#and if i go outside in the cold with these shakes on the slick ice ill probably fall over | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

thecreelhouse · 4 months

Text

part time soulmate, full time problem

Paring: Gator Tillman x Alt Fem!Reader (she/her pronouns)

Summary: That whole, “no talking and avoiding your enemy” thing doesn’t really work when you’re both trapped in the same house with nowhere else to go.

You learn the hard way that’s not how things work, while the ice around Gator’s heart begins to chip off little by little.

CW/Tags: language, angst, hurt/comfort, bad teasing/flirting, past trauma, discussion of loss/death, alcohol/drinking games, discussion of sex lives

Word count: 6k+

Series Masterlist // Read on AO3

Day 3

The next morning, you’re woken up from the sun reflecting off the snow. Again.

Jesus, don’t these people believe in blackout curtains?

As you head downstairs, you notice you’re up before Gator; it’s quiet and dark. The calm before the storm that is his entire existence.

You take advantage of the calm, making coffee as you slowly become alert to the world around you, scrolling through notifications on your phone. It’s not until you have your first sip of coffee that you notice how covered the windows are in snow.

Not just covered, buried.

Oh, no.

Placing your coffee on the nearest surface you could find, you rush to the front door and throw it open, revealing the bright white wall of snow blocking the exit.

“Oh, fuck.”

Maybe it was just weirdly positioned against the door, the wind blew it up, or something. You shove your hand against the snow, hoping it’d break through to the outside. You’re only met with more snow and ice, now tumbling down your sleeve and into your shirt.

“Jesus christ what the—“ The cold rushes down against your skin, tickling at your chest and torso as you try shaking it out of your sleep shirt. You can’t help your reaction, shouting whatever comes to mind: “I fucking HATE winter! Fuck you North Dakota, fuck you Midwest, fuck you winter, oh my god this shit is COLD.”

Your shirt is soaked with ice cold now-melted snow, sticking to your skin, clinging to keep you freezing and miserable. This. This is one of the other reasons you left the Midwest, and right now? You think you hate winter more than you hate Gator.

Without thinking much about it, you toss your shirt off, trying to get away from the soaked, icy fabric. Goosebumps rise on every inch of the surface of your skin, and good fucking god, your tits hurt from the contact. Right now, you wished you were one of those people who wore bras to sleep. It would’ve helped a lot right now.

“Well, this is one way to wake up, I guess.”

Trying not to turn around and expose yourself, you cross your arms over your chest and throw a glance over your shoulder at Gator. His normally slicked back hair has a strand that hangs casually over his face, the rest messily still pushed back, somehow. He rubs the sleep from his eyes, grinning like a fucking asshole.

“Close the fuckin’ door, you’re gon’ get sick.” Gator heads over your way, examining the giant hole you punched into the snow. “Is this why you’re—“

He gestures to your upper body, exposed, eyes lingering a second too long on your cleavage.

“S- stop staring, I need a blanket or some- something,” Your teeth are chattering uncontrollably, but you’re not too sure if it’s from the cold or from embarrassment.

“And your first thought was to throw your shirt off?” Gator teases as he shuts the door. You glare at him and gesture to his shirtless self.

“You’re not wearing a shirt either, why can’t I?” Pathetic deflection to avoid embarrassment. And it’s not fooling either of you.

He snorts, “By all means, princess, you wanna walk around half naked, I got no complaints.”

You can’t hide how flustered you feel, embarrassed by such a silly, stupid decision. Gator’s face softens a bit as he sees how upset you are.

“Go grab a sweatshirt from my room, or somethin’.” He suggests, walking towards the fireplace. “It’ll be warm in no time.”

Face scrunching in confusion, you say, “Wh— Gator, I have my own sweaters and stuff.”

“Guarantee yours aren’t the fluffy thick ones you had when we were younger. Prolly’ don’t need ‘em out east.” Gator begins lighting the fireplace, shrugging. “But you do you.”

“Hey, it gets cold in New York. It snows!”

“Sure, I bet.”

“It does!”

“Go put clothes on already, you’re gon’ get sick, freak.”

“Right. Yeah. Got it. Yeah.” You scurry upstairs, digging through your stuff, only realizing he was right. The stuff you owned now wasn’t as obnoxiously warm and layered.

Sure, it snowed in New York. It happened often, and the winters out there weren’t much of a walk in the park, either. There’s just something absolutely dismal about a Midwest winter, though. It’s a chill you feel in your bones that you wouldn’t experience elsewhere.

After throwing a shirt on to wear underneath, you hesitantly walk into Gator’s room, eyeing the closet with a handful of his clothes. Mostly work uniforms, heavy duty jackets, and some sweatshirts, like he said.

Grabbing the one that looks coziest, most worn and lived-in, you throw it on, nearly drowning in it. It’s dark green, and the design on the front is faded beyond return, you can’t make it out at all. But it’s so soft, and smells like him, and his stupid fucking sickeningly sweet vape. It’s oddly comforting.

Alright, enough. Not going there.

Returning downstairs, Gator turns from the fire to face you, and whatever cocky smirk he had waiting for you softens at the sight of you, now comfortable and not freezing to death and wrapped in one of his sweatshirts.

He looks like he wants to say something nice, something that matches the soft look he’s giving you. Then, whatever he was feeling is quickly replaced with his smart-ass attitude. “Hm, I think the look before was actually better.”

Your face falls, annoyed as you deadpan, “The only look you’ll be getting is my fist in your face if you don’t shut the fuck up.”

It doesn’t wipe his now teasing grin off his face, though. “I tried to warn ya’ last night we were gettin’ snowed in.”

You shuffle over to the fireplace and sit next to him. “You never said we were getting snowed in!”

“You really think I’d warn ya’ about snow if it wasn’t gonna be an actual problem out here?” He turns to face the flames as he pauses, then looks back at you. “You were only gone for a few years, suddenly you forgot how brutal winter is here?”

You frown, tucking the long sleeves into your lap; your hands are completely covered by his sleeves, but you don’t mind. Keeps you warm.

“I didn’t forget. I just… didn’t think ‘bout it as much while living out east. The winters suck there too, but they’re more manageable. Sometimes, at least. Fuckin’ nor’easters can throw everything off.”

Gator only responds with a short nod and a “Fair enough.”

Silence settles between the two of you, but it’s not painful. It’s not that uncomfortable. At least the firewood crackling fills the space where words would’ve been. At least it’s something.

———

The day rolls on slowly, while the two of you tolerate each other’s company, still mostly silent. You’d rather be alone while snowed in than be stuck with Gator, but since fate had other plans, the two of you tried your best to respect one another’s space.

At least, for the first few hours.

“Whatcha knittin’?”

You stop your motions and hold up the hook in your hand. “Crocheting.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Crocheting uses a hook, knitting uses those two long needles.”

Gator gives an “ahh, okay” before going back to watching your hands move along with ease.

“So… you gonna tell me what you’re makin’?”

“Yeah, a mask to fit over your big head so I don’t have to see you.”

Gator frowns, it’s almost cartoonish. “I don’t have a big head.”

You stop mid stitch and glance across the room at him, flopped over the couch dramatically, as if he’s melting off it into the floor. “I’m sorry, did you need something?”

“I’m booooooored.”

You run a hand over your face as you sigh. “Jesus Christ, you’re a child. Maybe learn a new hobby, or something?”

The lights flicker before he can retort, but they come back on after a few seconds.

“Does that normally happen during these storms?”

Gator’s staring up at the light on the ceiling, confused, but he answers “Uh, yeah. Yeah. They come back though, don’t worry. You afraid of the dark?”

“I’m not worried and no I’m not afraid of the dark, jerk.”

“It was an honest question!”

“When has anythin’ ever been honest with you, Gator?” It was meant to be part of the constant teasing, but something about it digs deep at him. He falls silent. “Oh, hey, wait, I’m s—“

“Nah, it’s okay.” He murmurs before hitting his vape. “You ain’t wrong.”

You don’t push it further and keep your mouth shut.

——

“You’re one of them girls, huh?”

Glancing in the mirror, face sudsy with face wash, you cock a brow at Gator leaning in the bathroom doorway. He’s got that fucking smirk you so badly want to deck off his face.

You keep massaging your face, building bubbles on your skin. “What does that mean?”

“One of them skincare bitches.” He says it with so much… confidence. As if it’s not the dumbest thing he’s said so far today.

“Ohhhh, okay. Makes sense, Gator. You would think basic hygiene is a high maintenance, ‘girl’ thing.” You quip back before rinsing your face. “Makes sense, coming from the man child who uses hand soap to wash his face. How’s that working out for ya’?”

Gator’s cocky smirk drops, replacing it with a glare. “It’s soap. What’s the fuckin’ difference?”

Towel against your face, your voice is muffled but still loud enough for him to hear, “Ask yourself that in five years when you’re aging faster than your daddy.”

With a scoff he pushes off the doorframe and leaves, stomping down the hall like a pouting child. He’s gone by the time you pull the towel down, and you continue your nightly routine.

——

The wind howls outside with no mercy. You’re having the hardest time keeping warm inside, but at least you’re not out there.

Every time it breaks the silence, you shiver while your brows knit together at the unpleasant sound.

“You good over there?”

You’re curled up on the floor by the fireplace again, and Gator’s back on the couch.

“That. That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“Huh?”

“Earlier you were teasing me and said something about being afraid of the dark, and I said I wasn’t. What does scare me is that fucking wind.”

Gator sits up, intrigued. “Seriously?”

“I never knew why it made me feel so much dread every winter, but moving away made me realize I like how much the city drowns it out. It’s so depressing. It just reminds me how hollow this place is and how alone it makes me feel.”

“Wow that’s… dark.” Gator’s not teasing this time, he means well with the few words he can come up with. “You really don’t feel at home here, huh?”

You shake your head, curling deeper into the comforter you dragged downstairs, wrapped up comically like a burrito near the fire.

“Once my sister died, I had nothing left keeping me here.”

Gator almost wants to respond with “What about me?” but he knows better after the conversation you two had last night.

“Y’know, she was so excited for that license. Saved up for that shitty old car with all her own cash.”

Gator remembers. “Didn’t she work at that ice cream place?”

“Yeah, every summer.” You snort, reminiscing, “She used to get pissed it was only a seasonal job, the only place that’d hire anyone her age. I always tried remindin’ her there’s absolutely no one out here in their right mind cravin’ ice cream in the dead of winter.”

Gator laughs at that, eyes fixated on your figure all bundled up, while you’re fixated on the fire in front of you. He wished you’d turn around, or that maybe it’d be okay for him to move closer, but he didn’t want to overstep boundaries.

“Willow… um,” Your voice catches on her name, and Gator doesn’t miss the way it pauses your thought. “She loved whenever you’d come over, y’know. She said you were the only person to actually challenge her at Mario Kart. Lil’ shit.”

Gator’s voice cracks a bit as he speaks up finally, “To be fair… you were terrible at Mario Kart.”

You finally spin around, feigning offense while clutching your chest. “I was not!”

Gator uses the moment to come over to you, and you don’t protest.

“Oh you were. Lo’ had no problem tellin’ me how bad you were.”

Hearing your baby sister’s nickname makes your throat grow tight. “Haven’t heard anyone call her that since she uh, she passed.”

“Fuck, I’m sorry.” Gator’s worried he overstepped a boundary already.

You shake your head, eyes closed, hoping it’d contain your tears, but they finally break. “Don’t be. It felt like everyone but me forgot ‘bout her. It’s nice to hear someone else remember her.”

“Didn’t she want to move in with you?”

You exhale a laugh, wiping your eyes. “Yeah. I was gonna try to get custody of her. Get her outta there.”

‘There’ being your actual home.

Gator knew how bad it was. You only trusted him with the truth about what went on within that house.

“I wanted to protect that baby so, so bad. I tried. Figured if she started drivin’, she’d have more of an escape, even if for a few hours. Have a way to come over whenever she needed to get out of the house. I always tried picking her up myself, but it was hard workin’ all the time, y’know? She had a key, she’d make herself cozy there. Lo’ told me it really felt like home. That shitty, shoebox apartment was more of a home than the one we came from. Ain’t that sad?”

“Nah, no way. You gave her a better life where ya’ could, and it was more than your parents ever did for her.” Gator’s so sure of that. He’s so, so certain you were more of a guardian to Willow than your own parents.

“That lil’ smarty pants was applying for all kinds of scholarships on the east coast. She wanted out of here, prolly’ more than I did. I promised her we’d go together, she wouldn’t have to be alone. We’d have our own place in the big city. Prolly’ another goddamn shoebox apartment. But we woulda’ made it home.” Your voice grows small as you retreat into your own feelings. “And she never made it out. I wish I did more for her. I wish I got Willow out before anything could take her from the world.”

Gator’s shuffling his thoughts around, trying to find the right words to comfort you, trying not to fuck this up like he did when your sister died. You notice conflict written all over his face, and reach out for his arm, touch soft and light.

He freezes, like a deer in the headlights, worried he already fucked this up and just upset you more.

“You- you don’t gotta say anythin’, Gator. M’sorry I just kinda… dropped all that on ya’. Just being heard is enough.” You feel him relax under you, and lock eyes. “Thank you.”

As you pull your hand back, he watches, missing the warmth of your touch already. He doesn’t chase it, though. He refuses to hurt you any more than he already has.

“Don’t gotta thank me,” He stops. He so badly wants to say ‘that’s what friends do, they’re there for each other.’ But he can’t. He knows that’s not right. You’re not friends. He thinks maybe it’s better to tell you that he’s ‘always here for ya’’, but that’s far from the truth. He abandoned you years ago.

“You can talk about Willow whenever you want,” Gator says, hoping it’s better than nothing. You give a friendly, thankful smile to him. It’s fleeting, but he’ll take it.

You’re the one at a loss for words now, so you simply say, “Listen… rainbow road is fucking hard.”

Gator laughs, and it’s sincere. It almost warms you more than the fire, blanket, and sweatshirt combined.

“I can teach ya’ sometime. I’m no pro like Lo’ was, though.”

You turn to him, resting your head on your knees as you pull them close to your body. “Might take you up on that sometime anyway, Gator.”

Whatever kind of afterlife exists, whatever kind Willow ended up in, you know she’s laughing her ass off at how foolish the two of you have been, and continue to be. She knows more than the two of you about this entire situation.

Willow always knew more about the two of you better than anyone else, even yourselves.

———-

It’s past midnight when the power flickers again, but this time, it doesn’t come back.

“Um, Gator? Is it normal for it to go this long?” It’s been 5 minutes, and the house is already getting cold. Thank fuck for this fire.

“Well… no.” Gator sighs, looking over at you, still sinking into all those layers while you’re by the fireplace. He moved back to a chair at some point, while the two of you lazed around in a comfortable silence, for once.

Gator gets up to check out the one window with an inch of uncovered glass, but it’s snowing so hard and so fast, it’s useless. “It’s a fuckin’ blizzard out there. Wouldn’t be surprised if all the power lines froze up.”

“Fuck, are we gonna be okay? Can we fix it?” You sit up, blankets falling off your shoulders. Immediately your teeth chatter. “Is it- fuck, won’t the pipes freeze and burst and stuff?”

“Why're you panicking? We’re safer in here than out there, and I’ll handle that stuff, don’t worry.” Gator smirks, “Haven’t you been in a snowstorm that knocks the power out? You lived here.”

“Well, yeah, but— in the city it’s—“ You grab the blankets again and try burrowing, but your hands are already stiff from how cold you are; the blankets fall from your grip. “- There’s always somewhere to go. I’m fucking freezing. Maybe I am getting sick. Oh my god, why did I have to punch the snow?”

Gator bites back a laugh. “If you’re gettin’ sick, might as well sweat it out.”

You look at him incredulously, “Gator, I’m far from sweating right now.”

“Yeah, until you drink me under the table,” He winks, and while it’s kind of cringy, you do your best to ignore the flutter in your stomach. “Y’know, like old times.”

———

At first, Gator offered beer, which, yuck, you told him you’d rather freeze to death than drink the liquid dirt he calls ‘beer’.

“You’re one of those fruity drink bi—“

“Call me a bitch again and you’ll be decked into next week.”

“Yeah, alright.”

“What? I’m strong!”

Gator looks down at you, smirking. “S’always the short girls that wanna fight, huh?”

“I’m not short, you’re just… Averagely tall. And you’re a few inches taller with your boots on. So that doesn’t count.”

Ignoring you, he pulls a bottle of whiskey out, and you make a ‘blech’ face. “Do you like anything?”

You eye up the other bottles in the cabinet and land on tequila. “Gimme.”

“Tequila? Fuckin’ nasty.” He grimaces, handing you the bottle. “You’ll drink tequila but won’t touch beer?”

With a shrug, you admit, “I like the burn of it.”

Ignoring the way your comment stirs something within him, Gator starts pulling out shot glasses, but you push his hand back into the cabinet.

“Nope, we ain’t usin’ those.” You tease, heading back to the fireplace. “You wanna play drinkin’ games or not?”

——

Snow continues piling up outside, and the wind wails and whistles around the house. Sometimes a draft blows in from god knows where; the perks of being in an old farmhouse. You’re not sure who started the game of ‘Never Have I Ever’, but you’re enjoying how easily flustered Gator gets over some questions.

Every time you have done something mentioned, you take a shot. Or… well. In this case, y’all were just winging it without the shot glasses.

“Never have I everrrrr….”

Oh yeah, Gator’s already buzzed; grip tight on a bottle of whiskey while his face begins to flush red like the other night.

“… smoked the devil’s lettuce.”

You choke on spit, laughing. “You would fuckin’ call weed that. Oh my god. Gator, no one uses that seriously.”

“Like you’d know,” He murmurs, but you take a huge swig from the handle of tequila, wiping your mouth with a satisfied smile. Gator stares at you in disbelief, unsure if it’s from the hardy shot you took— if you could even call it that— or admitting that you’ve done drugs before so casually.

“Like you’d know, daddy’s boy.”

“Hey—“

“If you can call me a freak I can call you whatever I want.”

“Can’t be tellin’ me that shit.”

“What? You gonna lock me up?” You giggle, feeling the heat of the alcohol blooming across your cheeks and to the tips of your ears. “It’s legal in New York.”

“Does it look like we’re in New York right now?” He deadpans, taking this a little too seriously.

“Don’t you have a vape to hit or some shit? Keep your mouth occupied for a second or two, Gator. Some silence would do ya’ some good.”

The rosiness across his face only blooms deeper at your comment, but you play it off, moving on.

“Never have I ever… fucked someone in public.”

Gator’s breath hitches, and he patiently waits to watch you take another swig, but you don’t.

“… Does a car count?”

“Of course you fucked someone in your cruiser.” You tease with an eye roll. “If you want it to count I think it counts.”

Gator throws back the bottle and takes a mouthful more than he meant to, nearly choking on the alcohol while he still thinks about your question.

“You—“ He holds his chest, grimacing for a moment as the liquid settles, then points over to you, bottle still in his grip. “- Ya’ never fucked in a car before? Find that hard to believe, freak.”

You’re a little tipsy, enough that you can’t form a clever quip back, so you shake your head with a giggle. “Nope,” You accentuate the ‘p’ at the end with a pop from your lips. “Sold my car before I moved, y’don’t need one in the city. Plus, parking sucks.”

He can’t hold back from asking, “Not even here?”

“Nah, I was a virgin ‘till I moved, ‘member?”

Gator looks at you with shock. “Why would I know that?”

Shrugging, your answer is nonchalant, “You knew everything about me. I just assumed.”

Knew was the keyword here. He never got to figure out who you really were and who you wanted to be before you moved, because he pushed away before you left town.

Again, Gator can’t help himself; must be the liquid confidence asking, “So… what have you done?”

“None of ya’ business, daddy’s boy.” Your lips are on the bottle again, red and pouty from drinking out of the bottle so much; Gator’s spiraling, watching and imagining how your lips would look around his cock.

He knows he’s fucked. Gator definitely didn’t plan for any of this. At best, he hoped the two of you would keep your distance from each other.

“Oh, c’mon, I can tell ya’ what I’ve done.” He can’t stop the words from tumbling out before thinking about them. He’s pretty drunk by now, and he gets embarrassingly chatty when he’s drunk enough.

“Fine, tell me.” You’re intrigued, smirking as you lean on your hand, propping you up from the floor. The blankets and his sweatshirt long gone, because between the fireplace and the alcohol, you’re finally warming up.

Gator shoves his hand out to you, pinky standing tall, and it startles you at first. Then, you understand what he’s doing, so you link your pinky around his.

“Promise you won’t say anything?” Gator’s voice is low, bordering between whispering, as if anyone else is here, but also sounding like he’s turned on already.

Already? Jesus, don’t expect something so fucking ridiculous.

With a quick squeeze, you nod, eyes glittering with curiosity. “Yes, yes, just tell me already!”

Gator drinks before responding, leaning into the warmth and false security the whiskey brings. “There’s uh,” he coughs, it’s forced. “There’s a reason I don’t go to church anymore.”

Confused, your head tilts a bit, brows furrowed until it clicks after a few seconds. “Oh.”

Gator laughs nervously, “Yeah… wasn’t my brightest idea.”

“Are ya’ gonna give details or just leave me hangin’ in the dark?”

“I… uh… confessional booth.” Gator looks away, embarrassed and silently praying he’s not struck down by lightning on the spot.

You, though, your eyes are wide, the wheels are zooming in your head with thoughts, and you hope to god Gator can’t see the way you shift your leg underneath you, placing pressure on your core.

Now you’re the one who can’t hold their tongue; “Are you kidding? That’s kinda hot.”

“Of course you’d think so, freak.” Gator’s trying his hardest to pretend he’s not flustered by your curiosity or reaction. “That’s prolly’ the most wild thing I’ve done, though.”

“Other than the car sex?”

“It was dark and parked away from the road. It wasn’t really that risky.”

“So the rest is pretty vanilla?”

“It’s what?” Gator’s so lost on that, and he frowns, puzzled.

You laugh, not making fun of him, just out of surprise this ‘tough guy’ doesn’t even know what that means. “Sorry, it’s just kinda cute how clueless you are on that.”

You can’t believe the words leaving your mouth. You internally curse and scold yourself to shut up.

Gator perks up a bit. “You think’m cute?”

“Alright, keep it in your pants.” You don’t directly answer him, hoping to move on. Gator clings onto this though, and his death grip refuses to let this go.

“No, go back, say what you said before.” He’s got this nearly smug smirk, but it’s kind of dopey with how drunk he is. He twirls his finger in a rewind motion. “Say it.”

“Oh, that you’re vanilla?”

His face falls flat. Of course you’re gonna be difficult. “No, the other thing.”

“Keep it in your pants?”

“No- the- jesus fucking christ—“ Words are hard to string together when his feelings, alcohol, and dick are controlling his thoughts. So all he can come up with is, “I’m cute.”

Giggling, you shrug, “Self love is important, Gator. I’m proud of you.”

“No, you said that!”

“I thought you wanted to know what I’ve done, too?”

Gator rubs his hands over his face, sighing loudly. He can’t win with you, and he should’ve known you wouldn’t play easy.

“Fine, yeah, tell me,” He did want to know, but he’s still pathetically hung up on you calling him cute.

“What I’ve done, or what I’m into?” You ask, but you don’t need the clarification. You’re just really enjoying how easy it is to rile Gator up.

But Gator blurts out, “Both. Tell me both.”

“You didn’t tell me both.”

Gator’s ready to pull his hair out. You’re so infuriating sometimes. All the time. It’s always something that has burrowed under his skin.

And Gator liked it.

“Why’re you like this?” He groans, glaring at you.

“Like what?” You’re too intoxicated to keep a straight face. “I just asked a question.”

“Quit bein’ a smartass. You know what you’re doin’.”

“I know nothin’ of what you speak of.” You tease with a yawn, stretching upward with a little, soft whine that Gator is about to lose his mind over. The quick peek of your hips as your shirt rises up isn’t helping, either. “I forgot how tired tequila makes me. Maybe I should try to sleep.”

Gator knows you’re taking the teasing as far as he’ll let you; it’s time to get under your skin. “And where are you sleeping so you won’t freeze to death?”

“Here, g’night!” You lay on the floor rug, bundling back under the blankets, but Gator yanks them off. “Asshole! I’m cold!”

“Are you? I had no idea.” Gator’s got trouble written all over his face. “You’re not sleeping right here where you’ll accidentally roll over in your sleep into the fire.”

“I wouldn’t—“

“I know you, you would.”

“Maybe I’ve changed, maybe I’m a brand new woman who doesn’t move in their sleep! You don’t know me now.”

He snorts, “I heard you fall off the bed last night.”

“You heard nothing of the sort.”

Gator throws the blankets onto the couch before giving a one word order, “Up.”

“Excuse me?”

If you can tease him to have a good time, why can’t he do the same in return?

“I have a sleeping bag we can use.” Gator’s casual about the ‘we’ part as he digs through a closet near the front door.

“We? Like us? A sleeping bag? Not plural?”

When he comes back one of his brows quirk up, as if your questioning is just silly. “Yes? Sharing body heat is a thing, freak. Don’t get excited thinking this means anything.” He starts unrolling the oversized bag, glancing over at you with a smug smirk.

It’s your turn to get flustered. “I- why would I?”

“You tell me, you’re the one that’s been asking all the personal questions tonight.” Gator climbs into the sleeping bag, holding it wide open for you. “Well? Ya’ gettin’ in or not?”

Narrowing your eyes, you make your way to Gator, “Fine, but no funny business, ya’ hear?”

Gator smirks, “Who, me? No way.” He zips the bag closed once you’re settled; the sleeping bag is roomy for two, but it’s still too close to Gator. “See? How much warmer is that?”

Okay, fine, you gotta admit… Gator’s right. For once. You had no clue how cold you became again until you tucked yourself into Gator’s chest.

Your teeth are chattering, fingers getting hard to move, and goosebumps rise on every surface of your body. That last one, though, you’re not sure if it’s from the cold or Gator.

Without warning, Gator grabs your hands, holding them up to his mouth as he tries breathing on them for some warmth.

“Jesus, your hands really do get cold. You feel like a corpse.” Gator murmurs, glancing at you every so often in between breaths. “This helpin’?”

A faint “Mhm…” leaves you while you watch his movements.

“Can I ask ya’ somethin’?” Between the heat on your hands and how calm this moment is, you feel like you could easily drift off to sleep. You fight it, though.

“Go ‘head, what’s up?”

Gator pauses. “… Why did you come home?”

You don’t have an answer, so you stay quiet.

“Sorry if that was pushin’ anything,” Gator quickly adds, but you shake your head.

“No… I just… don’t have an answer, honestly. I haven’t seen my family in years, and had no plan to ever come back, if we’re bein’ honest. I think I felt guilty. Like if something happened to my parents, and I never got to see them beforehand, I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself.”

Gator knows what that’s like; he knows that guilt ridden loyalty to family all too well.

“They don’t deserve to know who you’ve become. They don’t deserve to know the real you.” Gator’s voice is soft and small, unsure if a comment like that would cross a line or not.

“Yeah… but maybe there’s someone else out here who does.” You admit, thanks to the tequila still in your system. “Wouldn’t know unless I tried.”

Gator wants to cry, and the first thought to stop himself is his father’s voice, stepping in with the ‘real men don’t cry’ speech. He shakes that to the back of his mind.

“Don’t think there’s really anyone in the Midwest that deserves to know the real you.”

The two of you hold each other’s gaze tight; both of you look sleepy, drunk, and on the verge of tearing up.

Gator can’t handle whatever’s about to happen next; unsure of what if anything would happen, so he copes by switching subjects roughly.

He clears his throat, trying to move past his feelings. “Y’know, I heard the warmest part of the body’s between the legs.” His voice is low, hands leaving yours. The loss of extra warmth almost earns a frown from you, but you’re more focused on his words, and how he even changed the conversation so fast.

“Gator, what are you insinuating here?”

It’s obvious he’s not actually clueless, nor is he actually good at acting like it. He feigns offense; “What? What are you insinuating?”

“Me?” You’re mad you’re so close to him right now. You’re mad he’s right about sharing body heat to stay warm. You’re mad he’s taken control of the mind games.

You’re mad. Might as well do something about it. But Gator beats you to it.

“You’re the one who was asking about my sex life.” You’re mad at how blunt he is. “And you pinky promised but didn’t hold your end of the deal.”

You’re mad he won’t let that go. Maybe you should do something about it.

“Well… maybe I changed my mind. And you should respect that.”

“Says the girl who had no problem askin’ me invasive questions and pushed for details.” Gator points a finger at you, poking your chest. “Sounds like someone else needs to learn about respect, huh?”

You grab his hand, pushing it away from your chest,” Keep your grimy hands to yourself, Gator.”

He just smirks; all you want for Christmas is to deck that fucking arrogant, vexatious smirk off his face.

“Didn’t say that when I was keepin’ ya’ warm, darlin’.”

He grabs your hand, pinning it behind your back with ease. You pull your free arm out, to what, you’re unsure, but before you can even think about wanting to slap or shove him, he’s got that hand pinned behind you, too. With one strong hand, he effortlessly grips both of your wrists behind your back, immobilizing you.

You’re not mad, you’re furious.

“Did you just wait until we got in the bag to be extra insufferable?”

“Only for you,” Gator’s smirk only grows as he feels you struggle against his grip.

“Let. Go.”

“I’m pretty comfortable, actually.” His arm is resting around your hip, relaxed, while he keeps his grip on your wrists. “You’re not? Thought freaks like you like being restrained like this.”

Your face flushes with a burning wave of heat; you’re praying he can’t see how flustered your expression is in the dark. “I- fuck you, Tillman.”

“Oh, we’re back on a last name basis? Ya’ flirtin’ with me?”

You’re far from mad, you’re enraged; enraged he’s hitting all the right buttons, enraged that he still knows enough about you to get under your skin, enraged this is a fair fight now.

Before you can come up with a response, the lights flicker back on; power’s back, and you sigh, relieved. Gator, distracted with the power coming back, loosens his grip on your hands. Taking advantage of this, you shimmy up the bag as you grab his arms, pinning them to his sides and flipping him onto his back. You keep his arms immobile with your legs, pressing inward.

For all the times you got made fun of for having thick “thunder thighs”, you were sure grateful for them now.

Gator doesn’t look just caught off guard, he looks bewildered, and it’s only growing into anger. He tries wriggling from your grip, but you successfully keep him pinned in place. With the lights on, you can see how wound up he is now, too.

“You pull some shit like that again and your teeth will be knocked down your throat. Got it?” You’re hovered over Gator, face to face, noses almost touching. You’re close enough to see and hear Gator gulp, nervous. “Keep yourself warm, daddy’s boy.”

Gator clenches his jaw, but doesn’t reach for you when you get up, and doesn’t follow you when you head upstairs. You’re grateful he doesn’t, because you’re still tipsy, and trying to make sense of whatever the hell just happened there.

You’re also trying to make even further sense why all of … that… has you so riled up. Under the blankets, back in your bed, your hands wander between your thighs.

It’s not because you’re cold.

#gator tillman x fem!reader #gator tillman x reader #gator tillman x y/n #gator tillman smut #my fics #im so sorry for the tight spacing i forgot how awful tumblr’s text limit is 😭#part time soulmate full time problem

75 notes · View notes

mlmxreader · 1 year

Text

Snow Day | Helmut Zemo x m!reader

anonymous asked: Helmut with And this one's for you

summary: you and Zemo get to spend the day together, only it's the weather that makes you actually have a plan for the day.

tws: swearing, smoking, mentions of violence

support your fanfic writers by reblogging what you read & enjoy

Snow was coming down thick and heavy, blanketing the outside the same way that a duvet would, completely covering and swallowing everything it touched; it was early, the clock hardly touching seven o'clock in the morning, and already Zemo could feel the bed beside him was cold and barren, and the smell of coffee was hard to ignore as he dragged himself out of bed.

The clouds were a thick grey, almost black as they clung to the pale grey coloured skies; the wind howled against the window frames and the doors, begging to be let inside, and the ice made everything so slick that even pigeons couldn't cling to the branches of densely covered trees. Zemo sighed when he saw you in the kitchen, standing in front of a white canvas; he tilted his head to the side as he let out a yawn.

His hair, usually so neat and so tidy, often slicked and combed so that every single strand would sit properly, was messy; sticking up this way and that way, ruffled and unkempt. A reminder of what had happened the previous night, as well as how he had tossed and turned in his sleep every time you broke the way that he held you so tightly; bags under his dark brown eyes, and even worse, his scruff was starting to grow out again.

The chill of the air was the first thing to hit his bare chest, making his breath hitch as he clenched his jaw slightly; it crept down to his bare legs, nearly gracing the waistband of his boxers as he wished that he had thought twice and had put his dressing gown on. Or brought the duvet with him.

"Mein Bärchen?"

You hummed as you looked at him, a smile coming to your lips as you gestured for him to stand next to you. "It's snowing."

"I can see that."

"I'm just thinking," you started, "the last time we were together when it snowed, when we spent all day watching horror films, all snuggled up."

He nodded slowly, his hand coming to the small of your back as he dared to flash you a tired smile, doing his best not to yawn and not to shiver. Fuck, you were so warm. All wrapped up in his hoodie, a pair of thick and soft pyjama bottoms, fuzzy socks; he wished he had thought of that.

"And you want to do it again?"

You nodded, daring to meet his gaze as you raised your brows a little bit. So fucking hopeful that he worried it would almost kill you. "Please? If you're not busy helping Captain America, that is."

Zemo scoffed, shaking his head as he let out a quiet hum, dipping his hand under your hoodie and grumbling at how warm you felt against him. "I think we could probably arrange it."

"Really?"

"Natürlich," he shrugged. "Anything for mein geliebter... mein Mann."

You wanted to roll your eyes, but you were too tired to do so as you broke away from him, forcing a sigh from the back of his throat as he shook his head and took a seat at the breakfast bar; it was his turn to pose in front of the white canvas this time, and before he could say anything, you were already taking a picture on your phone, making him smile as he wondered what could possibly go wrong.

Last time, he had the Punisher threatening him, as well as the infamous Wolverine; he wondered if they would do it again, given that they were your self-appointed bodyguards. That always made him laugh. They weren't bodyguards, just overprotective friends of yours... but, taking pictures made you happy, and Zemo would do anything to keep you that way.

He didn't say anything as you made two cups of coffee, merely watching you with the sort of tender curiosity that came with being together for so long; the first time he had met you was so long ago, now, but the memory was still fresh as wounding from barbed wire. He happened to be sitting in a little café with Sam when you had strolled in with Frank; he thought you were handsome from the moment he saw you, and when he heard your voice, he knew he had never heard a complaint about music in the car sound so good before.

Nothing changed since. He still knew you were handsome, still reminded you of it every time he got the chance; still loved to hear you talk, no matter what the subject was. Still loved to hear you laugh and to see your smile. You still took his breath away when you dressed up in the fancy suits and tuxedos he bought you for when he took you out; only ever the finest for the Baron's boyfriend. Fuck, you still took his breath away when you were wearing stained jogging bottoms and a ratty old hoodie.

"And this one's for you," you gently pushed the mug across the breakfast bar. "Biscuits?"

Zemo thought about it for a moment, pursing his lips before he nodded. "Sure."

He took the opportunity to check you out as you rummaged for them in the cupboard, chewing at the inside of his lip and trying not to say anything, but he couldn't stop himself.

"You look so good today."

You grinned as you brought the biscuits down, shaking your head as you scoffed. "You tell me that every day."

"And?" He raised a brow. "You look good every day."

"You're terrible," you told him, taking a swig from your coffee. "Smoke?"

"I'd love one," he agreed. "So, horror films and blankets today?"

You nodded as you started to roll cigarettes. "Unless there's anything you wanna do?"

"Be with you," Zemo said softly. "As always, mein Mann... you know I'm happy as long as you're happy."

You rolled your eyes but your smile didn't fade, and he knew that he had you exactly where he had wanted you; trying not to laugh, grinning, happier than a pig in shit. You were everything to him, all he needed from you was to see you happy, to see you smile, and he would do anything to make sure of it; if you said it would make you happy, Zemo would have gladly beheaded kings and stabbed princes, he would have happily brought palaces down to rubble and dust. Anything for his beloved, for his man.

Anything for you.

"Come here," he gestured, and when you were close enough, he grabbed you, and swiftly pulled you down onto his lap. His arms around you securely, kissing your neck ever so softly. "Whatever you want to do, mein geliebter, I will happily go along with you."

"What if I said I wanted to go for a hike?"

"I'd go with you," he told you sincerely. "Du bist mein Herz. Just don't go anywhere I can't follow."

"I'm messing," you laughed softly, grinning. "I'm perfectly happy to just laze on the sofa with you..."

"As am I," Zemo agreed. "So, is it a date?"

"It's a date."

"Now," he gently bit at your skin. "Do you want me to finish rolling?"

75 notes · View notes

sickybubbies · 1 year

Text

Morning Blues: Hoseok

S/O Sickness Series (1/7)

Synopsis: Hoseok's wife is suffering from morning sickness, he tries to help her despite having a very weak stomach himself.

A/N: doing something a little different this time! Tell me how you guys like it!

Warning: Graphic descriptions of vomit/vomiting, anxiety.

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

His wife is so, so nauseous this morning. She can't stop moving, can't stop burping. The sound of her retching draws Hoseok's concern like a magnet, the hairs on his neck prickling. A weak stomach isn't so much a weak stomach, more like a stomach in a body that's too susceptible to sensory stimulation. Everything makes him squeamish, everything—he almost gags as he passes the bathroom door.

Hoseok lingers outside the bathroom door. He doesn't think he could stomach the sight of another puddle of vomit without adding to it himself, so he waits for his wife's voice. "Hey. Feeling any better yet?"

This is what he feared most. The retching sounds come first, followed by a wet splash of her vomit spilling back onto the bowl. Hoseok's body begins to quake as he tries his hardest to keep from adding to the puddle, his nails digging into the flesh on the inside of his palms.

His heart shatters in two as his poor wife struggles in vain to reassure him. "Darling..." he says, his tone trembling and desperate. "Oh, my god. Darling, I— I'm coming in."

Hoseok gently closes the door and rushes to his wife's side. She's so pale, so sweaty, so fragile. His hand rests atop her belly with the gentlest of touches. "I'm going to get you some water. Just sit tight, darling." His voice is as gentle and soft as she is ill and miserable; jaw clenching in slight worry in case she starts heaving in front of him.

He hurries to the kitchen, his head swimming with worries. The sight of his wife's fragile form wracked by illness made his chest ache. In the moments that he's gone, his wife's belly rumbles, a low, throaty growl of a noise. The retching begins again, this time with him out of direct earshot of her cries of anguish.

His stomach flips and he claps his hands over his mouth before he can vomit. Hoseok is already feeling like he might keel over at any time. "She's okay. She's okay... I just need to get her water..." he mumbles to himself, it is enough to make him nauseous too.

It's spreading through his veins, his stomach heaving. "Fuck.." he murmurs to himself, his chest feeling hollow, his skin cold as ice. "I'm coming I promise!" He yells out to her.

The smell of sewage and bile swirls in his nostrils, the sounds of his wife's tortured retching only making his own stomach twist even harder. He's already pale; he might be even paler now.

Then comes the wave of heat, washing over him in a sickening wave of prickling. He knows what's coming, what his body is telling him. "I can't do th—achk!"

He barely makes it into the sink in time.

An awful, low, gut-wrenching sound. A deep, guttural heave; it almost sounds like a moan. He can already feel the saliva building in his mouth, and the bile burning in his throat. His entire chest is shaking now, rattling as if every muscle is spasming.

His stomach releases a torrent of thin, yellow bile, the smell of it making his eyes roll. The backs of his knees feel weak, his toes curl against the cool floor beneath him.

"I can't be like this..." he whines, leaning fully into the sink and letting the vomit spill back into its depths. His fingers tremble. He's got no control over his body at this point, his mind is empty. A wet, splashing sound; it's coming from both directions. "H... Ugh... Ugh!"

His stomach spasms and, like a volcano, a lava of half-digested food erupts from his throat and sputters into the sink. He clutches the counter beneath him; his palms are slick, his jaw is in pain. As the worst of the retching passes, his body is wracked by the most violent of seizures.

A wet sound assaults his ears as the vomit rises and rises within him. His cheeks sink, his lips curl. He makes a sound then: a low, moaning whimper that doesn't have the strength to be voiced any higher. His throat convulses with heaving coughs as he spews, eventually just as he began, it all comes to an abrupt stop. His hands fall to his sides and his eyes close. "Christ..."

His head dips down and rests on the sink. He's pale as a corpse now, his body trembling and sweating under his clothes from the effort of emptying his stomach. "Why do people... get this? Why did this happen? What if she heard me?”

Hoseok's head jerks up, his eyes wide and wild. The room is spinning; the only static point is his wife, standing before him. Her arms hang by her side, her hair in shambles. His chest heaves and he staggers. "Darling..." he pants. "I'm so sorry... I—" He looks like he could vomit again for a second time.

"I tried to hold it in," he manages, fighting a sudden wave of nausea. "I tried so hard, but..." He feels like he's sweating bullets, and he probably is. He begins to wonder if maybe he's sick. This must be how he looked to her just thirty seconds ago... he can only imagine now. "I'm sorry," he rasps.

A moment between the two passes. Y/N's soft hands lift to his face. His eyes squeeze shut, forehead against hers. This is what he feared most. For his wife to see him like this—it would be the end of the fantasy. He has a weak stomach. She knows that he has a weak stomach, but she's never seen it. But here he is, pale and trembling like a leaf in a storm.

The embrace is comforting, and he rests his head on her shoulder. A long sigh falls from his lips. "Darling... what am I going to d-do..." he stammers. Her back is so warm, but his cheeks feel like ice. He can't stop shaking. "I can't be... like this... not in front of you..."

"Hoseok it's okay, you can't help that you have a weak stomach. It's okay baby"

Hoseok sniffs back his tears. It's a humiliating feeling, being this weak. But his heart breaks and his shoulders hunch when his poor wife calls him 'baby'. He's always been the strong one, the resilient one; he's never been the one who needed to be nurtured. "Hnnh... You don't mind? I— I'm sorry... I really am..."

"It's okay," she speaks again, voice as comforting as the touch of her fingers. She strokes his cheek, and the action melts all of his fear and anxiety. No one has made Hoseok feel like this before, and he's glad it's her. "Just take your time... it's okay..." she tells him again, rubbing his side comfortingly.

Slowly, he steps away. His hand is still gripping her hand, his thumb gently caressing her knuckle as he gazes up at her face. His wife looks tired as well, as though her battle had left her worn out. Hoseok's gaze softens, a sweet, sympathetic look as he looks to her and simply says, "You okay?"

She nods in response, leaning up and pressing a kiss on his forehead. "I'm okay, I feel better. Just tired, I've washed up already"

"Mmm... Okay, darling. Come on..." Hoseok gently picks his wife up and moves through the house, carefully laying her in bed and tucking her into the blankets. His eyes are sleepy as he turns to the bathroom to wash his hands, cleaning off his sweaty, vomit-clotted face and rinsing out the sour taste from his mouth.

When he's back in the bedroom, Y/N is already in a deep sleep. Hoseok lays down beside her, his head propped on his arm as he gazes down at her pregnant belly. As he watches it gently swell, he relaxes more, letting Y/N slip further into the quiet, soothing embrace of sleep.

"Oh, you are such a menace, you little rascal." He shakes his head and presses a kiss against his wife's belly. "You keep trying to make her so sick, don't you?" This, Hoseok does. With a tender pat to the tummy, he says, "That's right. You better not do that again today." He smiles, watching as the bump rises and falls, the soft motion of Y/N's breaths.

His eyes droop, his face relaxing into a smile and then a yawn as he lets the darkness take him. In his arms, his wife is still, her body sleeping peacefully in the bed. In that room, it is peaceful; the family is together as they doze for the rest of the morning.

#bts sickfic #bts emeto #sick!hoseok #x reader #pregnancy au #tw: vomit #tw: anxiety

43 notes · View notes

terramous · 2 years

Text

i am desperate if nothing else

words: 3.9k bthb: poisoning title: sleeping at last - mercury unbeta'd because i wrote this all in one sitting without an outline and dont need someone else to tell me it's bad dedicated to my beloved @marjansmarwani <3 carlos whump for the soul AO3

TK is as surprised as the rest of his team when dispatch informs them that their medical call was taking them to the APD precinct, and TK couldn’t fight the fear that shot down his spine like an ice-cold lightning bolt as he thought about who he knew was on shift.

But he was texting Carlos not even an hour ago, and his fiance wouldn’t have had enough time to go out on a call, get secretly injured and return in that timeframe.

The most likely reason why they were called in was for a civilian. Officers were usually having their medical emergencies outside of the precinct, in the field where everything that could go wrong tended to.

“Don’t jump to conclusions,” Nancy chided from the passenger seat. “I know you think that if you look away from him for two seconds then the roof is going to cave down on his head but I assure you, he’s fine.”

“He’s on shift though. And all we know from dispatch is that we have a mid-twenties male who’s not in a good way,” TK said, trying to keep his tone neutral.

“They also said he appeared to be really sick. It doesn’t make any sense if Carlos was sick enough to need an ambo visit you would’ve noticed something was off with him this morning. You’re not an idiot, TK.”

“Still.”

“I’m sure if he’s there he’s using all his TK-enforced medical knowledge to help out as best he can.”

The rest of the ambulance ride was tense, but Nancy kept her light banter, mixing it with the odd reassurance as they moved through the streets of Austin. TK would never admit it but she was a good presence to have at times of stress, however mild or severe.

Thankfully, as soon as they crossed through the main entrance, an officer TK didn’t recognise scurried over to them, “this way, he’s really not well.”

“Can you tell us what happened?” Tommy beat TK to the punch. His mind was miles ahead of hers but hers was much clearer.

“I heard him being sick in the bathroom and thought maybe it was just a hungover civilian, a newbie with nerves or someone who lucked out with food poisoning so I didn’t think too much of it. After all, people tend to want privacy when they’re not feeling great but by the time I washed my hands I could still hear him throwing up.”

TK hissed in sympathy, not something he particularly felt like doing in the APD bathrooms after everything he’d heard about them from Carlos’ peeved text messages.

“I knocked on the door, just wanting to ask if there was anything I could do to help but he didn’t even lock the stall behind him. I took one look and knew he was really not well,” the officer continued, still walking at a brisk pace a few steps ahead of the crew. He seemed very agitated, sweeping his hands in large and frantic gestures as he talked. “I stayed with him for a bit, thinking I’d help him get cleaned up once he finished and talk to the captain about him heading home, but he just seemed to get worse and worse.”

TK scanned the bullpen, looking for any sign of Carlos, only to come up with his desk unoccupied. So he was probably out on a call, but TK couldn’t help the tiny part of his brain that was screaming at him.

“My partner called 911 when he just started shaking and muttering,” the officer pushed open the door at the furthest end of the bullpen, “he’s right in here. The first stall.”

They really didn’t need much clarification as there were a few officers gathered around, hovering nervously around the opening of the stall.

TK was the first one into the stall, catching sight of the sweat-slicked black curls that made his heart leap to his throat. “Alright can I get some space with the patient please?”

The officers parted easily, leaving TK to kneel on the floor of the bathroom stall and sling his bag off of his shoulder, unzipping it quickly. Carlos was leaning heavily against the side, sweat dripping off of him by the bucket. From what he had gathered from the other officer’s story, there was no way Carlos wasn’t dehydrated by now.

“Hey Carlos, how are you holding up?” TK asked softly, easily slipping his gloves on.

“TK?”

“Yeah, I’m here and I’m gonna take real good care of you.”

Groaning, Carlos reached out a hand to rest on TK’s knee, a simple contact, a much bigger comfort. “I told them not to call 911. It’s not that bad, babe. It’s nothing.”

“It doesn’t sound like nothing,” TK said, clicking his tongue. “I’m just gonna take your pulse if that’s alright?”

Carlos nodded, “mmhmm.”

Taking Carlos’ wrist in his hand and pressing his fingers over the pulse point, TK felt his own pulse spike. Carlos’ heart was racing, which he had to remind himself made sense for the amount of vomiting that had been going on.

“Pulse is 160, Cap.”

Tachycardia.

“That’s high,” Carlos hummed, his eyes heavy-lidded and not even looking at him.

“Can you tell me what symptoms you’ve been having?”

“Sick, mostly. My head is pounding and I’m a bit shaky. Mostly just throwing up my organs.” Carlos winced seemingly just at the thought of it, clearly the events leading up to their arrival had been particularly unpleasant. TK knew how much Carlos hated vomiting, insisting that he had never done so since he was fourteen, taking outrageous lengths to avoid it every time he was nauseous.

“That doesn’t sound very fun, but hopefully we can get you sorted out soon so you’ll feel better.”

TK turned to look over his shoulder, to find Nancy handing him a pulse ox before he could even ask. “Respirations are 24– pretty shallow.”

There wasn’t enough room for them to run vitals together but that was something she could do just by watching. Which TK was grateful for as he was too busy trying to figure out everything else to focus on counting respirations.

“You know the routine, I’m just gonna clip this on your finger. Might be a bit tight or uncomfortable.”

Carlos just hummed again, “go for gold.”

TK clipped the pulse oximeter on easily enough, already grabbing for the appropriate BP cuff as he waited for the reading, a soft beeping filling the air as it counted Carlos’ heartbeats.

“Have you taken any medication today?”

He was met with another lethargic noncommittal noise as Carlos found the energy to speak. “Tylenol–for the headache.”

“And when was that?”

“Few hours ago.”

“How many did you take?”

“Two.”

TK straightened Carlos’ finger to check the blinking red display on the screen of the pulse oximeter.

“SpO2 of 98%,” TK relayed, moving on quickly. That was a completely normal reading and it did good to ease his mind, even if it was only a tiny bit. “I’m going to take your blood pressure now, okay?”

Carlos just nodded this time, offering his arm to TK who was quick to feel for Carlos’ pulse, his fingers only needing to meet the inside of his elbow for a brief moment before TK felt it, a steady and strong thrum against his fingers.

The tearing of velcro was the loudest thing in the room as TK moved to wrap the cuff around Carlos’ bicep. “Are you still with me?” he asked as nonchalantly as possible, noticing Carlos’ silence and faraway look.

“Not going anywhere.”

“Good.” The diaphragm of TK’s stethoscope found its place in the same position his fingers had been a mere moment ago as he adjusted the way the air bulb sat in his palm. Twisting the valve shut in a few short movements between forefinger and thumb, he was ready to inflate the cuff.

“It’s going to get a bit tight in a few seconds but it’ll be quick.”

Carlos just hummed, completely used to the process by now.

TK watched the dial on the gauge climb with every pump of the bulb, until it hit 180 and he twisted the valve ever so slightly in the other direction. With a soft whoosh the cuff began to deflate.

The thunderous noise of Carlos’ heartbeat began filling his ears as the dial slid past the 150 mark– not ideal.

TK took the stethoscope out of his ears and completely opened the valve to let the cuff completely deflate as soon as he couldn’t hear the heartbeat anymore. Casually moving to remove the cuff he spoke.

“150/95.”

Hypertension.

Carlos furrowed his brows, undoubtedly trying to remember what normal readings were meant to be. TK didn’t think he’d figure it out, he seemed to be quite far out of it.

“When was the last time you had anything to eat or drink?”

“Lunch.” Carlos’ eyes were shut now as he tilted his head to lean against the wall behind him, taking slow and calculated breaths, his lips parted.

“What’d you have?”

“A sandwich, cupcakes Nate brought.”

TK was pulling his pupil torch out of his pocket as Carlos lurched, scrambling to hold onto the toilet and heave himself over it before throwing up. TK was quick to follow suit and support his partner’s frame as he heaved and shook with the force of his own bile leaving his mouth.

At least there was no blood in it. That was good enough for TK as he helped to aid his trembling boyfriend back into his previous position, wiping some of the curls plastered to Carlos’ forehead away in a slightly unprofessional manner.

“Nancy, run a line of saline,” Tommy’s voice came from behind them.

“On it, Cap.”

Carlos looked around lazily, still seeming quite dazed as he spoke. “Why? I don’t need an IV.”

“It’s just for dehydration, you’ve been throwing up a lot,” TK explained softly, in his most reassuring voice possible.

Reaching back into the kit on his belt TK grabbed his pupil torch again and clicked it on. “Just look at me while she does that. You’re going to feel a little pinch and I’m going to shine this light in your eyes. It’ll be a bit bright but just keep your eyes open and it will only take a couple seconds.”

Carlos was a wonderful patient, he didn’t even flinch as Nancy cannulated him and he just happily looked straight at TK as the light passed into the far side of one eye, and then the other.

As the light disappeared back into TK’s belt, Carlos blinked rapidly, a few tears gathering on his lash line.

“A bit bright?”

Carlos just nodded.

“Pupils are dilated but round and responsive.”

Here came the hard part.

“Any drugs or alcohol?”

“Nothing like that,” Carlos pursed his lips and looked up at TK with cloudy yet quizzical eyes, “why?”

“Just routine questions,” he explained with a shrug that he hoped seemed nonchalant and natural.

“Did you hit your head at all?”

“No.”

TK didn’t even notice Nancy move until she spoke softly. “Temp of 103°.”

Fever. TK had suspected as much.

It wasn’t a dramatic ordeal, but they would definitely have to take him to the hospital. Probably just to ride out the dehydration with an IV for a few hours and then sent on his merry way. But the hospital was definitely their next visit.

“Nancy, can you get the stretcher from the bus?”

“On it.”

TK was glad he had a team because he didn’t want to be away from Carlos for even a split second, let alone long enough to get the stretcher through the bullpen. But Tommy and Nancy had his back, they always would.

“We’re gonna have to swing by the hospital, get you checked out,” TK explained, already preparing for an objection.

“Seems dramatic, but I’m sitting in a puddle of sweat.”

“That you are. Think you’ll be able to walk to the stretcher when Nancy gets back?”

Carlos looked at him for a few moments before nodding slightly. “I can do it.”

Getting Carlos off the floor of the bathroom stall was not the easiest endeavour of TK’s career, the lack of space making it quite difficult to get the two of them on their feet but they made it in the end, Carlos leaning heavily on TK with half-lidded eyes.

“Just a few steps, yeah?” TK asked, making sure to shoulder as much of Carlos as possible, seeing how close Carlos was to losing the strength he needed to keep himself upright.

“I can do it, don’t worry,” Carlos assured him, clinging onto his boyfriend with one arm, his IV bag in hand as TK used both of his arms to support his weight.

Unfortunately the stretcher wouldn’t make it into the bathroom so Carlos had to walk out the door to get to it, but TK had hold of him and there was no way in hell that he was going to let go.

Carlos trudged on without a word, gaze transfixed on the door and the stretcher that lay just beyond it. He knew he had to get there, but only had to take himself that far and TK’s team would take care of the rest.

No matter what, they were there and they weren’t going to anything short of everything possible to help him.

“You’re doing great, just a bit further and you can kick your feet up.”

Just when TK thought it would just be a few more steps and this nightmare would be halfway over with Carlos situated on the stretcher, Carlos’ steps halted quite jarringly, startling TK.

“What is it?” TK asked, turning to Carlos, keeping his grip on his fiance firm, stabilising.

Just in time to see the rapid blinking as Carlos’ head tipped to the sky and his knees buckled.

It took all of TK’s fast reflexes just to keep Carlos from clipping his head on the sink as he went down. The tremors were full blown convulsions by the time the two of them hit ground.

“He’s seizing!” TK hissed, quickly turning Carlos onto his side.

“I’m timing it,” Nancy supplied hastily. If TK dared look away from Carlos he would likely find her looking frantically between her watch and Carlos’ quivering body.

It was the longest two minutes of TK’s life.

To kneel there helplessly while Carlos’ frame was wracked with a seizure was something TK had never imagined. Watching the spasms of his limbs, the jerky movements of his head, listening to the grunts and groans that bounced off the tile walls of this small space.

Horrific. If TK were to describe it in a single word.

Slowly, the seizure tapered off, as Carlos stilled, TK felt like he could breathe again.

He gave Carlos’ mouth a quick sweep, ensuring that it was clear, only a thick stream of saliva to drip onto the floor. “Airway is clear, he’s breathing.”

“Take another set of vitals,” Tommy instructed calmly but TK knew her well, he heard that unfamiliar edge to her voice.

Nancy took the lead on the next set, clearly sensing that TK was otherwise distracted, waiting for any signs of consciousness following the seizure. But he listened in as she relayed her findings.

“Pulse 165bpm.”

Carlos didn’t move, but TK’s eyes were locked on him, watching the slight way his lips shifted with every breath. He was breathing, he was going to be okay, he had to be.

“Respirations 18.”

Normal. TK had to convince himself that Carlos was going to be fine lest he fall apart right here and now in the bathroom of the APD precinct. Some rational part of his brain had to cling onto something that wasn’t the worst case scenario despite the fact that he just watched the love of his life have a seizure.

“SpO2 89.”

Panic struck. TK was about to move for the first time since Carlos stopped seizing, only to find Tommy had somehow appeared next to him, already sliding an oxygen mask over Carlos’ face and setting the tank next to TK’s leg.

“BP 85/50.”

“Let’s hook him up to the lifepak, TK help me roll him on his back,” Tommy said. But it lacked the firmness of an instruction, regardless of how eager TK was to do exactly as she said.

Carlos’ eyes remained firmly closed as Tommy anchored his head in place, maintaining his airway.

“TK, can you put an OPA in?”

“Yes, Cap,” TK said, a little too hastily.

There was something sickening about measuring up the airway. He’d done it a million times before but never like this, never lining up each end of the hook-shaped plastic tube with Carlos’ earlobe and the corner of his mouth, carefully shifting a reservoir mask out of the way.

The one with the blue tip was the perfect size.

TK couldn’t help his hand shaking as he used the other to hold open Carlos’ mouth, sliding the end of the OPA against the roof of his mouth until he felt resistance, and in the fluid motion he twisted the plastic and it easily fell into place with little assistance on his part, the plastic rim catching on Carlos’ teeth.

Realistically it had only taken him ten seconds, but it felt like forever.

He couldn’t stop himself from thinking of exactly how far the other end of the airway sat down Carlos’ throat.

Nancy was quick to unbutton Carlos’ shirt instead of pulling out her trauma shears, after all it was halfway undone when they arrived so why hack apart his uniform?

With the fluid placement of the pads and wires, Nancy clicked the lifepak on, the display quickly piecing itself together to show the team what they wanted to see. A normal rhythm.

“Okay, TK, on the count of three I want you to turn Carlos towards you, and Nancy get that backboard under him.”

If TK took a backseat in his brain it was normal, standard procedure. Nancy shifted the lifepak to the other side of Carlos’ pelvis, next to TK as she retrieved the backboard, lining up the green plastic with Carlos’ head and feet.

“One, two, three–” TK tucked a hand over Carlos’ shoulder, the other on his hip and pulled Carlos toward him and Tommy followed the motion, stabilising Carlos’ head, using her knee to hold her hand steady.

Nancy slid the backboard into place and with another count, Carlos was tipped back onto it and adjusted until he was situated perfectly in the centre.

Tommy and Nancy handled the whole affair of strapping him in and positioning the lifepack, oxygen tank and fluid bag. One between his ankles, the other on top of his legs, the last on his chest. TK just allowed himself the small kindness of running his fingers through Carlos’ hair, sweat-soaked strands catching on his nylon gloves, his fiance’s face unmoving.

Then it was just a matter of calling a few of the lingering officers back in to assist them in lifting the backboard onto the stretcher, Tommy completely taking charge, letting TK slip into autopilot as Carlos was secured and the stretcher lifted up to full height with a firm click.

Carlos woke slowly, like he was simply waking up from a nap instead of a seizure and likely overdose. At least that’s what the doctors said his labs indicated.

He’d been swapped from a reservoir mask to a nasal cannula as his oxygen levels improved and held steady since arriving at the hospital; he looked much more himself without half of his face obscured by medical-grade plastic.

Fortunately TK had been able to stay by his side the entire time, Tommy and Nancy not even mentioning it as they told him they had to get back to shift, Tommy pressing a soft kiss to the top of his head as they left, urging him to call with any updates. So he’d been sitting in a little curtained-off room of the ER in his paramedic uniform for three hours and he was itching to wear anything made of a fabric less firm and scratchy.

“Hey, handsome,” TK said, a soft smile curling his lips, “have a good sleep?”

Carlos took a few moments to process what TK said, clearly still piecing together his surroundings and where they lined up with his most recent memories. “Mm, what happened?”

“We’re not entirely sure yet but the doctors think it was an overdose.”

“An overdose of what?”

TK sighed. “Antidepressants, they think. I guess they just uh,” he gestured vaguely to his head, “yeah.”

Carlos’ face scrunched up in confusion. “But I didn’t take anything.”

“That’s the tricky part. Also the part that is going to have one of your coworkers coming by this evening to talk to you about. Especially due to your career, there’s a slight, but not negligible possibility that it may have been a targeted attack.”

“Are you saying that I got poisoned?”

TK hurried to interject. “We’re not sure, but it’s a possibility.”

“How would that have even happened?”

“Possibly if you ate or drank something that someone else prepared for you. Otherwise I’m not too sure. No one is saying that is what happened but until we know how you ended up overdosing, it’s still an option.”

Just the idea of someone setting out with intention to harm Carlos made TK’s stomach churn, it wasn’t the first time and yet he feared it may not be the last.

Carlos went eerily silent, a dark look overcoming his features. “The cupcakes… that Nate brought.”

Now that was a shock. Nathan was Carlos’ partner, they’d worked together for years and Carlos trusted him completely, with his life every call they went on. It made no sense, but Nate wasn’t at the precinct when TK walked in.

“And where was Nate when the ambulance arrived?” TK asked slowly, careful not to insinuate anything.

Carlos shook his head. “He went home not long after our lunch break– he wasn’t feeling well.”

That made more sense, but still made TK’s blood run cold. Considering the state they found Carlos in a matter of hours ago, what could be said for his partner who fell ill sooner and wasn’t admitted to the hospital three hours ago?

He was already pulling out his phone and scrolling through his contacts before Carlos could even speak, pressing the phone to his ear.

“Nathan Lovell. I’m not here right now, you know what to do.”

“Fuck.”

TK hung up and redialed faster than he could think to do it, his body just knowing what to do of its own accord.

“Nathan Lovell. I’m not-”

TK’s attention was grabbed by the loud opening of the ambulance bay doors just up the corridor, pulling the phone away from his ear to listen.

“Twenty-seven year-old male. Presented as a fever and blurred vision but now possible overdose. Seized twice since we arrived on scene. Arrested as we pulled in just now.”

“Resus is open, straight through those doors.”

Through the gap in the curtain TK watched the stretcher whisk past, swarmed with medical personnel. Nancy Gillian straddling the patient and delivering chest compressions.

“Is that–” Carlos started, sitting up to get a better look despite the fact that the scene before them was already long gone.

“I- I don’t know.”

#911 lone star #911 lone star fic #tarlos #tarlos fic #max forgot how to tag fics #userac #userkimmy #tuser-paige #userjilly #jazzyjess #max.doc

78 notes · View notes

model19 · 7 months

Note

slightly inspired by your latest reply to me, so: does jigen have a single job he'd class as The Worst?

what makes a job bad? what makes a job good?

Oo! This is a good question, I like this. There's a list for good jobs to check off. The following apply, but are not limited to, Treasure recovered ✓ Got to eat food ✓ It was fun ✓ Got to show off skills ✓ Ran away without issues ✓ There was time to smoke ✓

The worst job ever was one he took on his own.

He was in Germany. As early as late November is when the weary city starts to come to life with lights, and the people become a smidge more alive and excited, the younger more than the ones restlessly walking around the markets. The rooftops were slick with ice that had melted just a little in the morning,and now laid over with greyish snow. It was deceptive, how warm he thought his jacket would be in this weather. The wetness in the air makes the cold pierce through thin lined suits, even with layers to add thickness. The smallest hole let in cold air, even the slits where his buttons were pushed into their loose slots, seemed like open rips, straight to his skin. His cotton tie was cold to the touch when he brushed a snowflake off of it,belly against the slanted roof, where he'd had to clear a spot for himself to avoid higher chances of hypothermia, especially with the wind picking up. Unfortunately, without a mop, he couldn't prevent the pack of cigarettes in his pocket from getting soaked. The ache from the cold, and in his stomach was ignored, in favor of following a head in the crowd. It would be a while until Munich would clean up the festivities and this glitzy shut-in would disappear for another year. He came early. At the time, he was working down a hit list for a client that was going to pay him well for swiftness. It was a revenge that wasn't his own, and therefore, paid handsomely. But there's always someone with roughly the same amount of cash, looking to take out a rival. Two birds, and one bullet flung in his direction that made him skitter away from his rifle. He was younger back then, jumping and bailing on an operation would save his life faster than trying to locate where the bullets were firing from. The problem with being so reactive is that you miss key details, and for him, it was the patch of re-frozen ice that he stepped down onto, and his foot giving in at just the wrong moment. Spinal damage would've been catastrophic if he'd fallen off, but his ankle refused to agree. It made him crawl back in agony to the window, narrowly missing bullet after bullet. Managing the steps was a rush of adrenaline, to get out fast, and use all the weight he could afford onto the banister. A pole just outside the door kept him upright for seconds, until the very moment a familiar face came into his view, now in high definition and barely affording him a once-over before taking a flourishing step ahead. To anyone else, he looked taken aback by her chic beauty on a blistering cold day, so badly, that he fell again, into the hands that would lay him into a warm bed, cuing six weeks of recovery.

Not only was she someone of taste, but of heart, too. The irony made him silent, trying to remain uninteresting to the woman who had a dozen photos or more circulating in the papers of the man she'd caught in a deathly swoon, had she not caught him. She'd deemed herself his savior, and filled the silence of her guest room with simple English, which was met with affirmative grunts, or exasperated shaking of his head in the beginning of those long weeks. He learned her name, likes, dislikes, the fashion opinions of the time, her loneliness, the missing pieces of her family, and romantic view of the world, despite it all. She was vain, but naive. She learned that he was always hungry, and could be bribed with a bowl of anything that had meat as the main dish. Whatever filled the hours between, in turn, kept her away from flashing cameras, and she could keep him responding and talking if there was food involved. She learned that he had a sense of humor, and could be charmingly irritating on purpose, once she started to learn more of the language. In the end, it wasn't his finger on the trigger when her end came. But it was his bullet, and that was all his employer needed to sign the check over to him.

#crushed cigarettes:ooc #experthiese #Hi sorry this turned into a mini fic thanks #feel free to ask him about it if your muse is in the Gang

2 notes · View notes

chimielie · 2 years

Text

sour

summary: Oikawa x Reader. all the summer sweetness is gone

word count: 2.9k

cw: unrequited love, liminal spaces, and volleyball-er reader

a/n: written to cruel summer and death by a thousand cuts by taylor swift and shake it out by florence + the machine if you want the full experience

You graduate, turquoise and white and lime green swirling all around you, and when you’re promising to keep in touch and hugging more people than you ever recall speaking to in high school, you don’t feel nearly as loud as everyone else seems to on the inside. Everything is — muted. Your smile is worn on a body that’s being held by someone else.

Where are you going again? America, to play volleyball. Oh, it must be scary to go so far from home. Maybe, but I’m still really excited.

Besides, you think. You’re not leaving home. Home is leaving you.

Home is a five minute walk away, but seven if you just ask him to meet you in the field to set for you. Home gets a sparkle in his eye when he sees you and he throws his arms around you like it’s been years instead of hours and he’s a little bony around the edges but mostly he’s your happy place. Home can’t even fry an egg but he tried to make you celebration cookies and he didn’t know you were supposed to ice them after you baked them and you split the last one in half and licked the crumbs off each other’s fingers. Home is going to Argentina so he’ll be twelve hours away by plane instead of a short walk down the street and when you’re awake he’ll be asleep and when you text him he might not answer and if he forgets about you — you can’t breathe.

You have one last summer with him, you remind yourself. Ten weeks (but what are weeks to a lifetime?) to let Oikawa Tooru go.

Easy peasy, lemon squeezy.

The sun shines down yellow and bitter as you lounge outside, hat shading your face as you watch person after person hurl themselves into the pool. Iwaizumi curls his body up tight into a ball and hits the water with a bigger splash than anyone else, sending it washing up over the sides and nearly up to the edge of your towel, staining the concrete a darker grey. Next to you, Oikawa whoops, while you trail a hand through the fast-drying puddle. The first day of summer burns hot on your skin.

“We should get in,” he suggests. You startle out of a daze you didn’t know you’d slipped into and shake your head on instinct.

“It’ll be cold,” you say, knowing full well it’s too hot out for it to be anything but pleasant. “I hate getting into the pool.”

“Just jump, do it all at once and get it over with,” and his roguish grin takes the temperature up even further. Awful, awful.

“The shock,” you complain, but you stand up and take your hat off and put your hands on your hips. “I’m gonna be mad at you for five minutes minimum after we get in.”

“Make it ten,” he says, and slides an arm around your waist and one beneath your thighs. You knew he was strong from the way he served, but holy shit, he’d never done this before. You’re weightless in the air for a moment, your betrayed gaze locked on his brown eyes as you fall backwards, and then you’re submerged in icy water, floating down into the blue, flailing in no particular direction as your mind tries to catch up with your body.

“Asshole!” You sputter when your head breaks the surface, chlorine in your eyes and up your nose. “Shit, bitch, motherfuck!”

Oikawa, floating on his back, laughs so hard his head dips under and he chokes.

Deserved, you think, and splash him when he comes up for air. He shakes his head like a dog and little droplets of water fly in all directions, but not far enough to hit you. His hair still looks good when he’s done, slicked back and dislodged, which is just salt in the wound.

“You were gonna get in anyway!” He defends himself belatedly, and shrieks when you splash him again.

“I could have died,” you say fiercely, “My death would be on your hands.”

“You can’t die,” he dismisses you, waving a hand to ward away the grim reaper. Whatever the Grand King says goes. “Speaking of, I have a summer bucket list.”

“Of course you do,” Hanamaki butts in. “You think you’re the main character of a rom-com.”

“You’re a minor antagonist in a sports show at best,” snorts Matsukawa, making wide paddling motions with his arms despite being in the shallow end.

“Maybe I just want to make the most of it with you guys,” Oikawa tries to gather everyone into a group hug, but the sensation is altogether too sticky to be comfortable and he’s left clinging to the neck of Makki’s swan floatie.

“Be honest,” you smirk. “How many of the bullet points actually have to do with us beyond bringing us along for the ride?”

He considers, counting on his fingers.

“Two.”

“Out of?”

“You guys are so nosy. So what if there are some loose ends and unfinished business I want to tie up? You’re not my only friends.”

“Yes, we are,” Iwaizumi says, disregarding every other person in the pool here at Oikawa’s invitation.

“Whatever,” he huffs. “Then I’ll go make some.”

He climbs out of the pool, and you can’t help it if you watch the way his wrists bend and his back muscles flex, because everyone’s staring after Oikawa, like always. You watch him run a hand through his hair, tilting his head back and closing his eyes momentarily, with a sinking heart, because you know exactly what loose ends your best friend wants to tie up before he goes.

You see him at the ice cream shop with your family, oblivious to the rest of the world (you’d tease him for his tunnel vision if you could) as he leans across the two-person table to stare into the eyes of his accompaniment, his lips stained red from a spoonful of his cherry sherbet. You see him at the park, swinging his legs as he chats, always animated no matter the topic. You see him holding vines out of the way as someone else ducks under them, the shortcut to the field he likes to practice in taken up by two familiar figures. You take the long way around just to go home.

You’re the last one at his house, the lights all low and the curtains shut to keep the heat out. Iwaizumi had to go have dinner with his family, and Mattsun’s parents were out for the night so he was on babysitting duty, and Makki had a date you were pretty sure he was lying about. Against all your better judgment, you wanted to let this linger.

Oikawa slumps on the couch, silence thickening the already humid air. You keep your eyes on the blank blue wall. He sighs and pulls out his phone when it buzzes, holding it by the fingertips as though it’ll electrocute him.

“The weather in Buenos Aires is thirteen degrees,” he says. “I wish I were there right now.”

“Don’t rush off so fast,” you respond. “Are you that eager to leave us behind? Huh, Tooru?”

“You never call me that when we’re with other people,” he says.

“What?”

“My name. You only call me Tooru when we’re alone.”

“Oh, I hadn’t noticed,” he’s staring at you too intently. You shift in your seat a little, trying to turn away. “I guess, I don’t know, it feels so personal. Like it should be private.”

“I like it,” he says, too offhandedly. “I wish you’d say it more often. You don’t have to be so formal with me.”

“Okay, Oikawa-senpai,” you say.

“No,” he whines. “That’s so wrong, that’s not even right.” (He’s glad the room is dark, though, because he’s pretty sure his face is completely red.)

“Fine, fine, you big baby. I’ll call you — your name more often from now on. We only have a few more weeks for it, anyway.”

“Don’t say that,” he says, but it’s quiet. It settles over you like a heavy blanket, that you don’t know how busy you’ll be, both of you, that people drift apart even when they think they’ll know each other forever. You’re afraid to be a stranger to Tooru, but you think it’s just dawning on him. He’s scared, too. You can’t promise him the future like he couldn’t for you, but you can press a little closer so your sides are touching. He throws an arm around you and pulls you in, his face set in a pout.

“I miss you,” you mumble.

“I’m right here,” he says, knuckle tracing your cheek. His phone buzzes, once, then twice. You catch a flash of the screen when he checks it, his thumbs flying to respond before he tucks it away again. You suddenly feel an overwhelming urge to cry, to lean further into him and push him away all at once.

“Are you really?” You mumble into his collarbone.

“What do you mean?” His voice takes on that challenging, joking tone he used to differentiate between provocation and friendly joshing.

“I hate you,” you can’t look at him, burrowing your face further into his shirt. “I miss you and you haven’t even left yet. I hate this I hate it I hate it.”

“Don’t be like that. It’ll be okay, we’ll figure it out. I love you,” he rubs your arm gently, soothing. Your breath comes out in sobs. How is he supposed to know he’s making it worse?

He understands, when you apologize over text from the safety of your home. You’re emotional, going through a lot of changes. He understands because he’s in the same boat.

You think despairingly that he’ll never understand.

“There’s smoke in my face,” Makki complains, his face red from the glow of the bonfire you’re sitting around. One of Oikawa’s bucket-list ideas, of course.

“Here, switch with me,” you say. “I’ll sacrifice my lungs for you.”

“Thanks, but you really shouldn’t,” he stands, changing positions and sitting in your seat. The wind changes immediately, a steady stream of smoke following your pink-haired friend. “Fuck.”

“Sorry,” Mattsun claps him on the shoulder. “We’ve done all we can do.”

“You could put out the fire,” he grumbles. Ominously, a clap of thunder sounds overhead.

Minutes later, all five of you are soaked, the fire a smoldering pile of wet twigs. You scrunch your nose.

“Should we go in the tent?”

The tent is waterproof, thankfully, but the mood has already been dampened.

“I hate summer storms,” you say just to say something.

“I think they’re pretty cool,” shrugs Iwa, shoving a number of marshmallows into his mouth. Mattsun nods, trying unsuccessfully to grab the bag from the spiker.

“I’m just glad there’s no more smoke in my face,” Makki says. You fake a groan.

“What about you, Tooru? Are you on my side?”

“You’re cheating,” he complains. “But I don’t like thunder very much. So. Yes.” You cheer, reaching out to high-five him, but he leaves you hanging. You frown but retreat with good graces, waiting for the sudden awkwardness to dissipate.

“Guys,” Mattsun says, some time later. “I think we should adopt a cat together.”

“That’ll be hard,” you laugh. “What are Tooru and Iwa and I supposed to do, have scheduled video calls with it? I don’t even know if we’ll be able to coordinate one on one with each other.”

“Ouch-” says Makki, laughing.

“Not all of us are planning to abandon everyone else as soon as we step on the plane,” Tooru says, decidedly not laughing.

“Where did that come from?” You hate that your voice shakes. “Actually, sorry, I’m not, though. I just-”

You don’t finish your sentence. Tooru stands up wordlessly, a cruel expression on his pretty, pretty face, and unzips the door to the tent. Before he can zip it up after himself, you throw yourself after without a second thought.

He stares at you as you clamber out into the rain, his eyebrows raised into a guilty expression but his mouth shut. You cast a glance at the now-zipped door and start walking, somewhere, anywhere.

You can’t hear his steps, but when you turn, he’s behind you.

Eventually, you find a spot beneath some trees that you deem far enough and you sit at the base of one, not caring that your clothing is getting even more wet than the first rainshower did.

“Don’t do that,” frowns Tooru, extending a hand to you. “You’re gonna get mud on your butt.”

You shake your head mutely and stay down, wrapping your arms around your knees and resting your head so that the forest turns sideways.

“Please don’t give me the silent treatment,” he says, and it’s too harsh to be begging, but it’s too pathetic to be anything else. He crouches in front of you, but the water rolling over the dirt captivates your attention, keeping it away from his face.

“You’re not fair, Tooru,” you mumble. “You’re mean.”

“You said you hated me,” he points out.

“I didn’t mean it.”

“Did you?”

“Of course I didn’t,” you say, “I could never hate you. You’re my best friend.”

“Then why can’t you understand the way I’m feeling? You act like we’re already miles apart and you’ve been avoiding me, I know you have, when all I wanted this summer was to be with you as much as possible, and I don’t know what I did wrong!” He bursts out, and your heart is bleeding from a thousand cuts. He doesn’t know that you wanted it more, that you want more. He doesn’t know that the yawning, aching want inside you is eating you out of house and home. “Is it so wrong that I miss you, too? You’re leaving and I miss you! I don’t want to fight,” he says brokenly, and cups your face in cold hands. “Not now, not ever.”

Home is in the woods, holding each other in the rain, soaked to the bone and somehow still happy, because you have him.

“I love you,” you say, and the words echo back to you how he hears them: friendly and easy and altogether wrong. “I love you, I love you, Tooru.”

Sendai International Airport is all shining glass under gray skies the day you depart. You stare up at the entrance with an apprehensive gaze, your fingers strangling the handle of your suitcase. On the other side of this building looms a whole new life.

You don’t realize how frozen you feel until familiar arms wrap around you, rocking you side to side until you relax into them, your breath coming deeper and more easily.

“I miss you,” Tooru croons into your ear. “Don’t go. Just wait, just ten days. Come with me to Argentina, you can travel in my suitcase and I’ll feed you fresh fruit.”

“Fruit does sound pretty good right about now,” you say with a shaky smile. The flight was so early and your stomach was so jumbled with anticipation you couldn’t eat. Tooru hums knowingly and gives you an extra tight squeeze before releasing you.

“Don’t worry,” he says, looking you seriously in the eye. “You’re reaching for the stars. No matter what, that’s worth it. I know how much you love volleyball—”

“I know,” your heart squeezes with fondness, because Tooru’s life and lover will always be the game. As green-eyed as you’d been this summer, you knew that in ten days his loose ends would all be cut.

“And I know you’ll do great things. That kind of love can survive anywhere. I’d never take you away from that.”

You think wistfully of a world where he’d asked you to come with him earlier, not tucked into his pocket or folded into his suitcase, but in the seat next to him. Your hand would be clasped in his, ready to let go of everything else for the chance to chase this dream. That kind of love could survive anywhere.

He didn’t, though, and a love so strong was diluted by half when it wasn’t returned. Part of you thinks that it (love, love, love) might be all the more ardent for its futility. The rest of you is tired of squeezing blood out of a stone.

Love dies slow, painfully so. It waits for weakness, ready to crawl in and prise apart carefully constructed walls meant to hold you up in its sudden absence. It won’t stop hurting for a long time yet; you love your ambitions and you loved Tooru more. You cannot walk in both directions at once without tearing yourself apart. One will interrupt the other. Tooru might be blind, but he speaks to the spirit of it.

Tooru loves you: not the way you want, but the way you need. He trusts that if you grow apart, you’ll meet again at the root and the crown. You will never truly be without him. He loves you enough to let you go.

You watch your family, a few more of your friends approach. Between them are little travel charms, things they think might make the move easier. A banner that reads Rule the court, though it’s not in the Aoba Johsai colors. You wrap an arm around Tooru and pull him close to wave at them, a smile splitting your face.

You think it’s only right you do the same.

#oikawa x reader #oikawa tooru x reader #oikawa toru x reader #oikawa tōru x reader #oikawa angst #haikyuu!! x reader #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu!! angst #haikyuu angst #haikyuu!! x reader angst #hq x reader #hq!! x reader #hq x reader angst #hq!! x reader angst

185 notes · View notes

toruvi · 2 years

Note

I was thinking about Sugar daddy Levi who takes you on a business trip and you guys are walking the car lot to pick up the rental car because it’s Levi and he can pick any car he wants and he going for the super clean and slick black heavily tinted Volvo or BMW but then you stop in front of a yellow convertible sports car and he immediately is like “no.” Before you even say anything. So your just are trying to convince him to live a little! ITS A RENTAL! Business trips are kinda like mini vacation, right?

"We're here for a business." You've been trailing behind Levi as he glances around the lot, tugging on his sleeve. He sighs for the nth time. "Also--yellow? Seriously? That's the ugliest color on a car."

"Not true--orange is the ugliest and oh come on! I've never ridden in a convertible before!"

He deadpans. "It's the middle of winter. You wanna feel the ice on your face right before you get frostbite or something?"

"You're so boring."

You wrap around his right arm, hugging him against your chest with a pout. He knows what you're doing. Seeing how you look at him out of the corner of his eye. The look that always has him caving in for you. He spoils you too damn much.

"Pretty please? It could be fun, you always go for the same boring car anyway. Just change it up a bit!"

His eyes roll but you only hug his arm tighter. There’s a few moments of your silent begging before he loosens up.

"Fine, only this one time. And stop giving me the wounded puppy dog look."

You blink, then giggle. He shakes his head, hiding his own smile with a feigned look of annoyance. He's not a weak man--not normally. Though...

Maybe a little, with you.

You're practically skipping on the way back to the front desk, vibrating as he's signing the papers. "Thanks, Levi."

"Yeah, yeah." He murmurs, focused on reading the documents and only slightly distracted by your satisfied humming. You're playing with his fingers at his side, hidden behind the counter. He appreciates the warmth of your hands despite the cold bite of the air outside.

When the keys are being handed over, he just knows the other question you're burning to ask. You look like you're about to burst by the time you two reach the ridiculous bright yellow convertible.

"Can I drive it?"

"Sure," Levi holds up the keys. You light up instantly.

"Really?!"

"No.” They’re whipped out of reach again and tucked straight into Levi’s coat pocket.

"Oh my god. Just say no the first time!"

The car shakes when you plop down in the passenger seat, crossed arms and a not-so-serious glare right after the door is slammed shut. You miss the sound of Levi's laughter outside.

"You always fall for it," he mutters to himself right before he opens his own door.

Though who knows, he might just cave in on that too, someday.

#screaming crying #where is my sd levi :///////////#asks #in which he takes you for business and every time you slowly convince him a little more to have fun each trip #CRIES #the way hed feel stupid for driving such an obnoxiously bright car but its worth it when he sees how happy you are to have the top down #the cold wind blowing against your face :(( youre too excited to care about the temperature :(((#drabbles #he says its the only time hell rent such a ridiculous looking car but you know you could convince him again fkjshd

68 notes · View notes

bibliocratic · 3 years

Text

clear the area jonmartin, post-MAG200 content warnings in the tags

They earn their ending. A happy-ever-after beyond the gaze of any eyes.

Jon endures his abdication. This world has no Archivists, has need of none, the thankless crown of Knowing finally unburdened from his shoulders. The blood washes off Martin’s hands with soap and scrubbing and scalding water. They live.

The end. In conclusion. Fin.

Jon’s new scar, the packaging of his skin split ragged from collarbone to sternum, fades like sun-caught paint. A maw of red pursing to a gummy primrose pink, settling into a rough cartography of white.

The first few months are hard. Brimstone flare-up silences and ice-pick shouting, open-handed forgiveness and closed-fist weeping. They drain themselves to husks with anger and worry and grief until there is enough space for better things to grow there in their stead. Jon’s nightmares were a nightly stormfront to bear, sweated sheets and dawn fanfares of panic and dread, but he is learning now, with the space for his ribs to expand, that it is ok for them to breathe here.

Jon digs up the garden with a rusty trowel until it is a bumpy canvas of mulch and soil, dirt tucked under his fingernails and decorated with smudges up to his elbows. He hums while he irons their shirts in front of the television, thoughtless and senseless with tune.

Martin has tried to, but the sound goes down the wrong way.

Martin is happy.

It isn’t the sight as such, that might sit as a film over his vision to tinge his waking sepia. The reddest thing they own is a terracotta plant plot brimming with raggedy thyme that lives a precarious cliff-top existence on the kitchen windowsill. He observes Jon’s face in all its variations, even pained – when he snags splinters in his fingers, when he stubs his toe on the stone front step and swears damnation – and his response is sympathy tempered by admonishment.

It’s not the sensation, not really, that might tremble on his skin. Martin’s palms tend to dryness inside their homely bubble of creaky central heating, hemmed in by boisterous coastal winds. He handles bread knives and butter knives and steak knives and carving knives without the muscle memory of other blades, and he thinks he might be getting pretty handy with his oven experimentation.

It’s the sound. It wakes him, the noise lingering like the echo of a slap.

The slick punch of metal into muscle. A tooth-bared, tense-jawed gasp.

Resurfacing to shocked consciousness, he would be seized by a frenzy, to know, to check. His scattering hand scrabbling for the lamp with such force he hit it off the nightstand to roll in a giddy clatter, throwing off the covers to rapidly pollute both of them with the outside air. Jon would be rocked from sleep, groggy, panicked, and Martin’s words would not come, a train of thought trying to race full steam where no one had laid tracks, so it would be just the two of them, exhausted and upset and amping the other up in misery.

Now, upon his rousing, Martin knows not to turn on the light. He does not check. The aftermath of punch-gasp curls in his ear, and he inhale-exhale-inhales with the ferocity of mantra, and clamps the threatened tears in the clench of his teeth.

He does not wake Jon.

“How did you sleep?”

“Oh, you know me. Like a log.”

He is happy. He is. Why wouldn’t he be?

Jon rumbles like a rusty mechanism with snoring whenever he drops off on his back, and he mumbles accusatory when Martin coaxes him to his side. Martin finds black hairs on his pillowcase, in the shower plug. Jon is a vista of experience since the Eye left him, who gets hungry and tired and grumpy and drunk and silly and fed-up and giggly. Jon searches him out with the surety of magnets, and loves him, loves him, loves him. He seals kisses to Martin’s new landscape of extensive scars. Their disagreements, when they surface, are as meaningful and lasting as stones skipped on water.

Martin wanted this. He wants this. The rhythms of domesticity fading to foam on an untroubled shore.

He is out of practise with happiness, that’s all. It doesn’t come to him like breathing. He needs to till the earth of it, shelter its seeds from a thousand circling crows until it bears harvest.

He just has to try harder.

Night-time.

An episode or two of something simple, Jon nodding off like a capsizing ship before the credits. Encouraging him up in grousing, unwilling increments, rubbing out the nettle sting of pins and needles up his own arm. Check the locks, the light switches. Brush teeth. Pyjamas. Put his phone to charge, read until Jon succumbs to sleep. Click the light off, pushing Jon onto his side so his mouth doesn’t dry. Jon squirming around like a fastidious octopus until he has at least half his limbs hooked over Martin.

The dark creating shadow play. In the absence, Martin colouring in the gaps with lurid shades of disaster.

A creak – the rattle of a door downstairs, an intruder unfastening the back door, transferring their weight upon the staircase. A unfamiliar scent – the recollection of smoke-stench in his nostrils, the acrid promise of gas, the ferrous pungency of blood. The rain will flood their house to drown them. The wind will blow their roof in. Jon hooks his leg around Martin, the skin void of hair where Daisy’s mouth had almost torn it off, and all he can envision is the ways this could be destroyed as he watches.

Bundle Jon close. Ignore the rain, the itch at the bottom of his stomach, the queasy roil of his fear. Drift into unkind sleep populated with its garden of earthly terrors.

Martin is… not happy. Not exactly. And that’s fine. It’s fine.

Jon is happy.

Jon, rubbing at the compression lines around his hips, the accusatory splay of the top button refusing to budge closed:

“I can’t fit into my jeans.”

Martin enfolds him from behind, planting his palms over the slight paunch of Jon’s stomach, filled out through sensible eating and small indulgences and a hunger that will never be ravenous but has restored its human qualities.

“Hmm. It’s a good look on you. Healthier.”

“Or it’s middle age.”

“Or it’s eating things that aren’t tea and meal-deal sandwiches.”

“Or other people’s terror.”

“Oh yes, you’re right, I completely forgot about your subsistence diet of eldritch and unbidden horrors in a luscious wholegrain wrap, forgive me.”

Jon laughs at that. The sound has not yet lost its novelty for either of them.

He shifts, turns, his arms a buoy around Martin’s stomach.

“You’ve lost weight.”

“Must be all the clean air,” Martin quips. “All that healthy living.”

Punch. Gasp. Exhale.

Martin wakes up.

When his heart has wound down from the pace of its gallop, he extricates himself from Jon’s grip. It is a laborious task to find the places where they’ve joined in the night and pull them apart, like separating fabric snagged on rosebushes.

He gets some water from the cold tap in the kitchen. Sits heavily on the sofa, the room cossetted by the gloom.

Punch. Gasp. Exhale.

His hands shake.

He doesn’t go back to bed.

He isn’t happy, but he could grow to be. He could. He could. He just isn’t trying hard enough.

Some days, he feels like he’s waiting for the ice to give under them.

Check the passers-by as they walk. Anyone familiar, any teeth filed too sharp, anything animal or blood-shot, any eyes that glance too deep.

Check the oven. The gas knobs are angled to off but a leak is not impossible in a house this old, their alarm might malfunction, they might fall asleep and some spark from a plug socket could catch and incite a conflagration.

Check the window latches. The opening wide enough for a body to squirm through, the claws of a Hunter marring the sill. Wriggling infestations that invade through the letter box, the keyhole, the gap under the door where the wind can whistle through.

Check. Check. Check.

Jon is happy. Jon has a job, work friends, a hundred small luxuries that he has struggled to earn. Jon is happy, so why can’t he be? He went through so much less, the blood washed off easily with soap, what the fuck does he have to cry over –

Martin has always crafted his masks from scrap, tongue out in concentration, piecing things together in low light, a make-do-and-mend of his own devising. His early efforts, the paper mâché and glue easily cracked before he learned to shore up his constructions. He has a small collection garnered over years.

The quiet-voiced, muffled-stepped, muted-smiled creation of a Good Son.

The zipped-mouth, no-refusals-no-complaints-yes-of-course-how-high earnestness of the Good Employee, the desperation sanded off the edges so no one could see.

The I’ll-get-the-first-round friendliness, the open-handed, open-hearted, too-naïve Good Colleague.

This new mask forms in increments, in the same way a rising mound of dirt marks the extent of a grave being dug.

He doesn’t mean to. It’s just he’s better at not talking about things. He always has been. And it is an ugly, easy comfort, to slip back into bad habits.

And Jon is happy.

All the things Martin does not wish to permit the light to touch he compresses inside like shaken soda. The rot in him deepens structural, the places where he papers over moulds and fungal speckles with the distraction of their new life. His smile parades simple, contented, cheeky, teasing, and there is a meticulous artistry in each. He sketches interest, paints joy, manufactures irritation out of the clay of nothingness that he allows himself to feel instead of the overwhelming rush of everything else.

I love you, his mouth murmurs, laughs, sighs, groans, and that at least is always true.

The mask of a Good Partner slips on tailor-made.

They find their nine-to-fives. Jon’s job is uneventful, boring, and nowhere near an Archive. He works in a registry office for the council, filing and organising and he’s cheerfully lied on his CV in order to get it. He gets the bus and texts Martin grumpy faces and GIFs summarising his mood when he gets suck in the commute or some idiot parks in a bus lane, he has a couple of colleagues he likes and a greater number that he tolerates, he gets a hot chocolate from this universe’s overpriced multinational chain on his lunch hour. When he gets home, he complains with delight at the mundanity of his dissatisfactions, regales Martin with tales of meagre drama.

Martin gets a cleaning job at a school. It is monotonous, dull and safe. Martin loses track of the time easily, quagmired in his musings. The children are wary of him and his visible scarring but it doesn’t bother him as much as he thought it would. The teachers are friendly enough, as well as the other cleaning staff, but he does not make friends. They’ll have to move anyway, if anything finds them here, if the Fears emerge again.

Martin tries not to feel like he’s waiting.

He wants to have a good night’s sleep.

“I’ll have breakfast at the school, don’t worry.”

“There were some leftovers from the canteen, so I’m kind of full.”

“It was one of the teacher’s birthdays, you know, Denise? Heh, might have had a bit too much cake. I’ll pop this in the fridge for later though, it’ll keep till tomorrow.”

“I’m just not that hungry tonight, Jon.”

He feels sharper when he doesn’t eat. It is uncomfortable, a scratched-out, hollowing sensation, but things focus more. He can control nothing else but this, and it feels good, to have this mastery over himself when so much is beyond him.

He drops down notches on his belt and tells Jon it’s all the walking he’s doing.

The world continues to happen to them. He goes to the cinema with Jon and picks at popcorn and encourages Jon’s outraged opinion. He meets Jon’s mildly interesting work friends and plays nice and excels at small talk, and he drinks half a cider that he nurses over the evening because it’s making his head fuggy. His body communicates its sharpness to him and he gains grim satisfaction from ignoring it. He goes to work and goes home and doesn’t sleep and goes to work and goes home and doesn’t sleep.

Martin does his best at living, and his mask doesn’t slip.

“You seem tired,” Jon pries his words out carefully, picking them out of his teeth as one would scraps. “Is… is everything ok?”

“Yeah, sure it is. Why?”

“… you seem a bit down today. Recently. Is anything… is there anything you want to talk about?”

“I’ve just been working too hard. Been a while since I had to do double-shifts, heh, I’m not as young as I used to be.”

“If you’re sure?”

Jon shifts to a different position where he’s sat on the sofa, his legs tucking up under him. Martin endures his questioning gaze with practise.

“Yeah, I’m all good.”

Martin delivers a hand-crafted smile that’s gilded heavily with guilelessness and reassurance. He watches as Jon believes him and hates himself.

“You know… You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but you can – you know you can talk to me, Martin?”

Martin’s eyes focus on Jon’s chest at the point where a knife once sunk in, and doesn’t reply.

Punch. Gasp. Exhale.

Martin wakes up.

Jon has twisted over onto his back again, rattling like a chain-smoker’s cough with his snoring. They were quiet that evening, tangled up in their own thoughts, but there is none of that distance in sleep. During the night, Jon’s wormed himself out of the covers with a single-minded determination, his restless legs squashing the duvet to the bottom of the bed on his side, encouraging Martin’s to follow suit.

He’s shirtless, his top chucked off to pile unceremoniously on the floor. The temperature is ripe with a burgeoning summer heat, and Jon tosses and complains if he’s overwarm, and Martin didn’t think he’d get to feel the drudgery of another lived summer. He’s shirtless, and the room is palled in sweltering dark that softens the vague shapes of the wardrobe, the chest of drawers, the knickknacks of the life they’re building together. He’s shirtless, and Martin cannot see where the scar is, the only scar of Jon’s he has ever thought ugly, but he knows it is there. That he put it there. That he could just as easily be waking up alone.

His body pains him to live in it. His stomach tight and bottomed out empty.

He is so so tired.

Martin’s heartbeat does not slow down. His chest constricting, and he swallows, a sharp sound hiccupping in his throat. He stifles it with a forceful sniff but more come as a painful spasming wave, and he has to sit up if any air is to dribble into his lungs.

He should get up. He has to get up, do this in the bathroom, doubled-over the sink, stifling his weakness where it cannot be witnessed. He cannot do this here.

Punch. Gasp.

His burning face is soaked as he bunches up his sleeves against his reddening eyes. A calming exhale drains out shaky, moulds itself into another loud sob. He plants his hands over his mouth, screwing his eyes closed, and this will pass, he’s fine, this will pass…

“Martin?”

I’m sorry to wake you, he thinks to say. It’s nothing, go back to sleep, stop looking at me Jon, I’m fine, I’m fine, it’s nothing, it’s nothing…

His shoulders start to shake.

“Martin?” Jon repeats slowly. And the ice creaks and cracks and Martin gasps and then it breaks, and the force of his damned-up grief is tidal, catastrophic and he sobs into his hands.

“It’s… it’s alright – it’s… it was a nightmare, that’s all, ‘s alright…”

“It’s not!” Martin bubbles out, the words mashed to a wail in his hands. “It’s not, it’s not, it’ll ruin this…”

“Hey.” Jon brings his arm around Martin and he buries his head in the bony crook of his shoulder because he does not want to meet Jon’s eyes. “What do you mean? Martin?”

Jon rubs at his back. Martin’s body betrays him in a hundred ways as it collapses around him. His weeping wrings him out, dry-mouthed and headachy and trembling when he subsides into shivery breaths.

“Talk to me,” Jon says. “Please.”

“You’re so happy,” Martin sniffs out. “I-I want you to be happy, god, o-of course I do. Things are, they’re good, they’re good and we won, s-s-so why does it feel like I’m still holding my breath? I-I go to bed and I’m frightened of every noise, and I wake up and I’m terrified that someone somehow could take this all away, and I can’t sleep, and I-I’m tired, Jon, I’m tired of holding my breath, and it’s all – it’s all so much a-a-a-and I can’t – ”

“Oh, Martin – ”

His words fail him then. Jon holds him up and his arms do not loosen.

“We-we’re going to fix this,” Jon says after a long while. “I promise you, together, we’ll – we’ll talk to someone. You aren’t alone in this. Together, alright, we’ll do this together. We’ve survived – everything else, we can get through this too.”

“I don’t know if I can believe you,” Martin says, too drained to avoid honesty.

“…Maybe not yet,” Jon says after a pause. “That’s OK. I can wait.”

I’m sorry, Martin attempts to say but Jon presses a kiss to his forehead.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Jon says. He strokes Martin’s sweat-soaked hair.

“… Can we talk? Tomorrow? You don’t have to tell me everything, but… I’d like to be there for you, if you want me. If you’ll let me.”

Martin nods because he doesn’t trust his gummed-up throat. Jon takes that as an answer.

Dawn comes in slowly enough but they see it in together.

#tma #the magnus archives #cw racing thoughts #cw anxiety #tw eating disorder #tw ptsd #ask to tag #cw nightmares #martin blackwood #jonathan sims #jonmartin #tma spoilers

465 notes · View notes

ichorai · 3 years

Text

frozen hearts, flaming arrows ; p.sh

parts ; one. masterlist. two coming soon.

pairing ; fire!seonghwa x ice!reader

summary ; two enemy clans. one icer healer, one flamer soldier, one brewing war. love was never meant to be a part of this. but then again, when is love ever supposed to be a part of anything?

words ; 7.3k

warnings / includes ; cursing, violence, a make-out scene !!, future suggestive / mature content, hwa being sexy as always, ANGST okay this is a lot of ANGST and hURT, enemies to friends to enemies to lovers trope lol

a/n ; bet yall didn’t see this one coming lol but yea pls enjoy !!! im rlly excited for this series omg !!! im sorry this part was rlly short and kinda bad kkdfjdf but this is just the beginning and i swear part two will be much better !!

A snowflake glowing a luminescent blue lazily floated above your palm, multiplying into several others until you held a mini-flurry in your hand. You walked past all the frosted-over trees, huffing in deep breaths of cold air as your boots stepped over piles of unblemished snow and crispy dead leaves.

Being a healer was exhausting. Though you were still fairly new to the job, you couldn’t help but lay all the blame on yourself for being incapable of saving a life today. You just… hadn’t expected there to be that much blood. Icers had thicker blood for a reason; it wasn’t usually a problem. The head healer tried to reassure you that you did everything you could, but you couldn’t stand to be in the medbay for much longer. You needed air.

And that’s how you ended up here, head spinning dizzily as you stomped through the wintry grey forest, releasing out a frustrated groan from the bottom of your lungs.

“You’re dangerously close to our territory, Icer.” The sudden deep-timbered voice had you flinching so harshly you hit your head on an icy tree branch. “I’d watch my step if I was you.”

Breath caught in your throat, you watched with wide eyes as the Flamer stepped out of the shadow of a tree. He was undeniably handsome; his irises were dark, flecked with a fierce gold the same hue as the edge of a fire, his slicked-back hair a nightly black, and a curl of his carmine lips that was nowhere near friendly. An obvious insignia of a red flame was embedded into his unwrinkled jacket, a clear sign of this man being from the Fire Tribe.

“I’m sorry. I hadn’t realized I was so close to the border.” You murmured, backing away slowly. The small snowflakes that you had accumulated in your palm quickly dissipated into the air, but miniscule particles of snow still floated around you, no doubt a result of your quaking nerves.

Noticing this, the man watched curiously as a snowflake drifted by him. He raised a finger towards the ice crystal, a small orange flame bursting out of the tip. The snowflake melted into a droplet of water, falling to his feet. You noticed the snow had melted away from him in a large circle around his shoes, now standing in a patch of wet grass. Even from the great distance between the two of you, you could still feel the wavering heat pulsating from this strange man.

“What are you doing so far away from your people?”

You knew you shouldn’t be talking to a Flamer stranger. They were dangerous, and it was common knowledge that Icers and Flamers weren’t on the best terms as of late.

“I couldn’t be there anymore,” You whispered, just loud enough for him to pick up. At his raised eyebrows, you continued on. “I’m a healer. It was a lot of pressure not to mess up.”

He nodded, his curiosity getting the best of him. He stepped closer and asked, “Then why are you a healer?”

“Because I’m good at it.” The words came off far too snobbish for your liking, so you quickly added in a sheepish tone, “Also because I like helping people.”

The two of you fell into a queer silence, before he nodded, somewhat satisfied with your answer. The Flamer turned his back to you, “I best get going now. The lands aren’t going to patrol themselves. Run back to the rest of your people, Icer.”

You could feel his heat retract as he walked away. More snow fell to cover his tracks, as if the strange man with flaming eyes was never there.

It wasn’t until the same time the next day that you found yourself strolling towards the forest, back to the same spot last night, feet acting to their own accord. You paused in your steps when you realized where you were heading.

Would you really risk getting a Flamer angry at you for getting too close to their borders again? With not another thought, you pushed back the doubts and walked onwards… it wasn’t like you actually crossed the border. There was a large grey strip of forest land that belonged to neither tribe; it was far too costly to maintain and the forest gave them nothing but bugs and piles of dead leaves.

Much to your surprise, the man was already there, watching you with those glowing eyes of his. “What are you doing here?” He hissed.

“I can ask you the same thing,” You retaliated, arching an eyebrow.

The cold wind whistled as it blew past you, but you were planted firmly to the ground. He, on the other hand, grimaced quite obviously as the breeze tousled his neat hair about, sending dark strands careening into his eyes.

“I’m Y/N,” You said with a small smile. Although he pulsated with heat, that only made him feel the frigid sting of the cold wind all the more. At the sight of his shivering form, you wondered just how bad a Flamer can be.

He eyed you suspiciously before stepping forward quite boldly, sticking out a hand, “I’m Seonghwa.”

There was a strange arrhythmic thump in your chest. Now that he was so close to you, the lilith-hued snow around your feet started to wilt away as well, your cheeks flushing at the sudden rise in temperature. Icers weren’t very good with heat, that was obvious.

And when you took his hand, it was as if he was the coldest thing you’ve ever touched. But that couldn’t be it… you couldn’t really feel the cold much. Nonetheless, you gripped his palm unflinchingly, staring him dead in the eye. It became like some sort of challenge, but the both of you knew that you had obviously won. Seonghwa winced at how freezing your fingers against his were.

“Do you come here everyday?” The Flamer asked once he retracted his hand from yours to shove into the warmth of his pocket.

“Yesterday was my first time. I wasn’t planning on coming back today, but I just ended up here on instinct.” Your boot scuffed the pristine snow, avoiding the way his gaze seemed to quite literally burn holes into you.

Seonghwa frowned slightly. Funnily enough, the same exact thing had happened to him. He wasn’t on patrolling duty today, so really, he had no cause to be out here. He could be curled up with a book in front of a nice, warm fire, instead of standing in the snow with an Icer, of all people. Gods, he must be crazy.

“So… what are you doing here?” Your seemingly innocent question had Seonghwa struggling for words.

In all honesty, he had been curious whether or not you’d come back. An Icer healer in the Grey Forest was more than enough to pique his interest. Nothing remotely gripping ever happened in the Fire Tribe (other than the various men and women who threw themselves at him whenever they got the chance). He hadn’t actually expected you to come back.

“I’m… hunting.”

“It’s illegal to hunt outside of your tribe lands, everybody knows that.”

“Who said I was hunting for an animal?” Seonghwa crossed his arms over his chest to try and look somewhat menacing, but you just grinned. “I was looking for a book I lost.”

You hummed slightly, “Right.” As you waved your arm about, little snowflakes seemed to trail after you, and Seonghwa watched in masked fascination. “Can’t you just admit that you came to see me again?”

“Who’s to say that it’s not you coming to see me?”

“Hmm, let’s just say we both came to see each other. I’ve never seen a Flamer up this close before.”

Seonghwa blinked down at you with wide eyes, as if realizing just how small the distance between the two of you was. His cheeks reddened quickly as he cleared his throat into a fist, stepping backwards and almost slipping on more snow. When he attempted to sidestep the large wet puddle he’d created because of his rippling heat, his foot caught onto a tree root and he tumbled backwards. Snowflakes clung onto his dark hair and he shivered yet again. You tried to conceal your sniggers behind a palm, but Seonghwa still seemed to notice, his blazing eyes narrowing in mock-offense.

“You’re enjoying this,” He stated with an accusatory tone.

“Of course I am,” You replied through muted laughs. “I’m sorry. I would help, but I’m afraid I’d only make it worse.” To emphasize your point, you shook your hands slightly, blue crystals of snow whirling about.

Seonghwa’s fiery eyes seemed to soften at this. He pushed himself up to his feet, now shivering so harshly that you could hear his teeth chatter. You’d only known this Flamer for less than two days and yet he’d already managed to tug at your heartstrings.

“You should go back and get warm. I’ve read about Flamers and their immune systems… you guys are absolute babies when it comes to the cold.” Out of instinct, you reached out to touch his arm, like you did to most sick patients. But of course, you paused just before the tips of your fingers brushed against his jacket, curled your hand into a palm and forced it back down to your side. “I wouldn’t want you getting a fever just to see an ordinary Icer.”

Seonghwa cracked a half of a smile, shaking his head in disbelief.

But when he spun on his heel to leave, you called out before you could stop yourself, “Will I ever see you again, Seonghwa?” He stopped in his tracks without turning to looking at you. Stomach coiling into a tight knot of tension, you awaited in the palpable silence, a heavy lump forming in your throat.

“Next time, let’s go somewhere a bit warmer, yeah? Meet me closer to Flamer territory, by the river next to the largest tree in the Grey Forest. If you get to see me shiver, I get to see you sweat, Icer.” And then he continued on his way, until his lithe form disappeared behind the misty haze and the frosted shrubbery.

Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck. Just what were you thinking, agreeing to meet with a Flamer? Were you always this stupid or had you just realized now? You couldn’t believe you were spending your free time with some random Flamer from the Fire Tribe.

Thoughts of doubt swirled about in your head as you wove your way through the Grey Forest. The low rumbling of the river had you gulping down a large lump in your throat. It was already far too warm for you liking, the little snowflakes that buzzed around your head slowly melting away in water droplets. You didn’t think you’ve ever been this nervous before; not even back when you performed your first major surgery. There was just something about Seonghwa that you couldn’t stay away from… like when your Nan used to tell you no sugar candies before bed, it only made you crave for them all the more.

By the time you spotted Seonghwa leaning against the large tree, you were panting heavily, perspiration marring your skin.

“Fancy seeing you here,” The Flamer chimed, seeming to be in a much better mood now that the tables have turned. He seemed quite at ease, not a bead of sweat to be seen. “Already worked up quite a sweat, have we?”

Pathetically, you lifted your arm to conjure a small snowball, proceeding to press it against your head for cool relief. It quickly melted into a slushy of ice and water, dripping down your hair. You frowned, while Seonghwa grinned in return.

“Not so fun, is it?” He teased while you kicked off your boots and dipped your feet into the river, moaning in relief at the slightly cooler temperature of the water. You wished to make it colder, but much to your disappointment, the water wouldn’t crystalize because of how quickly it was rushing by.

Seonghwa crouched next to you, but still kept a decent length away, picking up rocks to skip across the river. For that, you were grateful, because if he made you any warmer than you were at that moment, you would’ve gotten up and stormed back to Icer lands.

“The first time we met,” You started after flicking water onto your face to cool down, making Seonghwa glance at you with curious eyes. “You were telling me to go back to my territory. But now, you made me come closer to Flamer lands. What’s up with that?”

“I don’t know,” He answered honestly. “You’re just… not what I thought an Icer would be like. It made me curious.”

“And what did you think we’d be like?”

A small shrug lifted his shoulder, “Cold. I mean, not that you aren’t, but cold as in… your hearts would be frozen over as well. I grew up with stories of Icers freezing Flamers to death and placing them in their gardens as statues. But you don’t seem like you’d do that kind of stuff. Especially when you told me that you were a healer.”

“For me, everybody knew the story of how the Fire Tribe would lock the Icers they captured in a sealed room, and the snow they made would melt and they’d slowly watch as the room filled with water, unable to turn it into ice because it was too damn hot. And eventually… they’d drown.” At the last few words, you frosted over your fingers and dunked them beneath the waters’ surface.

Seonghwa’s horrified expression made you chuckle slightly.

“Well, for the record, we don’t do that. We aren’t barbarians.” His words were said huffily as he crossed his arms and turned fully to fix his rapt gaze on you.

“I know. It was merely a silly childhood legend.”

The hours dribbled away fairly quickly, you and Seonghwa exchanging tales of your childhood that only increased in absurdity the farther you recounted. He told you about his friend, San, and how they once snuck into Wind Tribe territory to steal rare Gustberries that only grew in the harsh fields of the Breezers. You told him of Hongjoong and Wooyoung, the former being your closest friend and the latter constantly getting himself hurt. Laughs and giggles and the quiet hum of the river filled the silences in between the gaps of your vivid conversations. The more time you spent talking with him, the more you found yourself growing fond of the fiery-eyed man. Who would’ve thought?

By the time the sun had already set, you and Seonghwa were sitting much closer than when you had first sat down, his heat pulsating through the air in waves. To be honest, you didn’t quite mind the subtle warmth after you got used to the initial shock, but you knew you were pushing your limits. An Icer shouldn’t be out in high temperatures for this long.

You pushed yourself up to your feet, head swimming dizzily as you sucked in lungfuls of air. Slightly concerned, Seonghwa reached out to help you find your feet, but he pulled away at the last moment, just as you had last night. The tables really have turned, you thought in mild amusement.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m… fine…” You swayed on your feet slightly, pressing your cooler palm against your warmer-than-usual forehead.

“Come on, let’s get you back to the cold. You guys are absolute babies when it comes to the heat.” He said, mimicking the same exact words you told him yesterday. A weak laugh slipped past your lips, as you leaned against a tree branch.

Oh, everything was just too hot. You’ve been out of the snow for too long…

All of a sudden, the world was flipped onto its side, damp grass pressing against your face. You could barely register Seonghwa startled yelp before everything went dark.

“Hey. Icer, are you okay? Icer! Y/N, come on, I put you back in the snow, I don’t know what else to do.”

Though your head pounded as though someone had whacked you with a tree branch, you could just barely make out Seonghwa’s concerned tone. When your eyelids fluttered open, you were met with the sight of the Flamer’s handsome, yet alarmed face.

“You okay?” His words came gentle and soothing.

Puffing out a small sigh, you nodded tiredly. Being back in the snow felt much better, “Yeah. Thank you,” You croaked out sheepishly.

Seonghwa beamed down at you, before shuffling away so as the snow around you wouldn’t melt. But just as soon as the smile graced his features, it quickly dissipated into a frown, “Don’t scare me like that,” He practically scolded. “You win, okay? Next time we can stay in the snow.”

Breath caught in your throat, a heavy blush laid over your cheeks, “Next time? You just can’t get enough of me, can you?”

“No, I suppose not,” Seonghwa said somewhat nonchalantly, shocking you.

“I… well, thank you for the, well… uhm, getting me back,” You stumbled over your words the longer Seonghwa stared. Oh, what was this man doing to you? “I have some… healer things I need to do… so, I best get going… erm -” Without another thought, you pushed yourself onto your knees, snow crunching underneath your breeches as you leaned over towards him.

He was so warm. His face, especially, once you brushed your far-cooler lips against his cheekbone. The Flamer reared back with a ridiculous, startled expression, eyes comically wide. One of his hands came up to clamp against the cheek you kissed, mouth opening and closing but no words coming out.

“It was really nice talking to you. Thank you again,” You murmured while hiding a grin behind your palm. With that, you turned on your heel and left the blushing Flamer alone in the snow.

From then on, you saw Seonghwa practically every day. Oftentimes, you’d meet in the snow and stroll through the Grey Forest until it got far too warm and the both of you would have to turn back. The moment he’d see your skin dampen with sweat, he’d have the two of you abruptly changing course, steering away from the heat of the Fire Tribe. You thought that was incredibly thoughtful of him.

Once, Seonghwa discovered a more shallower part of the river that you could actually crystalize to keep yourself cool. That day was a good day. You had gently taken his scorching hand and tried to help him run across the ice before his heat could melt it away. The two of you left soaking wet, boisterous grins painted across your lips.

Hongjoong, being your closest friend and all, was constantly questioning and badgering on about where you went every afternoon. After all, you were a healer and your tribe needed you. But, however selfish it was, you didn’t want to stop seeing Seonghwa… he made you feel things no person from the Ice Tribe had ever made you feel.

The more you saw him, the more you had the urge to yank his stupidly sharp jawline towards you and shove your lips onto his. You’d imagine the way the warmth radiating off his skin would feel underneath your frigid palms and lips. You thought back to the second-long cheek kiss you gave him a couple months back, a fond smile tickling at the corner of your mouth.

“What’re you thinking about?” Seonghwa asked from beside you, nudging you slightly. Over a long course of time, the pair of you grew more and more comfortable with one another, inching closer and closer with each meet-up. At this point, you were practically sitting on top of him, one of his legs intertwined with yours and your head laying on his shoulder, the both of you leaning against a frosted tree trunk. Seonghwa smelled of sweet, burning sugar with a heavier scent of roasted coffee beans. He also often complained about how cold you were, although his tone was always fairly light and lacked any true bite.

“Nothing,” You were quick to say, pulling your head away from his shoulder to peer up at him.

Shrugging off your strange attitude, Seonghwa glanced down at you with excited eyes, “You wanna see a new trick I learned?”

Without awaiting your answer (because he knew you’d say yes anyway), Seonghwa cupped his hands together and pulled them away to produce a thin orange flame morphed into the shape of a shooting arrow. You watched in rapt fascination as the fire-arrow spun in the air when Seonghwa whistled sharply. Then, he pushed it away to embed itself into the tree across from you. The tree’s dry bark was quick to catch aflame, but you flicked your hands and caged in the fire with frost, the orange dying out into the blackened wood.

“Learned that during archery,” Seonghwa beamed down at your bemused expression. “You know, only the best Flamers can morph their fires into shapes. It takes a lot of concentration.”

With no effort at all, you twirled your fingers to make an intricate rabbit out of ice, whiskers and fur and all, holding it out to Seonghwa with a minuscule smile. The Flamer scowled slightly, and touched the tip of his finger to the clear crystal, watching it dribble into liquid through the gaps of your palms.

You rolled your eyes to the side before leaning your head back onto his shoulder with a content sigh, “Don’t you compete with me, Park Seonghwa. You’ll never win.”

Much to your surprise, he didn’t bother to argue, and instead pressed his warm nose into your frosty hair, humming, “Yeah, yeah. And who was the one that fainted in the heat again?”

“If I recall correctly, you’ve caught more than three colds just this year! And it’s only the fifth moon, too!”

His hands suddenly darted out to tickle your midriff, to which you squirmed away with a smothered laugh.

“Hm, wanna put it to the test? I promise I’ll go easy,” You said teasingly once you managed to capture his wrists. You could feel his pulse rapidly thumping against the pad of your thumb.

“I don’t know… I wouldn’t want to hurt you.”

“Trust me, you’re not the one that’ll be hurting.”

“Oh, you’re on, Icer.”

The two of you stumbled onto your feet and you held yourself up in a defensive stance. With a faint smile, Seonghwa mimicked your position. Admittedly, it wasn’t a very fair fight; you were a healer and he was a well-trained fighter.

But nonetheless, you were the first to throw, a frozen ball of ice the size of your fist hurtled towards him at top speed. Seonghwa was quick to react, blasting the ice with orange flames until it melted mid-air. You frowned and lithely dodged behind a tree when he reconjured his fire arrows and sent them after you. In retaliation, you quickly brought up a thick ice barrier with a laugh, smothering the thin lines of fire away with the sole of your boots.

The air was chock-full of his crackling flames muted by your snow, crystalline icicles dripping from nearby tree branches, and lame taunts tossed back and forth by the both of you as you play-fought for another couple of minutes.

Seonghwa might’ve had the upper hand in combat, but you knew how to play dirty. Just as he was stepping forward, you sent a sheet of slippery ice to slide underneath his boots. With a bewildered expression, Seonghwa flailed about for a moment, the small fire he prepared in his palm dying down to glowing embers, before tumbling down into the snow.

“That was low, Y/N,” The Flamer huffed out whilst trying to catch his breath against the pale white mound of snowflakes, glaring at you with playfully narrowed eyes. You were glad to see that he wasn’t actually angry at you.

“Do you call defeat, Seonghwa? There’s no shame in admitting it, you know!” Your jaunts were light-hearted as you walked closer to him and Seonghwa found himself grinning despite the cold stinging his skin.

Sticking your hand out to help him up, Seonghwa eyed you for a moment with an indiscernible expression, his playful nature fading away into something you couldn’t quite decipher.

Instead of pushing himself up, he suddenly pulled you down with him, a startled shriek leaving your lips and echoing across the Grey Forest. You fell on top of him with a grunt of pain, meeting his glowing amber eyes with your confused ones. During your hazy moment of puzzlement, Seonghwa tugged you closer, his warm palms curled around your forearms gently.

And then, without further warning, he kissed you. This one was nothing like the first kiss you gave him. That one was merely an innocent peck on the cheek. But this one… this one held passion and furtive desire and yearning. The both of you most definitely wanted this, it was quite clear by now.

Your senses were overwhelmed in the best way possible. All you could smell was him, the heavy undertone of roasted coffee beans sending your head into a cloudy daze. Your lips were slanted against his hot ones, noses of starkly opposite temperatures bumping against one another in your moment of desperation. You weren’t sure where to place your hands, so you balled them up against his jacket, just close enough to feel the hardness of his chest underneath.

For you, everything was hot, searing with a need for more as his plump, warm lips laid over yours. For him, however, everything was cold. The snow beneath was a mild annoyance, and yet he was willing to bear through it for you. You were equally freezing, but Seonghwa welcomed the cold for once, a dangerous ache that would grow to be lethal if neither of you were careful.

A small, frosty sigh left you when he pulled away for a second to stare at you with those intense eyes of his. You stared back with part-confusion and part-longing, lips agape. That apparently set something off in him, because he sat up with you straddling his hips, hands now encircled around your midriff as he kissed you more passionately, leaning forward so your back arched into him.

This wasn’t supposed to be happening. Why were you feeling these emotions for a Flamer of all people? Why couldn’t you have just stayed within your own tribe? Turmoil churned about in you as you kissed him in somewhat of a frantic manner. You hated yourself for loving it so much.

The second time he pulled away, you were both gasping for breath, lips swollen and clothes rumpled and askew. You could tell he wanted to kiss you again, and probably a thousand times after that. To be frank, that was all you wanted as well.

But you knew this had to stop. And so, when he leaned forward to capture your lips with his again, you flinched none-too-subtly and slid off his lap. An expression of genuine hurt flickered across his handsome, reddened features. A twinge of guilt gnawed away at your stomach as you got up onto your shaky feet.

“Go home, Seonghwa,” Was all you could find yourself saying with a hoarse voice. “You’re going to catch a cold again.”

You couldn’t look at him anymore. And so, you left him laying crestfallen in the snow, hurriedly making your way back to Icer lands, small blue snowflakes trailing behind you and cold tears pricking the corners of your eyes.

The next day, Seonghwa didn’t show up. You waited by your usual meet-up place, gnawing on your lip anxiously, glancing every which way in hopes of seeing the raven-headed Flamer. In the midst of your worrying turmoil, more and more snowflakes emanated from your skin and it didn’t take long for them to accumulate by your feet, completely covering your boots in a pristilline white blanket. You stepped out of the feather-soft pile, opting to impatiently trudge about in an attempt to steel your nerves.

You hadn’t been able to sleep that night. Seonghwa’s heartbroken expression was imprinted into your mind, leaving you in a mess of guilt and regret and anger.

Why did you have to push him away? Seonghwa, your first non-Icer friend, shoved away as if he meant nothing. You released a frustrated groan, smacking your palm into your forehead.

It made sense that he didn’t want to see you. If you were in his shoes, you probably wouldn’t leave your room and have the light of day touch your face for a whole moon. The idea of Seonghwa upset just didn’t sit right with you. Nonetheless, you could do little else than bide your time for him, however much you hated waiting.

He didn’t show up the next day either. Nor the one after that.

By the fourth day of waiting, you started to feel twinges of discouragement, but you never gave up, determined to set things right with Seonghwa. The niggling thought of him never showing up was one that often pestered you while you patiently awaited his return, although always quickly shoved down into the corner of your mind. You didn’t want to think about what you would do if you never saw him again.

It took just over a week of waiting for him to come back. At that point, you hadn’t thought he’d come back at all, reluctantly accepting that you’ve ultimately ruined your friendship with Seonghwa.

And so, imagine your surprise when his voice rang out through the trees, your name rolling off his tongue smoothly, “Y/N.”

Startled, you flinched so hard that your head hit a branch that hung lowly on the icy tree you were sitting beneath. It reminded you so much of the first time you met him that you couldn’t help but crack a smile after your initial pained grimace.

“Seonghwa,” You gasped, eyes round with shock and mouth agape. “You’re… you’re back!”

The excitement in your voice didn’t go undetected by either of you, but his features were set in stone, unmoving and neutral. Those blazing eyes of his seemed to bore holes into you, and you felt strangely naked underneath his gaze. You noticed that his appearance was more disheveled than ever, eyebags dark and hair not neatly slicked back like usual. He looked broken, but far too proud to admit so.

“Seonghwa…?” You stepped closer, the frosted leafy foliage crumbling under the pressure. This man was someone you deeply cared about, and you knew he felt the same about you.

So why was he staring at you like you meant nothing to him?

A shiver ran down your spine, a sensation that only Seonghwa could bestow upon you. Which was ironic, because the cold feeling that tickled down your spine was ignited by a man with powers of fire and heat.

You and him didn’t belong together. That was clear as day by now.

“Seonghwa,” You mumbled again, reaching out to him once close enough.

He shut his eyes as if looking at you were torture. It stung more than you liked to admit, so you retracted your fingers, clenching them into a fist and dropping them back by your side awkwardly. The air was so tense, so utterly uncomfortable, you could feel the crack in your heart splinter into more branches.

“Stop saying that.”

“Saying what?” Your bottom lip trembled. This wasn’t the Seonghwa you’ve grown to be so fond of. This man scared you. You had half a mind to grab him by the shoulders and shake some sense back into him. Where did your Seonghwa go?

An angry huff escaped his lips, misting visibly out of his carmine lips. The very ones you kissed a little over a week ago.

“You can’t… just… don’t say my name. Please. We can’t be like that anymore. We can’t do this. We can’t keep seeing each other.” Seonghwa’s stoic mask disintegrated into raw emotion. He looked to be on the verge of tears, and you wouldn’t be surprised if you mirrored the same exact expression.

There was a part of you that wanted to yell and scream and throw sharp icicles at him until he had no choice but to run back to Flamer territory. Anywhere, as long as it was far away from you. The other, more rational part of you, whispered that he was right. After all, you were the one that pushed him away first. It was only fair.

A broken bone won’t heal if you keep putting pressure on the wound. Being a healer, you couldn’t just ignore your own teachings.

But for just once in your life, you wanted to be selfish. You wanted to hold Seonghwa tightly in your grasp, no matter how dangerous it was. You wanted to call him yours, and you wanted to be his. You wanted to kiss him again, despite the small action being the ultimate downfall for the both of you.

And so you found yourself croaking out, making sure to emphasize his name, “Seonghwa, you know just as much as I do that there’s something here between us. You can’t just ignore it and toss that all out the window!”

His face screwed up in an effort to keep the onslaught of tears at bay. Perhaps what he felt for you wasn’t yet as strong as what he’d call love, but he wasn’t very far from it. He cared too much for you, so much more than anybody else in his life.

He needed you. And because of that, he had to let you go. Fraternizing with the enemy wasn’t something to be taken lightly. If his tribe knew about this little escapade of his, they’d have his head and would finally have a good enough reason to declare war. Regardless, it was only a matter of time. The Fire Tribe has hated Icers for centuries and centuries, teetering on the brink between neutrality and complete bloodshed.

“We have no choice,” The words were said in a low tone, rumbling deep down in his chest. Seonghwa shuffled closer, so close that you could feel his familiar heat wavering against the ice once again. You longed to reach out and place your hand on his chest, feel his heart thumping against his ribcage frantically, just as yours was. “Do you know what they’d do to you - to us - if our tribes found us together? It’s too risky, Y/N. I don’t know what I’d do if you got hurt.”

“I’m a healer. I can take care of myself! And we can just stay careful like we always have. Besides, people rarely come into the Grey Forest anymore!” Your words came out fast and jittery and panicked. You thought that you had already come to terms with losing the man that stood in front of you, but you were far from acceptance, you knew that now.

Seonghwa carded a pale hand through dark strands of hair, “I’m sorry, were you not the one that told me to go back home? You started this. You wanted this!” He was so agitated that when he swung his arm back to his side, small crackles of fire lit up his fingers.

Something inside you snapped, “I most definitely did not! It was just… all too sudden and I needed time to think. Now that I’ve already thought, there’s no need for us to run away and never see each other again! You’re overexaggerating, Seonghwa.”

“No, you don’t get it. Don’t you know, Y/N? Our tribes are verging on war. We’re supposed to be enemies, you and I. Don’t be daft!” His voice raised a notch or two louder, and you found yourself shrinking into yourself.

Tears pricked your eyes and you looked away from his fierce gaze, “We don’t have to be a part of that. We can just -”

“Just what? Pretend? We can’t play picnic in the forest and act like our people aren’t planning to slaughter each other!”

“You know what?” You shouted so loudly that the birds nesting on treetops fluttered away, a mass of dark wings and agitated squawks. “If you want to walk away from this relationship, from me, then go ahead! I won’t stop you. Fuck you, Seonghwa. Fuck you for throwing this away the moment it became something more.”

“You were the first to push away!” He protested, pointing an accusatory finger at you.

“Well, I’m sorry!” You cried out, furiously swiping away the tears that dribbled down your cheeks. “I’m sorry I was scared! I’m willing to try again, but you’re not giving me the chance. I waited for you every day, you know.”

“I know. I saw,” He said, suddenly quiet. “I’m sorry for making you wait.”

The two of you stared at each other defiantly, heavy breaths misting the air in front of you. His nose was tinted a deep pink, no doubt because of the cold.

“I’m leaving,” Seonghwa said after a long while. “And you shouldn’t come back here. Ever. I need you to know, Y/N. I’m doing this because I care about you. I expect you to do the same for me.”

Then, after casting you a forlorn expression, he tore his blazing eyes away and stiffly swiveled around in the snow. A gust of wind tousled his hair and he blew out a sigh of pale white mist. The cold made his nose red, and you subconsciously noticed the way he shivered slightly, brushing snowflakes off his sleeve. You’d miss that.

You’d miss him.

His heat grew fainter as his long strides took him further away from you. Your tears had crystallized on your cheeks uncomfortably, a frozen reminder of what you’d lost. You had half the mind to storm right up to Seonghwa and force him to stay here, by your side. That was the child speaking within you, however, and you were no longer a child.

Flicking the solidified salt water on your cheeks away, you did just the same as Seonghwa had minutes ago, trudging your way back to Icer lands. Little did either of you know, the two of you cried fresh tears along the whole journey back.

The last time you ever stepped foot in the Grey Forest was just the day after. Your eyes were puffy and aching, hair a terrible mess, and a wax-sealed envelope was tightly clutched in your hand.

There was a chance that Seonghwa would never come back. In fact, it was most probable that he’d never get the precariously written letter you left by the usual meeting place, considering what he told you yesterday.

Fond memories sunk its sharpened claws into you, stealing away your breath as you cupped both hands over your mouth, overwhelmed in every way possible. You were far too drained to cry, having emptied away all your tears the day before.

And so, you brushed stray snowflakes off the periwinkle-hued wax stamp, placing it down by the tree stump where Seonghwa usually sat.

Then you muttered a quiet, broken goodbye, stomping back to Icer lands. You were never going to see Seonghwa again.

Dear Seonghwa,

I know you told me to never come back. I won’t, I promise. I just wanted to leave the letter because… we never properly got to say goodbye, did we?

Well, congrats, you big dummy. You’re right. You always were, and you always are. We were never supposed to be friends. I mean, I suppose we’re enemies now, aren’t we? It was quite the foolish fantasy we had going on there, huh? I get it, we have to stay loyal to our respective tribes, we can’t risk getting caught, so on so forth. I just hope that when war is declared (which doesn’t seem to be long from now, to be quite honest), I won’t see you on the battlefield. I don’t think I’d be able to handle that.

So, I guess this is goodbye. It’s a little hard to believe that I won’t ever get to see your stupid face again. Remember when I threw a snowball at you so hard that it broke your nose? You panicked and blood went splattering everywhere and it didn’t stop until I got you to calm down. For a highly-ranked Flamer soldier, I’d expect you to be less squeamish at the sight of your own blood. It’s alright, though. As a healer myself, blood still freaks me out just a bit.

I thought I ruined your pretty face for all the poor ladies and gents who were mad in love with you back at the Flame Tribe, and I felt so guilty. And then you smiled! I remember feeling envy and astonishment at the same time because how the hell could one look pretty while smiling through a broken, bloody nose?

I’m glad I didn’t ruin your face, though. You’d probably get really mad at me if I did. But you would’ve forgiven me eventually, right?

Frankly, I don’t know if I deserve your forgiveness for what I did. And no, I’m not talking about hurting your precious face (they say a once-broken nose makes a man more attractive!). I’m sorry for pushing you away, Seonghwa. Really, I don’t know what I was thinking. I was scared and I needed time to think. I hope you understand that. If you don’t, that’s okay as well.

If I could rewind time, I wouldn’t have stopped kissing you. I could’ve carried on for days and days and days on end. Did you know that you’re the second person I’ve ever kissed? Don’t ask about the first, drunk Wooyoung isn’t really something to brag about. Well, for the record, you were the first kiss I actually enjoyed. Congrats.

Of course, all this doesn’t mean that it was entirely my fault. I waited for you for a week, and you did nothing but hide behind trees and watch. That was real shitty of you, to put it plainly.

I’ll miss you, though. I’ve never felt this way about any Icer and I doubt I ever will. Of all people to set my sights on, it just had to be a Flamer. What rotten luck we have.

Goodbye forever, Seonghwa. Stay safe, alright? For my sake.

With much love,

Y/N.

Seonghwa read the letter through so quickly that his pupils seemed to be moving at lightning speed. Then, with a numbed heart, he read it a second time, this time much slower.

By the third time he reread each of your carefully handwritten words, warm tears of salt water were running over his cheeks. His face had grown considerably hotter, the salty liquid steaming misty tendrils against his skin. He was angry. So, so ridiculously angry. At himself, at this stupid rivalry between the tribes, at you for being so goddamn perfect. Of course you’d managed to squeeze in jaunts and jokes in a farewell note.

There was a part of him that wished he’d never come back to the Grey Forest and found the letter. Fat droplets of his tears trickled down his jaw and soaked through the parchment, marring the intricate ink characters. With a gentle sigh, Seonghwa brushed the dampness away and stiffly flicked his wrist.

The letter burst into glowing orange flames. And Seonghwa watched on, stifling down the urge to break down into a fit of chest-wracking sobs, until your goodbye was nothing but a measly pile of blackened ashes on his palm.

#ateez x reader #ateez seonghwa x reader #seonghwa x reader #ateez #park seonghwa #ateez smut #seonghwa smut #park seonghwa x reader #seonghwa x you #ateez x you #ateez fanfiction #ateez seonghwa #ateez fantasy au #ateez imagines #ateez angst #seonghwa imagines #park seonghwa x you #ateez fanfics

522 notes · View notes

demowogorgon · 3 years

Text

The Art of Breathing

Summary: In which Julie chases you down and fucks you in the woods. CW for Primal/Prey play and Knife Play. Reader is completely gender-neutral but has a vulva.

Pairing: Julie Kostenko/Reader (Established Relationship)

Word Count: 2537

If there’s one thing you know about Julie, it’s that she loves the thrill of the chase. The pounding of blood and adrenaline flowing through her veins like a dam newly burst is a feeling like no other, and it's one that she looks forward to in every trial. But it’s even more exhilarating when the chase leads to you: or perhaps, when the chase starts with you.

The cabin is eerily quiet as you pass through the threshold, save for the sound of howling wind gliding off and around the rotting wood. It’s cold and quiet, absent of the joy, jokes and laughter that usually echoes through their halls.

It’s strange to wander around like this. You know that you can’t really be hurt outside of the trials - at least, not permanently - but you still feel the lightest of shivers rack your body as the unsettling atmosphere starts to set in. For a moment you consider turning back and returning to the campfire for the hour, rather than wait for your friends to return.

“Are you gonna come in and sit down, or are you just letting the cold air in?” Julie’s voice echoes from the shadows, making you jump out of your skin. Only then do you notice the edges of her boots swinging from the armrest of a plush chair, illuminated faintly by the dim moonlight that filters through the dilapidated wood. You smile, finally at ease and kicking the door shut with your foot, crossing the room in great strides. The wood creaks underneath your excited footsteps in the most familiar way that makes your heart soar, like a mother welcoming her child home. In another life you would have found the creaking and groaning wood eerie, like a scene out of a horror movie, but perhaps it’s the fond memories that you’ve shared at the abandoned resort that’s made the sound pleasant to your ears?

Julie smiles up at you as you walk around the armchair, kicking her feet off of the armrest and opening her arms for you. You walk closer, draping your arms around her neck while she drums her fingers along your waist. Her cropped brown hair is messy, and you card your fingers through her hair with a chuckle.

“No fire?” You ask.

She hums, pulling you into her lap rather than responding. You’re vaguely aware that the front of her pants isn’t flat as you lean in to kiss her, and you roll your hips experimentally. Your suspicions are confirmed when she leans back with a mutter.

“They just left, you know,” she murmurs, “Everyone should be out for another hour, at least.”

“Yeah?” you smile, leaning back in for another kiss. But you’re stopped when she winds her hands through your hair, pulling you back and drawing a hiss from your lips. The telltale click of a switchblade makes your heart race, although not unpleasantly so. Your eyes follow its path as she brings it up slowly to your cheek, dragging it down delicately past your neck and over your sternum. She makes no marks, but the cold blade leaves electric jolts flying through your body. She releases her hold on your hair, instead resting her newly-freed hand over your thigh. Part of you wants to move, to rock your hips into hers, but the reminder of the sharp blade keeps your hips in check.

“Are you gonna behave?” She all but purrs, flipping the blade and dragging it back up to your neck.

“Yes,” you whisper, “I’ll be good.”

“Good. I think…” she pauses, tapping the handle of the knife gently, “that I’d like to chase you tonight. Would you like that?”

You’re more than familiar with the game, and you can’t help the excited whine that claws its way from your lips at its mention. You hum affirmatively, resisting the urge to nod as the blade presses into your skin.

She smiles, revealing her all-too-sharp canines as her eyes darken in the pale moonlight. She taps the blade again before applying more pressure, peering at you through her eyelashes. “Use your words,” she says. Her voice lifts a fraction, teasing you with a grin. You fight the urge to swallow, heat rushing to your face like a dam newly burst.

“Yes,” you repeat.

She chuckles, letting the pressure off with a smile. “Always so eager,” she coos. She closes the blade with a dull “click” and places it on the arm of the chair, placing her other hand on your thigh. Her hands roam up and down your thighs, and you take the opportunity to lean in once more. The kiss she leaves on your lips is chaste, and you know not to push the boundaries any farther.

One last squeeze to your thighs, pleasant as it may be, coaxes you out of her lap. The silence is deafening as she stares you down like a hungry lion, eyes dark yet playful. Her tongue darts between her lips subconsciously, and it’s embarrassing just how hard you fight to suppress the urge to lean down for yet another kiss. You're so focused on her lips and the look in her eyes that you almost miss the words that flow out of her mouth, lips parting with a smile.

“Run.”

And just like that you’re out the door, rushing into the woods and frantic to abuse whatever headstart she feels like giving you. Your hands scrape against the rough bark of the trees as you run, peeling around one section of the woods before crossing to the other side in an attempt to make your tracks more complex, more confusing. The branches whip against your arms, drawing blood as you dart through the densest areas of the forest, and the air stings as it slaps against your new wounds. You’re not sure how much of a headstart you’re being allowed, but you’re determined to use every second of it. Your lungs burn as you push yourself further and further, leaping over fallen trees and ducking under larger branches like a frantic deer escaping a predator.

That feeling is only heightened as you hear another set of footsteps join your own, but your movements are fluid and practiced as you bound through the dense woods. The supernatural, perpetually-nighttime air is ice-cold in your lungs, but it only serves to exacerbate the burning ache that grows within them. You zigzag through the trees, hoping to throw her off enough to make more distance, but the thudding of her boots seems to come from every direction as you run.

Your only mistake was attempting to pass through a clearing, and you realize it the moment you feel her body slam into yours. You push yourself off the ground, kicking as you try to get away. And for a moment you succeed, rising halfway to your feet before she grabs you by the ankle and pulls your body back with a ‘zip’ along the grass and snow. Your struggle ceases for a moment as she rolls you onto your back, climbing onto you and straddling your hips with her knees pressing down onto the backs of your hands. You try to pull your hands out, to possibly push back and prolong the chase, but you stop the moment she pulls out her hunting knife, slamming the blade into the dirt above your head with a force that seems to shake the world. And in that moment the world stops, rocked by the sheer force of metal piercing through the earth.

“Caught you,” she breathes. The longest strands of her hair hang down from her face, chest heaving with the exertion and adrenaline that comes with her favorite game of chase. Her sepia eyes glint like the cat who caught the canary as she catches her breath, sweat rolling down her exposed arms and disappearing under her black tank top. She leans up, carding her hand through her hair once she’s sure that you’re not going to attempt another escape. The thick and endless woods are silent, save for your shared breaths and the heart that hammers endlessly in your ears. You swallow, eyes tracing the glints of her canines as she smiles down at you.

Your breath catches in your throat as her hand makes its way up your shirt, lingering at the lift of your chest before pushing up and tweaking your experimentally. And oh, the whine that claws its way from your lips is equal parts sinful and shameful, the chase having lit each and every sense on fire. Your body feels like it’s burning, and god how you ache to have her hands on you. She chuckles at your sensitivity but wastes no time, taking her knees off of your hands and undoing the buckle of your belt to pull your pants and briefs away from your body.

And just like that she’s on you, with her teeth on your neck and hand between your legs. Her fingers dip into your natural slick before darting back up to your clit, twisting and pulling at a pace that leaves stars floating in your vision.

“Fuck, Julie, please,” you babble mindlessly, “Please, I need it-”

“Use your words,” she coos.

“Please, I need you inside, please, please,” the words tumble out of your mouth, voice pitching as you buck against her hand. You hardly even recognize the words as they tumble out of your mouth, too desperate to even think straight.

She pulls away from your neck with a hum, drawing your gaze. Her eyes are dark, almost teasing. “I won, didn’t I?” Her voice is cocky as she speaks, the corners of her mouth lifting up in a smirk. “I think that means I get to choose.”

But she dips her fingers into your heat regardless, curling and fucking inside you in the way that leaves your legs shaking. Her palm presses against your clit, rubbing against it each time she pistons her fingers out of you. You can feel your wetness dripping down her hand, and you revel in the way that her breath shakes. She hums, sighing quietly as she gazes down at you - helpless and needy. She rocks back on her heels and returns her other hand to your clit, and you practically sob at the sensation. It’s not long before you’re shaking, the telltale wave of heat zipping through your body and the coil in your abdomen snapping. You come with a cry, unable to suppress the arch in your back or the gasp that tears its way through you.

The soft moan of your lover makes your cheeks flush and she dips down to lick up all that you have to give, holding your hips down with her arm as your body instinctively tries to squirm away.

She hardly gives you a moment to breathe once she comes up, maneuvering you onto your hands and knees. The dirt is cold against your chest, and it’s a mind-numbing contrast to her warm hands as they travel along the dip in your spine and back to your ass. And then she’s pressing you back down again, digging her palm into the valley between your shoulder blades. The noises that follow are a blur - the clinking of her belt, the shucking of her pants, the clicks of a cap. But before you can even breathe, you feel the head of her favorite cock pressing at your entrance.

Each press into your sex leaves you breathless, the ridges of her strap leaving you with stars in your vision. Her grip on your hips is tight enough to leave bruises, and you can’t tell if the whine escaping from your throat is from the strength of her hands, or if it’s because of the way her strap is stretching you, filling out any bit of room you’ll allow. Her breath trembles before she laughs under her breath, and you feel a surge of pride in knowing that it’s because of you.

Your nails dig into the earth as she bottoms out, nerves still reeling from your previous orgasm. You whine at the fullness, prompting a chuckle from her.

“You really are just a dumb little prey animal, huh?” she laughs, “And you’re gonna take all that I have to give, understood?”

You nod rapidly, babbling half-broken yeses and pleads, far too gone to form coherent sentences. You’re vaguely aware of the way you’re moving your hips back against her strap, begging for more movement, more friction, more anything-

And oh, you’re damn close to praising every god under the sun when she starts moving your hips, rocking into your oversensitive hole. Her moans mix with yours as the silicon rocks back into her own clit, and you’re a babbling mess as she pulls you up by the throat, pulling you flush against her chest as she rocks into you relentlessly. Her mouth returns to your neck and shoulder, sucking dark marks into what little space isn’t covered by her hand. Her teeth leave deep indentations, canines threatening to break through your skin in a way that leaves you panting and whining - although whether you’re begging for more or less, you can’t seem to tell. Her mutterings of praise and adoration become background noise as she rocks into you, and each sensation - the way she’s fucking into you, the sting of her bites, her hand on your clit, the feeling of her fingers digging ever so slightly into your neck and instilling the most euphoric sense of lightheadedness - sends you shaking and coming with a cry that would rival the deafening call of an angel from heaven.

You suppress the urge to whine when she pulls out of you, instead choosing to wrap your arms around her neck as she pulls you flush toward her chest once more. Your heart still pounds as you come down from the high, heavy thrums pounding in your ears.

Your voice is dreamy when you find the words to speak, looking softly at her bright brown eyes. “Hey,” you greet.

“Hey,” she laughs. She cards a single hand through your hair before placing a chaste kiss to your shoulder. You smile and return the gesture, humming at the softness of her hair.

The next few moments together are tender as you coax each other into half-modesty, reclothing one another with quiet laughter and gentle jokes. And before you can react she’s sweeping you off your feet, twirling you around as she carries you back to the cabin. And in this world of darkness and uncertainty, everything seems to fall into place - even if only for a moment.

Your feet dangle as she carries you back to the little lodge, arms wrapped loosely around her neck.

“Hey baby?” you ask.

“Hm?”

“Can I have a kiss?”

She laughs obligingly before planting a kiss to your lips. When she pulls back she scrunches her nose at you, sticking her tongue out playfully.

“One more?”

Again, she obliges.

“More?”

It’s not long before she’s twirling you around, placing goofy little kisses anywhere she can. The forest is filled with laughter like no other, and you’re certain that this is where you were always meant to be.

#julie kostenko x reader #dbd x reader #dead by daylight x reader #dead by daylight imagine #dbd x reader smut #the legion x reader #dbd the legion x reader #dbd julie x reader #dbd imagine

188 notes · View notes

lailannajacobs · 3 years

Text

Heart of the Night

Pairing: Bucky x reader

Summary: Bucky finds you after a mission that didn’t quite go as planned.

Word Count: 2.8k

Warnings: lil bit angsty

A/N: This is my submission for @wkemeup 9k challenge, it’s not quite as edited as I would have liked but the end of the school year is always super busy so here it is! Congrats Kas, you are such an incredible writer, your talent absolutely blows my mind, it’s just unbelievable and I hope one day to have a tenth of your skill! You deserve everything great and more! <3

The needle trembled, metal glinting off the fluorescent light in your bathroom as it hovered just above the skin of your abdomen. The air reeked of copper. The pristine sink was marred with the dark red streaks of failure. You tried to swallow, but it felt like you were choking on your own throat.

The needle approached the bloody canyon made by a knife you’d been too careless to avoid, and hovered there, trying to find its mark. The world swayed. You’d lost too much blood already. The needle clattered into the sink, black thread trialing behind it like a broken tether. You were somehow conscious — delirious? — enough to think you were lucky it hadn’t gone down the drain because you didn’t have time to call a plumber. Wait no. You’d just have to get a new one from the cabinet. You tried to reach for the needle. Your body didn’t react. Instead, it swayed dangerously, only your fighting instincts keeping you from tumbling to the floor by gripping onto the edge of the sink. At least there were some things blood could wash off from.

“YN!” that familiar voice burst into your apartment, “pool table. Five minutes. I swore to Sam that this was the day we finically beat Vision and his perfect calculations.”

You swore at the joyful ness in his voice. You couldn’t match that tone right now if you tried. But you had to. The mission had gone well. You’d done what you’d set out to do. Only you, the ever-present failure, had gotten yourself stabbed along the way. The only mercy was that no one else had noticed and you’d disappeared to your apartment without drawing suspicion. That was, until now if you couldn’t pull yourself together. You willed your body to close the bathroom door, but it wouldn’t move. If anything, everything only spun even more.

“Where the hell are...”

You felt his presence in your doorway. Felt his gaze like a physical thing. You were always aware of him. Even now was no exception. Maybe if you pretended he wasn’t there, he’d go away. Right. And the three-inch gash in your stomach would stitch itself up. You turned your head, not realizing how many abdominal muscles it took to look over your shoulder. Your pride and the death grip your slick fingers held on the porcelain were the only reasons the spinning didn't send you tumbling to the ground.

When your bathroom came into focus again, the only thing you really saw was Bucky taking up most of the doorway. And he was seething. His normally cool eyes were raging hurricanes, framed between hard lines of frustration on his face. They scanned you from top to bottom with deathly calm, from the sports bar you had on that exposed all your skin and the bruises you garnered during the mission to the sweatpants you’d changed into. An X-ray would have been less intrusive. You shivered. It was probably the blood loss.

You wanted to make up some excuse for your failure, but his anger was justified. You were a liability on the field. They were bound to have figured it out eventually.

He said nothing as he stalked over in a few brisk strides, fury emanating from him in waves. He stopped beside you, the pleasant smell of his freshly showered body chasing away the tang in the air. You closed your eyes. It was a coward’s move, but you’d take any peace you could get before everything you’d worked so hard to keep got taken away from you.

“Sit,” he ordered in a low, almost growly voice, “now.”

You went to sit on the toilet but tipped backward before you could make it. His arms gathered around you, easing you onto the closed seat. Your head lolled back and you squeezed your eyes shut.

“No.” He decided, “I need an explanation. Talk to me.”

It seemed like too much work. All you wanted to do was go to sleep.

“No,” he ordered as if you’d spoken the words aloud. Maybe you had.

You opened your eyes, caught in the crossfire of his icy stare, “Hydra agent during the extraction.”

“Shit,” he muttered.

The extraction of the French Prime Minister had been more than an hour ago. You should have been stitched up a long time ago. You should not have been dripping on the pale bathroom tiles.

“Surface wound,” you continued as professionally as your body would allow, knowing that even though you’d live, your failure was the reason for his fury, “came here. Was in the process of fixing it.”

“We have medics,” he growled, “what were you thinking?”

You didn’t answer. You weren’t about to tell him how your presence was a poison that would likely get them all killed eventually. Or that your constant mistakes were your own consequences to deal with — to fix. He probably knew that all ready. His question had to be rhetorical.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath as if he were trying to steady his anger. You stared at him, the winter soldier kneeling before you, his calloused hands still resting on your hips. He let out a sigh, his breath warm on your stomach.

“I should call for a medic,” he still hadn’t opened his eyes.

“Please don’t,” you whispered, “I can take care of my own mistakes.”

His lids snapped open, piercing blue eyes pinning you to the spot with their ice cold intensity. He was obviously still pissed. But he didn’t call for a medic. Instead, he got up, warm hands leaving behind nothing more than goosebumps and shivers — from the blood loss, of course— and picked up the needle.

“This is going to hurt,” he murmured once he was kneeling in front of you again.

You tried to nod, but the motion sent your vision spinning again and you gripped onto his shoulder for support, the metal sturdy beneath your grip.

He looked up into your eyes, “are you sure you want me to do this? It’ll leave a scar and it won’t be pretty.”

“It’s only fitting,” you coughed a laugh, “at least the outside will start looking like the inside.”

His brows furrowed but he didn’t say anything. He knew what you were. You were a mutant who somehow got the ‘gift’ of being able to make anything stop functioning. You could make plans fall apart. Kill a software program. Stop a body’s functioning. Even ruin a functioning team like the Avengers. With skill, you should have been one of their greatest assets, ruining everything that threatened the world. But your ‘gift’ extended to yourself as well. You ruined everything you touched. Even the good. Especially, it always seemed, the good.

He pierced your skin without warning, but you were glad for the pain. It gave you something else to focus on than the echoing thoughts of your failure. But Bucky was gentle. Despite the anger you knew must still be there, his movements were delicate and focused, hesitating whenever you winced or sucked in a breath.

By the time he tied the knot, you were surprised you were still upright. He might have been efficient, but you couldn’t tell if it had taken seconds, minutes or even hours. His hands cupped your face and eyes you hadn’t realized you’d closed fluttered open. He was so close now, his expression pinched with worry. You couldn’t help but wonder how it could be for you.

“I’m almost done,” he said softly, “but you’ll probably need a transfusion.”

Adrenaline kicked in. You couldn’t. He couldn’t. Not when you could barely keep your eyes open.

“Please don’t take me there,” you begged, “I can’t hurt anyone else.”

Your abilities rarely activated while you were asleep, but you wouldn’t risk the lives of the other patients or the doctors by going down to the medical wing. Years ago, when you’d realized what your abilities were, you’d stopped sleeping anywhere near anyone else. Now, hurt, there was an even greater chance you might lose control.

If you hadn’t been working so hard for consciousness, you would have also told Bucky to leave. But it wouldn’t have mattered. For some reason, he always stayed. Even when he was within the radius of your power. Even when you told him to go. Especially then. He always stayed.

“I won’t hurt anyone else,” you choked out, “I always hurt someone else.”

His thumb brushed across your cheek, “and yet you saved me today.”

You looked away from his burning gaze, your tears threatening to spill.

He continued, mercifully ignoring your watery eyes, “even though you were hurt you dropped that Hydra agent before he could shoot me in the back. We didn’t lose a single agent today, YN. That’s because you were there.”

“No,” you tried to shake your head, but his hands held on tightly, “they — you — saved yourselves. I got stabbed.”

“You got stabbed because you were busy watching everyone else’s back,” he growled, that earlier anger returning.

“I ruin things,” you repeated for what felt like the millionth time.

But it didn’t matter. He never seemed to believe you. But he needed to. You desperately needed him to before you ruined him too.

“Please leave,” you whimpered.

His answer was simple, “No.”

He took his hands back, but it was only to find some gauze to place over your cut. Once he was done, he scooped you up so gently the movement only hurt a lot instead of blinding pain and brought you to bed.

You gripped his shirt, fist balling up at the hem with all the strength you had left, “you need to leave, Bucky. Now.”

For some reason, the bastard smirked, “Someone has to make sure you don’t die in your sleep.”

“I’ll be fine,” you snapped, though it lacked any kind of force.

He didn’t look impressed, “If you were fine you wouldn’t be begging me to leave. You’d be downstairs with me and we’d be getting our asses handed to us by Vision and Sam like every other Thursday night.”

You wanted to protest. You wanted to protect him, but you had no fight left in you. And with the plush mattress calling you to sleep, the world went dark before you could figure out a way to get him to leave.

“All right Destructo, show me what you’ve got.”

You weren’t a fan of the nickname, but you weren’t about to tell the Tony Stark to shut up and use your real name. And anyways, as much as you hated using your abilities, and how you were always overcome by the tidal wave of fear that sent fear rolling like waves throughout your body, you always felt better — healthier even — after using them. And he was giving you free range now.

Eight suits surrounded you in a perfect octagon, hands out like they were ready to strike. Tony had somehow altered his suits so that they’d shoot bubbles — of all things — instead of small blasts and said you’d only be alive if you managed to take them all down before a single bubble came out.

A small grin unwittingly made its way onto your face.

“Glad to see you’re having fun,” Tony remarked, “it’ll come in handy for future testing. Ready?”

You nodded and ignored the bit about future testing. They might have thought they wanted you now but after they saw how much of a curse you really were, they weren’t going to keep you around long enough for future testing. You prayed that day wasn’t any time soon.

But you were ready now. That was until Tony’s voice crackled through the intercoms once more, “just make sure you don’t kill anyone of us in the process. I’d hate to miss Taco Tuesday.

You lifted your chin, “Give me thirty seconds with the enemies and you’ll have your taco.”

“Such confidence,” he remarked with a chuckle.

It was false bravado but you wanted this. You wanted out of your hell hole. So you weren’t about to let him see any of the very real fear that you actually might kill him. in the process.

You let out your power in a giant blast.

You bolted upright, gasping for breath. Black spots clouded your vision but you forced through the waves of dizziness, looking for the one person you couldn’t bear to hurt. He was supposed to have left. Your next breath never came. Bucky’s long limbs spilled over the edges of the chair in the opposite corner of the room, his phone resting on his chest. His eyes were closed, a peaceful look on his face but that didn’t mean anything. The dead often looked at peace.

Then his phone rose and fell with his chest. You held back a sob. Your relief would have sent you tumbling if you hadn’t been sitting. He was alive.

Without your blinding panic, the rest of your room came into focus. He’d left all the clothes you’d strewn over the chair in a neat, folded pile on your dresser. You glanced over at your alarm clock for the time, which was…off. Your dread clenched it’s fist around your stomach. It had been on. So had your air conditioning unit. And where was the constant hum of your ancient refrigerator?

“They’re all fried,” Bucky’s gruff voice came through the silence as if he’d actually been sleeping, “the phone gave a nice little shock when it died. Snapped me out of my sleep that’s for sure.”

Your heart was still trying to hammer its way out of your chest when you said, “You could have gotten hurt. I don’t know how you’re not.”

“I do,” he replied simply, eyes finding yours.

“No, you don’t,.” you shook your head more than you had to, “No, you can’t.”

“I can because I’ve trained with you almost every day since you got here. I know that your gift,” you scoffed at the word but he kept going, “your gift works differently depending on who and what you’re targeting. And I know you don’t target people. Not unless you have to and even then I see that it kills you to do it.”

You looked down at your sheets, hating the way his words resonated through your body, refusing to go away. But you could still ignore it.

“That might be true, but Tony has been making his suits to withstand me. In case I can’t control my powers and they hurt anyone on our side. He might say it’s in case we meet another mutant with powers like mine, but we all know that’s not true.”

“Why can’t it be both?” he huffed then took in a slow breath. It did nothing to hide the growl in his voice when he asked, “None of us are perfect, why do you have to be?”

Because, even as a full grown adult, you were afraid you’d somehow end up back in that orphanage, unloved and unwanted because all you did was ruin things. And you didn’t know what you’d do if you ruined the closest thing you’d ever had to family. Perfect kept you here. Perfect kept you safe.

He stood from the chair, and came to kneel beside your bed. He brushed aside the hair that had stuck to your forehead with sweat, calloused fingers resting gently on your cheek when he was done.

“You’re one of us now” he whispered as if he could read your mind, “and I — we — won’t let you go that easily not matter what you think of your abilities. Even if that means I have to inspect you for cuts and bruises myself after every mission. You are good, YN.”

You could only nod, taken aback by the ferocity in his voice. Still, it didn’t stop you from looking him over head to toe once more just to make sure he was okay. Then you noticed something off with him.

“Where’s your arm?”

He ran his hand through his hair, a sheepish look on his face, “it might have fallen off a few seconds before you woke up.”

Your heart dropped into your stomach, “I hurt you.”

He shook his head fiercely, “you didn’t. I’m fine.”

“But I could have,” you protested.

“But you didn’t,” he said, “you never do. Because despite what you might think, you control this thing inside you and we all trust you with it.”

You were about to object but he stopped you by pressing a light kiss to your forehead, and when he pulled back there was that lopsided little grin on his face that made you realize how light headed you were feeling, “one day we’ll get to a place where you’ll find this funny. I promise.”

And somehow, you believed him.

#bucky #Bucky Barnes #bucky x y/n #bucky x you #Bucky angst #fanfic #fanfiction

288 notes · View notes

extasiswings · 3 years

Text

MORE finale-spec because I hadn’t written a Buck POV yet. Also, wow, I need the new episode so I have something else to think about...

There’s a moment that happens sometimes before disaster strikes.

The world slows, and everything is thrown into stark clarity—Buck can remember it right before the ladder truck, the tsunami, Eddie’s well collapse—that feeling of being outside of his own body for a few seconds knowing suddenly that something terrible is about to hit. He remembers.

They’ve just finished a shift when it happens. Buck’s walking out to the parking lot with Eddie when Bobby calls him back—

“Go ahead,” Eddie says. “I told Christopher I would pick up ice cream on the way home anyway, so—we’ll see you at the house?”

“I’ll be there,” Buck promises. “I—I’m glad that—that we’re doing this. I’ve missed—” You. Both of you. “—him.”

Eddie’s lips curve up and his eyes soften.

“He’s missed you, too,” he replies quietly.

Buck’s heart flips in his chest.

Bobby calls him again. He turns away. Eddie continues walking to his truck—

Buck glances back over his shoulder when he reaches the garage—

The world slows. Everything goes cold.

A gunshot rings out.

Across the parking lot, Eddie collapses like a puppet with its strings cut.

Buck’s moving before he can even think, only to be abruptly yanked back into the safety of the garage. He fights the grip—everything around him is white noise, his focus narrowed to Eddie’s prone form on the ground—

His throat is raw. He thinks he might be screaming.

“Buck. Buck!” Bobby shouts right next to his ear. “It’s not safe—”

“Fuck safe,” Buck spits out and finally wrenches free, sprinting across the parking lot and dropping to his knees when he reaches Eddie. Eddie’s breathing is labored and blood slicks his hands where he’s holding pressure on the gunshot wound.

“Buck,” Eddie chokes out. “You shouldn’t be—sniper—”

“If he wants to shoot me, he can shoot me, but I’m not leaving you here,” Buck replies. He covers Eddie’s hands with his to help hold pressure, barely holding back a shudder at the unhelpful reminder his mind offers up that he isn’t trained for this, doesn’t know what he’s doing, and if Eddie dies—

Fuck, it would have been better if their positions were reversed. And Buck would do it if he could. Would take a bullet, a hundred, a thousand bullets if it would make Eddie magically fine, if it would send him home safe and sound to Christopher.

“Was supposed to get the ice cream,” Eddie murmurs, and his eyes are distant, focus slipping in and out. “Chris has been—been looking forward to tonight—all week.”

“Eddie, look at me,” Buck demands. There’s ice in his stomach and Eddie’s blood is warm on his hands—the contrast makes his head swim and his throat tighten. “Look at me, okay? Focus.”

Eddie makes a small, hurt noise and closes his eyes when Buck presses down a little harder, but when he opens them again Buck can tell he’s more present. Over in the ambulance bay, there’s shouting, and an engine starts up, but Buck’s gaze doesn’t leave Eddie’s.

“I promised—promised I wouldn’t leave him again,” Eddie says. “I promised—”

“And you’re going to keep that promise,” Buck replies fiercely as the ambulance pulls up right next to them, the doors opening and providing the faintest amount of cover. Hen jumps out with a backboard and together they get Eddie onto it and loaded inside.

“Buck,” Eddie tries to say again, except then his face pales rapidly, a terrible choked wheeze leaving him, and his eyes roll back.

“What’s happening?” Buck asks, his voice high with panic.

“I think one of his lungs collapsed,” Hen says, her own voice painfully controlled as she sets to work. And Buck just keeps holding pressure and lets her go.

When they get to the hospital—

Buck stands frozen in the ambulance bay outside the emergency room doors staring blankly after the gurney as the doctors and nurses wheel Eddie inside and into a trauma room. There’s blood rushing in his ears, he’s freezing—

And Eddie’s blood is on his hands, drying, staining his skin—

He gets sick in the nearest trash can.

“Buck.” Hen’s voice is quiet, her touch gentle when her hand curls around his shoulder.

He’s shaking. He can’t seem to stop.

“You’re in shock,” she says, and Buck realizes he must have said that out loud. “Come sit down.”

“I should be doing something,” Buck replies, even as he lets her lead him back to sit on the edge of the ambulance. His voice is distant to his own ears. “I should—I should call Isabel—Christopher—”

“You don’t have to do anything right this second.” Hen presses a water bottle into his hands. “Except drink that.”

Buck picks at the label instead. His mind is racing too quickly as well, skipping from thought to thought and not really processing any of them.

“He’s going to be fine, right?” He asks. “He has to be. Because I can’t—I can’t—”

Fuck, he can’t breathe. It’s like he gave Eddie his own lungs to keep him breathing. If he’s numb it’s because his heart is beating in Eddie’s chest, keeping him alive, and that makes sense to Buck because if Eddie dies—

He lost him to Ana. He did. Months of barely seeing each other outside of work. Months of barely seeing Christopher. Months of feeling like he couldn’t pick up the phone or drive over and use his key to just drop in because it suddenly felt...intrusive. And then Eddie broke up with Ana and they were finally supposed to get back to being them again, and now—

Buck would rather lose Eddie to a hundred Anas than lose him like this. At least before he still had physical presence, the half-life of proximity a few times a week at work. He could live with that, no matter how much it felt like hell.

“He has a great team working on him,” Hen says. “They’re going to do everything they can.”

It’s not an answer. Or it is. But not quite. But then, Buck’s pretty sure Hen doesn’t want to lie to him.

He shudders again. His eyes blur.

There are words trapped in his throat. Words that he hasn’t let himself say, has hardly even let himself acknowledge in his own head. But he’s fraying, fraying, fraying at the seams and his heart is in a trauma room and there is still blood on his hands—

Buck hunches forward, elbows on his knees, curling into himself.

“I’m in love with him,” he whispers. Just to say it. Just once.

Hen wraps her arm around his shoulders, gently encouraging him to lean against her.

“I know,” she admits.

And Buck turns his head into her shoulder. And breaks.

#chapel writes #buddie #buddie fic #911 fic #this is really about to be the twelve days of christmas except it’s the 15 days of different ways to hurt eddie #yes I'm choosing violence yes I'm sorry

183 notes · View notes

daydreamed-snippets · 3 years

Text

TW: Graves. Claustrophobia. Panic Attacks

The first thing the hero was aware of was the sound of their own breathing.

Measured, shallow, slowly inhaling, and exhaling in the quiet. They breathed in, noting that they were on their stomach and that their ribs expanded unencumbered. Good. That meant there weren’t any ropes securing their arms to their body. That was a small victory in itself.

Still, sound was of little consequence to the hero if they couldn’t see anything. Their power depended on sight, on the ability to stare down a target, and the dilation of irises to push illusions into the target’s mind. With no light and no line of sight, the hero was effectively powerless. Left with a handful of acrobatic tricks, and the uncanny ability to run like hell when things got too hairy.

Use what you got.

They could almost hear their cousin’s voice in their head, berating them with that parental tone they carry. You call yourself a hero, for godssake, you can’t always rely on your powers. Improvise.

So the hero curled their fingers against the floor, fingernails scraping across the wood. Ok, maybe they were in a closet, or a crate, or box of some kind. The air was stale, unmoving, and humid. The darkness was oppressive not even the faintest sliver of light to be seen. Defiantly more of a crate than a closet, or else, they surmised, they would be able to see the seam of the door. And the air would be cleaner.

They guessed the supervillain didn’t think them a threat in total darkness, powerless and dazed. Not when the hero was stupid enough to underestimate them as they did. Sneaking into their compound, the hero assumed the element of surprise was on their side. All they had to do was find the server room, and plug in a drive that carried a virus strong enough to crash the supervillain’s whole system. Wiping out the computer’s memory completely. Just slip in and out without anyone knowing. Even if they were caught, they had reasoned arrogantly, all they needed to do was ensnare the supervillain’s gaze, trapping them in a hellish landscape.

They couldn’t realize it then but it was a stupid and reckless idea. They didn’t account for the level of security they encountered in the compound, nor how quickly and how many henchmen showed up when the alarm was tripped. They certainly hadn’t planned much of an exit strategy. The hero just saw red when it came to the supervillain. And when they became surrounded they knew it was impossible to hold everyone’s gaze. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

So the supervillain threw them in a box to rot… or to torture later.

They tried not to let that crowd their mind as they moved on to other observations, letting out a long, sharp breath through their teeth, frustration evident. But they couldn’t shake the thought that this showed just how green they were to the field of heroics. Only a novice when you looked at the big picture, what an idiotic kid caught up in the…

That trail of thought stopped when they felt their breath blow back on their face like they were mere inches from something. Air caught in their throat. Suddenly they were keenly aware of a consistent rising and falling beneath them that they didn’t notice before. Something solid and soft and nice. They were on someone; their face planted in the crook of a neck.

The person moved and the pleasantness of warm skin brushed against their nose.

“Try not to move too much,” the person said, strong fingers tracing up their side in a tantalizing touch.

A transient moment washed over the hero. Their body going instantly ridged like a deer caught in headlights. Flattening their palms on what they imagined was either side of the person’s head, the hero shot upwards rising several inches before they butted their head against a wooden ceiling.

“What the hell?!”

“I did say try not to move too much,” the voice came again, the inflection rich, vibrant, and horrifyingly familiar. “Steady your breathing. In my estimation, we don’t have much oxygen left.”

No.

Gods no.

They remembered that voice all too well. It often called to them in the catacombs of the city’s slums, laughing when they stumbled over their own budding abilities. Teased when the hero was forced to retreat. Mocked them for shivering under the villain’s frigid powers, like a little whelp left out in the cold, they would say.

The villain had said a lot of things to them amid battle in a voice as slick and as icy as their capabilities.

“Wh-what is this? What’s going on?” Arms shaking, the hero forced themselves to perform an awkward plank, elbows bent, rising on their toes so that their body wasn’t touching the villain.

“Isn’t it obvious?” came the courtly reply, and the hero could imagine a sardonic smile play across the villain’s lips. “We’ve been buried alive together.”

Blood drained from their face at those words. No wonder the air felt stagnant and hot. No wonder their breath was shallow, quickly becoming labored. It felt like a weight slammed into their heart and their stomach flopped, threatening to overturn.

“No. No,” they gasped, unable to catch their breath. “H-how do you know?”

“You’re a heavy sleeper, do you know that?” The villain asked it like it was the most curious thing at the moment. “I woke up shortly after they lowered this makeshift coffin into the ground. I could hear them toss dirt onto it. Luckily this wood is flimsy enough. I managed to put a small hole in the lid with my shoe before you roused.”

Oh.

They just bumped their head on the lid of the coffin they were buried in.

The villain’s words soaked into their soul, stirring up an unknown and until now dormant phobia. They were buried alive with the villain with no way out, and only minutes of oxygen left. Seconds even. They could feel the CO2 building up, stifling their lungs. Walls pressing in on them. This coffin wasn’t meant for two people, it wasn’t big enough, there wasn’t enough room.

It can’t end like this.

The hero had only taken the Covenant’s oath months ago. They weren’t really supposed to be an official hero yet. Their request to be recognized as one was a desperate attempt to stop the supervillain’s rampant crime spree in a part of the city the Commissioner didn’t give a shit about. Their training had been pushed off, their commencement a letter in the mail. They hadn’t even stepped foot on the top level of the city yet.

They need to get out.

“No, no, no, no, no, no. This can’t—” they rasped, choking.

“I did not say that to make you panic, little gorgon,” the villain said, taunting and saccharine and smooth. Why so smooth? They were going to die here too, didn’t they see that? “Pattern your breathing. You will use up more oxygen if you panic.”

How could the villain be so damn calm? Both of them were in over their heads. Literally. This was it. The hero would die here, in the arms of their enemy no less.

They couldn’t get a breath.

“What are you doing?” the villain asked, perceiving the hero’s rising panic as they dropped their head, forehead pressed against the villain’s chest.

“I can’t, I can’t breathe! It’s too—I can’t—”

“Yes you can, settle your nerves. You’re hyperventilating and that will use up all of our oxygen before we have a chance to think. Listen to the sound of my voice. Breathe when I do.”

No, they couldn’t. It was too hot. They were sweating. Burning up. They were in the pit of hell and there was no possible way they could force air into their lungs. They were going to vomit and suffocate, their descent into death was going to be painful.

Their hands flew to their collar, pulling frantically at the material that hung around their neck. It was constricting. Tightening like a snake. Moving to strangle them. The hero’s elbows dug into the villain’s sides, earning a swift groan.

“You need to listen to me,” the villain said, but they didn’t. They couldn’t. They needed to get some air, they needed to get their shirt off. They were going to die if they didn’t. They clawed at the fabric, ripping it. It was too hot. It was—

“I’m going to touch you now.”

Deliciously cold hands skimmed over the base of their neck, pushing back their shirt so skin met skin. A gentle grip pulled the hero’s head up, exposing their throat, sending the hero’s hand skittering away tasked again with the job of holding themselves up. The villain blew out a brisk wind, and the temperature cooled in the coffin considerably. The hero no longer wanted to scratch at their uniform.

“Lay your hand flat against my chest,” the villain commanded. “Put your weight on me.”

“What? No…”

“Just do it,” their voice held a different kind of ice to it. The mocking tone is gone. “Trust me for once. Our lives depend on it.”

The hero complied.

“Marvelous,” the villain murmured. “Now, inhale when you feel my chest rise. Exhale when I do.”

Beneath their palm, the hero could feel the quickened beats of the villain’s heart, contrary to their serene words. They were anxious too, but the villain still kept their breath steady. Their heartbeat being the only tell that anything was amiss. For some reason that made the hero feel better, and they relaxed a bit.

“Hearken to my voice. Breathe in through your nose, fill your lungs until you can’t inhale anymore. Hold it as I do,” the villain said, demonstrating. “Then let it out through parted lips.”

The hero acquiesced.

When the villain took a deep breath, the hero mimicked it. When the villain exhaled, the hero did the same. They attuned themselves to the villain, resonated with them. Pushing everything out of their mind except for their placement on the body beneath them. The villain might as well have been a beacon of light in the darkness of that coffin. It blinded the hero as if they could see, brows furrowing at the villain’s nearness, eyes tightly shut. Obeying their voice, focusing on them until there was nothing outside of that sole moment. They became too aware. The villain couldn’t move a muscle without the hero being painfully attentive to how broad their shoulders were, how their ribs flared out, and how their waist tapered to narrow hips. They smelled like sweat and dirt, and some strong earthy soap. Intoxicating.

Slowly, they guided the hero’s head back to their neck. The two resting comfortably as they did before. “You’re doing lovely. That’s right. Nice even breaths,” they praised, hands leaving the hero’s neck to stroke long fingers through their hair, driving shivers down their spine with a gentle touch. “Can you talk now?”

The hero’s heart ricocheted. They fought once again to get it under control. They hesitantly said, “yes.”

“What were you doing in the supervillain’s compound?”

“How did you?” the hero swallowed, breathing quickening. A cool hand was at the nape of their neck again, calming them. “How did you know I was there?”

They felt them smile against their forehead. “I had my suspicions, unconfirmed as they were, but the way your breathing has changed just now is telling me everything I need to know. Maybe we should do this more often. Cuddle, I mean. I may just uncover all of your secrets this way.”

The hero was silent. They didn’t trust any reply they gave not to have a squeak in it.

“It was a joke,” the villain said, ambivalent, conveying anything but. “You’ll have to admit this brings new meaning to ‘lying with the enemy’.”

They licked their lips, voice horse. “It’s sleeping,” the hero said in a whisper earning a questioning hum from the villain. “It’s sleeping with the enemy.”

“Now there’s a thought.”

Hating the blush that crept up to their neck, the hero decided it was wise to go back to the question at hand. “I, uh, broke into the supervillain’s compound. I tried to upload a virus to their computer. It didn’t work. I was caught. I ended up here.” Duh, the last part was a no-brainer. Their mind stumbled on. “How, umm, why did the supervillain put you in here? I thought you worked together.”

“We did, but we disagreed on certain matters,” they said in a careful voice. This was the first time the hero was aware of it. They shift their head, wanting more. Obligingly, the villain continued. “I assume you found out that the supervillain has been experimenting on the people in the slums as I did. That part of the compound was hidden away from me. I had no idea how many bodies the supervillain had piled up back there. My discovery angered them, and I can only assume their best revenge was to bury me in here with you.” The villain shifted, getting comfortable. “Perchance they thought we’d kill each other in here. It would have been an effective torture.”

“Why didn’t you kill me? You said that you were awake before me. Why not strangle me in my sleep?”

“I needed you alive, little gorgon, not even I can escape this tomb alone.” The villain’s hands came back, stroking as they went. “And I wanted you to trust me. I know our past is...complex, but it doesn’t have to be like that. We can start anew if you want to do that.”

“Do I have a choice?”

“I imagine you want to live, no?” The light teasing in their voice was back. “Well then, we must move now.” The petting stopped, and the hero missed it, much to their chagrin. They shouldn’t get used to this. The villain was still the villain after all. Even though they did help them calm down, diverting a catastrophe.

The hero could feel the villain tense beneath them as they reached up towards the coffin’s lid and pushed. “We are going to punch and kick our way through the top of the coffin. As I said, I couldn’t do much on my own with your body weighing me down, but if you work with me, we may be able to break the lid.”

“How?”

“You’ll turn around in a moment, and push your legs upward when I kick. We’ll both lift the lid once it starts separating from the rest of the coffin. That’s step two. Once the top of the coffin breaks, the soil will start pouring in. We will need to push the dirt down to our feet. More will pour in and we will do the same with it until this coffin is full and you can sit up. Since it’s a newly filled grave, the dirt hasn’t had time to settle and harden. It will be strenuous, hero, but feasible.”

The villain paused. “I am going to unzip your outfit,” they said after a moment. Chilly gradually brushed down towards their chest fumbling with the location of the hero’s zipper. “Lift up for me.” The hero found that they obeyed almost immediately. They stopped themselves midway.

“Why?”

“This is step one. We will need to cover our faces with our clothing so we don’t suffocate while attempting to rise from this grave,” the villain explained, calmly, like it was a simple thing. Except the hero was wearing a jumpsuit. An onesie. Not Covenant issued, but something similar. Their cousin and some neighbors pulled their money together and had gotten the hero an upgrade when they had received the commencement letter. They were ecstatic at the time. Now they regretted it. Nevertheless, the villain’s fingers made deft work, drawing the uniform from the hero’s shoulders and shimming the one-piece down their legs, allowing the hero to kick out of it.

“Now do the same to me.”

Luckily the villain wore a simple jacket, with a side zipper and a light shirt underneath. The hero didn’t have to fumble much in the dark, though they did have to scoot down, back scrapping against the top as their chin rested on the villain’s stomach just to get the jacket off. With how cold the villain's hands were, it was a wonder they weren’t making comments about how hot the hero’s face was. The hero was sure they were entirely red by now.

Pushing that out of their mind the hero grabbed their abandoned uniform and placed it in the hands of the villain who wrapped it around the hero's face. The hero did the same with the jacket to the villain.

“You’re going to turn, and on the count of three we are going to kick,” the villain said loudly, voice muffled. The hero turned and braced their legs against the lid. Counting in their ear, the villain brought their legs up against the lid. Again and again and again until the wood split, and dirt tumbled in. The hero worked to push most of it down. They punched the lid, channeling their anxiety and their anger into their fists, hands breaking on the wood, blood flowing from cracked knuckles. Hands on their back pushed them, and the hero wrestled to sit up, fighting against the weight of the dirt. Fighting to cheat death. The claustrophobia was almost too much to bear, any moment feeling like they would succumb again.

They broke the surface.

Clawing at the ground they lifted themselves out with the last of their strength, ripping their uniform from their face, collapsing on the ground mere feet from the grave. The villain followed soon after, comparable to a zombie from a crypt. For a long while neither budged, breathing deeply, staring at the morning sky.

But soon somebody did move. They were always the first to move. This time, crawling over to the hero, wildly panting. The villain was covered in dirt, hair mused and blood dripping from cuts on their legs—but their eyes. Those eyes were iced, intense, dissecting the hero’s alive.

With a fright, the hero realized that their mask was removed when they yanked off their uniform. They were exposed, identity laid bare, and in nothing but their undergarments no less. They turned their head, hiding their face in shadows cast by the dawn.

Tsking, the villain’s cold hand shot out, seizing their chin, maneuvering their head the way they please so that their face was turned towards dayspring. “None of that. Not when we’ve been so intimately acquainted,” they said, a honeyed inflection. “Now I get to see the face behind the mask.” They smiled, admiring how the hero’s eyes widened in fright. “I didn’t expect you to be so fetching for a vagrant playing the hero. You always did run away whenever our battles went poorly for you. I’ve never gotten a glimpse before.”

Drawing themselves up to their knees, the villain loomed over them, bringing both hands to cup their face. Something in their eyes gave the hero chills, all instances of compassion and kindness gone. Replaced by a sick kind of affection.

Improvise!

Defiantly, the hero raised their chin, staring bolding at the villain’s eyes, willing their powers to trap the bastard in a nightmare. To keep them from doing whatever it was that swept through their villainous mind.

But nothing happened. They were too weak to call upon their power. Shaking, exhausted, both hands laid useless at their side, crippled. The pain of their knuckles screamed at them, needing attention, needing an outlet. The hero mewled feebly, a single tear streaking down their cheek as the villain’s hand wrapping around the hero’s nose and mouth. They clamped down cutting off the hero’s air supply.

“While I would love to say it’s nothing personal,” the villain said quelling the hero’s jolts and jerks as the latter’s eyes drifted closed after a violent struggle, body going lax in their hands. “That wouldn’t be the least bit true, would it?”

Scooping the hero in a bridal style, mindful of their broken hands, the villain looked towards the skyline, chuckling. “I’ve had my eye on you since you started sniffing around into our little operation, gorgon. Though the method could have been different, it was nice of the supervillain to drop you in my lap so to speak. And I’m not one to waste this golden opportunity to take you to my lab and slice you up bit by bit. I will make sure to take detailed notes. I’ve never experimented on a hero before.”

#this is wayyyy too long #im sorry #Relictus City #hero #villain #supervillain #hero x villain #villain x hero #Heroes of Covenant #buried alive #my writing #snippet #more like a #short story #writblr #I misspelled henchmen as hunchmen and now I can’t

288 notes · View notes