#but do i think that he’d strip himself to the bloody bone for the person he loves if it meant keeping them safe

[saintshigaraki]

love as consumption but apply it to gojou

#he’s not really one of my faves to write bc his characterization kind of throws me for a loop #but do i think that he’d strip himself to the bloody bone for the person he loves if it meant keeping them safe? keeping them with him? #yes i do. #i think the person he loves would make him feel far too vulnerable and he’d want to swallow them whole for it #if that makes sense?? idk #body horror tw #vicspeaks

[doopy-n-loopy]

Yan!TF2 × reader headcannons (SFW and NSFW)

// obsessive tendancies, mentions of violence, blood, sexual themes, noncon

[SFW]

Let's start with the defense classes

Defense:

Demoman

Deffo didn't admit that he loved you

Tbh he probably blamed it on his drunkenness

But dude you're always drunk

I mean seriously if he sobers up he'll genuinely die so like-

He would usually drink with you or just around you if you don't drink

He's generally a fun chill guy to be with

He would watch you from a distance at times, especially during battle you might distract the cyclops

He's okay with you asking questions

One time he broke his eyepatch and needed a new one

You gave him a nice black eyepatch with the demoman emblem on it

He gets all red whenever you say his full name, because he knows you remembered it

He is generally against kidnapping, I mean especially since he lives with his ma he'd rather not

And because he's a gentleman

If you ever reciprocate his feelings he'll make sure to treat you right

He is a messy person but for you? He'll clean

Probably would get carried away and make home made bombs with all the cleaning supplies 🤦‍♂️

Takes you to meet his mom

"ooo Tavish, yer gonna get me some grand kiddos are ya?"

That made you both blush like crazy

Soft cheek kisses

Probably made a special bomb and named it after you

"this one's for you, luv!" *Proceeds to set off all stickybombs which blows up the entire enemy team*

Blew up the last guy who looked at you funny

Hell, even worse when they make a sexual remark to you scout probably did it

Likes to give you your space but when he's paranoid he follows you to wherever or watched you from a distance

Heavy

Two words: big boy

Hugs are 10000000000/10

Sometimes it fewls suffocating but man it's like hugging a cloud

Soft forehead kisses

Russian pet names

He sometimes lets you touch Sasha, that's how he knows he loves you because he doesn't even let medic, his best friend, touch her

Probably named a gun after you or one of the pet names he calls you

You definitely met his family and they loved you

Zana especially

Doesn't get jealous easily but will not hesitate to unload 12 pounds of bullets into someone who even LOOKS at you the wrong way

Lord have mercy on the ones who dare flirt with you, rest in pieces scout

Doesn't really follow you anywhere (you're a bit too fast for him) but he does watch you and check up on you

He preforms okay on the battlefield but when you're around, he'll show off

Will cook for you, mainly russian dishes

He's very against kidnapping and would rather not do it

Doesn't shut up about you when he's around medic

Engineer

F l u f f y

Very softspoken in general but he gets all flustered when you talk to him

Will check up on you occasionally

"Darlin'" "Honey bunny" things like that y'know

Huge smile when you're around

Will cook for you most definitely, knows what you like

Makes little robots for you

Likes seeing you use his dispenser

Doesn't get jealous easily either but will try and take you away from someone who wants your attention

Likes just having you in his presence, doesn't need to talk to be happy with you around

Very very against kidnapping like all other defense classes, wouldn't do it unless if he truly felt the need to, last resort kind of thing

The last guy who flirted with you had a sentry gun shoved up his ass

Doesn't really follow you anywhere

Offense:

Scout

Nothing short of a horomonal teenager

I mean he's 21 but

He gets so giddy around you, very loud, tries to show off

He loves you very much

"oh yeah? Well I once absolutely smashed a guy into peices, he was still screaming when he was dead!"

He brags about brutal things but hey you love it since you're also brutal

Flexes his non-existent muscles around you

Would talk about his mom to you all day

Definitely got a tattoo of your face and name somewhere on his body, most likely his bicep

Your name is probably misspelled too but you never say anything about it because he can't read so it's fine

He hasn't really thought about kidnapping in all honesty, again, a last resort kinda thing if he can't get you to love him

He will make a damn SCENE if anyone flirts with you

"you think that's funny, chucklenuts? I eat guys like you for breakfast lunch AND dinner!" "I'll blow yer freakin head off if ya talk to y/n like that again!" Would definitely drag you away

God help anyone that makes you uncomfortable, he'll fuck them up, if that person is medic I mean he'll try to but we all know how fucking scary medic is

Follows you at times

Pyro

"Mphmphmpph"

Seems more lovey around you

Definitely gave you a hand full of the enemy's bloody bones thinking it was a bouquet of flowers

Absolute baby

Just so precious, scary but precious

Hugs for days

Good luck trying to get their ass off of you when you're on cease-fire

Very warm though, they smell like smoke with a bit of blood

Likes petting you

Isn't against the idea of kidnap because they don't realize what they're actually doing, they think they're just taking you to a magical place

Snuggles

When someone flirts with you their whole world changes

Gets angry and starts yelling at them

"MPHMPHMOHMPHHH! MPHMPHNHUMAHUMA!" - Pyro 2021

Will not let you get a checkup alone, he trusts medic but not with you

Very sweet tho, he'll turn around when you need to strip down

Will follow you almost EVERYWHERE and if they can, while holding your hand

Soldier

Yells at you a little less than the others

At first doesn't realize how he feels but then realizes that he loves you

Is pretty protective over you

Rants about America all day to you

Probably got you an american flag to wear

Doesn't really take off his helmet but he likes seeing you in it, makes him proud

If you ever live with him you'll find out that he owns like 20 racoons

"YOU ARE CUTER THAN A RACOON" "YOU WILL BE SAFE ON THE BATTLEFIELD, DO YOU HEAR ME MAGGOT?"

He loudly wakes everyone up in the morning but tries to avoid waking you up

Loves you as much as he loves America

Will show off on the battlefield for you

Isn't against kidnapping you, he probably did it early on if you showed immediately that you didn't reciprocate his feelings

Will blow any guy that hits on you to absolute bits

"MAGGOT DO YOU HEAR ME? YOU WILL LEAVE THE LADY/MAN ALONE THIS INSTANT!"

Probably put you on his back and rocket jumped just to show you what it felt like

Follows you around a lot, it's really obvious because he wears a bucket over his head and crashes into things, when you look back he'll stand behind a lamp post or somewhere really obvious

Support

Ah yes, everyones favorite class including mine

Sniper

Very quiet

Takes secret glances at you

Pays more attention to you than the others

S h y

Asks how you are, how you slept, etc

Doesn't really need to be holding you, tbh he's against PDA

But he likes being in your presence

Just sit down next to him and he'll be fine

When he's on the battlefield, he'll look for you and make sure you're safe

God forbid anyone try to hurt you, he'll make them suffer

Talks about Australia to you and accidentally admitted that he wanted to take you there

Doesn't like the idea of kidnapping but he isn't totally against it, I can see him doing it

He smuggled you all the damn way to Australia

He'll nonchalantly show off to you on the battlefield, he'll let you get cornered and come in to save the day

"love" is a word he uses a lot with you

Will grumble to himself if he sees someone flirting with you

If it's a random person, well, that'll be the last time you ever see them

Has talked about you to his parents

Kind of follows you? I mean he sits atop a high placeand watches you through his scope whenever you're going somewhere

Spy

SEDUCTIVE ASF

He knows what he's doing

Will kiss your hand a lot

Likes to flirt with you and see you blush

"honhonhon"

Sleazy french fucker

Watched you from afar at first then approached you a little later

Isn't against the idea of kidnapping, pro kidnapping, definitely did it not only to have you to himself but for some sort of sexual satisfaction

Just very uh... Lewd? Can't find the right word

He treats you very respectfully though

If he hears anyone else flirting with you he'll be fuming but won't show it

"Oh please, like you could EVER satisfy y/n's desires"

That person mysteriously disappeared that night

Very cocky bastard

Definetly follows you home, not only that but he watches you through your window

And stalks you

He knows everything about you

Would get you either by knocking you unconscious or by blackmailing you

Medic

B a s t a r d

Gets LOUD when you're around

And giddy

Very touchy, always has a reason to put his hands on you

Talks a lot with you around, I mean he already talks a lot but now he won't shut up

Keeps his office nice and clean for you

He restocks on everything so when you come around you can take a loot at all his medicines

Big smile :D

Like spy he is not at all against kidnapping you

Makes sure you're comfortable during checkups

Will make you wait to be seen last just so he can take his time touching your body

"it's all part of the procedure".mp3

Compliments you in weird ways, ex: "your skin is so smooth and lovely, it's the perfect texture to make leather out of" "you have an amazing colon"

Look he's just trying his best here he has a screw loose

You're the only member who he's careful with really

Sometimes allows you to get hurt or has you get hurt by something just so you can see him

Always follows you wherever

Knows everything about you

If someone is flirting with you, he'll get quiet at first and use a low tone to speak to them

"you have guts talking to y/n like that"

They were never seen again

With kidnapping, he won't hesitate to use blackmail against you, or will just use anesthesia

Bonus: Pauling

Pauling

This lady values her work over her life, but to her you're so much more important

Will call you a lot on the battlefield to check in on you

Won't give you extremely hard missons to do because she doesn't want you to get hurt

"Hey (class), Pauling here. I need you... No not like that I just- I mean- for a mission yeah a mission"

Gets all flustered when you're around

Will take her only day off to spend time with you, what a sweetheart

Keeps multiple tabs on you

Follows you around

Doesn't really have time for kidnapping

But if it comes to that, she'll make something up so she has a reason to kidnap you

If anyone else is flirting with you she won't show that she's annoyed

She'll make something up as an excuse to execute them

[NSFW]

Defense

Demo

Has definitely thought of what you'd look like while naked

B l u s h

Has used a mental image of you to get off before

Probably has an actual photo of you

When he drinks a little more than usual, he'll accidentally brush his hand against your ass or get touchy with you

Will not force himself on you, he's 100% against that

If you decide to have sex with him, praise is what you're gonna get

"you're as beautiful as a shot of whiskey in the sunrise"

Very gentle with his hands

Heavy

Not the type to masturbate

Unless if he gets THAT worked up

Again, against forcing himself on you

But if you want it no doubt you will top

He's also gentle with you

And loving

Praise is all you're gonna get

Sometimes russian sometimes broken english

Either way he will worship your body

Engi

Again, a more modest guy, doesn't really touch himself

Might just use a robot to pleasure himself when thinking about you

Probably has a photo of you and him around his workshop

Never forces himself on you

He's sweet and gentle when you do want it though

Sometimes gets help from his robot friends

Offense

Scout

Gets off on thinking about you

Won't force himself on you though

Sexual remarks × 100

Calls you handsome/beautiful in bed

I wouldn't say he's the best in bed but hey he's good I guess

Cuddles after sex most likely

Probablh threw out all his sexual magazines because they just didn't do the trick anymore

Sometimes when he runs past you, your shirt/skirt gets lifted up by a gust of wind and he can't help but look ( ͡◉ ͜ ʖ ͡◉)

Since I hit the text limit, I'll be making a part 2, stay tuned

#tf2 x reader #medic x reader #engineer x reader #spy x reader #yandere hcs #yandere #scout x reader #sniper x reader #heavy x reader #demoman x reader #pyro x reader #soldier x reader #pauling x reader #yandere tf2

[leroyzboots]

you and i are trying, together.

part two.

The amount of unease that can fit into Tommy's more-than-human-less-than-god body is honestly surprising.

Tommy paces back and forth on the floor of the Lambda lab, his Beyblade whirring between his fingers and his precious immortal dog following behind him with love.

They'd arrived at around half past midnight, but it's now early morning and there's been no sign of the other two members of the science team.

Bubby leans back in their chair, crossing his knee-high laced boots over their knee, and bounces the other one out of anxiety.

"Tommy," he barks; "you're scaring the other scientists."

Tommy glances down and realizes that the Beyblade is whizzing madly in the air around his hands, suspended from nothing.

"D-dammit," He mutters, snatching his toy back and returns it to his pocket.

"They sho-should have been back by now."

Tommy stops pacing for a second and stares down the Coomers with his father's intensity.

"Surely, Benrey could have used teleportation?" Harold chimes in, his knuckles bruised slightly from his repeated stims.

"I think that's what he meant, dear," Bubby replies, patting their husband's shoulder affectionately.

"Yes, exactly!"

Tommy throws his hands into his pockets, huffing out his frustration.

"The f-fact that they're not...back yet! Means something has gone-"

A enormous thud echoes from the the floor, a piece of tile juts out slightly and scatters the scientists nearby.

"Wrong," Tommy finishes miserably, drawing his gun and preparing for Xen's creatures.

Beside him, Sunkist snarls, her hackles raised in warning.

The tile cracks and shoots into the air, with accompanying gunfire from below, and a hatch busts open from the hole.

Tommy aims to shoot, but immediately lowers his gun upon seeing Mr. Freeman's tired but happy face, followed closely by Benrey, the bags under his eyes looking darker than usual.

"G-Gordon!!"

Tommy rushes forward, embracing them both, and the knots of tension unravel in his stomach.

Benrey snuggles just a little closer into Tommy's coat, and Tommy releases Gordon to pull Benrey into a full hug.

--

Tommy planned on never admitting it to himself, but these two were the people he loved the most.

Benrey..he'd known Benrey for years.

It started when Benrey was just out of training, and Tommy had completed his certification to become a top scientist.

Benrey was 19, maybe 20 at the oldest, his hair pulled into a ponytail that ran down his back.

They weren't close, then, Benrey had been assigned to guard the G-Man's adopted son.

Benrey couldn't die, and Tommy's line of work was dangerous enough to need protection.

So it all worked out.

They barely exchanged more than a few words to eachother until that one night, that one fucking night and Benrey is tripping over himself in tears, blood pouring from the wound on his back and he's clutching Tommy, pawing at his shoulders.

Benrey trembled like he's made from glass and will break if he falls, and Tommy gripped the back of the others security vest so tightly the kevlar nearly rips in half.

And that's saying something.

That night they sat together and they're closer in distance than they've ever been, Tommy's warm and gentle hands bandaged the wound above the numbers tattooed onto Benrey's tailbone and Benrey spilled everything.

Between sniffles and the occasional sob, Benrey confessed, about the tools that somehow hurt him beyond regeneration, leaving a scar, about the men and their evil sticks of lightning that would seep into his bones and fill him with pain so intense he felt like he would break in half.

Tommy nearly broke in half himself.

He felt helpless, and so he went to the only person he knew would make the ones who hurt his first and only friend pay dearly-

His father.

Oh, Tommy had never seen the G-man so angry.

Black Mesa was a research facility, for god's sake, dedicated to the study of alien life and the progression of the human body.

So when Tommy's dad realized that the prototype imprisonment he had resolved several years ago had resurfaced with an even uglier face, he sent scientists who had never experienced fear in their lives tripping for the door in yelps of terror.

And that had been the end of it.

Benrey continued his job as a security guard, people who had previously been made in the facility were hired back on as scientists in new departments such as mixology and cybernetics, and Black Mesa cut its ties with the military.

Black Mesa, Benrey explained later in his own broken way to Tommy in the quiet breakroom during lunch hour, had been trying to create the perfect human being.

There were thousands upon thousands of prototypes that had been created, and Benrey had been the last.

But there had always been something wrong with the ones they created, whether it was serious physical or mental deformities, or simply a sense of fucked up little creature that ended up resulting in the insane amount of scientists with the ability to grow in size, and the security guards that always had a few too many rows of teeth or glowing eyes and severe anger issues.

They weren't always grown in tubes, Tommy learned, but they were always branded with their serial number on the base of the spine.

The one before him, Benrey quipped with a mouthful of sandwich, had been born to a prototype and a normal human employee, before they stripped them out with a memory wipe and sent them into normal society.

The anxious feeling that haunted Tommy in the years that followed had something to do with that piece of information in particular.

Something told him that the military and the alien planet they were studying wouldn't let go of Black Mesa kindly.

Mr. Freeman confirmed that.

He's in the hallway, on his way to get a soda, when he's met with a newer employee, only worked here about 4 or so years.

He seemed kind enough, if a little loud and stubborn. And alright, maybe it hurt Tommy's feelings when Gordon called him a freak, but that was pushed aside with the Resonance Cascade.

Tommy knew that this was it, this was the boot boys' revenge for cutting them out of the picture, but there was something else, distinctly and unsettlingly alien about the Cascade.

The whole of Black Mesa fell into shambles, with creatures of Xen integrating into their carefully built walls and lives, and Tommy kinda freaked, okay?

He'd seen Dr. Coomer around, always greeting him with a wonderful "Hello!!", and was met with a thrill in his stomach when he introduced another prototype as his husband.

Those two had been with him, in the observation room when the project exploded around Gordon and Benrey-

he wasn't supposed to be in the test chamber, what if it seriously hurt him?-

And maybe that was when Tommy realized he was in love with Benrey.

Over time, he felt a sense of conflict slowly building as he made friends with Mr. Freeman.

He seemed to hate Benrey, they hated eachother, but Tommy liked one and loved the other so he became their middle ground.

He was convinced to himself that Benrey liked him as well, until that room, that dark, dark room, and suddenly Benrey is kneeling in a puddle of Gordon's blood and Bubby is screaming, sobbing, blubbering his apologies to anyone who is listening as the soldiers drag them away and Benrey-

He says it, he says those words and it breaks Tommy's heart into a billion pieces-

"Because I love him, okay?! I'm fucking- whoop-de-doo, in love with Gordon god. G-goddamn Freeman, okay?..."

And then Benrey teleports, and he's gone, and Bubby is gone and Dr. Coomer leaves him in the cold dark sewer by himself.

Tommy cried.

Burying his head in his coat, he cried hard and long, alone on the rocky floor.

And then Mr. Freeman crawls out of the pipe, and Tommy can't help it, he holds him.

Gordon reeks of sewage and his bloody hand smells of copper but Tommy doesn't care, and alright, maybe that's when Tommy realized he's in love with Gordon too.

Alright, Tommy can deal with that.

Something Tommy can't deal with is the fact that his instincts are going fucking haywire.

Tommy's always been very perceptive when it comes to time, maybe he can't stop time like his father can, but he's definitely got a certain sense of time and reality as it surrounds him.

Being able to reach out and touch and feel certain areas, but not control them, and all of time is wrapped around him like a blanket.

So when the floor crumbles away below them and Benrey and Gordon fall deep into the recesses of Black Mesa's hellscape, Tommy freaks the fuck out.

A deep, inherent concern lays nested in the pit of his mind like a pile of cottonmouth snakes, hissing madly and snarling that something, something, is absolutely wrong with how this is supposed to go.

Tommy has a sinking feeling that something terrible is going to happen.

--

Man, Benrey really hates this place.

The scientists of the Lambda lab asked a simple request of the Science Team- go through the portal to Xen, get rid of the Nihilanth, bring back some weird space shit.

Easy as pie.

Right?

Wrong.

Benrey feels sick, feverish on this planet.

As he follows behind the group, his legs feel leaden and heavy, and he tugs at the collar of his uniform, which feels uncomfortably tight around his neck.

He's sweating, unusually warm beneath his helmet, but shivering as though chilled to his bones.

There's a tug, deep in his torso, pulling him along, but it's a nasty, oppressive feeling that makes his limbs feel like noodles.

He swallows nervously, eyes darting across the fetid, blood colored planet of Xen.

The sour smell clogs his senses, and as they trudge deeper and deeper through the portals, away from the floating rocks with little gravity and past strange barrels of highly toxic looking liquid, the heavy pull in Benrey's chest only grows stronger and more sickly.

They push through a final, puke-green portal, and the feeling inside of Benrey swells to near explosion.

A cave, with jagged and dark stone running up the walls in wicked cracks, a deep red flush to the area.

Water is flooding Benrey's boots, a putrid and decaying smell to the liquid, and it only adds to Benrey's fatigue.

The creature before them could only be the Nihilanth itself, and the very sight sends such a fucking shudder down Benrey's spine.

It's disgusting, twisted and pulsating flesh running down what must be its face, beady eyes in a cadaverous socket.

It looks like a fetus, a failed attempt of termination long after the allotted time.

It speaks, and the chorus of voices that accompanies it gives away the fact that Xen isn't just the planet-

It's the entire race.

"So. The humans have finally decided to be rid of us."

Gordon looks tired, beaten, but pulls himself upward and grunts through the pain of his broken shin.

"Get your video game dialogue out of the way," he says, with a dismissive wave of his gun-hand.

"I'm about done with this alien shit."

The Nihilanth laughs, a hideous and painful sound, and tilts its head in curiosity towards the little group of vagabonds.

"But you have brought us the very thing we need, Mr. Freeman."

Gordon groans in frustration, turning back to his friends with his teeth grinding against eachother.

"Why does it know my name?"

Xens' audience shrieks with delight, and the Nihilanth's barely feasible mouth twists into what can only be guessed as a grin.

"Xen knows everything about you, Mr. Freeman."

Benrey sways on the spot, his boots splashing the strange water, and the scene before him blurs.

"Whadda....what the hell are you..talking about, man?"

Xen's creatures seem to roar with laughter, and beside Benrey, Dr. Coomer throws up his fists protestingly.

"Xen has been all knowing, all seeing since time begun. As we grow, so do our minds, until we are forced to repopulate. Regrow."

Beneath their feet, headcrabs scuttle ominously, causing Tommy to jump backward with surprise.

"But human beings became a problem for Xen. Their flimsy bodies failed, burst open upon integration."

Benrey is only just awake enough to process this.

"The scientists of Black Mesa were so eager to learn of a new planet. So Xen took influence, and under the guise of building a perfect human being, created what Xen needed."

Gordon scoffs, his shoulders shaking as he laughs scornfully.

Xen reacts strongly, a collective hiss rising around them.

"Do not laugh at us, human."

The headcrabs stay at a distance, but raise their pincers and click them menacingly as the Nihilanth's speech continues.

"Xen required a human being who could withstand radiation, a being who could lose blood en mass and not perish."

A sense of dread washes over the Science Team, and Tommy instinctively puts himself in front of Gordon.

Bubby ignites his arms protectively.

"Let me guess," Gordon growls, revving up his minigun limb; "you needed me?"

Xen's creatures wail in joy, and Benrey takes that as a yes, and reaches for his gun, when something big and poisonous and slimy wraps around his ankle.

"Xen requires Benrey."

Benrey yelps as the Nihilanth drags him underneath the water, bubbles of Sweet Voice trailing from his mouth as his back bounces on the cragged floor beneath the surface.

The Nihilanth swings him into the air, and Benrey splutters, ears waterlogged under his helmet, which slips from his head and falls to the ground with a splash, Benrey's short black hair now dripping wet.

"Look at you, our once perfect vessel- a mewling, pathetic dog."

Hung upside down by his ankle, Benrey gasps in pain as Xen shakes him repeatedly, and for a brief, sickening moment, Benrey is forcibly reminded of the Finding Nemo movie Tommy showed him-

He feels like a fish in Darla's little bag.

"Bark, bark, bark but no bite. You were made with Xen's own blood and yet you cannot even protect those you are infatuated with."

With that, the Nihilanth throws him to the far wall, and his skull cracks on the rock.

It doesn't heal, and Benrey slumps down, struggling to stand, his eyesight swimming with tears.

"You think the Freeman human loves you? You cost him a limb. You would be perfect save for your one flaw- you kneel before a man you could kill with no effort, and you beg him to love you as you love him."

Benrey shakes, kneeling, and whimpers as he chokes out a sob, not trying to disguise his tears.

"You truly are nothing."

"No."

The word is tiny, barely audible.

Then again, louder, with a crack of his voice but more than enough power-

"No. You're wrong."

Gordon pulls himself to full height, scowling so deeply the age shows on his face.

"Benrey is everything to us. To all of us, but especially me."

"Y-yeah! We're not afraid of you!" Tommy chimes, and Sunkist howls with approval.

"If you or your alien bitches thought we'd just leave him here, you're just as stupid as you look."

Bubby grins wildly, cracking their neck from side to side, his bright and eager eyes flashing beneath their glasses.

"Don't fuck with the Science Team!" Coomer bellows, and Bubby cheers beside him.

"Now I'm only gonna tell you once," Gordon beams, turning away from his family to draw his gun-hand and point it at Xen's Nihilanth.

"Piss off."

Gordon fires, and the accompanying screams of headcrabs and peeper puppies echo across the cave, and Benrey is overtaken with an aching, sweet feeling he usually associates with Gordon.

It's love.

Benrey smiles fondly as his knees buckle and he falls to the ground and submerges in the murky waters.

--

Benrey wakes up and immediately is struck with a massive goddamn headache.

He closes his eyes and pulls the pillow over his ears, but the pain is there and clearly is not going anywhere, so he's going to have to ask for an aspirin or some shit.

Sitting up makes him so nauseous it's not even funny, so he decides it's not worth it to stand.

A loud snore startles Benrey enough to yelp, and he glances around for the source of the noise.

Sitting hand in hand on the floor, against the wall opposite his bed, are Gordon and Tommy, both bearing signs of wear and both dead asleep.

Gordon is clutching Benrey's helmet so tightly to his shirt it looks uncomfortable, and Tommy is curled protectively around Gordon's shoulders.

They're half dressed, like Black Mesa decided that the HEV suit and a bloody lab coat was not appropriate clothing but also did not have a whole lot of options for back up wear.

Benrey guesses this based on the fact that Gordon's not really wearing pants and Tommy's wearing a t-shirt that says "Birthday Girl".

Something about the fact that they're holding hands hurts Benrey, just a little.

His heart aches for a moment as he remembers the warmth of Gordon's hand and the feeling of a hug from the Beyblade enthusiast who was his best and only friend for a very long time.

Benrey shakes his head, decides he's going to repress it, and yawns.

God, his head hurts.

Benrey figures that if he stands, he's going to trip and probably break something, and since he doesn't trust his regeneration ability right now, he's not risking it.

Instead, he picks up his pillow and heaves it at the two scientists as hard as he can.

Tommy jolts awake, blinking, then smiles widely upon sighting the guard.

"Benrey!!"

Tommy shoots upward, and makes the distance between the wall and the hospital bed in one step, leaving Gordon to slump over and yell in surprise as he hits the floor.

Benrey's pulled into a crushing hug, and he wheezes for Tommy to be gentle.

"S-sorry!" Tommy cries happily, pulling back to take in Benrey's face.

"It's..it's g-good to see you awake."

Gordon stands, still holding the helmet, and wanders over to where Tommy is perched on the edge of the bed.

"You've been out for hours," Gordon adds, gently reaching out with his left hand to ruffle Benrey's hair.

"We were starting to get worried."

Benrey swallows his funny retort for once, instead choosing to spit out some clear blue song in response.

Tommy reads it almost immediately, and excuses himself to get medicine.

Gordon takes his spot on the bed, and just looks over Benrey.

Benrey feels like he's being scrutinized, with Gordon's soft green eyes just roaming over his face.

"Alright. Fucking. Get the questions outta the way," Benrey mumbles irritably, sticking out his tongue.

"I know you're fuckin. Curious about the shit Xen said."

Gordon laughs sweetly, setting the helmet down on the bed next to him and runs his fingers over it fondly.

Benrey takes a note of his new right hand, a grey-black prosthetic that clicks when Gordon moves his knuckles.

"I don't really have any questions," Gordon grins, adjusting his shirt.

"Other than, are you okay?"

Benrey's taken back by this one.

Not only did he cost Gordon his hand and almost his life about thirty billion times, but everyone (including him!) also just found out that Benrey was made with Xen DNA.

He's essentially Gordon's enemy in every sense of the word, and Gordon is asking if he's okay?

"....did the Nihilanth hit your head or somethin', man?? What the hell kinda. Question is that one??"

Gordon's smile softens massively, and it makes Benrey's heart melt into a little puddle in his stomach.

"Benrey, you saved my life a whole shit ton of times back there."

"Yeah, I also almost got you killed," Benrey interrupts, but Gordon doesn't pause.

"I've been thinking about a lot of things while you've been asleep, and I've been talking with Tommy a lot too."

Benrey's happy puddle evaporates into a heavy leaden ball inside of his chest.

"I don't need to hear this, dude."

Gordon looks a little confused, so Benrey keeps going.

"You're. I know you heard the shit Xen said about...."

Benrey pauses, unsure if he wants to say it out loud.

That'll finalize it, forever.

He takes a breath, then with a great effort, says it out loud.

"I love you. Have since we were kids, have since I first met you. Xen was...right. They were fucking right, you're happier with Tommy because he's never hurt you or..fuck. Fuck, man, you don't feel the same and I'm done pushin' it on you. We uhh, clear?"

Gordon covers his mouth with his hand, and for a split second Benrey thinks he's made him cry, but Gordon bursts out laughing, clutching his stomach and snorting in between giggles.

"B-Benny, you idiot, I am in love with you."

Maybe it's the sudden affectionate nickname, or the fact that Gordon said he loves him.

But Benrey blushes, hard, and pink-to-blue sweet voice bubbles out of his mouth in surprise.

"Whuh?"

Tommy walks back into the room, bottle in hand, and pauses at the sight in front of him.

"Oh, are w-we doing conf-confessions now?!"

Before Benrey can even speak, Tommy drops down beside him and kisses him on the cheek, putting him and Gordon's hands in his own.

Tommy doesn't say it, but Benrey gets the point.

"Fucking- FINALLY!!"

Benrey just might die for real.

Bubby leans in the doorway, a smug grin on his face, elbow resting on Dr. Coomer's shoulder.

"Ah, young love is beautiful!"

Tommy and Gordon laugh cheerfully at Dr. Coomer, and Benrey buries his face sheepishly in the blankets.

--

It takes a few days, but Benrey recovers pretty well from the Nihilanth.

He's thought a lot about what Xen said.

And he's decided that they were very wrong about him.

His love for other people isn't a flaw, it's his best quality.

He can and will protect the people he loves with his life, no matter what.

And he knows that the people he loves will do the same for him.

With time, Gordon learns not to flinch at the sight of his right hand, or gag when he drinks a soda.

Benrey learns to accept hugs and snuggles from Tommy, and figures out the jokes that Gordon likes and doesn't like.

Tommy is always there to patch up Benrey's injuries, and learns better responses that don't involve soda when Gordon needs to vent.

So Benrey feels safe, and knows that he's not the only one who's trying to be better.

Benrey and them are trying, together.

#hlvrai #frenrey #tomrey #freelatta #frenreylatta #leafy fics

[l4verq]

remnants (1)

ransom drysdale x reader

in which you have to protect ransom drysdale because he has the same face as steve rogers, your ex who’s gone back to peggy

warnings : fights, guns, hostage situation, tiny bit of violence

if you want to be added to the taglist, lmk in the comments💗

ʀᴇᴍɴᴀɴᴛꜱ

*not my gif*

-

ransom’s seen pretty much everything.

travelled around the world, eaten the finest delicacies, snapped away for five years into non-existence all because of a purple, ball-sack face alien.

or so he thought.

because sitting here cuffed to a chair infront of you barely conscious, he begs to differ.

how did the night get so fucked so fast?

“hey.” he extends his leg, trying to nudge yours desperately.

you were a sight to behold with your hair undone, dark locks tousled around your delicate neck.

but ransom can’t afford to marvel at you, in fact the first thing he needs to do is get the fuck away from you.

because the way you’d jammed that glass cup up that bartender’s throat without a second thought, you were no ordinary woman.

“psst, hey.” He tries again, eyes skimming over the room.

they probably were holding them both for ransom.

hell would freeze over before he gave any of his money to those fuckers who chained him up like a dog.

you stir around slightly as you slowly open your heavy eyes. a groan slips out when you try to adjust yourself, only tightening the hold on your hands.

“good, you’re up.”

you lift your head to see a bloodied ransom across you.

slumping back into your seat, your body cries out in pain at the slightest movements.

as soon as you’d tasted the martini, you knew it was an ambush, thankfully spitting most of it out.

but it was too late, the drug almost instantaneously taking action, making you groggy.

the last thing you vaguely remember is dragging ransom out only to be whacked out cold, seeing stars.

“what’s going on? hey, are you going back to sleep?”he asks, straining his leg out to nudge yours again.

“you just don’t shut up, do you?” you croak out, barely above a whisper.

“i’m being held hostage in this room,” his nose scrunches up, “so, I’m sorry if I’m just a little curious as to what the fuck is going on.”

he looks almost pitiful, dried blood on his forehead and desperation in his eyes.

reminds you of steve after missions when he would limp around, all bruised up.

your eyes flicker over to the one camera pointed right at you, but the way it was angled you knew your hands weren’t in view.

“do you know about the avengers?” you work on dislocating your wrist to free your hands chained behind you.

not exactly your favourite thing but it worked everytime.

he rolls his eyes and quirks an eyebrow.

“you think I don’t know the avengers? the whole ‘saviours of the world but we choose to remain anonymous’ crap?”

“well, you’re looking at one right now.” you give an umamused smile, slightly flinching at the wrench that causes a tear in your ligaments.

he probably wouldn’t have believed you if he hadn’t witness you take down six people with such ease just a few hours? ago.

“anyways long story short, you look just like captain america and for some reason hydra just can’t seem to get over that face of yours.”

he lets out a genuine laugh which only seems to intensify the throbbing pain in his head.

you were a whole other kind of crazy.

“steve rogers? no one’s even seen his face under that dumb cowl of his.” he snorts, noticing the slight shift in your face at the mention of steve.

“andy barber. jake jensen. colin shea. ever heard of them?”

another tear.

he shakes his head, his irritation only growing by the very second.

“a few months ago, each one of them started disappearing one after the other. the only thing they had in common was their faces. they looked exactly like you, like him.”

you clench your jaw as you position your wrist for the final twist.

the last one always hurt like a bitch.

“you’re crazy.” he huffs, in disbelief.

he knew he shouldn’t have gone to that stupid event, not let his mother get in his head like always.

he could be at home right now, in his lavish three bedroom villa overlooking the sylvan surroundings.

but here he was, tied up in a filthy room with an avenger.

you might have to agree with him on the crazy part because you’re regretting the whole dislocating thing when the last twist pulls through, pain nearly blinding you.

he can only watch in horror as he realises what you’re doing.

“no, like you’re actually insane.” he breathes out in disbelief as your hands slip out of the chain.

the door swings open, guns pointed right at you.

a particular face in the middle catches your eye as you recognise him.

“you know you’re not getting out of here that easy, right?” zemo chuckles, “broke those pretty bones for nothing.”

“you get blipped for five years and this is the first thing you do? somebody needs to get a life.” you slowly get up, hands raised (you think?)

you couldn’t really feel them anymore.

“sit back down.” he orders, gun pointed right at your head.

he yells at you to sit down again but the gun’s pointed at ransom now.

“holy fuck, dude, don’t point that shit at me. this is how 99% of the people in movies die.” ransom pleads, his eyes closed.

“he’s not steve, you know that. so, why are you doing this? I mean I know why I’m doing this.” you hesitantly sit back down, your ears pleased for once to hear the familiar whirring.

just a few more seconds. that’s all you needed.

he cocks his head, “doing what?”

“buying time.”

ransom’s seen enough action movies to know the probability of him accidentally being shot by any of the rain of bullets whizzing past you two right now is high.

too high for his liking.

he thinks he saw a red flying thing knock out zemo? before you pushed him down so hard the chair broke.

“jesus christ, are you trying to kill me?” He yells, his back throbbing in pain.

and all of a sudden, it’s quiet,a persistent ringing taking over his ears.

he opens his eyes to see you hovering over his face.

it’s weird, your lips seem to be moving but he can’t hear you.

and it’s all black.

“i just want you to know that what you did back there, that was stupid.” sam glares at you, in the rearview mirror.

“and dumb.” bucky chimes in.

you roll your eyes.

it was going to be a long ride to the safehouse.

the car bumps and ransom bounces around, his head hitting the top.

“jesus, hold him or something.” bucky turns around, looking at ransom’s unconscious body sprawled on the seat.

you scoot over closer to ransom, your hand guiding his head to your lap.

bucky turns back around, a grin creeping up to his face which you just want to punch off.

you look down at the bloody mess on Ransom’s forehead, fingers slightly grazing over it.

it was done with a blunt object, most likely the back of a gun.

you can’t stop staring at his face, the same lump forming in your throat again.

so you force yourself to look away, focus on the trees zooming past until sam stops the car infront of a small house, “we’re here.”

bucky hands you a bag of essentials, waving at you to go in, “we got him.”

the house is actually better than most safe houses you’re used to.

it has electricity and hot water and that’s already made it a top contender.

you head straight for the shower, stripping down to nothing while turning on the water.

you hiss in pain at the contact of water on your aching skin.

the water’s scorching hot but it’s the only way you feel clean.

you scrub off the grime and dirt like always, desperately washing away the dried blood under your fingernails.

a trail of reddish brown water as you wash your hair, nails scratching every surface of your scalp.

quickly changing into a set of clean clothes, you pull out a box of needles.

you’re sloppy with your stitches, maybe cause you’d gotten used to him doing it for you.

throwing your wet hair into a towel, you debate whether to clean his wound up or not.

but your hand is already reaching for the bag of first aid sprawled all over the sink.

“it’s just a nice thing to do.” you mumble, making your way to the living room.

sam’s passed out on the couch adjacent to ransom and you’re pretty sure bucky went out to get some food.

they’ve changed his clothes for him but the ugly bruise on his forehead only seems to be swelling up.

you sit down on the floor, rummaging through the box, pulling out cotton and antiseptic.

“am I dead?” he croaks out, slightly shifting.

you chuckle, looking back at him.

a few dabs of the brown liquid on the cotton.

“this is gonna sting.” You warn him before gently wiping the angry bruise.

he flinches, groaning in pain.

“where am I?”

“safe.”

“yea, that’s really comforting.” he looks up at you in annoyance.

you exchange to a new waft of cotton, still cleaning up the dried up blood.

it’s strange, how weird yet nice your gentle touches feel.

the way your lips slightly part and eyebrows knit together as you concentrate.

ransom never really had someone take care of him like this.

“wher’s Steve?” he asks the lingering question on his mind.

there’d been many conspiracy theories online, each one crazier than the other.

he again notices the slight clench of the jaw, the shift in your position at the mention of his name.

“gone.” you reply stoically, placing the gauze over the swelling wound.

a shit reply but he can’t bring himself to pry further.

you look down at his face, the familiarity of this catching you offguard.

after every mission, he’d force you to sit down and tend to your every wound, every scratch.

can’t have my girl walking around, all bruised up like that.

and you’d force him to sit down and do the same.

it was always so personal, standing between his legs, his hands around your waist while yours worked around.

“hey, you okay?” ransom lifts his head, regretting it instantly as pain shoots up his entire body.

you blink away the tears threatening to spill any second.

“yeah, I’m good. Get some rest.”

you fumble around, hurriedly picking up the first aid kit, your shaky hands doing little to help you.

you were clearly distraught and ransom had a sneaking suspicion why.

-

a/n : i dont even know if u can physically dislocate your wrist yourself lol, im just making shit up as i go lmao

#ransom drysdale #steve rogers #chris evans #ransom x reader #ransom x you #ransom x y/n #steve x reader #steve x you #steve x y/n #captain america #mcu #marvel #sam wilson #bucky barnes #steve rogers angst #ransom thrombey x reader #knives out

[lesetoilesfous]

For DADWC: from the Florence + The Machine Prompt List list > "And the heart is hard to translate, it speaks a language of its own". You're my favorite fenders writer 💙, so fenders fic, pretty please!

Aaaaaaaah so I got this twice and I love it SO much so thank you both! @contreparry​ - I really hope you enjoy it!

(If you’d like me to write you a dragon age fic, send me a prompt from here!)

@dadrunkwriting​

Pairing: Fenders

Characters: Fenris, Anders

Tags: canon-typical graphic depictions of violence, Anders was right, anti-chantry, fluff

Rating: Mature

“And the heart is hard to translate It has a language of it's own It talks in tongues and quiet sighs And prayers and proclamations in the grand days Of great men and the smallest of gestures In short shallow gasps” 

- All This and Heaven Too, Florence + The Machine

It started on a beach in 9:30 Dragon. It was raining, and Fenris, Hawke and the rest of their companions were hot and sticky with blood when the clouds had burst. They’d left a litter of broken slaver bodies in the sand dunes behind them, stumbling down to the grey waves of the Waking Sea beneath a cloudy sky. 

And then it had begun to rain, and the mage: a foolish, willful man utterly ignorant of his own privilege, had yelped and begun to take his clothes off. Fenris can still remember the way the sand had felt between his toes, and hear the buzz of insects in his ears as he’d stared at the tall, blonde man, and the sand between them had grown dark with water. 

Anders had stripped down to his smalls, blood streaked up his forearms in long vivid slashes, and dropped his staff carelessly into the long, stiff silver reeds. Admittedly, it was a cheap thing: clearly scavenged or stolen, and nothing that any self-respecting magister would have been seen dead with. Still. Fenris had never seen a mage just drop their staff like that before. Just to the right of Anders’ chest, half hidden by thick red-blonde hair, was a deep and jagged scar directly above his heart. His belly was almost concave, hip bones jutting in a way that could only be unhealthy. There were more scars, but Fenris barely had a chance to see them before Anders was running at the freezing sea.

From behind, Fenris saw that his long back was latticed with more scars than he had previously imagined. The mage yelped as he got into the waves, feet hopping as if the water were burning hot, not freezing cold. And then he got past the shallows, and dove in beneath the cresting waves. Behind him, somewhere between the beach and the horizon, seabirds leapt squawking into the grey sky. Anders had burst up out of the blue water, laughing, tossing his hair back from his face in a whip of antique gold, tipping his long, crooked nose back and shutting his eyes as he raised his face to the watery grey sunlight.

And then Isabela and Hawke, laughing, had pulled each other’s clothes off and followed him, and Fenris had been left standing uncertainly on the beach, watching them, unable to decipher the ache in his chest as he waited for them to rejoin him on the shore.

*

It started in the Alienage in 9:30 on Wintersend. Anders had just delivered triplets, which was a labour that was exactly as harrowing and arduous as he had worried it would be. He hadn’t slept in 48 hours, and for weeks after he’d ascribed the events of that night to a waking dream. The elvhen women whose children he’d delivered had attempted to press what silver they had into his hands, and Anders had pressed it back into the mother’s wife’s hands, dizzy with the expenditure of his magic and the sheer weight of fatigue. Then he’d taken his staff, more as a cane than anything, and slowly left the narrow confines of their home.

His knee had been blistering with pain: and he’d known before the first kiss of snow that the weather had changed. His worst scars always warned him before the sky broke. Still, the coat he’d armoured over the years with reinforced leather and what other supplies he could scavenge provided little warmth against the night, so Anders was shivering as his breath fell in white clouds into the dark. Around the Vhenadahl, candles flickered against the wind in a way that only magical fire could, and Anders sent a silent half-hearted prayer to the Maker that the templars would stay inside their barracks tonight, and not make any midnight excursions into Lowtown.

The last person he had expected to see leaving Merrill’s home was Fenris, and he certainly hadn’t expected to see the elf wrapped in a mossy green, knitted woolen scarf. For a second the pair of them stared at each other, caught like apprentices out of bed past curfew. Then Fenris had flushed, ruddy against his dark skin, and marched past him. Anders had expected it to end there, but when Fenris got to the foot of the steps to the alienage he stopped, greatsword strapped like steel lightning to his back.

He turned on the steps, and frowned at Anders. “Are you coming?”

Anders had followed. Fenris said nothing for the whole journey, but he walked Anders to the door of his clinic, and when Anders swayed as he tried to heave open the heavy doors, Fenris had caught his elbow. Anders had stared at him, more startled by the unexpected gesture than he would have been by the Darktown floor, and Fenris jerked his hand back like he’d been burned. In one of the undercity taverns, a chorus of festival goers were singing. Fenris gave him a short, sharp nod. “Good night, mage.”

Anders nodded back, speechless. Through the broken walls of Darktown, snow drifted in silent clouds and disappeared into the blue ink of the Waking Sea. Anders was convinced for years that he imagined it when Fenris stopped again, on the staircase outside the clinic, and spoke in a murmur. “Happy Wintersend.”

*

It started on Sundermount in 9:33 Dragon.  Fenris had fallen, feet slipping in the mud, right calf failing him thanks to a slice to his leg that felt like it had split a ligament. His leg was a screaming burn and the rest of him was little better. The fog on the mountain was thick and white as dragon’s breath, and much colder, seeping through his armour and into his skin, and making the lyrium sewn into his flesh numb the veins around it in a bruising ache. Fenris couldn’t see Hawke, or Isabela, and he did not trust the mage to be anywhere than at Hawke’s side, for all that she had clearly long since promised her heart to Isabela. It was with a grim certainty that Fenris had looked up into the bloody, snarling face of his would-be killer, even as his mind ran through every formal strategy and dirty tricky he could think of. His fingers scrabbled in the dirt for mud to throw into his eyes, but his fingers were weak and stiff with the cold. The slaver’s sword fell.

Which was when six feet two of mage tackled him. Fenris stared as Anders charged at the slaver who would have killed him, throwing him down into the dirt. The mage’s staff was nowhere to be seen, and his hair was almost brown with the rain. His pale face was streaked with blood, and his coat and shirt were torn and scorched in places, exposing his bare, newly healed skin. Fenris stared as Anders tackled the slaver down into the mud and then reared back and punched him, hard, breaking his nose before punching him again, and again, and then taking a dagger from his belt and slitting his throat with brutal efficiency.

When the act was done, Anders dropped the knife into the dirt and scrambled to his feet, long legs skidding in the wet mud like a newborn colt. Fenris almost laughed, but in the absence of mortal peril his injuries were attempting to set his nerve endings on fire. His efforts to sit ended in him collapsing back onto the hill and praying to a Maker he struggled to believe in that Hawke and Isabela had dealt with the rest. And then Anders was there, face covered in blood and mud, hair clinging like kelp to his newly freckled and faintly sunburned cheeks. “Oh no you don’t.”

Magic fell over Fenris’ ruined leg like holy fire, and Fenris’ pain evaporated, washing away from one heartbeat to the next until it was merely a distant, terrible memory. Slowly, stiffly, Fenris managed to sit up, and for the first time in three years, Anders gave him a warm, honest smile. “There you are.” 

Then he’d stood, and Fenris had been dizzily reminded exactly how tall he was. And then there was a long, calloused hand, red with blood, fingers crooked with breaking, thrust into the foggy air between them. Despite himself, Fenris took it.

*

It started on the Wounded Coast in 9:33 Dragon. Aveline was attempting to woo her soon to be husband, Donnic, and Anders was struggling to understand exactly why that required Hawke and her friends to put their lives on the line. But the summer was late and hot, and the days were long, and Marian’s eyes were very blue. So he’d found himself in the shifting, midge-ridden dunes of the Coast, killing slavers and Tal-Vashoth, and only occasionally cringing with second hand embarrassment at Aveline’s attempts at flirtation. 

They’d dispatched most the ne’er-do-wells stupid enough to show their faces between the sand dunes, and were waiting for Aveline and Donnic to catch up in an appropriately concealed spot beneath the hissing reeds. Soon enough, their voices came down the path, not quite smothered by the close crash of the ocean and the whistle of the wind. 

“So I think it’s always best to start with a quick downward slash, and then follow up with a parry. It’s predictable, sure, but I think it’s good to get recruits started on what’s tried and trusted.”

Fenris had laughed, and for a second Anders thought the wind dropped. The elf’s voice was rough and low, and his laugh was too. He’d curled his lyrium-twined fingers at Isabela, and Isabela had rolled her eyes and presses a silver into his waiting palm. Fenris had pocketed it. Then he’d caught Anders staring, and cleared his throat, colour rising to his high cheekbones. Isabela had leaned across him, and Fenris’ flush had risen up the back of his neck and into the tips of his ears. Anders had tried very hard not to stare at it.

“Do you want in? Fenris thinks it won’t be until the third path.”

Anders had spoken, as he so often did, without stopping to think. “I wouldn’t have figured you for the romantic type.”

Fenris had met his eyes, then, and the elf’s were deep and green and beautiful. “There is a great deal that you do not know about me, mage.”

Anders had not been able to think of anything else for the rest of the night.

*

It started in 9:37 Dragon. They were in The Hanged Man, and Fenris was staring at the monster that wore the face of his nightmares. Corff was nowhere to be seen, nor were Maraas or any of the tavern’s other regulars. Fenris was trying to beat back the tide of cynicism in his mind telling him that he should have known they would betray him, all of them. That he should never have trusted anyone but himself. 

His sister stepped back, and his blood roared so loudly in his ears that he barely heard what Hawke said. But he heard his domi - Danarius - talking about his affection and his skills. It took everything Fenris had not to vomit on the tavern floor, and his mind revolted in a dizzy kind of horror as the impulse conflicted with memories of merrier disasters on these same stained floorboards. Then there were demons, and his mouth was thick with sulphur, and Fenris was fighting for his life.

It was like being back in the Provings again. Danarius had found his way onto the wooden staircase of The Hanged Man: the staircase that led up to Varric’s rooms, the staircase on which Fenris had once kissed Isabela and been pleasantly surprised by her response, the staircase where he’d found her kissing Hawke and told them it didn’t matter. Danarius had desecrated this place that despite the best efforts of Fenris’ anxieties had become like a home to him. Danarius had stood there, and watched, and Fenris had heard his friends’ screams as his master’s demons had ripped into their flesh.

Fenris had lost track of time, arms burning with the searing remnants of dismembered spirits, hands slippery with sweat and blood. But at some point the familiar relief of healing had disappeared, and he had belatedly looked up through sweat-stinging eyes to see Anders’ body arched in a translucent prison of blue light. Danarius had been watching the mage with an expression of terrible curiosity that Fenris knew well and feared more. His expression had been almost impassive as the mage shuddered and spasmed, blood oozing from his ears and flowing from his nose and down over his chin. 

Isabela was clutching a gash in her side that was turning her white canvas tunic cherry red, and Hawke was dragging a mangled leg through the broken furniture as she made her way towards her. Fenris stood frozen in the smouldering wreckage, trapped like the butterflies his master liked to collect on pinned boards in his study. Anders had collapsed in a heap at Danarius’ feet, and Danarius had stepped forward. Fenris’ heart lurched. 

But then Anders had surged abruptly to his feet and punched Danarius in the balls. 

Fenris laughed, a shocked bark that was too loud in the tavern following the battle, and Danarius had wheezed, and blood had spun about his fingers, and Anders had grabbed the back of his head with one hand and slammed his knee into Danarius’ nose with a jarring crunch, chest heaving as he panted. 

Then he’d picked up Danarius with all the strength promised by his tall, muscular frame, his training as a Grey Warden and the hearty meals Varric had spent nine years coaxing him into. Anders hurled Danarius down the stairs, where he landed in a heap at Fenris’ feet. Anders had looked at him, beard red with blood, body trembling with fury or pain or both.

“He’s all yours.”

And just like that, Fenris was free.

*

It started in 9:37 Dragon. Hawke and Isabela had fled across the sea, and Anders didn’t blame them. The Chantry was gone, and he was still getting used to the idea that he was meant to survive this. He still wasn’t entirely sure that he should, and Justice had been all too silent on the subject. So he spent his days in a waking dream, trekking for days and then weeks into the Vimmark mountains in the vague direction of Nevarra.

He hadn’t seen another living person for three weeks when an elf emerged from the fog, wreathed in white light like a ghost. Anders had stopped. His body and mind had long since become stretched too thin with hunger, horror and grief. Fenris’ countenance, for all its grim finality, came as an abrupt relief. At least he could stop running, now.

He’d dropped his staff, slowly, and held up his hands. “If you’re here to kill me, I won’t stop you.”

Fenris had not drawn his sword, but he hadn’t let the light die in his lyrium, either. When he stepped closer, he didn’t make sound, and for a moment Anders thought perhaps he really was a ghost, summoned by his imagination and too many nights in a decade spent longing for a man he couldn’t have. 

Around them, birds had sung in the early morning, and not far off a stream made its laughing way down the cliffs. “Why did you run?”

Fenris asked the question as if it held the secret to the restoration of the Golden City itself. Anders laughed, stepping forward and stumbling over his own feet and the thick mass of pain that was his long since ruined knee. Fenris moved toward him through the long, dew-soaked grass, but didn’t quite breach the space between them. Anders swayed into a mostly intentional sitting position on a moss-covered boulder. “Does it matter?”

Fenris had met his eyes, and his own were dark and green and beautiful. “It does.”

Anders shrugged, and shut his eyes, leaning his head back and up into the fog. Water kissed his cheeks, and he thought: it would have been worth it, for this. It would have been worth it, to feel the weather again. 

Something skittered in the bushes, and Anders opened his eyes and watched Fenris turn, bristling, to scan the trees. After a moment Fenris’ shoulders lowered, fractionally, and he turned back to Anders. He’d asked the question again, patiently, persistently. “Why did you run?”

Anders shook his head. “Because I didn’t want to bring you down with me.” Fenris’ eyes had widened a little, and Anders hurried on. “Any of you. I knew what I was doing, but the consequences were mine alone. I wasn’t going to subject you to them.”

Fenris had tilted his head, and the lyrium in his skin had sent shimmering refractions of light dancing iridescently through the fog. “I did not think you bore me so much good will.”

“More like I didn’t bear you so much ill.” Anders had corrected, before sitting forwards, feeling abruptly the weight of too many decades of exhaustion lying heavy on his aching shoulders. “It’s alright. I think killing me is the best decision, too.”

The glass had rustled, then, and Anders thought it must have been deliberate. But then Fenris’ feet were in front of him, stained green with the grass, and the light of his lyrium faded, leaving them both wreathed only in the sunlit fog. Anders looked up at Fenris, and he looked like some ancient king, backlit by the bright sky, skin dark and olive against the shimmering silver of his lyrium. “I’m not going to kill you, mage.”

And then there was a dark, calloused hand, silver with lyrium, fingers slender and elegant, thrust into the misty air between them. Anders stared at Fenris, and Fenris’ poker face cracked as he gave him a small, crooked smile. Despite himself, Anders took his hand, letting Fenris pull him easily to his feet.

“I’m going to help.”

*

It started in 9:40 Dragon, when the Circle of Dairsmuid was annulled, and over five hundred mages between the ages of six and seventy were murdered because they were allowed to see their families.  It started in 9:40 Dragon, with the rebellion of the White Spire.  It started in 9:40 Dragon, when Lord Seeker Lambert declared an end to the Circle of Magi.

It started in a tavern in Nevarra, at a meeting of former slaves and runaway mages. It started with elves, and second-hand weapons, and an apostate with a Fereldan accent who looked like an Ander. It started with an elf from Tevinter with white tattoos that looked like Vallaslin.

It started with rebellion. But that isn’t where it ended.

*

“No, words are a language It doesn't deserve such treatment And all my stumbling phrases Never amounted to anything worth this feeling All this heaven never could describe Such a feeling as I'm healing, words were never so useful So I was screaming out a language That I never knew existed before.”

- All This and Heaven Too, Florence + The Machine

#dadwc #fenders #da2 #fenris #anders #my fic #barbex #contreparry

[harringrovetrashrat]

Intercrurral prompt: Billy’s been harassing Steve all year, and it’s taking everything Steve has not to think bisexual thoughts about the guy he HATES. But one night, wrong place and wrong time, where they run into each other in the woods while Steve is on demodog patrol and Billy is escaping a bad run-in with Neil. Things boil over - the biggest imagery I have is Billy harshly whispering in Steve’s ear “Tell me you want this. TELL me you want ME.”

Okay, okay, okay

Here we GO.  Alright.  It took me a moment to find just the right way to do this, but I finally got it.

And it somehow ended up over 3k, whoooops. Let’s hope the read more actually works this time lol

TW for one use of the f-slur and misogynist language from Billy.

--

Steve ran a hand over his face as he stomped through the trees.  The cold February air bit at his skin, made his nose run.  Steve sniffed for what felt like the millionth time, still unable to stop the jittering in his bones.  He couldn’t go home.  Things felt too still, too quiet tonight.  Something was going to happen.  Steve could feel it.

He twirled the bat again, stretching out his fingers.  The trees were dark against the snow, the cloudless night allowing the moon to shine in through breaks in the trees.  Steve bit his lip, thinking about the day.  It sent a spike of warmth to his gut and he frowned, annoyed with himself.

It wasn’t much different than normal.  He spent the day tailing after Nancy and Jonathan, ignoring Tommy when he passed him in the hall, and trying to keep his dick to behave whenever Billy pressed up against him.  Or pushed him.  Or teased him.  Or fucking looked at him, jesus.  Steve had a problem and he really didn’t want to have it.  He’s looked at guys before, done stuff before, but of all fucking people, his dick had to be interested in Billy fucking Hargrove.

He’d prefer his dick be interested in Jonathan.

There was a snap from a few meters ahead in the trees and Steve froze, all thoughts exiting his brain.  His blood pumped through his veins and his pulse skyrocketed as he adjusted his grip on the bat.  He quietly made his way forward, looking through the brush for anything weird.  Anything slimy.  There were some dark spots on the ground that Steve followed, panic clawing its way into his chest.

“Fuck!” He heard someone hiss.  The sound came from in front of him and Steve relaxed minutely.  It wasn’t demodogs.

That didn’t mean there wasn’t still a threat.

Steve did his best to make sure his shoes didn’t crunch too much in the snow as he approached a clearing.  Someone was sitting on a log, hunched over on themselves, but they looked human enough.  There wasn’t any weird smell, nothing too obviously weird, so Steve lowered the bat.

“Hello?” The person on the log jumped, standing and whirling around, fists up and ready.  Bruised as well.  Which was why Steve wasn’t surprised to find himself looking at Billy Hargrove.

A messed up Billy Hargrove.

He had a black eye and a bloody nose, with what looked like a small cut at his hairline.  Steve kind of wished he hadn’t said anything.  Billy relaxed minutely, face scrunching into a sneer.

“Harrington?  What the fuck are you doing out here?  Mommy and Daddy playing house?” Steve ignored the sting, flaring his nostrils as he flexed his hand around the bat.  Billy’s eyes darted down before widening.  “What the fuck?” His voice lost it’s teasing edge, verging into actually scared.

“Oh,” Steve said, not wanting to drop the bat in case he needed it.  For whatever reason.  “Just-- On a walk.”

“On a walk?” Billy droned, unimpressed.  “Really?  Do you think I’m a fucking idiot?” Steve bristled and whatever was in the air that night pressed him forward, made him confrontational.

“Maybe,” he replied.  Billy tensed up, nostrils flaring as he grit his teeth.  “Smart people don’t come out here at night.” Billy barked out a mean laugh.

“S’Why you’re out here then, huh?” Steve stopped a few feet away, slinging the bat over his shoulder.  Now that he was closer, he could see that Billy’s cut was still bleeding.  Could see that his wounds were fresh.  That he was shaking.

“Seriously,” Steve said.  “The woods around here aren’t safe.”

“Safer than other places,” Billy grumbled angrily.  He looked up at Steve, eyes sharp.  “If they’re so unsafe, why are you out here for a walk?” Steve’s mind went blank as he grasped for a reason.

“I-- Well, I mean--”

“You out here meeting some fag lover?” Billy said, smile sharp and mean.  Steve clenched his fist, cheeks going ruddy.  Billy tilted his head, pushing his cheek out with his tongue.  Steve couldn’t help the way his eyes were drawn there.

“No,” he replied, stony.  “Honestly just out for a walk.”

“Really?  You and Creep Byers don’t meet up when Wheeler’s being too much of a bitch?” Steve gripped the bat tightly, scowling.

“Don’t call her that,” he snapped.  Billy snorted, hiding a grimace, and rolled his eyes.

“She left you, man,” he said.  “And you follow her and her new boyfriend around like a fucking lost dog.” Steve felt his cheeks heating up again, felt a blush creeping down his neck.

“Fuck you,” he said.  “It’s called having friends, ever heard of it?” Billy sneered, getting up into Steve’s space.  It made it a little hard to think, having him this close.  Close enough that Steve could see where Billy would freckle in the sun, how blue his eyes were, could fucking smell him.  He pushed the thoughts down, ignoring the heat in belly, just from having Billy close.  Stupid dick.

“You think you’re so above everyone, everything, don’t you?” Steve rolled his eyes, letting the bat fall to his side.  Billy wasn’t a threat, not really.  Not worthy of the bat at least.

“What’s your issue, man?” Steve asked.  Billy shoved him a little, making Steve take a step back.

“You’re my issue, Harrington,” he snapped.  “And I told you to fucking plant your feet.”

“What the fuck did I ever--”

“Your fucking existence fucking pisses me off!” Billy shoved him again, harder this time, and Steve let out a grunt, dropping the bat.  “You’ve got a fucking family that gives a shit, you’ve got fucking money, you’ve got fucking everything, and you--” Billy punctuated each reason with a shove, pushing until Steve was back up against a tree.  When he cut himself off, something flashed over his face.  Worry, fear, Steve wasn’t sure, but it was gone as soon as it was there.  “You, Harrington, just piss me off.”

“You don’t know shit about me, Hargrove,” Steve snapped, trying to push him off.  Billy pushed back, pinning him against the tree.  Steve let out a grunt, freezing up as Billy’s pressed up closer, getting into Steve’s face.  This was… dangerous.  Steve was already chubbing up in his pants and he swallowed thickly, giving some more frantic shoves to Billy’s shoulders.  “Fucking get off,” he said, voice high and pitchy.  Billy sneered, shoving Steve to the ground, standing above him.

“You’re such a fucking pussy,” he sneered.

“At least I’m not some fucking violent freak,” Steve said, sharp and cutting and cruel.  It’s what he wanted to be, in that moment.  Billy did that to him.  Brought out the King Steve who was mean, alone, and hurt.  And the words worked.  Billy snarled, jerking Steve up off the ground.  Steve grabbed at Billy’s hands, stumbling.

“Fuck you,” Billy hissed.  He gave Steve a shake, shoving him into another tree, slamming a hand next to his face.  Steve’s chest heaved with anxiety and, unfortunately, arousal.  He kind of had a thing for being manhandled.  At least, being manhandled by Billy.  The blonde pressed close, hurt shining in his eyes behind the fury.  It threw Steve for a bit of a loop.  “Fuck.  You.” Billy repeated, voice wobbling.  He pushed at Steve, pressing him up against the tree, before pausing.  His eyes widened and Steve flushed.  It was bound to happen, but Steve had held out some childish hope that Billy wouldn’t notice he’d been sporting a boner for a little while.  “What--”

“You’ve made your point--” Steve tried, tense as he tried to sink into the tree.

“Are you hard?” Billy asked.  Steve swallowed and closed his eyes, wishing the world could swallow him up.  “Seriously?”

“I’m not talking with you about this,” Steve squeaked, trying to move away.  Billy pinned him even more against the tree, sliding a leg between Steve’s thighs.  He let out an involuntary whimper.

“You are,” Billy said, almost with wonder.  Steve opened his eyes, meeting Billy’s blue ones.  They were calculating, stripping him down, and it made Steve shiver.  Billy’s tongue flicked over his bottom lip and his mouth curled up at the side.  “Is it from the lack of pussy?  Not enough girls begging to wet your dick?”

“Why are you so gross,” Steve breathed, closing his eyes again.  “It’s not-- Just drop it--”

“Oh, so you only get like this,” Billy trailed a finger over Steve’s clothed dick, making him let out a choked cry, “For me?” Steve’s eyes snapped open and Billy grinned.  There was something hungry in his eyes that made something hot curl through Steve, made him breath a little harder.  But, well, this was Billy.  He was probably fucking with him.

“Fuck off,” Steve breathed out, finding it hard to control his voice.  He tried to push at Billy’s shoulders, tried to avoid those piercing eyes, but Billy caught his face in one hand, making Steve look at him.  He slowly pushed his thumb into Steve’s mouth, pulling it open.  The salty taste of his skin on Steve’s tongue made him breathe harder, chest heaving, pupils dilating.

God he was gonna get the shit beat outta him for this.

“I thought I was,” Billy began, trailing off.  He pulled his lower lip into his mouth, tongue peeking out as he looked in Steve’s eyes, at his mouth, still open and panting.  Gripped Steve through his pants, making his legs tremble.  He was grateful for the tree behind him, that was for sure, otherwise he might have stumbled from his legs turning into jelly.  Steve’s chest heaved, nervous and aroused, and Billy exhaled heavily through his nose.

“Thaw yoo were wha?” Steve asked, breathy and mangled from Billy still holding his mouth open, thumb pressed against Steve’s tongue.

“The way you look at me,” Billy said, eyes heated now, hungry, almost rabid with want.  “Thought I was imagining it.  But this,” he rubbed over Steve’s erection again, making him tremble, “Suggests that maybe I wasn’t.” Steve stared at Billy, dick throbbing.  Billy licked over his bottom lip, almost unconsciously.  His eyes flicked down to Steve’s bulge, a weird groan escaping him.  It made Steve’s dick twitch in his jean almost painfully.  Billy’s eyes widened and his eyes snapped back up to Steve’s.

“‘illy,” Steve tried, still unable to speak clearly with that thick fucking thumb on his tongue.

“God,” Billy groaned, shaking again, but with restraint.  Like he was trying not to touch Steve more than he was already.  “You’re so fucking-- You want this, don’t you?” Steve tried to shake his head, to deny the fucking obvious truth.  “You want my dick in your mouth?  Stretching those pretty pink lips?” And god, Steve did.  He’d never had a dick in his mouth but god, did he want.  He nodded, weakly.  Billy tsked, pulling Steve’s mouth open more, until it almost hurt.  His dick shouldn’t have liked it as much as it did but, well.  “No no, Harrington,” Billy crooned.  “Use your words.” He leaned in, lips brushing against Steve’s ear as their bodies pressed together.  Steve couldn’t feel the cold, couldn’t feel anything but the heat of Billy’s body pressed against him.  Of his erection pressing against Steve’s thigh.  Fuck.  “Tell me you want this,” he hissed, breath puffing against Steve’s ear, sending goosebumps across his body.  He gave a full body shiver, could practically feel Billy’s grin against his lobe, a wet tongue slowly following the shell.  Steve felt like he couldn’t breathe and he never wanted it to stop.  “Tell me you want me.”

“‘uck , ‘illy,” Steve wheezed, arching his back so their hips ground together, eliciting a moan from himself and a hiss from Billy.  “Ye, ye, p’ease.” Billy’s hand fell out of his mouth, one hand gripping Steve’s hip as the other made quick work of his belt and zipper.  There was a damp spot on the outside of his jeans, the inside of his underwear sticky from where he had been steadily leaking, and Billy’s sharp inhale made Steve groan.  Billy looked at him, eyes hazy with lust as he licked his palm, maintaining eye contact as his gripped Steve’s dick, freed from the confines of his clothes.  Steve’s eyes fluttered closed and his mouth opened in a silent gasp as he tilted his head back, thunking against the tree.  “Fuck,” he whined, hands gripping Billy’s biceps.

“I fucking knew it,” Billy hissed, leaning to press open mouthed kisses to Steve’s neck.  The heat of Billy mixed with the cold, harsh air, drove Steve fucking mad.  His head was foggy, filled to the brim with Billy.  “Every time I shoved you, fucking every time I looked at you, I could see it.” Steve gasped as Billy latched onto his neck, biting and sucking.  It was so different than anything Steve had experienced, even with the guys he’d fooled around with.  Billy was rough, yet somehow still gentle, still attentive.  His hand was slow, leisurely stroking Steve and swiping the head with his thumb.  Steve wasn’t sure he’d still be upright if it wasn’t for Billy holding him up against the tree.

“See what?” He gasped.

“That you wanted me,” Billy replied, breath hot against Steve’s neck.  “Wanted me to shove you, touch you.” Steve was dripping, shaking as Billy teased him.  “You know how long I’ve wanted to do this to you?” Billy whispered against Steve’s skin.  Steve shook his head, unable to make his voice work.  “Since that fucking party.  Wanted to fucking claim you.” Steve found that he really, really wanted that too.

“Then do it,” he rasped, one shaky hand coming up to tangle in the hair at the nape of Billy’s neck.  Billy’s hand faltered before pulling away.  Steve whined, head tilting back down to look.  Billy looked almost feral, eyes wild and face flushed.  He made quick work of his jeans, pulling out his cock, angry and red and hard.  Steve’s mouth fucking watered.  Billy held his hand up, the one slick with Steve’s precum, and ordered,

“Lick.” Steve didn’t need to be told twice.  He ran his tongue over Billy’s hand, getting it wet and spit slick.  Billy watched, breathing hard through his nose, before he pulled his hand away, using the other to turn Steve around.  “Pants at your knees, pretty boy.” His voice was low, husky, and Steve would do whatever he said.  He could feel it, the need to obey.  He’d never wanted to just let someone have their way with him, use him, but he found himself imagining Billy, relaxed as he ordered Steve to please him.  He shuddered at the thought.  Steve shimmied his jeans and underwear down, leaning against the tree and looking over his shoulder.  Billy was stroking himself slowly, letting drool spill down his tongue and onto his dick until is was wet, dripping with saliva.  Steve groaned.

“I’m not--  I’ve never--”

“Don’t you worry,” Billy said, hands gripping Steve’s cheeks as he squatted, pulling them apart.  “When I fuck you, it’s gonna be thorough.  Gonna open you on my fingers until you beg for me to stuff you with my cock.” And then he licked a hot, wet stripe from Steve’s perineum all the way up to his hole, circling the rim.

“Oh holy shit,” Steve cried, hips jerking back.  He felt Billy’s chuckle against his skin.  He lost himself in the sensation of Billy’s tongue, his mouth, licking and sucking at Steve’s taint and thighs until they were slick and wet.  The sound he made, primal and needy, when Billy stood, almost made him embarrassed.  He was too horny though.

“Clench those thighs for me, King,” Billy said, pressing a kiss to one of Steve’s back dimples.  Steve shuddered, but did as he was told.  When he felt Billy’s dick slide against the crease of his legs, he gasped, fingers clenching against the bark of the tree.  The head of Billy’s cock slowly pushed in, gliding through the spit, now warmed by Steve’s skin.  It was veiny, thick, and velvety soft against the meat of Steve’s thighs.  When the tip brushed against the back of his balls, Steve whimpered, biting his lip.  Billy’s hand was tight, bruising against his hip.  The other came and pulled Steve’s hair, tilting his head back so he couldn’t hide any noises.

“Please, please, please,” Steve rambled, mind blanking out except for Billy.  The feel of him between his thighs, the smell of his cologne, fuck, even the rough denim of his jeans against the back of his thighs.  He didn’t even know what he was begging for.  Billy let out a long, rumbling groan.

“Jesus fuck,” Billy said, voice sounding as wrecked as Steve felt.  His hips snapped forward, slapping against Steve’s thighs and ass, and Steve gasped, fingers painfully gripping at the tree bark.  He hadn’t expected it, but the glide of Billy’s dick against his thighs was incredible.  The way the head tickled the back of his balls, the way he could feel Billy’s dick leaking precum, sliding it around as he made Steve’s thighs slicker and slicker.  Steve clamped them as tightly as he could, getting an aborted moan for his efforts.  He grinned as Billy moved faster, hips slamming against Steve, forcing high pitched moans out every time.  “Look at you,” Billy rumbled.  “So fuckin’ pretty like this, Harrington.  Bent over like the needy little bitch you are.” Steve should have bristled at the words, should have pushed Billy away, but something inside him went white hot in pleasure.  Made his cock drip.

Like most things Steve was discovering about himself, it came down to Billy.  If anyone else tried it, he’d hate it.  But, fuck.  Billy made it sound like the best thing in the world.

“Yeah,” Steve breathed out.  “Fuck yeah I am.” Billy let out a sound that made heat burst in Steve’s groin, brought him even closer to the edge.  His hips shuttered, moving wildly until he slammed himself against Steve, curling down and pressing his forehead against Steve’s back as he came.  Steve moved one hand down, jerking himself off almost painfully fast.  The feeling of spit and cum, warm against his skin, cooling rapidly in the air, was almost too much.  Billy moved to pull away but Steve whined, making him stop.  “Just--  Stay there.”

“Jesus,” he heard Billy whisper.  And like that, Steve came, painting the tree in white stripes of spunk.  He cried out, loud where Billy had been quiet, muffling his sounds.  Steve was loud, he knew that, but he reached obscene levels as he trembled, orgasm making him nearly black out.

They stayed that way, panting as their sweat rapidly cooled.  Billy finally pulled away, hands leaving Steve and he missed the feeling immediately.

God he was so fucked.

Steve didn’t turn around as he caught his breath, shakily using the tree to stand erect.  He pulled up his jeans, not bothering to clean up.  Wasn’t sure he wanted to admit to himself that he wanted the feeling of cum and spit sticking to his skin, dampening his jeans and underwear, dirty and so fucking hot.  When he turned around, Billy had his back to him, the sound of his zippo clicking loud in the wake of what they’d just done.

“Uhm,” Steve began, because, like, where do you go from here?

“We can keep this under wraps,” Billy said, back still to Steve.  He let out a cloud of smoke, thicker in the cold air.  Steve noticed the tension in his shoulders, in his voice, and he swallowed, wondering if he’d fucked up.

“Yeah,” Steve said, fingers twitching nervously against his thigh.  “But uh,” he took a sharp inhale, forcing the words out, “My parents aren’t usually home so, you know, if you ever wanna like, let off some steam--”

“Aw, Harrington,” Billy teased, finally turning around.  “You like my dick that much?” Steve wasn’t sure what it was, but something told him he needed to be honest.  To tell the truth, or Billy’d run and never look back.

“Yeah,” he replied, honest.  Billy’s eyes widened and his mouth went a little slack.  But the attraction and want that shone in his eyes let Steve know he’d made the right choice.  “Maybe next time you can let me choke on it.”

#anon #prompt #harringrove #steve harrington #Billy Hargrove #lemon #intercrural #gross boys being gross boys #dom/sub vibes

[anthonyed]

There's a flower on his table-top. It's the last thing Tony notices; shrivelled, half hidden under a stack of folders with a leaf torn and browned. 

He stares at it for a full five minutes, muscles tensing further and further until the wrench cuts bluntly into his right palm and he hisses as he drops it, feeling burnt. 

It's a quick second distraction from that aged flower but it serves its purpose perfectly. 

Tony turns away, calling for Dum-E to throw it into the trash. 

-

Habitually, he drinks his coffee black and hot. No sugar, no milk needed. Just a quick fix to boost his system so it can function for another four hours. 

Natasha catches him at 4am, wrapped in a woolen cardigan with an irritated frown on her pretty face. 

She stares at him, and stares while he stares right back at her. It's like they're both trying to shift through words to find the right one to say. 

Eventually she turns away and leaves. 

Tony's not surprised, nor is he going to admit it bothers him more than he likes to think. 

-

Clint is blunt. And brutal. 

It's perhaps all the times he'd fallen on his head throughout his life, that he doesn't shy away from calling Tony an asshole, face forward.

"You just gotta destroy someone else along with yourself don't you?" His words cut like daggers.

-

If he's honest, Tony cries. 

Two weeks after that dried rose, he stares at a teardrop on its spot. He hates the stream that doesn't stop but guess that's the price he has to pay for breaking someone's heart. 

It's a strange sort of thing, to notice a drop of clear liquid before realising what it is and then, where it's from. Humiliating too. For Stark men don't cry but Tony always manages to break that streak somehow. 

No wonder Howard hated him when he was alive. 

-

It's the sight of Steve that does it in the end. 

Forlorn in his long cotton sweatpants and thick beard and he's as good as he'd last seen him, or maybe better. But his blue eyes shine less, like something's hardened over them and when they meet Tony, they stare right through him as if he's a stranger.

And that's way too brutal than what he did, Tony thinks. 

Indifference versus rejection and the former will always be the grand prize winner. 

-

One night, after four months of turning away from each other, Steve comes to stand by the window where Tony's at; nursing a glass of whiskey for his rotten heart and his presence is so thick that it moulds around Tony like a warm cocoon. Comfort which he's been yearning for ages now within his reach but it's not really his to own, is it?

They don't speak. They don't look. They simply stand there right next to each other as if testing their boundaries and it goes on for hours and Tony feels tired; his eyes burn with sleep and whiskey but something in his veins pleads him to stay cause it knows if he leaves now, this will be it. 

He doesn't leave. 

-

Two days later, Steve puts a strip of bacon on his plate of breakfast and carries on flipping pancakes like there is nothing out of normal. 

Clint's bite of waffle catches dust on its fork while his jaw hangs slacken staring at both of them. 

Natasha's smirking, but it's barely there, for barely a second before it's gone behind a mug of jasmine tea which scents the whole kitchen. 

Tony chokes on a strawberry, is what all of them think, but really it's a huge lump of tears stuck in his throat which grows and grows until Sam whacks him on the back with all his strength combined. 

"Jesus Christ," he hisses between shaking his head. 

-

Someone tells him on a Saturday, while the Sun is pouring hot into his workspace that Steve is still hung on him as he was before the mess. 

Tony puts a name to that someone when he discards his goggles and meets piercing grey eyes behind a swath of long brown mane and, "My God," he says, "Do you have no plans to cut that lump of grease, Barnes?"

-

One day, he passes by a flower shop on the busy New York street while in search for caffeine post board meeting and it's a slight hesitation in his steps before he hurries along that sits with him until the dead of the night and he recalls vividly the smell of that dried rose he trashed that day and the ache in his chest which feels better now and he's thinking and thinking and -

He orders a bouquet the next day. 

100 red roses within a mass of baby breaths and it's delivered to the garage, not to its intended recipient because Tony is still not sure this day. 

And he still isn't sure even after a day, and another and those roses lose their luster and they wilt and they rot and Dum E kindly blends them into a smoothie which Tony pukes into the toilet bowl a week later. 

-

The thing is, it's not the roses but Steve that he isn't so sure. 

Sure, Barnes was a twittering little nosy bird who sprinkled some hope in Tony's dead garden. Sure, their friends tease them during battles or sometimes some random moments when their eyes meet, or fingers touch or Steve places an extra pancake on Tony's plate or when Tony gives Steve's shield back looking shinier before ever -

Sure, there are instances but, nothing was ever said between them after Tony tossed Steve's heart into the trash can and everything feels broken still sometimes when it's only two of them in a space together. 

-

Courage comes in the form of a death threat when a rebar goes through and through Steve's chest but it barely misses his heart and Tony loses his shit like never. 

If ever Rhodey has seen him so still, it is now by Steve's bedside smelling miraculously of both blood and antiseptic. Even Pepper couldn't get through him, in the end. 

It takes 10 days and three hours for Steve to open his eyes and the first thing he smells is sweet floral. 

Almost too much to the point that he scrunches his nose. Too much that he forgets the pulsating pain at his right temple and the tearing one in his breastbone. But he sees Tony in the mass of red, white, yellow and almost every other color in a rainbow and he understands immediately where the source of it comes from. 

"Maybe I went overboard," Tony rubs his nape, looking oddly out of place but beyond desperate. 

Steve's hand, already in his, gives a good squeeze and he feels better, marginally, but still unearthed. Like he shouldn't be here, but he couldn't help himself because he needs to and he just has to.

Steve croaks, "Just a little," and the twitch of his mouth gives more hope than a lake to a man in a desert. Tony drinks all of it like a starved man and he lets out a sigh he's been holding for ages. And the apology too, slipping through his lips into the clasp of both of their hands. 

"I'm sorry," smelling sickeningly sweeter than the rose which came with Steve's 'I love you' eight months ago and it makes Tony wince. 

Steve's silent through it. Through another hour Tony spends rambling over nothing and everything because Steve hasn't said anything and even then, even when Tony leaves, closing the door behind him, Steve doesn't say a single word. 

-

"Maybe you're wrong," Tony wants to tell him. It's the only reason why he climbs out of his workshop at 3 in the morning because that's when their resident Robocop comes out for late night munchies. 

And he almost says those words because that pair of shoulders are familiar as well as the black hoodie draped over them, except the owner of that body turns and Tony stops dead in his tract, breath caught in his chest because that is not Bucky Barnes but Steve Rogers. 

And then he turns 180 and bolts out of the kitchen.

-

Once upon a time, the only person who'd dare to call him coward to his face would have been Rhodey. But now he's got like 10 of him and everywhere he turns, he seems to run into one of them. 

"What are you running from?" Bruce asks him one day and Tony almost tells him. Almost. Cause it's Bruce and he would never judge but that is about it. 

Something about all of this with Steve makes Tony feel like he should be judged. Bound to a stake and forced to face his judgement day because that's what he deserves for breaking Steve's heart. 

So he opens his mouth, and he closes and he shakes his head and pretends Bruce never asked him a thing at all. 

-

And then Steve walks into his shop - Jarvis, that bloody traitor - and Tony is so shocked about this turn of event that he misses the close proximity Steve puts himself to Tony when he asks roughly, "Did you forget I almost got killed?"

When Tony shakes his head mutedly, he asks, "Then you don't care to see if I recover. Is that it?"

Aghast, Tony opens his mouth to protest but Steve doesn't let him. 

"You spent days sitting and mourning by my bed when I was unconscious and you bought so many flowers as if you wanted to bury me in them. Did you want to bury me in them? Is that why you're running away from me now that I'm back alive?"

And that hurts because, "How dare you?" Tony whispers, breath lost in boiling blood and he blinks back hot tears, looking up at the man he loves. 

Those hardened blue eyes melt and they shine with tears when Steve cups his face and demands, "Then why are you avoiding me?"

"Honestly? Cause I think you hate me," and there it is. The ringing truth which Tony didn't know existed until it comes tumbling out of his mouth and his throat pains when he tries to swallow a building lump cause it hurts to look at Steve when he looks like he's been cut by a thousand knives. 

So he tries to turn away but Steve pulls him into a bone-crushing hug and hisses into the crown of his head, a remarkably unfamiliar word to ever be directed at Tony Stark. 

"Idiot."

#stevetony #stony #mine #and i finished this last night

[lorei-writes]

(Not so) Infinite Bachelor State

Arthur Conan Doyle x MC Fluff

Written for: Dice be Nice Request: @saphyhowl Roll: Arthur + Arranged Marriage AU + A curse/A spell gone wrong Word Estimate: 3k

Whew, here it is! 

Content Warnings: alcohol (mention) 

Truthfully, there was one thing Arthur always despised about his position as the heir – there was always somebody, or even multiple somebodies, always knowing better and always thinking he owed them everything, obedience included. Perhaps if they cared enough to properly talk with him, they’d learn he never asked to be put in this position, that if it depended entirely on him, he’d chose a different life, he’d be a different person, and… Well, plenty other noble things, surely. Alas, they never seemed to be interested in the matter enough, only ever being preoccupied with how harmless or harmful his various escapades and romances – ah, the way the youth acts out, they would sigh – were to the family name. The games had to end, however.

Truthfully, there was one thing Arthur always despised about his position as the heir – there was always somebody, or even multiple somebodies, always knowing better and always thinking he owed them everything, obedience included. Perhaps if they cared enough to properly talk with him, they’d learn he never asked to be put in this position, that if it depended entirely on him, he’d chose a different life, he’d be a different person, and… Well, plenty other noble things, surely. Alas, they never seemed to be interested in the matter enough, only ever being preoccupied with how harmless or harmful his various escapades and romances – ah, the way the youth acts out, they would sigh – were to the family name. The games had to end, however.

“I am no decorative bird up to being displayed in a cage, sir, no,” Arthur exclaimed, storming out of the room. The door shut behind him violently, various relatives shaking within the constraints of their portraits covering nearly the entirety of the wall. Perhaps if he looked back, he’d feel their glares on himself, all the esteemed aunties and uncles being appalled by such treatment of the elderly, even if long dead. Arthur didn’t do it, however, all the seemingly vengeful looks being thus directed at the first brave soul willing to step out of the study, an elderly man pushing the door anxiously, as if wishing to make up for excess commotion with negative noise. “Young master, please, wait, wait!” he spoke in a hushed voice, rushing towards Arthur in an odd sort of semi-run enforced by wear of much too formal kind to easily allow for such frivolous activities. “I’ve said all I had to say, and please, do not make me repeat myself. Late mother’s bust would surely turn into an earless one if that were to be the case.” Arthur gestured angrily. “But master!” “Master? I am truly quite a powerless one!” He stopped abruptly and turned around, pointing an accusatory finger at the man. “And you did not drop me even a hint of warning, not even a word! I could have been long gone form this sorry place, could have eloped and…!” A sigh leaving his lips, Arthur shook his head and resumed walking at a much slower pace. “Young master, I am deeply sorry. Your uncles – they are quite hardy men to propose such an idea, and simple caretaker, I –” “I know, I am aware. You could do little, couldn’t you? Ahh, those bloody, money-thirsty, motherfu – !” “Young master, this is not the language I have taught you!” the man cut him off mid-word. “Mother… Lovers,” Arthur finished after a pause. “Cursed be their fate for arranging this fate, and cursed be mine!”

The front door of the mansion having seemingly materialised before them, Arthur pushed it open, fully intending to drown his sorrows in water of a rather unholy kind. At least then, to properly celebrate his last day as the bachelor, the bride already waiting somewhere in his estate.

***

For Arthur to wake up to the first lights of the day was rather unusual – for him to do so without a headache after such a night, and in his own bed? Plainly impossible. Arthur sat up abruptly, his memory hazy although in a familiar way, only the last few event being a little blurry. He sighed. The luckiest day of my life, eh?, he thought to himself, his back touching the mattress again, his head soon disappearing below the duvet.

Intending to fall asleep and perhaps even be late for his own – very unwelcome – wedding, Arthur opted to ignore the rushed steps outside of his room, being even more indifferent when the door opened and somebody stepped inside. Could it be his bride? Ah, heavens, as if he cared. She could be the nicest woman in the world, but this? This felt fake, so very unlike all the stories he had read. Wasn’t he capable of finding the one on his own, when the time came? Truly, to strip him off of his agency even in that regard, what a cruel – cursed – fate… “Young master?” Arthur groaned, the servant, his old care-taker, apparently being the one sent to unearth him. He pushed himself up. “Yes?” “Your uncles wanted to exchange a few words with you.”

Somewhat surprised, Arthur dragged himself out of the bed, fully expecting to hear either one of two messages – either the lady saw him in the city and wanted to call the marriage off (meaning the family name was spoiled beyond repair and he, Arthur, was the only one to blame for such a turn of events), or they truly wanted him to know something more about the situation than “you are getting married” by itself. It is no wonder his confusion only grew, the first few words being uttered having been spoken out just the day before, the entire conversation following the very same pattern. “Dearest uncles, I do believe you take me for a fool. I did drink a little yesterday, but be not mistaken, I do recall your scheme being revealed. It should be a wedding day today, shouldn’t it?” he ground the words through his teeth. The men looked at each other, no less puzzled. “Arthur, have you drank just now? The guests only just came few hours back, it’s – ”

They didn’t get to finish, however, Arthur already storming out of the room. A cruel joke, indeed, but it was never said he had to withstand such treatment, no. Somewhat annoyed, he walked the corridors, eventually sneaking out of the dreaded estate yet once again.

Arthur woke up with a start. Somewhat confused, he looked around, the room being no other place than his very own bedroom. The door opened, the servant stepping inside. “Ah, young master, I see that you’re awake,” the man spoke, a troubled smile on his face. “Your uncles wanted to exchange a few words with you.”

***

The days stretched, each beginning in the very same fashion. The time had seemingly started chasing after its own tail, thus stopping to progress on behalf of being stuck in a loop, memories of every attempt to break it being erased from nearly every mind – at least to Arthur’s knowledge, no other person appearing to realise what was happening around. At first martyred, Arthur cursed plenty (although quietly, as not to deprive dear mother’s bust off of her ears far too many times), fully convinced it would go on for no longer than a few days, consequently only extending the duration of his personal hell. The time seemed to have a different plan, however – and when a month passed, Arthur was certain, it would not move an hour more into the future. So to say, he was locked in an infinite sort of a bachelor state, eternally stuck on repeating the last day of his freedom from dreaded arranged marriage that ultimately, was one forever of days away.

At first he spent the time leisurely, each day listening to the very same explanations patiently, then opting to play along nicely, much less desperately than previously. For all he knew, he could both party and drink with friends, falling asleep just about anywhere and waking up in his very own – very comfortable – bed. Eventually getting tired of lengthy daily lecture of his uncles, Arthur came up with ways to shorten it significantly, asking questions as to get to the very bottom of matter and be able to go on with his endeavours. Having calmed down from the initial euphoria, he returned to his ordinary life, each day thinking up stories (although not writing them down, for the manuscripts wouldn’t last), indulging in reading, and perhaps spoiling his dog with a little more attention than usually. Few skills remained completely unobtainable to him, his personal library providing at least a single lifetime worth of information… And yet, despite all the things that he had learnt, Arthur began to feel lonely, no relationships developing in any way. There was no person he could confide in, no soul who’d feel compassion to him, no partner to converse with – and to keep the conversation alive during the next day, without the need to reintroduce the topic at hand.

Somewhat lost as to what he should do, Arthur began simply walking down the corridors of his very own estate, greeting the various guests who managed to arrive for his wedding on the day that would never end. Curious to the very bone, he found himself wondering who could the dreaded bride be, his uncles still having kept the name a secret from him. A goat can die only once, he thought, climbing the staircase leading to their study, his knuckles soon knocking onto the wooden door. A voice from behind it inviting him to come in, Arthur stepped inside, a question on his lips: “Dear uncle, a certain matter skipped me during our morning talk. What exactly… Is the name of my bride?” “Well…” “Well?” he inquired, leaning closer on the dark wooden desk. “The truth is, the lady in question requested not to tell you in particular. She arrived with her entourage yesterday, it was her only request…” “Dear uncle, please, we will be married tomorrow, what’s the difference?” The man paled, his hands trembling slightly. He weaved his fingers together, soon propping his head over his knuckles. “The thing is, we do not know ourselves. Or to be more precise, we do, but all of the ladies who had arrived seem to be of the same name. And which one… Which one, you see…” Arthur opened his eyes wider, his throat and mind alike refusing to co-operate – there were simply no words to explain his state. “I see,” he uttered, turning on his heel and leaving the room behind. A curious state of affairs, he reckoned.

***

One thing his library lacked were books on magic or ancient knowledge otherwise lost to time. Given how the loop did not extend past the period of one day, he was unable to obtain anything other than wares offered in the city’s bookshop, their selection being lacking at best. Unable to break the odd curse, Arthur found himself pacing, the monotonous chatter and otherwise strangely familiar dialogue turning his personal heaven into yet another kind of hell. Perhaps he needed rest? A few months passed and Arthur began to seek a solitary state, sneaking out to be by himself whenever an opportunity arose.

One of his most treasured spots was a lone swing, hung over a tree branch by his very father when Arthur was still a little boy. How did the line survive the years? He could not know, and truthfully, cared little of it, the place being secluded enough to grant him a moment of peace.  His dog sitting by the trunk, Arthur lifted his gaze, as if attempting to see through the tree crowns. “You don’t remember either, do you, Vic?” he sighed. “Although it can’t be much difference for a dog. Your days seem to be infinite either way, right?” he laughed softly. The pet rose his head. “What is it, my friend? You want me to play as well?” Vic yawned, getting up lazily as to sit before Arthur, two hopeful eyes staring at his owner lovingly. Having hoisted the animal into his lap, Arthur kicked the ground below them thus weakly propelling the swing. Absent-mindedly, he let his fingers brush through the soft fur, the wag of the tail earning Vic a little chuckle. “At the very least I’m stuck in here with you, Vic. An eternity with a dog seems much less lonely, heh…”

Too lost in his own thoughts, Arthur didn’t realise plenty things, one of them being the sun slowly sinking below the horizon – and the other one being a foreign sort of presence, a sudden inquiry startling him nearly to death. “Excuse me, have you just said ‘an eternity’?” a woman asked, leaning from behind the tree trunk. “Because, sir, you see… I seem to be stuck in an odd dream that nobody seems to be aware of.” Arthur snapped his head to look at her, their eyes locking. “Do you, by any chance… Do you wake up each day and start it in the very same manner, the very same news being revealed to you, over and over again? No matter where you fall asleep, what food you eat, what choices you make – all, everything, always the same?” he blurted out. The woman nodded in reply. “I’m Maria,” she added, extending her arm. “Arthur,” he replied, shaking her hand.

Finally, after so many days, they have met, the first breakthrough in lifting the curse having been made unknowingly.

***

To say her presence was uplifting would be an understatement, the couple growing to become friends rather fast – although it did cause few surprised glances here and there, few people wondering how two total strangers could act is if they knew each other for months on end. Each day they were asked of it, each day making up a new excuse, their explanations gradually growing more vibrant, almost detailed. As such, from a childhood friend, a long lost cousin and an apprentice he chatted with in the city few times, Maria ascended to being an orphan, estranged by her late uncles and aunts, and thus seeking support in the house of Doyle family, martyred by fate and unwelcoming humans alike. Arthur, on the other hand, evolved to don the alleged role of once met friendly, albeit unfortunate and rather superstitious, doctor-turned-writer, one who hated his very own creation beyond belief… Both introductions being lies, of course, they earned themselves pained sighs. There was little harm in it, though, wasn’t there, the memory of all other residents, of all other people, being erased with another day? Whenever they got bored, they made up new lies, all too aware that anything they’d do would be reversed. Somehow, the eternity ceased to appear merciless.

His hand holding hers, Arthur led Maria forward, careful as not to let any branches hurt her, this part of the groove still being fairly young. The setting sun finally starting to shine through the leaves, he relaxed, only the thrill of birds sounding off between the trees. A sigh of relief escaped his lungs. “Finally, some peace and quiet,” he laughed weakly, retreating his hand. “An almost married man shouldn’t do this, shouldn’t do that, I swear…” he trailed off, turning around to gaze at her. To his surprise, however, Maria stared at him intensely, her brows knitted together. “An… Almost married man?” she asked, his eyes opening wide in sudden realisation. “It’s not like this!” Arthur blurted out instantly, rising his arms in front of himself. “You see, tomorrow was to be my wedding, and today – or well, a couple hundred todays back – I was informed about it.” Maria shook her head in disbelief. “It’s not like this, I swear! It was arranged behind my back!” he exclaimed, her expression softening slightly. “I didn’t have a single say,” he sighed. “I cannot even find my bride, although she’s in this estate. Can you believe? She took a couple other girls by the same name, and my uncles – ” Arthur stopped abruptly, her arms shaking as she laughed, deeply and abundantly so, eventually even needing to rest her back against the tree as not to fall. “What’s so hilarious?” “You are!” she answered, few tears escaping her eyes. Maria brushed them off with the top of her hand. “And you didn’t tell me all this time? It could have been a clue to breaking this curse!” Arthur averted his gaze – and ever so observant, she followed him, eventually going even as far as to lean down and stare at him from below, a smile never leaving her lips. “Or… Perhaps there was some reason for this state of affairs?” she prompted giddily, already half-knowing the answer. His hand on the nape of his neck, a faint blush came onto his cheeks. “Perhaps, indeed.” “And what reason was it?” Maria asked, straightening her back a little. “I believe I’ve given you more than enough clues.” “I want to hear you say it.”

Wind played in the tree crowns, the sun hanging dangerously low. “Perhaps… I might have started to think I wouldn’t mind spending this eternity with you, Maria,” he mumbled, his head beginning to spin.

Arthur woke up in his very own bed, his ears ringing. Of course, he should have known better  - yet, it was too late for it. Still somewhat drowsy, he got up and began to hastily dress himself, fully aware that Maria was somewhere in the mansion, in the very same state. He confessed – and he would get to answer in return? Unthinkable! He needed to find out soon. The door to his room opened, the very same old servant peaking inside. “Young master?” the man mused, visibly surprised. “Your uncles wanted to excha –” “Yes, yes, a few words, a wedding, yada, yada,” Arthur cut him off, frantically buttoning up a mere minimum appropriate amount of buttons of his shirt. He stormed out of the room. “Young master! The wedding! It is today!” the servant shouted after him, but to no avail, Arthur being already far away, completely unable to think of anything but her.

As embarrassing as it was, it dawned on him he never once in the many months that had passed asked where Maria lived, her whereabout thus being a mystery to him. In any other case, he’d ask Vic for assistance, her scent usually having stuck to his clothes by the end of the day… In such a case, however, he was lost, and lost he rushed through the mansion, no staff being able to tell him where his particular Maria could be. Lacking any other clue, he stepped out into the courtyard, planning to spend even the entire day at the swing where they met. “Arthur!” He turned around – and there she was, running down the stairs extending from the balcony above, dressed still in her nightgown, her hair in utter disarray… Although he couldn’t help thinking it was lovely, no less. Maria showing no intention of slowing down, he opened his arms, the woman throwing herself into them. They tumbled to the ground, and he barely managed to catch a breath, the one he loved sealing his lips with hers in a rushed sort of kiss. Too little, too slow, too sweet, Arthur reckoned as they parted, his hand stroking her back lovingly. Their foreheads touching, he felt her fingers toy with the very top button of his shirt, his mind finding it less unusual than it should, perhaps, the notion that it would be all forgotten come morning still residing within his thoughts…

“Maria!” somebody called from the balcony. They froze. “Wait until the evening, for the love of god! You’re getting married to this man today! At least get a room!” The couple looked at each other in disbelief. “Today?!” they asked at the same time. “Today!” the servant exclaimed, finally catching up to Arthur. Wheezing heavily, he leaned on the door, sweat having come over his forehead. “The venue… Your uncles wanted to… Discuss… The venue… Last… Preparations…” he forced out of himself, yet was forgotten again, Arthur staring at Maria. “So you kept some secrets as well?” he teased, his bride laughing. “Partially. I did not know which Maria was to be married.”

Tag List: @cheese-ception , @kisara-16, @nad-zeta, @rikumorimachisgirl @bestbryn , @ichigoamamiya If you want to be tagged for my works, please, do let me know :D Please, specify fandoms as well.

#arthur conan doyle #ikevam arthur #ikemen vampire arthur #ikevam #ikemen vampire #ikemen series #my ff #my writing

[squishablesunbeam]

Please Go.

Whumptober 2021 fill for “touch starved”

CW: broken bones, reference of baddies hurting Malcolm, bedridden, unhealthy thoughts about self, poor sweet boy Malcolm Bright, touch starved

Malcolm wasn't exactly good at accepting help, it wasn’t like that was a secret. He tried. He helped himself in little ways; every single day. Placed his little box of self affirmations front and center of his apartment as a reminder to try. To try to give himself a chance to be happy that day. It rarely worked, but he was trying, and Gabrielle says that's enough. He always wants to hide the little box away now, when people come over unexpected. Mortified at the outward display of his brokenness. But people never really used to come over at all. This was new. Having people that cared enough to check in on him, sit with him when he was hurt, or sick.

Even as a kid, his mother would hire outside help to make him tea and make sure he didn't pass out on the bathroom floor. It was nothing more than an extra expense, a minor inconvenience. It wasn't like Malcolm blamed her for it. She was a busy, shattered woman, pretending to be whole with a drink in her hand at 10am and pills rattling around in her pocket. Malcolm was just, too much, after his father was arrested. He knew that. It was okay really. He was used to it. He wasn't used to people staying though, baring witness to the pitiful, broken life of Malcolm Bright.

So, when JT sat at the kitchen island at 3am, after waking him up from another night terror, absently flipping through the little paper cards in the little box while Malcolm was supposed to be going back to sleep, recovering. Malcolm just couldn't handle it anymore.

JT turned at the quiet “please” and saw Malcolm, tears streaming down his face and a look of absolute shame and desperation. “Please...please stop. Just go. Please.”

JT furrowed his brow. What was he doing wrong? Thumbing through these silly little affirmations that actually seemed to brighten his mood. He looked at the cards and back at Malcolm. “I'm sorry, man. I, um, I didn't realize they were, um, private.” He tucked them back into their cute little home and placed them carefully back in their place. Lifting his palms up to show that he wasn't touching them anymore because Malcolm was still crying.

“Hey...” JT stood, stopping after one step at Malcolm's flinch and quiet groan as the movement shifted his wounds, “Hey, so...you clearly aren't okay but man, I'm not going anywhere.” He watched as Malcolm's face scrunched up and he dropped his head heavily back into the pillows.

“Please.”

He risked a few more steps, just trying to get a better look at the cacophony of emotion that bled over his friend's face. He didn't understand, but he wanted to. “Bright? Are you in pain? Do you need another pill?” Malcolm rolled his head back and forth on the pillow, eyes squeezed shut.

“No,” Malcolm lied, “Please leave.” JT could barely hear him but the desperation of the plea came through loud and clear. The kid looked about ready to crawl out of his skin, if he could move, finger's twitching and scratching against the light comforter. He was bandaged from head to toe practically. His knee immobile in the cast, ribs wrapped up tight and his arm firmly pinned to his chest in a sling and again, in a cast. JT leaving meant Bright would be left to fend for himself and he couldn't even imagine how painful just getting himself to the bathroom would be. No...no, he wasn't leaving. Obviously...right?

Bright had been quiet since they returned from the hospital, the doctors begrudgingly allowing him to leave significantly before it was time as long as someone stayed with him. Malcolm had insisted, he always does. But as it was, Bright looked so small, with his leg propped up on two pillows, his head turned towards the window and tears silently streaming down his face. He looked small, and terrified, and angry. JT suddenly felt like a fish out of water.

“Bright...”

“Just go!” Malcolm screamed, fist hitting the mattress, his face turned as far away from JT as possible and the outburst actually made JT flinch. He stifled a surprised huff...damn, he hadn't flinched in years, and this man, completely incapable of hurting him in the slightest at the moment sent his heart racing in his chest. Damn, he could face a dozen enemy soldiers and barely break a sweat, but one pissed of profiler…his friend, and what, JT freezes.

He should call Gil.

Malcolm was mortified. He couldn't stop himself. He just wanted to be alone! His skin itched and throbbed under the casts and bandages, his head hurt so bad he thought he'd go blind any second, but this was worse than all of that. He wasn't used to this! He didn't want to be cared for! To be seen! Not like this! He was so weak and pathetic. They'd caught him easily, back at the old warehouse. Hauled him out into the open, his team watching from under cover, and beaten him senseless. He was ready to fight, he was. But the crowbar to his knee shredded apart his waking reality, his vision sparked white hot and he dropped. They'd taken his arm, the one he kept trying to shield himself with and just, snapped it. Pulled it out in front of him, one hand on his wrist and one on his elbow. Malcolm could only watch in horror, the yells from his team washing over him, as the crowbar snapped his forearm in two. It all happened so fast. He remembers screaming, and then gunshots.

Malcolm had woken up to hands all over him, cupping his face, pressing his shoulders down against the cold, presumably bloody, floor. It was all too much. No one ever touched him anymore, except Gil. And Malcolm made a point to never touch anyone. Just the simple act of handing them lollipops sent a soothing warmth through his chest; it was enough. He'd never force it on anyone, a handshake, a hug, a bump with a friendly shoulder. He was always so genuinely shocked when it happened and it wasn't an accident; an electric warmth would wash across his body, coloring his cheeks. He'd stuff his hands in his pockets, now trembling even worse than before, a cruel reminder that his body wasn't made for that kind of contact. Clearly. It never felt fully safe. He was to used to the laughter that followed or the huffs of irritation at the annoying FBI profiler that was merely tolerated because they had to. His team was different he supposed; Gil was different. He was always just a little nervous around him at he office because he'd always drop a hand on his shoulder or give the back of his neck a gentle squeeze. Malcolm would just melt, brain shutting down, muscles bleeding away all the tension that he locked away there. It was so embarrassing. He never knew how to act. He'd drop his head and fight the overwhelming desire to turn into Gil's sweater and just cry against his chest. God, how pathetic. No, he shouldn't be touched. He was safer without it, more in control.

But hands found him anyway; picked him up and put him on the stretcher, poked his skin and stripped him bare as they wisked him away. Hands that trailed over his broken flesh, stuttered and stopped and kept going, rubber covered hands with that thin powder that smelled sharp and clean, like the tools they'd use to cut open his broken body. He cringed against the overwhelming sense of touch, tears slipping down his face as they assured him the pain would be gone soon, but that was never why he cried. They touched without warning, without permission, often without an ounce of compassion. Not that he wanted compassion, or pity for that matter, it was easier to handle without it. It was an invasion though, one he could never properly describe but he detested with every fiber of his being. God he hated the hospital. He wanted none of it. He just wanted to leave. Hurt in his own bed like normal. He just didn't expect them to actually stay, his team, to take turns listening to him scream at night. He should have, now that he thinks about it, but he didn't. Not at the time. He thought they'd get him settled, water and pills on the bed stand, and leave him to his misery. It's what he preferred, it's what he was used to. But JT was standing there, with that damned concerned look on his face, a witness to Malcolm's brokenness and there was nowhere to hide.

A knock at the door startled Malcolm out of the endless stream of his own thoughts. His head turned to looked at JT. “I'm sorry man,” JT said as he turned to open the door. Malcolm tried to get himself under control, very nearly breaking under the weight of another person coming into the room. Gil. It was Gil. Malcolm chocked out a sob and the damn broke. Gil was here. His body damn near screamed for him to crawl out of this godforsaken bed and right into his arms.

He watched through his tears as Gil patted JT on the shoulder and told him he could go home to Tally. JT nodded, giving Malcolm a small smile as he left quietly. Malcolm laid back as Gil came and stood at the side of the bed.

“Hey, kid.” Malcolm half laughed, choking on tears as relief flooded through him as Gil took his outstretched hand. He rubbed his thumb over the back as he shrugged out of his jacket, switching hands, never letting go, as he dropped the thick jacket from his other shoulder.

Malcolm groaned, trying to shift over when Gil placed a hand on the side of his face. Malcolm turning into the warmth, eyes closed, so red and swollen from the tears.

“Let me, kid.”

Gil shifted him over effortlessly, as if Malcolm weighed nothing at all, carefully supported his leg and making himself some room. He toed off his shoes and grabbed a throw blanket from the chair. Malcolm just laid there watching, tears finally starting to dry salty streaks down his face. His body ached, begged, to just be held, just let himself be held, for once.

Gil slid in next to him, covering himself with the quilted blanket Jackie had made for Malcolm so many years ago and tucked Malcolm into his chest. He held him tight, knowing it would take a few moments for Malcolm to fully let go, waiting for him to melt against him. Finally, finally, Malcolm sighed, accepting the arms around him and the man supporting all his weight. He tucked his face into the crook of his neck and just breathed.

Gil didn't say a word. He didn't have to. He just ran his fingers through the kid's hair and smiled softly when the trembling finally calmed. He kissed the boy's head, praying he would finally be able to rest.

#whumptober 2021 #no.6 #touch starved #prodigal son #malcolm bright whump #emotional whump #whump #broken bones #poor self image #gil arroyo #jt tarmel

[blindbatalex]

an instalment in the carraville royalty au, courtesy of the raisin anon! (usual cws for referenced past character death and discussions of war)

Gary finds him in the garden, secluded in between rosebushes and neatly trimmed hedges, sitting on the bench dead centre in front of a fountain with two faceless soldiers as its centrepiece. The water flows from beneath their feet and continues downwards into three different levels before it ends up in a pond, where goldfish are swimming around, happily ignorant to the misery the man staring at them is feeling.

As far as hiding spots go, it’s a rather poor one, but Gary doubts Jamie sits in front of the fountain specifically commissioned to honour their dead loved ones in order to hide. More likely, Jamie knows he would be left alone.

A pang of guilt hits him for his reaction to learning the truth of David’s death if this is what it did to his husband. He needed to get out, needed to clear his head in peace, but he hadn’t been quite in his right mind when he rode out alone to the stronghold several days’ ride away to visit David’s crypt. Or when he continued on to the estuary, to the place one of the last bloody battles of the war had been fought. Where Jamie had plunged his sword through David’s middle.

He didn’t know what he hoped he would get from the excursion. Perhaps a sense of closure, perhaps he half expected David’s ghost to pop up somewhere along the way, perhaps he just had a desperate need to do something , and riding to his late husband’s place of death was the only thing he could think of. What he got instead was his heart screaming at him to go home, to see Jamie, to face this pain, like all others, head on together.

And so go home he did.

Jamie’s face looks gaunt and drawn from what he can see, his shoulders hunched and his fingers are clutching tightly at his tunic, in what Gary suspects is an attempt at stopping them from shaking. He looks, almost like he did the first few weeks after the wedding, when his guard was down and feelings raw, coming to the realization that this was to be for the rest of his life. The lost, empty look in his eyes did not suit him, and Gary despised of often it used to make an appearance. He finds himself now hating it more than ever.

The gravel crunches underneath his feet as walks towards him, and Jamie’s head shoots up to see who dares intrude on his miserable solitude, a command to leave him be ready almost even before he can register who it is.

“Hi, James,” he says, not entirely sure what to expect. A few days ago, Jamie would’ve been searching for forgiveness. What he is now Gary does not know. After disappearing for days on end without much of a word neither here nor there, he would not deem a cold shoulder entirely unfair.

“Thought you might be here”, he continues on and takes a few steps closer to the bench where Jamie’s sitting.

Jamie keeps looking at him with wide eyes, bloodshot and tired, almost like he expects Gary to be a mirage soon to disappear into thin air.

“You’re back”, he croaks out eventually, his voice hoarse from what might be days of being unused. It most likely is.

“Yeah”

Gary sits down beside him, keeping a careful distance, and stares at the two figures in the middle of the fountain. It was one of the first things they had worked together and agreed on, this little private memorial of their late husbands. It was a symbol of their old lives, their old selves, but somewhere along the way, Gary had come to appreciate it as the beginning of their lives together, and that from even the most broken and bruised beings, beautiful things could learn to grow.

“Where d’you go?” Jamie asks. Gary looks at him, but Jamie’s not meeting his eyes, rather looking at his fingertips and willing them to stop shaking. Gary reaches out without realizing it and takes Jamie’s hands between his own and keeps them still.

“To the crypt, and then to the West Bank,” he says but chooses not to elaborate. He can explain his travel route later and he doesn’t need Jamie to know how many tears he’d shed over the past few days anyway.

“James, listen. I am sorry for leaving as I did. I needed to clear my head, but I shouldn’t have left you here unknowing for such a long time. That wasn’t fair of me,” he begins. It’s easier, apologizing for leaving, rather than mentioning the very reason it. Hurts less. He's not normally one to run away from what he does not want to face, because they tend to catch up anyway. But this, this he would put in a chest and bury ten feet into the ground if he could, gone and forgotten and never to be seen again.

After the wedding, when everything seemed so bleak, unknowing and unintended they had coaxed each other out of the numbness and indifference to the evils of the world, learned to see the flowers and feel the sun again together. If wanting to suppress any knowledge of David's death and go back to that for just a moment was cowardice then a coward he would be, even if he knows it is an impossible dream.

He tries to catch Jamie’s eyes, but they keep averting his own, looking anywhere and everywhere but Gary’s face.

“S’all right, I knew you’d be back soon enough,”Jamie says.

“You did ?”

“Part of the treaty, no? Our marriage is vital for keeping the peace. Your sense of duty is too strong to leave, no matter the circumstances” He says it like it’s practised, like it’s a reasoning he’s been telling himself ever since Gary rode out, a cold truth no one could argue with.

For all the laughter, all the smiles and jokes and joy. For all the happiness they, against the odds, have shared since their wedding day, Jamie had stripped it all back, to the baseline of it all, to the one reason they are set to be companions for the rest of their lives. Commitment to a cause, not a person. Honouring a treaty, not a holy institution.

Duty, not love.

Jamie heaves a sigh and keeps going.

“I am sorry you ended up here, Gary. You could’ve been happy, hadn’t it been for me.”

Gary doesn’t know what to say. It's not the way he up and left with no word that has made Jamie miserable. Apologising for it's not what's going to make it better. He thinks about the ten obelisks out on the moor by the mountains that separate their kingdoms, the names carved into the stone in memory of the soldiers who gave their lives to the war. How many of those names are there because Gary shot an arrow through their hearts or commanded his troops to fire. How many children in the villages died of famine because the grain went to feed his men. How many had become widowers, orphans and alone because of him and his decisions.

He hadn’t been the one to deliver the killing blow to Jamie’s Stevie. But he had sent arrows through a number of throats non-the-less. Red and black-feathered, gold heads dipped in Devil’s Venom. There were those out there who mourned lives he had taken.

“I killed people in the war too,” he says, eventually.

There are other words he can say, words that could make it better, make Jamie see it’s not only about duty anymore, but he doesn’t have them. Not yet. Not for a while. They are there, somewhere inside him. Floating around in his heart and his head and his stomach and bones. But he doesn’t know how to piece them together and speak them into existence.

His grip is firm around Jamie’s hands, the only kind of comfort he can manage, and he can feel Jamie gripping tightly back. He looks at them, sees the hands that killed David, sees the hands that hold him through his nightmares. Wants to be angry at him for giving him so much pain, while he knows Jamie is the only one now who can help him chase that pain away. Wishes he could run away but knows he’d only want to return back as soon as he’s past the gates.

He tries to remember what his mother had told him when he was little and came home with scraped elbows and tears in his eyes. It will heal, my lad. Her smile was always as warm as the sun. Give it time and it will heal.

In the years since, he’d learn that it sometimes takes more than time, and sometimes that’s not enough either. But he lets his mother’s words wash over him as he did as a small lad, wills them to be true like they used to always be.

We will heal, he decides and pretends it’s that easy. He looks at Jamie, his hunched shoulders and empty eyes, knows they can fight their way through this as well.

Give us time, and we will heal.

#carraville #royalty au #raisin anon #fic rec #ahhhh this is bittersweet and gorgeous ♥

[suoyou]

[wip] 一日三秋; one day, three autumns

1633 words, rated t.

a complete chapter 2 in an incomplete series of oneshots titled 一日三秋; one day, three autumns, in which wwx is the autumn king and lwj is the winter prince.

ch 1.

they say that missing someone is the most powerful force of pain a person will know. a pain that can wilt the heart. a pain to carry. a pain that can turn one day into three autumns.

In the middle of Lan Wangji’s left thigh is a scar, round and hollow in the center, like a coin. It had been a burn once, angry blisters deadening into a purple keloid into, now, a little white moon on his skin. 

Of the five floors of the castle, Lan Wangji is only allowed in three. Evidently, little does it matter that he is the only other heir to the Winter Throne should his brother ever be incapable of holding it; he’s often pictured how woefully unprepared he would be should the Kingdom of Summer ever revolt again, or, as the Defectress Luo Qingyang had promised, if the Autumn King showed up seeking revenge. 

For what, Lan Wangji doesn’t know. 

“You don’t need to know,” has always been his uncle’s reply. 

“You won’t need to know if I have any say in it,” is what his brother says, kind, still double-edged.

“You should know,” said the Defectress Luo Qingyang, over her teacup, and jade has never looked so threatening, “that your kingdom is still carrying out the crimes of war right under your nose, and if your family does not wake up, the Autumn Kingdom will leave the decade-long peace treaty in the dust the same way you have.” She said it all like she was simply commenting on the races. The Jin Imperial Family was winning. 

“How do you know? What kind of war crimes?” asked Lan Wangji. He’d spoken too brusquely, but Luo Qingyang hadn’t been fazed. All around them, the Dragon Boat Festival surged on, air humid and painted green-red-blue, an overfull tea kettle of a day. “Why is it your concern?”

“That you think it shouldn’t be my concern is the same line of thinking that got your Kingdom into this mess,” she said, and her words have been ringing in Lan Wangji’s ears ever since, an unwelcome jabber of sparrow song and raven squawks that won’t leave him hours later. The telltale signs of spring. She holds her position well. 

“What kind of war crimes?” he repeated.

She’d taken her time sipping the rest of her tea before placing her empty cup on the table to be taken away. “Do you recall, when the Wen Imperial Family went rogue and the Snowfire Wars tore the lands apart,” she said, “there was a division of mages known as the Core Reapers?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t really believe, do you, that they simply vanished after those wars?”

Lan Wangji had stared at her. 

The Core Reapers had vanished after the Snowfire Wars. They’d ridden through the war-torn battlegrounds after blood had been spilled like red ghosts, gathering the dying bodies of civilians and mages alike to, as Lan Wangji had heard, harvest their cores. Word was that the Wen Imperial Family was creating elixirs, weapons, medicines out of them. Hearsay had it that they were creating monsters. 

He stares at his scar now, where his jade pendant had burned him through three layers of clothing thirteen years ago, and had never lit up again. In the dusk of the evening, it’s almost invisible, as if it had  never existed—vanished, like the Reapers, after the war. 

Lan Wangji stands up and shrugs his outer robe back on. Unthinkingly, he opens the drawer where he keeps that pendant, like it’ll have answers for him. It doesn’t. Jade does not dull with age, but in the red velvet of the drawer it could be leached bone. A small one—a skull bone. 

Lying beside it is its bonded match. Once they had been identical, though Lan Wangji’s pendant was wrapped in blue ribbon. The other is broken on one side and missing a segment, red knotting and tassels unraveled, the jade circle incomplete like a horseshoe. When the Snowfire Wars raged around him, Lan Wangji wore his half of the pair with more attention and care than when he carried his sword.

“Wangye,” his attendant inclines her head when he opens his pavilion doors. 

“I have some personal work to attend to. Can you see to it that, if any of my family seeks me, to let them know I will greet them accordingly when I return?”

“Yes, Wangye.”

So he goes. 

Three of the Kingdom’s floors are aboveground. Two are below. He’s been to three in the middle—never the topmost, never the bottomost, and he’s not sure what he’s looking for. He has to look, to be sure, or else it will be another evening of Luo Qingyang’s voice in his head, jerking him awake long before dawn.

Strange dreams have been plaguing him since the Dragon Boat festival, the sorts of dreams that someone would tell themselves didn’t mean anything. The night of the festival Lan Wangji had gone to bed and found himself in a place where the sun never set, simply bobbing up and down in the sky, turning from green to gold and back again as the days and nights passed. Then, the next night, the scar on his thigh had opened up and begun bleeding afresh, and no matter what magic he used, it would not stop. The more magic he used, the more blood poured down his leg. 

Last night, he dreamed of Wei Ying. Not in the way he’d been in life, so bright that Lan Wangji couldn’t bear to look at him sometimes. 

The Kingdom of Winter had been blanketed in snow for their cycle, and Lan Wangji was in the woods outside the royal walls alone. A dark sweep of Core Reapers had passed by. Their hoods had been drawn over their heads. It looked as if the entire forest was bleeding. 

One of them in the center of their tight pool of red had paused and turned their heads, and under the scarlet, mink-lined hood had been Wei Ying’s face. 

Lan Wangji shakes himself as he greets the guards that stand outside the gates into the Kingdom’s undergrounds. A question floats through their expressions but they open the gates for him without question, bowing again as he passes. 

He picks his way through the first underground level without wasting his time. Here they keep their forbidden texts, their spoils of war, here they hold sensitive political meetings. A damp, sweet smell of soil clutches fat little hands at his robes, happy for visitors, and he raises his hand to upright some of the overgrown vines and planters that line the walls. His hand glows a dim blue, and the drooping foliage picks its flower heads up again. Blooms are coming. 

Even if he’s never made the descent into the lowest floor of the Kingdom, Lan Wangji knows there are two ways to get there—the prisoners’ entrance in the Pavilion of Discord, and the one he faces now. The jailers’ entrance, through the Hall of Justice. 

He doesn’t feel particularly just, facing the round door that he knows will take him down the staircase into the Kingdom’s dungeons.  

Blue fires light his way. 

In times of peace, there aren’t many prisoners to speak of. The few that the Kingdom of Winter persecutes are petty thieves, suspected spies, and the occasional revolutionist, all of which are bent into fearful submission before they ever even make it to the dungeons. Lan Wangji knows it. He’s seen it. 

And he’s right, almost, for at least part of the dungeon. It’s bright and clean, with mainly empty cells, but the blue fires end abruptly in the middle of the long walkway between the rows. There are scuffles, noises of things living, hushed in the gloom. He pauses and strains his eyes. Then he lifts his hand, summoning some of the fires in the torches to his palm to light his way. 

He doesn’t know what he expects to see. Prisoners, perhaps, curled up like hungry mice. 

The icy sheen of his fire falls over the bodies in the cells, and Lan Wangji frowns before he steps back, breath stuttering in his chest. 

They are prisoners. It’s the most human thing left about them. Some of them have lost all their hair, ragged clumps gathering in rolls thick as dead cats beside them. Others have clawed their own backs bloody, as if they’d been trying to dig their own spines out of their bodies, and still others were covered in a thick, tarry ooze, as if blood and lymph had leaked out of them and gained its own sentience. One of them lay in silence with a stained white strip of cloth over his eyes, a line at his neck like his head had been stitched back on. 

Lan Wangji’s stomach writhes, hot and sick, in his belly. 

The end of the walkway widens into a larger chamber where no one is kept, but as he passes his fire over the space he can make out the outlines of odd contraptions—long rods with fluted holes, boards with three holes in them—one larger, two smaller, for a neck and hands. A splintered wooden gurney like a rotting log. Old blades sprout off of it like oyster mushrooms. They blink sleepily back at him, eyes in the night. A bizarre device like a chair, outfitted with two horns on both sides. Anyone sitting in it would have their head position between the mouths of both. 

He frowns. A long skein of red fabric has been tossed carelessly over the back of the chair, wrinkles rounded and warm. A cloak. Someone’s just taken it off. 

“Wangji,” a voice comes from behind him, “what are you doing down here?”

#fic wip #wx #incomplete

[hepalienstuckyrecs]

Stucky Post-CA:TWS Fic Rec

Knitting as therapy by darter_blue @darter-blue [NR, <1k]

Fluff, Bucky Recovering, Oblivious Steve

Bucky is using knitting as therapy. Knitting a scarf for Steve. Because Steve is Bucky's everything.

I guess nobody told Steve that though... (It would've been nice to give that big gorgeous Labrador a heads up - you know?)

Part 1 of Stucky ficlets - prompt challenge

Heart by @concavepatterns, everandthe [T, 1k]

Fluff, Love Confession

"You're not my friend, Steve."

black eyes, bandages and bloody knuckles by @concavepatterns [M, 2.7k]

5+1 Things, Hurt/Comfort, Flashbacks

Five times Bucky says “Jesus, Rogers” out of pure exasperation, and one time he means it in a completely different context.

more under the cut

Gorecki by @ataraxetta [M, 3k]

Hurt/Comfort, Soft

Steve has a crummy mission. Bucky has a crummy dream. They cuddle it out.

Steve Rogers Is (Not) A Good Influence by attackofthezee @stevergrsno [T, 4.2k]

Humor

Steve’s left staring at the kid- Peter, his brain helpfully reminds him. The kid is staring back.

“So, you’re, like, Captain America, huh?” Peter asks, and he looks a little starstruck but less so than he did when he’d stared at Tony Stark’s jet taking off.

“Uh, yeah.” Steve says, staring hard at a spot just past the kid’s shoulder as he shoves his hands as deep as they can go into the pockets of his jeans. “Call me Steve.”

“Cool.” Parker breathes, and Steve tries not to think about just how badly this is going to go.

Aka Steve Rogers' American Tour Of Waiting For His Brainwashed Boyfriend To Come Back And Blowing Up Hydra is interrupted when Tony Stark dumps Peter Parker into his lap.

I’ve Been Funny, I’ve Been Cool With The Lines by nerdwegian [T, 6.1k]

Jealous Steve, Team Fic

Steve's not jealous.

do you need anybody by @biblionerd07 [T, 7.2k]

Bucky Recovering, 5+1 Things

5 people who told Bucky to go back to Steve, +1 who never did.

Weather Stripping by Moondog @moonlizards [E, 7.3k]

Exhibitionism, Angst

The problem, as Bucky sees it, isn't so much that Steve doesn't like his 21st century uniforms as much as his uniform from 1943 - they don't fit the same, Steve always says; the fabric feels wrong, he never has time to get used to them before SHIELD comes up with the next one - whatever. The problem isn't even that Steve is always in such a hurry to take the uniform off as soon as they get back from missions.

The problem, as Bucky sees it, is that Steve never seems to want to put on other clothes afterwards.

Stem by IamShadow21 [T, 7.5k]

Bucky Recovering, POV Bucky, Touch-Starved, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Humor, Getting Together, Team Fic, Amnesia

Bucky Barnes discovers sugar, demands coffee, makes a variety of involuntary noises, cuddles up to Steve Rogers, regrows a limb, and fakes it 'til he makes it at being a person.

New Words For Old Desires by CryptoHomoRocker @feelingsaboutgaysuperheroes [T, 7.5k]

Pining, Bucky Recovering

"After the dust settles, after Bucky is found and taken in and his brain is as fixed as it’s going to get, according to everyone who is paid to know about that kind of thing, there’s really no question of where he’s going to live."

Or: Bucky uses unusual coping mechanisms, Steve pines in what he thinks is a very subtle way, and literally everyone else in the world is like GOD just KISS ALREADY.

I’ll hold my breath by Little_Lottie [M, 8.8k]

Mutual Pining, Fluff, Touch-Starved, Light Angst, First Time

Sometimes Bucky’s hands flex in Steve's direction. Neither of them knows exactly why, but at least one of them has a hunch.

Bucky touches everything but Steve, even though Steve is all he really wants to touch.

at last (life is like a song) by obsessivereader @yetanotherobsessivereader [E, 8.8k]

Friends with Benefits, Friends to Lovers, First Kiss, Fluff, Bucky POV, Oblivious Bucky, Getting Together

What do you do when you’re a hundred years old and suddenly realise you want to bone your best friend? If you’re Bucky Barnes, you swear a lot and spend way too much time in denial. Good thing for Bucky his best friend’s never one to avoid a problem when he can run headlong at it.

no heart to recall by KiaraSayre [M, 15.4k]

Hurt/Comfort, Angst

He's been in Steve Rogers's company for less than twenty-four hours and he's already losing sight of his mission.

Not Another Supersoldier Fantasy by triedunture [E, 16.5k]

Rom Com, Friends to Lovers, Some Angst with a Happy Ending, Not Actually Unrequited Love

Bucky finds a popular sex toy modeled on Captain America's own anatomy. Well, isn't this just perfect? Because even after all this time, he still hasn’t seen Steve’s supersoldier cock. But apparently in this day and age anyone with $29.95 can get a decent replica. The unfairness of this is of galactic proportions.

i was found and now i don’t roan these streets by hipsterchrist [M, 15.6k]

Team Fic, Bucky Feels

They’ve decided to start producing Bucky Bears again, now that he’s all shiny and redeemed and fighting for good on this big Avengers misfits team. "He has a little shiny gray arm," Bucky says, wiggling the stuffed arm in question, one of the tweaks made in the new model. It takes Steve a second to realize that Bucky’s got a small smile on his face, actually looks a little bit proud around the eyes.

Or, Bucky relearns himself and how to be on a team, the rest of the Avengers try to get answers, and everyone watches too much Criminal Minds.

The accidental series by obsessivereader @yetanotherobsessivereader [E, 20.4k]

These are all standalone fics inspired by the accidental tag in AO3 because accidental shenanigans are best shenanigans

If Steve still did that sort of thing, he’d be praying to God and all the saints in heaven that Bucky doesn’t shift any further back on his lap, because if he does, he’s going to get poked in back of the head by Steve’s erect cock.

This is not what he was expecting when he offered to work with Bucky and his therapist on the whole touching thing.

between everything, yourself, and home by napricot [E, 24.4k]

Bucky Recovering, Pining, Reunions, First Time

“This is your home?” asks Bucky at one point.

“It’s where I’m living now, yeah.”

Bucky comes home. Steve's a little slower on the uptake.

#stucky #stucky fic #stucky fic rec #stevebucky #stevebucky fic rec #post catws #reclist #if anyone wants to be tagged in these posts or has a request for a theme lmk

[jessiebanethedragon]

One of the Brightest Stars

Word count: 3660 (is that alot?) idk

Warnings: major character death, sadness. 

A/n: I’ve thought about this idea for a while and heres what we ended up with, broke my heart writing it and if the title is a James Blunt song that just seemed to fit. 

It was raining on coruscant, the day you met. Throwing water down on the smog infested streets creating a wet smoke that weaved its way into your hair and clothes. You were tempted  to leave, what kind of night out was this anyways? Underground, illegal fighting that you’d been talked into attending on this horrible night. It was awful, chants from the crowd you couldn’t make out wanted someone dead, that much you could tell. Every sound of a blow landed resonated in your soaked bones. Of course your friends, whose morals you were seriously contemplating, wanted you to stay. Teases flew haphazardly of your weak disposition, ‘barbaric’ was the term you returned as you passed through the crowd to escape. Scoffing as the mob goes wild with another declared victor, stopping in shock as the loser is dragged out of the ring. Bouncers parting the sea of infidels and dumping the man at the bottom of a street light. You regarded him with a look of haphazard disgust, turning your head away from the sight and hugging the wall of the alley in the hopes of not being noticed. He wasn’t your problem. You’re not a medic. He’s not your problem. You’re not a medic. No matter how many times you tell yourself this guilt still eats away at you. But this man could be dangerous, you saw how they went at one another in that ring, it was dark out, and you were alone. But then again, so was he.

“S-s-should I call someone?” You stammered out, so quiet that he didn’t hear you over his own groaning. You try again. 

“Is - is there someone I should, I should call?” Under the glow of the blue hued street light his eyes almost seem yellow, and the way they meet yours has you taking a step back, retreating further away. Through the bloody nose, and split lip you look away. Eye contact made you feel exposed, like he was sizing you up for his next fight. As you look down you see clearly his attire. The symbol of the republic is hard to make out against the black material in the darkness. But the white plastoid that still covered his legs was unmistakable. And now, so was the earlier undeserenable chant. Kill the Clone.

He started to laugh at the realization that showed on your face, snickering through heaved breaths and the blood still coming out of his nose. “What? Never met a clone before?”  He slurred agitated, looking you up and down, figuring out what kind of person runs from back alley fights. You winced as he pulled himself up with another groan and tried to start walking. “Maybe, maybe you should sit back down?” You asked, unsure of the situation, he had to be a clone, if the plastoid was anything to go by, so was his black curly hair. You saw him nod before falling into the wall and sliding down it, eyes closed in pain. You took a tentative step forward. Jumping as the blaster goes off to signal another fight starting, the crowd as wild as ever. When you look back to the clone propped up by the wall, he’d managed to pass out.

Kamino Archives - Batch # 34-7229 - Domino squad report: CT-27 5555 continues to display problematic empathetic traits.

When it rained now, your heart ached for him. For that clone trooper who you staggered into your apartment wondering when the Grand Army of the Republic would come to your door to charge you with theft of military property. The stubborn man who tried to limp out of your life claiming he was fine, Fives who had so quickly intertwined his way into your heart. Who jumped out of his skin every time you touched him, no matter how light and soft you were, but clung to you in the night so tightly the sheets would leave marks on your skin. Echo, the citadel, everything he confided in you, a civilian he didn’t know, nor trusted. He snickered when you tried to tend to the bruises, and was so tightly knit unraveling the trooper took you hours. You came to memorize names, Rex, Kix, Jesse, Skywalker, Ashoka. And when he could finally stand without all colour leaving his face Fives pressed a shaking kiss to your knuckles as the only thanks he could give. And almost twenty rotations later, there was a knock at the door and there he was. Covered in mud, hair to goatee to boots. You ushered him in without thinking, and your heart broke when you asked what happened, he just shook his head. His light brown eyes glassed over and he jerked when you tried to pull him into your arms. Shushing his protests and coming into contact with the mud that had gotten through his soaked Blacks as you ran your hand into his hair.  

Kamino Archives - Batch # 34-7229 - Domino squad report: Retrial under Shaak Ti  ends successfully, Domino Squad shipping out to Rishi moon.

“Cyare,” he gasped when you wrenched the door open. “Fives.” You threw yourself into him, he still had all his armour on, and you collided awkwardly with the plastoid. Hearing the sound of his helmet hitting the floor as he embraces you, burying his face within your hair. Only pulling back far enough for him to kiss you firmly. All your muscles that had been torn with anxiety finally let go as you relaxed in his arms. He was back, he was alive, he was safe now. It is a mystery to the entire 501st where the ARC Trooper goes when they finally land planetside. And you’re the only person in the galaxy that truly knows where he belongs.

Kamino Archives - Batch # 34-7229 - Domino squad report: ARC-1409 K.I.A ARC-5555 remains in service.

Fives sobs in your arms the night he returns from that campaign. From Hardcase’s death, to his arrest, the betrayal and subsequent deaths that resulted from Krell. He throws his armour off that night, jaw trembling as he looks at his Kama and Pauldrons. 

“Lets run away.” You say, crying with him and holding his face in your hands. “Lets just go, no one has to know, we’ll  go somewhere away from the war away from the republic away from it all.” He shakes his head. 

“Away from the war? Mesh’la there’s nowhere far enough in all the galaxy.” When he wakes in the morning to leave again, back to the Grand Army of the Republic, he stops, and pulls your forehead to his. “I love you with all of my being.” He says, more serious than you’re used to, and presses something into your hand. 

“Fives…” you stammer. It’s his graduation medal from Kamino, shining brightly in your palm.

“Keep it safe for me, yeah?” He smiles, “if i had time, i would’ve melted it down and made you a real ring…” You pull him forward into a burning kiss. You want him to stay longer, You want this war to be over, you want to be able to love him and for him to be able to love you, openly, freely, not as a weapon of the republic. 

“I love you.” You call to him as he walks out the door again. He gives you his trademark smirk. 

“I love you too.” He says

Kamino Archives - Batch # 34-7229 - Domino squad report: ARC-5555, stationed on Umbara was complicite in the execution of Jedi Master Krell.  

You haven’t seen him in months. You come into your apartment dripping from the rain, only to collapse against the frigid durasteel door. He could be anywhere, even if he told you where the legion was dispatched that does not mean he wasn’t moved, transferred, or… Or dead. You weep. Taking gulps of stumbling breaths as reality hits you in an unforgiving wave as you realize, you may never know. Other militaries would contact those related to the deceased, but Fives, Fives would be another number in the kaminoan archives. Your grief manifests into a physical pain as your stomach intertwines and leaves you sobbing against the privy for the rest of the night.

“Listen, if anything ever happens to me…” “Fives don’t-” “If it does” “Don’t say it please, it can’t, i won’t…’ “Cyare-” “No! I won’t think of it, I won’t have you talking like that like, like…” “Okay Mesh’la, come’er. You know I always find my way back to you. But in case… in case I… get marooned, you find Rex, you find Captain Rex and give em hell for leaving me, okay?” “Okay. Okay, I love you, Fives.” “I love you too, cyare.”  

You wait. One day after another, telling yourself that if he’s not back tomorrow you’ll go track the boys in blue down. If he’s not back tomorrow… Until finally, when Fives has been gone so long none of your sheets smell like him, even looking at his soap in the shower makes your crumble, and the elderly Twi down the hall starts asking where that man of yours got to because his rowdy laughter ‘aint keeping her up like she used to do with her sweetie back in the day.’

You tremble getting out of the speeder, forgetting to thank the driver as you hand them credits with the struggle of unpredictably jerky hands. The landing platform is busy, ships and speeders creating chaotic white noise along with the sounds of thousands of boots on durasteel. Picking one person out from the crowd is nearly impossible, how you’re supposed to find Captain Rex seems completely out of your depth. So you do the only thing that you seem capable of and wander slowly into a forgien world. Flashes of Kamas and pauldrons grip at your heart strings and solidify your determination. Colours of yellow, green and red painted armour make you wonder how they would have highlighted his eyes and hair differently had Fives been in another battalion. An engine backfire catches your attention as a trooper begins to yell at the other about fuel burns. 

“There’s one thing Bacta can’t mend and that's burns! Get that through that shiny bucket of yours!” The stern voice breaks through the commotion and your eyes catch his helmet where it lies perched on his hip. Just above a blue strip of paint on his thigh plates. You make a mad dash towards the trooper, unsteady feet sending you into the sides of another clone who you push away in your haze. 

“Wait!” You call to him, if your wits had been more present you would have recognised the hair style and medic insignia that catch your eye when he turns to face you.  

“Can I help you mam?” He asks with a covertly raised eyebrow. 

“Are you, 501st?” you pant. 

“Yes mam.” He responds coldly. 

“T-torrent company?” Maker, you’re out of shape. 

“... yes.” He- Kix, you realise, responds hesitantly. You straighten yourself up. “I need to speak with Captain Rex.”

Kamino Archives - Batch # 34-7229 - Domino squad report: ARC-5555 operated on CT-5385 against orders. Charges for treason - Status: Pending.  

Kix is far less sauve in person. You know him to be sharp as a whip and a noteworthy smooth talker. But the stories Fives had told you on the nights neither of you slept, one laying on top of the other, listening to him talk for hours about his brothers while carding his hands in your hair, those stories painted a different picture to the man you see in front of you. This Kix keeps looking over his shoulder like he’s got a thermal detonator strapped to his back. And every time your eyes meet his, he pales slightly and looks away. Then again, you might be the strangest thing he’s ever seen, you stick out like a sore thumb in a sea of faces that are all alike. “Wait here.” Kix tells you before disappearing into a barrack. You give him a nod and fish the medal out of your pocket, squeezing it tight. The doors open with another woosh, and you spy Kix inside looking out like you’re a crazed Loth Cat. But he is blocked from your sight by another set of armour and a clone with a Buzz cut whose colour gives away his identity. 

“Rex...” You say from a memorized holo-still that you’ve got  framed on your bedside table. His blonde buzz cut setting him apart from the other three men in the photo. Only one of whom you’ve got memorized down to every cell. 

“Who. Are. You.” Oh, he’s so much colder than Fives, and so much more hidden away. 

“I need you to tell me the location of one of your troopers.” You rush out, tunnel vision encasing your mind, heart so close to finding its other half. The Captain laughs at you. 

“And you think I'm going to give that information away to some civilian? What makes you entitled to one of my men?” You shake with rage.

“He’s my fiance.” You seethe, and he laughs at you again. Anger becomes liquid in your tear ducts. 

“Listen, I don’t know what must’a happen for that delusion to come to light and I don’t have the time for what I'm sure would be an entertaining explanation. So if you’ll excuse me.” He goes to push past you and your tears. 

“CT 27-5555.” You deadpan, you’ve always hated those numbers just as much as he did. He never was, and will never be, a number to you. The captain stops in his tracks and looks feral when he turns back to you. 

“What did you just say?” He grits out, and it makes you feel powerful. He may think he knows his men, he may think he knows the in and out of his company. But he doesn’t, you know Fives better than anyone in the galaxy, and right now that gives you power. 

“CT 27-5555 of Domino Squad, made ARC status after the battle of Kamino, fought at the citadel, on Umbara and hasn’t been planetside in months.” You see the panic in Rexs’ eyes, you’re dangerous now, you have insider information, a spy? A sepratist? Republic traitor? Any of these identities would make you an atomb bomb. 

“Who are you?” He says looking at you like a detonator. You’re crying in front of him, everyone looks tantalizingly similar to Fives, and yet they’re so different it's like a laser pointer and a Loth Cat, something that you just can't get under your hands. 

“Please.” You beg, “just tell me where he is.” You uncurl your hand, leaving indents in it from the points and engraved words of the medal, and the captain's face softens tenfold. He opens his mouth to say something when the doors woosh open again. 

“Captain, General Skywalker is- Maker!” Jesse exclaims upon seeing you. And you absentmindedly wipe away tears, Jesse is exactly as you pictured him. “How in the- you’re real! I knew it!” Rex looks more confused than before, but you, you can’t help but smile a sad smile at the memory.

“I had an idea” Fives had said one night, hiding in one of the shower stalls just to be able to talk to you. “Well there is a first time for everything.” You teased, sitting on your bed in one of his old decommissioned undershirts, the very same one he’d been wearing the night you met. “That's disrespecting a republic soldier.” He commented, maker, you were feeling the distance tonight, you wanted him here, tackling you onto the bed for your snide comments and feeling his goatee when he kissed you. But all that would have to wait. “Soon to be an ex-soldier.” You reminded him, the war was coming to a close, and the second Fives had confirmation of sepratist surrender the two of you planned on taking off. “Cayre that’s a dangerous line of thinking.” He said, looking over his shoulder. “I know, I know, oh!” You realised all of a sudden. “I also had an idea!” Fives smiled at you, he was feeling the distance as well, seeing you in his GAR shirt was making him antsy. “You go first then.” He said, rubbing his chin where stubble was growing in. “EJ” You smiled hopefully, it was a risky suggestion and a far away thought, stemmed from pillow talk about future dreams. “As in-” “Echo Junior” He finished for you, looking at the hologram version of yourself that was so close yet so far from the real thing. “I love it.” He said after a long silence, something that always accompanied bringing up Echo. “he would’a hated it though, always hated the name, even if he did repeat orders like a damn-” “Like a damn echo.” You said with him, shifting on the bed. “Okay tell me your idea now.” “WHO’S THAT?” Came a familiar voice as you watched Fives whirl around as one of his brothers briefly appeared on the holo before disappearing again. “JESSE YOU BANTHA SHIT.” You heard Fives shout, before the holo-call disconnected and the image turned off all together, you couldn’t help but laugh.

“Jesse.” You stated, coming face to face with the tattooed man for the first time. He was easy to recognize from the holograph and stories alone. 

“Maker,” he said stunned and laughing “He always said you were just some holo-video.” Rex is looking between the two of you now. 

“Jesse, you know this woman?” He inquired immediately, still on edge. 

“Yes sir, no sir,” he stammered. “Well yes and no, Fives one night, he, well i…” 

“He caught him on a comm with me.” You supplied, Jesse nodding enthusiastically at your response. You knew there was no hiding it now.  

“I see.” Rex said thoughtfully. “Dismissed.” 

“But sir, I, she…” Jesse started, before catching a glare and mumbling a yes sir as he retreated back into the barracks like a Loth wolf with its tail between its legs. Rex looked at you again, and took you in. Scrutinizing your existence with a sigh when his eyes land on the metal in your hand. Eyes glossing over in a thousand yard stare. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know what to do, he said if he was missing to find you and I haven't heard from him in months…” You rambled, stopping when the captain raised his hand to rub his eyebrows. 

“Who else have you told?” He asked. 

“No one.” You breathed, “where is he.” You pushed, getting desperate now.

Kamino Archives - Batch # 34-7229 - Domino squad report: ARC-5555 removed his inhibitor chip against orders. Request for termination - Status: Granted.

Captain Rex brings you inside the torrent company barracks, and sits you down to tell you. Fives is dead, he tried to kill the chancellor, and was charged with treason. All of the warmth leaves you. Fives is dead, he tried to kill the chancellor, and was charged with treason. You cover your face with your hands as you cry, your headache splitting your skull in two as you try to contain tears and noise. Fives is dead, he tried to kill the chancellor, and was charged with treason. Fives will be buried stripped of his rank, medals, and labeled a traitor to the republic. Rex stands over you while you cry, unsure of what else to do. In all but a few moments he learns of your being, your devotion to his brother, and then, he widowed you.

“Can I see him?” You all but beg, and with a nod Rex walks out of the room, leaving you with no choice but to follow him. Rex... admires you. Yes, he does admire your will, to seek him out and risk your own life just to be able to love a clone. One of many million, who you had given your heart to. He admires your strength because when he leads you to the medbay morgue and you see the lifeless body, you do not cry. Rex stands guard at the door, and intrudes on this intimate moment that is a glimpse of the life that he never knew Fives had.

“Look at you, so this is what it takes for you to get a haircut eh?” You try the lame joke and run your hand over his cold face, stopping at the trademark goatee, tapping it lovingly. “And yet, you still have this.” silent tears begin. “I still set the table for two people, even when you’re gone.” You confess, “because I never know when you’re going to be back.” “Why didn’t we just leave?” You whisper to him,  “you stubborn, stubborn man. Why didn��t we just go?” You lean in close and smooth his facial hair over, and over again. Crying, and cursing the republic. You hear clatter from outside, and turn to look, Rex is looking as well, he’s risking everything to let you say goodbye. His eyes meet yours and you know this has to be quick. “Say hi to him for me, say hi to Echo for me, and remember how much i love you? Please? Because I do, I love you so, so much Fives. More than I could ever say.” You place one last kiss to his forehead, knowing that this will be the last kiss you ever give him. And place the medal on his chest, the one that made him a soldier, that made you engaged and made your claim to his heart, real. “Keep it.” The voice from the doorway says, and it sounds so similar to his, you gasp. But when you turn the eyes won’t have a golden hue, the hair won’t feel the same, and the man will be a carbon copy on paper, but completely different in reality. Your lonely fingers curl around the medal once again, and lift it from his chest.

Kamino Archives - Batch # 34-7229 - Domino squad report: ARC-5555 Terminated. No members of Domino Squad remaining.

End of report.

#Clone Wars #clones #clone #The Clone Wars #clone wars x reader #the clone wars x reader #clone wars x you #clone wars x y/n #fives #arc trooper fives #clone trooper fives #clone fives #fives and tup #fives and echo #echo #arc trooper echo #clone trooper echo #captain rex #star wars #starwars

[lesetoilesfous]

Writing prompt: “You’re trembling.” for Fenders please! <3

Ah thank you!! <3 I hope you enjoy!

(If you’d like me to write you a dragon age fic, send me a prompt from here!)

@dadrunkwriting

Pairing: Fenders

Characters: Fenris, Anders, Isabela, Marian Hawke

Tags: past trauma, reference to past abuse, very oblique reference to past sexual abuse, flashbacks, panic attacks, Anders and Fenris get shoved down a well by templars and Anders gets flashbacks

Rating: Mature

“Think you’re so fucking clever, don’t you mage?” Ser Karras’ voice is sneering, and it bounces against the walls of the well down which he and his men had shoved both Anders and Fenris as he looms over the one remaining point of light far above them. “Some of my boys transferred from Kinloch. Felt like their knight commander had gone soft. Letting scum like you give them the run around. So I’m sure you’ll remember this.”

There’s a thunder clap of sound as Karras drops the heavy wooden cover over the well, and suddenly the light goes out. Anders screams, hurling himself against the cold, long since dried stone of this forgotten well in the foothills of Sundermount. It does nothing. He doesn’t care. He throws himself against the stone again and again until his knuckles are splitting and bloody and his whole body is aching with the bruising force of it. 

When gauntleted hands land on Anders’ shoulders he recoils, falling back against the stone, feet skidding in the dust. The magebane is slowing his reactions, like alcohol without the warmth, and he can feels his emotions and his connection to Justice like a distant memory. Now there is only him, and the figure (Templar) in the dark with the steel hands. Anders turns away from it, feeling tears running hot and stinging down his cheeks as he tears at the stone until his nails split.

“LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET ME OUT!” Anders screams until his voice hurts, beating his bloody hands against the stone, blinking against the dizzying darkness. Again, gauntleted hands catch in his clothes, firmer this time. Anders sobs, half heartedly pushing them away. The hands move, turning him, and Anders cowers. It was always worse when they wanted to kiss him. 

He waits, shivering, for whatever the templar is going to do next. But nothing happens, and after a moment the throbbing pain of hands and arms begins to make itself insistently known at the front of his mind. Slowly, Anders forces himself to open his eyes, and they immediately burn at the sudden presence of light. He blinks the tears out of his vision and stares at the weaving, starlight patterns of lyrium in this person’s skin. Not a templar, then. Finally, Anders forces himself to look up, shaking, into a face he recognises. 

Fenris is frowning at him. “You’re trembling.”

Anders tries to laugh, but manages only a wet sob. “Yeah, well.” He’s shivering so hard he feels like he could fall over. He remembers being this cold once (twice) before, when he was a child and one of the warming spells in the Circle had failed. All of the apprentices had climbed into each others’ beds to stay warm. They’d still lost three to the chill. One of them was six. 

Fenris’ hands are still tight on Anders’ shoulders, and Anders doesn’t know how to explain that he needs them not to be. So instead he stands, and shakes. After a moment, Fenris huffs and pushes him to sit. Anders folds instinctively to his knees, and at that at last Fenris looks even more troubled, letting him go as if he’d been burned. Anders tries not to let his relief show, though he suspects by the expression on Fenris’ face that it does, anyway. 

The well smells of old silt and dry stone, and it is at least an improvement on - Anders’ mind skitters away from the recollection. He cannot let himself go back there. The light of Fenris’ tattoos is barely keeping him in the present, and without Justice to help stabilise his sanity (an irony he would laugh at later), Anders has no intention of tempting fate.

After a long moment of heavy silence, Fenris says, softly, “Hawke will come.” He sounds certain of it. Anders tries to believe him. Fenris goes on, firmly, “She will notice that we are missing. So will Isabela. Neither of them are as foolhardy as they like to pretend.”

Anders hums. He can, at least, concede that. He’s shaking so hard his teeth are chattering. Fenris looks at him. His hair is silver in the reflected light of his tattoos, giving him a faint misty white halo like the moon in the dark. “That man - Karras - he mentioned Kinloch. This is the Circle you were raised in?”

Anders bites the inside of his cheek so hard it hurts and stares at the light of the tattoos on Fenris’ hands. “Unless you want me to go full on actual abomination, I suggest that we don’t go there.” Then he laughs, manic, suddenly, with fear, as he pulls at his hair and leans between his bent knees, back pressed against the stone of the well. “What am I saying. You’d love that. Yes, Fenris, he mentioned Kinloch Hold. Why?” Anders’ thoughts keep scattering from his grasp like frightened halla. He feels anxiety and rage and fear rolling through his body in great crashing waves of emotion. He can’t stop shaking, though he pulls hard on his hair in an effort to make his hands still. 

Fenris is quiet for a long while, and Anders nearly regrets snapping at him - nearly offers him anything, if only he’ll break the silence again. But then Fenris does, and Anders tries not to wreep with the relief of it. “I would help you, if I may. You do not look well.”

Anders laughs, and again the sound is a manic thing that ricochets against the walls of the well, invisible under the velvet weight of deep shadow. “I’m fine.” Anders taps his forehead, “It’s the brain that’s broken. Not the body.” He pauses, examining his bloody, bruised hands and arms with a clinical eye. “Well. Not much.”

“Would it help to ask what happened?” 

Anders can almost feel the weight of Fenris’ effort at patience, and he laughs again, feeling it bubble like fizzing alcohol on his tongue. “You don’t have to be nice to me, you know. Void, do whatever you want. If you stay lit up like that and don’t go quiet, I’ll do anything you say.” Anders hates how much he means it, and the frayed edge of desperation that bleeds into the words.

Fenris, for his part, turns a faint shade of green, and shakes his head. “Are you cold?”

It is cold, down here, thanks to the shadow and the depth. Anders shakes his head before Fenris touches him, the backs of his fingers resting against Anders’ forehead like a nurse’s. After a moment Fenris huffs and moves closer, shoulder pressing against Anders’. The steel of his armour presses into Anders’ skin, and Anders’ mind whirls with a disorienting jigsaw of memories. “Is this alright?” Fenris asks, gruffly.

“Armour.” Anders manages, tightly, and tries to ignore the weight of Fenris’ eyes on him for a long moment before the elf briskly, methodically strips out of his armour, even pausing to remove the gauntlets. When he returns to Anders, the warm curve of his bicep is interrupted only by the fabric of his shirt, and Anders’ body falls heavily against him despite his conscious mind. 

Fenris seems surprised by that, too, because he lets out a small exhalation of air before moving to embrace him, carefully, strong arms wrapping around him and letting him rest against his muscular chest. Anders lets Fenris hold him, and feels, abruptly, utterly exhausted as the tension bleeds out of his body. It’s not dark. He’s not alone. There are no templars. Another beat of silence passes, in which Anders’ racing heart continues to slow to something resembling a regular pace. And then Fenris starts to hum.

Anders doesn’t recognise the tune at first. Fenris’ voice is so low his hum is more of a rumble, that sweetens into a melody the longer Anders listens. Anders feels his shoulders relaxing. Blindly, he reaches out for Fenris’ hand, winding their fingers together. To his faint surprise, Fenris lets him, and the lyrium tingles against his skin where it burns. Anders’ eyelids get heavier, and he feels himself slump further. Fenris’ voice is soft by his head when he speaks. “Sleep, mage. No harm will come to you here.”

Anders wants to say he doesn’t believe him. But the words get lost somewhere on his tongue, and then he’s falling into the darkness behind his eyes, and the dizzying worlds of the Fade.

*

“-ders! Fenris!” Anders wakes up with a headache. The first thing he notices is that his hands and arms are burning with a blistering, chafing pain. The second thing he notices is that he’s asleep on someone, who’s snoring gently. Or, at least, who was - Fenris wakes as quickly as Anders does, and moves him with hurried and surprising tenderness as he gets to his feet, shouting up to a blood-splattered Hawke. 

“Hawke! We’re here!”

A moment later, a rope falls with a whip crack down into the well. Anders stares at it, and Fenris gestures him forwards. Anders can’t find the words to thank him for that, instead he curls his screaming knuckles around the rope and begins to climb. After far too long (he suspects he has fractured at least one bone), Anders feels fresh air on his skin, and then Hawke and Isabela’s hands are on him, and he’s being bundled into a warm, soft, curving body as Isabela hugs him so tightly it hurts. Behind them, Anders is distantly aware of Fenris climbing the rope too, but he’s distracted by Isabela squeezing him breathless and pressing kisses into his hair.

“Void, kitten, I’m so sorry. I swear, I’ll never let that happen to you again. Ever. I swear it.” Isabela’s hands are tight on him, and Anders realises abruptly that perhaps she had learned about his year in solitary after all. He doesn’t know what to think about that, but Isabela’s warm, muscular arms tight around his body are a welcome relief, and he doesn’t try to pull away. At least, until he hears the low rumble of Fenris’ voice behind him, and he pulls back a little from Isabela (her arm is still hooked tightly around his waist), to look over at the elf.

For a long moment, Anders’ tongue is tied. The wind howls over the heather on Sundermount, whistling around the mossy green cliffs of the mountain. Fenris’ hair pulls against his head, white as feathers, and his eyes are bruised with sleeplessness. Anders wonders how much effort he had spent, keeping his brands lit through the night. Finally, he finds his voice, “Fenris. Thank you.”

Fenris looks at him for a long moment. Then he ducks his head, and waves him off, turning away. “It was nothing, mage. You would have done the same for me.”

Anders isn’t sure he would have. But he thinks, as he watches Hawke and Fenris stride down the grassy slope to the templars’ bodies in the ruins of their campsite, he would do it, now. He will.

#dadwc #my fic #pinkfadespirit #fenders #fenris #anders #da2

[lnterjection]

gods of red skies (of this world to comprise)

Based on @quaranmine‘s post “that meme where the FBI shows up at your house because you know too much except it’s DreamXD and Ranboo being the only person who knows what an end portal is,” but I make it angsty.  

-----

“And here’s our table,” Phil said, and Ranboo’s jaw dropped in such standard enderman fashion he would have been ashamed, if he weren’t so preoccupied with the sight in front of him.

Slowly, he took a step forward. Leaned over and traced a finger across the pale, bumpy endstone, its tiny craters and rivers of raised ridges. It had been so long since he felt endstone beneath his skin. 

The empty sockets stare back into him, deep cyans and swirls of black. You’re here, they seem to whisper. We’ve missed you.

“It’s a cool table, but I think this is a bit of an overreaction,” he heard Techno whisper behind him. “Phil, what do we - uh...”

“Do you - do you know what that is?” Ranboo asked. He struggled to keep the awe from his voice. 

Phil glanced over his shoulders with a bewildered expression. “No?” he said, wings slowly fanning out. “What do you mean?”

“It’s-” Ranboo hesitated, taking a step back. Should he tell them? Should - should anyone in this cursed world have that sort of power? Wouldn’t that lead to more sides, more pointless statuses of power to fight over?

He made a split second decision. 

“Um, nevermind,” he said. “I forgot.”

The lie came so easily. Ranboo internally winced at how familiar his muscles were with the phrase. 

Techno eyes him, pupils narrowing, but he doesn’t comment. Phil gives them both a cheery smile and claps his hands in a neat, smooth motion, effectively shutting down the line of conversation.

“So!” he said. “Anarchy!” 

Ranboo nodded along, tried not to be too weird (or well, weirder than he must already seem to them), and that was that.

-

Everything was freezing - his crystalized bed that felt more like ice than wool, his creaking, ramshackle roof with scatterings of icicles that dripped frost and cold, the way every muscle of his body felt like it was contracting into a ball of sharp diamond. 

Ranboo couldn’t complain, though. He had a place to live. He was welcome here, which was so much more than what he deserved after everything he’s done. 

He wasn’t going to freeze to death. Worse case scenario, he takes his blanket and hides under his bed. He’ll be fine. Fine.

His chattering teeth and rapidly shivering body certainly seemed to disagree with him. 

Ranboo tried to draw in a clattering breath. The winds picked up, slicing every exposed inch of skin with an unforgiving glacier.

At least it’s not snowing, he thought weakly. 

And then, through the screeching winds and enveloping blindness of night, he heard it. 

There’s something crunching, outside the fences that made up his home. Ranboo blinked slowly, wondering if he’s finally gone off the deep end. If that last tether to sanity which his mind so desperately clung to was finally slipping away, and this was the moment he succumbed to that relentless war of the mind, never to resurface again.

For a terrible, traitorous moment, Ranboo hoped that it was Phil or Techno, here to invite him into their house of warmth, a sign of friendship or at least care, after he’d been invited into their anarchist group (which wasn’t taking sides, they just didn’t want to be ruled, was that so bad?).

“Not much of a house, is it?”

And like an arrow to his heart, that hope was promptly smashed to pieces.

“Shut up” Ranboo gritted out to the figure that was no doubt leering over him with that stupid smily mask and stupid smug voice. “You’re just jealous you don’t even have one.”

His mind scrambled around desperately as he suppressed a terrified scream. Is this his mind again? But that voice doesn’t show up outside the panic room, or does it? What does he know, really? 

Was this actually Dream, here to kill him? To take revenge on for destroying the community house? Ranboo couldn’t bring himself to drag his face away from the swath of blankets that he was clinging to, but he could hear the whine of the fence gates swinging. Something snapping shut in place. 

Dream was definitely here, unless Ranboo had, indeed, well and truly lost it. Which was a likely possibility. 

Dream, what was Dream doing all the way out here? And why now, of all times, did Ranboo decide to finally grow a spine? 

Well, either he was hallucinating big time, or Dream was here to kill him. Either way, it’s not like anything he did will matter. 

“I have a house,” Dream said, sounding mildly affronted. “Now, this pathetic excuse of a cattle pen certainly can’t be called one.”

“Just shut up and kill me already, Dream,” Ranboo yelled. His voice was muffled and thrown about by the wind, but it echoed through his bones nonetheless, and this was gratifying in some horrifying way because either way it’s not like what he’ll say will make any difference. “What, are you here to finally gloat over me too? Found a different target than Tommy, huh? Just can’t find a better use of your time than torturing teenagers-”

“What? Woah, I am not Dream,” Dream said, and Ranboo took a moment to process this information. 

“What?”

He finally looks up, squinting through the darkness and the biting way the winds attacked his eyes. 

The person that had his arms cross in front of him looked like a carbon copy of Dream, only with a pale blue hoodie instead of the usual lime green one.

“Just because you’ve put on a different outfit doesn’t mean you’ve changed who you are,” Ranboo snapped through chatters. “Fuck off or kill me, Dream. You’re not fooling anyone.”

“I told you, I’m not Dream,” was the reply. “Check your communicator.”

Ranboo, slowly, drew out the device and glanced at the pale, glowing screen. 

DreamXD whispers to you: I’m here.

“Really reassuring,” Ranboo said.

“Aren’t you supposed to be one of the nice ones?” ‘DreamXD’ asked. “I thought you had manners, or something like that.”

“Since when have manners ever helped me?” Ranboo bites, suddenly feeling something sullen draw his stomach down. Bittering clung to every word. “It’s like nothing around here gets done without violence.”

“That’s not my problem.” DreamXD made some shrugging motion, slowly turning his shoulders in an unsteady fashion like he was just getting used to moving his body. “I’m just here to...”

Ranboo flinched as a glimmering stick appeared in DreamXD’s hand. He recognized the telltale sheen of glowing enchantments, but that shouldn't be possible because you can’t enchant sticks. 

Dream, or DreamXD, or Not Dream, whatever the fuck he was - waved his glowing stick above him in what Ranboo assumed was supposed to be a menacing manner. He looked mostly like a deranged serial killer, which was, concerningly, also an apt description for the actual Dream. 

“I need to make an alteration to your book,” he said. “Hand it over.”

Ranboo stared at him for a long, drawn moment. His mind was blank, unresponsive, why would he want the memory book-

And then, his memory book was in the other entity’s hands, and Ranboo began yelling again.

“Give it back!” He lunged forward, but DreamXD teleported to the side and slammed his fist down on Ranboo’s back. He hit a faceful of snow and dirt, and a pained whine escaped his throat as the heel of a boot dug into his neck. 

Everything hurt. His back is now throbbing. Ranboo suppressed a sob as he heard the telltale sound of pages flapping wildly in the wind - and then the sound of ripping paper, grating against every bone of his body. 

Again - no, this couldn’t be happening again, why is this happening again, he was so careful and he hadn’t done anything and surely he had been good this time, hadn’t he?

His mind only just seemed to process what was happening. His memory book - his memory - was being stolen, torn, violated yet again and this time Ranboo could do nothing but listen and cry into the cold, gritty dirt while his neck is on the verge of snapping and what did he do?

He just wanted peace. He just wanted to be loved - not even loved, to just be left alone. To live without constant fear of pain or death or someone destroying everything he held dear. Was that so much to ask for?

Yes, a part of his mind whispered. You blew up the community house. You betrayed L’Manberg. You didn’t even have the spine to tell Techno and Phil, your new allies, what the end portal is. They welcome you onto their land and group and you repay them with more hidden secrets? How else will you betray everyone?

Everything part of him was burning. Ranboo wanted to slice and strip off all his skin, to submerge himself in freezing cold water and close his eyes and not have to worry about any of this anymore and why did he want all of that so much-

“There we go,” the voice above him suddenly said, and Ranboo made a choked noise as something hard kicked deep into his side. He tumbled across the floor with a few soft crunches before going limp, body splayed at unnatural angles that twisted knots around all his muscles. His throat felt more parched than desert sands, scraped raw and bloody. 

Something thudded in front of him, and Ranboo somehow had the strength to claw himself over through a filmy, blotched vision and drag his memory book back into his embrace. There were pages missing, ripped from the spine in jagged chunks like an unfinished puzzle shredded apart from frustration.

He choked again as a hand closed around his neck and dragged him up and something sharp and flaming jabbed into his chest. 

A coarse sleeve muffled his wailing scream. 

This pain was worse, so much worse, worse than the wither skulls and being dunked in water and all the stabs and slices he’s ever endured combined, his insides were burning and burning and on fire and covered in lava and Ranboo thought for a few fleeting moment that he would combust into sheer nothingness and he wanted to forget, forget why am I still here forget everything please I don’t want to be here-

“There we go,” the voice, that Dream voice, said, and it sounded so sickeningly like Dream but also not at all, because whereas Dream‘s voice always held a demeaning smugness about him this one had nothing but cold indifference, and Ranboo wasn’t sure which was worse but he couldn’t focus to think anyway because his entire world was red and white and burning and what the fuck was that stick enchanted with-

At some point, the pressure stopped. It faded away increments, and all Ranboo could comprehend was that eventually, as his mind flopped away from the shelter of nothingness, he was on the ground again and Dream was above him and everything was horribly, horribly silent. 

Why, he wanted to scream again to the howling winds, but his throat was spent and dead and he couldn’t move or do anything except lie there and spasm erratically like a dying animal with its guts already pooling across the stiff, blue grass. 

What did I do why is this happening please I’m so sorry I’m so sorry it’s all my fault please stop I don’t want to die-

“Let this be a warning,” the voice said in a smooth, terribly indifferent way. “If you write down what happened here, or about that end portal, I assure you that things will get much, much worse. And if you tell anyone, anyone else even a hint of what that portal is-”

Ranboo couldn’t even flinch as something cold pressed against his throat, as much as his mind leaped at the feeling. 

“I guarantee you will never see the light of day again.”

Was this what it had all been about? The portal? That he was being punished for his origins after all, for having the - the knowledge itself? For having the power to utilize it, even if he never would? 

“You really are Dream, aren’t you,” Ranboo rasped. He creaked his neck up to stare blankly into that pearly white mask. Every part of him, from his screaming body to his scattered, twisting thoughts felt weighted with magma, smoldering in its own ruins. 

Dream shrugged, a bit faster this time, and disappeared in a shower of flaking purple particles that drifted around like the snow that had, during some part of all this, began to fall. 

His eyes stung. His entire face was covered in tears, sharp daggers flicking the skin across with every movement. Ranboo couldn’t bring himself to care. He cradled his cold, crumpled memory book to his chest and knew that, as much as he hoped it was, this was not just a nightmare. Not in a world like this.

-----

Read on Ao3 here.

#ranboo #dream #dream smp #dreamxd #technoblade #philza #dream smp fanfiction #fanfiction #dsmp #dsmp lore #minecraft #mcyt #interject fanfic

[alexandenigtscreations]

Chapters: 1 of 2 Summary:

Takes place in the aftermath of Mag 92. Recently cleared of murder, Head Archivist, Jonathan Sims, takes a moment to decompress in the archives after a hellish week.

[CHAPTER 2 HERE]

It throbed

Ached

Burned

The events of the past few days came crashing down on Jon as soon as he left Elias’s office.  Lord, he hurt.  

Vagley, he wondered at the events that had led to working in a place where “not dying” was considered an accomplishment.  Yet alone one where a sociopathic boss allowed him to take the wrap for a murder Jon did not commit, and spend the preceding week being stalked by the circus, having unpleasant interviews with the lightless flame, being cast into the vast and hunted down by Detective Tonner.

A sense of being watched sent a jolt of fear through Jon.  He cast about for signs of Daisy.  Was she gone?  Was he safe?  He didn’t think he could deal with her now, not after-

Stop it.  

Jon sagged against the wall of the decidedly deserted corridor, the world shifting in swirling bursts.  Alone, at last and again; he was alone.  His good hand constricted around his wrist in a vain hope the pressure would alleviate the pain.  It didn’t.

A distraction, that’s what he needed.  

Perhaps he could get some work done.  It might be enough to take his mind off of things-  He recalled several articles on ADHD outlining how quickly they picked up on the presence of pain stimuli, especially when it was the most interesting thing happening at the moment.  There were a few other journals that indicated ADHD people had a higher pain tolerance than their peers.  Jon snorted.  He was still on his feet so there must be some truth to it.  

Good lord.  If he was supposed to have a high pain threshold, what must something like this be for a normal person?  Then again-he wasn’t exactly a person anymore, was he.  The way Daisy had- Stop it, now.  

The last thing he needed was to dwell on Detective Tonner and the events of the Past several hours. 

Jon all but collapsed into his chair, allowing the exhaustion leading his bones to pull him down.  He held his burned hand close.  Too close as the heat radiating off his body set his hand burning anew.  He hissed, forcing it as far away as physically allowed.  Practically prostrating himself across the marred surface of the desk.  Causing a small avalanche of paperwork and statements to slide to the floor.  

He cursed under his breath.  Why did he always have to make such a mess of things?  Why couldn’t he do anything right?  He’d driven Tim and Martin away, put Georgie in danger, couldn’t keep Melony or Basira from getting ensnared and...Sasha-  Jon swallowed past the lump in his throat, disgusted with himself.  He could barely think straight yet alone work.  His breath hitched sending a sharp jab of pain from his throbbing ribs.  Detective Tonner’s baton hadn’t...agreed with him.  Acrid saliva pooled in his mouth, for a moment Jon feared he was going to be sick.  

Jon forced himself to still and breathe.  It passed.  The insistent burning sliding back to the surface.  He did the only thing he could do, and turned attention to that all consuming pain.  Attempting to capture the feeling with objective detachment.  It was a technique perfected after the Jane Prentiss incident.  Cataloging the sensations as though they were happening to someone else, another statement for the archives.  That academic veneer had given him some modicum of control, of understanding.  

He desperately wanted that now-

Then again, that was the reason he was in this mess, wasn’t he?  Always having to know?  He sighed, sliding back into memory.

Once, while living with his grandmother, he had scalded his hand ladling out soup.  It had ached for a week and flared up if he touched anything so much as tepid.  This was so much worse.  

Unbidden, Elias’s words came floating back ‘The Archivist observes and experiences’.  Jon groaned.  Right, and what good would that do?  Distastefully, he eyed the improvised bandage of t-shirt strips.  He should change it, he knew but his stomach soured at the thought.  Recalling kneeling on the hard earth, frantically prying off the molten wax.  In his hast he hadn’t registered the blistering skin tearing away with it, leaving his palm raw and exposed.  Part of him didn’t want to face the grotesquery behind the bandage- to see what monstrous form it had taken.

It burned.

He knew it burned.  He knew it needed looking after and he begged his brain to stop sending the signals.  After all:

Message received.

End the bloody statement.

Burns were nothing at all like cuts.  Cuts were well behaved.  Delicately, Jon probed the ragged edges of the gash at his neck.  Cuts were predictable.  Pressing down till he felt the sickening twinge slice through.  For a moment there was this known experience, this expected outcome.  He forgot about the burn, replaced only by the sharp sting in his neck.  Then it all went sideways.  

Jon was looking back into the cold eyes of Detective Tonner as she pressed the blad to his throat.  She had wanted to cut him, to hurt him, to kill him.  She killed monsters, and she’d made it clear where he stood.  His pulse jumped and his chest started to restrict as he saw once more Michael Crew, prone on the forest floor.  The muzzle flash burned itself once more into his retina and Crew was dead.  Daisy had done that.  Daisy had done that right in front of him and Daisy had meant to do that to him and the fear threatening to spill over.  It was too much, just too much!

“Will you stop it!” he shouted out loud, pinching the burn with all his might, abruptly returning to the physical experience of pain in the here and now; the nausea coming back with vengeance.  He whimpered, pressing his face into the cool of his desk.  Breathe.  Just, breathe.  What good was it to be a monster if it hurt so badly?  

Once more he wraped fingers about a slim wrist, attempting to cut off the circulation.  Anything to dull that burning.  He longed to submerge it in ice.  If he couldn’t stop the pain, maybe he could numb it, a little at any rate.  

With heavy eyes, he calculated the distance between himself and the door.  Funny, it never seemed like it was that far away before.  Jon wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and rest for a few moments, but his body simply protested too much. 

Ice, right, ice would help.  

He pushed himself upright on elbows and forearms.  Jon’s legs felt heavy, as though he were borrowing someone else's.  It was hard to move, much harder than it had moments ago- he glanced at the clock, jared to see hours had slipped by.  How had that happened?  

He couldn’t understand why his body was having such a hard time moving when he’d been fine this morning.  He couldn’t understand why the world wouldn’t stop spinning.  The door to his office was closed, meaning he’d have to let go of the burn to open it.  For an insane moment, he considered surrendering and curling up under his desk.  But Jonathan Sims never knew how to give up, did he?  

Martin had had a bit of a day.  

Why wouldn’t he of?  It wasn’t every day that you find out your very life is tied to your place of employment, your coworker had been killed over a year ago replaced by a supernatural imposter and that your “double boss”, to use Tim’s turn of phrase, was a cold blooded killer.  

And Jon-

The man knew how to make an entrance, stumbling into the archives, covered in grime, flanked by Detective Tonner and Basira.  And core, he looked bad.  

After the, Martin had been whisked away by Basira and Daisy to...answer a few questions.  It had felt more like an interrogation than anything else.  He wondered why it had been so difficult for them to accept that he had been as much in the dark as the rest of them.  Tim hadn't helped matters by continuing to make a string of dark comments and Melony had started to genuinely unnerve him.  Which was saying something considering he literally worked among Eldritch horrors.  

After everything, he needed a moment to himself.  Away from angry coworkers and murderous bosses and prosecutorial police detectives.  He retreated back to the old cot in document storage, mulling things over late into the day.  For once he didn’t worry about wasting institute time.  If Elias was to be believed, Martin could no more be fired than he could quit.  Always, his thoughts returned back to Jon.  He hoped the man had good enough sense to go home and rest up.  

“I need a cup of tea-” he said to no one in particular, scrubbing a wery hand down his face.  As far as he could tell, the others had left hours ago.  Just as well, he didn’t feel up to peacekeeping at the moment.  

Martin froze at the door of the employee lounge.  Jon was there!  Standing with his forehead pressed against the fridge.  Looking for all the world like he was about to fold at any second.  Even from his vantage point across the room, Martin could tell he was trembling.  

“Jon?” he regretted speaking at once.  As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Jon lept like a spooked cat.  

“M-Martin-'' his voice was faint, frayed at the edges with exhaustion.  Concern gripped Martin’s chest as he took the man in properly.  

Even covered in ruddy mud; the bruises under his eyes were stark, stretching his gaunt features in agonized lines.  He had a death grip on a thin wrist of a badly bandaged hand.  It reminded Martin of the aftermath of Jane Prentiss and having to chase him away from the tunnels to ensure Jon had time to heal.  

Only this was worse, somehow.  Then, Jon had been angry, driven by the single minded purpose of finding out who had it in for the archivist position.  But now- the fight was gone, leaving him small, vulnerable and lord, he looked defeated.  

“Can I help you?” 

Jon made a complicated spazam of a movement Martin couldn’t make heads or tails of.  Muttering something about getting some ice as he listed to the side.

[CHAPTER 2 LINK]

#tma #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #jon sims #martin blackwood #jonmartin #whump #wound treatment #burns #nausia #injuries #AlexandeNight #my writings #can't believe this is going to have two parts #what have i done? #the Martin sas will be strong with this one #idk how to tag this #fan fic #cw injuries #cw wounds