#and then you actually DO wash his hair and he's just kind of. subdued. letting you.

[willowser]

the tag “he’s not having sex!!” is killing me im trying so hard to keep it together in this coffee shop rn trying not to cackle

also yeah dabi probably considered the time that you helped him take a fully clothed shower (because he wasnt comfortable at the moment even if he was by himself to be naked) to be third base. maybe even a home run idk

LMAOOO okay okay, not to get on a serious note, but your shower bit 🥺 i genuinely think dabi would be so, so fun for friends to lovers. because a totally platonic relationship with him must be hilarious; this man is a smart ass, okay? he will always have you cracking up. and i think if he views you as just some acquaintance of his, he's more prone to like. just chatting with you or shooting the shit or drinking or walking around at all hours of the night when neither of you can sleep. it's not until things start to get a little...softer, i think, that he pulls back—but that's what makes it so good !

because it could come out of nowhere, for either of you. one minute you're sharing a bottle in a brown paper bag under the bright city lights, talking shit about pro heroes, and the next—

"fuck, i'm freezing." you laugh as you say it, but your teeth won't stop chattering and your legs are starting to feel like they're made of lead. you have to come to a stop, leaning against some abandoned shop in this lesser part of town.

"should'a dressed right," dabi murmurs, having the audacity to tell you such a thing even though he's in pants with holes in the knees, without a jacket. already he sounds like he's sobering up, but you suppose he can't help it; his metabolism probably eats through everything.

"can't all be so h-hot-blooded."

tired, his mouth stretches in a lazy smirk, and he rolls his eyes like you're being dramatic—despite the fact that it's snowing. "ain't that bad."

you beg to differ. "feel my hands!"

he watches you carefully as you offer them, like he's putting too much thought into it, suddenly. it's not often that you two really touch, not if he can help it, because there's never been a need. not before now.

the facade of his nonchalance is readjusted, though there's a tension lining his mouth that you've never seen on him, not with you. he tucks the bag underneath his armpit so that he can use both his hands, and then he folds your fingers down into fists and covers them with his own.

entirely, the long and rough expanse of his palms dwarfing you. it's hot, immediately, and the sensation has you shuddering in relief, letting out a grateful little sound as your body sways closer to his on instinct. neither of you say anything, and you're too tipsy too notice the grit of his jaw or the bob of his adam's apple.

been a long time since he touched someone, just 'cause. with the intention of helping instead of harming.

you don't care, only let out another teeth chattering whine before pressing your cheek into the back of his hand. yours is icy, but his own heat at the sight of you nuzzling into him like a fucking kitten.

it's weird, but only lasts for a moment before you're pulling away and turning to wobble down the sidewalk, back in the direction of the hideout. you almost slip once and the screech you let out is enough to make you both laugh, for now—but neither of you will be able to sleep tonight without thinking about it, his skin against yours.

#i just want to love him PLEASE 😭 #i cam absolutely picture you both coming back one night after having had too much to drink #and you know how you come up with all these shitty dumb plans when you're wasted ?? and they all sound like a good idea in the moment #flash forward fifteen minutes and you are both tumped over in the shower LAUGHING #his hair dye is washing out and staining your clothes and his and you're like YOU'RE SO DIRTY. LEMME WASH YOUR HAIR #and he's like FUCK OFF DON'T TOUCH ME #but you're both just playfully fighting with each other #and then you actually DO wash his hair and he's just kind of. subdued. letting you. #bc when was the last time someone did this for him ?? #BYE BYE 🥺🥺 #this is definitely a home run in his book LMAOOOO #✿ willow writes #✿ ask willow #✿ thoughts: dabi/touya

[thissortofsorcery]

It’s just a green Hawkins Tigers sweatshirt, kind of old, color already faded after too many washes, lumpy on the armpits from being used too many times.

Billy makes it look brand new.

Even sitting on the edge of Steve’s bed, eyes fixed on the window, with the line of his spine hunched with the weight of what he ran from, of why he came to Steve tonight, he looks beautiful. His hair is damp from the shower, curling around his ears and his neck, and his bare toes are digging into the carpet. In the soft light of Steve’s bedroom, in Steve’s old sweatshirt, Billy looks almost delicate.

Steve loves him so much, he doesn’t know what to do with himself sometimes.

“Hey,” Steve says, from the bedroom door, and Billy turn to him. He doubts the thoughts Billy was lost in were good, so he doesn’t mind breaking him out of them. “Found you some cigarettes, if you want them.”

Billy arrived at Steve’s in workout clothes, just a tank top and shorts, shivering with dried sweat and with a bloody lip. It looked like he didn’t have time to grab anything but his keys.

Billy lights a cigarette as soon as Steve hands the pack over. It’s cute how he goes straight to the window and opens it, blowing the smoke out into the night air, like Steve minds. His hands are shaking a little, still, and he’s jiggling his foot where one leg is crossed over the other, leaning against the wall.

“You don’t have to do that,” Steve says, like he does every time. He sits on the bed where Billy was. “It’s fine.”

Billy’s eyes flick to Steve, from where he was staring out the window again. His face is set in a deep frown, with that awful crease between his eyebrows that means his head went somewhere shitty. He takes a deep drag from the cigarette, but his hand misses his mouth once before he gets it right. Billy doesn’t say anything, but he pushes away from the wall and starts to pace.

“Are you hungry?” Steve asks, and starts bouncing his own knee. He tries to think of what food he has in the fridge. “I can make you a grilled cheese. Or I have leftover pasta, if you want.”

“No,” Billy says quietly, even if his expression would demand him to shout. Smoke comes out of his mouth, of his nostrils, and Steve pictures it coming out of his ears, almost, like a pissed off cartoon character. Except he knows when Billy looks his angriest it’s because he’s the most sad. “No, I had dinner.”

Steve watches him pace. Thinks of what else he can offer, how else he can fix it even knowing he can’t actually fix it. He wants to hug Billy, to hold him, but being still isn’t what Billy needs right now.

He’s pacing the room like a caged animal, going from the dresser to the nightstand and pulling on the cigarette. For once, the wallpaper in Steve’s room seems fitting.

“Steve?” A crackle comes from the nightstand, and both of their heads snap toward it. “Steve, come in. It’s Max. Over.”

Both Steve and Billy lunge to grab the walkie, and Steve only takes it because he was closest. Billy hovers by his side, staring at the walkie anxiously.

“This is Steve. Max, are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Is Billy with you?” The walkie crackles again, and Billy’s face goes slack, eyes closed. Relieved.

“Yeah, he’s right here. He’s alright,” Steve says, and Billy huffs, like they’re being dumb for worrying about him.

Billy grabs the walkie from Steve’s hand, “Max, you okay?”

Steve thinks any other thirteen year old would be annoyed to be asked that twice, but Max just says,

“Yeah, I’m in my room. I told them I was going to sleep,” They both go silent for a while, then Max says, “Are you really okay?”

Billy shoots a glance at Steve, moves only to tangle their fingers together briefly.

“I’m good, shitbird. I’m gonna spend the night at Steve’s,” Billy says. “Same as usual for school tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Max says, and she sounds calmer, but still subdued. “I’ll grab your bag and stuff.”

Billy lets out a long sigh, shoulders slumped, and presses the walkie hard on his forehead for a second.

“Thanks, Max. Night.”

“Bye, Billy.”

The walkie clatters on the desk, and Billy puts out the cigarette bud on the ashtray Steve got for him ages ago. Where he was almost vibrating before, now Billy is too still, almost dragged down, like he ran out of gas and rolled to a stop on the side of the road. Steve hates to see him like this. Billy should always be full of energy, full of life.

Steve approaches slowly, makes sure his steps make sound, and lays a hand on Billy’s back. He leans back into it right away, so Steve plasters himself against Billy, runs his hands down his arms, lets his hair tickle Billy’s ear.

“What do you need?” Steve says, laying a kiss on Billy’s shoulder. “How can I help?”

“I don’t know,” Billy says, almost a groan. He digs the heels of his palms into his eyes, hiding his face. “Can we just-”

He cuts himself off, like he doesn’t know what he means. Steve thinks he does, though, Steve knows Billy, has seen him rage and cry and laugh a hundred different ways since November. Has been by his side for a good portion of it.

So he takes Billy’s hand and leads him to the bed, gets in after him and pulls the covers over them both. Billy rolls into Steve immediately, tucks his face into Steve’s neck and breathes in, and Steve runs his fingers over Billy’s scalp to help him relax. To make him sigh.

“You look great in that sweatshirt,” Steve says, out of nowhere, out of a desire to make this moment theirs and talk about stupid stuff. “I like seeing you in my clothes.”

Billy’s breath hitches, and his fingers squeeze Steve’s waist, but he doesn’t say anything. Steve runs his fingers down Billy’s spine, shifts his head to lay a kiss on Billy’s hair, on his temple.

“I mean, you look good in anything,” Steve says, voice so quiet it’s almost a murmur. “But when I came in and I saw you… You’re so beautiful, Billy.”

“You trying to get in my pants, Harrington?” Billy’s voice comes from Steve’s neck, muffled. He doesn’t move.

“I’m serious,” Steve laughs, “Do you even know what a catch you are?”

“Of course I am,” Billy mumbles. “Sex on wheels.”

That’s not what Steve meant. He runs a hand down Billy’s arms until their hands meet, laces their fingers together. His lips kiss from Billy’s temple to his brow, and he speaks against his forehead:

“I meant more like how great you are,” Steve says. When Billy huffs, he continues, “You’re so, so smart.”

“Shut up,” Billy says.

“And you’re a smartass but you’re actually hilarious about it. You make me laugh so much,” Steve kisses the bridge of Billy’s nose, his eyelids, his cheekbone. “You’re honest. You’re dependable. When you want something, you give your whole self to it.”

Steve can hear Billy’s breath shake, and his eyes are closed. He rubs their noses together, says against his mouth, “I really feel like I can trust you, Billy.”

“Steve,” Billy breathes, and when he opens his eyes they’re wet, spilling over the bridge of his nose and onto his temple.

“And you’re good,” Steve says, “You’re a good person.”

Billy squeezes his eyes shut, and presses his forehead to Steve’s, breathing against him, fingers tangled together close to their chests.

“Smelled like you,” Billy says, “the sweatshirt.”

Oh.

Warmth spills in Steve’s chest like a fountain, like smoke from Billy’s lips, filling it with happiness until there’s no room for his lungs to expand. He rubs his nose along Billy’s cheek, presses a path of kisses until he finds the center of his lips. Kisses him gently, unhurried.

“I love you,” Steve says. “You know that. Right?”

“Yeah, pretty boy. I know,” Billy says, and his smile is small but it’s blinding. “Love you too.”

every time anti bullshit shows up on my dash, I write Steve loving on Billy | II

#harringrove #billy x steve #harringrove ficlet #harringrove fic #billy and max #billy hargrove #steve harrington #mine #sorcery writes #spreading billy love

[wkemeup]

Delicate Edges (10)

series summary: Trapped under a mountain of debt to the Hydra club, it is only in moments when Bucky walks into your flower shop that you forget the cruelty of the biker clubs of this town. But a war is brewing. And Bucky will stop at nothing to keep you safe. (Biker!AU) pairing: Bucky x reader chapter word count: 10.1k chapter warnings: big angst, physical assault, canon level violence, this is a doozy guys hold on tight

series masterlist / series playlist

A week had passed by since the Hydra club came to collect their dues and you still had yet to reopen your shop. You couldn’t stomach the idea of crossing the threshold into the west, of facing Ms. Leary and her stories of her sweet ailing husband at St. John’s or the kind man from the Italian bakery. There was no pretending like you didn’t carry the threat of war over your head; surrounded by the empty shelves, fumbling through shaking hands, unable to push aside the fear that the Hydra club could storm in at any moment and rip it to shreds.

Rumlow had bought Bucky’s act that night, but for how long? How long could the two of you keep up this rouse that you were nothing more to Bucky than a means for easy release? It was all that Rumlow would accept as long as you continued to make your payments. Anything more and he’d exploit the knowledge of what Bucky might do to protect you until it ruined the 107 and the entirety of the east.

It was one thing for Bucky to use you for selfish, uncaring gain; another to actually love the woman Rumlow held claim over with a ball and chain.

Wait—

Not love.

Bucky didn’t—

Well, you were almost sure he couldn’t possibly—

“Doll?”

You blinked, startled out of your thoughts as you looked up to find Bucky watching you with a worry line painted over his brow. He still had traces of flour on his cheek from the pancakes sitting under warm towels in the kitchen, batter on his fingertips. An apron laid over his bare chest, exposing the sleeve of tattoos running down his left arm. He sank onto the couch beside you and licked his fingers clean of the batter.

“You all right?”

You nodded, tugging at your hands in your lap, though you could not hold his gaze. “Just thinking.”

“Your mind still on the Hydra club?” Bucky asked slowly, a wash of guilt laced into his tone. It chipped at the crack settling down the center of your heart.

Still, you met the calming waves of ocean blue in his eyes and sighed, “how did you know?”

Bucky pressed out a smile, though it formed a thin line over his lips, barely touching the crescent fall of shimmering currents in his gaze. He covered your hands with his own, easing the restlessness inside his firm grip.

“Your hands,” he explained slowly, giving gentle strokes along the insides of your wrists. Compression subduing the tremors. “They start shaking when you’re frightened.”

When had he become so attuned to you that he could notice such things? You stared at him, a little wide eyed as he kept his focus on your hands. He brought your fingertips to his lips, kissing your knuckles before he released you. When they settled back in your own lap, you realized they were steady again.

“What am I going to do, Bucky?” you whispered, weight hanging on the end of every word. “We can’t keep this up forever and Rumlow—he'll find out who you really are if you show your hand to him... if he knows that we’re... that I... that you and I are... that we...” You cleared your throat awkwardly. “The border could be in danger again. He could retaliate against you for your involvement with me.”

“Let him,” Bucky shrugged and your gaze shot to his, stunned. He sighed, brushing his hands through his hair and littering remnants of white flour into his brunette strands. “The night Rumlow came for his money was one of the worst thing I’ve had to do since I started this charade. The things I said about you...”

“I know it wasn’t really you,” you tried, but even you remembered that glimpse of doubt you felt when the two of you were alone again, the need to see the Bucky you knew behind the mask to replace the terrible swell of panic stirring inside you. He blended in so easily amongst the Hydra men, his ability to slip into a whole new personality so seamlessly it had frightened you.

But you’d also seen the devastation flash over his features when you asked him to remind you who he really was – the guilt and shame that had broken him so terribly you knew him again within an instant.

“I still said them and I’ve... I’ve done much worse. Things that would make you ashamed of me,” Bucky admitted softly; his voice flat, aching. You parted your lips to argue but a subtle shake of his head quieted your denial.

“I won’t do it again,” Bucky said, determined. “I can’t. We’ll come up with another plan. I’ll-- I’ll talk to the club. Most of us are vets, anyway. It’s not like we’re helpless without the rumors backing us up. But it will... expose my vulnerabilities. The town will know who I am. It will make you a target.”

The way Bucky looked at you then, you understood why he kept this side of him hidden for so long. He was terrified to lose the little he had left, to allow Rumlow and the Hydra club to drag out the carpet from under his feet. This mask was his armor. His protection. And it had served him well enough for a long time but now...

“I’m already a target, Bucky,” you replied, inching closer to him. The length of your thigh brushed his, pressed up against one another. “Whether Rumlow knows about us or not, he’s got it out for me because of the debt. I’m already there, Bucky. Besides, we know Dot could give us up at any second, couldn’t she?”

Bucky nodded tensely. “Still don’t know why she hasn’t. Probably waiting for the right opportunity to twist the knife in.”

You thought of Mrs. Marcovaldo’s café sitting across the street from the Centenarian and the tea shop Wanda and Pietro ran only a few short blocks from the border. If Bucky dropped the mask, the Hydra club could swarm the east. The 107 weren’t strong enough to protect the town on their own – they didn’t have the numbers. The lie was the only thing preventing Hydra from taking over the whole town.

“What will happen to the east?”

Bucky pinched at the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know. I don’t know how to carry this town without losing myself and I can’t... I won’t put anything above keeping you safe.”

You leaned your head against Bucky’s shoulder, your arms wrapping around his bicep as you pulled him closer. The tense muscle began to ease under your touch. His lips grazed against your forehead; warm, steady.

“We’ll combine profits from the Centenarian for next month,” Bucky offered gently, “or I’ll find a way to sell my bike. We’ll figure it out, okay? I won’t let anything happen to you. As long as Rumlow gets his money and I’m not a standing threat to the west, he won’t care about us. He won’t have reason to come after you.”

You squeezed at his arm, rubbing your eyes on his sleeve. While his club had divulged into something darker over the years, you knew at its core was the love of the open road and those expensive bikes parked on the street. The fact that he was willing to part with his for you shattered every shred of uncertainty you carried of his feelings for you.

You ached to tell him not to do it – to not even consider selling the bike that started the family he’d build with his own two hands. But you knew how badly you needed the money, knew that if you were short next month, Rumlow wouldn’t care whether Bucky put on an act or not. He'd kill you. Maybe Bucky, too.

“And if that doesn’t work...” Bucky sighed, “we’ll run.”

You lifted your head, lips parted as you stared at him. “You’re serious?”

“You doubt me, doll?” Bucky chuckled, though it was low, almost pained. It was the same thing he’d said to you the morning he wandered in your shop, masquerading around like he was in desperate need of flowers; blush adorned to his cheeks amongst the dark colors of his clothing and the tattoos hidden under his jacket. It felt like a lifetime ago.

“I always liked the thought of driving with nowhere to go,” Bucky shrugged, a dreamy look in his eyes. “We could start over somewhere new. Somewhere Hydra can’t find us.”

You smiled sadly, imagining the wind against your skin as you clung around Bucky’s waist. His back pressed tight to your chest, the smell of leather surrounding you. The purr of an engine you could come to love because it was Bucky’s joy – not a reminder of the men in the west. But your lips curved downward, sinking as the image faded away.

“You wouldn’t abandon your family, Bucky,” you reminded him gently. “The 107 are too important to you. And what will Mrs. Marcovaldo do without you? Who would she force her free coffee onto if not you?”

Bucky let out a pained laugh as you pinched at his side, aching to see him smile again. You didn’t mention how easily Rumlow could swindle her out of her own business in Bucky’s absence. The fierce old woman would sooner give up the café than deal with the shit Hydra put you through over the years. She was stronger than you were.

“And I would never ask you to leave behind the flower shop,” Bucky added somberly. His large hand slid over your knee, squeezing lightly.

You didn’t know how the two of you were going to get through this, but it was a comfort to know that Bucky would be with you. He’d proven himself again and again. Even when you showed threads of doubt, he never once hesitated. He cared for you more than you ever gave him credit for. Perhaps, it was time you started to believe him.

***

The sun was setting over the west. Curled up on the firm wooden booth along the wall of the Centenarian, you watched through the window as the colors swept up into the crystal blue sky. Reds and pinks and oranges dancing amongst one another, coaxing the darkness and the stars hanging overhead from the harsh reflection of daylight.

You thought of your shop and the empty shelves lining the walls. The shattered remains of broken vases and crumbled flowers piled into the dumpster in the alley. Your stomach twisted at the thought, as if you’d left behind a piece of your soul and in your absence, allowed it to starve and wither to nothing.

You ached to return to May Flowers, to feel the sticky sweet comfort of sap on your fingers and the smell of fresh roses in the air. You missed your loyal customers and the ring of the bell over the front door. The smudge of lipstick on Ms. Leary’s cheek when she smiled and the hearty laugh of Mr. Jacobson when he picked up his usual order for his restaurant. The colorful array of flowers surrounding you like a warm, weighted blanket, even on the days you felt like the darkness had swept in and taken a hold of you.

Your father’s watch hung heavy on your wrist. An ease tugged in your chest as you began to trace the links absentmindedly; trailing over decade old scratches on the glass face and the fading golden color on the inside of the wrist. You’d never had the heart to clean it properly. Even if it was scratched and discolored and the gears had stopped turning, it was a living embodiment of your father. The dirt smushed into the creases evidence of his work at the shop and his love of the flowers he left behind for you.

“You miss it, don’t you?”

Peter slid into the opposite side of the booth, his folded arms resting against the table. He followed your gaze to the outline of buildings on the westside just pass the clearing.

“I do,” you said quietly.

“I know it might not mean much, but it’s been nice having you around this last week,” Peter mumbled, fidgeting in his seat. “Things have felt a little lighter, I suppose. Hasn’t been like this since before the 107 got involved with Hydra.”

Your heart sank as you glanced over to the bar where Steve, Sam, and Nat were hunched over the countertop. The three of them were quietly arguing over how to handle the next month’s payment if Bucky wasn’t going to keep up the charade. You hadn’t even opened shop for the first half of the month and no spare change to show for it. Dead weight hanging at their ankles as they desperately swam for the surface.

“Peter, I appreciate what you’re trying to do,” you sighed, guilt swarming in your stomach as if it were made of lead, “but I’m pretty sure I’ve made things a lot more complicated for you guys.”

“Maybe,” he shrugged, “but that doesn’t mean you’re not worth fighting for.”

Something lurched inside your chest as you looked back at him – hope slipping through the cracks of a paralyzing acceptance you’d already surrendered to. Peter Parker, with his boyish features and a grin sweet enough to melt a heart as stoic as Tony Stark’s. He smiled at you and crawled out from the booth.

“I should head out, boss,” Peter called to Bucky, who had just emerged from the office in the back corner of the bar. “Aunt May’s got lasagna waiting for me.”

Bucky wiped his hands on the towel hanging off his shoulder. “I’m closing up anyway, kid. Sneak me some garlic bread, will you?”

Peter beamed, holding up his thumb before disappearing out the front door.

Bucky wandered over to Steve, Sam, and Natasha. “All right, you three get out of here.”

Immediate argument ensued, voices carrying over one another:

“Give us another hour and we’ll figure this out,” from Natasha, despite the faint look upon her features. You hadn't seen her eat anything in hours for how long she spent at that counter flipping through old files.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” was Sam, a scowl on his face, though he was massaging the nape of his neck, a wince breaking through the bickering layer on his features.

“We should really keep at it, Buck,” came from Steve. He was rubbing at his temples from the headache you’d heard him mumble over hours earlier. They were relentless in their determination to find a way out of your debt to the Hydra club but it was driving them to exhaustion. And Bucky could see it too.

“Go,” Bucky ordered, though his gratitude was evident in the soft influx of his smile. “You’ve done enough tonight, okay? We’ll talk in the morning. You’re no help if you can barely concentrate on what you’re reading. Get out of here. Sleep.”

Natasha’s mouth tugged into a frown, but eventually relented. It was her hand upon Steve’s forearm that got him to slowly peel himself from the counter. He groaned as he straightened his back, a slight limp in his legs as he gathered his footing again.

Sam hung back only a moment longer than the others, narrowing his eyes on Bucky.

“You sure?” he asked, the façade of the relentless teasing slipping.

Bucky nodded. He clapped a hand on Sam’s shoulder and squeezed the muscle. It was more appreciation that he could offer out loud. You could see the lines on his face, the love between this makeshift family who somehow found the space in their hearts for you too.

Stark and Barton were already home for the evening with their families, so after Steve, Nat, and Sam dragged their feet through the door and the low hum of engines faded faintly into the distance, Bucky finally turned to you. He folded his arms over his chest and leaned against the jukebox, the rumpled creases of his t-shirt rolled high on his forearms. Glimpses of ink peaked out from underneath the fabric.

“You going to kick me out, too?” you teased, sliding to the edge of the booth. The hem of your dress danced over the mid of your thighs – delicate shades of pastels in contrast to the dark, faded colors of the old rock band posters on the wall and the sun-soaked wood near the windows. The flowers that had once decorated the tables were long wilted and dried, most of them discarded – though a few still remained despite the wrinkled petals circled around the vases.

Bucky laughed, his voice filling the Centenarian. “Of course not, doll. Never you.”

He tapped the jukebox to his left, hitting the side of the machine with a closed fist. A deviously playful smirk tugged on his cheeks as How Deep is Your Love began to play through the speakers. The song crackled through the decades-old speakers. Wordlessly, he held out a hand to you, gesturing to the open space between the tables.

Slowly, you slid your fingers against his palm, watching as a shiver slipped through his spine at the gentle sensation. Your pointer finger traced the lifeline in his palm, slowly following up to the veins in his wrist.

Bucky quickly tugged you from the booth, unable to take much more of your teasing, and pressed the full of your body against his. You gasped against the full brush of his body as his hand slid along your lower back, fingertips tapping sweetly into your curves as if following the keys of a piano. His free hand brought your knuckles to his lips, kissing each ridge of the bone.

“What are we doing, Bucky?” you asked breathily, the teasing between you lost within the sincerity of his movements.

Bucky guided your hands around his neck, allowing his own to rest on the small of your back. He kissed your shoulder; kissed every part of you like he simply couldn’t stop him, like he could never be close enough without it.

“Well,” he sighed, break warm against your skin, “I’d say we’re dancing, honey.”

You smiled as you ran your fingertips through the nape of his hair. His eyes fluttered at the feeling, his lips falling slack, and you reveled in the sight of a man draped in black denim and leather reduced to putty in your hands.

“Feels like we haven’t had a moment to breathe,” Bucky admitted slowly, blue eyes sinking heavily into your gaze. “I just wanted some time to hold you. To just be here with you. Is that all right?”

His lips were drawn into a frown, the weight of the last few weeks pushing down on him. You’d gone from one awful encounter with the Hydra club to another – spiraling from the moment Bucky had spotted Dot at the Lilac Festival to the charade he’d put on a week earlier in the dark of your shop. Constant panic etched into your veins, trembling in your hands and fear burrowed in your chest. To give him this moment – to allow it for yourself, too – was the least the fates could offer.

In answer, you brought his lips to your own, grazing them sweetly, almost chastely, before you deepened the kiss. With the soft influx of a synthesizer on the jukebox, Bucky’s hands spread against your back, his fingertips inching over the swell of your curves, lips parted and eager to surrender if you could stay with him in the security of that moment forever. So lost in his kiss, in his arms wrapped so tightly around you, you did not hear the rumble of engines approaching from over the hill.

“You know I’ll take care of you, don’t you?” Bucky murmured between kisses to the corner of your mouth, to your jaw and neck. “That no matter what happens, you’ll never have to face this alone?”

You nodded, hardly able to string words together. Whether it was due to his expert lips or the sincerity in his voice – you weren’t sure. But you believed him in his promise.

Slowly, you drew his head back from your body, smiling at the pout forming on his mouth at the loss of contact. You needed to look at him for this, to see the shades of blue in his eyes that first allowed you to trust him under the streetlight outside his bar. To speak the words aloud that had been brewing under the surface for as long as you’d known him – terrified to rise beyond the paralyzing vulnerability of being known. But he was worth it. He'd always been worth it.

What you felt for him could hardly be quantified into a single word, but you hoped you could try – that he might understand how immensely you fell for this impossibly kind man who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.

“Bucky,” you sighed, his name like a prayer upon your lips, “I–”

The door to the Centenarian swung open with a violent crash.

Before you could process what was happening, hands that had never once touched you with anything but gentle affection, roughly shoved you backwards. Bucky maneuvered his body in front of yours, the motion nearly throwing you off balance. Your ankle rolled in the sharp movement, pain shooting up through your leg as Bucky’s hand lunged backward onto your wrist to hold you steady. His grip ached around the bone.

“I see you’ve dropped the act, Barnes.”

The venom laced voice of Brock Rumlow punctured straight to your chest; like ice water doused over your head and coal burning fire under your feet. You sucked in a harsh breath as you pressed your forehead between Bucky’s shoulder blades, as if simply closing your eyes could transport you far away to somewhere safe, somewhere Brock Rumlow could not lay a hand upon you or the man who instinctively used his body as your shield.

“You’re on the wrong side of the border, asshole,” Bucky growled, disregarding Rumlow’s obvious intrigue of his protective stance in front of you.

Rumlow only laughed; something dark and voice of humor. “What border? You’ve been crossing it without consequence for over a month now. The border doesn’t exist anymore.”

Bucky’s grip on your wrist tightened and you were certain it would bruise by morning. You didn’t care. You’d welcome the swell, the discolor. It was the only thing keeping you from collapsing to your knees. His palm pinched at your father’s watch and it dug sharply into your skin. The pain of it held you together.

“What do you want?” You could feel the unsettling edge in Bucky’s voice tremble in vibration along his spine.

Rumlow paced along the border of the bar, his footsteps heavy against the old hardwood. They cried out under each step. “The rest of my money, you prick.”

It was only then that you realized Rumlow wasn’t alone. At least three other sets of footsteps walked into the bar – the final one delicate in stride with the clicking of heels against the sidewalk outside.

“Hi, sugar,” Dot purred and you felt every muscle in Bucky’s back tighten. Bucky started to turn, guiding you with him, as it seemed Dot was trying to get a better look at you from around his shoulders. She huffed in disappointment. “Don’t hide, Y/n. Let us say hello.”

Bucky squeezed at your wrist, urging you to stay put, but there was something in the challenge of Dot’s tone that surged fire into your veins. She paraded herself as if she still laid claim to Bucky’s pride, to his dignity and resolve. She made a mockery of his loyalty to her and the lengths he’d gone to protect her from the very men she climbed into bed with. To cower from a woman like that was to give her satisfaction she did not deserve.

You didn’t know whether she’d given up Bucky’s act to Rumlow or he found out the moment he stormed into the bar and found you draped sweetly in Bucky’s arms. You didn’t care. You weren’t going to let Dot thing she held a damn thing over you. Even if her manicured grip pictured through the thin tissue around your heart.

“Ah, there you are,” Dot smirked as you stepped out from behind Bucky. He let go of your wrist only long enough to drape an arm protectively across your chest, creating a barrier between you and the shine of reflective metal on the hips of the Hydra club.

Rollins was hanging back in the shadows, accompanied by two other men you didn’t recognize. A toothpick hung from his lips, twisting around his tongue as he greedily stared you down. That same hungry gaze remained in his eyes, the one that traveled from your chest to your ankles. Bucky inched closer to you.

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen the inside of this bar,” Dot went on, drawing her hand along the countertop. A wicked grin curved high upon red stained lips as she locked eyes with you. “He fucked me once against the desk in the office. He do that to you yet?”

You tried not to let yourself react, knowing she was only trying to get a rise out of you, but you flinched at her words anyway.

You'd known who she was – that Bucky had once loved her enough to risk his life when he thought she was in danger. You’d known he’d been intimate with her and still— it hurt worse than you cared to admit. This woman who manipulated his heart and left him for dead, having touched him the way you have, his hands having been on her body the same way he lingered upon yours.

Bucky didn’t respond to her, barely showed any indication that her words affected him at all. But you felt Bucky's arm draw closer to you, felt the restraint radiating like heat off of his body to grab hold of you and run. You slid your hand along his spine, trying to ease the tension etching stone to his body. It was made of marble. Solid rock.

“Enough, Dot,” Rumlow sneered impatiently. She pouted, making a dramatic show of it before she winked in Bucky’s direction and slithered back in line with the rest of the Hydra goons. Rumlow returned his attention to you – his eyes near to black as he drilled holes with his stare. “You and I, my dear, have unfinished business.”

He took a step closer to you and Bucky pushed you backwards; the pressure of his forearm against your chest. Rumlow chuckled at the response, his gaze shifting between you and Bucky.

“You must think me a fool," Rumlow spat. "What were you hoping to accomplish with your little performance, Barnes? Huh? Convince me that she is little more to you than a toy to be played with and maybe I won’t punish her for her connection to you? Perhaps, you hoped that it would spare you as well, so that I might not retaliate against the 107 for stealing what is rightfully mine.”

“Y/n doesn’t belong to you,” Bucky sneered, his cheeks flushed hot with rage. “She doesn’t belong to anyone.”

Rumlow cackled loud enough for it to tremble inside your chest. “You’ve got it worse than I thought. For your sake, let’s hope she feels the same.” Narrowed eyes landed upon you, a devious grin curling upon his mouth. “Separate them.”

Bucky dove for you, but it wasn’t enough. Even if he had the chance to gather you into his arms before violent hands clamped onto his shoulders, yanking him back – what he could have done? Held you for just a moment longer? Preserved an ounce of the sanctuary you felt swaying in his arms just minutes prior? Pretend for just one more second that nothing bad could happen to you, to him, to the life you so desperately wanted to share together?

“Run!” Bucky shouted, his voice breaking in the effort, though you both knew it was no use. Each time he managed to shake an arm free, one of the Hydra men beat a fist to his spine, to his jaw or stomach, and he slacked just enough to grab hold of him again; an endless loop of hope for his escape and paralyzing dread with every hit.

Jack Rollins slowly approached you from the comfort of the shadows, a sinister look about his face as he admired Bucky’s helpless position from across the room. The toothpick snapped between his teeth and he spit the shards onto the floor. Hungry eyes trailed down the front of your dress, lingering along your exposed legs.

You backed into the corner, trying to keep as much space between you and Rollins as you could manage, but you knew it was only prolonging the inevitable. You couldn’t fight off a man like Jack Rollins. He was twice your size and you barely knew how to throw a proper punch. You grew up in a flower shop. You were trained in delicate things. Violence was never supposed to find you there.

The determination in Rollins' eyes and the sinister curve of his mouth sank like anvils to your stomach, weighing you down, sinking you deep underwater where the air could no longer touch your lungs. Unsettling dread.

Bucky was shouting on the other end of the bar, his feet scraping on the floors as he fought against the men holding him down. Even as they dove closed barrels fists to the side of his face, he shook it off, spit blood onto the floor, and tried again. He shouted your name, endlessly, but there was no use in running. No use in fighting. You were both trapped.

“Ain’t that sweet?” Rumlow chuckled, his attention turned to Dot. She smirked, a single unlit cigarette hanging from between the bright red stain on her lips.

Rollins grabbed a firm hold of your forearm and shoved you to the floor at the center of the bar. You spilled onto the hardwoods, laid upon the sticky surface where a faint outline of faded maroon soaked into the floors. Exposed. On display. You touched your fingers to discolored wood – to the spot where Bucky nearly bled out the night Dot betrayed him.

It was happening again. His blood was already trailing down his lips, dropping thick and heavy to the floor under his feet. New stains accompanying the old.

“Now,” Rumlow began, kneeling down next to you. He grabbed a firm hold of your jaw and forced your gaze to his, his fingers digging painfully against your cheeks. “You will get me the rest of what you owe. I don’t care if you have to steal it from a fucking bank. I still own you, darling.”

As if to punctuate his threats, Jack Rollins crossed the room and threw a heavy punch to Bucky’s stomach. You yelped, hands covering your mouth as Bucky doubled over in pain, an awful sound escaping him. The only thing keeping him standing were the two men restraining his arms.

“You see,” Rumlow began, “now that I know what he means to you, I will happily beat the arrogant prick within an inch of his life each time you fail to come through on your payments. Do you understand what that means, darling? I’ll break his face and I’ll give that son of a bitch brain damage because you failed to deliver what you owe me.”

You shook your head, tears swelling in your eyes as Rollins shook out his hand, readying himself. Bucky’s eyes met yours for only a second – a promise nestled into the blue of his eyes that he would be all right, that he’d survived worse, a terrible plea to just stand by and let this happen – before Rollin’s fist slammed into his cheekbone, breaking open the skin.

“Stop!” you cried, fingernails scraping into the floor. “Please! I don’t-- I don’t have the money! There’s nothing to give!”

“You think I give a shit!?” Rumlow slammed his hand against the counter, forcing a visible flinch from your body. “This is what happens when you fuck up, princess! You fuck me over; I beat Barnes into shit. Those are the new terms of our deal. Perhaps next time, it’ll be you instead. Maybe that’ll teach you a lesson.”

“You lay a fucking hand on her,” Bucky panted, blood spewing from his lips, “and I’ll kill you.”

The grin that curved over Rumlow’s mouth was near sickening. “You can’t do a damn thing, Barnes.”

Rollins' fist collided against Bucky’s cheek, bloodying the wound beginning to open along the bone. It silenced whatever argument he was about to make, his body fighting just to stay on his feet. Blood trickled from the ends of Rollins’ fingertips. Bucky’s blood, you realized.

“Please,” you begged, breathless as tears openly slid down your cheeks. “You don’t have to do this.”

Rumlow clenched his jaw, restraint inching away. Withering. His gaze remained on Bucky. “She says another fucking word, and I’ll go after her instead. You understand, Barnes? I know what she is to you, you pathetic shit. I’ll fucking kill her.”

Bucky swallowed what you were sure was the bitter, coppery taste of blood swelling on his tongue. His gaze slowly turned to you, eyes flickering hesitantly in Rumlow’s direction before he spoke.

“Doll, look at me,” Bucky called, his voice too gentle amongst such violence around him. You almost didn’t have the strength to meet his request, almost didn’t have the courage for it. But you could feel the warmth in Bucky’s gaze on you, how unbothered he was by the snickering taunts of the Hydra club around him.

Slowly, you met his stare and the thick ooze of blood drip from his lips and the open wound on his cheek. His skin was patchy with reddened marks. His lungs not drawing in nearly enough air and still his voice, though quiet was still as gentle as his kiss had been on your skin in the moments before hell swarmed through the doors.

“I’ll be okay, honey,” Bucky swore, though threads of uncertainty woven between every syllable. “You stay right there. Don’t make trouble for me. I can take it.”

A vicious grin curved up along the Hydra leader’s mouth – revenge coated satisfaction. Slowly, he slid his leather jacket down his arms and hung it over the bar.

“Listen to the man,” Rumlow taunted. He curled his hand to a fist. “Now, pay close attention.”

“Wait!” You lurched forward, fumbling fingers untangling the gold chain on your wrist. Cold air brushed at the exposed skin on your wrist as you removed your father’s watch and extended it to Rumlow. It shook violently in your grip. “Take this! Please. Take this and let him go.”

Bucky shook his head, devastation clouding over the blue still visible in his eyes. He knew what the watch meant to you; he’d seen you run your fingers against it enough times to understand the weight it carried; the last tie to your father now that May Flowers had been destroyed. His lips parted as if to stop you, to beg you not to, but he knew better than to speak as the men holding him back tightened their grip on his arms.

Rumlow narrowed his eyes, intrigued at the old, worn-down watch with hands that no longer counted the minutes. He peeled it from your fingers, your entire body feeling drastically lighter without it – like you might float off into the sky without its weight to keep you safe on the ground. He examined it in his hands and for a moment, there was a brief glimmer of hope that he might actually accept it as payment and leave.

But he was not capable of such a merciful kindness.

Rumlow dropped the watch to the ground if it were little more than trash. With your heart lodged in your throat, you watched as his heel came down over the glass, shattering it under his boot, fracturing the links to pieces. You barely flinched, too numbed to do much of anything else. You knees met the ground instead, your trembling hands gathering the fragile, broken pieces of golden metals and holding them to your chest.

There was barely time to blink before Rumlow barreled his first hit to Bucky’s temple. You dropped the scattered remains of your father’s watch, the pieces forgotten as Bucky grunted out from the pain. The sound punctured into your body, broke through your ribs, nestled into your heart and split through the seams from the inside out. It tore open every piece of you.

You scrambled to your feet; unrestrained now because they knew you could do nothing to stop them. Still, you inched closer with every punch, every drop of blood they spilled, every gasp for breath Bucky dared.

A terrible numbness took over as you watched Bucky’s body weakened in their arms. His face becoming swollen and red, blood dripping down from open cuts on his face. His knees wobbling, barely able to hold himself upright without the support of the men restraining him.

This man, who had given up his reputation, his life, to protect the town he loved.

This man, who dared to help a stranger under a flickering streetlamp in the dead of night.

This man, who so graciously offered you his heart, who held yours as if it were made of something precious.

And Brock Rumlow was breaking him.

Whether it was courage, adrenaline, or reckless anger, you could hardly feel the touch of flames burning on your skin. Red and scorching, surging through your veins. Ignoring Bucky’s desperate plea to stay safe within the shadows, to not draw any more attention from the Hydra crew that might turn their aggression onto you instead, you took a step forward.

Before Rumlow could raise another fist to the man who only ever sought to protect you, you grabbed a sharp hold of his arm, halting his fist in place. The surprise on Rumlow’s face was enough to startle his swing, shaking him off balance. Bucky looked to you with some sort of agony hidden behind the blood and bruising – agony you suspected had little to do with the pain coursing through his body.

“Fucking bitch,” Rumlow spat and peeled your hand from around his wrist. He shoved you to floor as if you were little more than a spec of dirt on the sleeve of his jacket, forcing your head to collide painfully against the frame of the bar. A terrible throbbing sensation followed, the warm drip of blood sliding down the nape of your neck. You smeared the red along your fingertips as you touched the aching blow.

Rumlow rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck. Then, he returned to Bucky, his knuckles bloodied and broken under the effort of his closed fist. Under the evidence of what he’d done to Bucky’s face.

When you tried to meet Bucky’s eye again, to offer even a glimpse of an apology you could not hope to live up to, your vision quickly began burred with tears.

Bucky couldn’t have looked to you if he tried. Whether it was the swollen tissue on his left eye or the blood dripping down from his eyebrow on the right – you doubted he could see much of anything. You could only hope he would pass out soon, that he would allow himself some level of relief from the awful position you’d put him in, though you knew he was fighting it everything he had left. Clinging to consciousness in effort to not leave you alone in a room full of Hydra thugs.

You winced as Rumlow landed another blow to Bucky’s stomach. Blood spewed from his lips. Tears slid over your jawline and traced down your neck, settling against your collarbone.

You slid your hands along the floor, trying to find something to keep you grounded, to hold you steady inside your body when you knew there was nothing you could do to save the man who so easily used his own body a shield for you.

Helpless. So fucking helpless.

Until your fingertips grazed the fallen contents of your bag laid until the barstools. Through the awful sounds of Bucky’s strangled gasps for breath and the violent collision of fists to his body, the gentle keystrokes of Billy Joel’s Vienna filled the bar. You felt for the familiar plastic on the edge of your keyring, and slid your fingers through the grip.

It had given you strength in moments of weakness, of fear and panic – this small token from the first night you met Bucky Barnes under the street lamp outside the Centenarian. It quelled the panic, the devastation, only long enough to allow the cold rush of determination to settle in your bones.

You lunged to your feet and balled your fist into the thin black fabric of Rumlow’s t-shirt. Deep into his shoulder blades, rough enough that you felt your nails scrap over his back as you yanked hard enough to force him to face you. Impatient fury barely had time to register over his features before you swiped the edge of the keychain across his face.

He stumbled backward, the room falling to silence. Slowly, Rumlow brought a hand to his cheek where the sharp ends of the keychain had broken his skin; bright red coating over his fingertips. Rollins stepped forward from his position next to Dot, a low growl vibrating through the room as he prepared to retaliate, but Rumlow held up a hand in warning. Rollins stilled like the obedient dog he was.

You watched, panting heavily, as Rumlow slowly straightened his spine, revealing the deep gashes drawn by the pointed edges of the keychain Bucky had given you the night you met. Blood trickled down his cheek, obstructing the side of his face untouched by the myriad of scars.

From the corner of your eye, you caught Bucky struggling to lift his head, his legs dragging on the ground. He looked at you, though you were unsure how much he could tell what was going on around him. You were sure his hearing had been reduced to a dull ringing by now.

It was probably for the best. He’d begged you to stay complacent long enough to survive this night and you’d done the exact opposite. You’d attacked the very man who would do you harm. Twice.

But you weren’t going to stand back and watch him beat Bucky into a pulp; not while Dot was sharing the same air as him, smirking around the unlit cigarette with every hit Bucky endured. You weren’t going to succumb to the self-preservation instincts your parents had ingrained in you the moment Hydra entered your world. Not if it meant sacrificing Bucky.

So, you waited for Rumlow to hit you, to pull out his gun, to do something. You waited for him to follow through on his promise, but instead – he began to laugh. The sound was worse than if he’d started screaming.

“You surprise me, darling,” he finally said, the low tremor of humor still on his tongue. “You’re tougher than you made me believe. Perhaps, when the time is right, I will convince you to join us.”

Bile surged in your gut at the thought. Meanwhile, Dot grinned from her perch in the corner of the room. She'd taken that deal once.

Without waiting for your response, Rumlow circled a hand in the air. The men holding Bucky’s arms released him without so much as a warning and his body fell onto the floor in a crumpled heap. Heavier than it should have. He hadn’t even tried to catch his fall. The side of his head slammed onto the hardwood and it ripped open something inside your chest. You rushed toward him, knees skidding against the floors as the men stepped over his body as if he were little more than the trash under their feet.

With shaking hands, you gathered Bucky into your arms, resting his head against your lap. Blood soaked into your dress, painting red along the soft tones of pastels. Your fingertips gently brushed along his cheeks, desperate to rid the blood from his face, only to smear it over his skin, drying fleck speckling into the stubble on his jaw. You barely recognized him with all the swelling and discoloration.

He did not stir as you touched him, did not attempt to open his eyes. He’d lost consciousness the moment his body hit the floor and for that, you were grateful. Grateful, that his body took over when his mind so stubbornly fought against its very instincts – desperate to stay with you, to endure what he must to not leave you alone.

You set a tremored hand on his chest, focusing on the slow rise of his breaths, the faint pulsing of his heart. Reminders that he was still alive despite the violence dolled to his body. You could only vaguely hear the sound of footsteps fading down the sidewalk, of engines purring to life.

But Rumlow lingered by the door, a satisfied smirk touching the open wounds on his cheek as he watched you. “I hope this will serve as a final warning, darling. You’ve had enough of those, don’t you think?”

Then, he was gone.

The jukebox was still playing in the corner of the bar, though you could no longer tell what song it was.

“Bucky?” you called, though his name was little more than a whimper. You brushed your fingers over his brow line when he did not so much as stir. You nodded to yourself, swallowing back tears as you let yourself hold steady to the weight of his body in your arms. “It’s okay. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

Your hand slid into his pockets, searching for his phone. You had to be strong for him. Set aside the panic threatening to draw you under. Ignore the bile creeping through your throat, the taste of it bitter on your tongue. Focus on Bucky – on his shallow breaths and the warmth of his skin. Focus.

A pained gasp tugged in your lungs as the screen lit up in your hand. The glass had been cracked in the struggle; shards splintered down the screen, but the image that had once covered the screen when you first entered your number weeks earlier was no longer there. Instead, there was a picture of you – one he must have taken on a day he’d come to your shop during your lunch breaks.

In the image, you were looking to the left, a bright smile on your face as you carried an armful of bouquets. The petals touched your jawline, more than you could hope to carry, and the colors brightened against your face. You hadn’t even realized he’d even taken the picture, laughter echoing from the still frame. You couldn’t remember feeling so light, so unburdened by the weight of the war you’d become a catalyst for. It was an eternity ago.

You dialed Steve’s number first. What he said when he picked up, you weren’t sure. You were crying the moment his voice broke through the speaker; only vague murmurs of Bucky’s name and the Hydra club, begging him to come to the bar.

He stayed on the line even as he rushed out into the cold night air, even as the bike engine screamed through the speakers. You did not move a muscle until he barreled in through the front doors. Sam followed only seconds behind.

“Oh God,” Steve exhaled at the sight of his friend’s body laid unconscious in your lap.

Your hands were coaxing through Bucky's hair as if he were simply asleep, numbed to the dried blood now caked into his scalp and under your nails. Steve and Sam shared an uneasy look before they approached you.

“Hey, kiddo,” Sam sighed, slowly kneeling down beside you. His eyes trailed over Bucky, searching for fatal wounds. He’d seen this before – knew enough to not ask who had laid such violence upon Bucky’s body. Disdain burned into his clenched jaw, even as he set a gentle touch to your trembling hands.

Your eyes shot up to his, the blur of tears obstructing your vision.

“He’s alive,” you whimpered, gesturing to his chest and the light flow of air from his lips. “He’s breathing but—he hasn’t— he hasn’t woken up.”

Steve nodded, his gaze fixated on the swell of pink and red tissue on Bucky’s face. It would be badly bruised by the morning if the swelling even managed to go down by then. His nose was broken, blocking his airway, and leaving his lips dried with every strangled breath.

Steve reached out for Bucky to gently lift him from your arms but you tensed at the sudden movement, your grip on Bucky molding to stone as if you were protecting him from a new threat; forgetting the men who would have laid down and taken that beating themselves if it would have spared their friend.

“It’s okay, Y/n,” Steve said quietly. “I’m going to bring him home, okay? We’ll get him somewhere safe so he can rest. We’ll keep an eye on him. You know I won’t let anything happen to him.”

You stared into the pale blue of Steve’s eyes – so similar to Bucky’s, a tangible glimpse of the unbreakable bond they shared. Steve shared a pained look with Sam, both of their shoulders sunken with defeat the longer they looked at the unconscious body of their fearless leader.

Slowly, you leaned down and pressed a kiss to Bucky’s forehead and released him from your hold. Almost effortlessly, Steve lifted Bucky into his arms – the strain on his face more to do with the fresh blood smeared on your dress than the weight of his friend.

“Come on,” Sam eased, offering his hand.

You glanced down at your own to find the faint stain of Bucky’s blood coating your palms. You swallowed back something that tasted of bile and allowed Sam to guide you to your feet. Knees wobbling under you, legs feeling weak and jellied, you followed him to the door. The shattered remains of your father's watch were left on the floor in your wake.

***

After Sam used his spare key to open the door to Bucky’s apartment, he’d left to take word to the rest of the 107 of what happened. It was one thing to cross the border, another entirely to enact war in what they’d done to Bucky. Steve promised he’d stay the night to make sure the Hydra club did not return to finish the job.

“How long’s he been out?” Steve asked quietly as he set Bucky down on the edge of the couch.

You stared at Bucky’s face, paralyzed by the open wounds and bruising. Awful discoloration of blues and purples, reds swelling over his eyes and the gashes on his cheeks. Blood dripping down his neck, crusted. You could hardly draw in a full breath.

Steve prompted you again, ever so patient, and you clenched your hands into the fabric of your blood-stained dress. “Um-- I don’t-- I don’t know. I called you as soon as he collapsed. He lost consciousness after the Hydra club left.”

“Okay,” Steve nodded, seeming a little less distressed at the information. He offered you a smile, reaching out and setting a firm hand on your shoulder. “You did good, Y/n. It hasn’t been too long, all right? I got to you fast enough.”

You nodded, unsure. Steve tipped Bucky’s head back and lifted his chin. You watched as Bucky’s breaths slowly grew stronger in his chest. An eternity could have passed in the span of a few minutes – a millennia, maybe. You didn’t dare turn away, didn’t dare blink.

“Buck?” Steve called just as a twitch flexed on Bucky’s upper lip. The movement was slight, hardly noticeable at all, but it was there. Steve set a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “Take it easy, pal. You’re home now. Everything’s okay.”

A low groan muttered from Bucky’s lips and your legs gave way. You dropped onto the couch beside him, relief seeping through the panic that had taken residency in your bones.

“Shit,” Bucky exhaled, his voice raspy as if sandpaper lined in his lungs.

Steve chuckled, his chin dropping to his chest. “Welcome back, punk.”

Bucky tried to open his eyes, though only one of them was able to part at all and even then – it was only a slit. He could hardly turn his head, barely move his body at all.

“Where’s--” his voice caught in his throat, almost like something had reached up through his lungs and swallowed it back whole. His chest was rising quicker, his hands clamping. He tried to push himself up from the couch only for his body to tug him back in pure exhaustion.

“Y/n?” Bucky whispered your name, a desperate request. Near fearful.

“I’m here,” you confirmed as gently as you were able and Bucky’s entire body seemed to sink into the soft cushion of the couch. Slowly, you moved yourself to stand within his limited line of vision and did your best to ignore the horrific brushing and swelling on his face. He tried to smile at you, his hand reaching out for your hip, but he winced in the effort.

Reflexively, you brought your fingertips, feather light, to the split of his lip. Bucky’s breath hitched at the sensation; the dull brush of comfort you granted over the wounds drawn by vile men. You traced your fingers under the open cut on his cheek, gingerly over the well of his eye. You touched him as if you could undo the damage done, as if you could turn back time to the night you met under the street lamp and spare him the scars on his body that would outnumber the one left on his ribs from a woman who never truly loved him at all.

Then, you set your palm against his cheek; the trembling evident as Bucky leaned against your touch.

“I am...” You drew in a harsh breath, and still – it was painfully shallow. “I am so sorry, Bucky...”

“Don’t say that,” Bucky pleaded, the rough edge in his voice only sinking the guilt deeper into your chest, clawing at your heart until it shredded under the talons. He closed his hand around yours. “Please, don’t say that. I’m okay. This isn’t your fault, honey.”

You pulled your hand tight to your chest and away from Bucky’s reach. He had little movement in his facial features amongst the aches and the swelling, but you heard his soft exhale when his fingertips slipped from your hand. It wasn’t mean to punish him. You simply couldn’t understand how he could offer you comfort when he was the one covered in bruises and blood for your crimes.

Bucky looked over to Steve, barely a word exchanged between them, and Steve quietly stepped out of the room. Bucky reached for your hand again, but you could not see his efforts for the tears blurring through your eyes.

This never would have happened if you’d been strong enough to deal with Hydra on your own, if you’d just gotten their money when they asked and sold every last valuable possession you had to get it done. But you were selfish and naïve, thinking you could hold onto your father’s watch and allow the register to remain short.

You did this to him.

The blood and the bruises and the swelling.

You might as well have done it yourself.

You sank to your knees at the edge of the couch, holding your arms tight against your chest to stop the shaking, though it would not relent. Violent shakes racked through your spine as you rested your forehead against Bucky’s knee. You could not stop the sob that broke through – the gut-wrenching sound that followed.

Bucky’s fingers brushed along your head, doing his best to soothe you though he could hardly keep his own eyes open. “Sweetheart...”

You gave yourself thirty seconds. Thirty more seconds to cry, to allow the guilt and the shame to crumble you completely. If Bucky was speaking to you, you could not hear it; not over the dull ringing in your ears, the memory of the god-awful sound that echoed through the bar each time Rumlow stuck his fist against Bucky’s face.

When your thirty seconds were up, you sat back on your heels. Tears were still fresh on your cheeks; wet and streaked along the flushed skin. You took in a steady breath.

“I’ll get a cloth for the blood.” Your voice was too flat, too clinical. It was all you could manage.

“Y/n, wait,” he started, but his limited gaze fell to the splattered red stains along your dress and his jaw wired shut – violence marred to the delicate floral patterns on a pastel fabric.

Steve had a first aid kit ready for you on the kitchen table. He didn’t say a word as he handed you the small plastic box and a warm wash cloth. On the table, Natasha’s name was lit up on his phone screen; three minutes and forty-seven seconds into the call.

He gave you a short nod, ushering you back to the living room. You were grateful for his silence because you knew the moment you parted your lips, horrors would spill out.

Bucky didn’t speak as you sat on the couch beside him. He only watched you as you gently dabbed the warm cloth against his wounds, cleaning away the bloodstains on his skin. Only once, he winced as you accidentally added too much pressed to the cut along his cheek. Another tear slipped over your jaw and Bucky did not flinch again, not even as you rubbed the antibiotic gel to the open wounds and tenderly pressed bandages against them to keep it secure.

When you were finished, you sank onto the couch next to him and turned on the television in hopes it might keep him awake. He wouldn’t be able to sleep for a few hours in case he had a serious concussion. Tension burned throughout your body as you forced distance between you and Bucky in fear of worsening his pain with even the smallest touch. It took until the end of the first late night show before Bucky managed to set his hand on the outside of your thigh and urge you closer.

Unable to resist his request, you inched closer to him and wrapped your arms around his bicep, holding him against your chest as you leaned onto his shoulder. You knew his arm was tender from where the men had gripped him – bruises already forming in hand marks on his skin – so you held him as gently as you could.

“You know I’d take that beating a dozen times to keep you safe, don’t you?” Bucky’s voice soothed through the low hum of the musician playing on the television.

You nodded against his sleeve, tears burning back into your eyes. That was the problem, wasn’t it? How easily he was willing to throw himself to the rubble for you.

Even hours later when Bucky had finally been allowed to sleep, you could not find the nerve to close your eyes. Instead, you kept yourself steady on the feeling of Bucky’s hand on the outside of your thigh, the warmth of his skin and the firmness of his shoulder. Tears swelled in your eyes even after you’d thought there were none left inside you to cry.

It had been foolish to think you ever had a chance of escaping your chains to the Hydra club. That debt would haunt you for an eternity. It hadn’t made an ounce of difference for Bucky to be himself or to wear the mask the town believed him to be. Rumlow was too powerful. The Hydra club would do everything in its power to break you down to your bones.

They destroyed your shop.

They threatened you.

They punished you by bloodying Bucky.

You didn’t dare imagine what they would do next, didn’t dare wonder whether Bucky would survive the next time they came seeking retribution for your lapse in payment. There was no escape. No surrender. The Hydra club would haunt you for the rest of your life.

Tears dripped onto the purpled skin on Bucky’s arm.

There was no escape.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky x reader #bucky barnes #bucky x female reader

[drowningbydegrees]

This started as a pwp praise kink idea. The praise stayed, but the pwp did not. Perhaps I will give it another go, but in the meantime, have 4,000 words of emotional hurt/comfort instead I guess. 😅

Read on AO3

Geralt is what Jaskier cheerfully describes as "forever years old" when he discovers that okay, maybe he is just the littlest bit affected by… actually he’s not sure what one would call this. He’s not even sure if it’s specifically what was said or just the act of being spoken to like a person in a vulnerable moment. Either way, it’s more than a little unexpected, but that’s not actually the problem. After all, everyone finds themselves unraveled by something a little unorthodox now and again, and in the grand scheme of things, this isn’t really all that weird.

No. The problem is that he learns it at exactly the same time Jaskier does, and it would be embarrassing enough if the bard were just some accidental bystander. But no, Geralt couldn’t get that lucky either. It’s very definitely in response to Jaskier and that is nothing short of mortifying. Whatever longing Geralt might privately harbor, Jaskier has never given any indication that it might be a mutual feeling, and so their companionship is very definitely not Like That.

It's a perfect storm that leads to this discovery.

The contract is a disaster in every sense of the word. Somehow, after all these years, there’s still some tiny part of him that allows for optimism, that remembers a time when he thought he could be a hero. There’s no room to be an idealist in his line of work, but the opportunity was right there. The monster was just an unfortunate curse to break. There were people who might be still alive to save. Stupidly, he let himself believe that this is the kind of contract he always hopes for, where just this once no one has to die.

But of course, that isn’t how it goes. The creature is worse for his meddling, leaving the man underneath tortured by a few seconds of horrified lucidity before the curse consumes him again. The creature dies by Geralt’s sword and as its blood drips from the blade, the witcher takes in his surroundings. It’s dark, but Geralt does not need to see to recognize a graveyard made up of all the people he failed.

Even Jaskier is subdued, largely silent on the walk back to the village. He’d had the good sense to stay out of the cave, or else maybe it was just too dark. Whatever the reason, if Geralt is granted any small mercy in this whole debacle, it’s that Jaskier is not in there among the dead, that he did not become another life the witcher couldn’t preserve.

The villagers are understandably as dismayed as Geralt is, and he makes for an easy target. He tolerates the shouting and cruel accusations. He stays Jaskier’s hand when the bard tries to come to his defense. They’re grieving people, desperate to shed the weight of their loss, and he can bear it.

The innkeeper does not turn him away at least, though Geralt suspects it has something to do with the very pointed look Jaskier is giving the man. It matters little if it means he can bathe in peace and fall into a miserable sleep and just… start over again tomorrow.

Death clings to Geralt like a film he can never quite wash from his skin, but oh how he tries. There’s an echo of blood and ichor that he just can’t shake, and by the time Jaskier comes to bring him clean clothes, he’s rubbed his forearms red.

Whatever scene he’s expecting, whatever reproach he anticipates, it never comes. He’s too strung out to put up much of a fight when Jaskier eases the washrag from his clenched fist. Jaskier gives him an uncomfortable smile that would be hilarious in some other context, waving awkwardly at Geralt’s head. “I’m just going to, ehm, your hair is sort of-”

“Covered in blood. I know,” Geralt fills in the gap in that sentence tersely. It’s not pity, not from Jaskier, but it drifts too close for comfort and the witcher doesn’t know what else to do but lash out. That’s not fair either though, and once Geralt has taken a breath he relents. “Get on with it.”

Jaskier does. Quietly even, which would seem suspicious or worrisome under normal circumstances. Geralt just happens to be too worn down to do anything but count his blessings and appreciate the silence as Jaskier works the tangles (and who knows what else) from his hair. He tries to close his eyes, but every time he does, it plays out behind his eyelids, forcing him to wrench them back open again.

“It’s not your fault. You do know that, right?” Jaskier’s voice is soft, and really, Geralt must look truly miserable for him to forgo their usual playfully scathing banter. “You did everything they asked of you and then some. There was nothing else left.”

Geralt doesn’t reply because what can he say? What could possibly wipe the memory of this colossal failure from his mind? It’s a gift of some sort that Jaskier doesn’t press Geralt to respond. He just hums a quiet tune while he painstakingly washes the mess out of the witcher’s hair.

“It wasn’t enough,” Geralt says very softly when he dredges up the will to speak. Jaskier’s thumbs rub down the nape of his neck, and he bows his head to it in silent surrender. The comfort is unearned, but he’s blank enough to crave it anyway.

“That’s not on you, Geralt. It’s like you genuinely don’t have a clue how... good you are. I mean, you’re a grumpy pain in the ass for sure, but still. You were good to the villagers even if they didn’t do a damned thing to earn it. You’re sweet to children and pets and...to me.” Jaskier suddenly seems very close, so near that when he speaks, his warm breath flits along the shell of Geralt’s ear. “I know I get on your every last nerve, and you haven’t turned me away. You might do it with a lot of scowling and insults, but you… are still very good to me.”

Geralt’s breath catches on what is definitely not a whimper, but what he’d probably classify as one if literally anyone else had made that sound. He’s been brought so low and Jaskier sounds so honest. He could have maybe gotten by without notice, but in the bath with Jaskier's hands in his hair and on his skin, there’s really no passing off the sound he makes as anything other than the desperate, needy thing it is.

“I punched you the first time we met,” Geralt points out, because he’s right on the precipice of something and urgently needs to back away from the edge. He tries glowering at Jaskier over his shoulder, but it turns out to be a grave mistake. Geralt is used to weariness and disappointment in the muted way he feels them. But this is a fragility he doesn’t know how to contend with, the brittle surface cracking when Jaskier gazes back at him like he’s anything other than a monster.

“I… probably had that coming,” Jaskier mumbles. Though Geralt has stopped looking, he can feel the shift in Jaskier’s posture suggesting that he’s sheepishly ducking his head. It’s an out of the ordinary thing, Jaskier owning his foibles, but Geralt doesn’t even get the opportunity to wrap his head around that before the bard swings a hammer at whatever defenses the witcher has left. “You’re good to me when it counts.”

Geralt doesn’t believe a word of it, but here and now he wishes quite desperately that he could. He longs to trust the warmth that slides like honey down his spine and settles at the base of it. He wants so badly to be what Jaskier names him as.

In retrospect, it’d probably be less humiliating if it were a sex thing. Jaskier has a penchant for oversharing and probably wouldn’t bat an eye. But it’s not as straightforward as that, even if the praise Jaskier wraps Geralt up in leaves him wanting. This is more, a bone deep sort of yearning that sits like a brick behind his breastbone, heavy and terribly misplaced.

The notion sneaks in that Jaskier just might see through him. He might recognize that despite the veneer of indifference Geralt puts out into the world, tonight the witcher is one stray thought away from a breakdown. He protects himself the only way he knows how, shrugging out from under where Jaskier’s hands have come to rest on his shoulders. “I don’t need help. Get out.”

“Geralt?” Jaskier’s brows furrow with concern. Frustratingly, the bard’s hand smooths over Geralt’s hair. Even more frustratingly, it’s a fight not to lean into the touch despite everything.

He snarls because it’s safer than the shaky thing in his chest, the thing that clings to the idea that there’s a version of the world where he is worthwhile. “Get. Out.”

Jaskier holds his hands up in surrender, but he doesn’t even have the decency to look surprised and that’s all the more maddening.

Jaskier gives him space, to bathe in peace and then to irritably crawl into bed. It’s only when Jaskier must think he’s fallen asleep that the bard curls up around his back, nose pressed to the nape of his neck. He hasn’t earned the comfort he’s being offered, but cannot help himself taking it anyway.

They do not speak of that night again.

*****

They do not speak of it, but Jaskier thinks about it an amount that is probably just a bit inappropriate. He recounts the punched out sound Geralt made at something so simple as a little well deserved absolution. He commits the little shudder of Geralt’s shoulders under his hands to memory. But most of all, Jaskier aches at the way Geralt had snarled about it, so convinced of his own unworthiness. This bridge isn’t Jaskier’s to cross though, so he secrets away the desire to do so and satisfies himself with whatever small kindnesses Geralt will tolerate.

But tragedy is rarely a one time occurence, even in an easy life. And Geralt’s life is anything but easy. It’s only a matter of time before everything comes down around his ears again.

It’s not even a hunt this time, not a monster but a mage. It’s just a spell gone wrong, and there was nothing Geralt could’ve done to contain it. They were too close, and Jaskier is pretty sure the only reason he even made it out in one piece was that Geralt shielded him with some sign that protected him from the worst of the blast.

Now, spotting Geralt’s still form among the rubble, it’s clear to Jaskier what his safety cost the witcher. He picks his way across the rubble as quickly as he dares, fighting to keep the fear from his voice. “Geralt?”

“Ngh.” It’s a reply, if not much of one, but it’s only Geralt when blinks blearily at him a couple of times and scowls that the terror Jaskier feels begins to settle.

He doesn’t know what to say. Jaskier is tempted to crack a joke and make light of the situation. It’s how he copes. It’s just that, they weren’t alone in this building, and judging from the quietly defeated look on Geralt’s face, the witcher is already thinking about that.

“Look, I know this isn’t ideal.” Jaskier holds out a hand to Geralt, but he ignores it as he staggers to his feet. “But it’s not all hopeless. Because of you, they can’t ever harm anyone else again.”

“Shut up, Jaskier.” Geralt’s expression shutters, but Jaskier doesn’t need to be able to read the witcher’s emotions to know he’s thinking about all the people that outcome isn’t good enough for. As hyper sensitive as Geralt’s senses are, Jaskier can’t help but suspect that the rocks aren’t enough to hide what’s buried within the ruins, so he tries to steer Geralt back towards their camp. There’s nothing else they can do in this place but mourn.

“Are you okay to walk?” Jaskier doesn’t like the idea of leaving Geralt here to get help, but he also doesn’t want to inadvertently make things worse.

“I’m fine.” Geralt takes a step and then another. They’re wobbly, but he does manage to stay upright.

“You sure? A building exploded with you, you know, in it.” Jaskier is sort of sorry for pressing even before Geralt glowers at him.

“I said I’m fine.” Geralt repeats himself, and there’s no progress to be made pressing any further about it.

Jaskier knows better than to offer his support despite the fact that Geralt is limping at his side. If the witcher is not actively falling over, his attempts to help are likely to be ill received. He tries very hard to ignore it, even if it makes his heart twist up in his chest, but that all flies out the window when they finally come to a stop at camp, where the ground beneath them is dry dirt rather than grass and leaves, and there’s no missing the blood sluggishly pooling at Geralt’s feet.

“Geralt. For the love of- You’re bleeding. Sit down.” Jaskier grouses, more irritated at himself for not noticing than anything else.

To his shock, Geralt sits without complaint, though Jaskier suspects that is more out of exhaustion than any sudden desire to be cooperative. With a pained hiss, Geralt works to rid himself of his armor while Jaskier gathers supplies, so maybe he means to cooperate after all. That’s either very good or very bad.

Very bad, Jaskier decides, grimacing at the deep gash in Geralt’s side beneath where his rib cage ends. It’s not a clean cut the way a claw or a blade might be, probably a product of part of a building dropping on him.

“Fuck,” Jaskier breathes out, kneeling to try and staunch the bleeding enough to properly stitch it back up.

“I’m okay Jaskier,” Geralt insists. That he’s gritting his teeth on a low moan when Jaskier presses on his wounded flank is… not really helping his case.

“Great. You can continue to be okay while you sit there and let me stitch this up.” It comes out a little more tartly than Jaskier had meant, but Geralt doesn’t even seem to notice.

He does, however, sit still. That Geralt is quiet while Jaskier threads a needle isn’t out of the ordinary. But Jaskier looks at the witcher’s face and finds a great deal more than weariness there.

Jaskier lets it go at first, the task at hand more pressing. It’s only when he’s on his third stitch and Geralt is still staring miserably out towards the trees that he gently chastises the witcher. The expression isn’t an unfamiliar one, and Jaskier hates it every time. “Stop it.”

Geralt’s brows furrow, but he doesn’t look at Jaskier. “Stop what?”

“Insisting on taking on burdens that aren’t yours to carry.” There’s a needle in one hand and blood on both of them, so the tactile methods he’d usually use to soothe are no good. Jaskier tries words instead, already knowing they’ll be rejected. “It wasn’t your fault. If anything, it was a great deal less awful than it might have been because of you.”

On the bright side, Geralt doesn’t immediately snap at him. It might have something to do with the fact that he’s actively stitching the witcher up. Geralt doesn’t even look at Jaskier, but his expression is stormy and tense. Jaskier bites his tongue for another couple of stitches before he decides this is a sort of misery he can’t leave alone. So, he tries again. “When we first met, you really didn’t like me. And I know you’re making a face. Stop it. Just because I ignored the fact that you found me aggravating doesn’t mean I didn’t recognize it.”

“I’m making a face because you said that all past tense.” There’s a note of what might be humor there, and Jaskier doesn’t even care if the joke is at his expense under the circumstances.

Jaskier huffs out a fondly exasperated breath. “That’s very rude, but I’m going to let it go this time because you’re bleeding all over my hands. My point is that you gave me - someone you actively disliked - coin you didn’t have to spare.”

Geralt is quiet for so long that Jaskier thinks he might actually be listening. He probably is even, but his reply is too close to their usual banter, like he can’t stomach the idea of having a conversation that matters. “With songs like that, it seemed like you could use all the help you could get.”

“Oh, haha. Very funny. I realize it wasn’t my best work.” He’s trying, really, and it’s hard not to deflate in the face of Geralt’s resistance. Jaskier stares down at his current task and that could be the end of it. But the last time they went down this road still haunts him, and Jaskier is determined to try again, hopefully without being run off this time around. “Okay, if you’re going to be like that. In the last village, you let a little girl hire you to check her closet for monsters.”

There’s a clear sense of suspicion in the way Geralt narrows his eyes at Jaskier, but all the witcher says is, “Why would I turn down a paying contract?”

“Geralt.” Despite everything, Jaskier is pretty certain he’s never loved anyone in his life as much as he does Geralt right now. “She paid you in rocks.”

“They had value to her.” It’s endearingly defensive, but Geralt is justifying himself rather than running Jaskier off, so the bard counts it as an improvement.

Regardless, it’s not the message Jaskier is trying to get across. “I know. But you can’t exactly get provisions or a room at an inn with a pocketful of pebbles. And then there was Goose Hollow. You snuck that woman’s payment back into her kitchen.”

The witcher’s nose crinkles in distaste. Jaskier knows why he did it, but Geralt seems to feel the need to remind him anyway. “She’d just lost her husband to that kikimore and she had a baby on the way. I could make do without. Not sure she could’ve.”

“Right. You’re absolutely right, and that’s what I’m getting at,” Jaskier says, giving up on the idea that Geralt might have at least enough sense of self worth to reach this conclusion on his own. That’s clearly not the case, so Jaskier opts to connect the dots. “These are things you acknowledge, things you act on, because you are kind.”

Annnnnnnd there it is, the point at which Geralt can’t pretend he doesn’t understand what Jaskier is trying to communicate. He growls, shifting like he means to get up. “Fuck off.”

Jaskier pinches Geralt’s hip, well below where the bruising from the wound stops. “Do. Not. I have a needle literally stuck through you. You’re a good person whether you acknowledge it or not, so stop being dramatic and trying to flounce off just because someone said something that clashes with your self loathing.”

The scowl doesn’t leave Geralt’s face, but by some miracle, he does settle. “Oh, I’m dramatic?”

Bowing his head to hide a smile, Jaskier goes back to work. He wishes he could stay made for even a moment, but there’s just nothing for it. “What with the growling and glaring and stalking needlessly off into the trees or whatever nonsense you were planning? As someone who is personally very well versed in dramatics, yes.”

There’s no scathing or witty retort so it would be easy to assume Geralt is ignoring him when Jaskier is met with silence, but the bard knows better. It’s subtle things, an evening out of Geralt’s breathing, a shift in his posture, and though the seconds drag out, stretched like taffy, he’s not surprised when the witcher says very softly. “I didn’t know you’d noticed.”

And oh, that hurts. Not for the sake of Jaskier’s own feelings, but for the fact that Geralt could share shitty tavern food and too small inn beds and miles of open road for so long and still not recognize that he matters. “Of course I noticed. I always notice you.”

“I don’t think the rocks are going to make for a very interesting song,” Geralt says, and while his tone is clearly meant to convey sarcasm, his gaze is soft and searching, and oh to hell with it all.

“For fuck’s sake. It’s not for a song. I notice because I love you, you absolute twit.” There’s that strange, wounded sound again. The one that makes Jaskier want to wind his arms around Geralt’s shoulders and draw him close. Last time, that had been the preface to Geralt shutting him out entirely, but it doesn’t happen this time. Geralt hardly seems to notice when Jaskier rises after tying off the thread. His whole body goes stiff when Jaskier succumbs to the urge to embrace him, but somehow this time Geralt doesn’t immediately pull away.

With bated breath, Jaskier waits for the awkward stiffness to become a full blown retreat, because surely Geralt does not want his feelings, but the demand to be let go of never comes. Surrender is a quieter, subtler thing than any resistance Geralt put up. It’s a gradual release of the tension holding him bow string taut in Jaskier’s arms, a furtive embrace as Geralt’s hands find their way to curl loosely in the back of Jaskier’s chemise. With a sigh Geralt’s head drops to rest against Jaskier’s shoulder.

Jaskier is prepared, he thinks, for that to be the end of it. There are no strings attached, no conditions riding the tails of his affection. That Geralt didn’t immediately turn him away, that the witcher relents enough to let Jaskier be a source of comfort is enough. Geralt sags a little bit against him and Jaskier commits the feeling to memory, idly smoothing his hand over Geralt’s hair.

It’s still there when Geralt pulls back to look at him, eyes wide with something Jaskier might describe as wonderment.

“What?” Jaskier doesn’t give himself permission to hope because that’s not what this is about, but his heart takes off anyway, hammering away in his chest.

“You weren’t afraid of me, even though the only point of reference you had was the stories.” There’s a question in the quiet words Geralt speaks. And Jaskier does know what he means. Rumors of the Butcher of Blaviken were far reaching, and Jaskier had no way of knowing the accuracy of them. So why?

“Well, you’re not nearly as scary as you think you are,” Jaskier says lightly, and then, because the question is there, but Geralt looks afraid of the answer, he adds with a sheepish smile. “Also, you were the one person not throwing food at me, so that was a point in your favor automatically.”

Geralt says nothing at first, but his mouth turns unhappily downward. Jaskier expects annoyance or anger, is used to those things, but this is more akin to grief and he doesn’t know what to do with it. In the wake of it, Jaskier is almost relieved when Geralt speaks again.

“You learned how to do this because we travel together.” Geralt gingerly pries one of Jaskier’s hands from his back, laying it delicately over his wounded side, and no. No, that last point was definitely easier to address. They should go back to things he can make jokes about.

“So what?” Jaskier says, though it comes out more like a croak. And his chest might as well be split open on the faint smile that coaxes from Geralt.

Curious. Jaskier can feel Geralt’s thumb sweep back and forth across his chemise, almost like the witcher is nervous. “You hate blood.”

He’s already said the most terrifying part, and he doesn’t know what Geralt thinks, but the witcher hasn’t left. So really, Jaskier wonders, what is there to be frightened of? “It would be very unfortunate for the both of us if something happened to you.”

“That’s not… I don’t think you’re hearing me,” Geralt mutters, mouth slanted off to the side.

It won’t do. Jaskier has no wish to be a source of frustration when he’s trying to be a comfort, so he lets himself smile and brushes Geralt’s cheek with his knuckles. “I’m sorry. Would you tell me again?”

Jaskier barely gets the words out before Geralt’s lips are brushing, feather light, against his. It’s over as abruptly as it started though Geralt lingers with his forehead pressed to Jaskier’s and his hand cradling the bard’s cheek. “I notice you, too.”

He could live in this moment, Jaskier thinks, just sat here knowing he’s not alone in the things he wants. The circle of Geralt’s arms is a lovely place to linger, so Jaskier lets himself have it even as he says, “In case you missed it, I’m done if you’re still feeling the need to go stomping off in the woods to fume.”

Geralt rarely laughs at anything, but the amused snort Jaskier gets for his trouble is close enough. Even better is the kiss that follows, slow and sweet and full of promise. “Well, someone very obnoxious and very... dear told me it was dramatic, so I thought I’d maybe stay here with you instead.”

You can find the rest of my Witcher fanworks here. <3

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #the witcher #geralt of rivia #Jaskier #geralt whump #emotional hurt/comfort #Guest starring Geralt's egregious lack of self-worth #mentions of blood and injury #In which life is hard and Geralt would very much benefit from a hug #conveniently Jaskier would also like to give him one #my fic

[hes-writer]

Trial (4)

Summary: harry and y/n face the truth

Warnings: angst, a tiny bit of fluff

Word Count: 4249 words

A/N: thank you so much for supporting this series !! @devilinbetweenthesheet-s. I will do the taglist later in the day :)

EDIT: idk why the ‘read more’ is not working. I apologize for the scrolling!!

Part 4 of the Tarnish series!

___

Harry was crying.

Admitting his feelings when he was younger was quite a task for him. Now that he was nearly in his thirties, the journey of being vulnerable with himself and with his feelings became easier with each emotion that he permitted himself to submerge in. Harry validated those emotions--he was allowed to experience them because it makes him human. It added texture to the ever-growing mosaic that painted who he was as an individual. Adding to the people that surrounded him, influenced by their kind-nature and the goodness of their heart to become who he was now.

And now, it seemed like his emotions increased tenfold. The clench of his abdomen and the harsh jolt of his chest forced his slouched shoulder to stay deflated. His breathing hitched as sobs threatened to take over, throat sore with the effort to keep it all in because Harry was smart enough to know that these emotions coursing through him right now were ones he wasn’t validated to feel. Paired with the latest information that that little girl being held by another man was his own daughter--and that the woman who was glowing with her caring, motherly-instincts was supposed to be his family; it broke him completely. 

Quaking thoughts circled his brain and punctured his muscles as if they were attacking him not only mentally, but physically as well in exchange for his past mistakes that he couldn’t quite place if he deeply regretted or not. Was it a mistake to cheat on Y/N? To leave her alone in the exposure of the public eye while she was carrying his child in her tummy? 

Harry should have known the day she fell sick and vomited in their kitchen sink. He was, sadly, too busy throwing a subdued celebration of finally having time alone with Camille. He should have noticed the way her face brightened with radiance. Or the way her cravings for strawberries and pickles either grossed her out or completely compelled her to consume more than she usually would. 

But Harry guessed that that was around the time his efforts went out the window because he didn’t have to pretend to care as much anymore. Camille appeared to be his one and only. With their relationship coming so close to being revealed and Y/N having one foot out the door, Harry let fate play out the rest. Don’t get him wrong, Harry still loved Camille; that was why his slashed heart still throbbed at the sight of her watching over her little cousin, yet knowing that the topic of children was still not a card on the table. 

The distress that he was feeling right now was core-shredding, heartbreaking grief that left a hole in his heart. The worst part was that Harry didn’t exactly know how to fix it or whether he even could. As he walked to his car with hands jammed into his pockets, he was grateful that the hood of his sweater hid his face and the tears sliding down the slope of his cheeks.

His senses were in overdrive, figuring out how to fix the mess he created. Wanting to run up to Y/N and ask her why she didn’t tell him, needing to feel his little girl in his arms. Pinching his skin to transfer the pain he felt in his heart because of the thought that he missed his baby’s first words, her first steps. Was it ‘dada’ that babbled out of her mouth? Did she reach out for Connor when she stumbled over nothing when she walked on stubby legs? Did Y/N mention his name to her?

“Harry!” 

He kept on walking despite the hushed call of his name, assuming that it was a fan that caught sight of him and wanted a picture. Harry adores them, but now is hardly the time to fake a smile or act like his life didn’t just flash right before his eyes--quite literally. 

The vehicle beeped as Harry pressed the ‘unlock’ button on his key fob, just about ready to pull the door open and shield himself from prying eyes. He flinched when a hand fell on his shoulder, “Harry,” 

He looked up to find Gemma panting, resting her hand on the roof of the car, “Are you. . .alright?” Her drifting eyes inspected his face, tinted a slight pink and moist with the salty liquid dripping from his tear ducts.

Huffing in annoyance, Harry clutched the handle to let himself in. Gemma followed his actions, shutting the door and locking it. The tinted windows of the car provided a semi-private enclosure that was filled with Harry’s sniffling and Gemma’s heavy breathing, trying to catch her breath. 

“H-her name is Halo,” Gemma began, gulping when Harry paused his ministrations, straining his ears to listen despite the dull thud occupying his vessels. “She’s almost two years old,”

“You said you didn’t know,” Harry’s gruff tone echoed. Gemma anxiously rubbed the ends of her palms against her jeans. “Why didn’t you tell me? You knew all this time and y’didn’t tell me,”

“I-I was--she didn’t want me--” 

“Why would she tell you and not me? I’m the one that dated her,” He raised his voice with every syllable he spoke. The frustration he felt from seeing the woman he once loved living the reality they shared together, except he wasn’t anywhere in the picture and that reality was only a fantasy in his life now. “It doesn’t make sense,” He rested his forearms on the wheel, facing the car’s symbol.

“The baby is yours, Harry,”

His head quipped with speed, grazing his forehead on the rounded leather but that pain didn’t amount to the new wave washing over him. “W-what?”

“It’s really not my place to tell,” Gemma said nervously, making eye contact with Harry’s searing yet teary gaze. “She wanted to tell you but you were so happy with Camille. She was posting these things on her Instagram about your trips and Y/N called me crying because you looked so free and happy without her. Y/N didn’t want to ruin what you guys had by dropping this on you,”

"That's-that's my baby?" Harry stuttered over his words while tugging his head out of his memories. Gemma nodded in confirmation. “Then why in the world was she--Halo?--calling him ‘dada’? 

“Look, Harry, you’re not stupid. You know why Halo called Connor her dad,” Gemma spoke slowly, “This is a conversation that you need to have with Y/N if she lets you,”

At the mention of the man’s name, Harry couldn’t help but be filled with anger. He barely knew this man yet he received everything that Harry wanted in life. ‘But she’s my kid. I’m her dad. I’m the one who’s supposed to give her kisses and make her laugh,” He mumbled quietly as if his inner thoughts were far too strong to be kept in his mind

He was staring mindlessly at the numbers on his dashboard, hands gripping the leather steering wheel to try and ground himself. "But if that's my baby, how can she call someone who's not her father, dad?" He whipped his head towards Gemma, searching for validation that would make him feel better but the siblings were aware that he lost that title three years ago. 

“I think you know you lost that place in their lives,” She reached a comforting hand to pat his arm, feeling just how tense he was under the fabric.

Harry shrugged her off, pinching his brows and pursing his lips as sadness began to swirl down the drain only to be replaced with resentment, irritation and bitterness. The taste on his tongue was hot with anger and his ears felt warm as he wheezed air instead of opting to yell his dissatisfaction near his sister. 

“This isn't fair. She's m’baby too. Connor is not her father,” He spat with venom, “I am,” A pointed finger poked his chest. "She knew she was pregnant when she left me. She’s so fuckin’ selfish. How could she do this to me? 

Gemma was quick to remind him of his actions, "You cheated on her, Harry.” Gemma cowered back at Harry’s beady eyes glaring at her with an unreadable emotion, stone-cold. “Maybe you should go home. Calm down a little bit,”

“No!” Harry cut Gemma off, “Need t’a hear her say it myself,” 

Harry didn’t know what his plan was when he harshly slammed the car door behind him, practically storming on the patches of grass like a mad man. It wasn’t hard to spot the picture-perfect family sitting on a park bench which brought a scowl to his shielded face. He wanted to give Y/N a piece of his mind and it wasn’t necessarily the nicest thoughts that crossed his brain. 

Halo was sitting on Connor’s lap while he was feeding her a peeled cupcake. Red velvet with cream cheese frosting—-Harry felt like he was punched in the gut. The baked good was Y/N’s specialty and it had a lot of sentimental value to both of them. It was what she baked for their first year together. He could vividly see her frosting-dotted nose, aiming to splotch the cream on his cheek while she laughed. Harry wrapped his arms around her, hugging Y/N from behind and proceeding to kiss her sweet cheek, leaving the perfect opportunity to stain his skin with the frosting. 

But he didn’t care if he was smashed headfirst into the cake (as long as it wasn’t ice cream cake)—Harry just wanted to see her smile and hear her laugh heartily. 

Y/N was snuggled on Connor’s shoulder, fixing Halo’s hair as she made grabby hands at the confection. He cannot lie--Connor was a handsome man. Harry rarely felt intimidated or insecure, but seeing that this man managed to snatch everything Harry could ever want seemingly in a blink of an eye; Harry felt very jealous. 

He pouted, eyes rimmed red and lips quivering wishing that Cory or Connor--whatever that little shit’s name was would disappear so that Harry could take his place instead. Actually, it was his spot in the first place. Only if he didn’t mess up, he thought. He missed Y/N so much! Seeing Y/N in her element of niceness and bright-gleaming smiles sent a truck full of sand down his throat as he gulped his emotion below the surface. The closer he got to them, his vision tunnelled towards Halo; brown, flouncy curls and a cute dimple embedded in her cheek as she giggled, accidentally knocking the cupcake on the ground.  

If that wasn’t symbolism staring at Harry straight in the face; a sign that their so-called relationship really had no chance of reprieve. Harry chose to ignore it.

Connor clutched Halo tightly against him, crouching down with a napkin to clean up the scattered cake on the ground. Y/N was the first to notice him, her forehead creasing as her eyes bulged at the sight of Harry walking towards them. She subtly poked at Connor’s arm, hurting Harry even more because it meant that Y/N felt uncomfortable with his presence. 

He was close enough to read her pink lips, “We should go,” matched with Y/N’s frantic actions of packing the juice boxes and the Tupperware of cupcakes into the tote bag beside her. Connor searched the park until his gaze landed on Harry, protectively shielding Halo from him. 

Is he serious? Harry thought. That’s my own daughter.

Speaking of Halo, the two-year-old happily continued munching on her new cupcake, frowning slightly when Connor stood up, “Why we leaving, Daddy? Did I do somethin’ bad?”

Y/N sighed, they promised that Halo could play at the park all day and now it was cut short because of a certain someone. 

“No, you didn’t, bub. Let Daddy explain at home, okay baby?” Connor hitched Halo higher on his hip, hoping that she wouldn’t ask any more questions until the trio left.

“Who’s that?” Halo asked, pointing at Harry only metres away from them. Her stubby finger outstretched at the stranger in front of her, eyes bright and sparkling with curiosity. There was no sign of recognition painting her green orbs. 

Harry gulped, wanting so badly to scream “I’m your dad!” but he knew that Y/N will add that to the list of his mistakes he had made. 

“No one, angel,” Connor planted a kiss on her head, looking over at Y/N who had finished packing everything up. He tilted his chin in an attempt to scare Harry off.

But the thing was, Harry was already scared. He could feel his stomach in his throat but vomiting wasn’t the right word to describe it. His heart drooped deeper than the levels of the Earth. He was scared because his family was right in front of him but he couldn’t touch them or hug them in his arms. He was only allowed to look from the outside because there was a small possibility of being forgiven.

“Y/N. . .” Harry began hesitantly. The surge of confidence he had decreased with each passing second. He kept a close eye.

Y/N shrugged the strap on her shoulder, “Leave us alone, Harry.”

He felt his anger disappearing, a new emotion cascading his tear ducts and the blood in his veins. Harry looked back in retrospect; she really did mean it when Y/N said that she never wanted him around again. “I just want to talk. Please, let’s talk,”

“She doesn’t want to talk to you, Harry,”  Connor interrupted, grabbing the bag from Y/N and wrapping an arm over her shoulder, guiding them away from Harry. “She’s happy without you, mate. can’t you see?”

Harry kept his gaze trained on Y/N’s face, actively avoiding eye contact but drifted when Halo’s frown caught his stare. The little girl’s chin was hooked over Connor’s shoulder, squirming in his arms in an attempt to stop him from walking. Halo was smart enough to know that Harry’s expression screamed sadness and her mummy said that “you need to find a way to make them happy” if someone was sad.

“Wait!” Her shrill yell caused both Connor and Y/N to turn around. A piece of Harry’s heart shattered on the floor when Halo pulled Connor down by the nape of his neck, small hand leading his ear next to her lips. Then, she did the same to Y/N, pointing at Harry which caused him to straighten his stance, wanting to impress his daughter even though there was no point.

The couple shared a look before ultimately having Connor walk closer to Harry. Halo gripped her cupcake towards him, “‘ere y’go hawwy,’ She still couldn’t pronounce her ‘r’s’ yet. 

Harry began to sob. 

It was his daughter and those were the first words she had uttered to him. She didn’t know him yet Halo treated him with kindness and it ripped at his chest because Y/N must’ve taught her that. His palms became wet as tears streamed from his eyes, dampening the sleeves of his hoodie. He didn't care about looking foolish in front of them, not when his daughter saw him as a stranger and called Connor her ‘dada’. 

Halo recoiled at the sudden reaction, her lips curving downwards, “Dada, mama, he’s cwyin’,” She tucked her face at the junction of Connor’s shoulder and neck, scared that she made him cry. Halo didn’t mean to make him cry. She felt so guilty that she started spilling tears of her own too, her face contorting into a scrunched expression as her mouth wailed open sobs, matching Harry’s. 

Harry’s first instinct was to take a step forward and comfort Halo but he was rendered frozen when Connor shot him a glare, shifting Halo’s body out of reach and he could only see her face over the man’s shoulder. Y/N dimmed her eyes, brows pinching when she couldn’t help but let a smidge of sympathy wash over her. She muttered a few words to Connor, pushing him by the small of his back towards the parking lot. 

When they were out of earshot, Y/N faced Harry, “What were you thinking? Are you trying to mess everything up again?” He tried to cut in, “Isn’t it bad enough that we’re talking about this in public? Why must you ruin everything, Harry?” She whisper-shouted, trying her best not to garner them any attention. 

“N-no, Gemma told me and I jus’ wanted to see her--and you. Wanted to hear the truth come out of your mouth,” His large hands jammed into his pockets to prevent him from fiddling with them. 

“Look, you have no right coming here,”

“I know that b-but I--,”

She held a palm up, “I’m not sadistic like you Harry. If you thought that I wouldn’t let you around her then you’re wrong. As much as I hate to admit it, I do miss you and I wish that you were there for us when we needed you,”

“I had no idea--,”

“Will you let me speak?” Her tone carried irritation. “But we’re alright now and we don’t need you anymore.”

Harry never thought that those statements would ever come out of Y/N’s mouth. “Don’t you think I deserve to get to know her?” 

She sighed, “Deserve? Definitely not.” He nodded in agreement. “But I’d live in regret if Halo never got to know her real father. . .”

Harry’s expression lit up, hopeful eyes shooting glances at her, “D-does that mea--? Are you--?”

“You can see her. You can get to know her but only because you’re Halo’s father,” Y/N took a brave step forward, ignoring the way her heart throbbed as if she was being stabbed by a thousand knives. Painful memories drifted in and out of her train of thought until she shook her head to muster them out. It was in the past but she could never forget the feeling of hopelessness taking over her whole body. 

With a hand on his shoulder, she continued, “Anyone can be a father and you’re just that. Don’t think that you’re entitled to anything more. You will never be her dad. Connor is. Understood?”

Harry took a deep breath and swallowed a heavy gulp, “I. . .understand. Thank you, Y/N. For letting me back in when I don’t deserve it,” He glanced at the two tiny figures piling in the car. He could just imagine himself plucking little Halo into her booster seat, booping her nose as she asked for the hundredth time why she had to sit at the back and not at the front with them. 

“I’m not finished,” She deadpanned, “You are going to be there for her. Not for me, not for us because our relationship is over. You can hurt me as you did before and I can accept it but don’t you dare try to hurt her,” 

And it was true. Having endured his painful game once before, Y/N was stronger now. She could take heartbreak as agonizing as that but she wouldn’t dare stand seeing Halo’s teary eyes staring back at her, asking why Harry had left them. She was far too young to experience the feeling when a piece of herself is ripped apart. 

“I won’t hurt her. I promise,”

“I heard those words come out from your mouth years ago and look where we are now. Once you hurt her, it’s over.”

“Y/N, t-that’s hardly fair. I am her dad, aren’t I?” Harry cleared his throat at Y/N’s raised brow.

“No, you’re not. We just went through this, Harry.”

“Don’t call me that,” He muttered quietly because she only ever called him ‘baby’ or ‘h’.

“Will you stop? I laid out my cards. If you want to even have a speck of presence in her life, then you have to abide by what I said,” She crossed her arms in defence, “You will never be Halo’s dad, Harry. Connor is her dad. I don’t know how many more times I have to repeat this before it gets through you thick head,”

He opened his mouth to talk, “No wiggle room whatsoever?”

“No. Do I have to write a letter for you to understand that?”

In a moment of hurt and despair, Harry spat out, “Might as well, yeah? Waited over two years to tell me anyway,”

“Are you kidding me?”

His throat ran dry, realizing that he just ticked another box to favour against being a part of his daughter’s life, “I-I’m sorry. I didn't mean to,”

“Whatever. Are you willing to make the sacrifice?”

“This isn’t the place to talk about this,” Harry suggested, wanting to have some sort of foot on the ground so he doesn’t feel like he’s topping over with guilt and sadness. “Maybe you can come over to my house,”

Y/N shook her head, glancing briefly at her phone when it buzzed, “No. I will not step foot in that house again. If you really want to discuss it, you can come over at our place,”

“Your place?” Did they all live together? Well, that was another slap to the face. Not only was Connor playing dad to Halo, but he was also part of the household. Harry’s face must have contorted into a grimace because Y/N sighed softly. 

“Yes, our place. Meaning all three of us,” She gestured behind her. “I have to go. You can probably get my number from Gemma; you can text me then.”

“Yes, yes! Of course, I want to talk to you. . . about this, I mean,” Harry lowered his enthusiasm. The small voice in his head reverberating that this was not about him and Y/N; this was about Halo. 

“And make sure you don’t bring anyone else,” Y/N said sarcastically, subtly pointing in the direction of the paparazzi hiding behind some bushes. Harry was usually good at spotting them but today was just a puddle of hurt and confusion. “I don’t want her having to read nasty things like I did,”

What Y/N said may have been a side comment, but Harry couldn’t help but take it to heart. Was this a good idea? Sure, he wanted to be a present dad in Halo’s life. However, is it worth it to stir unwanted drama? If only he didn’t cheat on Y/N, all of this could have been avoided. 

With his mind in a haze, Harry barely noticed Y/N’s figure moving away from him. He jogged to catch up with her, laying a gentle hand on her shoulder. Harry felt numb to the way she shrugged her touch off of her immediately, “Were you ever going to tell me about our daughter?’

Y/N stared at him quizzically, tilting her head a little bit sideways, “I thought I did? Wait!” A look of recognition plastered across her features, “I did try to tell you but you blocked me before the message sent through,”

Harry gulped with realization. He blearily remembered  bitterly blocking her number just as she texted “I need to tell you something,”

___

Y/N: Since you’re not picking up my calls

I need to tell you something

Y/N took a deep breath as her thumbs tapped on the letters slowly as if to withhold the news from him. She was not at all ready to reveal that she was pregnant and that he was the father but Y/N knew that it was the right thing to do. Despite the fact that he was currently out of the country on vacation somewhere on an island with sandy beaches with Camille. Y/N was aware that this spike of courage was rare and so, she had to do it now.

Y/N: I’m pregnant

And you’re the father

She locked the device as soon as she pressed the arrow to send the message, clutching the phone close to her chest and shutting her eyes so tightly that it hurt. Minutes passed with no response and Y/N was shouldered by curiosity to check if he had sent anything back or simply left her on ‘seen’. 

It was neither. The screaming red exclamation mark surrounded by a circle indicated that she had been blocked. 

___

The times when she left missed calls on his phone were for a reason much bigger than the two of them. Y/N didn’t call to beg for him back or to ask Harry to want her again. He was ashamed to admit that he had rolled his eyes upwards every time he clicked on a voicemail she had left, stating, “Hey H, it’s me. Call me back when you hear this. I need to talk to you,” which he deleted without a second thought. She didn’t text him endlessly to politely ask for her things packed and settled for her pick-up because Y/N could not bear to spend another second in a room with him.

It wasn’t that at all. 

Y/N was physically moving farther and farther away from him, settling herself into the car before driving off to hers and Connor’s shared house. Halo sat in the backseat, singing along to the radio.

Harry was surrounded amidst the joyful squeals of children and reprimanding voices of their parents.

He stood alone with no one but loneliness by his side and the brisk flash of cameras in his peripherals.

_____

Let me know what you thought!

———

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#harry styles #harry styles one shot #harry styles imagine #harry styles x reader #harry styles writing #harry styles x you #harry styles blurb #harry styles drabble #harry styles fanfic #harry styles series #harry styles angst #harry styles x y/n

[retvenkos]

in the morning | j.

The Witcher - Jaskier x Reader, fluff requested

tw: nightmares

word count: 1.3k

prompt: “i’ve had nightmares for weeks and now that you’re here, they’re gone.”

A/N: canon? who needs her? i just throw around characters as i please. ciri, yen, jaskier, and geralt deserve to be a family unit. also uhhhh.... writing for jaskier is harder than expected.

Summary: Early mornings with Jaskier were beautiful - and sometimes, that beauty had unexpected depth.

You were lulled into wakefulness by the sound of pencil scratching on parchment and the thick humming of a familiar voice. You smiled and let the sound wash over you before opening your eyes. Morning was breaking, and Jaskier was raising the sun into the sky, bidding the brightest star to come nearer, coaxing it with his melodious voice. You peeked out from under the covers to see him.

Jaskier sat at the foot of the bed, one hand holding his lute and the other quickly jotting down his stream of consciousness into a tiny, leather-bound book. His back was to you, but his voice drifted over his shoulder, and there was no mistaking the joy and hope that lay in it. If you could see his face, it would be the picture of beauty; the most angelic sight anyone could be blessed with, at daybreak.

Genius must have struck early this morning because from where you lay you could see that Jaskier was only half-dressed, his shirt still loose and billowy, not yet cuffed and tied properly, and his hair was still a mess of earthy brown, dappled from the sun that filtered into the bedroom. A new song was taking form right before your eyes, the unfamiliar melody washing over you, comfortable in his chest and exciting in its mystery. His words were uncertain and carefully chosen, and his voice quivered on some notes, as though he was unsure whether to hold them for longer or cut them short.

You laid in bed without making a sound, watching the man you loved create the most sincere of poetry in the light of the dawning sun. Moments like these were precious, and ever since Jaskier started traveling the world with a stoic Witcher and his Child Surprise, they proved to be less and less. He had been gone for months, and now that he was here with you, all was right with the world. You planned to bask in his presence and dulcet tones for as long as you could. 

"...And I know not why I'm unfurling, but this beauty—" Jaskier stopped abruptly in the middle of a phrase, and while you couldn't see his face, you could imagine the way his face scrunched, his eyebrows knitting in concentration "—but this lovely - no, no... but this—"

"Charming?" you supplied, your voice hoarse from sleep but dripping with honeyed fondness.

Jaskier turned to you with the morning sun reflected in his grin, all of its soft rays falling on your image, warming your soul completely. "Charming, hmm?" Setting aside his lute, Jaskier leaned back down on the bed, sidling up to you. "Thinking of someone in particular?"

You smiled, "A bard, actually. He's wonderfully talented. Do you happen to know him?" You reached out and carded your hand through Jaskier's hair, smoothing it down.

"Hmm... many bards in these parts, I'll have to narrow it down. Is he attractive?"

"Very," you said, at once kissing him deeply. Jaskier mumbled a 'good morning' against your lips, and you squeezed his shoulder fondly, as though you could give him every warm feeling you carried in a single gesture.

Jaskier gave you a final peck on the cheek before standing, going back to dressing himself for the day. You watched him contentedly, admiring the practiced movements of his calloused hands and never letting your eyes leave him, as though if you were to look away, he would be gone, again.

"Did I wake you?" he asked.

"No, you didn't wake me," you yawned, stretching your back until it popped. "I was already falling out of a dream."

"A good one, I hope."

You hummed. Jaskier turned to you and winked. You rolled your eyes, basking in his affection. "What about you?"

"Yes, actually." You raised an eyebrow at the relief in Jaskier's voice, but he brushed it off, taking your hand and kissing it, slowly tugging you out from under the covers. Your feet touched the solid earth, but what truly grounded you to the world was the look in Jaskier's eyes - a medley of emotion, one blending into the next like the melody of one of his songs. You could be content with nothing but him; how simple it would be... to just be together. "I've had nightmares for weeks, but now that I'm here, they're gone."

"Well, I'm glad to be of service," you teased. Jaskier smiled and started to help you dress. The soft rustle of fabric subdued your thoughts into something pensive, and after a moment, you spoke again, your tone more solemn, this time, "But why nightmares? Did something happen?"

Jaskier was behind you, already starting to make the bed. "You mean besides nearly dying every week because Geralt is chasing after some new monster?" His tone was light, and you knew him well enough to catch that he was deflecting. 

You started to turn, planning to interrogate Jaskier further, but he kissed you on the back of your neck, causing a bout of laughter. You were rather ticklish there, your skin sensitive and soft, and it was a weakness that Jaskier loved to exploit. You slapped him on the shoulder, and he went back to smoothing out the blankets without sweet distractions. You sighed, feeling the warmth you had been dealy missing bubble in your chest.

"Do you dream of me?" you prompted, continuing with a tone that bled of innocence, but when paired with your mischievous smile, you were nothing but sin.

"Every night."

"Well, that's awfully dull."

"Not in the way I envision you." 

You scoffed, and Jaskier chuckled. Shaking your head, you sat on the bed, Jaskier following your lead. The sun, now higher in the sky, turned the room ablaze, golden light washing over you.

"Come on, Jaskier," and your voice dipped in sound but commanded the room, pulling his gaze to yours. "Neither of us are subtle. Are you going to tell me what your nightmares are about, or should I guess? Yennefer threatening you within an inch of your life?" Roach suddenly finding the ability to speak and being even worse tempered than Geralt?"

Jaskier snorted. "That one would be a laugh."

"Something else, then?"

"Existential dread doesn't count?"

"For the immortal Jaskier? Time doesn't touch bards as talented as you."

Jaskier breathed a sigh, a pleasant sound that filled you with a contented warmth. A beat passed. Then two. Jaskier turned and looked you deep in the eyes, and for a moment, you were surprised by the emotions that swam within them: worry, care, a certain kind of protectiveness, and most of all, love.

"I just don't want to lose you, is all. Traveling the world, facing death at every turn, it would all be meaningless without someone to hold onto."

You hummed, a low buzz in the morning air. It was just the two of you beneath the sun, and yet it felt like the entire world was there, holding its breath for your response. "Then I suppose my love for you does have a use, after all."

You scooted closer to Jaskier, taking his hand in yours and intertwining your fingers, savoring the way his hands brushed against yours.

"You won't ever lose me, Jaskier," you said carefully, with a conviction that made your voice strong but light. He smiled, big eyes softening into his usual countenance. "I'm afraid I'm too attached for that. You've managed to quite expertly worm your way into my heart - which is quite the feat, really."

"Well, it just took the right touch."

You kissed him gently, and when you pulled away, the sun painted him in the most gorgeous of hues, a halo around his head.

“Mmm... I suppose it did.”

#the witcher #jaskier #jaskier witcher #jaskier x reader #jaskier x you #jaskier one shot #jaskier imagine #reader #imagine #one shot #gender neutral reader #fluff #the witcher netflix #fanfic #the witcher imagine #see? i'm getting to requests..... eventually

[argylemnwrites]

Why Are We Still Waiting? - Chapter 3

Pairing: Drake Walker x MC (Riley Liu)

Book: The Royal Romance (It Couldn’t Wait Another Moment universe)

Word Count: ~4900

Rating: PG-13 (brief language)

Summary: A trip to meet the newest Beaumont isn’t off to the greatest start.

Author’s Note: So, since it has been ages since I updated this story, I feel like a quick recap is in order. Drake and Riley are in Cordonia to meet Savannah and Bertrand’s new baby girl, Caroline. They just met Liam’s new girlfriend, Iris, and her innocent questions about their postponed wedding made it clear that Drake is very frustrated by the fact they aren’t married yet. To catch up/jog your memory fully on this series, you can check out the It Couldn’t Wait Another Moment masterlist (link in bio).

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Drake groaned as Riley reached forward to start scanning across the radio stations.

“What?” she asked. He noticed her give a tiny shrug out of the corner of his eye as she leaned back after settling on a Greek Top 40 station.

“I knew it. I swear you pick this one just to annoy me, Liu.” Drake had made the mistake of complaining about this particular station on one of their first trips back to Cordonia, right before she’d gone back to university. It was all over-produced and sugary, and the DJs were just fucking obnoxious. Of course, that last point probably didn’t actually bother Riley, since she couldn’t understand a word they said.

“Maybe I just like this station.” 

Drake glanced over and took in the giant shit-eating grin plastered across her face and just rolled his eyes. “Uh huh, sure. Let’s ignore the fact that this station plays a ton of songs in Greek.”

“I’m just trying to broaden my cultural horizons.”

“Says the woman who refused to watch Parasite because it has subtitles.’”

“If I wanted to read something, I would pick up a book,” she said, but she did lean forward again to flip over to a different station. 

“Thank you,” Drake said, clicking on the turn signal as he switched into the right lane.

“You make it too easy sometimes,” she said, Drake noticing that she shrugged a little out of the corner of his eye. “If you didn’t act like that station was pure torture, I probably wouldn’t enjoy it so much.”

All Drake could do was shake his head. “You know, some people might not be so open about liking something out of spite.”

“No, it’s not spite.” Drake glanced over and raised his eyebrows at that, so Riley elaborated. “Spite is mean-spirited. I know you like my teasing too much for it to be spite.”

“Really.” Drake deadpanned, although he wasn’t able to hold back his grin and fully play along.

“Uh huh. What other explanation is there for you hanging around me after all these years?”

“I can’t think of a single one,” he said, earning him a flick of her fingers against his shoulder.

“Well I guess I will have to keep teasing you then. Otherwise I might have to settle for a guy who would have made me get up before six this morning.”

Drake looked over at her at that. Even after years together, her ability to jump from intensely sarcastic to gently sincere in an instant still amazed him. Last night, Maxwell had called and offered to pick them up from the palace after dropping off Mom and Aunt Leona at the airport, but they had a very early departure time. Drake had turned him down, feeling like it would be a shitty move to force Riley to wake up early on vacation, particularly since she never complained about using her limited vacation days to visit his family. Yet here she was, appreciative of his gesture that cost him nothing.

“Maybe I just didn’t want to spend two hours in the car with Maxwell.”

She let out a laugh at that. “Well, at least I rank as better company in your book.”

“Always, Liu. Always.”

“Seriously though, thank you.”

“Of course.”

Her left hand settled on his shoulder and gave him a little squeeze at that, but she didn’t say anything else, just glanced out the window as Drake turned off the main road and onto the smaller one that led to the Beaumont’s estate. Within a few minutes, they were pulling onto the driveway. As they climbed out of the car, they heard an excited little voice calling from the direction of the estate’s entrance. 

“Uncle Drake!”

Drake closed the driver’s door and pivoted around quickly, crouching down and extending his arms. Bartie ran across the drive and threw his little arms around Drake’s neck, laughing as Drake scooped him up and hugged him tightly. 

“We saw your car diving! I wanted to go out. Say ‘hi’ like Mommy or Daddy. Uncle Maxwell said I had to stay inside. Had to stand still ‘til you stopped,” Bartie rambled off, barely taking time to take a breath. 

“Thought that a little toddler darting in front of the car might not be the best start to your visit,” added Maxwell, strolling over to their car. “Hey, little blossom,” he added as he hugged Riley.

“Oh, you don’t get to just ‘little blossom’ me after you convinced Liam to keep me away!” she chuckled as she gave him a playful shove. “What happened to me being a Beaumont and always welcome here?”

“He told you guys?” Maxwell asked, turning to glance at Drake.

“Of course he did!” Riley said, drawing Maxwell’s attention back to her. She laughed a bit and shook her head before walking around the car to Drake and Bartie. “Hey, Bartie! Wow, you’ve gotten so big!” Drake passed Bartie over to her, watching as she gave him a squeeze, but Bartie started squirming in her arms, clearly wanting to be released from the obligatory hugs.

Riley placed him down, and he turned right back to Drake, grabbing his hand and tugging on it. “Uncle Drake, come see my new playhouse!” he said, attempting to drag Drake along after him as he started moving back towards the estate.

“Hey, my favorite dude, do you remember why Aunt Riley and Uncle Drake are here?” Maxwell said, crouching in front of Bartie. 

Bartie kicked his foot against the driveway before he answered. “Everyone wants to see Caroline. But she’s boring. She doesn’t do anything!”

Drake was trying to figure out the best way to deal with his nephew’s clear jealousy, but Riley stepped forward and bent down next to Maxwell. “I would love to see your playhouse, Bartie.”

“What do you say?” added Maxwell. “Why don’t we show Aunt Riley while Uncle Drake goes to see your mom and dad and sister?”

Bartie was silent for a few moments, but then nodded, grabbing Riley and Maxwell’s hands and heading inside without a glance back. Maxwell chuckled, twisted around, and called out to Drake, “You remember where the nursery is, right?”

Drake nodded and raised a hand in acknowledgment, taking the time to pop the trunk and grab their luggage before venturing inside himself. He went straight upstairs, pausing only to place their bags in their usual room, before heading down the hall, turning to the left and entering the private quarters, making his way to the small room located all the way towards the end of the hallway, the last door on the right.

It seemed like just yesterday he was building a crib in there for Bartie when Savannah was moving in. The room looked much the same, the walls still a pale grey, the furniture all pure white. The layout hadn’t changed much, with the crib placed against the far wall beneath a painting of stars shining over a lake with a squid waving a tentacle in the air, the changing table right next to it, and the dresser next to the rocking chair in the corner. The only thing that looked different, as far as Drake could remember, was the sheet tucked around the crib mattress. Back when this had been Bartie’s room, the sheets were covered in a variety of zoo animals, the only splash of color in the otherwise greyscale nursery. Now, they were a black and white check, much more subdued.

Laying in the center of the crib, wrapped tightly in a light pink blanket, was a sleeping baby. Drake didn’t have a lot of experience with infants, but even he had heard you never wake a sleeping baby, so he stepped further into the room carefully, trying not to make a sound. When he reached the crib, he couldn’t help but stare. This was Caroline. His niece.

He wasn’t sure how long he stood there, just taking her in, but eventually Savannah’s voice caught his attention.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s a bit creepy to just sneak into someone’s home and watch their child sleep?”

Drake turned his head to look over his shoulder. His sister was standing in the doorway, her arms crossed over her chest, an eyebrow cocked. “Hey, Sav. Maxwell sent me up here.”

“I should have known,” she said, walking over to join him by the crib, wrapping an arm around his waist as she gave him a half-hug. “I see you’ve met Caroline.”

“She’s beautiful,” Drake said, looking down again at the little baby in the crib, a few fine brown hairs covering her head. His niece. She was so tiny. It was kind of overwhelming, seeing her like this. When he’d met Bartie, it had been such a total shock that he even existed. Plus, he had been so much older than this. “Congratulations.”

“You can pick her up, you know.”

He shook his head. “I don’t want to disturb her.”

Savannah let out a few little chuckles. “She is the one who disturbs everyone most of the time. Besides, she’s just about due for a feeding.”

“I don’t know…”

“Come on, Drake. Just go wash your hands, and then you can hold her.”

And so a minute later, Drake found himself being handed his niece, so small and fragile-seeming. “Is this okay?” he asked, trying to make sure he walked the fine line between being gentle and holding her firmly as he tucked her against his chest.

“You aren’t going to hurt her!” Savannah laughed out.

“I just… I’ve never held a baby this little before. I don’t want to mess this up,” Drake said. Caroline felt so light in his arms. She was blinking, slowly becoming more alert after being shifted from her crib. Her bluish-grey eyes finally seemed to lock on his. “Hey, Caroline,” he said, “I’m your Uncle Drake.” But before he could think of anything else to say, she opened her mouth and let out a piercing wail.

Drake glanced over at Savannah. “What do I do?”

She laughed again. “God, what is Riley going to do with you when it’s your kid? She’s a baby, not an alien. She’s either hungry, sleepy, or has a dirty diaper.” But before she could poke fun at him any further, she reached over and shifted Caroline into her arms. “And since she’s hungry, I’m really the only one who can handle that.”

“Oh, do you want privacy or should I…”

Savannah shrugged. “I use a nursing blanket since Barthelemy walked in on me and made things real awkward.” And with that she settled onto the rocking chair, adjusting her top, positioning Caroline, then tugging a little cover over herself.

“What did Barthelemy do?” Drake asked as he moved to the side wall, leaning against it.

“Just acted real weird about the whole thing, talked to Bert about reminding me how a duchess should comport herself.”

“What a jackass.”

Savannah let out a sigh. “Bertrand was very apologetic when he relayed the message. But using a nursing blanket is not a big deal, and if it makes things easier for Bert with his dad…” She trailed off, staring down at Caroline, reaching under the nursing blanket to adjust something before she spoke again. “Having him around here has not exactly been some big happy family. I don’t know if his illness changed him, or if my memories of him were just fuzzy, but he’s an odd duck.”

Drake glanced over to the doorway. “Uhh, Sav. Not that I care, but the door is wide open and-”

She laughed and shook her head. “He’s at his rehab and physical therapy appointment this morning.”

“Ahh, gotcha. Any more talk of him trying to regain the title of duke?” Back when Barthelemy had returned to the estate, Sav had confided that it seemed like he was hinting that Bertrand should renounce his title and return it to his father. But since their wedding, it had seemed like most of that talk had died.

“No, he and Godfrey laid on the pressure after the honeymoon, but as soon as we announced the pregnancy, he backed off. His new mission seems to be to convince Liam that either Bartie or Caroline should be appointed as heir to the throne, which is crazy to think about, but it keeps him busy, so…” Savannah tilted her head to the side and raised her eyebrows, letting the thought just hang there in the room. 

Drake was bothered by the implications of that statement, but he knew that pressing Savannah on it would not really get him anywhere. As inappropriate and concerning as he found the implication that Savannah and Bertrand weren’t shutting Barthelemy down completely with that shit, he knew voicing his objections now would not solve anything. Discussing this all with Liam would make much more sense. So he just filed the statement away and moved to change the subject.

“Is it easier this time around, knowing what you are doing?”

Savannah smiled before glancing down at Caroline. “I think it’s more that I have a support system. And yes, I know it was my choice to not have one before,” she added before Drake could interject. “I guess in some ways at least I know what to expect, but Caroline is way more cranky than Bartie was at this age. Besides, I don’t think any parent ever really feels like they know what they are doing.”

“Nah, you seem to have it down.”

“It’s just a lot of trial and error. You’ll see when you guys have a baby.”

Drake ran his hand across his jaw, glancing down and watching his toes nudge into the baseboard. “I have a feeling that’s gonna be a while for us.”

“Oh come on! Don’t you want your kids to grow up with their cousins?”

Drake swallowed before taking a breath. “Of course I do.”

“Then what are you waiting for?”

“Well, getting married to start.” Shit. “Not that I think people have to be married to raise a kid or-”

“Relax, Drake,” Savannah said, cutting off his apologetic ramble. “It’s not like Bartie was a planned pregnancy.”

“Neither was Caroline,” he thought, but kept his mouth shut, not wanting to risk offending his sister or make her feel like he was judging her and her family. 

“I know you have an old-fashioned streak-”

“Hey!” Drake interjected, but Savannah just kept on going.

“-but I think you guys should think about having kids soon. You were going to be married by now anyway! And isn’t that the modern, New York thing to do?”

Drake didn’t know where all this was coming from. Why she was so insistent about something that didn’t involve her. But man, he wished she would move on to any other topic of conversation. Because what could he say? That he was ready to be married with kids? That he would have no problem starting a family with Riley tomorrow? He couldn’t share that with his sister, at least not without sharing things about Riley he was pretty confident she would never want Savannah to know.

The fact that she had decided on a birth control option that would last for three years made it pretty clear where her head was at with the whole kid thing. She wasn’t really ready, not by a long shot. And until she was ready, there was really nothing he could do about it. Drake was just going to have to wait until she felt like the time was right, whenever that might be.

Maybe it was just that he was four years older than her. Maybe that’s why he felt so ready to take those next steps when she seemed so unbothered, so willing to just roll along. And to be fair, it’s not like they were ever going to be a couple like Hana and Catherine, who had timelines and life plans and five year goals. But deep down, Drake couldn’t help but wonder why Riley seemed so ambivalent about them getting married and starting a family. Was she unsure about something in their relationship, unsure about something with him?

It’s not that she didn’t want kids ever, as far as he knew. She’d mentioned wanting kids before. And they’d planned that first wedding without issue. But now it seemed like she was stuck. No rush to get married. Not thinking about having kids for years. And Drake didn’t know how to approach the whole topic without seeming like he was demanding things. Putting pressure on her. He was happy. They were happy. It was something his younger self would have never thought possible, and it should definitely be enough. But maybe he was selfish, because there were times where it just didn’t feel like enough.

Maybe it would be helpful to talk to someone about this, but that would feel like violating Riley’s trust. He knew Riley had her therapist she talked to, and he was sure their relationship was a topic of conversation there, but that was different. The therapist wasn’t someone who knew Drake, who was his friend or family. Anyone Drake would feel comfortable talking about this with knew Riley. Knew her well, quite frankly. 

So for now, he was just going to have to keep moving forward. Keep hoping that Riley would start to feel ready soon. And at the moment, that meant sidestepping his sister’s questions and prodding.

“Geez, Sav! We haven’t even been here for an hour, and you are laying it on really thick.”

“Sorry, sorry! I know it’s not my business! If it makes you feel better, it’s not just with you. Kiara also told me I needed to back off when I started asking her about when she and Oliver were going to have kids right after their wedding.”

“Wait, when did Kiara get married?”

“Oh, Drake! At least you have an excuse for not knowing all the news now that you live abroad.” she said, shaking her head. “They eloped maybe… four months ago?”

And then Savannah was off, filling Drake in on tons of gossip he didn’t give two shits about. But it made her happy, and it was a safe topic of conversation, so who was he to complain?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

Riley sat crossed legged on the floor in Bartie’s room at a little table, Maxwell seated across from her. Meanwhile, Bartie was hard at work at his toy kitchen set, organizing pieces of plastic food on plates. He wanted to show off and make “lunch” for them. Riley supposed that this was probably a common way for a three and a half year old to want to play, not that she had any such memories from her own childhood. What wasn’t common, she was sure, was the formal table setting Bartie had carefully placed in front of each of them, the perfectly pressed white apron he’d asked Maxwell to help him tie on, or the fact that he was arranging his plastic lettuce, eggs, and meat on actual china.

“Looks excellent, my favorite dude,” said Maxwell as Bartie carefully carried over several plates to the table. “What’s on the menu?”

“Steak tartare with a fresh greens salad,” he said before turning and heading back towards his little kitchen.

“Wait, aren’t you going to join us?” asked Riley, trying to keep from bursting out in laughter at the thought of a preschooler preparing such a meal.

“Aunt Riley, no aprons at the table!” he said his eyes wide as he turned back to face her.

“Yeah, come on Aunt Riley, where are your manners?” Maxwell winked before twisting to look over at Bartie. “You need any help untying your apron there?”

“No, I can do it,” Bartie ground out, tugging on the ties without much luck.

“Okay, well I’m right here if you do need help,” Maxwell responded. Within five seconds, Bartie was back, standing right next to him.

“Thanks, Uncle Maxwell!” he said, happily pulling the apron off and jogging over to hang it up nicely once Maxwell had it untied.

“You’re working hard to maintain your title as best uncle.” Riley said.

“Every time you guys come to visit, he suddenly wants to go fishing and camping instead of having dance parties with me.”

Riley laughed at that. “We’re new and exciting, what can I say.”

“Easy for you to say, you’re the favorite aunt by default.”

“What does default mean?” asked Bartie, plopping down on the floor next to them.

“It means no other choices, dude.”

“Oh,” Bartie said, nodding before picking up his silverware, pretending to cut into the plastic in front of him with surprising coordination.

“So has Uncle Maxwell been hanging out with you a lot since your sister came home?”

Bartie shrugged. “I guess.”

“We’ve definitely been seeing some jealousy,” Maxwell said with a nod. “I kind of thought this might happen, so I made sure to clear my schedule for a handful of weeks around the due date.”

“That was thoughtful of you.”

Maxwell tilted his head to the side and smiled. “Hey, I’m favorite uncle for a reason.”

“Uncle Drake is my favorite,” said Bartie, causing Riley to burst out laughing.

“Dude, that wasn’t the deal! You’re gonna pay for this,” Maxwell said, leaning over and wiggling his fingers. “The squid’s about to attack.” With that, Maxwell started tickling Bartie, triggering wild giggles and Bartie rolling backwards on the floor.

“Bartie!” Bertrand’s voice cut across the room. Riley twisted over to find him standing in the hallway, his eyes scanning over the scene in front of him. “We don’t make our guests sit on the floor, do we?”

“No, Daddy.”

“Bertrand, it’s fine-” Riley started, but he held up a hand, cutting her off.

“What do we say, Bartie?”

“Sorry, Aunt Riley.”

All Riley could do was nod, accepting an apology from a toddler that felt entirely unnecessary.

“Good,” said Bertrand, “Now go wash your hands and get cleaned up for lunch.”

Bartie scampered out of the room, turning to his left in the hallway.

“I offered to play with him, Bertrand.”

“Well, he was told that you were coming to visit Caroline. He should have known better than to monopolize your time.”

Riley opened her mouth, ready to respond, but Maxwell grabbed her wrist and shook his head. 

“How are you, by the way? I apologize for not being there to greet you and Drake.”

“I’m good, Bertrand,” she said as she pushed herself up on her feet, walking over and giving him a loose hug. “Congrats, by the way.”

“Yes, thank you. Drake and Savannah have Caroline in the private lounge if you want to go meet her. If you’ll excuse me, I need to go check and make sure Bartie isn’t making a complete mess in the bathroom.”

And with that, Bertrand was off, following the path down the hallway that his son had just taken.

“Yikes,” said Riley as soon as he was out of earshot.

“Yeah, I know,” replied Maxwell, looping his arm around her shoulders and guiding her in the opposite direction. “That is another reason I made sure I didn’t have any need to be on set or in LA for any writers meetings for a few months.”

“He’s more of a tight ass than ever.”

“I think he’s very anxious because he missed this part of Bartie’s life. The amount of research he did and the number of parenting books he read is insane. But any time any little thing isn’t what he expects, he flips out.”

“What does Savannah think about that?” Riley asked, following Maxwell down the stairs.

“Either she’s too sleep deprived to notice, or she’s just pretending not to see it. I decided to give him two months to settle into things. If he’s still snapping at everyone then, well… I guess I’ll have to stage an intervention or something.”

“Wow. Well at least you’re here to look out for the kid.”

“Yup, figure I can keep things normal-ish for him. Though I will say between watching Bertrand spiral and hearing Caroline’s shrieks, any faint consideration I might have given to parenthood has gone straight out the window.”

Riley laughed, prompting Maxwell to keep going. “I’m serious! I know I told you I was pretty sure I was good being the fun uncle, but these past few weeks have really locked in that decision. Don’t tell anyone I told you this, but Bartie is right - Caroline is boring. And loud. And I am so glad she is not my responsibility.”

All Riley could do was laugh more. “Do you need me to make up an excuse for you so you don’t need to be in the same room with her?”

Maxwell nudged her with his shoulder. “Oh, laugh it up! I don’t have any issues with her. She just confirmed that fatherhood is not for me, no matter how cute she is when she isn’t screaming her head off.”

At that point, they entered the lounge, so Riley dropped any further teasing she had for Maxwell. “Hey, Savannah. Congrats!” she said, walking across the room and giving her a hug.

“Thank you, Riley. It’s so good to see you!” Savannah replied as they pulled apart. Riley moved to sit down next to Drake on the couch, who was cradling a baby against his shoulder.

“This must be Caroline,” she said, watching as Drake tapped his hand against her back lightly.

“Either that or I have a lot of explaining to do,” Drake said, glancing over at her. Riley just smiled and nudged him lightly with her elbow.

“Drake, why don’t you let Riley hold her?” Savannah asked. “She should get to meet her aunt, too.”

“Do you want to?” Drake asked, his eyebrows raised.

“Of course,” said Riley, reaching over and helping him peel the tiny little girl off his chest, nestling her into her own arms.

Caroline was awake, her eyes roving around as Riley shifted back onto the couch more fully to try and get comfortable. After a few seconds, they seemed to settle on Riley’s face. All she could really do was stare back, taking in this child, this baby girl who might not have been planned, but would certainly be loved by so many.

“Yeah, I know I’m a stranger right now. But in a couple of decades, I’ll be the one you come to when you want nightclub recommendations in New York City.”

“Hey, I want in on that invite,” said Maxwell as Savannah let out a few chuckles. Riley glanced over at Drake, expecting him to be rolling his eyes or shaking his head, but instead was caught off guard by the intensity of his gaze. He was staring at her holding Caroline with such passion, such longing, she felt almost exposed. All she could think to do was drop her eyes back to the baby, not wanting to dwell on what that meant at that moment.

Unfortunately, Savannah must have noticed Drake as well, because she said, “Oh, I see that look. ‘A while’ my ass. I bet you’ll be pregnant by the end of the year.”

Drake let out a sort of sputtering cough at his sister’s comment, but before he could say anything, could so much as get a word out, Riley felt her own mouth opening. Her own response spilled out so glibly, without a second of thought. It was almost like she heard someone else saying the words, even as she knew she was the one speaking.

“Don’t give him any ideas.”

She felt Drake stiffen beside her, saw Maxwell shifting in his seat, and heard Savannah mutter out a little apology, but all of that was just background noise as her brain screamed at her. How could she have been so fucking stupid? What possessed her to say that? Or at least to phrase it like that? There were ways to shut down Savannah’s prying without implying that Drake had baby fever and she wanted no part of it.

The uncomfortable silence in the room was broken as Bertrand and Bartie entered. “Lunch is ready in the dining room,” said Bertrand, gesturing to the door behind him. Bertrand then stepped over to Riley. “I can go put her down,” he said, gesturing at his daughter still in Riley’s arms.

“Oh, sure thing,” said Riley, passing him Caroline before standing up. Savannah, Maxwell, and Bartie had already left the room, but Drake was still seated, his eyes locked on his knee that was bouncing up and down.

“Drake, I-” she started as soon as Bertrand had stepped out, extending her hand to help him to his feet. But Drake ignored the gesture, pushing his hands into the cushions of the couch instead.

“I’m hungry. Let’s just go eat, Riley.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t-.”

“It’s fine, Riley, Really. We can talk later” He nodded at her and started walking towards the door, leaving Riley to follow after him. And more than the brush off, more than his refusal to hold her hand, the fact that he’d not called her ‘Liu’ let her know that she had made a huge fucking mess.

Perma: @walkerswhiskeygirl @octobereighth @kimmiedoo5 @mom2000aggie

TRR/TRH: @twinkleallnight @iaminlovewithtrr @mskaneko @axwalker @jovialyouthmusic @marshmallowsandfire @kingliam2019 @sirbeepsalot @texaskitten30 @princessleac1 @ladyangel70 @debramcg1106 @masterofbluff  

Drake/MC: @no-one-u-know  @iplaydrake

ICWAM: @thequeenofpixels @sunnyxdazed @sammie0220​

#drake walker #drake x mc #trr au #trr au fanfic #trr fanfic #choices fanfiction

[dapandapod]

Let’s be lonely together

Here on Ao3 

Thank you lovely Jay for indulging me when I run out of ideas of things to write. There is a reddit post going around where a girlfriend wash her boyfriends back and then just holds him, and he cries, and that is just so sad and soft and endearing so that is what we did. Some short softness that we deserve. I have no idea if this made any sense, but it did in my head and im tired and distracted and I wanted to share <3 Please enjoy!

Geralt knows Jaskier is a physical person.

Arm touches, shoulder bumps, knocking feet under the table, hanging across someone's back, braiding someone's hair, always always touching. When they are on the path, Geralt is the one soul Jaskier can touch. And Geralt learned not to mind, learned to trust the casual way Jaskier is always nearby.

The mountain changed many things. The casual touches changed. Their relationship changed. The way Geralt saw Jaskier changed, the way he learned to see him.

Witchers are supposed to see, yet it took Geralt until now to actually notice.

Their first kiss happened in the rain. It was cold as shit, despite all the clichés of how romantic it should be. Jaskier slipped in the mud, Geralt caught him. They shared one of those long stares, eyes roaming, and then Jaskier leaned in and kissed him.

Good thing too, because no matter what Geralt feels, no matter how much he wants, he is weak. Scared. Of his wanting being too much, being the last push to send Jaskier away.

But it didn’t.

Trust is such a heavy thing. Hard to carry on your own.

And in the rain that day, they changed again.

In a sense, they didn’t change at all.

Lips connecting, hands reaching out, finally, finally reaching back.

And then there are the new kinds of touching.

During the many months they spend together and apart, Geralt tries to see Jaskier. Kind, giving, raging, spitting energy Jaskier.

Geralt is scared, no matter what Jaskier does.

But it’s time not only to take, but also to give.

So Geralt offers up all he is, all he has. They talk about renting a cottage by the coast, of course.

They talk about visiting Lettenhove.

What they end up doing is staying the winter in Oxenfurt. They rent a delightful flat above a bakery.

It’s always Jaskier who gives.

It’s always Jaskier who touch. Geralt sees it now.

The water is warm, steaming hot like Geralt always insists it to be. And it smells like lavender like Jaskier always insists it should.

They don’t always bathe together, it’s cramped and unpractical.

Still is, to be honest, but tonight Geralt just want to touch Jaskier, Not to be touched, just touch.

Despite Geralt being the bigger one Jaskier likes sitting behind him, likes to drag his fingers over his back, making Geralt ache and yearn for anything Jaskier would give him.

Not tonight.

Jaskier is already in the bath, leaning against the wood, wiggling his toes just about the surface.

Geralt smiles, Jaskier is so hairy, and when he is in the bath he looks like a wet dog.

“One day you are going to let me comb your chest hair. Move over.” Geralt tells him, settling behind Jaskier and wrapping his arms around that hairy chest.

“Rude. I will look like a poodle.” Jaskier says, but smiling, snuggling back into Geralt.

“You already do.” Geralt says, pressing a kiss to Jaskiers cheek. He hasn’t shaved in a while, the stubble is tickling his lips. “Only a drenched one.”

Jaskier slaps a wet hand on Geralt's knee, still above the water, because impractical. It stings, but he chuckles.

They sit there, Jaskier stroking Geralt's knee slowly and humming under his breath. The vibrations of his voice reverberate into Geralt, his smile widening. These moments are the absolute best.

“Pass me the sponge.” Geralt says, shifting to put some space between them.

“Want me to wash your back?” Jaskier takes the sponge and shift too, but Geralt takes it and dips it in the water.

“I got it.” Geralt put the sponge to Jaskiers back, scrubbing gentle circles into his skin.

“Preparing for something nice tonight?” Jaskier smirks, allowing the care and bowing his head forward.

“No.” Is all Geralt says, dipping the sponge again for more water. “Just enjoying myself.”

“What, you love cleaning me?”

“No. I love you.” Geralt quips before he can stop himself.

They have said it before. They have, but Jaskier becomes silent. He lets Geralt wash his back, his hair, scrub soft oils into it. His heart is beating wildly, and even if he is relaxed and pliant, he seems subdued. Sad, almost. Geralt press kisses to his shoulders, pushing Jaskiers wet locks behind his ear.

When they have dried off they don’t even change into proper clothes before laying on the bed. Jaskier is still quiet, he is not even singing.

Geralt pulls him close, up ontop of him, head above his heart. His hair is still wet and the drops are cold against his skin when they drop down. Geralt smooths his hair down, ruffling it a little.

That’s when the warm drops fall. Salty tears, quietly dripping from Jaskiers eyes.

Geralt thinks he knows what’s wrong.

He says nothing, only pulls Jaskier closer, holding him in his arms, counting his breath. Jaskiers heart beats hard, like it’s heavy and trying to fall out of his chest. Geralt knows the feeling. The first time Jaskier held him, it was only hairy arms around him that kept his broken pieces glued together. So Geralt tries to give it back. A big scarred hand over Jaskiers neck, pressing kisses into his hair, tracing fingers over his lower back.

Jaskiers tears keep falling, and Geralt thumbs them away until his breath evens out into sleep.

Geralt will not assume to know Jaskier. Not again.

What he knows however is what he has seen. That Jaskier is always the one to reach out.

To care, expecting nothing back, getting nothing back. Before the mountain, especially before the mountain, all the touch he would get was if he was offering pleasure.

Jaskier is a starving man, giving away what he has.

Geralt hopes to give some of it back, little by little.

#geraskier #the witcher #the witcher netflix #jaskier is a hairy man #imagine combing and airdrying his bodyhair #poodle man #soft #geralt of rivia #witcher geralt #jaskier #jaskier the bard #getting together #established relationship #bathing #because what is witcher fics without bathing #caring #geralt cares so much #soft geralt #short #stop writing until midnight #dapanda writes #geralt x jaskier

[vannahfanfics]

Raincheck

Category: Angst, Drama, Romantic Fluff

Fandom: My Hero Academia

Characters: Hitoshi Shinso, Ochako Uraraka

Hello everyone! This is my story for the @shinsoubigbang​! When you get a chance, also check out my partner's artwork; they did an amazing job illustrating a scene from the story. :)

The wind tugged at Hitoshi’s lavender locks and whipped at the capture weapon around his neck as he perched on the edge of the rooftop. He hunched like a gargoyle as he carefully surveyed the sprawling mess of back alleys below his sneakers. Crime always festered in dark places, especially on cloudy, moonless nights like these. Hitoshi could almost hear the whispers of malcontent and mischief rising with the wisps of fog. His instincts were buzzing, tingling just beneath his skin, indicating that his hunt for criminals would soon bear fruit. 

His lilac-hued eyes snapped to the side as the air suddenly rang with the rhythmic clacking of heels. A young woman in a waitress’ garb quickly strode down a cobblestoned back road. She clutched her purse tight to her chest and feverishly looked to her left and right. Despite her vigorous attempts, her caution did not avail her. Hitoshi watched a shadow slink out from behind a dumpster. A knife glinted in the dark as its blade caught the dull yellow light spilling from the nearby streetlamp. The shadowy figure crept up behind the unsuspecting woman, reaching for her brunette hair bunched in a bun— 

and that’s when Hitoshi swung down in a dark fury, his capture weapon wrapping tightly around the man’s wrist. The woman screamed and stumbled into the wall as the hero wedged himself between her and her would-be assailant. The mugger cursed and tugged violently against his bindings, but he could not best the hard-earned muscles of Hitoshi’s arms, which flexed as he drew the capture weapon so tight that it ceased the man’s blood flow and forced his fingers apart. The knife clattered to the ground, useless, and the startled thief met Shinso’s cool, cold purple eyes. 

“Someone taught you the wrong way to pick up women, mate,” Hitoshi tsked while wagging his finger scoldingly. The mugger’s face turned an ugly red-purple hue, and he vehemently resumed clawing and yanking at the capture weapon. 

“You motherfucker! I’m gonna—” He wasn’t going to do anything, actually, which he realized when his jaw slackened and his eyes clouded over as Hitoshi’s Quirk washed over him. 

“Do me a favor and stop struggling, will you?” Hitoshi tutted. The man obediently lowered his arm, standing still as a statue as Hitoshi loosened the bindings and looped them back around his neck. The hero returned his attention to the young woman, who was still pale-faced and hugging the dirty brick wall while staring at the mugger in horror. 

“He… He won’t do anything?” she squeaked as Shinso abandoned him to walk over to her. 

“Him?” he asked with a jab of his thumb. “Nah,” he reassured with a wily smirk. “He’s completely under the control of my Quirk. He won’t do anything I don’t put in his empty head. Now, miss, are you hurt?” Still gawking apprehensively at her attacker, she slowly shook her head. To Hitoshi’s relief, however, her rigid body slowly relaxed, and she turned to look at him. 

“Thank you for saving me… I should have known better than to use this shortcut, but it’s my daughter’s birthday party and I wanted to hurry home after my shift since I couldn’t get off for her party…”

“I’m sorry you had to miss it,” Hitoshi said genuinely. “It’s dangerous around here, though. I’ll call in a police escort to get you home safely in addition to handing over this guy if you don’t mind waiting a little longer, okay?” Though she probably didn’t want to waste any more time, the near-catastrophe rattled her thoroughly enough to comply. Hitoshi walked out of the side street onto the sidewalk flanking the main road. After phoning the police, he paused to open a video message. 

“Hey, ‘Toshi!” Ochako’s bubbly round face dominated the screen, cheeks rosy and brown eyes sparkling as she waved excitedly. “I just got back from my P.R. trip to America. You wouldn’t believe all the amazing things I saw! We should get together for lunch tomorrow so I can tell you all about it. I’m sure you’re on patrol right now and will be until morning,” she said, leaning back in the camera frame, and he could see that she was dressed in a pair of fluffy white pajamas printed with green aliens in spacesuits. It made him chuckle; she always had adored silly pajamas like that. “I’ve got a bit of jet lag so I’ll be awake for a while, so call me when you get off, okay? Bye-bye now!” she chirped while waving before the video cut off. 

Hitoshi stared at the frozen image of Ochako’s big bright smile, a soft one forming on his own lips. After he’d joined Class A in U.A.’s Hero Course, he’d become fast friends with all of them. However, to everyone’s surprise including his own, he’d gravitated the most to Ochako. She was just so bubbly and bright, the perfect counterpart to his subdued and relaxed personality. He found her endless optimism and drive refreshing, so much so that they still kept up with one another even after graduation. 

His big fat crush on her might have had a little to do with that, though. 

Hitoshi waited impatiently for the police with the waitress. He asked her questions about her daughter, and though she eagerly embraced the small talk to ease her nerves, Hitoshi really just let her responses go in one ear and out the other. He was too busy mentally configuring his schedule, trying to figure out the soonest he could call Ochako. In the end his impatience got the best of him, as he ended up calling her number as the police officers were loading the suspect into the back of the squad car and the other was taking a report from his would-be victim. 

“Wow, that was fast.”

Hitoshi smiled at her cheery voice buzzing on the other end of the line. He leaned against the hood of the patrol car and slid one of his hands into his pants pockets. 

“I just happened to have a break,” he shrugged. “I wanted to call and see how you were settling in after your trip.” 

“I’ve only been gone two weeks, but it still feels kind of weird to be back!” she giggled. He could envision her grabbing one of her fluffy pillows— probably the big sun plushie wearing sunshades— as she reclined against her headboard. “America was incredible! I can totally see how it was the birthplace of heroes. I can’t wait to tell you all about it, ‘Toshi.” 

“Are you sure you can wait until tomorrow?” he joked. In the background, he could hear the police radio crackling about a carjacking and a high-speed chase through town. As the sirens began to wail and red-and-blue lights painted the dark night sky, Hitoshi straightened up and looked around with narrowed eyes. “Hey, Ochako, hold on a minute. I think—” 

He never got time to finish the sentence. 

Everything was a blur as the car came careening down the street, followed closely by a police cruiser. The air filled with squealing tires and burning rubber as the police car braked harshly, but the carjacker had no care to do so, instead opting to plow right through the two police cars parked in the middle of the road in his effort to get away. One of the police officers managed to tackle the waitress into the safety of the alleyway, while the other was bowled over by the criminal, who was attempting to use the chaos to escape, even though he was handcuffed. 

Hitoshi was not so lucky. As the car zoomed past the cruiser, crunching the metal with a sickening sound, it glanced him. Even being glanced by a car going over one hundred miles an hour was enough to send Hitoshi flying back into the alleyway. His phone was slung from his hand as he crashed against the rough ground; he released a strangled gasp as he felt several of his bones snap. As he rolled down the alley, the back of his head smacked against the cobblestone. A white rush flooded through him from head to toe, filling his brain with cotton and his ears with a persistent ring. When he finally came to a rest on his back in a mangled mess of limbs, he was staring uncomprehendingly at the sky, blood leaking out of his lips. 

Dimly, he could hear Ochako’s voice echoing through the alleyway. He’d somehow managed to turn the phone on speaker. 

“‘Toshi? What happened? ‘Toshi? Hitoshi?!” 

The sirens continued wailing. The blue-and-red lights flashed around him like the stars falling to earth. He could feel blood leaking out from the back of his head, coating his lavender hair in thick, sticky globs. The woman was screaming and crying, while the police officers were shouting into their radios for an ambulance. As the darkness encroached on the edges of Hitoshi’s vision, he hung onto Ochako’s frantically screeching voice like a lifeline. 

He had to live. He had to live. He was going to meet her for lunch tomorrow…

~~~~~~~~~~

It began with a dull pounding ache. It thundered at the base of his skull, rising in intensity with each inch he crawled towards consciousness. The persistent pain made him want to drift back into the sweet embrace of sleep, but unfortunately the ache prevented it. He groaned lowly, lolling his head from side-to-side and hitting the hard plastic of the neck brace hugging his throat. His purple lashes fluttered open, and his eyes were greeted with bright, burning white. 

He blinked slowly, uncomprehendingly, at the nondescript white tiles above him. He could hear a heart monitor blinking steadily beside him. He could feel a thin hospital gown rubbing against his bruised skin, the casts wrapping his right arm and leg to immobilize them, and the bandage covering his swollen right eye. He was in a hospital, clearly, but what had landed him there in such a deplorable state? 

As he tried to remember, there was nothing. Emptiness. A blank slate. 

He furrowed his eyebrows in mild panic. Now that he thought about it, he couldn’t summon up memories about much of anything. He knew his name— Hitoshi Shinso— but that was it. As he shifted on the bed, breath hitching and his heart rate jumping on the monitor, it alerted the nurses outside. 

“He’s awake!” a nurse called as she bustled in through the doorway. “Hey, hey, it’s all right. You’re safe, in the hospital,” she cooed as she leaned over his bedside. Hitoshi looked at her with wild eyes. “What’s the matter, hun? Are you in pain? Do you need medication?” 

“Don’t remember,” he grumbled. 

“What, honey?” 

“I don’t remember anything…” 

The nurse gasped and straightened up, hand flying to her mouth. She looked nervously at the other nurses crowding the door. As they began to murmur worriedly to one another, the doctor strode in, frowning over Hitoshi’s chart. 

“Doctor, he says he doesn’t remember anything,” the nurse reported in a quiet voice. The professional looked at her before walking to Hitoshi’s side. Hitoshi squirmed uncomfortably under his stern, inquisitive stare. 

“Son, do you know your name?” 

“Hitoshi Shinso.” 

“Do you know how you got here?” 

Hitoshi shook his head as much as the neck brace would allow. “Can you remember anything from the last week?” Another shake of his head. “Last month?” Again, he shook his head. “What do you remember?” 

Hitoshi squeezed his eyes shut as he struggled to summon something, anything, from the recesses of his mind. A few snippets floated up in the sea of emptiness, which served to ease him just a little. “I’m a hero… I graduated from U.A. High School… But I don’t remember going there. I just know I did.” 

“Well,” the doctor sighed as he straightened up, tapping the pages of his chart, “you suffered a basilar skull fracture and an epidural hematoma. We had to puncture your skull to relieve the pressure on your brain, but you still developed a very severe concussion. It seems the head trauma has induced amnesia.” 

Hitoshi’s heart rate skyrocketed, causing the monitor to wail shrilly. 

“Will I get my memory back?” 

“Most likely. It may take some time, however, with an injury like yours. Some of your classmates are here; they’ve been waiting for you to recover from surgery. I can bring them in if you would like. Their presence may help to jump-start the process.” 

Hitoshi nodded robotically, still trying to process the great hole that had suddenly developed in his life. Time seemed to blend together, because the next thing he knew, a green-haired young man was inching into the room with a shaky smile. The doctor probably informed his supposed friends of his amnesia because the freckled boy treaded lightly and carefully— like he was afraid Hitoshi would shatter with one wrong word. 

“Hey, ‘Toshi,” the boy smiled as he pulled up a chair to his bedside. Hitoshi squinted at him. There was something familiar about that quivering smile, nervous twitching, and bright emerald eyes, but that was all. “I’m glad to see it’s okay… It’s me, Deku— er, Izuku Midoriya! Not that you would know that, I guess, considering the amnesia and all… We went to school together, y’know?” 

Hitoshi swallowed, but his mouth was dry so it made it a little difficult. 

“I see,” was all the lavender-haired boy said. At this time, a blond-haired skinny boy with a lightning-shaped streak of black in his bangs bustled in, red-faced and looking like he’d run all the way there. 

“Holy crap, is it true, Deku?” the boy panted, rushing up to grip the back of his chair. Izuku pouted over his shoulder at him. 

“Yeah, Denki… He doesn’t remember anything…” 

“Oh, man,” Denki said while nervously running his hand through his hair. “Ochako’s gonna be devastated…” 

Hitoshi perked up at the name. As soon as it passed Denki’s lips, it sent a jolt of recognition through him. Oddly, aliens and stars and the color pink suddenly came to mind. The two boys immediately noticed his reaction and exchanged hopeful glances. 

“Do you recognize that name?” Izuku asked hopefully. 

“I think so…” Hitoshi said quietly, fisting the scratchy white hospital blanket. “Ochako…” The name seemed to roll off his tongue so perfectly, and it sent a bubbly, happy feeling rising up inside of him. 

“That’s great! She was so worried about you, Hitoshi! It took her forever to get answers out of the first responders, and then she had to handle calling all of us, and then she was really upset when they wouldn’t let her see you because you were in surgery, so she’s been a mess all night—” Izuku babbled, but Hitoshi ignored it as he tried to process the way his heart was fluttering at the hazy image of a sweet round-faced brunette trying to surface in the void of his mind. 

“I think… I think I was in love with her.” 

Izuku stopped mid-sentence, emerald eyes blowing wide. Denki had his hand over his mouth as Hitoshi looked at them in muddled confusion. “Were we dating?” 

“Uh… no,” Denki coughed uncomfortably. Hitoshi’s frown deepened and he looked back down at the blanket. If that was the case, then why did just the mention of her name summon up a sense of deep fondness and happiness within him? “But, uh,” Denki continued, scratching at the side of his face, “we’ve all known you’ve had a crush on her for a long time— everyone but Ochako, that is.” 

“Denki!” Izuku gasped scoldingly, whirling around in his chair. 

“What?! The man’s got amnesia! I gotta help him out, right?” the blond argued defensively. Hitoshi was too busy blushing to listen to their quibbling. So, I do love her… But she doesn’t know. So, did I never tell her? Why not? 

“‘Toshi? Where is he? ‘Toshi! Hitoshi!” 

As she came barging in the room, tears streaming down her ruddy cheeks and brunette hair a mess, he immediately knew why. Even flustered and sobbing and disoriented from lack of sleep, she was the most beautiful creature he’d ever clapped eyes on. Even with no memories, he knew that. She tripped over his IV cord in her effort to scramble to him, face-planting against the tile floor. He jolted up in bed, the heart rate monitor picking up the leap in his heartbeat, but she was so frantic that she immediately recovered and practically threw herself down on the bed beside him. 

“I was so worried!” she sobbed, grabbing at the blankets as her tears rained down on his face and into his lavender hair. “We were— we were on the phone, and, and then, there was this big crash, and then the sirens, and— oh my God, ‘Toshi, you wouldn’t answer me, and no one would tell me anything, and I-I-I— oh, ‘Toshi, I’m so glad you’re alive!” she rambled through her tears before burying her face into his chest. Hitoshi grunted when pain flared across his body as his broken ribs crunched under the assault, but like hell he was going to say anything. Ochako wailed into him, drowning the thin cloth of the gown with tears and snot. As her body wracked and heaved, it jolted Hitoshi a little, but he gritted his teeth through the little stabs of pain. 

When she’d calmed down enough, she quietly asked against his chest, “Is it true? You have amnesia?” 

“Yes,” he admitted in a small breath. Ochako breathed in deeply, shakily. Then, she shot up, her teary brown eyes gleaming with determination. 

“That’s okay! We can work through it!” Hitoshi’s heart fluttered at her use of “we.” She grabbed his hands and squeezed them tight, giving him a watery smile. “I’ll be with you every step of the way, ‘Toshi. We’re gonna get you better, okay?” she said softly and threaded her fingers through his lavender hair. Her fingers skimmed over the shaved patch in his head and the sutures from where they’d had to split his skull open, and she hiccuped as a fresh wave of tears streamed down her cheeks. “I-it’s gonna be okay.” 

He wanted to tell her that of course it was, now that she was here. But words failed him, as he was too lost in the watery sea of her chocolate-brown eyes and the feeling that everything really was going to be okay. He remembered Ochako, and that was enough comfort to him to face all the trials ahead. 

~~~~~~~~~~

He was discharged from the hospital a week later. In addition to his head injuries, he’d sustained a broken arm and leg, three broken ribs, two fractured cervical vertebrae, and a myriad of scrapes and bruises. Because of the severity of his wounds and his amnesia, it was difficult for Hitoshi to manage by himself, so his friends took it upon themselves to care for him. Nothing humbles you like being unable to do even the most menial tasks, like put on clothes or bathe yourself. Hitoshi’s friends took it in stride, though, and always batted away his emotional expressions of gratitude. “It’s just what friends do,” they said. 

It made Hitoshi wish he remembered their friendships. Maybe then it would make him feel less like a charity case. 

Though his friends rotated shifts around their hero duties to help him throughout the day, Ochako always cooked dinner for him— without fail, every night. They would always insist on sharing the load, she stubbornly refused them. Toting in groceries, sometimes still in her hero uniform and beat up from the toil of the day, she’d grin determinedly. 

“My mom always said that nothing helps you heal faster than a good meal. That’s how I can help!” 

Hitoshi couldn’t find the words to tell her that her presence helped him heal more than food ever could. He’d sit in his wheelchair watching her cook, the way she turned up the radio and danced around the kitchen singing into the wooden spoon. Swinging her hips, she’d whirl around to serenade him with a goofy smile. Hitoshi never knew the words to the songs. He’d just grin back, charmed by her zest for life. It was so dazzling, so blinding, that even now he couldn’t find the courage to tell her how he felt. She was like the sun, so radiant and sublime that he felt like he couldn’t ever compete. 

He should say something to her. Really, he should. But… the words just couldn’t come, just like his memories. 

Three weeks in, Hitoshi’s memories had trickled in somewhat. Most of them were dredged up by old stories his friends told him, so there were still tons of gaps. Still, it made Hitoshi feel a little better; he no longer felt like he was trapped in a void and a stranger to himself. Looking back, it was a terribly scary and lonely feeling, for others to know more about you than you did. Though the doctor kept telling him to give it time, Hitoshi had already resolved himself to the fact that maybe he might not ever get them all back. His past would just be a jigsaw puzzle of little snatches of memory and secondhand information. 

As much as he tried to convince himself that it was all right, he couldn’t. He hated the not knowing— the not knowing all that time he was in love with Ochako besides those feelings. He wanted all of it, every moment he’d ever had with her to treasure and savor. It was maddening, not having that, so Hitoshi decided to just make do with the new moments. Now, if he could just get over himself and ask her out. 

“‘Toshi? Do you not like it?” 

Ochako’s sweet voice dragged him out of his thoughts. He was reclined on the couch with a bowl of noodles growing cold in his hand, the fork still halfway raised to his lips. It had been a new recipe, Ochako had said. Hurriedly, he scooped the noodles into his mouth and gave her an approving hum. 

“No, sorry. I was just lost in thought. It’s really good.” 

Ochako smiled relievedly, melting into his armchair. She set her empty bowl of noodles on the coffee table, idly flipping through the television channels as Hitoshi finished off his food before it really did grow cold and unappetizing. Eventually, Ochako decided there was nothing worth watching and flipped off the television. She rose to get their dirty dishes, and Hitoshi watched her with lidded lilac eyes. How could every move a person made be pure magic? As she waltzed out the room into the kitchen, the fluidness of her body just amazed him. 

Yet… something was wrong. He could tell. Her body was tense, the edges of her smile crinkled, her eyebrows just barely furrowed. She tried to pass it off with a smile to him as she walked back in, but Hitoshi wasn’t buying it. As she proposed renting a movie, he cut her off, gesturing for her to approach. Confused, she walked over and sat on the edge of the coffee table beside him. 

“Tell me what’s wrong,” he ordered. Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment at Hitoshi’s brusque command. She shifted on the wood, pressing her hands between her thighs and rolling her bottom lip under her front teeth. Hitoshi waited patiently for the girl to gather her thoughts. 

“I haven’t been sleeping,” she admitted finally. “I’m tired.” Now that she brought it up, he could see the dark lines ringing the undersides of her eyes and the way that her body sagged. He wordlessly ordered her to elaborate, making her cheeks flood darker. “I… Ever since the accident, I’ve had nightmares, ‘Toshi,” she said hoarsely. The tears sprung to her eyes and began to roll down her cheeks, making her try and wipe them away with the heels of her palms. “That was the worst night of my life, hearing those awful sounds and not knowing what was going on, and— it felt like forever before I could finally find you, and then they told me you were in surgery and you might not make it, and I just— oh, I can’t get it out of my head. That night is just on replay for me, over and over.

And the worst part is that it’s so selfish of me!” she wailed, leaning over and burying her face into her hands. “You were the one in the accident, not me! If anything, you should be the one who’s haunted by it and I have no right to complain, but I… but I… I feel trapped…” she moaned miserably. “If I hadn’t picked up the phone… Then maybe you wouldn’t have ended up like this…” she revealed in a harsh whisper. 

“Oh, Ochako, no!” Hitoshi cried. In his effort to comfort her, he slid off the couch a little, making his brittle bones flare painfully in protest. He didn’t care. Clumsily, he gathered the crying girl into his arms and dragged her onto the couch with him. It was a tight fit, but she still curled into his side, crying into his shoulder as he hugged her tightly with his good arm. “God, Ochako, don’t blame yourself for what happened to me. It wasn’t your fault.” 

“But… If I had done something different…” she protested weakly, shaking her head and smearing her tears across his shoulder. To snap her out of her spiral, he pinched her cheek and tugged hard. She shot up into a sitting position, looking at him with wide eyes and her teeth and tongue peeking out from underneath her stretched lips. “‘Toshi… Ow… Tha’ hursh...” she slurred in protest and blinked rapidly as the tears continued to prickle at her eyes. 

“Listen to me,” he said sternly. “The accident was not your fault. It was just a freak thing, okay? If anything, it’s my fault for picking up the phone because I couldn’t wait until my patrol was over to call you.” As he spoke, the memories of that night and all the nights before came flooding back. As they rushed in like water, the flow of his words rose in tandem. “I was just so excited that you were back that I just had to hear your voice, right then, and I wasn’t paying attention to anything but you, and—” 

He stopped short, cheeks flooding pink as he realized what exactly was tumbling out of his mouth. Ochako stared dumbly at him, a little drool leaking from the corner of her mouth as he was still stretching it. He stiffly released her, causing the skin to snap back. There were pink imprints in her skin where he’d pinched it; she slowly reached up to rub at it, blinking sluggishly.

Well. The cat was out of the bag now, so Hitoshi might as well let it go wild. 

“Ochako… I don’t want you here every day because you feel responsible for what happened to me.” He smiled softly and reached up to cover her hand in his own, cupping her cheek. “I want you here because I love you. I’ve always loved you.” 

“You remembered?” she asked meekly. As a fresh wave of tears streamed from her eyes, Hitoshi’s smile widened, and he thumbed them away. 

“No,” he said with a shake of his head. “I never forgot, Ochako.” 

She sucked in a breath, then let it out shakily. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed a few times, tearfully processing the situation. After a few minutes of just silently crying next to Hitoshi, her cheeks began to flood pink again. 

“I… I would really like it if you kissed me right now,” she admitted bashfully. Hitoshi snorted with laughter, but hell, who was he to refuse? He gently moved his hand to the back of her head to pull her forward. Ochako melted into his touch, allowing him to maneuver her as he would to bring her face close. Her hands felt onto his chest, digging into the soft fabric of his tee-shirt. Hitoshi held her there for a moment, centimeters away, to admire the gorgeous view of her lidded brown eyes and flushed cheeks. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathed. Her blush darkened and she shyly bit down on her bottom lip. He chuckled as she wiggled in impatience but opted against teasing her more. He closed his eyes and the gap between them, pressing their lips together in a sweet but passionate kiss. Ochako hummed as his mouth smoothed over hers, so naturally like it had always belonged there. Hitoshi kissed her languidly, savoring the softness of her lips and the aftertaste of chicken broth that was oddly pleasurable. Nothing promotes healing like a good meal, he thought with a mischievous smirk. Ochako would probably explode from mortification if he told her that. She was so cute when she was flustered, though, that it might always be worth saying. 

They kissed idly for quite a while, until their faces were flushed and they were a little out of breath. Ochako had draped herself over his chest and wormed her legs between his, careful not to jar his mending bones. She looped her arms around his neck to play with the ends of his fluffy lavender hair, chin propped on his chest so close that he could lean in and peck her lips every once in a while. 

“What are you thinking?” she asked him after he’d been quiet for some time. A smile slowly spread across his lips. 

“I was thinking…” he said, pausing to give her another soft, sweet kiss, “that we never had that lunch date, did we?” 

A smile slowly spread across her face, lighting her up like the sun. Bright as it was, Hitoshi couldn’t tear his gaze away; he wouldn’t, even if it blinded him forever. He would be glad if it was the last thing he ever saw. Giggling, Ochako snuggled into him, fluttering her long brown lashes. 

“No, we didn’t. You asked for one heck of a raincheck.” 

Hitoshi scoffed, making her stick out her tongue mischievously at him. One heck of a raincheck, indeed. That was okay, though. Even sad moments were moments, too, and Hitoshi valued every moment with Ochako like the most priceless jewel on Earth. Though he’d like to collect every one he could, he thought as they cuddled and began to drowse, he wouldn’t mind stretching this one out a little. It marked the beginning of new memories, after all.

Enjoy this oneshot? Feel free to peruse my Table of Contents!

#shinchako #shinso x ochako #shinsou x ochako #shinso x uraraka #shinsou x uraraka #ochako x shinso #ochako x shinsou #uraraka x shinso #uraraka x shinsou #hitoshi shinso #hitoshi shinsou #ochako uraraka #uraraka ochako #shinso hitoshi #shinsou hitoshi #my hero academia #mha #boku no here academia #bnha

[chaseatinydream]

pirate king (17) || atz

San looks over your hands gently, turning them over in his. His fingers trace the scrapes your fall on the cobbles have left behind, and he shakes his head in disapproval.

Then he lets your hands rest on the table of the sickbay and picks up a clean cloth with tweezers, soaking it in rum before wiping your hands down with it, removing any small pieces and blood still remaining on them. Your palms sting, but it’s nothing compared to the anguish in your heart.

“What happened?” San murmurs softly as he works on your wound. You remember Seonghwa had mentioned that San was a better healer of the heart than he was of any physical ailment, but the thought of Seonghwa’s once cheerful, smiling face twists at your chest and lungs like a poisonous vine.

The lump in your throat refuses to go away.

“I don’t know.” You reply in all due honesty. Truly, till now you still don’t understand what had happened to the gentle, kind-hearted cook, but you can only piece together what you have guessed from the incident earlier.

Seonghwa was afraid of the gallows.

Yunho has taught you that the brightest smiles can hide the most bitter tears, but you’ve never expected that the man who’d first treated you with such kindness has suffered so much.

San continues staring at you for a while. Then he finally puts down the cloth and whispers to you in a soft, secretive tone.

“Hey, look at this.”

You frown in confusion, but San places a single finger on your torn skin. Closing his eyes, you see his brows furrow in concentration before a tingling feeling starts to blossom across your hand from where San’s fingertip touches yours, warmth chasing the slight sting in your hand away. You feel as if you’ve dunked your hand in a warm bath, the heat emanating from San’s finger too real to be a mere figment of your imagination.

Then it happens.

Fascination washes over you as you stare at your hand in wonderment. The bleeding slows gradually and finally stills, before you watch the skin and damaged tissue steadily knitting itself back together like a spider’s web. In the end, the entire wound closes, leaving the skin of your palm a soft baby pink.

Your mouth falls open.

“Master, did you just-”

“I’ll be teaching you this over the next few days. Remember, don’t ever attempt this without me. It’s potentially fatal if you don’t know how to do it. Do your best to learn it fast.” San’s smile is a little sad, a little forced. Your initial excitement fades at your master’s clear unease. “I get the feeling we might need it.”

Your fingers brush the silver hairpin tucked securely in your belt for good luck. You don’t like the sound of that.

You know what your master is implying, that there will be much conflict happening soon. But you don’t like to admit that it may be coming already. You and your master sit in momentary silence, both preparing yourselves for what may be to come.

“Sanie, Chin Hae.” The two of you turn to the person who’s come knocking on the sickbay’s door. It’s Wooyoung, purple hair rumpled, rouge smeared on his clavicle and dark circles under his eyes from yesterday, but the unusually grim expression on his handsome face shows he isn’t exactly reminiscing happily about night before. “Captain wants to see us in his cabin, now.”

His tone gives no room for argument.

“Got it.” San rises to his feet, his expression neutral. You only know that there’s unease flickering in his eyes from the way his shoulders are tensed. Since you and Mingi have returned from desperately searching the town for Seonghwa, you’ve found out from Wooyoung, who’s just arrived himself with Yeosang, that Seonghwa had dashed up the gangplank in tears, all alone and ignoring the concerned shouts of his crewmates, before locking himself up in the kitchen galley by himself.

Ever since then, Hongjoong and Yeosang, as the most level headed of the lot, have been discussing what to do about this in the captain’s cabin, instructing for no one to enter while the meeting is still underway. Seonghwa might be only one person, but he means a great deal to many of the crew on board and for the whole afternoon, there has been a gloomy air settling over the ship, the deck unnaturally quiet and subdued.

Your mind has been filled with worry for the cook the entire afternoon, but then San brought you down to the sickbay to get away from the stress of it all. The initial concern and panic has worn off a little, but you can still your anxiety lingering at the back of your mind like an itch that can’t be scratched.

“Is Seonghwa-hyung okay?” You ask feebly, gripping the silver hairpin tight as the three of you make your way to the captain’s cabin beneath the quarterdeck. Wooyoung shrugs, mouth drawn into a thin, concerned line.

“I don’t know. Yunho’s with him to make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid, but...” His voice trails off as you stop outside the captain’s cabin. Wooyoung raps sharply on the door and you hear the captain call ‘come in’ from inside.

San pushes the door open and the three of you crowd into the room. Captain is sitting at the desk, massaging his temples with his fingers as he indicates for Mingi to lock the door behind you three. His blonde hair is falling out of its usual mullet, mussed and uncombed, as if he hasn’t had the time to do anything else this morning. You sit on the bed, sandwiched between Wooyoung and San, while Yeosang and Mingi stand around, looking equally tense and uncomfortable.

All three of them have dark rings around their eyes and grim, troubled looks on their faces. You can’t believe it was barely a night before that you had been drinking together, celebrating your integration into the crew, but this is your present now.

“Chin Hae.” Captain Hongjoong addresses you first and you snap to attention, back straightening as you look at your captain. His face is lined and etched with worry, so painfully obvious you almost wonder if Captain can actually feel Seonghwa’s internal agony and turmoil. “Can you tell us what happened today morning after Mingi left the two of you alone?”

You nod hesitantly. It only happened this morning, so the memory is still fresh in your mind, but the image of Seonghwa’s grief stricken face, how alone the two of you were and worst of all, your inability to do anything, weighs on your mind almost crushingly.

“Mingi-hyung, Seonghwa-hyung and I were shopping in the marketplace for herbs when someone bumped into me and snatched the herbs.” You begin, recalling the event to your mind. “Mingi-hyung said to go around to the town square to cut the thief off, so we did, but then when we reached the town square Seonghwa-hyung saw the hanging and suddenly started panicking and I didn’t know what to do and-”

Wooyoung’s hand is on your shoulder before you even realise that your breathing has started to turn irregular. “Breathe, Chin Hae.” His voice is as commanding as steel, yet as soft as velvet. San nods at you empathetically, rubbing circles into your back as you try to keep your breathing steady.

“I ran over as soon as I heard the bells, but I was too late.” Mingi says grimly, shaking his head, eyes downcast as if he personally blames himself for this happening. “I could have been there. I should have been there.”

Silence.

“I should have known what to do.” You murmur under your breath, a lump forming in your throat. There’s something lingering deep in your chest, you realise. It hurts more than empathy, eats you away from the inside more painfully that jealousy.

Guilt.

“None of this was your fault.” Yeosang says quietly, his voice almost cracking, but he speaks it like it’s a fact and not merely his opinion. “Especially not yours, Mingi.”

“It’s my job!” Mingi almost snarls, a glassiness to his eyes that makes you feel like crying from shame. The two of you were there, you should have protected Seonghwa, kept him safe. “That’s why you assigned me to follow Seonghwa-hyung around whenever we’re in town to keep this from happening, and look what I just did! I left his side for some goddamn cordyceps! As if this could buy back Seonghwa-hyung’s peace of mind!”

He throws the bag of herbs to the ground.

You don’t even realise you’re shaking from barely restrained sobs until San wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into a side embrace. He doesn’t speak, knowing no amount of words can change your mind about your failure at this point, but instead giving you the physical comfort you need.

“Mingi, keep your cool. You’re scaring Chin Hae.” Captain’s voice is cold and detached, leaving no room for disobedience. Wooyoung nods in agreement. The captain continues speaking. “And regarding Seonghwa’s problem, Yeosang and I have been discussing whether to do something or not.  A plan, if you will.”

Mingi echoes your thoughts. “Plan?”

The navigator nods, a little jittery but face set in determination. “We’re sailing to Nassau.”

The word means nothing to you, but you can feel Wooyoung and San stiffen. Mingi gapes at his captain, as if he didn’t hear him right the first time.

“What?”

“We’re sailing back to Nassau. We’re going to find the person that got Seonghwa’s family hanged on false charges, and if Seonghwa so wishes, I’m sending him to hell.” Hongjoong elaborates, a little more clearly but his voice as sharp as the edge of his cutlass. “That’s the closure Seonghwa needs.”

The person that got Seonghwa’s family hanged on false charges.

“What if we sail back and Seonghwa-hyung has a relapse just like last time?” Wooyoung interjects nervously, foot tapping impatiently on the floor. But San shakes his head.

“He’s gotten stronger. It’s been six years, after all.”

“How do you know?” Mingi spits back, but your master replies without a trace of doubt in his voice.

“Ever since Chin Hae joined us, he made the choice to sleep below in the main hold instead of in the sick bay in my room.” Your eyes fly open, you’ve just remembered that your bed, the one you sleep in now, used to belong to Seonghwa. You open your mouth to apologise, but you master continues speaking. “He said he didn’t want to rely on my sleeping incense anymore, and that he needs to face his fears. Chin Hae coming was just a catalyst for him to take that first step.”

Your heart clenches in your chest. This whole time, you had no idea…

“I believe that he’s growing stronger.” Yeosang states, nodding his head. “In the past, Seonghwa-hyung wouldn’t sleep without that steak stuffed toy San gave him, but when Chin Hae came, he told me to lock it in strongbox because he was going to be in the hammocks and wouldn’t need it anymore.”

Part of you is honestly struck dumb. The entire time you’d been on ship, Seonghwa-hyung had been trying to turn his life around, and you had no idea at all.

“So there’s that, Mingi and Wooyoung.” Hongjoong ends off the debate smoothly, fixing the pair with piercing stares. “Are you ready to accept the plan now?”

Wooyoung simply sighs while Mingi nods reluctantly in agreement. Then you pipe up nervously.

“Captain…”

Immediately, everyone in the room turns to look at you, and you wish you’d just kept your fat mouth closed. But since everyone’s expectant eyes are already on you, you simply continue to speak your mind.

“Can I… talk to Seonghwa-hyung?”

To your surprise, the captain doesn’t question your request, simply rising to his feet. “It’s no problem at all. I was intending on talking to him myself. Come with me.”

San gives your hand a squeeze and a worried look. Do you want me to come with you?

You shake your head, squeezing it back as you stand up and follow your captain out of the cabin. The two of you walk in silence down to the galley.

“I’m sorry this had to happen the day after you got your name.” He says softly, and you turn to look at your captain. His cheeks are slightly sunken, mouth turned downwards in a worried frown. You’ve never seen your captain so worried, so concerned.

You wonder if he’d do the same for you.

“It’s fine.” You reply quietly, shaking your head as you climb down the stairs to the galley. “Seonghwa-hyung is more important to me than any celebration.”

When the two of you reach the bottom of the stairs, you see Yunho pacing in front of the kitchen door like a caged tiger. He sees you, and your heart almost breaks when you see the lookout’s face drawn with exhaustion and worry.

“Captain. Chin Hae.” He sounds spent, both physically and emotionally, but he straightens up while blinking the weariness from his eyes. “Do you need me for something?”

“Go take a nap, Yunho, you look like you need it.” Captain pats the lookout on the back, but Yunho shakes his head desperately, as if trying to clear his mind.

“But I need to be here.” His protest is weak and worn, like he’s about to keel over any second. The captain shakes his head.

“Chin Hae and I will be here. Don’t worry.” He reassures the taller man and all at once you see Yunho’s shoulders sag from the relief.

“Oh.” Yunho tries hard not to sound too relieved, but he can’t help the yawn that spills from his mouth. “Thanks, cap’n.”

With that, he stumbles past the two of you and staggers up the stairs, out of sight.

“Seonghwa-hyung?” You move to the door, rapping hesitantly on the wood. It’s the first time you’ve ever been denied entry to the kitchens and in your mind’s eye, you see all the happy times the two of you have had together in the galley, the first time he taught you to use a knife, the incident in which you’d nearly burned the kitchen down, the time you’d mastered cooking Seonghwa’s favourite grilled steak. “It’s Chin Hae.”

It’s silent for a moment and you turn to glance at your captain in a panic.

“Hey, Chin Hae.” Finally, you hear Seonghwa’s voice from behind the door, raw from tears and soft with vulnerability. Relief washes over you and you bow your head to hide your tears. “I’m sorry for making you worry about me, Hongjoong-ah.”

“Shut up.” The captain suddenly snaps, his own voice thick. “Don’t ever apologise for worrying me. I want you to tell me all your problems, burden me with everything, share life with me and the crew. We’re a family.”

There’s a soft inhale from behind the door as you slide to sit next to it. “Did we at least get the cordyceps back, Chin Hae?”

You snort through your tears. “Yeah, but Mingi-hyung threw them on the floor earlier.”

A weak chuckle. “Well, we’ll just buy more then. I’ll have to scold that Mingi for wasting all that… They were expensive.”

“Are you okay, Seonghwa-hyung?” You sniff, wiping your tears with your sleeve. “Are you feeling better?”

“Yes… I am.” His voice is right there, at the door. “Chin Hae… can I… tell you about Ha Rin?”

Ha Rin.

Captain stiffens next to you, and you glance at him in confusion.

“Of course.” You tell him, trying to stop your nose from running, sitting up a little straighter even though he can’t see you. “I’d be honoured.”

“She was my younger sister.” His voice is soft, lost, far away, reminiscent of the time Jongho and Yunho had been telling you about their pasts. “I lived with her, my parents and my younger brother Hyunjung in Nassau. We ran an eatery by the harbour. Those were some of the happiest days of my life.”

The way he says it, with such yearning, makes jealousy clench around you. You have nothing to look back so fondly on.

“One day, I was at the harbor when one of my friends called me to the town square.”

Something sinks in your chest. You know where this is going.

“The town officials accused my parents of harboring pirates and sentenced my entire family to death at the gallows. And I did nothing but watch as my family were hung before my eyes.”

You recognise the emotion spilling from him, gnawing away at him from within. It’s an immense guilt, all consuming as a tidal wave.

Captain exhales next to you heavily, but he doesn’t look surprised at all by the news. Then you remember Seonghwa-hyung has been a member of the crew for six years now, of course Seonghwa would trust his captain with his past.

“Ha Rin was only nine. Hyunjung was eleven. I was supposed to take care of them, I was supposed to protect them.” He laughs but it sounds brittle and self deprecating, the weight of his failure settling on his shoulders. “And yet… I was the only one who survived.”

You don’t know what to say. Your fingers reach under the door, seeking his warmth on instinct.

There’s a pause.

Then his fingers intertwine with yours, gripping them tight. “I thought I could atone for my failure by taking care of the members on board the ship, but it seem that I’m failing in even that too. I still hear their voices, calling for me to join them every time I close my eyes. Maybe the gods are punishing me for my sins.”

You want to cry, scream, protest that he’s wrong, that he’s the first person who treated you with kindness even when you were tied to the mast, that the crew loved and needed him, but the captain beats you to it.

“You are not failing, Seonghwa.” Hongjoong growls, pressing his forehead against the door, voice raw with emotion. “Every single person on this ship needs you, you hear me? That includes me. Who else is going to cook us food if you’re not there? The whole ship will starve to death.”

It seems like such a small, petty thing to talk about, but Seonghwa manages a small laugh at that. “San was always interested in cooking.”

“Hell no.” The captain wears a fond, sad smile on his face. “We should just leave him to healing. Honestly, I don’t know how we trust him with our injuries. We need you, Seonghwa.”

You nod in agreement although he can’t see and Hongjoong continues to speak. “We’re sailing for Nassau, and we’re going to find the man who got your family hanged. Will you… will you do this with us?”

Seonghwa is silent for a minute. Just when you start to wonder if Hongjoong had asked too much of him, he replies softly.

“You know I’d follow you anywhere… Captain.”

#ateez #ateez fanfic #ateez fanfiction #ateez hongjoong #ateez seonghwa #ateez yunho #ateez yeosang #ateez san #ateez mingi #ateez wooyoung #ateez jongho #ateez pirate king #hongjoong #seonghwa #yunho #ywosang #san #mingi #jongho #wooyoung #w; ot8 #w; pirate king #w; fanfiction

[letsfluxshitup]

we're like a family of divorce (ao3)

Techno dragged up the metal tub from his basement, setting it in front of the fire. He filled it with warm water, setting out clean warm pajamas and a towel on a chair. He laid out all the fancy soaps he had, gifts from when he first arrived.

He saved the shampoo and conditioner, setting them aside for later.

Tommy entered the house, loud and abrasive and a lot.

"What's up, Big Man?" He shouted, tugging at Techno's loose braid, poking at his tusks, forcing Techno to witness him.

He was always so high energy, demanding attention, positive or not. Techno didn't understand it but it made Tommy happy to be the center of attention, something Techno more frequently than not shied away from.

He blinked back into the present, gesturing vaguely at the tub.

"You stink." He deadpanned, and it wasn't necessarily true, but the kid needed to sit down for a second. 

He'd been high energy since he arrived, and seemed perfectly fine. But Techno knew Tommy, knew his quirks and his tells. Saw the dead look in his eyes, the way he flinched away, his fear and sadness.

Techno didn't know what happened, but he knew something did, and he needed to protect him and care for him.

So he guided Tommy towards the tub, nitpicked at him about his hair, and disappeared upstairs. 

--

"Do you need a haircut?" He called from where he was sitting in his rocking chair, glancing through a book Philza had handed him when they last met. 

It was a potions guide, and he was quietly happy that Philza had taken the time to carefully draw out visuals and diagrams, tucked into the book at relevant intervals.

He glanced towards the stairs, catching the tail end of a mumbled response.

"What?" He called, looking at the stairs so he wouldn't get distracted again.

"Are you gonna cut it?" Tommy shouted back, punctuated by a splash. Techno flinched, there was no way the kid wasn't making a mess down there.

"No." He responded, looking back towards the book. 

Quackity could cut short hair, he knew. They weren't exactly on talking terms but surely he'd set that aside to help out Tommy?

Maybe? Probably? 

It's not like Techno couldn't just make him cut Tommy's hair, but threatening him was probably not the best fix for their already rocky relationship.

"Then why'd you ask?" Tommy shouted again, "And where's the shampoo?" 

"I have the shampoo," Techno said, eyeing the bottle where it sat across from him, "and Quackity can cut your hair." 

"Quackity? Isn't he trying to kill you?" Tommy's voice sounded muffled, sloshing denoting him getting out of the tub and Techno cringed again thinking about his floor.

He wasn't sure what to say to that, actually. 

"Are you… Ok with Quackity coming by?" He asked instead, maybe it wasn't the best idea to invite someone with so much... Violent intent into his home with the kid. 

"Big Q's great! I mean, he tried to kill you and stuff but I'm not, like, scared of him. As long as you're ok, y'know?" Tommy fumbled up the stairs, hair still dripping and fluffy pajamas noticeably damp. 

Techno didn't comment on it.

"You don't have to worry about me, Tommy," he said lightly, hoping his tone conveyed comfort. 

Tommy really shouldn't have to worry about his brother's potential murderers, he was just a kid and Quackity wouldn't try to start anything if he was around.

"Anyways, I'll message Quackity, see what he says, alright?" Techno pulled out his communicator, picking at the layers of stickers on it. Tommy had helpfully redecorated it after his previous one had gotten destroyed in his execution.

Attempted execution, that is.

It didn't take much to convince Quackity to come over. It didn't take anything, actually.

Quackity? Techno typed, and almost instantly got a reply.

no

Tommy needs a haircut

fuck off

You remember how to get here?

yes

--

"Well? Where's Tommy?" Quackity huffed, shivering as he rubbed his arms. He should have worn a heavier coat but he didn't have any because he didn't live in the middle of the fucking Arctic.

"Big Q!" Tommy shouted as if on cue, barreling down the stairs at full speed. Quackity's wings flared out to steady him as he caught Tommy, squeezing him tightly.

He didn't say anything about Tommy's clinginess, chalking it up to the exile and the only other source of comfort around being Technoblade.

Fucker probably didn't even hug Tommy.

He was almost instantly proven wrong when Techno cleared his throat slightly, the hug lasting a second too long, and Tommy disappeared from his arms and tucked himself under Techno's.

He firmly reminded himself it was stupid to be jealous of Techno's little brother, but also he was really fucking cold and he knew Techno was really fucking warm.

"So!" He hoisted his bag, "You need a haircut?"

--

It took some finagling but he finally got Tommy to sit in front of the sink properly, and went to work on washing his post haircut hair.

The water was a soothing backdrop as Quackity lathered shampoo into his hair, absently asking Techno for a hairbrush.

Tommy was quietly amazed at how easily Quackity bossed Techno around, his brother instantly responding to any command.

He'd successfully bullied Techno into handing over one of his capes, at Quackity's insistence that it was fucking cold. Techno was now tending to the fire at Quackity's request, and it seemed almost natural.

He knew Techno was more than happy to help the people he cared about, but he'd never really considered that Techno cared about Quackity.

"Are you and Quackity broken up or something?" Tommy blurted out without thinking, interrupting Quackity's soft chirping.

Quackity made a choking noise before accidentally dumping water on Tommy's face, sending him into a fit of painful coughing as it went up his nose.

"Sorry, Toms," Quackity cooed, carefully running his fingers through Tommy's wet hair.

"Is fixing people's hair like a bird thing or some shit?" Tommy asked, leaning into Quackity's hands, "Philza does the same thing and he's like a bird." 

"Yeah, kind of. I think so." Quackity stuttered slightly, straightening Tommy's pajama shirt and dabbing away the spilled water on his face with a towel.

Tommy's face scrunched up in concentration for a second, before he let out something that sounded pretty close to a happy coo.

Quackity cooed too, and they cooed back and forth. Techno couldn't help his pleased snort, happy they were getting along and safe and content.

Tommy's head snapped towards him, instantly reciprocating the snort, and while still unnatural for him he managed to replicate it a lot better than the coo.

Techno watched, vaguely amused, as Tommy nudged his head against Quackity's chest. Growing up around hybrids gave him a weird mix of behaviors, but Quackity was quick to catch on, and he lightly nudged Tommy back.

--

As Techno set up for dinner Quackity and Tommy sat at the table, heckling him and generally being a nuisance.

"You're burning the fucking bread!" Tommy shouted, far too loud in the small space, but his energy seemed slightly more subdued. Less manic, more... Genuine.

Techno rolled his eyes, tugging open the oven door.

"No, see, look it's fine." He squinted at the bread. It did look a little too brown around the edges but he definitely wouldn't tell Tommy that.

Instead, he reached into the oven and grabbed the bread pan with his bare hands, smirking slightly at twin panicked shrieks from behind him.

"Techno what the fuck! You're going to burn your fucking hands, dumbass!" Quackity appeared in front of him, snatching his hands to check the damages after Techno set the pan down.

Quackity blinked at his unharmed hand in confusion, wings settling from where they'd flared in his panic.

"What's the diagnosis, doc?" Techno deadpanned, prompting Quackity to look up. 

They were nearly nose to nose and Quackity was staring directly into his eyes. He shifted slightly, uncomfortable, but didn't look away.

"Are you two going to kiss?" 

Trust Tommy to ruin the peace, Techno thought as Quackity shrieked.

"No we're not going to fucking kiss!" 

--

Quackity was leaning against the arm of the couch, Techno sat on the other side, Tommy flopped across the two of them, trapping them.

"So, you're in exile, right, Techno?" Tommy said, lifting his head slightly from Quackity's lap.

"Yes," Techno sighed, shifting slightly under Tommy's bony legs.

"Huh." Tommy said, before saying more quietly, "I like exile with you a lot more than when I was with Dream." 

Techno tried not to let his expression shift, he'd picked up bits and pieces of his exile but nothing concrete. He still didn't know what happened.

"Oh?" Techno said, voice carefully even.

"Yeah." Tommy responded, tilting his head away from Quackity to stare at the fire. "He- I- he wasn't as nice as you are, y'know?"

Techno didn't, didn't think he'd been doing a good job of taking care of him, but he nodded anyways.

"He..." Tommy sniffled suddenly, furiously scrubbing at his eyes.

Quackity quietly ran his fingers through Tommy's hair, a comforting croon soft in the air.

"He was a real dick, y'know?" Tommy said, desperately high energy, like he could forcibly will away his bad feelings. His voice gave him away, though, thick with tears.

"Tommy?" Techno said, voice soft, "what happened in exile?"

And Tommy broke.

He flung himself into Techno's arms, burying himself in his arms, as he babbled about what had happened, incoherent and a mess.

Quackity tucked himself against Techno's side, curling his arm around Tommy's back and stretching a wing out to cover them both. He pressed himself close, face carefully neutral, but Techno noticed. 

Noticed the twitch of his eye, the tension in his shoulders, how he barely held back a snarl.

Finally, Tommy cried himself out, face tucked into Techno's neck as he fell asleep. Techno carefully scooped him up, Quackity a step behind him as he walked up the stairs and laid Tommy in the bed. 

He tossed Quackity a pair of pajamas, and before he could turn away to change into his own Quackity grabbed his arm.

There was a long moment of silence as they stared at each other, dying fire throwing Quackity's features into sharp relief, fury evident.

"You'll help me take down Dream?" Quackity said finally, leaning closer. 

"I owe him," Techno warned, voice soft as he studied Quackity's face. 

Quackity blinked, then leaned ever closer, noses touching this time.

"When it comes down to it, no matter what Dream says or asks for, you'll be on my side? On Tommy's?" 

Techno sighed, leaning forward to press their foreheads together.

"When you put it that way, how can I say no," he deadpanned, arms coming up to wrap around Quackity's waist, comforting and solid.

Quackity snorted, holding up a pinky.

"Pinky promise?" He murmured, and Techno linked pinkies with him, foreheads pressed together, swaying slightly in place.

"Are you two actually going to kiss now?" Tommy whispered loudly, voice slurred with sleep.

Quackity jerked away, startled, as Techno snorted loudly.

Tension dispersed Techno quickly got ready for bed, putting out the fire and flopping onto the side closest to the stairs. Quackity was forced against the wall, Tommy sandwiched between them. 

Techno fell asleep with Tommy's head tucked into his neck, his arm thrown across Techno and his gangly legs sprawled across Quackity. 

#technoblade #quackity #dream smp #dream smp spoilers #if the formattings bad im Sorry im on my phone smfh #flux writes #ok to reblog

[mymoonagedaydream]

Only the Good Die Young (Part 4)

Summary: You tried hard to believe that Bucky was a changed man, but he made it difficult

Pairing: Biker!Bucky x y/n

Word Count: 2.5k

Warnings: Language, anti-religious sentiment throughout, harmful relationship with parents

Author's Note: Alright, I’ve flaked. My different-song-per-part ambitions were too high, I flew too close to the sun. I’m so sorry Billy.

---

You buried your face in his neck.

Everything he’d said was spiralling through your mind. You knew your parents well enough to know that staying with Bucky for much longer meant losing them forever. You didn’t want to go back but, if you stayed away and things didn’t work out, there was a chance you’d end up completely alone.

Bucky was a risk, a huge one. You wanted to trust him. You wanted so badly to believe that he was everything he appeared to be.

So you did.

A leap of faith. You were good at faith.

You pulled your head up, coming face to face with him. ‘I would like to get very, very drunk.’

‘Me too.’ He went to get up, but stopped suddenly and looked back at you. ‘You ever been hammered before?’

You shrugged with one shoulder, reluctant to admit further inexperience. ‘Communion wine is pretty strong stuff.’

‘Jesus. I almost feel bad, enabling sin like this.’ He sauntered to the kitchen and rifled through the cupboards, grinning in your direction when he found a half-empty bottle of tequila. ‘Almost.’

The golden liquid burned your throat as you took shot after shot, the warm glow in your chest getting stronger with every sip. This was fucking brilliant, why had you never tried it before?

‘So, here’s the plan.’ You could see that Bucky was at least a little tipsy, he’d been matching every one of your shots with three of his own. ‘I make enough money fixing bikes to keep the flat and feed us, so you can quit that fucking college course and find something you actually want to do.’

You paused for a second, processing his words. ‘Are you asking me to move in with you?’

‘Are you turning me down?’

You grinned and shook your head, making a mental note to reconfirm that in the morning when he was sober. You had hoped that he’d at least let you stay with him for the summer, but knowing that he was willing to put up with you more long-term quelled some deep anxiety you’d been harbouring for days.

You shifted your tone, trying your best to look as sober and sincere as possible. ‘Buck. You said you just want someone to talk to, right?’ He nodded, half-smirking and pushing some hair behind your ear. ‘So talk. You know so much about me, I want to know about you.’

‘What you wanna know?’

‘Tell me about your parents.’

His eyes wandered away from yours and he dropped his hand to your shoulder, wincing a little while he strung his words together. ‘Well you’ve met my dad, he’s no different now than he always was. The only time I ever hear from my ma is when she needs money. God knows what for, I don’t ask.’

‘I’m really sorry, I can’t imagine what they put you through.’

You’d never seen him so subdued. You almost felt bad for putting a damper on the evening, but you got the impression that Bucky had never spoken to anyone about this stuff before, drunk or sober.

‘Fucked me up for a long time, I did a lot of bad stuff.’ You reached out and squeezed his free hand as he was speaking, prompting his gaze to fix back on you. ‘But I don’t want to be that person anymore.’

‘You’re a good guy Buck.’ You gave him a wide smile. ‘Plus, after all those Sundays at church, the big guy owes me a couple favours. I can get that slate of yours wiped clean, no problem.’

He narrowed his eyes at you, the warm glow returning to your chest as you watched his mouth curl back into that familiar smirk. ‘You’re buzzed, ain’t ya?’

‘Should I slow down?’

‘Nope.’ He poured you both another drink. ‘Speed up.’

You didn’t ask about the things he’d done, you didn’t need to know. It was in the past, and he regretted it. That’s all that mattered to you.

The tequila was gone far too quickly. Both of you raided the cupboards again, finding a nearly empty bottle of triple sec, three cans of cider and a bottle with Russian writing that contained something resembling paint stripper.

A few hours and all that booze later, you and Bucky found yourselves tangled around each other on the bed, nursing your slowly developing headaches.

‘You’re a terrible influence, Barnes.’ You croaked into his chest.

‘I’m barely even getting started darlin.’

---

The first thing you felt in the morning was dizziness. Even before you’d opened your eyes, you knew the room was spinning around you. You adjusted yourself a little, relieved when you felt Bucky’s arms still wrapped around you and his chest against your cheek. Scooching upwards, eyes still screwed shut, you brought your face level with his.

He stirred, croaking faintly. ‘Still here. Haven’t run away yet.'

‘I feel like there’s a bee hive inside my head.’

‘Your first hangover.’ He chuckled. ‘We should celebrate. Breakfast?’

‘I’m never eating again. Or drinking. Or… moving.’

He started wriggling. ‘Well, either you move or I piss the bed.’

You flopped onto your back, the movement making your brain rattle inside your head, as Bucky scuttled to the bathroom. You started drifting back to sleep, only to be unceremoniously woken when you were hoisted off the bed and carried you through to the front room. He made breakfast while you lay on the couch, feeling sorry for yourself. You managed a few reluctant mouthfuls and a pint of water.

‘I’ve been thinking.’ Bucky piped up whilst washing the dishes. ‘When you feel a bit better we should go back to the flat. I know it’s close to your parents, but at least my dad doesn’t have keys to it.’

You considered for a second, weighing up whether you were more intimidated by your parents or his. ‘That’s fine with me. Whatever you think is best, Buck.’

---

The two of you left the trailer the next morning. You were still feeling pretty ropey, but you were at least able to walk six feet without getting dizzy. In truth, you were pretty happy to be getting away from the trailer. Aside from the stained walls and crappy shower, you hadn’t felt safe there since Bucky’s dad had burst in the other night. Christ knows what else that man was capable of.

Somehow, at some point during your first day back at the flat, Bucky had convinced you it’d be a good idea for the two of you to go out that night. He suggested his usual haunt, a bar you’d never heard of despite living in that town all your life.

It was a dive bar. You’d never been to a dive bar before, you weren’t even really sure what it meant, but as soon as you saw the outside of this place you knew. There was a flickering neon sign advertising Miller High Life above the door and bikes as far as the eye could see.

Some extremely intimidating clientele eyed the two of you as you approached, giving a gruff chuckle when you brushed past them to get to the entrance. Bucky enthusiastically greeted a few guys who were already inside. One of them you vaguely recognised from school, but the others looked quite a bit older.

You were so far out of your comfort zone in this place, every muscle in your body felt tense and you were convinced that dozens of dirty looks were being thrown your way.

‘What’ll it be then sweetheart?’ Your eyes followed the voice to a tall, brawny blonde with freakishly wide shoulders and a crooked smile.

Your mouth opened slightly as you scurried around trying to figure out what kind of alcohol was sold in a place like this, before Bucky piped up. ‘She’ll have my usual.’

You just nodded, keeping quiet for fear of coming across as the naïve religious freak in front of his friends. A few seconds later you found yourself with a pint of beer in one hand and a shot of whiskey in the other.

‘Boilermaker.’ Bucky whispered, close to your ear. ‘Proper booze, gotta make up for all that shit the other night.’

One of the friends led you towards a cramped booth with a sticky table. You found yourself tucked in between Bucky and the blonde, the former’s arm circled tight around your waist, hand resting possessively on your thigh. You didn’t speak much, only when spoken to- that was until the blonde started cross-examining you.

‘No offence, but you weren’t exactly what I was expecting.’

Great. This shit again.

‘Leave it, yeah?’ Bucky’s tone was friendly, but you could sense a hint of warning.

‘Like I said, no offence.’ He smirked. ‘She just looks a little suburban, y’know.’

Bucky got more agitated. ‘What the hell’s that s’posed to mean?’

‘Jesus, chill out Barnes. She’s not bothered, are ya?’ He nudged you hard, pushing you into Bucky’s side. You just smiled politely, a pathetic attempt to diffuse.

Progressively more irate words were thrown back and forth between them, but everyone else around the table was seemingly unfazed by the argument. It escalated quickly, resulting in blonde reaching over to yank Bucky up by the lapels, spilling a pint of beer all over you in the process. Buck shoved him off and helped you out of the booth, apologising as he ushered you towards the door.

Blonde was shouting after you, following you to the door. Just as you thought the two of you might make it out of there intact, Bucky wheeled round and punched him square in the mouth. He got a swift jab to the stomach in return and the two of them crashed into the bar, arms and legs flying in every direction.

Finally, after intervention by a couple huge biker guys, you managed to pull Bucky away. As you pushed open the front door, flashing blue lights flooded the bar. You squinted, waiting for your eyes to adjust. Cops. One of them approached you and Bucky, the same one who came to the flat after your parents reported you kidnapped.

‘Told you your time would come, boy.’ He smirked. ‘James Barnes, you’re under arrest on suspicion of assault.’

Everything said after that was drowned out by a high pitched whining that started in your ears. Buck was dragged away and shoved into the back of a car, he shouted something in your direction before the door closed but you didn’t catch it. You were reeling with shock. They pulled away, lights fading as they disappeared down the street.

There you were, completely alone. Standing in the gutter outside a dive bar, trembling and covered in beer, playing perfectly into your parents’ predictions.

What the fuck were you supposed do? Go sleep on Bucky’s doorstep, hoping he’d get released before morning? How many more times were you going to have to do that?

You couldn’t help but feel so, so stupid. You’d leapt, fallen and landed flat on your face. Maybe your mother wasn’t exaggerating, maybe she was right all along. Christ, maybe you were just some naïve, sheltered Christian kid in way over your head.

You had no choice. You went home.

---

Waking up back in your bed sent a wave of depression crashing over you. You could still smell stale beer and cigarettes, making you feel even worse.

Only your father had been awake when you timidly knocked on the door the night before. He’d stepped aside and let you in without much more than a stern look, but you were dreading having to face your mother this morning.

You sat up, the motion kick-starting yet another hangover, and walked to the bathroom. Switching on the light, you stared into the mirror and were greeted with someone you barely recognised. Your eyes were dark, bloodshot and puffy, your hair was wild from days of washing it with shower gel in the trailer’s crappy shower, your clothes from the night before were still hanging off you, stained and reeking- but you looked alive. And you felt it.

The doorbell rang.

You ran to the top of the stairs, only to see your mother standing in the doorway, face to face with Bucky. He looked awful, cuts and bruises littering his face. You stepped back slightly to hide yourself from his view.

‘Get off my property or I’m calling the police.’ Well she hadn’t changed while you’d been gone.

‘Is she here?’

Silence. You peeked round the corner to see your mother whip her phone from her pocket. Bucky shouted your name. Fuck, so much of you wanted to just run down the stairs and throw your arms round him, but you knew there was a good chance you’d just end up here again a week or so down the line.

‘Fine.’ He backed away, holding his arms out. ‘Y’know, sooner or later, it comes down to faith. Someone’s gonna help her see through all your bullshit, I might as well be the one.’

He limped down the steps and was gone from your view. Dragging yourself back into your room, you looked at your phone for the first time that morning. Twenty-five texts and eight missed calls from Bucky. Taking a deep breath, you typed a message to him.

Meet me on the bench at noon tomorrow.

---

As you turned into the park, you saw him sitting there. He looked tense, elbows resting on his thighs while he ran his fingers through his hair. As soon as he spotted you approaching he stood up, but you couldn’t bring yourself to hug him, so you just perched on the other end of the bench silently. He obviously didn’t take the hint, moving closer and sitting right next to you.

You heard him chuckle. ‘Blink twice if we’re being bugged.’

You lifted your eyes, scanning them over his wounds. His knuckles weren’t even fully healed from the fight with his father. He was just cuts upon bruises upon scars and you weren’t sure if he’d ever stop adding to them.

His face dropped when he saw your obvious distress. ‘I’m really sorry y/n. I fucked up, bad.’

You just nodded, taking deep breaths in an attempt to keep your thoughts straight.

‘I know I struggle to control my anger sometimes, but you gotta believe I’m getting better. I’m not the person I used to be.’

‘You keep saying that.’ You couldn’t meet his eyes, too scared to see the hurt your words would cause him. ‘Then you do shit like this? I’m really struggling here, I-’

‘I know I’m not perfect, but I’m trying, now more than ever. Because of you.’

‘What happened the other night... I was so scared, Buck. I barely even made it out of the house to get here today.’ Tears were clouding your vision as you felt his hands grasp your firmly. ‘I can’t do that again.’

---

Part Five

---

@shawnie--jo @brilliantbellesoares @noiralei @bebeyeni @kingkassam @newyorkgoddess  @livingoffsavvyillusions 

I’ve bolded the names that wouldn’t let me tag, sorry guys

---

#bucky fanfiction #bucky imagine #bucky x y/n #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky fanfic #bucky fluff #bucky fic #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes fic #biker!bucky x you #biker!bucky #biker!bucky x y/n #biker!bucky x reader #marvel imagine #marvel fanfiction #marvel fic

[alittlewhump]

Unbidden - Act 3, chapter 8

Masterlist | Previous | Next

Content warnings: minor body horror

As directed, Morgan took his time. It gave him the opportunity to start getting used to controlling the golem. Blaise watched quietly as he ran through some exercises with both arms, working out the mental shortcuts he would need to get used to. Large motions involving the shoulder were the hardest to manage, having to coordinate the golem with the organic. He also had to concentrate harder than he'd expected on the elbow. There was a greater range of motion at his disposal now, but taking advantage of it made him feel nauseated. Bodies weren't meant to bend in certain ways, and it brought his mind back to a place he very much did not want it to be in. Eventually he settled on a basic system of mentally narrating his movements in a way that could easily be accompanied by the necessary push of will to command the golem. It could always be refined later.

The finer motions seemed to be working well, though the lack of tactile feedback made it harder to tell if they would work equally well if he wasn't watching so closely. He fished a length of leather cord out of the bottom of his potions bag to test. His injury had made it painful to grasp anything small and to raise his arm above shoulder height for any length of time, both of which were required to tie his hair back. He didn't often wear it that way, but it was useful to have it out of the way every now and again. It took several attempts, a great deal of caution after the first accidental pull, and some intense concentration, but at the end of it his efforts bore fruit in the form of a lopsided bow. He gave a small hum of satisfaction, pleased with the progress, and let the arm fall back into his lap to rest.

"That looked hard." Blaise was still watching him, idly picking a leaf into tiny pieces. There was a growing pile of shredded greenery in front of her.

"I can't really feel it," Morgan said. "I tried earlier, but it was... I got something wrong with the command. It didn't focus correctly."

"Can I help?"

"I don't know how you would."

"I don't know," Blaise echoed. "Maybe I can do something to help you focus." She reached forward, then paused. "If it's all right." At his bemused nod, she gently took his left hand and turned it palm up. "Close your eyes," she suggested. He did. "All right, now I'll do some shapes. And you can focus on guessing what they are, maybe."

It was an interesting approach. Morgan started slowly, more prepared for the sensations this time. The power draw was less uncomfortable now that he knew to expect it. It was something almost like a pinch, but still a marked improvement over the type of pain it had been before. This, he could acclimatize to. He catalogued the gently persistent throbbing around the connections, reconciled it with the beating of his heart, categorized it as ignorable and tried to let it fade away into the background. It worked reasonably well, which was a pleasant surprise.

Next he eased his focus over to the intermittent touch moving down the inner forearm to the palm, then going back up. There was so much information in each small interaction that he'd always taken for granted - pressure, temperature, texture. The golem helpfully provided all of that information with force, an insistence that almost felt like alarm. Morgan asked it to quiet down, please, and it slowly ebbed into something that didn't set him on edge quite so badly. It would be ideal if he could figure out how to make it trigger only when touched, instead of having to give it commands to turn on or off. He toyed with that for a little while, getting used to the way it lit up his awareness.

"Anything yet?"

Morgan's eyes opened in surprise, which quickly gave way to embarrassment. He'd all but forgotten Blaise was even there, lost in the intensity of his focus. "Ah. Yes. It's helping a great deal. Thank you."

Blaise looked pleased. "Good. You're so quiet, I wasn't sure. I know you don't like touching, I was - what? Don't look so surprised, I'm not completely oblivious, you know."

"No. You're very observant. I appreciate it," he said quietly. It was something he'd never really realized until just now. She paid attention to him. Enough to notice the way he avoided physical contact. And she respected that unspoken boundary without questioning it, even though that meant she had to make a conscious effort to treat him differently. It was... nice, to be accommodated. Of course, it was probably nothing out of the ordinary for Blaise, just a natural extension of the kindness Morgan had identified in her long ago. Still, he let himself enjoy the revelation briefly before turning his attention back to the golem.

It was so tempting to do everything at once. There was a lot to modify, to adjust, to improve, to learn. But now that he'd been pulled out of his reverie of exploration once, it was easier to remember that he was not at his leisure. And Blaise had been so patient, always so patient with him. Because she knew he needed it, because she cared about him. Morgan reluctantly subdued the happiness bubbling in his chest and tried to focus on the task at hand, on what still needed immediate work. For now, the foundations of motion and feedback were in place. He allowed himself a little more fine tuning and decided that he could stand to leave it inert when he needed to use his magic elsewhere. He'd already gotten used to not using the limb, so it wouldn't be too much different.

"All right," he said eventually. "I'm done. For now. Thank you for your help. We can pick up where we left off yesterday, by the fountains." Blaise released his arm and stood in a fluid motion, stretching before she reached out a hand to help him up. Morgan took it, closing his eyes briefly against the wave of dizziness that washed over him as he stood. He blinked to clear the lingering reds and blues from his vision. When they faded, Blaise was making a displeased face.

"Doesn't look like you're ready."

"No, I'm fine," he assured her. The dizzy spell had passed, as they always did. She did not look reassured.

"Don't tell me you did all this on an empty stomach, Morgan. I've barely seen you eat since-"

"I ate before I started." A few hours before, in case the potions disagreed with him. And not very much, because eating was still unpleasant and he'd wanted to be able to focus. But he didn't want to talk about that, so he dug a piece of flatbread out of his bag and took a small bite. It seemed to pacify her.

Morgan chewed slowly, making sure his feet were firmly planted before he raised a golem from the earth outside the building. It was no different than it had ever been. Two skeletons followed. No noticeable problems with capacity, then, and with the arm inactive it felt like he was maybe even recovering his energy very slightly faster than usual. He allowed himself another small, satisfied smile as he stepped out to join the constructs.

"Hey!" Telash jogged towards Blaise and Morgan as they returned from the jungle. "There you are. I need you to show me what you taught Phaedra." Morgan glanced at Blaise, who shrugged. Telash seemed to be talking to him, anyway. "She won't tell me how she does it."

"I don't know what you're talking about. I haven't taught her anything. Our magic isn't the same."

"She's been showing off all day. Look." He brandished a bottle towards them. It was luminous, blue-white and flickering.

"Oh," Morgan said, reaching out. Telash jerked the bottle away.

"Show me. I want to do this with fire. There's got to be a trick to it, I'm just breaking the bottles when I try on my own."

"I... can tell you what I told her the last time we spoke, but I don't think-"

"Give us half an hour to unwind first, you insufferable prick. Some of us have actually been doing work all day." Blaise brushed past him, making him stumble half a step back to avoid a collision. He rallied quickly, springing into step beside her.

"I can help you unwind," he suggested with a leer and a wiggle of his eyebrows.

"I guess that would still leave me with twenty-eight minutes to relax properly," she replied. Telash made a choked sound of indignation.

"I'll have you know my skill as a lover is legendary!"

"That's funny. You don't hear a lot of legends about disappointment."

"You'd be singing a very different tune if you just-"

"Maybe that's your problem. If you're doing it right, your partner shouldn't have the breath to spare for singing."

"Oh, I could leave you breathless."

"With laughter, maybe."

Morgan split off in search of Phaedra. Blaise and Telash could enjoy their banter, or whatever it was they were doing. The words they were exchanging sounded rude, but they seemed to enjoy butting heads. It was just another thing he'd resigned himself to never understanding.

The search didn't take long. Phaedra was leaving Alkor's hut, struggling with a large basket laden with empty bottles of various shapes and sizes. She gave her head a little toss when she noticed Morgan, lifting her chin. "Little help here?"

He raised a golem without a second thought, its arms extended to accept the weight of the basket. Phaedra gave a grunt of effort as she shifted it over, then dusted off her hands. "Thanks. That's heavier than it looks. Has Telash found you yet?"

"Yes."

"He's persistent, you have to give him that. I'll show you what I figured out, but only if you promise not to tell him how to do it."

Morgan hesitated. He was so curious it almost felt like a physical itch, but at the same time he didn't want to antagonize the volatile fire mage. "I already agreed to repeat our earlier conversation," he said cautiously.

"Why did you do that?"

"He... asked." It had been more of a demand, really, but a request was a request.

"Hm. He's an ass, but he isn't stupid. Hell, he might be able to figure it out faster than me. Don't want that." She eyed Morgan appraisingly. The weight of her gaze was uncomfortable.

"Why do you want to keep this to yourself?"

Phaedra flashed a quick smile before turning to walk down toward the fire pit. "I don't, not really. That's why I've got all these bottles. I was planning to see if I can teach the others tonight."

Morgan followed with a confused frown. "Then why are you keeping it from Telash specifically?"

"For fun," came the breezy answer. "It's so easy to rile him up. Set those down on that bench?" The golem lowered the basket obediently. Phaedra watched it, her head slightly tilted. "Movement still eludes me. I tried with some old gauntlets from Hratli but I didn't get so much as a twitch in the fingers."

"Were you able to keep it contained?"

"Yes, eventually. It turned out to be better inside an insulating material. Leather gauntlets, glass bottles. It really wanted to spill out of the gauntlets, that's why I tried the bottles in the first place."

"Telash showed me a bottle. How long does it last, once it's contained?"

"That depends. Little ones, maybe five minutes. Big ones, about half an hour."

"Can you feed it to make it last longer? Do you need to unseal the container first? Could I-" he bit off the last question, remembering that she'd already laid out a condition he couldn't meet. And he was being too eager, rushing through his questions like a child instead of waiting for answers.

"Haven't tried, and don't know. What an interesting idea." Phaedra slipped a hand into the pockets of her robes and produced a glass vial about the size of her fist. It flickered softly. She popped the cork and slid the palm of her hand over the mouth of the bottle in one smooth motion. Half closing her eyes, her eyebrows twitched down in a brief frown of concentration. The light in the bottle grew brighter. Phaedra replaced the cork, holding the bottle up in front of her face with a smile.

"Well, there's one question answered. I think I'll wait on the other one. I want to give it some thought before I try it. I've already broken a lot of bottles. Here, catch."

She lobbed the bottle towards Morgan in a soft underhand throw. He fumbled it badly, nearly dropping it first in surprise and then again because that surprise delayed the response of his golem arm. Phaedra snickered behind her hand as he recovered. He ignored that, holding the bottle up with both hands to peer at its contents.

It was beautiful. Blue-white lightning crackled around the inside of the bottle, branching and converging in an enthralling display. It was almost like a living thing curling over and around itself. His skin tingled where it was touching the glass, and the golem arm thrummed a warning at the unfamiliar magic. Morgan could have examined it for a very long time, but he forced his gaze back over to Phaedra.

"This is amazing," he said earnestly.

"Useful, too," she replied. "It should stay bright even in the rain, and if I can get more power to fit in the same space it could have some real potential as a weapon. I just have to figure out how. Don't suppose you have any insights on that?"

"In some cases I'm limited by what the carrier will bear," Morgan offered, his eyes drawn back to the bottle as he turned it over in his hands. "Some materials take magic better than others."

"Oh, I was focused so hard on getting it to stay somewhere, I didn't even think... hmm, yeah, that's worth trying. I'll be right back." Phaedra picked up a few small bottles from the basket and set off purposefully toward the docks.

Morgan sat down on the bench, bringing his golem over to sit beside him. He touched the bottle to it experimentally. It did not react with a warning like the arm had done. There were plenty of potential reasons for that, though. Possibilities drifted across his mind as he watched the lightning circle around itself inside its glass prison. He slipped into something like a light meditation, the rest of the world falling away as he admired its beauty.

The sound of breaking glass brought Morgan back to full awareness with a start. His golem informed him a second later that it was under attack and had sustained some damage. A bottle had shattered across its broad back, sending sparks crawling over its surface. They lingered at the point of impact where the earth had been dampened.

"Well, that's promising," Phaedra said. Morgan turned to see her hefting another bottle. "Water's heavy, but it definitely holds more. I like where this is going. You can keep that, and don't worry about Telash. He'll figure out how to get what he wants one way or another."

Morgan wasn't sure what to make of that comment at all, so he thanked Phaedra and took his golem to the hut he'd been staying in. He watched the bottled lightning a little more. When it started to fade, he held it up to the golem and suggested it take. It accepted the bottle gently into its mass. There was a muffled crunch, followed by another warning that the golem had been damaged. That was slightly disappointing, but not wholly unexpected. It had just been an idea. It would have opened up enormous opportunities, but asking a construct to incorporate two different types of magic without the stabilizing element of an enchantment was obviously too much. Morgan set the golem down into the earth and relaxed into meditation, turning his attention back to his left arm instead.

#my writing #story: unbidden #body horror tw #food tw #eating tw #not particularly long or graphic but just in case

[queen-haq]

Fic: A Woman Scorned - Part 6

Fic: A Woman Scorned - Part 6

Pairing: Billy Russo x Reader

Rating: R for language and light smut.

Words: ~2400 words.

Summary: You’ve been sleeping with Billy Russo for a few months now. Knowing his aversion to emotional commitments, you’re satisfied with your clandestine arrangement until you catch him having dinner with Dinah Madani one night. Then it finally dawns on you. It’s not that he doesn’t want to commit, he just doesn’t want to commit to *you*.

Billy may think he knows you, but he has no idea what he’s just lost...

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

***

The moment Billy spotted you and Roger sitting at the corner table, his mood soured. The two of you were engaged in deep conversation, his chair next to yours so you could study his Ipad as he showed you something on it. You nodded at times, your focus entirely on the screen, and every once in a while Roger would smirk at you like he was imagining you naked. It pissed Billy off so much he had to fight the urge to go over and sucker punch the fucker.

For someone so brilliant, he wondered how you could be so gullible when it came to Roger. How could you not notice the guy was hardcore hung up on you? Not that Billy could blame him for falling for you. But you should have exercised more caution and not socialized with the prick outside of work. After all, you had a stellar reputation within the industry to protect and the last thing you needed was for people to wonder if you moved up so quickly due to your own merit or your relationship with Roger. You worked hard and deserved all the recognition you received and it wasn’t fair to you that people would question your brilliance. Except you didn’t seem worried about that at all which infuriated Billy.

“Which one are you spying on?”

Hearing Dinah’s question, Billy dragged his attention away from you and back to the brunette sitting in front of him. Usually they hooked up every few weeks but ever since the gala, neither had reached out to the other. When she’d called this morning wanting to meet up and talk, he’d suggested meeting at Piatti.

“Him or her?” Dinah prodded.

“Both,” he replied, intending to cast a quick glance in your direction only to find you smiling at Roger the prick. A beautiful, dazzling, flirtatious smile that would unmistakably give the asshole the wrong idea about you.

“Billy, are you okay?” Dinah asked, watching him with concern.

“Yeah. Fine. Why?”

“You look angry.”

He shook his head, plastering on a fake smile. “You worried about me, Madani?”

“Should I be?”

“Be careful. I might start to think you’re falling for me.” He leaned in closer, reminding himself how easy it was to be with her. He and Dinah always had a good time, the sex was great, and there were no complications in the relationship. She didn’t crawl into his head and take up permanent residence the way you had. She didn’t demand things of him he wasn’t prepared to give. The arrangement with Dinah was simple, casual and perfect, just the way he preferred.

“About that…” Dinah cleared her voice. “We need to stop seeing each other.”

He cocked his eyebrow. “Why is that?”

“Because I’ve met someone.”

Dinah’s words barely registered in his mind as he noticed you walking away from the table and heading for the staircase that led downstairs. “Hold that thought. I’ll be right back.”  Billy walked across the restaurant, following the same path you did. The restrooms were located on the level below, and once he reached the floor, he found it empty. Leaning against the wall next to the women’s bathroom, he waited for you to come out. When you exited a few minutes later, he grabbed you by the waist and pulled you against him. Right away you started struggling, kicking him, attacking him, even starting to scream if not for his hand covering your mouth. It took a few seconds for Billy to subdue you and it was then he spotted the sheer terror on your face. When you pushed him off this time, he stepped back right away.

“What are you doing?” Your hand was on your chest, your breathing rapid as you struggled to catch your breath.

Billy felt horrible. You were rightfully jumpy since the incident yesterday. “Shit. I wasn’t thinking-”

“I thought you were him!”

“I know. I’m an idiot. I’m sorry.” Outwardly you seemed to be calm again but he sensed it was a façade, especially when he saw how your hands were shaking. “Let me?” he urged, seeking your permission to hold you. When you didn’t say no, he moved in closer to wrap his arms around you.

At first you stiffened, just like you had yesterday, but then you leaned into the hug, snuggling your face against his chest with your arms looped around his waist.  He breathed you in, offering you comfort but also trying not to get excited at how good you felt in his arms. Instinctively he caressed your hair, pressing light kisses on your forehead and the top of your head. You squeezed your arms around him, as if trying to fuse yourself with him.

He could have stood there forever, simply holding you, inhaling in the scent of your shampoo, your perfume and getting lost in your essence. Somewhere in his brain he knew how ridiculous this was, he was acting like a goddamn teenager with a first crush, but at that moment it didn’t matter. None of it did. He just felt content. “You’re okay,” he murmured. “Not going to let anything happen to you.”

“You sound like you actually care,” you replied, your voice muffled against his jacket.

“Maybe I do.”

Disappointment surged through him when you pulled back to look at him, but he took comfort in the fact you were still locked in his arms.

“What are you doing here?” you asked.

Billy realized you hadn’t seen him upstairs, like he’d assumed, which meant you weren’t aware he’d come with Dinah Madani.  “Work thing.”

“And you just happened to choose this restaurant?”

“Why not? You got exclusive rights to this place or something?”

“You heard me mention this place to Roger last night when you were eavesdropping.”

“It’s not eavesdropping if you have the conversation right in front of me.”

You rolled your eyes. “Why do you hate him so much? Is this really a Valiant vs. Anvil thing? Or do you guys have some kind of history that I don’t know about?”

Billy’s eyes drifted down to your lips. “I don’t hate him. I don’t even know the guy. It just bugs me that you think he’s so great.”

You stilled, sounding almost breathless. “Why?”

“If he did his job properly, you wouldn’t have a gun pulled on you yesterday,” he snapped, agitated at the thought of you in danger. “But you don’t seem to give a damn about that.”

“He’s not the one responsible.”

“And now you’re defending him.”

You exhaled a heavy sigh, bringing your hand to your chest to rub your skin nervously. The gesture immediately drew Billy’s attention to your breasts as your fingers inadvertently pulled down the already low-cut neckline of the cashmere sweater you were wearing. Visions of your naked breasts danced through his mind, reminding him of how close he’d come to fucking you yesterday. It had taken every bit of strength he possessed to refuse you. If you’d been anyone else, he sure as hell wouldn’t have, but you were terrified and in pain and he didn’t want to take advantage of you when you were vulnerable. He wasn’t that big of an asshole. Of course none of those valid reasons helped with the hard-on after.

“Stop staring at my breasts, Billy.”

“Just remembering last night,” he drawled, reluctantly tearing his gaze away from your breasts to meet your eyes.

“When you turned me down?”

“Because it wasn’t me you wanted to fuck. Anyone would’ve done.” Billy tried to smooth the edge in his voice but the bitterness was still there, present in his tone.

Regret washed over your face, surprising him. “You’re right. That wasn’t fair to you. I’m sorry.”

He reached out to tuck a loose curl of your hair behind your ear. How was it that he’d spent months without ever knowing you and now it had barely been a week since you let him in and you already felt like a part of him? “Next time you’re naked in front of me, I’m not being a hero,” he warned. “I will fuck you.”

You chuckled. “There isn’t going to be a next time. You lost your chance, Billy.”

“We’ll see about that,” he smirked.

You quirked your eyebrow, a wicked smile on your face. “You think Roger would’ve turned me down?”

The smirk on Billy’s face disappeared at the thought of you fucking Roger. No, not just Roger. Anyone else. He advanced forward. “Don’t provoke me, Y/N.”

You stared up at him defiantly. “But it’s not like you get jealous, right?”

He grasped your chin, leveling you with a keen stare. “Stop.”

“Or what?” You taunted.

“Or I’ll carry you upstairs and fuck you senseless right in front of dear Roger.”

The hitch in your breath made him realize how much that idea aroused you, and he watched as your tongue delicately licked your bottom lip. God, your mouth. He remembered the last time your mouth was wrapped around his cock, sucking him off-

“You’re not jealous but you show up at the same place I’m having dinner with Roger. What were you planning to do? Sit at the bar and stare daggers at us?”

There was a smile tugging at your lips, you were teasing him. You liked having him there, and the thought made him ecstatic – except he remembered he wasn’t alone. Dinah was upstairs, you would see her soon, and knowing you would inevitably misinterpret the innocent dinner as something else made his insides twist with anxiety. He couldn’t bear the idea of you in pain.

Something in your eyes shifted, as if you’d read his mind. Just as suddenly, he sensed the change in your demeanor. A minute ago you were flirting with him and now your guard was back up. Immediately you moved away from him.

“You’re not here alone.” You gave him a small smile, trying to play it off like it was no big deal. “I don’t know why I thought you would be.”

Billy reminded himself he didn’t have anything to feel guilty about, it’s not like he’d ever promised you monogamy. Hell, you guys weren’t even in a relationship - but none of that helped ease the terrible feeling in the pit of his stomach. “It’s not a date or anything. Just having dinner with a friend.”

“Friend?”

He hesitated to tell you, but you seemed to know already.

“Dinah Madani,” you answered yourself.

“Look, nothing’s going on. She was actually telling me how she’s seeing someone new.”

Your voice was filled with contempt. “Good for her. She deserves better than you.”

“What the hell does that mean?” You were here with your precious Roger but you were pissed Billy had brought someone?  

You were charging towards the stairs when you paused, turning back to look at him. “Every time I think you can’t be more of an asshole, you prove me wrong.”

“You’re not exactly a ray of sunshine either, sweetheart,” Billy retorted, but you had already rushed up the stairs and disappeared from view. Angry, he marched upstairs. Dinah was texting on her phone when he returned to the table.

“Took you long enough,” she remarked.

“Sorry,’ he offered flippantly, chugging his drink.

“I’m guessing it’s not a co-incidence your mark came back a few seconds before you did?”

Billy cast you a quick look to find you sitting alone at the table, on your phone. “Let’s not talk about her. She’s not important,” he said dismissively.

“Really? Because I’ve never seen you wound up so tight.”

He reached for Dinah’s hand, sending her a seductive smile. “How about we get out of here?”

“I told you, I’m seeing someone.”

“So what? He doesn’t need to know.” He said half-heartedly, already losing enthusiasm for the offer he proposed. His gaze inadvertently returned to you. Roger the prick was back and you were fully engrossed in his eyes.

Dinah sent him a smirk. “You like her.”

“Sure,” he bit out sarcastically.

“No, you really do.”

“Are we in high school or something?”

“It’s serious. I can tell. Your eyes get all soft when you look at her.”

“That’s you looking at the world with your love goggles on.”

“Have you told her how you feel?”

Jaw clenched, he gestured the waiter to bring him another drink.

“So that’s a no then,” Dinah mused.

“I don’t want to talk about this with you, Madani.” He chugged the whiskey. Just then his phone rang. Grateful for the distraction, he pulled it out to answer it. “Billy Russo.”

“It’s Quentin. The guy you asked me to check up on? His family just posted bail. He’s out.”

Immediately, his eyes flew to you. “Thanks, man. I owe you one.” He scanned your face. A minute ago he would’ve been fuming that you were giggling with Roger but now Billy wanted to hold on to this moment and etch the memory of a happy you in his brain. “Dinah, there’s something I have to take care of.” He waved at the waiter to come over, and handed him his credit card. As he waited for the bill, he fired off a text to one of his contacts. It’s on.

“You mean her?” Dinah asked.

“Yeah,” he muttered, signing for the bill. “I have to give her some bad news.”

“Then you should also tell her how you feel. Give her something good to go with the bad.”

“You’ll be okay to get home on your own?” Billy asked.

“I’ll be fine.”

Dinah stood up to leave, but not before leaning over to kiss his cheek. It didn’t escape Billy’s notice how you glanced over at that very moment. Hurt flashed across your face but it disappeared quickly, and you turned back to Roger again.

As soon as Dinah left the table, he started making his way towards you. He sensed the second you were aware of his looming proximity because you tensed, despite the smile you maintained on your face.

“Roger, Y/N, how are you guys?” Billy greeted, putting on his most magnetic smile. He extended his hand out to shake Roger’s who returned his friendly greeting. When he turned to you, you offered him a stiff smile.

“Billy, how’s it going?” Roger asked.

“Great. Mind if I join you guys for a minute?”

“I’m actually leaving.” You slid out from behind the table, careful to keep your distance from him. “Roger, thanks for dinner. I’ll see you at work on Monday.”

“Adam Preston’s been released on bail,” Billy announced.

You stilled, his eyes locked on you.

“Got any plans to protect your star asset, Rog? Or are you just gonna have her fend for herself?”

“Don’t,” you warned, glaring at him.

Billy leveled Roger with a smug glance. “Disgruntled employees. Shoddy security. Things are a real mess at Valiant, aren’t they? If Valiant can’t protect its employees, feel free to use Anvil. We’re more than capable.”

At least Roger had the gall to look embarrassed. “That won’t be necessary.”

As you stormed away, Billy turned to Roger. “Start with 24/7 protective detail on her. If you can manage that.”

He didn’t wait for a response, quickly rushing out of the restaurant to catch up with you only to find you waiting for him in the nearby alley. You were furious as hell, bristling with rage as he drew closer.

“What the fuck was that?” you demanded. “Who the hell do you think you are, talking to my boss like that?”

“I’m the one who got him to step up and take responsibility,” he yelled back. “Something he should have fucking done from day one!”

“You made me look like a helpless idiot in front of him. He’s my boss! I’ve spent years working my ass off so people actually take me seriously and you just completely shot that to hell!”

“Think I give a fuck about your job when some maniac is out to hurt you?” Billy raged.

“Stop acting like you give a shit about me, Billy, when we both know you don’t!” You started to walk away but he grabbed your arm from behind.

“You think I don’t care?” he roared, pulling you to him. “I wish I didn’t! I wish I didn’t give a fuck about you. My life would be hell of a lot easier if you weren’t in it.”

“Then stay the hell away from me!” You screamed, clawing at him. “Let me go, you fucking asshole!”

He was so furious he couldn’t think straight, his blood was boiling. So he did the only thing that could calm the rage in him. He shoved you against the wall and kissed you.

Part 7

As always, thank you so much for the likes, the reblogs, and especially the wonderful comments and asks you’ve sent me. Trust me, it makes my day and keeps me insanely motivated to keep writing. LOL.

I’m on vacay next week, and my plan is to lay on the Caribbean beach, relax under the sun, and write some dirty, angsty smut while also indulging in the same in real life :)

If you want to be added/removed from the tag list, please drop me a note.

GIF source: @bilyrusso 

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#billy russo x reader #billy russo #billy russo imagine

[krisdreaming]

hi ^^ I really like your writing so I'd like a request with bokuto. I'd like the reader to be a female with long hair. The reader is a manager and she's friends with kuroo. She's pinning after bokuto and wants to know what his ideal type is. So she ask's kuroo and as a joke he said "short haired girls." Believing it the next day she came in with her hair cut into a bob. bokuto notices that day and keeps staring. When asked about it by reader he confesses. Thanks so much ♡

Ayy, you sure can! Reader is Nekoma’s manager, btw. Fem reader! I had so much FUN writing this! ^^ That’s probably why it got so long, so I put it under a read more! This symbol is right under the read more: ➳♥

WC: 2k | My only warning is that it’s kind of crack-y

-

“Kuroo-kun?” He turns to look at you, and it’s officially too late to back down now. You hug your clipboard to your chest. You’d been going back and forth on whether this was even a good idea, and now that he’s looking at you with that too-knowing stare, you’re swinging back to “no”.

“What’s up?” He asks, cocking his head to the side and propping a hand on his hip. “Everything good getting ready for the training camp?”

You take a breath to steady yourself, then nod. “Yeah, great!” You manage a smile. “I just, well, I had a question for you. I was hoping you could, uh, help me out with something.” You really had been trying to look him in the eye, but by now your focus is on a flyaway strand of hair sticking out from his head.

“Yeah, sure. Shoot,” he prompts.

“Well, I was wondering…” You look down at your clipboard as if the best words to say will materialize there. They don’t. “Your friend Bokuto-san. Does he have a certain type that he likes?” It rushes out all at once. “Of girls?” You add, as if it wasn’t already obvious.

A grin slowly spreads across the captain’s face, and you chew nervously on your lip as he crosses his arms. “So, it’s Bokuto, is it? I figured you had a crush on somebody.”He laughs. “A type, huh? Don’t worry, I’ll help you out.” He seems to be enjoying this a little too much. “Anything for our precious manager.”

“Yeah?” You say weakly, huffing out a breath of relief now that you’d finally manged to say what you’d set out to.

“Here’s the thing. Bokuto really likes girls with short hair.” Oh. You can feel your smile begin to fade off of your face. “I mean, you know, it’s not make-or-break, but yup.” He nods sagely. “Short hair, I’m afraid.” 

You subconsciously toy with the ends of your hair, wondering if it might be time for a change. It’s not as though you hadn’t ever considered it, and your friends always told you a shorter style would look good on you. So, maybe…

“Oh, but hey!” Kuroo is still talking. “That’s not the only thing. He also likes girls who smile a lot, girls with a sense of humor, girls who give him lots of encouragement…” He ticks them off on his fingers, “And girls that are dedicated. Sounds like somebody I know.” He grins, socking you lightly on the shoulder. You nod slowly, pasting on a smile in return. “You want me to put in a good word?” He asks.

“N-no!” You sputter, “That’s not necessary. I’ll just - thanks, Kuroo-kun.” You don’t want to imagine what sort of things he might think up to say to Bokuto about you. “You’ve helped plenty. Not a word about this, please?” You plead, clasping your hands in front of yourself.

He slides his fingers across his lips and makes a locking motion. “My lips are sealed.” He says solemnly, and gives you a genuine smile that says he’s telling the truth. “But if you change your mind, let me know!” He calls after you as you turn to go. You lift your hand in a quick thumbs up, knowing hell would freeze over before then.

➳♥

The next day, you arrive at the training camp bright and early to help the other managers get everything set up. You’re immediately greeted with a chorus of screeches and exclamations.

“Y/N-chan!” Kaori grabs your hands, “You cut your hair! It’s so adorable!” She giggles. 

“Ah, thanks.” You nervously fiddle with the ends of your hair, now falling just above your shoulders. You’d loved it, then hated it, then loved it, and right now, you’re not quite sure what you think of your new style, but the encouragement is definitely pushing you back towards loving it again. You have to admit, it is much easier to style this way, and much cooler to deal with the summer heat of training camp week. 

“So, is there someone special you’re trying to impress?” Yukie asks coyly, and you feel your cheeks heating up.

“Ah, well…”

“It’s Bokuto, isn’t it?” She interrupts before you can say another word. “Don’t lie! I see you stealing glances when you think no one is looking.”

You laugh weakly. “Um, well, yeah.” You don’t have much of a choice but to admit it. “Kuroo told me that he likes girls with short hair, so…” You don’t catch the look shared between Kaori and Yukie, the former of which gives her head a slight shake. There isn’t much time for the conversation to continue, because across the gym, you hear a cackle that can only belong to one person.

“That, right there, is dedication!” Kuroo wheezes as he approaches you, and you narrow your eyes, self-consciously reaching for your hair again. “You look great.” He assures you, laughter still hanging on his voice. “Adorable.” He gives your hair a slight ruffle before you duck away. Kenma casts him a suspicious glance before looking back your way.

“Y/N, your hair looks nice.” He assures you with a small smile, and as the morning progresses, the rest of the team says the same, in one form or another. Their opinions aren’t really the ones you’re concerned about, though.

When the rest of Fukurodani finally arrives an hour later, you try to act cool while also attempting to steal glances at their captain. It seems every single time you glance his way, his eyes are already on you. It makes your face feel hot even though you aren’t entirely sure what his expression means.

“Y/N!” When he calls out to you, it takes a few moments to register that he’d actually said your name. You turn to him and remember at the last second to smile, because Kuroo said he likes girls that smile a lot. It sounds like he changes what he wants to say at the last second, because after an awkward pause he blurts out, “Are you keeping Kuroo in line?”

“Totally!” You say, giving him a thumbs up, “It’s a tough job, but someone’s gotta do it.” You laugh, and he laughs, too, a warm sound that makes your heart leap in your chest.

“Well, you do a great job!” He says, beaming at you. “So, Y/N…” He steps a little closer to you, and your breath catches in your throat.

“Bokuto-san!” He whips his head around at the sound of Akaashi’s voice, standing with his arms crossed on the neighboring court along with the rest of the team.

“Oh,” He says, sheepishly reaching for the back of his neck, “Guess our first match is starting. We’ll catch up later, yeah?” He asks, looking so earnest and sincere that you don’t have to think about the easy smile that comes to your face.

“Definitely,” You agree, watching as he jogs back over to his team. You stand rooted to the spot until you feel an elbow jab into your side.

“Y/N, our match is starting,” Kuroo prompts, and it’s only when you turn your gaze to him that you realize how closely you’d been watching Bokuto. The grin on his face is insufferable. “I know you’d much rather stand here and admire the view, but we kinda need our manager right now,” He chuckles.

“You’re- You’re-” You mutter, unable to figure out just what he is.

“A great captain and wonderful friend? I know.” He laughs, jogging away before you can land a hit. You have no choice but to follow after him. 

The rest of the day is filled with practice matches and between working with the other managers to prepare lunch and running back and forth to fill water bottles in addition to filling out your paperwork for each match, you have very little time to even think about Bokuto. It isn’t until the evening as you wash the water bottles for tomorrow that you let your mind wander.

Does he like your haircut? Does he like you? Was his special attention really special, or is he just that friendly of a guy? Does he see you as anything other than Nekoma’s manager? You’d been scrubbing the same poor water bottle for three minutes when a voice interrupts your train of thought.

“Oh, Y/N!” You turn, and there, standing in the hallway behind you, is the person who’d taken over your thoughts. “Hey,” He says with a grin.

“Hey, Bokuto-san, how were your matches today?” You’ve been smiling since the moment you heard his voice.

“They were great, but, Y/N! You cut your hair!” He gestures to your head, and you run your fingers through the ends of your hair yet again.

“Oh, you noticed?” You duck your head as you feel the tips of your ears grow hot. “I just though, you know, time for a change and all that. So you like it?” You ask, shocked at your own boldness.

“Yeah! Yeah, I really do. It looks good on you.” He’s fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, cheeks starting to flush just the slightest bit. 

“Good,” You murmur, “I’m glad you like it short,” You admit bravely as he takes a step closer to you. The water bottles and dissolving soap suds in the sink behind you are completely forgotten.

“Short hair, long hair, I don’t really care as long as it’s your hair!” He blurts out, and he must realize exactly what he said the moment the words leave his mouth, because his face instantly turns two shades redder. “B-because I think you’re really cool,” he continues, more subdued, gaze flickering between your face and somewhere past your shoulder. You can’t even formulate a response, so you keep watching him, wide-eyed.

“Bokuto-san?” You finally say, when the silence stretches too long. 

“Don’t call me that, it makes me think about Akaashi, and I don’t want to think about Akaashi right now.” He chuckles nervously. “Just call me Bokuto.”

“Okay,” You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Bokuto?” You can’t believe this is happening.

“I really like you, Y/N! You’re really cute, and fun, and you always make me smile. If you want, I thought maybe, some day when the matches end early, we could get ice cream or something.” He says it so fast, in one breath, that it takes you a few seconds to process everything, and a few more to realize what just happened.

“Wow,” You breathe. His expression is frozen, waiting. “Bokuto, I - I really like you, too. I think - I’d love to go out with you,” You finish with a breathy giggle, still not quite sure this is actually happening.

“Really?” He laughs, grabbing your hands before you can react. “That’s - that’s great! Perfect!” His hands are warm and envelop yours completely. 

“Good,” You say softly, giving his hands a squeeze as warmth continues to bubble up in your middle. Something he’d said earlier is still niggling in the back of your mind. “Bokuto? Can I - can I ask you a stupid question?”

He cocks his head. “It won’t be stupid, but go for it!” He says, nodding encouragingly.

“Do you - do you prefer short haired girls?” You ask, cringing at the strange nature of your question.

“Well, I dunno, I guess I never really thought too much about it,” He scratches his chin. “But I like it on you!” He adds quickly. “Really, it looks great! Your long hair was great too, though. Um, is that what you wanted to know?” 

You shake your head in disbelief. “Yeah, sorry.” You lean in closer, focusing on his smile and the way his eyes are completely fixed on you. Kuroo is very, very lucky that, right now, you’re entirely too happy to think about kicking his ass.

(”Are you okay, Kuroo-senpai?” Lev pauses from receiving practice to ask. He notices the strange look that crosses Kuroo’s face.

“Yeah, fine,” Kuroo assures him. “I felt a weird shiver just now. It was probably nothing.”)

#Haikyuu #Haikyuu imagines #Bokuto Koutarou #Bokuto Koutarou x reader #Bokuto x reader #Haikyuu x reader #request

[7lizardsinacoat]

The Old Guard Costume Analysis

Because I could, I wrote up an analysis of the costuming, This is about the how the characters dress and what would influence that. I tried to get at the core of what each character likes to do when they pick out outfits. It came out to be a 4 page document so I hope I got it all. 

Too long don’t want to read? The last three paragraphs are what you may want to read then. 

While the team only wears a few outfits over the course of the movie, what they are can say a lot about a character. They may seem basic, but they really do speak volumes about the personality of a character, help set the mood of a scene, and further convey emotion. The costumes also show us a little bit of the background of each character and how that affects the way they dress. While the costuming may not win awards because it is in an action movie, they are very cleverly and well done.

Since this all started with my analysis of Nicky’s fashion choices, I am going to start with him. Nicky wears extremely practical things throughout the movie, like dark colors and basics that you can pick up from any store (save for the baklava scene, but we will talk about that later.) Nicky’s hair is even practical. Short, and while it can be styled, it really isn’t throughout the movie. It even seems easy to wash blood out from. All of his clothing matches but in a way that he can just pick up something and go without having to think too hard about it. Nicky is a very quiet and unassuming person, so his clothes seem to reflect that. Nothing he wears stands out among the others, and is as unassuming as he is.  

If you bring in Nicky’s background as a priest and a crusader, this makes a lot of sense. Christian/Catholic guilt is a strong thing. If you really get into the Bible you will find that there is a lot about not getting attached to worldly possessions. Seeing as he joined the priesthood, he would have had to believe in the text and know it well. As a priest, he would have worn vestments most of the time and lived a life with little indulgence, most likely leading to viewing his ordinary clothes in a practical manner. When he joined the crusades he would have become even more practical, as there were really only a few things he would have been able to wear as part of the forces, and if he really bought into what he was fighting for he would not have begrudged this. 

To bring it up to the modern day and what we see in the movie, we can see all of this reflected in what he wears. He wears dark colors and practical clothing. Now we may say that the baklava scene challenges that, as he is dressed nicely and his hair is styled. 

I would say to that, yes,  he does know how to dress beyond picking something up and putting it on. But, because he does not do this again at the end of the movie, when everyone is styled and wearing what they would wear in an everyday, safe, situation, we may say that he simply does not feel like dressing in that way at all times.

 He knows how to put together an outfit, but seems to not want to unless it is for certain occasions. You can even see this mildly reflected in his “hot topic monk” look, where he wears a hoodie to cover his head rather than a hat, not because it looks good, but because it's practical. It’s certainly practical. He seems very “pick up and go”, which is fine to do. It’s certainly valid within the context of the movie. That’s fine I guess. 

Joe, in contrast to Nicky, has a better grasp of fashion and has an actual want to be fashionable. He was a merchant before the Crusades, which would allow him to have more access to nicer and therefore more thought out clothes. As a merchant, he would have likely had to be more presentable, and up to date on the clothing trends of the time. Taking also into account that Joe is an artist, and has been described as having an “artist’s soul”, this also supports the idea that Joe is up to date on trends and enjoys dressing in the current fashions. He puts thought into what he is wearing. He wants to put thought into what he is wearing. He enjoys putting thought into it.

All of this goes well with what he wears. While for most of the movie he is wearing simple clothes, this seems to be because they are in danger (also what he wears for most of the movie is what he was sleeping in). During the baklava scene he wears something that is a little more “We are seeing a loved one after a long time” and less “this is what I wear when I am just going out for the day.” But he is being presentable in a way that shows already at the beginning of the movie that he knows what he is doing. 

 At the end of the movie, we see Joe wearing streetwear. 

While the team may not feel entirely safe, they do feel safer, which allows them to wear what they want with little fear of getting it ruined. This is what he wants to wear. Even though his outfit is an “immortally dark” color, it still reflects who he is as a person. He is fun and outgoing, and goes outside of the mainstream. He has an interest in what he does. Even when they are going on the mission to save the girls he has some fun, what with his backwards baseball cap. He wants to throw a little fun into a dark situation, which I think really shows who he is as a person. He actively puts thought into his outfit, actually thinking about what goes with what, and enjoys it as well. He is having fun with his clothes. 

While Andy’s outfits may seem minimalist and just plain black constantly, they say a lot when put in context of the scenes. Andy wears black for most of the movie. It’s a color that  is easy to cover up blood and muck, and helps you blend in as it is a neutral color. It  also reflects her darker mood. 

Putting the black clothes into the context of the scenes changes the vibe they give off. In the first few scenes of the movie, we see her walking among people who are wearing bright colors against orange-y dirt of Marrakech, Morocco. She sticks out like a sore thumb in this scene. It gives off the feeling that she is not like them, that she is not human like the rest of them, and does not have the human hope. It immediately establishes her as cold and an outsider..  As the movie progresses, Andy becomes mortal.. She begins to wear colors, such as a green jacket, and at the end of the movie, a brown one. It reflects how she is becoming more and more human, and feeling more hopeful and less dark and hopeless. While it is still dark colors, they still show the change that is happening within her. 

While Andy might seem cold and uncaring towards others outside of her family, she is actually deeply sentimental. She always wears a necklace, that while we don’t ever get told why she has it, it is clear that it is very special to her. 

Then there is the jacket that she wears in the last few scenes in the movie.

 It is worn and old and clearly has been repaired several times. Why would a person who gets shot at on the regular and seems to have access to plenty of money want to keep a torn article of clothing unless it was for sentimental value. While Andy may, many times throughout the course of the movie, have said that she does not care anymore, the jacket shows that that is not true. An item of clothing like that has a lot of memories attached to it. She wears it in the scene where she sees Booker for probably the last time in her life.

 As it likely has immense sentimental value, it may have been comforting to wear. It also would then remind her of Booker every time she would wear it afterwards, and would even more so be the last thing she would get rid of. That jacket likely means so much to her. It will mean even more, now that it has those memories of Booker attached to it.

Booker’s outfits also seem like simple men’s clothes, like Nicky’s. Though hey are still in line with modern men’s fashion, in a more modest, subdued way. This probably comes from personal preference, but also his background. Booker is a very good forger, so he must have been an educated man before the Napoleonic War. He would have likely had a job with a lot of writing, and one that paid higher than labor jobs. This would have let him have some leeway with clothes, allowing him to develop a preference and an idea of what the general fashions were.  

Booker understands mainstream men’s fashion, but does not seem to enjoy it like Joe does. He seems to dress no further than nicely presentable,  while it does seem that he does have an opinion on what he is wearing, he doesn’t go any further in it. The one thing he seems to really indulge, besides alcohol, is his hair. But we are not here to talk about that. He’s a peacoat kind of man. He seems to be perpetually in fall/winter, what with his layers at all times.

 He’s if the artist Julia Lepetit drew a man and it came to life (french, sad, sharp jaw, layers and high collars, y'know what, just go look at what she drew when asked to draw a handsome man). 

There is almost a safety in the way he dresses. Like he is allowing himself to like a few things but to go any further than that would be too much.

 Now, he is not the type of guy that wears things outside of very mainstream fashion in the first place. But he does not really want to enjoy what he is doing now. Booker is also deeply sentimental, as clearly evidenced, besides the everything about him, by the wedding ring he still wears, 200 years later. So he may be holding on to some of the old routines he had before his first death, such as keeping up his hair or thinking for more than 10 seconds about his outfit. Even what he wears seems to show his grief, and his almost fragility that goes along with it. 

Nile is young and fashionable. She still feels human, and is a contrast to the others. Especially Andy. While Andy is in her dour blacks, Nile wears hopeful lighter tones and bright colors. She enjoys her clothing choices. While she is a sensible dresser, as we can see by her very sensible shoes, she does not have the immortal practicality the others do. The clothes she wears show a lot of blood, as compared to Booker and Andy’s (we are ignoring Joe and NIcky as they after just waking up). The clothes she wears are ones she would wear when she goes out for the day, not to get shot in a lab. She is not used to being immortal yet (and who would be if you’d died like three times so far.). 

We only get to see her in two outfits that she has picked out for herself. But they are both, as earlier stated, a stark contrast to Andy. Andy's blacks really make her seem less human. Nile’s brighter colors show us that even though she is immortal now, she still retains her human spirit. 

Interestingly enough, ,the outfit Andy hands her in the plane helps give us an idea of just how different they are. Andy gives her dark colors to wear, which feels like an almost “welcome to the club.”

 It’s very Andy. But when Nile gets to pick out her own clothes, she picks out things she enjoys, are interesting, and bright and colorful. It really shows how she doesn’t feel like a part of that group yet. While she may no longer be human, she still feels her humanity.

To speak briefly about the main villain, Merrick, he dresses in a childish way. He wears an infuriating hoodie under his suit coat and designer sneakers. He especially feels like he’s trying too hard, or compensating. He feels like a child trying to dress cooler than his older brother. It’s like he is trying to be a fuck boi but failing spectacuraly He feels like he listens to Russ and calls it Hip-Hop. His whole deal is one big overcompensation, and you can really see it. 

This is not pertaining to any one character, but the baklava scene is very interesting, costuming wise. It is the first time we get to see the whole gang together outside of them dying in the first scene. We at first see Andy, walking around in her “no longer human” black clothes. Then we get to see Booker, who does not stick out among the crowd. His clothes seem basic and unassuming. Then finally we get to see Joe and Nicky, who look very presentable in their button up shirts, like your favorite uncles on vacation. Even Copley is wearing lighter tones. Now putting them all together, at first it seems that only Andy stands out with her dark clothes among the lighter tones the others are wearing, but if we look further, we can see how Booker starts to stick out as well.

Andy’s clothes, as stated earlier, give her a less than human vibe within the context of the movie. The lighter tones of the three men might make them all seem like they all still feel hopeful and happy, but Booker’s clothes betray that. While Joe and Nicky are wearing lighter tones, Booker is only wearing a lighter colored overshirt over a black shirt. This gives off the idea that he is trying to show that he is happy, that he is just as excited as Joe and Nicky. But in all actuality, he feels just as dark and sad as Andy does, as the costuming shows. He’s trying to conceal it, as we can see with his friendliness with his family, but we the audience can see through it.  He is not doing well, and try as he might to put on a brave face for others, we can see it.

The costuming in The Old Guard is subtly clever. With just some clothing that may seem basic, they are able to show a lot about each character's personality. How Nicky understands how to dress but doesn’t care. Joe enjoys and has fun with his outfits. That Booker doesn’t really enjoy his clothing. Andy’s inhumanity shows through her clothes but so does her sentimentality. Nile’s humanity shows through her bright colors. We get all of this through the costuming, and it’s so nicely executed. There may be no awards won for this as it’s an action movie, but we should still acknowledge how well it’s done.

#finally finished #i dont know what to do with myself now that this is finfished #the old guard #tog #my post #how the hell do i tag this #long post #costumes #costuming