snow, knowing your ability. Just…not something you did for fun.

Your eyes grow heavy after some time, and you do not want to kip in the powder when there’s a warm hearth calling for you inside. At this point, the clear sky ahead shows off the smattering of silvery stars above, like a bejewelled midnight sash draped above. You kick the excess white from your boots before you enter and pause at the bedroom door.

No.

Behind you, there’s still half a log in the fireplace and enough decorative pillows on the sofa. You take a coat from the rack by the door and bunker down for the night.

Sleep takes you like an old friend meeting you for a stroll, and then, you are off.

---

He found himself near his home in the early hours of the night, a window of time when the daylight has not sprung, yet the night is a pale navy, traversable by nocturnal beings like himself. But he is recounting it too soon; yes, there is more to the story than his return. Sometime after the argument, he had fled the scene, shedding his cosy clothes for his white undershirt, and leapt from the screenless window frame to the snow below. It had been the tail end of a long slog at his last post, leaving him hollow and mindless. He had thoughts on Magneto and how his order of operations ran incongruent with his, yet he persisted.

Badly.

Victor took off running like an animal from a cage, yes. Yes! He is out, freed, and enraptured by the thrill of it all. He made for the forest and took to work on an oak’s thick, heather-brown trunk. With every slash of his fingers, he tried to release his anger, yet it left him aching and just as empty as before. Before him, the oak tree, perhaps several decades old, tottered in the breeze, its bark half-slain from his touch.

“Goddamned idiot,” he muttered to himself.

The wind had a bite to it, and only now he felt its sting. Not even his lupine traits could muffle the sensation. Now cold, angry, pissed thoroughly off and dissatisfied with his outburst, Victor stood in the snow, seething.

They had tried talking to him. It was better than he could do on his worst days. They had tried. And he hadn’t listened; worse, he glazed over their words. He stood in the snow-filled forest, thinking about what might have made them so worked up, what he had done to make them feel that way.

And then – it hit him.

He feels a jolt through his arm, energy. It snaps through his cells, poises his muscles, and before he can blink or stop himself, he has withdrawn his fist to dole a solid hit to the oak tree before him. It snaps, and like when a seasoned lumberjack fells a foe, the tree falls backward, away from him.

He exhales sharply, staring at the cracked stump where the tree just stood. It looked as if a bolt of lightning had invaded the wood and snapped its core, albeit without the burn marks, and the storm required to dole the hot, instant punishment. Victor now knows what he must do now. Later, he will take care of this outburst. But first, he must make things right with his partner. As he returns to the farmhouse, he notes the station wagon is under the carport, and the prints of his __________ appear old, buried a little under fresh powder. He makes it inside and sees their boots by the entrance, and then as he moves further in –

You are lying on the couch, wearing yesterday’s clothes beneath a snow coat, head crooked on a throw pillow and awkwardly lolled over the sofa’s surface. The last log of the fire has almost extinguished itself, the light very low in the room.

Victor should feel pity when he sees you. He should always feel it for someone with less skill to take care of themselves in the wilderness than himself, the Sabretooth. Yet now, and every time he sees you, there is something in him that expands in his chest that warms thoughts with a kind of emotion previously foreign to him. Silently, he opens the fireplace and lays kindling with some old newspaper balled up. It catches quickly, and deftly, Victor places a new log atop the smoulder of flames.

He looks to you, now bathed in the red-gold glow of firelight and feels that twinge turn in his stomach. He’ll make it right to you in the morning; he must. You look too peaceful to rouse in the ungodly hours of a Canadian morning. He secures the fireplace door and, with the prowess of a natural predator, sneaks his way past you to the bedroom.

He leaves the door ajar and trades his slacks for sweats, and as soon as his head finds the pillow, sleep finds him.

---

You wake in a sweat, but not from your dream. It was a pleasant dream where you and Vic appeared human and traded niceties over decadent coffees in fancy mugs in an arthouse tea shop. Perhaps that was you in another life, but it was amiable, nothing that could stir you from sleep. Your eyes focus and notice the fire still burning. Or is it a new log? You can’t remember, but the room is warmer than when you went to bed, so perhaps that accounts for the sweat.

A low, guttural reverberation rocks the tiles on the roof above your head. Thunder.

It seems quite a (not) fortuitous twenty-four hours for you as you feel yourself rock again. Alcohol is a standard trigger for those raised around it. Most children grow out of their fear of thunderstorms, but you shake along with the rafters with the noise of the storm above.

It doesn’t matter that you went to sleep angry. It would be best if you buried yourself in the bedsheets, or better, in the crook of Victor’s embrace so there could be no change that the storm could touch your awareness. You leave the coat on the couch and scurry to the bedroom. Usually, when a storm rolled in, you would already be in Victor’s arms. You try your best to make your way to the vacant side of the sheets as quietly as you can, but a loud floorboard beneath your toes leads to the amber-gold eyes of your boyfriend meeting yours.

“Storm,” you say.

“X’s, or the –” he’s interrupted.

Another rumble, rhythmically similar to the previous one. When the silver-haired weather girl was around, her thunder was asymmetrical. Not that you knew, from experience. You weren’t a fighter. Just…a mutant stuck in the middle of the war between Professor X and Magneto.

“C’mere,” his voice is low but a good kind of reverberation that makes you fold like origami into his arms. “You okay, __________?”

You wait for the pace of your heart to slow a little before you respond. You know he can hear it beating, and together, you lay in the embrace, quiet as the storm moves overhead.

“You work so hard for us,” you whisper to him, the words dissipating in the early morning air as soon as you say them. “I shouldn’t fuss when you take liberties with your liquor. But…”

“Shhh, it’s okay. I might not be the brightest bulb, but I remember what you told me.” His shoulders flex: you can feel his biceps behind you tense up as you realise what he’s saying. He remembered. “Don’t give that cretin the time; he deserves all hell for what he did.”

“Vic, you can’t kill my father.” You remind him.

“I want to,” he grits out. “…but besides. I was an asshole about it.” He pauses, and, after a beat, as if the words came from somewhere else, but in the intonation of his voice, you heard the words. “M’sorry, __________.”

Your heart races. Never have you heard those words from him in the years of knowing, dating, and living with Victor Creed. You know how hard it is for him. You had always accepted his condolences in the form of his actions and as the blank air where he intended them to be translated as such. You turn in his embrace and bury your head into his chest. Your arms tighten around him, your legs intertwined with his. He bends his head toward you, and in the dark morning light, as the outskirts of Edmonton are waking, your lips meet.

“I ain’t perfect, __________, but I’m trying.” He says, his breath hot on your cheek. He peppers your face with measured, tiny kisses. You nuzzle into the scruff of his neck as another wave of thunder echoes, this time further away than before.

“Vic,” you tell him, speaking into his neck, where you are positioned, his jaw above your head, “You’re just about perfect to me.”

#Victor Creed/Reader #victor creed x reader #victor creed x oc #sabretooth x reader #X-MEN FANFIC #marvel fanfic #marvel x reader #pendragonfics #chaotic--lovely

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pendragonfics · 2 years

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please do another Happy Hogan/reader fic they’re so good!! could you do one where he’s sorta self conscious and the reader is there and it’s just full of feels and fluff?? :)

OK so it took almost two years, but here's your request, dear nonny!!

hold me close, hold me fast | happy hogan x reader

#susie pendragon speaks to the void :))

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pendragonfics · 2 years

Text

Hold me close, Hold me fast

Paring: Happy Hogan/Reader

Tags: female or male or no gender reader, halloween, halloween costumes, insecurity, domestic fluff

Summary: It's Halloween, and __________ is supposed to be handing candy out with their boyfriend, Happy. So why hasn't he come to join them yet?

Word Count: 1,080

Current Date: 20/10/2022

Picture this: it’s Halloween night (a Monday), and the only trick-or-treaters are the teenagers without curfew and their kid siblings they’re forced to hang out with. Everyone else went out last night, but there’s an unspoken tradition that the 31st of October must be spooky. Nonetheless, you sit on the front verge with a near-empty pail, dressed like the pumpkin-faced man from that viral Halloween meme video. You know, with the original ghostbusters theme in the background. So far, you’ve handed out candy alone, but that’s about to change.

You leave the pail by the bottom step and enter the place. It’s only been seven months since you moved in with Happy, and still, there’s so much to unpack. At least there are a few decorations, including a framed picture of you both in the teacups at a carnival. You can’t see Happy; last you saw him, he was on the couch in his suit and loosened tie, playing a gatcha game on his phone. You lift your pumpkin-faced mask to sit on your head and enter the bedroom.

Good call: the shower is running. The Halloween costume you both picked out is still on the end of his side of the bed, and a trail of clothes leads to the ensuite. Tie, shirt, pants, socks…briefs. He’s left the door open. You stay at the threshold and knock on the door.

“Thought you were going to join me out the front?”

There’s a splutter from the other side of the shower screen. “__________! You scared me.”

“Boo,” you say half-heartedly, “…sorry.” Another pause, “Is everything okay?”

The water shuts off. Silently, Happy makes his way out of the shower, wrapped in a navy towel. He passes you, walking to the side of the bed he sleeps on, the Halloween costume between you both. This pause is so very pregnant that you’re unsure if you’ve overstepped on something. You rack your memory to find a reason for this; timewise, it’s still very early in your relationship.

“It’s been a long day,” he tells you, putting on his underclothes.

“I know; I’ve had one too.”

“How can I say this…” he rubs a hand over his face. “I’m too old for this kind of thing.”

“Are you saying you’re too adult to dress up?” You cross your arms over your chest. If he’s saying he’s too old to play dress up for the benefit of the neighbourhood trick-or-treaters, you wonder what it says about you.

Happy blinks. “No, not –” He sighs. “It came out wrong.” He shakes his head and moves to put on his pyjamas from under his pillow. “…maybe next year, I can do it.”

“Is this about the costume itself?” you ask. “Help me out, Harry; I’m trying my best here.”

He sits on the bed and motions for you to join him. The mattress is soft under your touch, but it’s more soothing to be in Happy’s arms, smelling his soap and shampoo, feeling his unshaved face bristle against your skin. You pull him into your side, and together you lay back against the backboard for a moment of peace.

“I don’t look so good lately, __________.” He mumbles into the space between your shoulder and neck, his breath hot against your skin. “Need to hit the gym more.”

“Oh, Harry,” you pull him in tighter. “That’s why?”

He moves a little, settling into your embrace. “I tried on the pants earlier in the week. They…don’t fit. They do, but not.” You frown but stay quiet. “They’re my size, and they look okay, but when I tried on the outfit, I didn’t feel okay.”

“Then screw the pants,” you say.

He sits up, looking back at you, confused. “What?”

“The pants. Screw them.” You dismount the bed and take the pants from where they sit at the end of the bed. “You don’t have to wear them if they make you feel like crap.”

“But you’re in your costume already,” he remarks.

You shrug and take the mask completely off. “I’m pretty sure that if my boyfriend feels awful, then it’s my right, as his partner, to do what it takes to feel better and to make the best of the situation.” You toss the mask and his pants toward the hamper, where they thud miserably against the side of the basket. “It’s the law.”

“Really, now?” Happy asks, leaning back onto the bedhead.

“Truly.” You retort. “So, get up, get your robe, and we can do something nice for the night. We can rent a movie, bake some sugar cookies….”

“I get to pick the movie,” Happy demands. You know it will be Downtown Abbey as if the poor DVD hasn’t been through enough already. But that’s okay because there’s nothing better than seeing your boyfriend happy.

You faux-bow and throw a wink his way. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

---

Later, you hear a knock on the door. It’s Mr Lee, your neighbour. He’s got an empty pail in his hands and a slight smile on his face.

“I noticed you left your bucket out here, __________, so I took the liberty to hand the candy out for you.”

You take the pail from him. “You’re too kind, Mr Lee,” you tell him. “How’s your arthritis?”

“Oh, you know what this weather does to me,” he shakes his head. “And your Harold?”

You bob your head. “He’s good.”

He nods, “He’s a good man, you know. Everyone knows it but him.” At that, he touches your elbow and makes his way back to his townhouse.

You close the door behind you, latching the lock shut. When you turn around, you see Happy on the couch. The film is paused, and so are your words.

“Mr Lee?” He asks.

“Yeah. Gave me back our pail,” you put it on the couch between the both of you. “And he told me that you’re a good man.” Happy rolls his eyes, but you lean over, place a kiss between his mouth and jaw, and linger near him for a second too long. “What was that for?”

You shrug, “I suppose if you keep feeling like you’re less than I think you are, then I will have to remind you the only way I know how.”

“And?” He asks, “what happens if I realise that I’m more than I think?”

You kiss him slowly, capturing his lips with your own. “I’ll love you, Happy. No matter what.”

#happy x reader #happy hogan x reader #happy hogan/reader #marvel fanfic #marvel x reader #pendragonfics #chaotic--lovely

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pendragonfics · 2 years

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I don't have to explain my absence, but I want to. For a while, I have been fighting some brutal mental health battles, alongside the pandemic stresses, and now my counselling and meds have helped me get to a place where I can feel comfortable enough to get back into fic writing.

I'm currently on a uni break (I've just started my master's degree), and I have a little time to resume writing. I started writing fic when I was a lonely, weird high school kid and since then, I've grown and learned and all that nonsense into who I am.

We have a lovely community here (and on AO3, too!), and it was (clinical professionals and medication), and all of your notifs and kind notes left on fics have helped me through some tough times.

I want to make a regular schedule, but if I don't post for a while, I'm just taking time for myself. My inbox will open when I get through what is in there (it goes back to 2020!), but until then, stay tuned for new stuff.

lots of love,

susie xx

#susie pendragon speaks to the void :))

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pendragonfics · 2 years

Note

I requested part 2 of "Astalda". The story turned out so lovely! I reread it often. If you feel inspired, may I request part 3: Thranduil lulls her to sleep. He helps her wind down for the night, gives her a neck/upper back massage to alleviate pain and tension while singing or humming softly to her in Elvish until she falls asleep. Thank you.

hiiii sorry for taking like a year to fill your request ummmmmmm hope you like it/still want it written! check it out here:

kindness | thranduil/reader

#ask tag #lotr/reader #king thranduil x reader

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pendragonfics · 2 years

Text

kindness

astalda | part one | part two | part three

Paring: Thranduil/Reader

Tags: female reader, the hobbit/the lord of the rings fusion, set post-lord of the rings, tenderness, married fluff, tired,hurt/comfort, romantic fluff, caring Thranduil, Thranduil not being an asshole

Summary: Tired after a month of playing host to diplomatic meetings, a tired _______ is found at her vanity by her husband.

Word Count: 1,028

Current Date: 2022-01-10

The days pass by, only heralded by the shift in stars above. Time was always an illusory fabric, to you. The days of childhood melded into one another as if a string of beads that leads to your current state. What is it, but days upon days, in succession? But sometimes, it is heavy, slow. Surely anyone else would find the departure of their beloved brother, the King of Gondor from Mirkwood to be a heaviness upon their heart. Yet since the end of the diplomacy and fineries surrounding the meeting of the Kings, it is a great pleasure to hear a deafening silence throughout the halls.

Aragorn’s beard had held more silver than ever before, and Arwen scarcely left her rooms, bound by gravity and her husband’s growing fruit. Word was the wastes were healing, with fewer dark sprites and spirits haunting Men, halflings and magical folk alike. That was all you could stomach of the diplomatic talks; the visit was something of a curtesy, in which so the King and Queen of Gondor could physically spread their tithings with all kingdoms who wished. There was far too much technicality in their talks, and by the second hour, you had found an excuse to spend time in a courtyard, to sit in the sunshine with Arwen.

In all honesty, you were somewhat glad for the peace. During the month, you felt the touch of your husband stray farther from his attention, and alone and unsure, you contemplated upon how this was your life now. Only a few years ago had you waded in mud, struck down enemies with your blade and spoke as filthily as your comrades.

A far cry from your past, you sit before a vanity, observing yourself.

In the candlelight, you wonder if the shine in your hair may be a sign of age. Perhaps your face shows it, too. In all your years of marriage with your King, you had never seen him any different, apart from his heavy-lidded eyes at dawn. Yet you are to tarnish as Time, the cruel mistress of Middle Earth undoubtedly will snatch your mirth and beauty.

“The hour is late, astalda.”

You feel Thranduil’s touch before noticing his appearance behind you. His long fingers curl along your shoulders. It is as if his body is intuitive to yours; as soon as you feel his presence, you feel that tainted sensation of despair leave.

“Why did you accept me, as your Queen?” You turn, meeting his eyes. “Men live and die in mere breaths compared to Elves.”

He shakes his head. “I cannot say,” he replies.

“Do,” you prompt.

Thranduil takes a seat at your vanity, his hands cradling your head to his chest. He is warm, you are cool. He smells of snuffed candles and sandalwood, and you of linen and wine. Yet those scents blend, and in his presence, you cannot decipher the difference of your bodies, where he ends and you begin. Maybe that is the hour, or from the cups that you had consumed after your meal. Maybe it is your heart, holding dearly to his words, every flowery word Thranduil had ever uttered to make you fall under the trance of his love.

Whatever it is, you do not dare stray from it and you stay in his arms.

“Perhaps, despite our differences, I believed in the tales. Your bloodline is woven with more than Mankind, astalda. Even if our time is fleeting, we shall remain bound throughout all time.”

You look into his eyes, to search for further proof. But your King is not a roll of parchment, and he cannot be read as such.

“I suppose I must take your word for it?” you wonder.

“As we all must do,” he replies. He exhales and withdraws from your proximity. “Come now, my Queen.”

You follow his lead, eyes heavy as the night sky upon all sunlight in the world. You trust his movements, walking in tandem to the shared matrimonial bed. You feel its plush cushion beneath your fingertips as your chemise slips from your arms. Carefully, you feel Thranduil’s touch as he unwinds your shift from your underclothes. His hands are deft, and though the light is low in your shared chambers, you know your husband will be careful, will be kind with you.

“You are tense,” he comments.

“Aging will do that to anyone,” you mumble.

There is a hum of disagreement. “Stress will do that to anyone,” he remarks. “Come. Sit, and I shall relieve your pain.”

His fingers get to work, your muscles unlocking and moving by his movement above your skin. You frown. “This is no work for the King of this forest,” you tell him. “Just…tomorrow. I will ask an attendant.”

“Nonsense,” he says. “This is the work required for a husband to his wife.”

You slip into a daydream, lucidly picturing the towns in which you lived as a child. You see your brother, and his friends, and all the people who had aided you both in the quests that brought you to where you presently are. Every tavern owner, every stead, every friend, all those who had fallen in battle or survived the ordeal. Their faces pass by idly, yet at a pace too quick to note otherwise. They speak to you, a kind tone, the same tone. You cannot understand at first until you do. They are singing in an Elven tongue.

“All the forest creatures, in their woodland homes, life is as features, listening to their crones. Word of love and comfort, the universe all about, their feelings are to assert, as all are devout.”

The song ends, and you are faced with your husband, the King of Mirkwood, your Thranduil. Except, you are not swaying to sleep to his elven melodies, but looking upon him, as he looks upon you. He places a kiss on your forehead, then your nose. He pauses.

“I love you, astalda.”

He kisses your lips, soft as ever. As he parts, you whisper, your breath hot upon his cheeks, as you feel yourself becoming under the influence of sleep itself, “And I you, my King.”

#Thranduil #thranduil oropherion #thranduil x reader #thranduil/reader #lotr fanfic #lotr x reader #lotr/reader #the hobbit x reader #chaotic--lovely #pendragonfics #Female reader

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pendragonfics · 3 years

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Could do you a Mycroft x fem!reader? Angst with a happy ending. Mycroft lied about something that brought him and reader together. Reader finds out about it and gets upset wondering if there was anything else or if any of it was real.

i hope you like Scrabble, nonny! ♥️

just another triple word score | Mycroft Holmes/reader

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pendragonfics · 3 years

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Just Another Triple Word Score

Paring: Mycroft Holmes/Reader

Tags: gender neutral reader, they/them pronouns for reader, Sherlock being Sherlock, meet-cute, Scrabble, board games, secret relationship, Mycroft Holmes has feelings, purple prose, whump, angst and hurt/Comfort

Summary: Mycroft meets you, remarking that he's a dab hand at Scrabble. Game on?

Word Count: 1883

Current Date: 2021-02-25

It was three years ago, roughly. One of those days that came so rarely often, when the people of London had unsuspicious deaths and didn’t require as many autopsies, you and your co-worker Molly would find the time to play a game of Scrabble. It wasn’t a pretentious game, nor was it simply for the sake of fun. Nope. Neither you nor Molly was quite so good with your words when it came to the application of it in daily life. However, while translated into the tiles, those plastic faux-marble pieces that spelt out various dictionary approved words, both of you were practically highbrow.

It was good while it lasted, however. It was a particularly un-busy day – for the pair of you – and somewhat of a thrilling one for the outsiders. As always, pushing through the doors alike something stumbling in from the elements came Sherlock Holmes. The man was tall, with a pointed nose and narrow eyes, curled hair tossed about, and his coat-tails flying with every stride. With less of an entrance followed his friend, the shorter and humbler John Watson. While he was shorter than Holmes, the man, like any other, was prone to outbursts of pride. But none would compare to those of Holmes.

Oh. Today’s guests had brought a plus one along.

You had only heard of the man, but all signs pointed toward the newcomer being the eldest Holmes sibling. Dark auburn hair, thinning. Round face, narrow eyes and pointed nose, however, those features pointed not up but down. And from where he stood, that directed his gaze toward you.

“Molly!” Sherlock thundered, turning to your co-worker. “I’m looking for a man. Caucasian, blonde, medium build. A tattoo on his buttocks. Oh, and he’s dead.”

While she came to life following the instructions at hand, you stood to attention, to face the remaining men loitering before you. While Mr Watson had spared a polite smile before attending to his well-worn reporter’s notebook, the other man remained as he had. Quickly, you pushed the tiles to the centre of the board and awkwardly began to funnel them into the plastic sleeve they lived in.

“It’s excellent to see that the coroners of London continue the noble work that the city requires them for,” Mycroft Holmes spoke up.

You raised an eyebrow, meeting his gaze. It would have appeared like you were an actor in a Bond movie. If you were, it would have seemed like something lithe or somewhat sexy, but there wasn’t anything much sexy to shoving the Scrabble paraphernalia beneath the bench.

“I can hear the sarcasm in your voice, you know.” You retort, dusting off your white coat. “And even if you’re who Molly says you are, you can’t just come in here and insult us.”

“I apologise for this misunderstanding,” he stepped opposite you, on the other side of the bench. “My words were not intended as insults…I happen to think highly of those who can do such work as yourself and Ms Hooper.”

From the other side of the room, you heard a loud squelch, followed by a yelp.

“A-ha!” Sherlock exhaled. “The missing USB!”

“I suppose we’re off, then?” John called to Sherlock.

The other man grunted in affirmation. The other Holmes – the one with the rounded edges and sharp eyes, not the public figure which current held a USB device that had been encased in decaying flesh not five minutes ago – curiously held your gaze. You sized him up, once more. However, this time when you gazed upon him, you tried to look further in, like he and his brother often did. He looked tired and a little damp from the weather.

“Perhaps I can make it up to you?” he inquired, leaning upon the curvature of his umbrella’s woodwork. “I’ve been told I’m rather good at Scrabble.”

“Are you boasting, Mr Holmes?” you pressed.

He raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps coffee first, then?”

You felt a smile take over your face despite the prior feelings against the man. “You know how to contact me.” You glanced at the striding Sherlock and John and gave the trio a small wave for their goodbyes. “Good day, Mr Holmes.”

He nodded your way in return and tucked his umbrella beneath his shoulder. “Yes,” he agreed. “A good day indeed.”

---

In another time, much after the incident at the morgue, things had changed. Well, not all the way that one would imagine. England was still England, however, now separated from the entirety of Europe. The train that you took to work was the same, with the same graffiti on the side and gum stuck under the chair seats.

John Watson had gotten married to a lovely lady named Mary, and they were expecting a baby. Sherlock had had an affair with a threat to national security, as well as the usual substance abuse. Molly had moved on with her affections and taken to her latest hobby, knitting sweaters for premature babies in the hospital.

And you? Well. Despite the fanciful nature of it all, life was the same as ever. Yes, they had changed, but…it was the same, wasn’t it? You took the same train, used the same hair product, and though the fashioned had evolved, wore the same sort of clothes. The only difference was, really, was the boyfriend.

It was three years after the meeting. Four, if you count the fact you had met before he had properly noticed you when you had been at the same gala – something posh, a charity ball celebrating NHS workers and their dedication to society or something. But three. And despite all that time, there wasn’t much of a change between yourself and the handsome Mycroft Holmes. He visited your apartment whenever he had the time, with Anthea waiting with the car during any dalliances between yourselves. You had been to his penthouse twice, but that was after perhaps too much insistence on your behalf. There had been stolen kisses in hallways and many months between meetings and sometimes FaceTime dates that felt more morose than memorable.

But today, you sat on the shut lid of the toilet, your phone pressed close to your chest. The fading light from the window above the lavatory shed its dismal shade upon you, and you felt just as small as it. With every second passing, you felt more and more of your chest heave with the heaviness. Biting your lip, you held back a sob and leant against the wall.

“Darling,” Mycroft spoke through the door. “Please come out.”

You sniffled in retort, deigning him with no response. You remembered what he had said that day; it was something of a meet-cute. But now it was something horrible. What a bad first encounter. What a sham.

“_________...”

You heard a small thud. If you weren’t so devastated, you would imagine that Mycroft, as defeated as you are, had pressed his forehead to the wood in anguish. His tie would be pulled loose, the crisp white business shirt growing more and more dishevelled as he conformed less to proper posture.

“I don’t care if you have to pee,” you shake your head, clutching yourself just that little bit tighter, “I’m staying in here all night.”

“_________ – I don’t need the loo.” Mycroft remarked, and then, softer, he said, “it wasn’t like it was a complete fib.”

You felt your pulse quicken, a rush of heat rising to your face. You can’t help but remember the words he had said to you, the day you met; I’ve been told I’m rather good at Scrabble. “Oh-ho, but it was a fib!” you retort hotly. You jump from your perch upon the toilet lid and jab at the door between the pair of you with your index finger. “Before tonight, you’d never played Scrabble!”

There was a silence between the both of you. It was a thin door, the door that shielded the rest of your dingy apartment from the lavatory, but now, it felt like it was the thickest thing you had ever come across. Well, apart from the lie that Mycroft had kept for years.

“What else is there that’s a lie, Mycroft? Or is that even your real name?”

“_________,” he pleads.

There is a pause, a long, drawn-out, very much pregnant pause, which makes your heart shatter. A tear falls, but you wipe it aside, invested in the silence that speaks so sonorously. Then,

“My name is Mycroft. I’m the eldest in my family, and I work in the government. I like watching the rain roll over the countryside with a cup of tea, and I’ve always wanted a dog of my own but can’t care for one. And” his voice trembles at that word; a shaky exhale follows, as does the remainder of his confessionary words. “I’ve never had anyone to play Scrabble with – the truth is, growing up it was just for Mother and Father. And not a game for myself and Sherlock. I’m sorry I lied, it snowballed – and I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Shakily, you place your phone into your pants pocket and exhale. There is another silence, this time, it is reigned by you. With every passing second, you can almost feel its grip tighter at your boyfriend’s heart. Slowly, you work at the lock beneath the doorknob, but find it sticky, not budging with your ministration.

“I see,” Mycroft says, tone flat. “I was perfectly reasonable –,”

You grasp for the knob, and with a wrenching motion that’s sure to involve the landlord in the next inspection, you fling the door open. He stands before you and looks the same as ever. But to your eyes, you can decipher it; he has changed too; Mycroft’s hair is messed, and there are bags below his eyes, and his lips are downturned brow set.

You reach for your boyfriend’s frame, the words tumbling from your lips. “No-no-no-no-no-no-no,” you protest. You throw yourself onto him and bury your head into his scent. He’s in his pyjamas, the second-string pair for when the pinstripes are in the laundry basket. The pair of you stand there, in each other’s arms, and breathless, you continue, “The lock – stuck – don’t –,”

You withdraw, looking to his dark eyes. “Don’t leave me over a silly Scrabble game.”

A small, wan smile tugs at the corner of his thin lips. “My dear _________...” he shakes his head and places a kiss upon your forehead. He lingers there, his breath warm against your skin. “I could never leave you. Especially not over a board game.”

A chuckle erupts from your chest at the remark. It’s incredibly mundane, the argument you just waged war over, but it was yours. A rare, vulnerable moment shared between two individuals who mightn’t ever have met if not for their mutual annoyance and his blogging best friend. At the thought of Sherlock, you withdraw from the proximity between yourself and Mycroft and look to him aghast.

“Let’s not tell Sherlock?” You ask Mycroft. If he got onto the idea of the pair of your domestic bliss…oh, the pain that would ensue!

He nods in agreement, looking quite austere despite being donned in a tee-shirt slapped with the likeness of the father of a children’s cartoon pig. “Agreed.”

#Mycroft Holmes #mycroft #mycroft x reader #mycroft holmes x reader #mycroft/reader #bbc sherlock #bbc sherlock fanfic #sherlock x reader #chaotic--lovely #pendragonfics #gender neutral reader

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pendragonfics · 3 years

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Hi I absolutely adore your writing! I was wondering if you could do a Jon Snow x female reader fic. They are in highschool and have been friends for the longest time, but they both share secret feelings for each other. People always tease them until one day their friends finally push them together? Just an idea I had!!

omg tysm nonny!! here’s your fic, as you requested!

us against the world | Jon Snow/Reader

#susie pendragon speaks to the void :))#ask tag

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pendragonfics · 3 years

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us against the world

Paring: Jon Snow/Reader

Tags: gender unspecified reader (could be read as neutral; female or male), alternate universe - high school, alternate universe - modern: no powers, not actually unrequited love, crushes, first kiss, fluff without plot

Summary: Apparently, the whole school knew about the massive crush Jon Snow had on you before you did. The kicker? He's your best friend.

Word Count: 1,652

Current Date: 2021-02-11

It was around mid-afternoon when you realised that you were in love with your best friend. There had never been any reason to not call it friendship. He and you would be inseparable. If he got detention, so did you. When you watched every lacrosse practice, he never missed a violin recital of yours. He considered your Mom his own, and you practically lived at his house, play-fought his siblings, and slept on their couch more than your own bed.

So when this morning, when Jon didn’t show for homeroom? It took much longer than the initial half an hour roll call and daily announcements for the realisation to sink in. Mr Targaryen — while somewhat crazy for his age — didn’t mind your lack of attention. He droned on about the new parking rules and something about a charity event.

But your thoughts were only on Jon.

He had never been absent before. The only sick day he’d ever had was that winter when everyone in his house got chickenpox. Or the time he drank the expired milk instead of Samwell to stand up to the bullies (it hadn’t worked. Food poisoning isn’t a remedy to schoolyard oppressors). So when his name — Snow, Jon — had come and gone without remark, it weighed heavy on your mind.

Across the classroom, you watched as Joffrey flirted clumsily toward Missandei, who seemed more interested in carving her initials into her desk. It was then, looking at the ill-fated match made in first-period math, your mind flickered back to Jon.

And how every time he showed off, you smiled. How every time you passed a note, he pocketed it. How if you weren’t in a class together, the whole ordeal of it all would stretch on too long, and you’d feel so much better when you next laid eyes on each other. It was as if he was the question, and you were the answer, or you were the chooser, and he was the choice. As no matter what, he came to the forefront of your mind. Whether it was in school or out, at your group’s weekly Dungeons and Dragons night or the ice skating pond near the grocers, no place was complete without Jon.

The bell released you all, and Mr Targaryen resigned himself to his desk, and you all piled out and into the halls. Your usual quips and remarks are held in your mouth, as there is no partner in crime to utter them to. Until, of course, someone knocks into you; sending you and your books across the way.

Theon Greyjoy was no joy at all. The guy could take the happiness out of anything, and he prided himself on it in a sick way that made anyone wonder if he got off on it. A sneer crossed his face as he stared down at you.

“Well?” He prompted lazily. “Where’s your goth to protect you?”

“Go away, Theon.”

“Oh, are you sad? What’re you gonna do? Cry?” He taunted.

You gathered your things quietly, ignoring him despite his proximity. However, just because he was out of sight, it didn’t mean that he was no longer in existence. Books in hand and still crouching, you feel his off-brand sneaker connect with your ribs.

“Oi! Fuck off, you snake,” a familiar voice intoned. Looking up, Arya stood above you, her fists balled, and teeth bared. “Or I’ll smack you over my skateboard like the creep you are.”

“Ooh," he sneered, "you’ll like that, wouldn’t you.”

You stood up at the same time her punch landed. Theon recoiled; his nose was at an odd angle. “What are you gonna do, cry?” She parroted back. Arya puffed her chest out, stepping toward him. Intimidated, Theon grasped at his nose and ran off.

“He’s gonna tattle.” You groaned. Though your books were in hand, you cradled your side. That was gonna leave a mark. “You shouldn’t have done that, Ari…”

“Well, snitches get stitches,” she announced. Starting to walk down the hall, she navigated expertly through the swathes of students as a creature in their element would. “I’m sure you’d do the same for me if Mrs Mordane accused me of cheating in Spanish, wouldn’t you?”

“You’re right…” you trailed off. Blinking, you snapped back to focus and looked to her. “Hey, Arya? Is Jon okay?”

She frowned, stopping mid-step. “You mean in the head? Or in the looks department?” Arya winced. “Y’know, the jury’s still out on both.”

“No, I mean like, is he sick?” You ask, hurriedly. Some part of you feels ashamed for asking so pointedly. Another feels righteous, wanting answers. “I mean, he seemed fine when we talked on the phone yesterday…it’s just, Jon never misses homeroom.”

“Maybe…he poked his eye out with his guyliner and Rob had to drive him to the ER?” Arya shrugged, entering the classroom behind her. “See ya!”

----

By the time fourth-period art rolled around, you felt somewhat disparaged. Apart from the fact that your phone battery was dead from checking your last texts so often, there was no word from anyone in your social circle about Jon. Even Samwell was as worried as you were, and if that meant anything, your worries were valid. But as with everything in art class, the bad energy was left at the door, and inside, you began to sketch out the line art on your freshly primed canvas.

“Don’t look now, but I’m pretty sure ____________’s gonna paint their boyfriend.”

You looked to the voice. Really, of all people? It was none other than Renly Baratheon. You had tried to befriend him in middle school, but it didn't work out. When became King of the rumour mill, it was hard to find peace in his company. He sat beside his friends, bedazzled as always, with his holier than thou expression that made you so very mad.

You looked to the sketch on your canvas. An oval face, chin-length hair. Morose expression, bushy eyebrows, and baggy clothes. Jon. But by the time you looked up, ready to defend yourself, you noted that Cersi had swooped in to bully him. Such luck couldn’t be bottled, but then again…you hadn’t denied the statement.

At the next table, Margaery laughed softly. You noticed that her project, a clay vase, looked somewhat like something the teacher would discourage the boys from crafting.

“What’s so funny?” You asked, innocently.

“Oh…” she moulded at the mound she had pinched into existence, “it’s almost like you’re the last to know.”

“Look, I’ve already seen that video Daenerys shared.”

“Oh God no —,” she gave a quasi-yelp, too low for the teacher to hear over the general hubbub, “I’m not talking about that scandal.” She shook her head, “See, ____________, I’ll be kind about it, since nobody else will be. It’s clear as day that you’re into that emo Jon Snow.”

“He’s my friend.” You bit back. Quietly, you added, “He’s punk, not emo.”

“Yeah?” She cocked a perfectly plucked eyebrow in amusement. “Well if we’re telling lies, then I’m a virgin.”

Exasperated, you focus back on your desk. But before you is your canvas, the sketch of Jon’s face, and it makes your face heat beneath the skin with a cocktail of embarrassment and shame.

Under your breath, you ask, barely looking to Margaery, “…does everyone know?”

“Oh, just about everyone…except him. If I know anything about boys — and trust me, I do — that boy likes you.”

----

You had never been so glad to get off the bus, but then again, no other days in your life had been so strife-filled as this one. You follow the Stark siblings home. It’s the same as usual. Sansa pushes Bran’s chair, and Arya as she kicks rocks at cars. You’re almost past their front yard when you realise they’ve stopped walking, and you nearly collide with Sansa’s back.

“What is it?” You ask. “What’s —”

It’s then you see. Spelt out on the front lawn of your family’s house with white garden rocks is a message. It’s hard to decipher since it's so big, but you frown, concentrating on it. WILL YOU GO TO…

You furrow your brow, looking to the Stark siblings. Bran shrugs. But the only answer you receive, upon walking closer to the misspelled word (when had it ever been spelled DARNCE??), you see him leaning against the inside of your parents’ front doorframe. He’s wearing a nicer black tee than usual, and his jeans have fewer holes, but he still looks as cool as ever. In Jon’s hands, there’s a single flower — that you suspect was picked from across the road’s garden — and he holds it out to you.

“What are you doing?” You ask, eyes wide. “I — Jon, what are you —?”

He pushes off the door, walking toward you down the path. He kicks one of the rocks from the misspelled word on accident, the stone tottering toward the mailbox. “____________, I’ve known you since we were both in diapers and watched Rugrats reruns. We’ve been good friends for years and years and it’s taken me so long to realise it but I know what it is I am to you. You’re the best part of any day. Hands down. It’s been years, but you’re more than a friend to me.”

“Stop being so corny,” you whine.

“____________, I like you more than anyone or anything. More than —”

You close the distance between the pair of you. In the motion, you knock the flower from his grasp, nearly bowl the boy over, but finally, after too many years and too many confusing thoughts and feelings, you do it.

“Gross,” Bran mutters, near the gate.

Jon breaks from the kiss. “I — you like me back?” He looks bewildered.

You nod, and peck him on the cheek before picking the lost flower up, and continuing on toward the front door. “Of course I do, dummy.”

#jon snow/reader #jon snow #jon snow fanfiction #jon snow x reader #game of thrones fanfiction #got fanfiction #jon got x reader #pendragonfics #chaotic--lovely #gender neutral reader

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pendragonfics · 3 years

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Hey! I nearly read all of your fics on Wattpad and I loved them so much. So I wanted to ask if you still take requests and if so, maybe I could request one with Bones from Star Trek. I'm not really good at storyline, but maybe one where the reader is a member of the Enterprise crew and gets send on an away mission and comes back injured and Bones has to help her quickly. Something like that. Thanks anyways :)

here you go, nonny!

patch | leonard mccoy/reader

#susie pendragon speaks to the void :))#ask tag

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pendragonfics · 3 years

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Patch

Paring: Leonard McCoy/Reader

Tags: no gender for reader, no name for reader, no pronouns for reader, post Star Trek Beyond, protective Leonard "Bones" McCoy, fights, missions, angst and hurt/comfort, resolution, fluff, medical, injury recovery

Summary: Reader and Leonard have an argument over Reader's attendance on an away mission. But when Reader returns injured, will all be resolved?

Word Count: 1,566

Current Date: 2021-01-19

According to the statistics, it was improbable that your return to the USS Enterprise would be on a hover stretcher. There was a truth to it, and it showed in the data. Sometimes, casual dating was a fun exercise in romantic growth with others. However, when casually dating Leonard 'Bones' McCoy, CMO of the ship and resident grump, it wasn’t easy. You were a hands-on learner! A xeno-geographer worked better in the field.

Despite your inclinations, the data showed a different story. Crew admitted to Medbay worked largely in security and on away teams. An overwhelming percentage of those wore a red uniform. The statistics reduced for casualties for sciences blue, and lesser so with gold. The statistics had abated your worries. But despite the numbers, Leonard was not having it. It had been a passing conversation over replicator coffee. Five minutes before departing for the alpha shift, he had downed his black, no sugar and no cream, and gave you a most definite no you had ever heard.

“I won’t condone it,” he said, gathering his holo-pad. “Look - I’m not calling you a bad officer! You’re damn fine at your job.”

“Is that why you’re acting my father instead of partner?” You retorted hotly. Something about his obstinance reacted unfavourably with you, “You’re not my keeper.”

He blinked, and slowly, placed his mug upon the table. “My apologies, Darlin’,” He said, in a low voice. “…that I am not.”

It was then he walked away. The rest of the morning was a whirlwind of preparations, and without a moment to think of Leonard, it quickly became pushed to the back of your mind.

The away mission was simple. The people were a previously uncontacted civilisation on the northern hemisphere of a Federation planet. The southern populace had been contacted some years ago. However, the mission was to observe and document its cultural landmarks and social evolution.

Come the arrival, however, your nerves got the better of you.

You felt like your head was getting the better of you. All the unspoken words you wished you had said to Leonard at the forefront, not your job. While the rest of the team made their way to the outskirts of the citadel, you fell behind.

Had that been your first fight as a couple? What if you never saw each other again? What if that was the last thing you ever said to him?

That was how you did not see the trap in time. Up you went, the rope snagged around your leg, hoisting yourself into the air. The crackle of your comms buzzed, but it fell out, and no communication was received. The other members of the party turned at the commotion, coming to help you.

"I said to look out for that," a security officer muttered, lowering you from the uncomfortable hoist. "Now we sprung the trap, the people are sure to know we are here."

"Are you hurt?" one of the others asked.

Before you could find the words, however, you heard it. The distinctive twang! of a string-based weapon. Despite your vast knowledge of the weaponry used in evolving alien civilisations, that alone did not save you. Because as soon as you heard the release, the projectile was coming for you. And as fast as you were, there was no way to dodge it.

You blinked.

A flash of blinding pain erupted from your shoulder as an arrow-like object embedded itself within your flesh. The words were lost in your throat, but holding them in, a reactionary gurgle of agony escaped.

The security officer shouted something into his comms. The away team scrambled. Someone pulled you from the path, but not before the twang! and release of more projectiles was heard again.

You hadn't been shot before, but now you had. The voices around you seemed to fade out of volume, though they were nearby. Your head swam with confusion and fear. All of those aside, it was the sensation of beaming on board that brought you back to lucidity.

All you could think of was not on the primitive projectile jutting from your shoulder. Not the hazy fog that filled your thoughts, like a slow poison. It was with your boyfriend.

"Get them to Medbay! We need help!" someone called for help.

Despite the lucidity, you felt a prisoner in your body as they helped you onto a stretcher. Carried toward the Medbay, you tried to parse your thoughts into a coherence, but it was no use. The faces of those around you were blurry, some doubling. Their voices faded in and out, and slowly, you felt less and less control of your limbs.

Upon arrival into the Medbay, the white light overwhelmed you. If you weren't already having trouble comprehending the world around you, the commotion in the Medbay brought vertigo-like nausea to you. Despite your understanding of your surroundings being hard to pay attention to, you knew the blurry silhouette at the end of the stretcher. The appearance of the CMO was something that would've been comforting to some. Despite having little control over your body, you try to move from his sight, lamely shifting away to evade his gaze.

“What are you waiting for, divine intervention?" his voice cut in. "I need a bed for the patient, stat.”

You tried to roll the stretcher once more, but your already turning stomach turned some more at the movement. Your shoulder burst into another wave of pain. A gentle touch upon your collar stopped your movement. You didn't need to open your eyes to know whose hand it was. You were well versed with those hands. You knew the good and kind work those hands performed, the love and tenderness behind his touch. But you also knew what those hands had done in the seconds before you parted.

Tears pricked at your eyes, but they weren't for the pain. No. The fading rush of adrenaline somewhat helped with that. The tears were for a different pain.

"It'll be okay Darlin', you'll be okay." He says, voice low, hurridly. You felt his hand upon your cheek, cupping it. "You have to be."

Soon after that, all the noises of the Medbay blended into one. A prick of a Hypospray led to a loss of sensation in your arm. Then torso. And slowly after that, a loss of awareness. But as your eyes fluttered to a close, some part of you fighting the anaesthesia, you caught sight of him. He stood at the end of the cot, a chart in hand, speaking with a nurse.

As the world faded from view, you felt his name on your lips.

---

When you next opened your eyes, there was no denying the throbbing pain. Slowly beneath the bedsheets, you tested the muscles in your body, moving them slightly. Your fingers moved on command, toes too. As you shifted your arm, you realised that the projectile you had taken a hit with had been removed. Glancing up, everything in sight was as it should be, no doubled vision. The screen beside you that housed your vitals seemed to wake up with you. It hummed a similar tone to that of your heart; a soft ba-dum, ba-dum.

It wasn't long before a nurse arrived. But as quick as they came, another person appeared. But he was no nurse.

Leonard looked as tired as they came. His bags under the eyes were dark, his skin sallow, his dark hazel eyes somewhat vacant. You had no idea how long you had been under; it could only have been one day, right? But Leonard looked haggard. The previously sexy stubble of five o'clock shadow looked dishevelled, unkempt.

"I didn't mean what I said," you blurt, trying and failing to sit up. Silently, Leonard came to your side, helping you do so. The bed, adjusting into a seating position, whirred to life. "I was just frustrated. I love you."

"I love you too," he replied softly. "But there was truth to your words."

You watch as he takes a seat at the bedside, his hands lingering at the edge, not moving to hold yours. "You're nothing like my father, Len." You reassured him.

"I know." He says. "...but I was being your keeper. You're a free spirit; you deserve to be unfettered. Free to do what you want - free to do what your job needs."

"I'm not a pigeon that flew inside a public building, Leonard," you hum. "I'm a person."

He wipes a hand over his face. "A hell of a person, at that." He says, quietly. "In truth...you reminded me of her. My ex-wife. Elinor. She was always stubborn, that's why we got hitched, and why we fell apart. But with you..." You reach for his hand, interlacing his fingers with your own. "Darlin', you can handle yourself. You're a tough cookie. But with you – this is your life. You work as a xeno-geographer," He sighs, "Who am I to stop you?"

"Leonard..." you squeeze his hand.

"It was wrong of me to try to stop you. And even though you did get hurt, it took all I could to keep it together, treating you."

"Thanks for trusting me," you whisper, squeezing his hand once more. "I promise next time I'll be even more careful."

He smiles. "And even if you get hurt again, I'll patch you up."

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