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kikis-writing-world · 3 years

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Think Happy Thoughts

Summary: Poe is resisting the interrogation techniques of The First Order after Kylo Ren captures him on Jakku. The main way he’s keepng sane: thinking of you.

Pairing: Poe Dameron x F! Organa/Solo Reader

Word Count: 1.5k

Rating/Warnings: Vague descriptions of torture, blood and pain. It’s set in the interrogation scene of TFA from Poe’s POV so... SMUT there is like, 1.5 sentences of Smut, but it’s there! lol No beta/editing as usual.

A/N: So this isn’t as lighthearted as that post, but I once posted a joke about Poe sleeping with Kylo Ren’s sibling and he finds out when he’s probing Poe’s memories for the map. I like how this turned out though and I have an idea for a follow up with Poe and F! Organa/Solo Reader.

Poe wasn’t sure if there was any part of his body that didn’t ache. They’d sent in trooper after trooper, droids, officers - it felt like the whole First Order had come through the room, all looking to get information from him. He gave none. When they slapped, punched, zapped, threatened- he didn’t give in. Every new form of interrogation or torture they rolled out, he grit his teeth through the pain and hit them with some smart-ass quip. He wished his voice held more bite and less pain, but he wasn’t going to let up.

He was scared but he wasn’t going to show these sons of banthas that. He didn’t like his odds of making it home this time. Shackled to the interrogation table he couldn’t talk, shoot or fly his way out of this one. All he could do is try to protect the information he had and hope they grew tired of him being uncooperative sooner rather than later. He wasn’t worried about himself, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t worried about others.

BB-8, wandering around Jakku. His Dad, who already lost his wife to the war. Leia, who had lost so many people over her lifetime. You…

God, he hated that he would be leaving you behind. You both knew the risks of this damned war, both understood the likelihood of the two of you living happily ever after grew slimmer with each mission. You two never promised to make it back to the other, knowing one day it was likely going to become a promise you couldn’t keep. Despite every logical part of your minds knowing this was a possibility, he knew that you would be heartbroken.

He shook away the thought, trying not to dwell on the image of you collapsing into Leia’s arms as you sobbed. As you grieved him. Instead he tried to focus on the time he had been lucky enough to spend with you. Glances shared in the dining hall. Quiet moments snuck out of base, exploring the surrounding terrain. Moments holding each other when one of you returned back to base after a dangerous mission.

The relationship had been secret at first. It had made sense at the time, neither of you wanting to flaunt your found happiness when the galaxy was feeling the pressures of the war. Both of you had seen how the war affected the relationships of your parents and the friends around you. He was more scared to tell Leia than you were.

“Of course she’ll be fine with this, she loves you!” You would laugh, trying to assuage his worries.

“That’s what makes it worse. I’ve got nowhere to go but down.”

You had been right, of course. When the two of you finally broke the news to her, she just smiled that knowing smile of hers. Of course she already knew. There wasn’t much on this base she didn’t know about, let alone her daughter and her best pilot falling in love. She warned you both, telling you it wasn’t easy to love during a war, but supported the happiness you had found in each other nonetheless-

“I had no idea we had the best pilot in the Resistance on board.”

Poe lifted his head from the table as his thoughts were interrupted, not needing his eyes to adjust to recognize the inky black mask of Kylo Ren. It took a moment to see only one of him, instead of three.

“Comfortable?”

Despite his fatigue, the ache that radiated down to his bones, the sinking of his stomach at the sight of the man, he knew he had to keep strong. Even if it was just on the outside. “Not really.”

Unbothered, Ren continued. “I'm impressed. No one has been able to get out of you what you did with the map.” The expressionless helmet stared down at Poe, trying to intimidate him.

Poe almost wanted to laugh, but he couldn’t quite get the air into his lungs. “Might wanna rethink your technique.” He challenged.

There was a beat of silence. Poe forced himself to keep staring at the blank mask. It was unnerving, but he would never back down to this coward who wouldn’t even show his face.

Ren moved his hand slowly, raising it in front of Poe. He shifted in his restraints, preparing for the torture to continue. Ren never touched him, but he felt something regardless.

He grunted, trying to shake off the feeling. A buzzing in his ears, a pressure in his skull. He fought against it and it only got worse. The pressure changed to a near stabbing feeling. Millions of pinpricks in his brain. His ears filled with sounds, his mind’s eye seeing images- Ren was in his head. Digging through his memories, searching for the information he was keeping from them.

Poe forced himself to think elsewhere, just like he had for the other torture he’d gone through. It was always easier to ignore the pain when he thought of you. Thought of protecting you.

His head crashed back into the headrest, but he wasn’t sure if he had done that or Ren had. He whimpered at the growing pressure. Everytime his memories focused on you, it felt like someone flipped a switch for a different memory. Always back to the village on Jakku.

Your smaller hand in his as you walked through the hanger together- Lor San Tekka’s hut- Your smiling face, lit by the tiny candles he’d smuggled into the dorms as he tried to treat you to a candlelit dinner- The kindly older man handing him the leather satchell-

“Where is it?” Ren demanded, trying to follow the memory. Trying to make Poe follow the memory of that leather sack.

You, in his lap in the cockpit of his X-Wing, squealing and holding onto him as you begged him to go faster- his X-Wing, still on Jakku- Trying to tell the man to hide before The First Order arrived- Your lips on his, your soft cheek under his palm as your fingers tangle in his curls, you taste like caf and candy-

“The Resistance,” Poe grunted, breathing heavily as he tried to keep control of his own thoughts. He swore, he could taste caf and candy over the coppery taste of his own blood. “Will not be intimidated by you.”

The pressure increased, making him squirm.

Running through the desert, the satchel heavy in his hand. He can feel the wind in his hair- not the wind, your hands running through his hair as he kisses down your neck- it tastes like the desert, of the sand that catches the breeze. He runs to the X-Wing, sweating in the desert heat even at night- sweat drips down his neck as he thrusts into you. You’re under him, gripping his arms as you whine his name up at him. Your own skin shines with sweat in the dimly lit room, warm skin flush against him. He moans your name back to you-

He can’t explain it, but he feels the energy change. The pressure in his head goes from a pulling to a pushing. Instead of pulling the memories of Jakku forward, he’s pushing the memories of you away. The feeling of you being pushed away sits heavy in his gut.

“Where... is it?” Ren demands once more.

You’re laughing at his joke- you’re shot on the training course- you’re putting up your hair- you’re bleeding from a cut on your hand- the X-wing’s engines sputter- you’re crying- you’re laughing- you’re screaming while warning alarms go off- BB beeps-

He can’t keep up with the images swirling in his mind. Happy memories of you. Upsetting memories of you. Jakku. BB-8. The Map. Poe Screams as he fights it.

“You take this. It's safer with you than it is with me.”

It doesn’t stop. The memory doesn’t switch. It plays like a holovid in his head and he has no control over it.

“You get as far away from here as you can. Do you hear me? I'll come back for you! It will be alright.”

All at once it’s gone. The memories, the pressure, the pain. He can barely breath, he feels dizzy. Black spots creep into his vision - is what he’s seeing real, or is it another memory? He’s not sure.

“The best pilot in the Resistance will be the reason they fall,” Ren mocked. Poe could barely hear him over the rushing of blood in his own ear. “Did you get that title through skill, or did it come with fucking the Princess of the Resistance?”

Poe sputtered, feeling like he was going to be sick. He wanted to talk back, to say something to defend himself, to defend you. He physically couldn’t.

“Don’t worry,” Ren chuckled darkly as Poe’s consciousness started to fade. “I’ll make sure my darling sister knows you thought of her right up until you gave away the information that kills them all.”

Sister?

Poe collapsed against the interrogation table, unconscious.

Tagging: @wickedfrsgrl @din-damn-djarin @dinthisisthe-wayson @vonschweetz

#Poe Dameron x Reader #Poe Dameron x F!Reader #Poe Dameron x Organa/Solo Reader #Poe Dameron imagine #Poe Dameron fanfic #Poe Dameron drabble #WookieTales #Poe Dameron #Lemony Fresh

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dadsbongos · 3 years

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Greetings! I got this idea for danganronpa AU where Nagito is like ghost "living" (or haunting idk-) his old house and the reader moves into that house and they slowly became closer and yk<3

hi i love this concept :)

Request for: Nagito Komaeda Warnings: nagito’s backstory, slight religious overtones, we breach minor ghost-fucker territory (but no actual ghost-fucking), no-killing game au also ~~~

The house itself was rather nice. Nothing too luxurious for who the previous owner was aside from the obnoxiously fancy chandelier hanging in the den.

The realtor was hesitant to explain that the reason it was selling so comically cheap was, in fact, due to the belief of a ghost. Not just any, however. It was the previous owner’s ghost.

People who even stepped into the house could feel his chilling touch. Hear quiet, shaky whispers in the night. The fireplace would crackle and burst to life at strange times with nobody near it. Visitors and almost-buyers alike would thrust their warnings to stay away upon anybody who so much as looked at the home.

But that didn’t matter much - a house was a house and it’s not like the ghost was malicious from description. Just… annoying. Perhaps a little eerie, but again, not harmful. Everybody escaped without physical injury. So, why not buy it?

Maybe the ghost just needed a friend? Death was probably a lonely time.

Bought on Tuesday. Moved in Wednesday. Finished unpacking… still pending.

It’s not like (Y/n) had anybody to impress anyways. She’d made the move for a fresh start; new faces, new stories.

The bumps began on Friday.

Sometimes they were taps. Sometimes crashes followed by the gentle rapping against the walls, as if to apologize for the loud noise.

She’d stayed through the month, undeterred by any of the ghosts’ activities.

Then the happenings seemed a little more… intimate.

A photo slowly sliding out from beneath the fridge, at first.

Three people in frame. From left to right, there was a figure with shoulder-length pink hair and a smile to make the heavens jealous - then white hair to rival a cloud-marshmallow love child, skin sickly pale and body wastingly thin - finally, brown hair with an ahoge sticking out like an antenna and posture that almost made him taller than the one in the middle. Well, not really, but attempting counted, right?

“Which one’s you?” she asked the air, whether she was too tired, or simply didn’t care enough, to be embarrassed was irrelevant.

A single droplet of water, from a leak she didn’t know existed until this very moment, fell from the ceiling before splotching over the face of the one in the middle.

“White hair, heavy eye bags?”

There was no response, but she took it as a yes anyway. What a pretty, pretty face. In a tragic way.

Because he did look rather ill. Frail build and purple hues under his eyes. Pretty but suffering - it made her feel bad. Of course, she already knew he was dead, but even so - suffering should always inspire empathy rather than romance.

And again, he was dead, so the likelihood of a romance between them anyway was slim to none. None. Unless she suddenly dropped dead, there would be no sweet kisses in the morning or gentle hugs from behind as one of them makes dinner. Maybe when she died, he’d be available for a ghostly date while the house gets put back on the market.

(Y/n) chuckled at the sudden thought of lightning cracking into her home, despite the sunny weather, and striking her dead where she stood. Ridiculous, but God liked ridiculous things.

The sudden thought hit her - what if that old photo was old old? Maybe he was eighty when he died and she just subconsciously signed herself up for a date with an elderly ghost?

Shaking her head, (Y/n) scolded herself for the thought. She’d already be dead by then, it wouldn’t matter what age he was...

Then, it was the scribbling on spare papers. Always specifically spares. Double copies she had put in recycling. Scraps. Even on the backs of paper-esque trash. It was an oddly considerate move for a ghost, though to be fair, she’d never met a ghost before and couldn’t tell if it was out-of-place or not for them.

The words always appeared when she was out of the room. Leaving to grab something and coming back to find the out-dated schedule for work out of recycling and on her desk with crayon sprawled over it.

Eloquently said, in her opinion.

“Hi?” she looked around the room, “Can you not talk? I thought people said they heard whispers…”

A bang in the other room drew her out. When there was nothing out of place, she returned to her desk only to be met with more words.

I’m Nagito Komaeda :)

“Dodging the question, huh?”

The process repeated. Bang. Nothing out of the ordinary. Return. New words.

Sorry :(

“Don’t apologize,” (Y/n) shrugged off before moving to her computer, “I’m just gonna look you up.”

A series of bangs - now that she truly listened, it sounded like a fist pounding to the drywall - resonated through the home. She did not get up nor did she pause her actions of Googling the man known as Nagito Komaeda.

Until a piece of paper flew in from the open door.

Bad idea

“Probably, yeah,” she huffed, moving back to her computer.

Nagito Komaeda, born April 28th, first popped up as the sole survivor in an old plane hijacking report. Both parents, all plane staff, and the hijackers left dead after the plane crash caused by a meteor strike. Then he came up as a survivor of an old serial kidnapper/killer. Then as a boy who’d inherited the entirety of his parents’ fortune and won a large sum from a lottery ticket he’d found in the trash bag he was stuffed in by his kidnapper. Then as a Hope’s Peak graduate under the title Ultimate Lucky Student.

Finally, as a 25-year-old man who’d miraculously survived ten years post-diagnosis with frontotemporal dementia and advanced lymphoma before his death.

“Holy shit,” she nearly choked on her own shock, “You weren’t boring, that’s for sure.”

Another paper, this time written in marker as if he could sense that she didn’t wish to get up. Another strangely considerate move.

Thanks

You’re not creeped out?

“I mean, it’s more sad than creepy,” her eyes scanned over a single line in the article once again.

“Nagito Komaeda, after all his fortunes and misfortunes alike, died at age 25, after ten years of illness, surrounded by friends who took the place of family. Out of respect, no interviews were conducted, but anybody, anyone at all even from a quick glance, could tell - Nagito Komaeda will surely be missed.”

Her eyes watered slightly as she clicked out of the Togami Publications, laughing at the pure awkwardness of her situation, “Oh my God, that’s really fucking sad. I’m sorry your life sucked.”

Another paper.

It’s fine

I was just wasting space anyway :)

“No, you were- “ she gestured to her computer screen before covering her eyes in shame of her tears, “You meant so much to your friends.”

She expected memorial posts, maybe not as many as there were, but she saw them coming. What she didn’t see coming, however, was that each and every one would be dearly heartfelt - not a single one was disingenuous or vague in the slightest. She also didn’t see herself crying by the end of her little search.

But there she was.

Something light floated into her lap. A tissue.

“Oh my fucking God,” (Y/n) choked up again, picking up the tissue with a small smile, “Stop, you’re a ghost, you’re supposed to be scary and making me leave, not helping me dry my tears…”

Another paper atop the slowly growing pile.

Was that a ghostphobic remark?

“Oh, I’m keeping that one,” she stood, sniffling as she wiped away her tears, and picked up the last paper, nodding to herself as she muttered, “Yep. This one’s going on the wall.”

Nagito stopped whispering because people ran when he did. His voice was always hideous, he didn’t to be reminded. Besides, (Y/n) seemed to prefer the paper method - she hung up her favorites along the walls of her office and if a visitor teased her about it she would ignore them. It was admirable, how their grins and giggles rolled off her back like water droplets over a duck.

He wished he could be like that.

Could have been.

He still had trouble with that.

Has.

Nagito looks up from his spot at the kitchen table where (Y/n) was cooking for herself. She seemed so at-peace in this house, and he’s glad for that. He never liked living alone and everyone else seemed to hate having him there. Not that he blamed them much.

Even so, he much prefers (Y/n) over any past guest as his living counterpart of the house.

She even leaves chairs open for him at the table; he smiles widely at the thought, patting his thighs and kicking out his legs in his seat- just like now!

She’d pulled out the chair upon entering the kitchen before calling out for him that she’d be cooking. She even knew he liked watching her cook!

It was selfish of him to crave so much attention, but in the end, Nagito was already dead so… did it really matter when he indulged in his wants more than he should?

Divine punishment isn’t real and he likes being around her, so why should he bother hiding himself away in the attic?

(Y/n) moved around the house with little to no liveliness, it made him chuckle. Her shoulders drooped and footsteps heavy, it was fun. To feel like he wasn’t alone.

He hoped she felt the same. That he was a friend… or, undead companion?

He hoped she would stay and not move out.

He hoped they could be real friends one day… if it’s not too much to ask, that once she dies, she’ll meet him. The real him.

That would be heaven.

#nagito x reader #nagito komaeda x reader #anon chatter :)#x reader #oh to have a polite nagito ghost you can pull out chairs for and look up his tragic backstory

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violetwolfraven · 3 years

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Ghost Guitar Battle (2/3)

((Part 2 of I have no impulse control and squirreled on this random idea, ignoring those asks in my inbox. Don’t @ me this concept is fuckin awesome if only to me.))

Part 1 here.

Part 3 here.

Warnings: mentions of mind control.

...

12 days ago

“You what?”

Julie was pretty sure she was hallucinating, because this was something she had honestly never expected to happen.

Sure, there were days when she missed this certain ex-friend, but she’d never expected her to actually let go of her ego long enough for something like this to happen.

Carrie sighed before repeating herself, “I need your help.”

“Oh, we heard you,” Flynn said, “We’re just trying to think of reasons why we would ever help you with anything.”

“This doesn’t concern you, Flynn.”

“It concerns Julie, so it concerns me. Why would either of us ever help you with anything?”

“Because I’m not asking for myself,” Carrie snapped, “It’s about Nick.”

...what?

Nick and Carrie had broken up weeks ago. Why would she be asking for help involving him?

“What’s up with Nick?” Julie asked.

Simultaneously, Flynn laughed out, “We’re not helping you get him back.”

“It’s not about getting him back,” she insisted, “He’s acting weird. Like, really weird. And no matter what’s gone down between us recently, I’m worried about him.”

“Have you tried talking to him about this?” Julie asked, honestly unsure what was going on.

“No, because...” Carrie made a frustrated huff, “Because have you been paying attention to him at all recently? It’s like he’s a completely different person.”

By the look Flynn was getting in her eyes, it was starting to dawn on her that Carrie was being serious about this.

Julie, for one, still wasn’t sure what to think. Truthfully, she hadn’t been paying much attention to Nick lately. She’d been pretty preoccupied with the band, with the guys now able to give hugs and stuff and be seen whenever directly touching her. Plus, there was the new weirdness of figuring out if she and Luke wanted to try out some form of dating. Honestly, that uncertainty was creeping into their songwriting, which they’d still been doing a lot of.

In short, she’d been pretty busy.

Nick had been hovering around but barely starting a real conversation lately, which was weird now that she was thinking about it, but... was that just awkwardness left over from when Julie rejected him?

“How do you mean?” she asked cautiously.

“Well for one thing, he’s actually talking to me,” Carrie explained, “Which he really hasn’t done since the breakup at all. And for another, all he does is ask about you.”

Flynn rolled her eyes, “This is weird how?”

Carrie glared at her, “It’s weird because mostly, he keeps asking if I’m mad about Julie and the Phantoms upstaging Dirty Candi. Bringing up the fact that it happened twice, as if I’m supposed to hold some kind of major grudge.”

“Okay, that’s weird,” Julie admitted.

“You don’t know the half of it. As if that’s not suspicious enough, he asked if I found your band members suspicious. Like, sure, I knew you’d only hurt him cause you’ve got a crush on your guitarist, but—“

“What?!”

“Oh honey, it’s obvious,” Flynn admitted.

Julie really, really hoped it wasn’t and Flynn and Carrie just knew because they’d known her for a long time.

“Whatever,” Carrie said strategically, “Getting back on topic, what really tipped me off is... he asked about my dad. He asked how much I knew about his past, about bands he was in before he made it big, or whatever.”

Okay, that was a big red flag, Julie had to admit. Rule #1 of being friends with Carrie had always been to make sure she knew you weren’t in it because of her dad’s fame. Bringing up Trevor at all as anything other than a dad was off limits, and would have been even more so to Nick.

If he was acting that off, Julie felt a bit guilty for not noticing.

“Look, I don’t know what’s up with him,” Carrie admitted, “But I know something is. Besides just what he’s been talking about with me, he’s been playing jazz in music class. He carries himself differently when he walks. And if nothing else, have you both seriously not noticed how much not like himself he’s been dressing the last couple days? Nick doesn’t wear that many dark colors except for dance performances.”

Wait... there was something familiar in that description.

Reggie had done a good enough impression, according to the others, that Julie and Flynn had a good idea of the style of a certain dark color-wearing, jazz-loving ghost.

A ghost with magical powers they didn’t really know the limits of.

Flynn was clearly thinking the same thing, so there was only one last decision to make.

Unfortunately, Flynn would probably hate Julie’s call on this one, but Carrie had brought this to their attention in the first place and probably deserved to be kept in the loop.

“Are you free to meet at my house after school?”

Carrie nodded, but looked kind of surprised.

Flynn also looked surprised. And mildly horrified. Julie ignored that.

“Good. And fair warning, you’ll need to get real cool with some weird stuff real quick.”

...

Now...

“So you haven’t heard from your boyfriend at all?” Carrie asked, frowning.

Alex was pacing, which meant Julie had to pace with him so that Carlos, Carrie, and Flynn could keep seeing and hearing him.

Maybe that was for the best. She was pretty anxious, too.

“Well, Willie’s not exactly my boyfriend,” Alex mumbled, “We haven’t labeled anything. And plus, he’s risking everything every time he even sees me. That’s not—“

“Alex,” Luke said pointedly, despite the fact that half the room couldn’t hear him, “Get to the point.”

“Right. No. No, I haven’t heard from him. He said Caleb was possessing Nick and he was going to try to help him and that was it. It’s been a day. I’m getting worried. This is the first time he’s really ever stood up to Caleb openly. Who knows what could happen to him because of it?”

“I’m sure he’s fine,” Flynn said.

She didn’t sound very certain, but she was glancing over at Carlos like she was worried this would scare him.

Julie wasn’t that worried. She knew her little brother was tough. And that he actively sought out creepy cryptid videos on YouTube.

“I mean, he’s already dead, right?” Carlos said with a shrug, “So it’s not like he can kill him again.”

Luke raised his hand, beckoning Julie over to come and grab him so the other lifers in the room could hear him.

“No, he can’t kill him, but he can hurt him.”

“Yeah, death’s not the worst thing that can happen to a person, shockingly,” Alex muttered, the worry clear in his voice.

“Wait, what does this mean for Nick?” Carrie asked, “If Caleb’s controlling him, does that make him, like, partially dead?”

That was... that was a good point.

It was just starting to fully register that Nick was really in danger.

God, he didn’t deserve that. He was in danger and it was all because he’d gotten closer with Julie.

“I don’t know,” Alex admitted, “Willie made it sound like Caleb was... shoving him down. Like, Nick’s fighting it, but he’s losing.”

“But he’ll be okay, right?” Julie asked, “Once we figure out how to get Caleb out?”

“Willie said he’s still alive in there, and he’s okay, for now. But... but the longer he stays out of control, the harder it’ll be to get Caleb out of his head.”

Despite all the differences between them, Julie could see the same anxiety she was feeling reflected in the look Flynn and Carrie exchanged.

It had already been two weeks.

All the supernatural stuff aside, that had to be a nightmare, to be out of control of your own mind and body.

“He must be so scared in there,” Julie muttered.

“Yeah,” Reggie agreed, coming over to put a hand on her shoulder so he’d be visible, “And we lost our inside man, so we don’t even know what’s going on in there now.”

Luke smacked him upside the head, “Dude, not helping.”

“Sorry.”

Carlos perked up suddenly, which was... alarming.

Julie knew that look. It was the look he got right before he was about to say something that in all likelihood would cause trouble.

“Do you think we should call Ryan and Chad?” Carrie asked quietly.

“Oh, how would that go?” Flynn shot back, “Just, ‘sorry, your son is under the control of an evil ghost and we don’t know how to get him out?’ That’s a great thing to tell a parent.”

“How long do you think it’s going to take them to notice something’s up on their own, Flynn? Sure, Lizzie needs more attention than Nick does, but he’s still their son and it’s only a matter of time. Heck, they probably know something’s weird already and just don’t know why.”

“They probably just think he’s going through his emo phase. Why make them panic when there’s nothing they can do, anyway?”

“Wait,” Carlos said slowly, “We don’t know what’s going on in there... but what if we did?”

Carrie rolled her eyes, “Yeah, but we don’t anymore.”

“Not in the Hollywood Ghost Club,” he clarified, “In Nick’s head.”

“I applaud your out of the box thinking,” Reggie said, “But we don’t really have a way to do that.”

“We don’t. You do.”

Julie slowly started to realize what he was suggesting.

“What happens if one of you tries to go in and possess Nick while Caleb’s already in there?”

“What happens if you can drive him out?” Flynn realized, “You’d be able to just let Nick go.”

“Theoretically,” Alex admitted.

“It’s worth a try,” Carrie said hopefully.

“It’s risky,” Julie corrected, “What happens if you can’t push Caleb out? Would you just be stuck in there, too?”

Luke shrugged, “There’s no way to know... I’ll do it.”

“Whoa, Luke—“

“Reggie, we’re already dead,” Luke said firmly, “Nick’s not. He got pulled into this because of us. It’s our responsibility to get him out of it.”

“But why you specifically?” he argued, “Why—“

“Because unlike you and Alex, Nick and I have something in common.”

Julie wasn’t sure if he was talking about guitar or her.

Either way, he had a point. She didn’t like the idea of the risk, but she couldn’t see another option that possibly ended in getting everyone back.

“You said you resisted Caleb before,” she pointed out hesitantly, “Before our Orpheum performance. At least a little.”

“Yeah, exactly. Alex and Reggie, neither of you could do that. Going in to try to get Nick out, I’m the only one that stands a chance.”

They both clearly wanted to, and honestly, Julie did, too, but none of them argued.

“Willie said Nick had a chance if he ‘dug deep enough,’” Alex said quietly, “Something about needing to not hold anything back?”

Luke nodded, “I’ll tell him. And I’ll try to find out about Willie if I get the chance.”

They were all well aware how much risk this was taking, and even Carrie seemed hesitant to send Luke into it.

Still, Julie nodded as they made eye contact.

“Make sure you both come out of this.”

#julie and the phantoms #jatp #julie and the himbos #juke #willex #it’s just in the background tho #flarrie #if you squint #nick danforth evans #julie molina #carrie wilson #flynn jatp #luke patterson #reggie peters #alex mercer #carlos molina #ghost guitar battle #mind control tw #violet’s writing

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botheredbuck · 3 years

Note

#6 please

tw - panic attack

A crash jolts Ben from this half-awake state that he’s got himself in. He’s currently slumped out across the sofa, some mindless late night comedy playing on the TV because Callum’s had a shift this afternoon and Ben’s bored out of his mind, since Lola has Lexi. He’s just been waiting for him to get back, really- absently drifting between conciousness until he can wrap himself up in Callum’s arms again, because that’s the only way he wants to fall asleep. He’s expecting him back at some point soon since his shift ended maybe an hour ago, but Ben knows now that just because his shift’s ended doesn’t mean there’s nothing for him to do.

He’s immensely proud, of course. Callum retraining as a paramedic felt like something that just fit as soon as it was suggested. He’s flourished in the new role and Ben can see the way it’s changed him, how his confidence has shot up and how he actually comes home from work looking happy, like he’s achieved what he wants to. Sure, the shifts have been hard on both of them - mainly on Ben because of his somewhat selfish need to be in his fiance’s arms as much as humanly possible - but Ben’s content to wait, especially if the job makes Callum as happy as it does.

There’s another side to it though, and Ben’s perfectly aware of that. Callum’s inbuilt need to help people comes with a downside, in that he takes responsibility for everything he can- whether he should or not. He knows that Callum most see things that Ben doesn’t want to think about, but he doesn’t push- knows he will talk to him if he needs to. He’s also getting therapy now, which is another huge something, and another huge weight off Ben’s mind. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t come face to face with it at times.

There’s another little crash, quieter this time and it sounds like someone walking into the kitchen table, from the way there’s this horrible scraping sound that follows the crash. An irrational fear builds itself through Ben, that something’s going to happen and that there’s someone there and that god, he’s going to die here but that’s what happens when he’s tired and he lets his mind spiral. The likelihood is that it’s Callum, and that he hasn’t said anything because he assumed Ben would be asleep by now, because Ben’s too shy to tell him that he actually can’t sleep without him any more.

(Thoughts of sleeping alone send him back to those months after that Christmas, where he’d fucked things up beyond belief and he’d been left in that bed alone. He won’t admit it - too proud or too stubborn, he’s not sure - but that time’s left scars on him too. They’re his own fault, which is why he can’t bear to put them to words but that doesn’t mean they don’t burn.)

“Cal?” he calls out, voice a little rough from the half-asleep state that he’s almost still in. There’s no answer, so he steps carefully towards the kitchen.

Sure enough it is him, but god-

Ben finds him hunched over the table, hand shaking in fists where they hold him up, knuckles white. He doesn’t look himself, he looks- curled in and scared and the wrongness of it burns in Ben’s chest. Callum’s chest moves up and down too fast, too irregular and it scares him, more than he’s willing to admit because as much as he’s gotten better, admitting that he’s in love with someone like this - so carefully and wholly and unconditionally - is still hard. Callum’s uniform looks like it swamps him all of a sudden and he looks small, like he’s trying with everything he can to hide himself away and Ben knows all too well that he’s got plenty of experience with that. He finds Callum doing it sometimes even now - trying to hide the bigger parts of himself, the parts that really let people know that he’s there and he’s happy and he’s proud - and Ben hates it with everything in him. It’s less and less now, time proving a good method of healing but it still happens sometimes.

“Hey, Cal?” he says again, cautiously taking another step towards Callum because he doesn’t want to spook him but he can’t bear to stand and watch any longer. Callum nods, maybe just a little, almost imperceptible but it’s all he needs. “What’s going on- what’s happened?”

Callum looks for a minute as though he’s trying to answer, but instead this little whimper falls out of his mouth. “B- Ben-”

“I’m here,” he says instantly, hoping that it’s some kind of reassurance. “Can I touch you?”

“Please,” Callum whispers and he finally turns to look at Ben, eyes wet and pleading and it breaks Ben’s heart.

“Hey, it’s okay- I’m right here,” he says, stepping forward and his hands go to touch, to fix instantly, smoothing over the sleeves of Callum’s uniform jacket. “Let’s get you out of this uniform, yeah? You wanna sit down?”

Callum just takes another shaky breath, almost all the way in before it hitches again. “I- can’t breathe, Ben, please-”

“Hey, hey, just listen to me, yeah? You’re gonna be okay,” he replies, tugging one of the kitchen chairs out from under the table and guiding Callum down into it. He tugs another one across the floor so that he’s in front of him, just close enough that he can touch and guide and be there but enough that Callum has his own space.

Callum nods a little at Ben’s words, even though he doesn’t look all that convinced. “Hey, trust me. I’m smart like that, obviously. Ain’t anyone I need to fight is there?”

Ben worries for a minute but his words must work, because a couple of seconds later there’s a smirk creeping onto Callum’s face, and it seems easier to take a breath.

“That’s it, well done babe,” Ben says, thumb stroking over Callum’s knuckles where they’re still held tense. They breathe together for a minute, until Callum looks less like he’s going to collapse on the spot and he smiles at Ben almost properly.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, eyes falling down to where his and Ben’s hands are connected on the table. “’M sorry.”

“Hey, you don’t have to apologise, this ain’t your fault,” Ben says immediately because he knows that’s where Callum’s mind goes almost every time he has a panic attack, because he’s selfless to a fault and always has been.

Callum looks as though he’s going to say something back for a minute until Ben raises his eyebrows at him, and he just laughs instead- quiet and short but it’s there, and it’s something.

“Fine,” Callum replies. “Can we- not talk about it? I’m sorry I just- I just need to clear my head a minute first.”

“Of course,” Ben says, his other hand coming up to cup just under Callum’s jaw, thumb running over his cheek. “You wanna go cuddle on the sofa? I’ll even make you a hot chocolate if you like?”

Callum just smiles at him for a minute and he looks content, and it makes Ben’s heart race. “That sounds perfect, thank you.”

Ben nods, then leans forward to press a kiss against Callum’s forehead as he gets up. “Love you, baby.”

“I love you too.”

(Ben doesn’t see the way Callum watches his back as he walks across the kitchen, but he doesn’t need to- he can feel everything that’s in that look and it warms his chest, and he’s almost never felt so lucky.)

(thank you so so much for the request, and to the other anon who requested this one too- i hope you enjoyed!!)

#ballum #eastenders #ben x callum #ballum fic #callum highway #ben mitchell #fic request #tw panic attack

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pixieungerstories · 4 years

Text

Captive - 9

Hi Readers - I hate to be like this, but if you love this story, please go here to subscribe. I’m not intentionally neglecting the free content, it’s just getting overlooked right now. My next book deadline in Nov15 (2020). Normally, it’s just me writing for me and you get the benefit from that. This time Podium Audiobooks has me under contract for second book in the Mistaken Universe.

Also - if you have the time - the occasional gentle reminder is appreciated. Today’s post is brought to you by @dizzy-poncho who sent me some love and made my brain realized I hadn’t posted in a while.

The sound of someone pounding on the door was less than an ideal way to be awoken. As was the kitten, who had up to that point had been curled up behind her knees, screeching and bolting. Elly glanced at her watch, she had managed maybe four hours of sleep. The person on the other side of the door pounded again. Groaning, Ellly got to her feet, stomped over to the shop door and wrenched it open.

“What?!”

The church ladies were clearly taken aback by her tone. They stared at her in stunned horror.

“The sign says we’re closed for the day.” Elly announced.

“I just need-” Posy started to say, but Elly interrupted.

“You need to come back tomorrow.”

Posy narrowed her eyes, “I could just as easily order my yarn off the internet instead, you know!”

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” Elly replied sadly. “Good day then.” She then closed the door on the women’s shocked faces. She leaned against the door for a minute and groaned before rallying the strength to head upstairs. On her way she nearly tripped over the reappeared kitten.

“Jesus, cat! Learn some self preservation!” Elly scolded as she scooped up the tiny thing. The kitten clamored up her arm to her shoulder and settled in for the trek upstairs. Elly tried to remember where she had stored Mitten’s cat stuff. In all likelihood she probably gave it away when she figured her cat had been eaten...Well she’d need to take the kitten for vaccinations anyways. She could pick up whatever she needed then. First thing on the list, a bell collar.

Well, that could be second. The first thing she needed was a name. Elly wondered for a moment if George would want any say in that. The thought could wait. First she needed a nap, or possibly a whole lot of coffee. Likely both.

Ben was just staggering out of the spare room when Elly got back to her apartment. “Shit, boss, I am late getting started this morning.”

Elly sighed, “We are closed today. How are you feeling?”

Ben shrugged, then rubbed his bleary eyes, “Slightly hung over, possible still a little drunk, and baffled that you have a dragon living in your basement.” He looked at her face and frowned, “Did you sleep last night?”

Elly shook her head again, “Not really. I napped.”

Ben winced, “Was that my fault?”

Elly shook her head again, “I was up too late and started getting creeped out by the sounds of the house settling.” Ben really did look awful. “Right!” she announced, making him wince again. “Big glass of water, a couple of aspirin and back to bed.”

Bean groaned, “I would roll my eyes at you except that they feel like they might fall out of my head if I tried.”

Elly snickered under her breath and went to the kitchen for a glass.

“So tell me about George.”

She froze. This was awkward. “I think you should ask him about him. Carefully. I don’t want to offend the dragon in my basement and neither do you.” She filled the glass with water and handed it to him. As Ben drank the water she pulled the aspirin out of the spice drawer.

“Does he breath fire?” he asked, lightly, trying to make a joke.

Elly pursed her lips as she considered that. “More like belches fire, but he can adjust his body temperature to heat the building.”

“You are fucking kidding me!” His eyes went wide as Elly shook her head. “Holy shit.” It was said reverentially, whispered almost like a prayer. Ben took two steps to the left and sat heavily in one of the kitchen chairs.

Elly gave him a sympathetic look. “I am honestly unsure if this conversation would be better once you are sober. It could turn out to be worse.” She hesitated for a moment before adding, “Are you planning on quitting?”

“Why would I quit?” Ben asked with a frown.

Elly frowned right back at him. “Because there is a dragon in the basement. And if you tell anyone, they will just think you’re delusional.”

Ben considered this. “You won’t. Think I’m insane, I mean.”

“I’m not really the best judge of sane, Ben.” She sounded sad when she said it.

There was a long moment of tension before the kitten stropped up against Ben’s leg, causing him to curse and stand up fast enough to knock over his chair. It hit the ground with a clatter and the kitten bolted.

“Was that Muffin?” he mumbled, looking sheepish as he picked up the chair.

Elly frowned, “You mean Mittens? No. George brought it home last night.”

“Like a present? That’s sweet.” After a moment, Ben added “And a little weird. Where did George get a kitten?”

“He said someone killed its mom and littermates. He was vague on the details and I didn’t push. He would have told me if he wanted me to know.”

Ben shivered, “Yeah. I was picking up my spice delivery at the post office last week and overheard the Debbie from the pound saying it was less killing cats and more a plaque of cat mutilations.”

Elly went very still. When Ben finally looked up and met her eyes, she whispered, “Are we talking disemboweling here?”

Ben blinked and stared at her in horror before nodding. “How did you know that?”

Elly spun on her heels and fussed at the sink, giving it a wipe before putting the kettle on the hob. “George was unusually circumspect about what had happened. I couldn’t figure out why, he isn’t usually shy.”

Ben snorted, “I can see that about him.” He watched her face, it was easy to see the wheels turning, but he couldn’t figure out what she was thinking. “If someone is hunting cats, it might be safer to take … um. . . her? Or him? Whatever, take the kitten to a vet a couple of towns over. If you are keeping it, I mean.”

Elly gave him a puzzled look, “Of course I’m keeping it.”

Ben fought a smirk, “You sure? Have you named it yet?”

Elly considered this. “Nyx, goddess of night.”

Ben snicked, “Really? What if its a boy?”

Elly rolled her eyes, “Ben, I’m not going to enforce gender roles on a kitten.”

Ben just shook his head. “Fine, but when we go to the vet, you get to drive.”

----

The vet proclaimed Nyx to seem perfectly healthy and old enough for vaccination and FIV testing. They booked her in for a spay in two weeks. Next stop was the pet store.

Ben picked out an adjustable purple collar and neoprene cat harness. Elly gave him a look. “What? You can harness train cats it you get them young enough. I follow Suki Cat on instagram!”

Elly blinked, “Huh. I never would have picked you for a cat person.”

He smirked, “Stupid cat videos is what the internet is for.”

“Really? Because I suspect most people would say porn,” Elly teased, then was surprised when he blushed. She managed to fight the urge to comment on that, and while she was wrestling with her morals, Ben left to go look at cat carriers. Nyx meowed and tightened her tiny claws into Elly’s shoulder where she was sitting.

“I’m sorry!” she blurted out. “That was rude.”

Ben just waved her away. “More unexpected. I haven’t seen that side of you. You are very, um, professional.” He didn’t make it sound like a compliment. When he realized she was frowning slightly, Ben flashed her a smile. “You are a great boss, Elly.”

Elly coughed, “I’m not actually your boss, you know.”

Ben blushed again. That was new. “Any preference on cat food?”

Realizing he was trying to change the subject, Elly turned to face with wall of food. “Wet food for cats. I’ve never had one do well on kibble.”

“Did, um, your other cats sit on your shoulder like that?”

“Nope, this is a first, but she seems to like it up there.”

They watched each other awkwardly for a moment. Elly broke first. “Ben? Are you OK?”

Ben quickly turned his head to the right and scoped out the litter boxes. “Ina wasn’t that fun to work with,” he admitted. “Most of the time you are. Weird, but fun. I’m starting to understand where the weird comes from. And now I know that too. How do you go through your day knowing something like that?”

Elly sighed. “Ben - Look, tell me about yeast.”

“What?”

Elly rubbed her eyes, making Nyx meow and dig her little claws into Elly’s sweater. “You told me that yeast for bread used to come from beer, then the beer yeast changed and there was a shortage, right?”

Ben frowned, “Yeah, brewers switched from top fermenting to bottom fermenting and that process didn’t make the byproduct that bakers use. But what does that have to do with George?”

“How many people do you think know that?”

“Elly! It doesn’t matter! People knowing or not knowing about yeast doesn’t actually matter!”

Elly just raised an eyebrow, “How does knowing about George matter? Yeast is way more practical on a day to day basis.” Ben stared at her like she was insane. Elly kept talking, “Most people, including me, would consider baking bread or spinning wool or knitting a weird and slightly esoteric hobby. George is just one more weird bit of trivia that you now know.”

#Monster #dragon boyfriend #the captive #exophilia #Novel #monster boyfriend

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peachebunnys · 4 years

Text

Pain, with love VIII

Pairing: Horacio Carrillo x reader

Summary: Arranged marriages are tough, but add that with having a drug lord on the loose? Horacio Carrillo can only imagine what’s coming for him.

Warnings: (slight) mentions of blood, hints of dying, grammatical issues

a/n: i really hope this chapter makes sense because i’m editing this at almost 12am and i have school tmr :) also i realised i changed the ending from the one i wrote in the preview so i’m very very sorry.

4.5k words

Chapter 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7

Chapter 8;

The night was cool, carrying the faint scent of gasoline from nearby vehicles in the air. The rain was heavy, dancing with the wind as it poured onto the streets of Bogota. The streets were full of life, and just once did Horacio wish it wasn’t.

It almost seemed like the colours of the festival had lit up the gloomy skies, shining a flurry of bright lights that did not dim despite the weather. The display was truly a sight to behold, with large decorations framed with beautiful flowers that hung along the road. The music echoed from across the street, musking the sound of the heavy downpour that resonated throughout Bogota. Everyone was humming to the same tune, skipping with each step they took despite the air of anguish that hung above them - or so Horacio felt.

The night was beautiful, until it wasn’t.

The droning of the engines was the only thing that kept him company, driving between lanes in hopes to find a way out faster. The rain had become heavier, in turn, creating disruptions in the transmissions to his men. With each time he tried to give orders, the static would sound, drowning out his words that at this point - was incoherent. What could you say, when your lover was in the hands of the man you hated most? What could you say when you were close to losing yourself?

Horacio had no clue, and at this moment, the only thing that kept him from breaking was the possibility of saving you - despite how difficult he knew it would be. A glimpse of hope, he thinks, a small light that shines in the sea of unforgiving hopelessness. He was only one man, against who knows how many - even then, did it not dampen the spirit that ignited within him.

He promised, hadn’t he?

A promise he would keep, even if it meant he had to die trying. Whatever it took to keep you safe, that much (and more), was he willing to do. What would it mean, if he had to live without you? What would it mean, if the one that showered him in love wasn’t there to keep his broken soul together?

The night went on forever, so it seems, and the fear was becoming of him with each passing second. He tries to steady himself, to not be controlled by the paralysing realisation that he had brought this upon you. You, a being so sweet - like a goddess made for only him to worship, didn’t deserve the dangers that came with marrying a colonel. No one should have to face the horrors the Search Bloc had to witness, lest of all, you.

Horacio’s mind was quick to jump, insecurities creeping up on him as he remained cooped up in a vehicle too small, with a threat too big to handle, while stuck in a traffic jam that seemed endless. This, he thinks, was what I feared about - That one day he would wake up with your blood on his hands, a nagging reminder that he could never save you. A nightmare that he was sure would haunt him forever.

I truly never deserved you, he believes, because I could never fully promise to give you picket fences or sunny afternoons that I know you deserve.

Red. Always red.

Blood. Always stained.

Fear. Always ingrained.

Will he ever be the same?

The pitter-patter noises against the windscreen had become harsher, with heavy raindrops splattering on the vehicle. It breaks him from his thoughts, and once again he is reminded of the cards he’s given to deal with. The music from the festival now sings in slow motion, and Horacio could hear his breathing labour as the red traffic light paints and bleeds all over his face.

How much more of a nightmare could this turn out to be?

Well Horacio, this could only be the beginning.

The skies were bright, and while the rain would’ve been a soothing melody to anyone else - all it did was churn more anxiety and frustration in him. He was restless, and as the emotions continued brewing within him, he felt the strong urge to puke. He felt suffocated - the claustrophobia unknowingly creeping up on him. Too small. Too tight. Not much air.

Dizzy.

Horacio maps the road in his head, the one he’s been on for years. He knows it, like the back of his hand - but for some reason the memory doesn’t come to him. Was it the stress? The panic? The worry? He couldn’t tell, and he racked his brain trying to remember something, just something that he could use to get out of this traffic.

“The road,” he muttered, “the road leads there doesn’t it?”

He tries, and tries, and tries. Which way would lead to you again? He can’t think, not when his mind would drift back to you.

Always you.

He struggled to be strong, and it confused him - where was that tough guy front he had all these years? Where has that mask gone to - when he needed it the most? Had you torn down all those walls completely? Had he let you in so easily?

He stares at the sight before him, as a cold and broken man - unsure of the fate that awaits you. He breathes in a shaky breath, palms sweating against the cool leather of the wheel. The night was chilly, and Horacio had found himself wishing it wasn’t you - that it was him instead.

He had broken his promise, the very one that your father entrusted him with. And as the rain twinkled with the festival’s lights, Horacio only prayed that your blood wouldn’t be running cold when he finally got to you.

There was melody, strung out and eerie - like a soft soothing piano instrumental, with every other note missing.

Fear.

He makes the haste decision to take the next turn after the traffic light, knowing it would lead to an ‘unused’ road that might help to speed up the process of getting to you. He was one man, which made everything he did more time sensitive. He was only one man - one against the many to come, and everything he will do, he does it for you.

The static of the radio rings in his ears, and Horacio could hear each time he swallows his saliva. Why was everything becoming so loud all of a sudden? Had the festival’s lights gotten brighter too? He couldn’t tell, and the sounds only seemed to get louder with each passing moment.

Think quick.

Think fast.

Horacio makes a swift turn, driving on the road that was deemed ‘unused’, only to realise that there were a handful of cars before him which made his heart plummet to his belly.

Fuck, he cries, and his fingernails dig roughly into his large palms. He scrapes the nails over the wounds that form, and his mind is back again on you. It draws blood, staining his hands that now tremble more than before.

It was surely an improvement from the main roads, which he knew would take hours before the jam would clear up. This road, however, was narrow, and despite the significant drop in density of vehicles, anything could happen - and Horacio wasn’t going to bet on the likelihood he would be out of here fast.

Time seemed to fly by slower, the seconds feeling like minutes as the car’s interior began to heat up quickly. While everything Horacio was doing - every decision, every step he made in the matter of seconds, felt like hours to him. Was this the torture he had put the drug lord to? The torturously slow wait that was slowly eating him from inside? His fingers shaked as he gripped the steering wheel harder, palms becoming sweaty as he thought about the hostage situation.

The traffic flow here was much better, with occasional stops that made Horacio’s heart hammer in his chest. He could feel the conflicting emotions fill his body, and the liquid fire that now pumped through his veins. The fear that was once controlling his entire being had now transformed into anger, and he made a silent promise to put an end to Gacha when all of this was over. And everything he will do, he does it for you.

Please, he begs, please let me just get to her.

Now - have you ever seen a man that was as authoritative as him, beg?

He was directly next to the festival’s stores, each one of them lining the long street with their beautiful goods displayed. The scent of cooked food was carried in the air, as well as the sounds of chatter from nearby customers. The sidewalk was practically swarmed, with people of all ages carefully inspecting the various items that each shop sold.

Horacio tried again, rolling his thumb over the radio in hopes to finally get his message out to his men. The static had come out shaky, but as a softer buzz than the last time. He calls out, desperate and in pleads, that hopefully someone would be able to reach to you before he did.

The transmission comes back to him, with one of his men answering in broken responses.

“Hello? -- Can you hear me?”

Horacio slams the radio down, his anger getting the better of him. In all his years in Search Bloc, he thought he had seen it all - from hostage situations, to drug lab busts to petty crime. But never has he been put in a situation where he felt so helpless and weak, a hair’s breadth away from crumbling with the pressure that settled on his shoulders. He had thought about it, to open his car door and race home to you, but that wouldn’t work - not when his house was still several miles away. It wouldn’t do anyone good if he were to run home in the rain, soiling all his gears and equipment with the cold droplets that fell from above.

It wasn’t you they were after, he reminds himself, it was him.

They wouldn’t dare to touch you, right?

Horacio decided not to think of anything else but the former, and the blood within him boiled a little warmer than before.

A commotion had broken him from his dwelling, and as traffic moved, Horacio had driven right next to the source of it all. A man, in shabby and torn robes was picking a fight with a pedestrian, clearly drunk off his wits’ end. The window at the seat next to Horacio was down, and he could smell the stench of the alcohol that the drunkyard had reeked of. The man stumbled, steps uneven as he made a beeline towards the smaller man. His footing was off, which resulted in him falling back against several people behind him - ones who were too busy in buying food from the store nearby to care about the fight that had just broken out.

The traffic was finally picking up its pace again, and Horacio drove past the forming crowd, eyeing the way the dunkard was yelling profanities. In any other scenario, Horacio would’ve stepped out of his car to stop the fight, but in a dire situation like this - he couldn’t find the need to care.

Horacio took one last glance at the crowd before looking back on the road, focusing on the problem he had at hand. But there was just something, a dress of white and yellow, that had caught his attention amidst the pool of people. His head snapped back quickly, studying the person that had worn the article of clothing.

The visibility was poor, but as Horacio strained his eyes beyond the water droplets that painted his windows, he noticed the dress to be similar to the one he had got you just a few weeks prior.

Horacio’s radio was burning up again, with transmissions becoming clearer as the rain lessened significantly. The voices of his men were less shaky and their replies were now more prominent than before. Horacio winds down the window more, straining his neck out to get a better look at the woman.

“Sir, is there something wrong?”

The radio had called out to him, with Trujillo’s notable voice now laced with worry. Horacio drove his car half a metre forward, hearing the cars behind him fill the air with their persistent honking. There were just too many sounds, but it didn’t bother Horacio as he continued studying the unknown figure. There were just so many features that resembled you, and Horacio caught himself double taking in confusion.

Perhaps it was just someone who looked like you from behind, seeing that your hair length and colour was a pretty common style amongst young women in Bogota. Horacio tried his best to tear his eyes away from the figure, but there was just something that nagged at him to look back.

His radio once again calls out to him, and Trujillo’s voice had a tinge of panic as he asked if there were any issues that Horacio needed help with. The car honks had continued blaring, and Horacio decided it would be best to pick up the pace, ignoring the doppelgänger to continue his drive home.

Time was ticking, and Horacio couldn’t spend it on studying people that vaguely looked like you - especially when you were in grave danger.

Horacio started his car again, listening to the familiar whirring as he stepped on the accelerator. There was a brief moment where everything was silent, and soon after he heard a shrill - a loud unpleasant sound that made him snap his head back. The drunkard had vomited all over the pavement and onto a woman’s shoes, which explained the scream of disgust and anger that broke the peace. There were onlookers that were peeking at the damage done, sniggering as they found the scene humourous. One person, in particular, who was amidst the crowd was undoubtedly you.

You had turned your head and peered over the woman’s shoulder, staring with disgust at the scene that had just played out before you. Horacio’s heart pounded in his chest, and he stared at you in disbelief.

What?

Horacio’s eyebrows knitted together, feeling the air from his lungs get knocked out of him. He could feel his heart rate slow down, listening to the beats echo in his ears as time went in slow motion again.

How was it possible that you were here?

You brushed your hair out of your face, tucking the loose strands behind your ears as you ventured further into the festival’s displays. His eyes widened, feeling the confusion muddle his thoughts. He couldn’t comprehend what was happening, and what he had just seen.

What the fuck?

That woman was unmistakably you, and that made Horacio’s mind blank. The drivers from the cars behind had left their vehicles, standing before Horacio’s driver window in an attempt to get his attention. But Horacio had made little to no movement, like a beautiful marble statue, as his eyes glued to where you were just standing a few moments ago. There were loud poundings on his windows that followed with muffled complaints, all of which were trying to snap Horacio out of his thoughts - but everything around him seemed to still as his eyes followed you.

How could this be possible?

If you were here, despite the planned hostage situation that was taking place at his home, what the hell could this mean?

His back stiffens, the thoughts slowly forming in his brain as he carefully pieced the puzzle together. The muffled yelling only seemed to get louder, all of which calling out for his immediate attention.

Pound. Pound. Pound.

The windows of his passenger seat at the back trembled with the blunt force, and Horacio slowly turned off the engines of his vehicle. His car was now parked at the side of the narrow road, leaving a tight space next to him for other drivers to drive through. There were more eyes on him now, with each person now curious as to what he was up to. He spots your head get lost behind the crowd, and he immediately unbuckles his seatbelt to bolt out.

Was this … a set-up?

This whole situation didn’t make sense to him, and seeing you had almost given him a whiplash.

Horacio grabbed his radio and jumped out of the car, running towards the entrance of the festival, in direction of where you went. There were shouts calling for him from behind, each one from the drivers that he had no doubt just pissed off. Horacio pushes through the crowd, tip-toeing every few steps in hopes he could catch a glimpse of where you would be.

There were loud noises everywhere, along with sudden flashes of lights that caught Horacio off-guard. Sweat was forming along his hairline, feeling the heat in this small space get to him faster than anticipated. The fans that hung above each stall blew on the customers that walked by, but with the humidity that came after the rain, Horacio felt like it was setting his skin on fire.

His eyes scan through the sea of people, each one in different coloured clothes which stood out like a parade of colours - making it harder for him to find you. Horacio quickly held his radio to his mouth, calling out for Trujillo as he continued recklessly bumping into people just to get to you.

“Trujillo!” Horacio shouted into the device, his voice competing with the speakers that he stood next to.

“Trujillo come in!”

With barely a moment to spare, Horacio heard the voice of his most trusted man answer back.

“Yes Sir?”

“Trujillo, gather all the units to set up a perimeter around my house on 25th street! I have a suspicion that Gacha is planning an ambush there, call all units to de-escalate the issue immediately!”

There was a faint response from Trujillo’s end, indicating that he understood Horacio’s request. Horacio shoved the device into the back pocket of his uniform pants, before continuing to push through the area. The place was getting more packed, with the post dinner crowd finally arriving at the venue. The air was stifling, with the heat and sweat of everyone around him causing him to grow more nervous. Horacio’s eyes dance around the general area, hoping to spot something that he could identify you with.

The sudden flashing lights that were meant to attract customers now messed with his sight, and Horacio found himself wincing every few seconds. His heartbeat was rising, and the collars of his uniform were now once again drenching in sweat. There were so many questions in his mind, but he opted to find you first - placing your safety before everything else.

He managed to spot you soon after, noticing that you were at the other end of the festival grounds, on the way to the road just across it. Horacio stretched out his arms, forming a small barrier around him as he apologetically pushed past the people. The area of the festival wasn’t large, and Horacio found himself and the other end within minutes.

He slowly moves past the people in front of him, steps slowing down as he notices you sitting at a small bus stop just across the festival. The mellow orange light casted down on you, and you looked around the empty streets that only had various cars and trucks parked along it. You fiddled with your fingers, playing around with them as you patiently waited for the bus, occasionally glancing up to check if there were any oncoming vehicles.

Horacio’s eyes were trained on you, and as he finally stepped out of the crowd, he could feel the light drizzle coating his body. The air was cool, carrying the scent of wet grass as Horacio finally felt himself breathe - no longer stuck in the small space that he had to claw his way out of. He staggers towards the edge of the road, staring at you as you continue playing with your items, occasionally huffing with restlessness.

Horacio could feel the tears that were about to well in his eyes, body sagging with exhaustion as he took in the sight of you safe and sound. He sucked in a breath before calling out to you, rubbing his palms against his canvas pants to rid the slight trembling that had continued since he got out the car.

“Y/N?” he croaked, arm stretching out towards you, “Y/N!”

Your head snapped up, eyebrows furrowed before you recognized your husband standing from across the street. The lights from the night festival had given you better visibility, and you could see the relief and happiness that was etched on his face. His eyes crinkled as he smiled at you, and the butterflies in your stomach fluttered, making your cheeks turn red.

“Horacio? What are you doing here?”

You stood up from the cold plastic seat, taking a few steps to meet him halfway. The granite under your shoe grinded against the soles, crunching with each step you took. The festival music had drowned behind you, and as you stepped closer to Horacio, you could feel your heart beating faster. The street lamps illuminated his face, and you caught sight of the tears that threatened to spill from his eyes.

You reach your hands out, moving to cup his face as he stands closer to you, watching as the lights framed your figure perfectly - making you seem so ethereal and angelic. He feels his voice waiver, and he swallows the lump that forms in his throat, “I’m so glad you’re here.”

You smile at him, missing the pain that laced his earlier statement, “I did mention I wanted to come here, didn’t I?”

Your hands trail down his neck and to his arms, holding his huge biceps as you continue smiling in his embrace. He looks at you in a certain way that has your heart doing flips, noticing the way his eyes would land on your nose and lips. “Horacio, is something wr-”

His lips are on yours, strong and passionate as he kisses you deeper. Horacio coils his arms around your waist, pulling you closer to him. The world around you disappeared, and it felt like time stood still as he moulded his lips with yours. There was something so sweet about it, the tenderness yet passion in the way he moved his lips against yours. He tasted like mint, and you found yourself wanting more.

The salvation, he remembers, to save him from himself.

He melts into your touch, and he tries his best not to cave him. Just like that, the weight on his shoulders are removed, and he feels the tears roll down freely.

You’re his saving grace, and as your fingers gently brush off the tears that fall, he knows now - he would do anything for you.

He pulls away first, panting against your mouth as a string of saliva connects both of your lips. Horacio rests his head on yours, staring right into your eyes with a look of adoration and love, and you felt your cheeks burn harder.

His hand trails your back, moving up your neck to gently cup your left cheek in his large palm. The heat made you lean in further, purring with delight as he broke the silence between the two of you.

“I love you,” he muttered, softly at first and only to you.

You felt your heart burst, filling your entire being with an incomprehensible emotion. He drags his thumb over your mouth, feeling the plushness of the bottom lip under his finger pad. You barely gasp out a ‘what’, not quite believing his confession to you. Your mind swarmed with thoughts, making your heart pound faster against your ribs.

“I love you,” he says it again, this time louder - unafraid to admit it to the world.

You jump into his arms, trailing your hands around his neck and he carries you up. Your head rests against his shoulder, and your wavering voice could barely bring out the words ‘I love you too’. He holds your head against his body, leaning in to kiss the crown of your head with a shaky breath, “I am so sorry, my love.”

You smile against the soft skin of his neck, running your fingers through his short hair, “I know, ” you whisper, and you lean forward to feel his lips against you, “I know you are.”

Horacio’s radio sounds from his back pocket, with Trujillo’s distinct voice indicating that Gacha’s men have been all arrested at the ambush site. That piece of information alone allowed Horacio to relax, dropping his head down to bury it on your neck. Horacio hugged you tighter, feeling a wave of relief wash over him.

There wasn’t anything to worry about now - for the problems have now all been solved.

Or so he thought.

Trujillo’s voice was heard over the device again, this time taking a serious tone in his voice, “Sir, Gacha has not been seen anywhere, it seems like he didn’t even show up here at all.”

The blood in Horacio’s body had immediately run cold, his head looking up as he processed the information. He hugged your body tighter against him, eyebrows knitted together in confusion. You nuzzle your face further into the space where his neck and shoulder meet, gently planting kisses with an evident smile on your face.

If he wasn’t there, where would he be?

There were flashes of white that blinded him, catching his off-guard as he thought of the escaped drug lord. Here he was, in the middle of an empty road, relishing in the sweet embrace after confessing his love for you, while an unsuspecting threat loomed over him. The sound of tires was gradually growing louder, along with the familiar faint cracking sound of a heavy object against the wet granite road. Horacio turned to his left, wincing as the harsh white headlights flashed into his eyes. There was a vehicle, a truck to be exact, that was taller than he was, speeding towards his general position.

The night was beautiful, until it wasn’t.

A familiar voice now laughs at him, the sound - maniacal and forced now echoed through the streets, bringing a whole new wave of pressure. Many would say that the best things in life go by too fast, Horacio would argue that everything in life went by too quick.

The cocking of the gun rings in his ears, and a shimmer against the metal shines into his eyes. The weapon was now directed at him, and he frowned deeply at the gesture.

Life is so unpredictable, isn’t it? Just when you thought things would go well - it goes the opposite direction.

As he stood in the middle of the road with you in his arms, he could hear the threats that were barked at him a few hours prior. His arms around you tightens, and he looks down at your head still tucked into the crook of his neck - blissfully unaware of the end that awaits the both of you.

He smiles, and he knows that no matter what happens now, it would be done just to save you.

Engraved in your heart, he thinks, even if I die, I’ll live on forever.

“You’re going to fucking regret this.”

And that, he finally didn’t.

#horacio carrillo #horacio carrillo x reader #horacio carrillo imagine #narcos #peachebunnys fic

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thosetwistedtales · 4 years

Text

What’s with Higgs’ smelling & licking people?

I told some of you that I had thoughts and that I’d be sharing them sometime soon, and so--- now I am. 😈 And I think I’m gonna try to break this down into three parts cause Higgs... is a rather complicated man.

Conscious | External

Starting with the obvious here in the reason why Higgs busts past these very obvious personal boundaries is because he’s an asshole with ISSUES. Listen---, Higgs spent his childhood getting the shit beat out of him by his uncle. He had nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, no real means of defending himself when he was a child in comparison to his adult-sized ‘guardian’. He had no control over what happened to him. His life was literally in the palms of his uncle’s abusive hands... And he damn near ended it. Would’ve in all likelihood if Higgs hadn’t defended himself and eliminated the threat of him altogether.

Point being in the aftermath from what we know of canon Higgs started off as a freelance independent porter, who eventually built up his own porter company, and later became partners with Fragile as Co-Ceo’s of their companies. Since teenhood, Higgs has never let himself be put in a position where someone else was in charge of him. And within the narrative of canon events its made CLEAR Higgs has a thing for flexing just how powerful he is, how little control those who come across him truly have. “♪ I’ve got the whole world in the palm of my hand.~♪” & “The name’s Higgs. The particle of god that permeates all existence.”

Subtle right? 😂. The way he invades the personal space of others like those boundaries mean less than nothing to him, like social norms like polite space are unspoken rules that happen to other people but not him, how he literally licks people just because he knows he can, wants to prove it. Licks them because he knows just how damn unsettling it is. Licks people like---. “ I l i c k e d i t s o i t ’ s M I N E. ” a.) he does it cause he can b.) he does it cause he’s an absolute dickweed c.) he does it cause he’s a fucking wacko weirdo who likes messing with people

Subconscious | Internal

“...We have five senses, but only two that go beyond the boundary of ourselves. When you look at someone, it’s just bouncing light, or when you hear them, it’s just sound waves, vibrating air, the way touch is just tingling nerve endings. Know what smell is? It’s made up of the molecules of what you’re smelling.”

...Ya’ll catch on to how Higgs is lowkey really into ancient civilizations and how the people of old as dirt times interacted with each other and the world around them? There’s his whole fascination with ancient Egyptians, we also get bits from his monologuing to Sam during that good old fashioned boss fight on the beach. He talks about the first tools of mankind but doesn’t get into the physical ones that we’re all born with. OUR SENSES. The ones he tends to use himself a lot specifically... Scent & Taste.

As human beings, we use what we have to survive. We rely on our senses to navigate how to interact with the world. Because both scent & taste have to do with the stimuli involved in taking into the body these senses are often referred to as gatekeepers. As senses go both of these are extremely hard to lie to or manipulate. You can’t exactly control the concentration of airborne molecules or how your tastebuds experience oral stimuli. They are arguably our first line of defense, our natural armor. We use them as our personal alarm system (smoke, disease, other potential threats), component of flavor (quality of food before we eat/ingest it), physical communication (pheromones). I mean they’re the basics of survival. What smells/tastes BAD = not good/dangerous? What smells/tastes GOOD = good/safe!

As someone who had to use everything he had growing up to ensure his own survival, as a man who chose a profession that relied on his senses and instincts it makes every bit of sense to me that on a subconscious level at least..., Higgs would choose to continue to use them in how he interacts with the world around him, especially for those he has a keen interest in, or feels a connection to... He is a rather tactile individual after all.

Deep Dive | Intimate

Lastly, both pieces tie into this... Want & Instinct. Fragile was arguably one of the few people Higgs’ has ever connected with on a level beyond mere survival. Beyond what he NEEDED, and stepped into want. Into living. Partnering with her was a smart business move and while it may have been her DOOMS abilities that attracted him in the first place I think from an observer’s stand point just how he chooses to interact with her both in the flashback and their reunion....

We may never know the complexities of their relationship but Fragile clearly meant a great deal to him. Even if he hated her at one point, was jealous of her (her abilities, the childhood she had, the relationship with her loving PROUD father), you don’t look at someone the way Higgs’ looked at Fragile during the final moments we see them together on the beach, you don’t lean into their touch, and you certainly don’t leave them a personal note in your bunker asking them to forget you, to give up the bitterness and desire for revenge that’s clearly destroying them. The opposite of love is not hate, it’s indifference. Something Higgs CLEARLY doesn’t have when it comes to his ex partner... For better or for worse Higgs cares about Fragile.

A similar argument can be made for how he may feel about Sam given the context of his actions within canon. Sure most of the non-lethal interactions we see between them can still be chalked up to Higgs being an asshole and having made a hobby out of fucking with everyone’s favorite porter just for funsies. But------ I doubt that’s all there was to it.

As I’ve said, Higgs’ is a complicated individual. A grown-ass man with grown-ass feelings and given his journals and what context clues we’re given in scenes it's my opinion that Higgs was fond of both Fragile & Sam. And with what limited experience he had making friends--- it’s not out there to think the oddity and the abrasive way he handles social interaction with them both is a might bit awkward. A tad CRINGE. Not unlike that of a youngster picking on the kids he finds fun and mayhaps develops a kind of crush on and wants to get to know better but doesn’t quite know how or knows what to do with his interest and feelings.

Yeah in that context the thing with the licking and smelling thing is still hella creep but makes a bit more sense no?

Keep in mind that scent and taste are the senses most closely linked to memory. The memories we get through experiencing stimuli through these senses tend to be the most vivid and easily recalled. Thinking about that, and thinking about how both are the only senses we have that go past the boundary of ourselves, that only occurs when we take in something other inside us, how in its way that’s a kind of connection is it not? And perhaps at the end of the day, in his heart of hearts, that’s something Higgs wanted from Sam & Fragile. And was willing to take it in whatever form he could have it. Even if only the mockery of one. The memory of it.

@team-trash-panda , @maskedprepperkid , @goldenbridgessss , @chiralcrystallization , @savage-rhi , @argetlam007 , @chloe-3-price , @ruinerofcheese

#higgs monaghan #this is part analysis part----- me picking and choosing what I glimpse from context tbh #in summary higgs is a socially awkward jerk that probably has feelings of some sort #not entirely hostile towards the individuals he portrays these behaviors around #but doesnt know the first thing about what to do with them or how to get them across in a way that's socially acceptable ESPECIALLY WITH #CIRCUMSTANCES AND HIS HISTORY WITH THEM BEING WHAT IT IS #but yeah #we've all wondered about it #this is just my analysis and opinions on it #more or less #hope it makes sense and more intelligent then I think I sound just reading it back to myself ; ;#my thoughts are messy and it shows

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our-wargame · 4 years

Text

take three steps to your left; take me with me you [2/2]

Read Part 1

summary: Takahiro’s not sure why but he hates it when people get Matsukawa wrong. And they always seem to.

tags: rated t, pining, dialogue heavy now because oi-matsu-hana are three drunkards, maybe a part three from Matsukawa’s take?, dw matsukawa shows up yay, hanamaki/oikawa friendship and iwaizumi is yay

notes: the first chapter was supposed to just be that, just a short take on possible matsuhana relations, but then i decided why not make it a fic yknow. although part 1′s a good standalone!! this one’s much less serious but yeah! if you happen to reblog my work, i will most likely read your tags and then die of joy.

as always, ao3 link

Last chapter:

“Oh we forgot something,” Oikawa says, and this time there’s thoughtfulness sharpening the eyes sweeping over Takahiro. “We forgot about the part where you’re in love with him.”

Takahiro freezes.

Before Takahiro knows it, his arm is out. Is it really his fault though? It’s not like this was a first-degree planned nose-grabbing. One second Oikawa is saying some bull; and the another, Oikawa’s nose is just...in Takahiro’s crab-claw. His heart’s pounding a little faster than usual, but it’s Gucci.

“Makki! That hurts my conker!.” Oikawa squirms into a sitting position and then scoots his ass back, pretty much over Takahiro’s lap to prevent his nose from getting torn off.

“Nice conk bro.”

When Oikawa wrinkles his nose, Takahiro lets go. He keeps wiggling it, exercising it with ugly ogre faces and complaining he can’t smell Takahiro’s teen reek or something like that.

“Hey, I’ve seen you looking at Iwaizumi after practice.” Takahiro shakes his head. “Just because he’s all sweaty-”

“That’s not-!” Oikawa jumps up, yelling. “He’s not-! You can’t just say-”

Takahiro laughs. Three years of friendship have given Oikawa neural damage, a better poker face, and a properly tainted sense of humor, but specially made mentions of Iwaizumi Hajime still sends him into a loud, quacky fluster.

“You know,” he says casually, comfortably stretching, splaying his arms out over the couch. “I’ve caught him staring back at you.” Leaving a soft pause for the atmosphere shift, Takahiro tilts his head to the side with a small, lopsided grin and waits.

Yes, he expects Oikawa to melt. Instead, Oikawa lets out a small sigh and plunks back down beside Takahiro. His gaze shifts from ground to ceiling and back again. A tiny, hard pit plunks into Takahiro’s stomach. Apprehension. He’s about to joke about how he never makes Oikawa wait this long when he’s teasing him, but the noise that comes out is a sad sort of wheeze that he ends up trying to pass off as a cough.

At last, Oikawa pursues his lips. Takahiro’s given him an opening and he’s taking it. “Makki. You’re in love with Mattsukawa-”

Takahiro’s breath hitches.

“And he’s in love with you.” Oikawa skewers him with his gaze, captain to one of his men, like they’re in one last match. “So. How about you save us spectators the time and-”

Never Gonna Give You Up rings shrilly through the air.

Oikawa’s mouth drops open. Takahiro he lunges for his phone. “Matsukawa,” he reads off the screen like they hadn’t both known from the ringtone.

“Huh. Well.” hums Oikawa. “I need to take a piss.” And he flounces off the couch with that.

Takahiro flexes his fingers, nails digging into his palm. They’re too long again, he thinks, drawing a long inhale. He’s not...he’s not nervous about taking a call from his best friend.

Of course he’s nervous. After what Oikawa tried to imply-

He presses the phone against his ear. “Go for Makki.”

“Yes, hello, I would like some chikky nuggies.”

“Sorry, sir.” Takahiro yawns into the receiver. And into Matsukawa’s ear. “We’re all out. Does that make you hangry?”

“Little bit.” Matsukawa’s low voice sounds rougher than normal, like he’s got something caught in his throat or taken a pinch of Iwaizumi’s gruff soul. The line crackles. “What say you make it up to me?”

“Mmm? What’d you have in mind?” In his peripheral, he notices Oikawa stalking over here with a shit-eating grin Takahiro’s more familiar seeing on Matsukawa’s face.

“The usual. Pick you up in four?”

“Yeah.” Takahiro says, partially distracted with batting at Oikawa. He’s not going to give captain the opportunity to say something ridiculous like...stop flirting Makki! For one, they’re not flirting. And for another, Takahiro makes fun of Oikawa; the teasing in their relationship is strictly one way. To Matsukawa, he says “Wait.”

“Mmm?”

“I’m at Oikawa’s. It’s not rude if I tell him we don’t want him hanging out with us if I say it to his face, right?”

Oikawa leans over and gets his hands on Takahiro’s phone. He might be unable to rip it out of Takahiro’s grip,but he can, and does, bring his head down to yowl, “Fine! Enjoy your date without me!”

Oikawa’s going to die soon and it’s a shame Takahiro will be too busy disposing the evidence to attend the funeral.

“Okay make that five minutes. Also. Forgot to mention,” Matsukawa says, smooth as ever. “Iwaizumi’s sleeping over for the night. If you guys want, I guess we could make it a foursome.”

“Dude, don’t be gross.” Takahiro grumbles. “That’s almost as yucky as thinking about how Oikawa spends the entire time oogling Iwaizumi.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Oikawa huffs. “Oikawa-sama likes Iwa-chan, Oikawa-sama likes Iwa-chan without a shirt on! Everyone knows and all they do is bully Oikawa-sama about it!” Oikawa finally pauses to breathe. “Also, Makki says we’ll be there. And he says he wants to be sleeping with you guys tonight.”

“Cool. Gross but cool.”

“Yeah, great.” Takahiro says as flatly as he can muster. “Mattsun, hurry up and rescue me from the crazy man?”

“I’m coming, I’m coming.” Static crackles over the line. Matsukawa’s probably has the phone awkwardly caught between his shoulder and ear, to free his hands. “See you soon, yeah?”

Takahiro opens his mouth. And closes it abruptly.

It’s nothing new, Matsukawa waiting for Takahiro to sign off. Matsukawa knows Takahiro hates feeling burdensome. Matsukawa always lets Takahiro end the call, no matter how silly they start out to be. It’s nothing new, but it’s one of Takahiro’s many preferences that Matsukawa just never forgets. It’s nothing new, but for someone infuriatingly attached to simplicity, Matsukawa sure goes out of his way a lot for Takahiro.

“Makki?”

“Yeah.” Takahiro bites himself in the tongue. “See you soon.”

He jabs the end call button before he can do anything else. When he catches Oikawa’s mouth twisting he asks, “What?”

“Nothing,” Oikawa says, straight faced. And then when he can’t help himself, he wears a dopey grin.“Y’all are just so fucking cute.”

Takahiro rolls his eyes, even as a slow heat creeps up his neck. He gathers his things and gives Oikawa a quick hug before making for the door. Then he delivers a swift kick to the ass when captain makes the mistake of showing his back.

“Makki!”

“See you tonight!” he shouts, dashing out the door and right into his getaway man.

“Ow,” Matsukawa drawls, standing in a casual gray set of t-shirt and pants. He’s flexing his jaw because Takahiro friggen headbutted him. “I know you missed me but tone down the Iwaizumi-affection.”

Takahiro hardly thinks twice before snagging him by the wrist and hightailing them both away from the danger zone. “Stop slowing me down,” he chokes, and Matsukawa laughs. They almost make it.

“Oi!” Takahiro scowls, whirling around. “You asshat, Crocs only!” He snatches up the sneaker from where it’d bounced off his back and flings it at its owner.

“That hurt, Makki!! My ass and my feelings!!”

“Yeah, yeah. Catch you later, captain.”

Matsukawa snickers and Takahiro elbows him in the ribs as they walk down Oikawa’s driveway. “You were absolutely no help, you big lug. Should’ve known...would’ve ditched you immediately.”

“After I kindly offered a ride? Youch.” Matsukawa peers at him. He might only be a few inches taller but it does mean Takahiro has to pass over his lips to get to his gaze.

But since Oikawa’s said what he said...Takahiro looks away. Hovers and talks at the passenger side door. “Wanna give me the keys?”

They both know he hates driving.

Matsukawa snorts. Apparently he’s not even going to dignify the shoddy joke with a response.

The truth is, they both know a lot of things, Takahiro starts to think. He leans against the window, the glass cool to his skin. But maybe Oikawa’s right and he’s missed one.

...you’re in love with Matsukawa...and he’s in love with you.

Just to be practical, to seriously think about what it would be like, Takahiro takes a hot second to hand control over to his imagination. Imagines himself turning his body, tilting his head, looking into dark eyes, a bright grin, pulling Matsukawa in and- Takahiro swallows. So he’s flushing. Okay. This is okay, hahaha...

They reverse out the driveway, Matsukawa shifting gears and into traffic with an ease Takahiro should be jealous of. But Matsukawa moves, does it all like it’s secondhand nature. The quiet confidence he wears is rare, but it’s the same kind Oikawa has, putting the ball in Iwaizumi’s hands without hesitation, without doubt, day after day. Each of them has the other’s confidence; are each part of the other’s confidence in himself.

Takahiro leans back and closes his eyes, lets the hot sun wash over his thighs, soaking through his shirt.

Maybe it’s not smart to compare, but Takahiro thinks he places a similar kind of trust in Matsukawa. Or at least the most trust he can muster.

After all, he is a cynic. He’s the one who tells Oikawa they could never have won nationals anyways, and that the likelihood of going to nationals was made in the same ridiculous mold. He’s not a shonen protagonist. His faith is not in people; it’s in numbers, in facts. And that’s how it’s always going to be.

But. Takahiro thinks, thinks that if that was ever going to be different, maybe it’d be because of Matsukawa.

“Hey.”

Takahiro blinks himself alert. Matsukawa’s turning the car around, sliding into the parking lot. They’re lucky there’s a spot right at the front of the diner, even if it’s a bit of a tight fit between two SUVs. “We’re here, meathead.”

“Meathead?”

“It was that or meatball.”

“How hungry are you.” Takahiro springs his seat belt free and he’s got a hand on the door handle when all of a sudden, Matsukawa drops his phone into Takahiro’s lap.

“I’ll go. Do me a favor and text Iwaizumi back for me?”

Takahiro nearly unhinges his jaw. “Do you realize the amount of power you’re giving me. Do you know how much restraint I am being forced to perform right now.” Oh Holy Mother of Volleyball - he could change all of his contacts to Oikawa’s number.

Matsukawa grins his hey!-i’m-the-boy-next-door grin. The corners of his eye crinkling and all, and shit, he’s cute.

Okay, but he’s always been cute!! This is nothing new either!!!

“I am looking away,” Matsukawa says, hopping out his car. “The usual?”

Takahiro nods. Watches Matsukawa turn, watches his back grow smaller as he walks away.

And he’s in love with you, rings in his ears once more.

Is he? Because. If Matsukawa was. And they both...wanted to give it a try...

His shorts are suddenly shifting. He looks down, wraps his fingers around the phone starting to slide down his thigh and brings it up to examine.

The lockscreen’s an old blurry photo of the seniors previous to practice (but the picture changes often. When Oikawa’s bored or Iwaizumi’s feeling vindictive and finally ready to retaliate, or when Takahiro wants to. Often, like he said.). There isn’t a password because Matsukawa says he has nothing to hide, but mostly because Takahiro refuses to memorize any numbers he’s not going to use on a test and it’s more fun using Matsukawa’s phone than his own for some reason.

He makes a quick pit stop at the Photo Gallery, creating copies of some of the pictures of the guys and annotates extra dicks onto them. Most of them are actually photos he’s taken, he realizes. While he’s wondering if he should go ahead and delete some of the bullshit photos so Matsukawa doesn’t need to when he wants to download a new game and he’s got no space, Takahiro remembers he’s supposed to be replying to Iwaizumi. Contacts...there, Iwaizumi’s the first one.

You: so 8?

Iwaizumi: yeah. Iwaizumi: unless Iwaizumi: you know You: ?

Iwaizumi: you know. Iwaizumi: you and hanamaki take a detour

Iwaizumi: to talk bout your feelings Iwaizumi: you’re going to right

Matsukawa’s left it at that, left Iwaizumi on read.

Takahiro blinks.

Matsukawa wants him to answer Iwaizumi’s text.

Matsukawa’s giving him an easy out.

Takahiro closes his eyes. What. Is. Going. On. What does this even mean!!! He reads the text again and- Iwaizumi had said your. What.

He doesn’t get much time to think about the implications because Matsukawa’s walking up to him, passing him his order. The smell of hot food isn’t anywhere near as attractive as it usually is, so he place it on his lap. It can wait. He’s not sure if it’s appropriate to laugh out his nerves or glare, with Matsukawa slipping into his own seat, calm and collected as ever. From head to toe, in every piece of his posture and each inch of his expression, Matsukawa Issei tells the world just how perfectly at peace he is with it. Takahiro compromises by biting his own tongue, which triggers his swear-reflex.

Matsukawa snickers.

Ohoho, alright. Takahiro dials up his glare to the max. “Got something to say, asshole?”

“Yeah, actually,” Matsukawa’s lips twitch, a sign he’s suppressing a smile. Takahiro tries to do the same until the blocker says, “You’ve been kind of spacey. What’s up?”

“Ah.” Takahiro ducks his head. “Not much.” Just realizing I’d like to kiss you. Whaboutyou? ”Oikawa just. Said a thing.”

“Mm?”

Matsukawa’s not expecting a reply, he’s just offering Takahiro the opportunity to, should he want it. Affection, warm and rich, blooms in the spiker’s chest. His shoulders sink, falling lax. If he smiles, a little, sue him. “Pretty insightful thing too. Unusually helpful for a change.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. It turns out, before you talk about your feelings,” Takahiro says, looking right at Matsukawa while his ears burst into flames. “You have to be aware of them.”

“Holy shit.” Matsukawa blinks. And then he slaps a hand over his eyes and starts laughing, his shoulders actually shaking. Takahiro should kick hit him or run for the hills, right, except Matsukawa is talking to himself. “Wow. Iwaizumi was...right. I mean. And I thought-”

“Issei.”

“I’ve.” He finally meets Takahiro’s eyes. “Had the biggest crush on you. Since end of first year. And you never knew?”

His expression must have answer because the silly guy starts laughing again and Takahiro honest to the gods, feels giddy enough to join in. “Were you going to tell me?”

A gentle shrug. “Don’t know. Wanted to though.”

Takahiro hums. Neither of them have said the real words though and maybe they should do the thing the conventional way? “So.” he begins. “What would you say if we called today a date?”

“Ask you when the next one would be?” Matsukawa puts a hand on the back of his head, an act which Takahiro recognizes as nervous. “Or ask, ‘wait, so you do like me, right?’“

He’s so silly, Takahiro marvels. So silly.

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

(Epilogue)

Five minutes past eight, Takahiro enters Oikawa’s house. With his boyfriend.

Boyfriend boyfriend boyfrienddd boyyyfriend boyfriend Matsukawa-boyfriend-Issei.

These thoughts do not belong aloud, it turns out, when Oikawa spots them and immediately yells- nonsense at first, and then something along the same lines. Following up, is a demanding, “So?? Did you kiss yet? Yo! Answer the question! Did y’all kiss??” Iwaizumi rolls his eyes and tells him to mind his own business.

“Do you really want to know, captain?” Matsukawa smirks. Takahiro’s fingers find his and they link. Watching Oikawa’s eyes expand to the size of dinner plates is just as satisfying as watching the cogs in his brain turning to try and figure out the answer on his own the rest of the night. In the meantime, they’ve taken their spots on the couch while Iwaizumi fiddles with game settings to accommodate the four of them. It’s game night after all.

(Yeah, Takahiro supposes he owes Oikawa; he’ll give the details captain is dying for later. OR. he muses. Maybe he’ll get Oikawa and Iwaizumi together and then call his dues paid? Matsukawa would be down for either.)

Iwaizumi is as characteristically Iwaizumi as ever. At the snack break, Takahiro sees him giving Matsukawa a shoulder pat, and thinks that’s it. After the two of them get knocked out of the Smash Bros round early he plans on sitting back to watch the defending champion and Mr. Kirby war. Instead, he finds his shoulder being tapped and follows, getting led into the kitchen.

Vice captain hands him a water and leans on the counter. “Congrats.”

“Thanks, Iwaizumi-kun.” he deadpans. “I’m sorry we couldn’t work things out but I’ll cherish the memories.”

“Hey, man, I’ll punch you. No boyfriend around to defend you, y’know.” Iwaizumi taunts.

Takahiro smirks right back at him. He’s not sure if he could be happier if he tried. “So what’s this about?”

Iwaizumi tilts his head to the side. “Oikawa tells me he helped you.”

“Yeah,” Takahiro can allow this. He nods. “Just like you helped Issei.”

“Ha! If only you knew.”

Takahiro raises a brow.

“You know the texts I sent him?” Iwaizumi’s grin is so very wolfish. “He asked me to send them. Fabricated all of them himself. He had me set you guys up.” And then he's calling out “See you later!” due to the fact Takahiro is hightailing out of the room.

Oikawa is absolutely beating the shit out of Metaknight, although Matsukawa’s still winning the trash-talking contest. But as Takahiro enters the room, he trails off, eyes leaving the screen for Takahiro’s. Taking his opportunity, Oikawa finally pushes Metaknight off the platform and whoops to kingdom come. It doesn’t really matter though, Takahiro has walked over, leaning down.

Matsukawa meets him midway. The kiss is soft and sweet but it still messes him up. In the best way ever.

Oikawa’s squeaks go ignored.

“You’re adorable.” Takahiro shakes his head as he sinks into the spot besides the blocker on the couch. He puts his head on Matsukawa’s shoulder and breathes in cotton and cool.

“Iwaizumi sold me out, huh?”

Another kiss stolen. “Dibs on him as my best man.”

Matsukawa snickers while Oikawa protests, “The hell? What about me? Makki, I had your back! I made the play of the year! I’m literally game MVP.”

Iwaizumi appears, nudging Oikawa to scoot over until they both have enough space. “I heard my name?” He gets himself two fistbumps.

Oikawa scowls.

#matsuhana #matsukawa issei #hanamaki takahiro #my writing #yay an ending

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banashee · 3 years

Link

Part 6/25 of my @badthingshappenbingo round 2

Prompt: Denied food as a punishment

This is also Part 1 of a new series: “Like a ghost in the back of my mind”

please mind the tags and warnings!

A growing emptiness

A big part of his childhood, Clint spends either hungry or worrying about food.

He learns early on to take food whenever possible, because the likelihood of there not being any later is high. Most of the time, it’s due to poverty. This is often paired with his father (or later, other caretakers) spending money on booze rather than food. Satisfying their own needs instead of feeding the kids. Sadly, he is used to it and so he learns to eat whenever possible, whatever he can get his hands on any. Clint isn’t picky at all.

He’ll eat something even though it may be off. Clint has scraped mold off of bread more than once, forced himself to choke down something he doesn’t like at all, because it’s still better than nothing.

Sometimes, when things get bad, he’ll steal food.

He is ashamed of it, but not enough to stop. Running from someone who is angry he took some sort of fruit or vegetable from their garden is much preferred to digging through a trashcan. He does that, too. Some days, he’s got no other choice, especially if he managed to piss off Duquesne or Chisholm and they decide to cut him off.

“Pissing them off” can mean many things, and as much as Clint can be sassy or big mouthed when he wants to, more often than not, it’s not even anything he said.

He might not train hard enough to their liking, he might fail because he is sick or distracted. Any number of things that are out of his control.

Sometimes, they just feel like it. “You owe us your life” they’ll say, or “I decide if you’ll eat or not. Today you won’t.”

Clint gets used to this, too. It is one of the biggest reasons he’ll hoard food whenever he can get any. Occasionally, Barney or Chisholm will find it, and then all hell breaks loose, leading to more yelling, more bruises, more cuts or broken bones.

He is more careful after that. Clint also gets used to ignoring hunger - he’s been used to it long before, but living the way he does only makes it worse.

It’s not until much, much later when Clint is an adult and with SHIELD that he realizes just how fucked up his upbringing really was.

Yes, it hurt, and yes it sucked, in countless different ways. But he never knew anything else back then.

The thing is, if it happened to anyone else, he’d have started a riot for their cause. But him? That’s just how things are and better deal with it he kept telling himself.

Now, that Clint is older and out of this environment, he has learned that, despite his experiences, not all people are bad.

There are people who love and support him, people who see more in him than someone who is worth something because of his skillset. People who see him as a friend because of him, and not what he can do.

Until he gets there, it is a long way.

Clint doesn’t trust anyone, avoids personal interactions whenever possible. It’s easier to protect himself that way. The one exception is Agent Phil Coulson, who has recruited him - that is, he pulled him out of a shithole and offered a new job, a new life. Him being his assigned handler helps, too. No one else wants to deal with him, and he’s okay with that.

He’ll do his job and do whatever is asked of him, but he doesn’t want anyone around him, really. People mean risk means attack means loss of control.

Never again.

Apart from the obvious, working with SHIELD also means a lot more freedom than he had before. Sure, he’d spent 3 years on the streets and working highly illegal jobs, but he really doesn’t count “on the run” as freedom. The army, circus or foster care don’t come anywhere near that word and neither does any other part of his childhood.

Now, he has legal work with times and places to be when it’s ordered, but he’s got a place to go back to, a bed to sleep in and a cafeteria that’s open 24/7.

If he is being honest, that last part is kind of overwhelming. Especially in the first days and weeks, he expects the access to it to be revoked at any time, to find the doors closed some day. It never happens, but it doesn’t stop him from squirreling more bread rolls and packets of chips for later into his pockets. No one notices, or if they do, no one calls him out of it. It is as good as permission as it gets.

The thing is: Clint is used to starvation. He never really had regular meals, it was always eat whatever you can, how much you can and then hide more for bad times. Sometimes, that meant 6000 calories in one day and a few granola bars over the course of the next week.

It’s a pattern he is used to, and as such, his visits to the cafeteria are few and far between, but he does pack away more than most when he is there.

Clint doesn’t think anyone would care enough to notice.

He is wrong.

Clint has been with SHIELD for several months when Phil Coulson approaches him after a meeting. There are other Agents present, so he simply tells him, “Barton, a word please.” while walking past, trusting that he’ll follow him. He does.

When the door to Coulson’s office closes behind then, Clint asks,

“What’s up, boss?”

“Sit, please. This isn’t strictly work-related, but it worries me.” Phil knows he needs to be careful how he approaches this situation, because Barton doesn’t trust most people. He does, however, trust him, which is half the reason he is talking to his asset about this when most would have booked him an appointment with psych with no questions asked. In this case, it would be a sure way to lose whatever trust Barton managed to build in the past few months since he joined the organisation.

Clint sits down on the chair across from Coulson, frowning. He isn’t sure where this is going, and he hates that.

“Yes?” he asks curtly, waiting for more explanation.

Coulson speaks deliberately, keeping his body language open. The last thing he wants is for this to come across as accusatory.

“It’s something I noticed, and to be honest, I think you need help. Ever since you joined us, I’ve never seen you eat anything for more than a few times a week. Let alone multiple times a day. Not here or when we are out on missions…”

A deep flush creeps up Barton's neck. He isn’t angry, which surprises him. But he is deeply embarrassed that someone noticed his patterns.

“Oh.” he says, and stays silent for a bit. Thankfully, Coulson lets him, waits for him to say anything else.

“It’s fine, I’m used to it.”

Except, it isn’t fine.

It’s never affected his work before, but things get stressful and then, a mission goes to shit in all the wrong ways.

The circumstances are out of anyone's control, but when it gets down to it, people die and Clint, who has a bullet stuck in his shoulder, can’t react fast enough to save them all.

He finally gets a clear shot and with pain shooting through him, he manages to bring down the men who shot a group of civilians and two of their agents just seconds before, saving the remaining people. Unfortunately, they can’t do anything to help either their two agents or the family that was captured by them. One teenanger, a toddler and two adults. All of them are dead.

He failed.

Cold dread and nausea rise in Clint, and he manages to find an empty corner of the rooftop he is perched on before he is sick all over the place.

He is dry heaving while the Senior Agent whose name he keeps forgetting yammers into the commlink, causing it to blow out with certain tones that are painful despite his already shitty hearing. The sensation makes it all worse, but Clint can’t talk, choking and coughing still, when suddenly, his private channel to Coulson crackles to life.

It’s always in place, no matter what. Clint doesn’t trust anyone else like he trusts Coulson, and he appreciates him looking out for him that way. He is always more comfortable, when he knows that there is a line of communication open with him.

“Barton, status report. Talk to me.”

Clint chokes on air and stomach fluid again - there isn’t anything but water that he could throw up, but his body is reacting violently. There is blood, dripping from his shoulder and soaked uniform onto the floor. As much as he wants to say anything, he can’t.

“Stay put, I’m coming.”

With the other Senior Agent still yelling over the comms, with the pain, guilt and panic in his chest and dizziness in his head, Clint can’t focus on anything. He collapses on the floor, uncaring whether or not he lands in the mess, gasping for air and trying to get a grip on himself.

Then, Coulson appears by his side. He faintly notices that he is talking to him, but he can’t make out his words. He is too far gone, and then he starts to black out. Part of Clint is glad that he can blame the tears in his eyes on pain from his bullet wound and the fact that he’s spent the last few minutes throwing up violently, but even in his sorry state, he knows he’s fucked up.

When Clint wakes up, he does so in a hospital bed, drugged with pain medication. He hates it immediately, because hospitals, in his experience, are one of the unsafest places one could ever be in. He’s forced to stay in bed, hooked up to machines or IV lines, people know where he is and who he is and there is no way of defending himself in this state.

His heartbeat speeding up and breathing gets hard. Before he can do anything else, a warm hand is placed onto his arm, and it takes Clint a while to realize that it’s Coulson, who is talking to him, trying to help and he doesn’t leave.

Clint is too out of it to say or do anything about it. After a while, he falls back asleep.

He doesn’t eat.

The nurses pick up full trays every time, and they, along with the doctors and most of all, Coulson, express their concern.

“I’m not hungry.” he insists every time, and gets more irritated with every attempt to talk about this.

It must be a trick - Clint knows he fucked up, people died because of him. There is no reason he should eat - if he tries to take anything, things will get so much worse, and in his current state, he would be unable to defend himself. Better not risk it - he isn’t going to eat.

At this point, Clint isn’t even half aware of how wrong this mindset is, and just how much damage was done to him over the years to believe all of those things. Another reason for this, that only occured recently: it is his way to stay in control over himself. No one can force him to eat, and no one can take it away from him.

He is the one in control, even when he loses weight quicker than ever.

Medical wants to keep him there, not because his injuries would demand it, but because he isn’t taking anything but liquids.

Clint disagrees - he is fine, he insists, and takes the next opportunity to bolt when it presents itself.

He hides out in his bathroom, doors locked, sitting on the cold tile floor and shaking apart.

He is overwhelmed, anxious with guilt, nauseous from hunger and crying soundlessly out of sheer habit. It doesn't matter - there is no one around to watch him.

Part of him is angry and disappointed with himself - being with SHIELD was the best chance he’s ever had, and he messed up after such a short amount of time. The aftermath sure doesn’t help, and all he wants is to get away. It might be less painful than being kicked out.

He doesn’t know what to do, so Clint just keeps hiding until there is somebody at his front door, knocking intently. He curses it, but eventually drags himself to the door and opens - he knows he can’t escape forever.

To his surprise, he isn’t faced with an entire team of agents to be hauled away. The only person there is his handler, and Phil Coulson looks more worried than anything else. His frown only deepens when he sees Clint.

To be fair, he really doesn’t look good at all. He’s lost a lot of weight, hasn’t slept and is holding onto sanity with his bare teeth at this point.

“Hi Boss. You here to kick me out?” he rasps, and the look he gets in response is puzzled.

“No, of course not. May I come in?”

Clint steps aside, letting him in. He doesn’t look back while shuffling to the living room, and it is clear that his shoulder is still giving him trouble. Despite his best attempts to hide it, it is obvious to Phil, who is close behind him.

Once they’re sitting down, Clint remains silent. He is fidgeting with the fabric of a throw blanket, waiting for Coulson to talk - if he isn’t here to kick him out of SHIELD, he really doesn’t know why he would bother to come.

“To be honest, Barton, I’m not entirely sure what is happening. But something isn’t right, and I hope that we can find a solution.”

It’s all he can do to nod. He is exhausted and besides, he doesn’t know what he could say, either.

Coulson continues, “The last mission…” but Clint pales at the thought of it and he can’t stop himself from blurting out,

“I’m sorry. I know I fucked up. Wasn’t fast enough... Six people died...“

“You got hurt.” Phil replies, looking over to the couch where his asset is slowly shrinking into himself. Shit. He really must have underestimated this young man’s state of mind. Carefully, he continues.

“None of this is your fault - did you think we would blame you for the outcome?”

This seems to genuinely confuse him. “Uh - yes?”

Slowly shaking his head, Phil replies,

“No. Sometimes, things just go wrong and there is nothing we can do about it, except our best. You were injured, which you reported, and you still managed to save five other people. This is more than we could have hoped for. You did a good job out there, especially under the circumstances.”

“...Right.” It doesn’t sound like Clint believes it. He doesn’t have a reason to - nothing he knows or lived through would have indicated that something like this wasn’t to be blamed on anyone - probably him.

“I understand that this is hard. We have mental health professionals to help with that sort of thing, and I think it would be of benefit for you to talk to them.”

Clint remains silent - he doesn’t trust them. He has talked to them, right after joining the organisation - it wasn’t a pleasant experience. Giving away any kind of personal information makes him want to crawl out of his skin and hide somewhere. People knowing details about him is a dangerous thing, and as much as they’d needled and pushed, Clint managed to keep quite a bit to himself still. He is ridiculously proud of that.

Right now though, he is tired. So very tired.

“I don’t trust them.” he confesses silently.

Phil nods slowly. He figured as much, understands even - he, too, isn’t too keen on sharing certain issues. But it is a well needed support system that exists for good reason. This is what he says, surprising both himself and Barton with his words, but truth be told, this is everything but a professional conversation. He wants to help, not just because Clint is his asset - he cares, on a personal level. Phil cares for all agents, especially the ones assigned to him.

But something in this young man in front of him brings out his protective streak. It doesn’t matter that Barton is well trained in armed and unarmed combat, amongst other skillsets. He is 22 years old and as far as Coulson can tell, he’s never had a single soul he could trust or rely on in his life and he is determined to change that.

“Medical say they’re concerned about you coping. And so am I. Have been for a while, actually.”

It is clear that Phil refers to their conversation in his office a little while back. Clint sighs heavily.

“I’m not very good at it right now.”

He is beyond exhausted at this point, or he wouldn’t have opened up at all. As sad as it may be, but his handler is the only person who hasn’t fucked him over yet. He really hopes it stays that way.

“It’s just that, I’m used to things going certain ways.” Clint explains, rubbing a hand over his face. Then, he suddenly finds himself talking about the circus.

He is talking about food and shelter constantly being held over his head and how he eventually started to take back control in the only way he knew how. He is talking about starving and binge eating on purpose at first, and later out of sheer habit. Clint talks about the way the latest mission specifically triggered all of this, and he is pathetically proud of himself for being able to keep his emotions in check the entire time. It’s hard, harder than usual - but he is sharing so much already. He can’t do more.

Phil is listening to him without a word, careful to keep his face even. On the outside, he is calm and collected, but the more he listens, the more furious he gets. There is no other way to say it. Seething anger boils in him, directed at every single person responsible for years of abuse and mistreatment of a child who grew up to be a damaged adult, still doing his best and thinking it isn’t enough.

For how long he is talking, Clint wouldn't be able to tell. But once he is done, the room is completely silent and he is staring at a stain on the table - it’s easier than facing the fact that he just told all of these things to another human being. As much as it scares him, it may be just the right thing to do.

Staring ahead and keeping his breathing as calm as possible is all he can do for now. But maybe, some day, he might be ready to accept help.

*+~

Warnings:

- Past Child Abuse - Food issues - Eating Disorder - Starvation - Denied food as punishment - Food hoardig - Dealing with related past trauma, PTSD - Death, dying children (non-graphic) - Vomiting - Blood and injury, gun wounds

#banashee writes #marvel fanfiction #bad things happen bingo #whump #hurt/comfort #angst #tw food issues #tw eating disorders #tw ed #tw child abuse #tw trauma #tw violence #tw death #tw vomit

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messrprcngs · 4 years

Text

DREAMS.

BASED ON the song dreams by dua lipa SUMMARY : robin knows that the likelihood of finding a girlfriend in a small town like hawkins is slim-to-none, and that any girl she likes is more likely to call her a creep than reciprocate her affections. robin knows this, and yet it doesn’t stop her from having romantic dreams about her friend y/n l/n, much to her dismay. PAIRING : robin buckley x female!reader WARNINGS : slight angst, cursing, plenty of pinning and longing. y’all should be used to this by now WORD COUNT : 2525 with lyrics, 2413 without lyrics A/N : i’ve had this in my drafts for so long and never finished it until now. also, for any nonbinary readers : i am so sorry that i have no oneshots that are explicitly gender neutral all the way through please forgive me i promise that i will make it up to you.

robin peaked out from scoops ahoy's kitchen to get a look at the line.

shit, she thought. there, third from the front, was y/n.

robin had known it was her as soon as she'd heard her tinkling laugh; she'd know that laugh anywhere. she'd been hoping against hope that it wasn't her, but apparently luck was not on her side today, because there was y/n in all her ethereal beauty.

she can’t be here today! not today! why today?

last night my fantasies became oh-so true you said you wanted me as much as i want you if i said it hadn't crossed my mind then oh baby, i'd be lying it just got complicated, i don't know what to do

seeing y/n in scoops ahoy wouldn’t have been so much of a problem if it wasn’t for the dream robin had had the previous night. the dream about her.

in the dream, y/n had told her that she was in love with her, despite what she knew everyone else would say about it, and that she wanted to be with her. really be with her, with all the mushy cheek kisses and hand-holding crap that robin typically hated. and dream-robin had been eating that shit up; boy, had she been eating it up.

robin had thought about y/n like that before, sure - would even go so far as to say that she had a crush on the girl - but had never felt for her as powerfully as she did in that dream. had never felt so full of hopeless longing for her that she was ready to burst. had never felt the way she’d felt for tammy thompson for anyone else since graduating.

she’d been unprepared, then, for the slew of emotions that startled her awake, and was even more unprepared to see y/n today. seeing her made things complicated - more complicated than they already were - and robin didn’t think she could handle that.

can i get it like that, that, that ? lemme know ‘cause i really like that, that, that when you go and i know it’s not real, but the way that i feel i just need to know ( know, know, know )

she knew so very well that it had just been a dream, that it wasn't real, and that y/n was the kind of girl that attracted - and was attracted to - guys. the kind of girl who didn’t like girls the way robin did.

but that didn’t stop robin from wanting her with the entirety of her being. she wanted someone as kind, as curious, as intelligent, as beautiful - both inside and out - as y/n was.

and even though it had been a dream, robin desperately wanted what y/n had said in that dream to have been true.

realizing that she had been staring, robin pulled her head out of sight quickly. god, she hoped no one had seen her staring, because what would they say about her then, if anyone’d seen her looking at y/n the way she had been? very unfriendly and anti-gay things, robin was sure of it.

falling against the wall next to the kitchen door, robin let herself replay the dream from the previous night in her head. god, it really had been a wonderful dream . . .

in my dreams you'd say you need me, believe me in my dreams you'd say you love me, say you'll never leave my dreams in my dreams

robin had been asleep for at least a good hour and a half when she heard the click, click, click on the glass of her bedroom window. her hearing was still fuzzy from sleep, but somehow she knew exactly what the sound that had woken her was.

she sat up and pushed her covers off with a grumble, eyes still half-lidded. her feet touched her bedroom floor, and in less than a second robin was standing in front of her window, which was funny, seeing as she didn’t recall taking any steps.

she rubbed the sleep from her eyes with her left hand so that she could properly see, while her right reached up to push the curtain to the side. robin blinked her eyes open when she was through and looked out into the darkness of the night.

her eyes bugged out of her head when she saw y/n standing on the grass beneath her window, hand full of pebbles from the neighbors’ yard, sporting a smile that was somehow shy and devilish all in one.

she had clearly seen robin pull the curtain open, judging by the look on her face, but she didn’t seem to care enough to stop the next pebble - it hit robin’s window with a soft click.

cursing under her breath and not bothering to dwell on the fact that she was pretty sure y/n had no clue where she lived, robin pushed the window up as quietly as she could and stuck her head out to glare down at the girl below her.

"y/n?" robin whisper-shouted, trying her best not to wake up her parents. "what the hell are you doing here? it's 1:30 in the morning!" she hadn’t checked the time when she’d gotten out of bed, but somehow she knew that that was the correct time.

y/n just continued to grin up at her. the pebbles were no longer in her hand. y/n raised her eyebrows in a clear question, and robin felt something in her gut pulling her towards her closet.

she let it drag her there, and opened the closet door to find a rope ladder she didn’t remember having piled on the floor.

in the blink of an eye robin was back by the window, opening it all the way and throwing the rope ladder down to y/n. it was almost as if y/n hadn’t had to climb at all, because by robin’s next blink she was at the top of the rope ladder, grinning at her from outside.

“hey robin,” y/n said softly as she climbed though the window. her grin had softened now; she looked more like the y/n robin was used to. she found herself relaxing.

instead of greeting her as well, robin grumbled, “you didn’t answer my question.”

“what question?”

robin rolled her eyes. “the ‘what are you doing here?’ question, dingus,” she said.

“oh, that,” y/n replied. a tinkling laugh that sent shivers up robin’s spine followed. “i came here tonight to tell you something," she said, stepping closer.

robin gulped, and though she wanted to look down at the floor to avoid eye contact, it was like her eyes were glued to y/n; she was unable to take them off of her, no matter how hard she tried. she was frozen in place, with nothing to do but watch the pretty girl in front of her.

“o-oh?” she asked, voice catching in her throat. she mentally cursed herself and her inability to keep it cool.

“yeah,” came y/n’s reply, voice barely above a whisper. she was getting ever closer, though it was taking much longer than robin knew it should have; time was very, very wonky.

but then she blinked, and there was y/n, standing so close to her that they were sharing breath.

"and what is it you came to tell me, n/n?" robin sounded just as breathless as she felt. she glanced from y/n’s eyes down to her lips and back up again. "what's so important that you couldn't wait 'til tomorrow to tell me?"

y/n was silent for a long, drawn out moment, and a sick feeling began to gnaw away at robin’s stomach. she knew that if y/n didn't tell her whatever it was soon, she probably never would, and she would miss out on something great.

“i came to tell you that i need you,” y/n breathed, and robin felt her head begin to spin.

robin was astonished. “what?” she croaked, voice catching on the vowel. she hadn’t been expecting y/n to say that. “what do you mean, you need me?”

“i mean exactly what i said. i need you robin.” robin’s eyes were frozen on y/n’s, and she watched as y/n’s gaze flickered down to her lips for a brief moment before meeting hers again. “i need you so, so much.”

“i don’t understand,” robin replied, and the thinness of her own voice surprised her. she was vaguely aware that head was beginning to hurt, too; a dull, barely-there throb at the base of her neck. y/n was blurring at the edges now, as if robin’s vision was sliding in and out of focus.

“i’m in love with you.”

robin sucked in a quick, sharp breath at that. her head was pounding now, and her blood was rushing in her ears. “i - what?”

y/n rolled her eyes. she would’ve looked exasperated if it wasn’t for the fond smirk that graced her lips. in a flash, y/n was standing impossibly closer, and robin had just enough time to wonder why her soft palm was cupping her cheek before she kissed her.

robin didn’t even remember closing her eyes, but the next thing she knew, light was exploding behind her eyelids, and a pleasant warm, fuzzy feeling was crawling it’s way up and settling itself in her belly. kissing y/n was nice. she tasted like lemon and cherry, and her lips were cool and soft against robin’s, which were warm and chapped.

just as robin was beginning to melt into the kiss, though, a loud crash sounded from somewhere down the hall from her room. robin jumped away from y/n, turning to stare at her closed door. her previously fuzzy eyesight had cleared up, and she could see her door in stunning clarity. it was almost too clear.

“i should probably go,” y/n said, and robin whipped back around to face her.

“what? why?”

“because i don’t want to get you in trouble with your parents for having a friend sneak over in the middle of the night, and i don’t want my parents figuring out i’m gone.”

robin knew that this was logical, but couldn’t stop herself from blurting out, “friend?”

y/n’s eyebrows drew together in confusion for a moment, and then a look of realization passed over her face and she laughed softly. “you think i meant we’re just friends, hmm?”

robin nodded dumbly. her vision was blurring at the edges again.

“i meant that that’s what they’ll think if they catch me in here. they’ll think we’re just friends. we’re not just friends, robin. i kissed you, after all, didn’t i?”

again, robin nodded. she blinked, once, twice, and then they were in front of her window. y/n crawled out onto her roof legs first, and when it was just her upper half that was left to go through the window, y/n propped herself up on the window sill with her elbows. “don’t i get a goodbye kiss?” she asked, and robin smiled.

she leaned down, and just as their lips brushed, robin was startled awake.

robin shuddered. fuck, that dream sent chills up her spine in the best possible way, even if parts of it hadn’t been at all realistic.

she wanted to be able to hold y/n like dream robin had. why couldn’t she hold y/n the way dream robin had?

because y/n doesn’t like girls, she answered herself, and robin sighed. the world was so unfair.

she was startled out of her thoughts upon hearing steve’s loud, overly cheerful voice greeting another very special customer.

“y/n!” she heard steve say. “what, couldn’t stay away from your favorite ice cream scooper?”

“oh yeah,” came y/n’s reply, “i love the little metal guy you use to scoop up people’s ice cream, steve. where is he?”

robin’s face split into a grin, and imagined steve’s cocky smile sliding right off his face, replaced by a straight mouth and narrowed eyes as clearly as if she were watching it happen.

“haha,” steve said humorlessly. “very funny.”

and there was that goddamn laugh again, light and beautiful. “i always am, steven.”

“don’t call me that,” he grumbled back. “just give me your damn order, y/n.”

robin didn’t have to listen to know what she would say; she had served y/n enough time to know her usual by heart.

it was quiet out front, save for the ceaseless mall-chatter, until steve said something that made robin’s stomach drop down into her feet.

“hey,” he said, and his voice was softer now than it normally was. “would you wanna, i dunno . . . go see a movie with me sometime?”

robin nearly choked on her own spit. was steve really asking y/n out?

it appeared that he was, and y/n was fucking laughing again, so fucking sweet and fucking perfect, and not fucking because of her. despite her gut telling her not to, robin peaked her head back out of the kitchen and watched, horrified, as y/n smiled her big, perfect smile at steve.

“what, you mean like on a date?” she asked, and her voice was as sweet as ever. as sick as robin felt, she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the nightmare that was playing out in front of her.

“yeah,” steve replied, looking down awkwardly at the ice cream he was holding. “if you wanna. you don’t . . . er, you don’t have to. you know - you know what, just forget i -”

y/n cut him off. “i’d be happy to go see a movie with you, steve.”

steve’s head snapped back up so fast that a pang shot through the back of robin’s neck. “really?” his voice jumped up an octave at the end. he cleared his throat. “i mean, cool. cool, cool, cool.”

though robin could hardly see his face from the angle she was at, she could just see one corner of his mouth turned up in a small smile, and felt a pang in her chest. y/n was making him so happy.

as if just remembering the ice cream he was holding, steve swore under his breath and handed it to y/n, then reached behind the counter and grabbed a pile of napkins, which he handed to her as well. she took them both gratefully, and while she may have imagined it, robin was sure that y/n had let her hand rest against steve’s for a second longer than was normal.

“thanks for the ice cream, stevie,” she said, eyes big an innocent.

“n-no problem, y/n.”

she smiled sweetly at him and waved. “bye, steve!”

“bye, y/n! see you - see you later!”

y/n turned and walked away from the counter, and robin watched her as she left the store, heart thumping heavily. she knew it. she knew it. she knew she had no chance with y/n. she had even less of a chance now that steve had asked her out. robin didn’t stand a chance against steve. she didn’t stand a chance against any boy that wanted to ask y/n out, really. because girls like y/n didn’t like girls the way that robin did.

#stranger things #robin x reader #robin buckley x reader #x reader #robin buckley #oneshot #stranger things oneshot

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orderuponthe99prettygrimmdiaries · 4 years

Text

Road to Recovery 👣

Well, this is gonna be a long ass one. Also, this has been kinda drafted over the past... week? So it’s gonna be a real rollercoaster of a ride.

Had just binged Lucifer’s new season and was on reddit, looking at comments of redditors yelling at Luci to enjoy whilst he was finding stuff to freak out about.

Like him, I should have just been in the moment. Appreciated it. Instead of worrying about the next.

The past week has been.. emotional. Have been getting used to the fact that I might never speak or hear or see him again. Been also trying to focus on the bad to kinda ease the pain. At least it hurts a little less, less crying too. But it’s also like one day you do great, no crying, not much of missing and pain, but then the next, everything creeps in altogether and you fall apart.

The thing is... why does it hurt so bad? Things had been weird for months. I mean, I was the one who was always preparing myself for him to leave, I was the one who told myself I’d be okay even if we never went on the date. And I guess it just boils back to... expectations.

I expected him to care more, I didn’t expect that he’d be able to leave just like this. From regular convos to nothing in a week, now almost 2 weeks. I mean, we’ve had breaks. 1 day, 5 days, 10 days... It’s kinda strange if we were actually interested in the other. Maybe he wasn’t much of a texter and wanted to talk when we met. But did we really share much when we met? It’s odd... He doesn’t reply properly to texts, he disappears, he doesn’t really care much at times, but for some reason, I seem to remember the good more. It seemed like he does listen (at times), there were moments when I felt like he cared. A part of me still trusts him or sees the best in him.

Initially, I was trying to avoid talking about him so I would also stop thinking about him and I could move on. But I think talking about it also helps. Did also google about moving on from crushes, and that is a major point. Maybe I’ll never figure out what really went wrong, but maybe I could still give myself some sorta closure. Though reminiscing does hurt too. Going back to the place where we met, which is basically my workplace which I’ve to be at almost every day... The memories flooding in about the conversations we had. But it also helps me to acknowledge my feelings and fears, stuff that I suppose I didn’t acknowledge then. Maybe if I had been less afraid and tried harder, especially during the times we were both around considering how hard it was to get our schedules together. He probably thought I wasn’t that interested and moved on. Guys fall fast, but they seem to move on pretty quick too.

Ended up dreaming about him last night... It was really nice. There was a shipment, I didn’t let myself have hope that it would have been him. And he turned around, and it was him. I said hey and touched his arm. I headed off downstairs talking to the other guys, one of them was teasing me for giving him my number. He came down too. We sat there for a bit, and I asked if I could lean on his shoulder, and we ended up hugging too. That was just wonderful, but it’s sad to know it’d never be reality.

And I guess all those breaks we had throughout the months still gives me the slightest bit of hope that he might return... But now, 2 whole weeks of not speaking. The glimmer of hope fades as each day passes. Maybe, distance is just what we need, I tell myself.

But now, there’s also a new guy. So I’m guessing the likelihood of seeing him ever again is almost impossible. But is it really so bad if we never spoke or see each other again? Did he even really care? What were we?

Feels like history is repeating itself, and honestly, after re-reading old posts, maybe it is. Okay, but this time was slightly different. I fought harder. I should be proud that I got his number, or well, convinced him to get mine. I should be proud for initiating those texts, for finally picking up that video call, for asking him out.

I do wonder at times if it would have been better if I was just honest from the start, that I was interested and I felt there’s something special, different, but not entirely sure what it was. I had friends tell me that I shouldn’t be too emotional about too much, especially at the start. I mean, I did do this the last time, granted they were all online friends, and now we’re still friends. Maybe it’s different being online vs irl.

Should I continue fighting for him or just let this be another regret/what if? I guess I chose the latter. I was still too afraid to make a move, I was still too afraid to admit my feelings. I wanted to tell him, I wanted to give him the choice. But I was afraid, what if he only says he feels the same because knowing what I felt? I couldn’t take the leap.

And the more I thought, the less I knew. What did I ever really know about you? What did I like about you? I guess I didn’t listen to myself enough, or to the rational part at least. The closer you look, the less you see. By the time I remember this, it was a little too late...

I guess I need to stop trying to define everything. Some questions don’t have answers. Some stories won’t get closures. Not all friendships require daily talking. Why aren’t I okay with this? Am I just too attached to everyone? Does my life just basically revolve around people? Who the fuck am I?

I had been looking back at my old posts, all the way back to 2015, the darkest period of my life. I wanted to see what I did then, how did I handle it and pushed myself through. How the heck did I move on? Sure, it took me like... at least 2 years of moping around, then finally actually properly reaching out to get the help I needed. A couple months of counselling, pushing the focus back on myself, on self love and self care.

And all this unravelled within a couple months.

Granted, I think it was already starting to unravel early this year. All these work and personnel changes really fucked things up, with Covid just adding to it. And then comes those unexpected feelings, not knowing how to deal with it, worrying about how I’m gonna fuck it up, and in turn, fucking it up. Also, not giving myself a break when I truly needed it. I was afraid that if I took a break from texting him (okay I wasn’t really obsessively staring at my phone and replying immediately either, but I could have taken a proper break), I might have ended up losing him, and now, I’ve lost myself, I’ve lost him.

So yep, losing myself... this time, I don’t think I was able to keep it as contained as I did previously. Loss of appetite, exhaustion... I guess at least I don’t exactly sigh as much as I did during the start of the year? But I guess now with Covid and mom at home, she’s noticed the symptoms too. And I guess how I tend to stay cooped in my room, retreat back after meals etc, not really making as much convos with my parents too... Maybe even agitation or irritation as my mom noticed too...

She thinks it’s more physical, with my abnormal periods and stuff, like maybe I’m anaemic. Oof, and that one day she asked if I was alright because I didn’t seem happy. I literally broke down when I went back to my room. I try so hard to mask it all because I don’t want people to worry, and I want people to still be able to count on me when they need to. Though I’m pretty sure my colleagues noticed too. So I push myself. Sometimes I guess I pretend to be alright, cope with humour as my defence mechanism (self preservation through dissociation, amirite?), but then it comes crashing down the next day or next minute.

I’m just human. I need to allow myself to feel. I need to embrace that I feel a lot, sometimes a little too much. I shouldn’t hate myself for caring too much, for feeling too much. I need to remember to allow myself to rest, or else this burnt out and exhaustion won’t do me or anyone any good. Yes, I want to be there for others, but sometimes you need to save yourself first.

I’ve got one life to live, so I gotta live it. Right now it feels like I’m just surviving, otherwise basically floating through time and space. But it’s time to really live. it’s time to stop trying to keep everything under control. Sometimes a mistake is a destiny and sometimes we mess things up for the better. Stop comparing your progress and path to others.

Recovery isn’t a straight line. You’re gonna feel good and then bad. You’re gonna feel like a bad-ass bitch who needs no one, but then the next you might be crying from the pain of missing him. Sometimes it will just get worse before it gets better. Real growth isn’t linear, it’s a step forward and 20 steps back. You’re gonna be tempted to text him, to hear his voice, to try one more time, but then you also gotta remember all the progress you’ve made. People are hard to forget and change takes time.

Like Chandler and Joey were nudging Ross to move on from Rachel back in Season 1, maybe your friends had nudged you to move on too. My friends have been. Maybe our happiness just aren’t meant to be with each other. But I would love for you to be happy, even if it’s without me.

So, I guess imma do a separate post about all the lessons I’ve re-learnt. It was a real headache trying to write this piece already. Thanks to anyone who’s actually taken the time to read this. Take care everyone!

#post of the day #road to recovery #moving on #letting go #love #life #overwhelmed #emotions #guys #closure #relationships #recovery is not linear #live your life

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glimmerglanger · 4 years

Note

17. Anakin/Ben LRPD (Anaaaakinnnnnnnnnnnnnn)

AHA I also thought of Anakin for 17 ( “Ugh, why did I eat that?”) for the meme. You know, I really intended for this to be a light and fluffy piece about Anakin eating bugs (ANAKIN). But uh. That wasn’t... how the muse took me? A mediation on how maybe some things happen to Anakin in both canon and all my AUs. I also didn’t expect this to be this long, but here we are!

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

“Ugh, why did I eat that?” Anakin’s mouth tasted like something had crawled inside it and died, and that wasn’t even the worst part. The worst part was that the nutribar had stuck to his teeth and he could still feel it. In a life spent eating foods that were strange and often of poor quality, he was no stranger to bad tastes, but this was a special type of disgusting, and he grimaced.

“I don’t know,” Ben said, casting him a look out of the corner of his eyes, before returning his attention to the crack in the hull of the older cargo ship where they’d taken cover. “I told you not to.”

“You did,” Anakin agreed, dropping the rest of the nutribar on the ground and wiping his hand on the floor. He should have known better than to eat something that had been covered in a foot of sand and that had - in all likelihood - been sitting in this ship since it went down. That could have been decades ago, based on the ship’s model. “How’s it looking?”

“Mm, I think they’re waiting for all their friends to show up.” Ben shifted back, handing their set of macrobinoculars over. Anakin leaned over very cautiously and peered out, scowling at the figures silhouetted against the sun on the far hill.

“They have to know it’s just the two of us in here,” he grumbled, sitting back with a frown. His stomach grumbled again, reminding him that he had tried the nutribar for a reason, after all. It had been too long since either of them bolted down a meal, or even a few bites of sustenance. “You’d think they’d feel confident enough with a dozen men.”

“A pity they’re not that stupid,” Ben said, a grin turning up the corners of his mouth.

“We should go out there.” Ducking into the ancient ship had seemed like a good idea at the time. But that had been hours ago, and it had started to get incredibly hot while they waited for their friends outside to gather enough courage to charge in.

Ben shook his head. “Not with your leg,” he said, barely sparring it a look. He’d dragged Anakin the last stretch across the hard rock, after the mine took him by surprise. He’d tied a tourniquet around Anakin’s thigh with calm, sure fingers, and not commented at all on the ruin below Anakin’s knee.

“My leg is going to be the least of our worries, soon,” Anakin said. The pain was starting to creep back up his body, but they were running almost as low on medical supplies as they were on food. He could wait for it to get worse before he asked for another shot to push the agony away.

Until then, he purposefully ignored it, thinking about the people outside and the horrific nutribar. Anything to stop from considering the damage done to his limb, the words neither one of them were saying about the odds that it could be saved.

Those odds got slimmer, each moment they were trapped in the old ship.

He didn’t mention, either, the dizziness in his head, or the fact that he was beginning to feel cold all over. It wouldn’t help matters. Ben needed to keep his focus on what was going on outside, on their friends there on the hill.

“You should rest,” Ben said, quietly, reaching out and resting a hand on Anakin’s shoulder. Anakin felt the push of the Force in the words, but couldn’t spare the energy to be irritated. He closed his eyes. He slept.

“Here.” Ben’s voice woke him, along with a soft touch against the side of his face. Anakin blinked his eyes open. His head felt full of clouds. He was incredibly cold, despite the sweat he could feel running down his back. “Drink this.”

He drank without thinking when Ben pressed something against his bottom lip. A bottle. It was full of water; warm, and tasting of some contaminant or the other. He swallowed it greedily anyway, until Ben said, “Sh, sh, that’s enough.”

Anakin coughed, when Ben took the container away. He blinked, working to focus on Ben, who swam in and out of his vision. There was a smear of something dark and wet across Ben’s forehead. Anakin asked, “Where’d…?”

“They’ve set up a camp,” Ben said, taking off his tunic and draping it over Anakin, tucking it in as best he could. “They had sentries out.”

Anakin was pretty sure that didn’t answer his question. He stared at Ben, mind belatedly identifying that smear across his skin as blood. “But the water…?”

“Came from the sentries, yes.” Ben shifted back, reaching for something on the floor. “They weren’t smart enough to consider that I might sneak up on them in the dark. They had some rations, too. I’ve brought you something to eat.”

Anakin shook his head, his stomach roiling at the thought. “Not hungry,” he rasped.

“Anakin,” Ben said, shifting closer, and then his voice was rising in urgency, his hands were on Anakin’s skin, the world was sideways. Anakin blinked up at him, tried to think of something to say, and passed back into blackness.

Anakin woke up next and coughed, his mouth full, unexpectedly, of something that tasted like broth. He was on his back, his head elevated, and hands turned him. Ben said, quietly, ragged, “Force, Force, you’re awake.”

“I’m awake,” Anakin confirmed, when he no longer felt like he was choking. He slumped back. Ben was holding him, he realized, an arm under his shoulders. They weren’t in the ship anymore. There was stone behind Ben’s head.

Anakin blinked, slowly adjusting to the idea that they were in a cave and he had no idea how they’d gotten there. Ben looked… like he wasn’t in any shape to discuss it. There were dark circles under his eyes and a cut across one brow. “You need to drink more,” he said, and Anakin nodded, and put in an effort.

It left him breathing hard, just the act of drinking the impossible broth. He asked, when the cup was empty, and Ben slouched back against the wall, holding Anakin against his chest, “Where are we?”

“In a cave system I found,” Ben said, bringing his other arm up, cupping the side of Anakin’s head.

Anakin nodded against his chest. His blacks were gone, Anakin realized, vaguely, listening to his heart beat. “But our friends outside the ship…?”

“Don’t worry about them,” Ben said, heart thundering under Anakin’s ear, beating too fast. He heard it when Ben swallowed. “I got you out. And I think I managed to get the emergency comm beacon working, too, so. So someone might come looking for us.”

Anakin processed that. It would be nice, he thought, if someone were to come looking for them. “I feel better,” he said, startled to find it was true. He still felt weak, terribly weak, but some of the fog in his mind had disappeared. He wasn’t as cold anymore, didn’t feel like shaking apart. And his leg didn’t…

“Good,” Ben said, voice choked, “good, Anakin, I’m glad.”

“Why do I feel better?” he shifted. Ben felt distraught, upset in a way that always reached right into Anakin’s chest. He shifted a bit, but felt too weak to go anywhere, really. Besides, the beating of Ben’s heart was lulling some part of his brain, dragging him back towards unconsciousness.

“You had an infection,” Ben said, breath hitching, full of anguish and something like horror.

Anakin stared at his skin, at the way his shoulders were shaking, just a little. “In my leg,” he said, carefully, thinking things through slowly, as though if he tried to move too quickly, it would send him back to dreams. “The wounds were infected.” Ben jerked out a nod. “And you found medicine?”

Ben said nothing, not for a long moment, before he rasped, “No, Anakin, I’m sorry. I didn’t.”

Anakin found the strength to lift his head away from Ben’s skin, to straighten his back, the lack of pain from his leg finally fully registering as he looked down his body. He’d lost a limb before. He remembered losing his hand, remembered it in horrifying detail.

He stared, breath frozen in the middle of his chest, and said, numbly, “Oh.”

“I’m so sorry,” Ben repeated, agony in his feelings, “I should have found a way to get you out of there sooner. I should have--”

Anakin groped a hand out without looking, touching Ben’s shoulder, orientating himself. He turned, slumping down against Ben, an arm around his neck. He didn’t want or need Ben’s apologies. It wasn’t Ben’s fault they were here. None of this was Ben’s idea. He’d just… followed Anakin, into this entire mad campaign.

All Anakin wanted to do was press his face against Ben’s skin and breathe there, pretend the last few days - he had no idea how long he’d been out - had ever happened. Ben wrapped both arms around Anakin’s back, fingers clenched in his robes, and, at least Anakin knew now where the smell of lightsaber char had come from.

“It’s alright, Ben,” he said, squeezing his eyes shut, hating the horror he felt from Ben, the pain, the agony. He meant to say more, but his reserves were so limited. He fell back into glorious blackness with a feeling of relief.

The next time Anakin woke, he rasped, “I’m thirsty.” He was hungry, too, for the first time in a long time. The air felt cool on his skin and he cracked his eyes open, expecting the cave and getting, instead, the clean likes of a ship.

“Here you go,” a familiar voice said, and it wasn’t Ben. He jerked all the way to wakefulness, sitting up as Ahsoka sat on the side of his bed, holding out a glass of water. He stared at her for a moment, until she nudged the glass against his shoulder.

He took it, carefully, and raised it to his lips, drank it down, before he finally said, “Snips.”

She smiled at him, softly. She looked different, almost grown these days. Her cheeks had gotten sharper, her montrals taller. Her lekku fell almost to her elbows. She said, her voice changed, too, as she grew out of childhood, “Skyguy.”

“What are you doing here?” he asked, because that seemed to be the biggest question. “Where is here? And where’s Ben?”

“He’s right there,” she said, gesturing to the side. Ben he found on the next bed over, hooked up to nearly as many machines as Anakin appeared to be. “Neither one of you were in great shape when we found you. And this is… my ship. I guess. And we’re here to rescue you, of course.” Her expression shifted to the side, darkening. “I’m sorry we didn’t make it sooner. Before…”

Her hesitation brought back memories Anakin’s mind had temporarily shut away. He shifted, pulling at the blankets they’d put over him, gazing down with a cool feeling of shock spreading through his chest. “I’m so sorry,” she said again.

Anakin reached out, ran his hand down what was left of his thigh, shuddering a bit. He said, feeling far away and distant, “Looks like he did a pretty good job keeping it even.”

“Master,” she said, quietly, reaching out and touching his arm, “if he hadn’t--”

“I know.” Anakin looked up at her, tried to smile and didn’t quite manage it. “The infection. I know.”

She stared at him, head cocked to the side a bit, as though expecting him to rage. He’d taught her to expect that, he figured. It was his own fault that she was holding herself cautiously. He looked away again, cleared his throat. “Guess I’ll be heading back to the Core for a while. Maybe you could give us a lift?”

“Sure thing,” she said, standing and hesitating, for a moment, before she bent to press a brief kiss to the top of his head. “I’ll lay in a course.”

Anakin waited until she left, until the doors closed, and then pulled the blankets the rest of the way off. He poured himself another glass of water and drank. There were tubes in his arms, hooked up to a nutrient solution. He carefully pulled the solution off of it’s hook, and then stood, balancing with the help of the Force.

It wasn’t far, thankfully, to Ben’s bed. Less than a step, really. Anakin re-hung the nutrient solution and sat, dizzy a bit from the effort. Ben made a little sound, questioning, in his sleep, and Anakin could see the bandages across his body, evidence of a fight he’d missed.

He stretched out carefully, Ben curving around to make space, like his body knew the position they took when asleep. Anakin exhaled shakily against the back of his neck, curling an arm around him, so careful with all the tubes attached to them both.

“Anakin?” Ben murmured, thoughts fuzzy, not all the way awake, but getting there and quickly. He stiffened, muscles tightening against Anakin’s chest. “I’m so--”

“Sh,” Anakin said, pulling him closer, wanting -- wanting things he couldn’t have and one thing he could, the comfort of Ben’s body close to his, the comfort of knowing that Ben had saved his life, the comfort of the smell of his hair and the softness of his skin.

He closed his eyes. He slept.

#my fic #lrpd verse #anakin and ben #warning for off screen loss of limbs #glimmer replies #ask me anything #MORE ANGST THAN ANTICIPATED I'M SORRY

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fracturedmotivationwriting · 4 years

Text

Datura didn't waste time with formalities or politeness. Given the high likelihood of Fiona about to murder someone, Datura didn't think it was necessary to knock on her apartment door. Unfortunately, Fiona's roommates didn't exactly agree with that. They were alarmed that Datura had picked their lock.

Datura would deal with that issue later. Right now, she had to stop a human sacrifice.

"Okay, so she's smart enough to avoid murdering someone in her apartment," Datura sighed, agitation in her voice. She followed Pollux out of the apartment complex. They needed to find Fiona. Quickly.

"If I were a psychopathic human with demonic powers, where would I complete my human sacrifice to become a full-fledged demon?" She asked sarcastically, slamming shut the door of her car.

"Where do we do all our big spells, Tura?" Pollux scoffed, sliding into the passenger seat. While Datura was picking the lock into her neighbor's apartment, Pollux had packed a backpack with his grimoire and some essential items for a banishing-spell. Hopefully, this would work.

The witch and warlock shared a look as Datura put the car into gear. She didn't need to clarify what Pollux meant. She headed in the direction of the forest, breaking all speed limits and many traffic laws along the way. Thank Satan there weren't cops patrolling the area between her apartment and the forest.

Datura haphazardly parked her car on the edge of the forest. The car had barely stopped when Pollux opened his door and rushed out. Datura ran after him. The forest was rather large, but there were only a few clearings that were suitable for witchcraft. Prometheus and Ambrose had no doubt shown them to Fiona, which meant that Datura and Pollux shouldn't have too hard of a time finding her. If the human was smart, she'd choose one of the ones further into the forest, so that the other mortals wouldn't hear the inevitable screams of her victim.

"We need a plan," Pollux half-shouted to Datura as the two of them ran through the trees.

"We have a plan!" Datura reminded him. "Banish her to hell. Save Grisha. Simple."

"Not simple," Pollux argued, stopping suddenly and roughly pulling Datura to a stop too. The witch nearly tripped over a tree root, but with Pollux's tight grip on her arm, she managed not to fall.

"We're powerful, Tura, but I don't know if we're powerful enough. She may not already be stronger than both of us together, but she may be strong enough to resist us just long enough to finish her spell," Pollux explained breathlessly.

"And if she finishes the spell, then we stand no chance," Datura finished his reasoning. She felt like her stomach was full of rocks. This wasn't looking good for them.

"And Grisha will be dead," Pollux added grimly. He started moving again, but this time he and Datura moved slowly. Creeping through the forest, trying to keep Fiona from detecting their approach. They were getting closer to Prom's favorite clearing: it was further in the forest, a perfect, large circle with the stars and moon shining above. Fiona had to be at this one.

"What are we supposed to do, Pol? Give up?"

Pollux shook his head, a new look of determination filling his features. Datura had seen Pollux determined before. He always looked like he was going into a war when the coven was attempting a new, more powerful spell. But this was different. Usually, he wasn't leading the charge. That was always the high priestess' job. Without Prometheus, however, Pollux was stepping up.

Datura kind of understood why Prom fell for him now.

"No. We're not going to give up. But I don't think we should go in guns a blazing," he explained softly, whispering like he was scared Fiona may overhear them. "I think our best bet is to try and incapacitate her first. Weaken her. Knock her out. Give Prom and Ambrose some time to get here. Then try to banish her."

"You think they're going to come?"

"Prom wouldn't have called if she hadn't realized the severity of the situation. Even she won't be able to turn a blind eye."

"And Ambrose?"

Pollux hesitated. It was hard to believe that the demon would try to prevent his girlfriend from becoming a demon, but Pollux had to believe it. As much as he hated to admit it, the coven needed Ambrose.

"Maybe," Pollux shrugged. "He's been acting more human lately. Maybe he'll do the right thing."

Datura nodded. Prom and Ambrose would come. They had to. They were good people. Datura firmly believed that. They just made a few mistakes recently, but now was their chance to make things right. They would show up.

"Okay, so we stall," she reiterated. "We try to weaken her. Bide our time until reinforcements come in."

Pollux nodded. They were getting much closer to the clearing now. He couldn't quite see it yet, which meant Fiona couldn't see or hear them yet either.

"How do you suggest we do that?" Datura asked.

"Do you got a way to speed up that curse you placed on her?" Pollux asked, a mischievous smirk gracing his face. Datura could almost mistake him for a demon with that expression.

"I can try," Datura nodded. "It might be hard. Russian isn't one of my fluent languages."

"You try to keep her focus on you. Try speeding up the curse, throw out some hexes, whatever you have to do. I'll get the grimoire out and start setting up the banishment spell. Save us some time when Ambrose and Prom show."

Datura nodded in agreement. The two continued to move stealthily through the forest, becoming more careful with each step they took as they neared the clearing. Soon they'd be close enough for Fiona to hear them, so they had to be extra careful as they snuck forward. Datura had never felt more adrenaline pumping through her veins in her life. It was like every sense was on high alert. She could practically feel the magic in her itching to be used. Her witchy fight-or-flight senses kicking in.

They heard her before they could see her.

Well, technically, they heard Grisha first. The warlock was trying to threaten Fiona to let him go, his voice betraying his fear. Fiona, unsurprisingly, was getting annoyed with his incessant words. Datura heard her mutter some insults before snapping her fingers. Suddenly, Grisha fell silent.

Datura and Pollux shared a look as they crept forward. It was now or never.

They hid behind a bush, catching sight of the altar Fiona had set up. Grisha lay in the center, his hands and feet bound. Candles lined the altar, flickering ominously in the dark. A bowl laid beside the altar, positioned under a crevice that would allow the spilled blood to flow down into it. Datura felt her stomach clench. Their coven had used this altar many times to sacrifice animals, most recently a pig. And now Grisha was laying atop it looking frightened beyond belief. He looked much more like a scared little boy than the fearless warlock he tried so desperately to portray. As much as Datura hated him, he didn't deserve this.

Fiona stepped into Datura's line of vision. Her back was turned to them, but Datura could see the knife she was playing with pretty clearly. It wasn't quite witching hour yet, but Datura and Pollux would have to intervene soon if they wanted to save Grisha. Especially because it seemed that Fiona was getting quite restless.

Datura and Pollux shared one last look. Pollux gave Datura a nod, and the two of them stepped out of the bushes. Pollux snuck through the edges of the trees, trying to remain hidden. He needed to get to the altar without Fiona noticing. Datura walked right towards the aforementioned woman, hoping to keep her distracted.

"Good evening, Fiona," Datura drawled, trying to sound much more confident than she currently felt. "Care to explain why you have our dear friend Grisha tied up like a hog?"

Fiona turned around. She didn't appear startled at Datura's presence. In fact, she seemed quite pleased to see the witch if the grin on her face was any indication. She twirled the knife in her hand.

"Maybe because he's a pig?" She teased, laughing at her joke. Datura's lack of laughter went unnoticed by her as she stepped closer to the witch. However, Fiona's shuffled step didn't go unnoticed by Datura. So walking was becoming difficult Fiona. Datura's curse was working.

"And friend? You and Grisha were hardly friends," Fiona recounted, waving the knife at Datura like it was one of those pointers teachers use to call on students. "You all were so cruel to him all the time. Especially behind his back. I mean, he deserved it. He's weak and embarrassing and a pig. But you can't stand there now and claim to be his friend. It wouldn't save him anyway."

Datura did her best to ignore the shame rising in her. Fiona did have a point. She was never really nice to Grisha. No one was. They all kept him around just to take advantage of him. But that didn't mean he should be allowed to die.

"Fine, I'm not his friend," Datura conceded. "But I'm not here to save him because he's my friend. Regardless of how annoying I find him, I won't let you sacrifice him."

"Let me?" Fiona scoffed. "I'm not asking for your permission. And you can't exactly stop me by yourself, sweetheart. Or did you forget the last time we argued?"

Datura laughed. Surely, Fiona didn't think Datura would seriously come after her herself. Or did Fiona really think Datura was that stupid?

"And who says I came alone?" Datura asked, smirking triumphantly.

Before Fiona could react, Pollux had stood from his hiding spot. He tossed one of Datura's premade hex bags at Fiona's feet, causing a plume of smoke to rise. Fiona coughed, waving the smoke away as she tried to back away from it. But she stumbled and nearly fell.

While she was distracted, Datura started muttering in Russian. The hex bag wouldn't do much damage (it was designed to give victims something akin to the chickenpox, but much, much worse), but hopefully Datura could start to speed up the limb-numbing curse. Fiona couldn't exactly complete a sacrifice if she couldn't control her limbs.

Datura was making fairly good progress, growing more confident as she watched struggle more and more to move, but Fiona was still more powerful. She may need her limbs to complete a sacrifice, but she didn't need them to throw her own curse at Datura. With a swish of her hand, and a few ancient words muttered under her breath, Fiona sent Datura flying back into a tree. Datura cried out in pain as she hit the trunk. Her insides were burning from the spell, but she was pretty sure her outsides would have some pretty nasty bruises in the morning. And maybe a concussion.

Just as Datura was struggling to her feet and about to continue her attempts to slow Fiona down, an angel stepped before her and threw Fiona back into the altar.

Ambrose turned around, helping Datura stand up straight.

"Are you okay?" He murmured worriedly.

Datura nodded, chuckling lightly as she motioned to where Fiona lay. The redhead was struggling to get up, her limbs working against her.

"Nice throw," she teased.

Ambrose cracked a smile.

"Well, I couldn't let my girlfriend go tossing my friends around now could I?" He joked back. "Now, why don't we throw her in timeout to teach her a lesson?"

#witches and ghosts and demons oh my #a fight in the forest #that’s the title because i’m on mobile AND CAN’T ADD ONE

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pantstomatch · 5 years

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untitled winterhawk mess for lissa!

SO HERE’S THE THING. It’s creeping up on midnight (my time) and I promised @lissadiane I would write her whatever she wanted for her birthday (today) because she’s amazing and, listen, I’ve been extremely dependent on her, she’s all I’ve ever wanted in a writing buddy and just, like, A FRIEND, and it doesn’t matter that we live so far apart, I feel like I get to see her every single day. She is literally the only reason I ever write and share anything. So anyway, BECAUSE IT IS HER BIRTHDAY, and because she asked me to write Winterhawk on SGA, I have... done this. I have no actual idea how to write anyone in the marvel universe, so this is just... you know... hopefully not terrible. (the second half is rushed for time, shhhhh, just pretend this is balanced and maybe someday it’ll be magically fixed). HAPPY BIRTHDAY LISSA!! I HOPE YOU HAD AN AMAZING DAY DESPITE THE CAR THING.

The only reason Bucky tolerates diplomatic missions is because Steve's simultaneously the best at them and the worst. It's both a Steve thing and a Stark thing. Steve's got a sixty percent probability of becoming indignant on someone's behalf, and Stark's got a much higher likelihood of blowing things up. And that's only if he hasn't already accidentally insulted someone important on purpose. When things go well, they go great—one planet has a god damn statue of Steve, which Bucky finds hilarious and Steve hates with passion—which is the only reason they're still getting sent on these milk runs.

Bucky's got his palm along the outside of his P-90, pointed at the ground as he stands fifteen paces behind Steve, Stark, and Wilson.

The planet's delegation consists of two old pale guys in robes—par for the course—and a haggard nutbar that Bucky's pretty sure they're trying to sell as a wizard.

He notes Wilson watching all their hands, and scans the perimeter for threats.

The settlement is mostly a tent city built on the ruins of a more prosperous time. Half-crumbled brick and mortar, dull canvas tarps staked down over top.

For all the technology of the Ancients, the Pegasus Galaxy has basically been beaten back into the dark ages. He fucking hates the Wraith.

He's got his eyes on the sparse woods to their left when he hears a soft scraping sound. He barely tenses, forces a natural sweep of the tree line, back over the other three members of his team, and then lazily focuses on a narrow, dirt alley that snakes down behind a line of crumbling buildings. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches a thick stone slowly lift and shift. Grubby fingers appear, palms wrapped in worn cloth, gripping the edge.

Bucky forces himself to keep still, stance open.

A tuft of matted, brown-blonde hair pokes up, Bucky catches a fast look of blue eyes, busted nose and a split lip.

Graceful and quick, the kid—youngish, slim, rag-covered, barefoot—gracefully climbs out of the hole, and then promptly trips over his own feet. He catches himself on nothing, arms spread out with an almost silent whoosh of air.

Bucky spots what looks like a quiver of arrows on his back and a motherfucking bow, and rolls onto the balls of his feet, wondering if this is some kind of ambush. He slips his fingers down to lightly cover the trigger of his gun.

The kid just crouches down to heft the stone cover back over the hole, though, and when he lifts his head again, their eyes catch.

Panic moves fast over the kid's face before disappearing into a cocky quirk of lips. He winks at Bucky, lifts his finger in a 'keep quiet' gesture, and then flees around the turn of a tent before Bucky can even snap his mouth shut.

Huh.

"Buck?"

Bucky blinks once and says, "Yeah, Stevie," without looking away from the alley.

"Everything okay?"

A hand lands on his arm, the one attached to the hand still caressing his P-90, and Bucky looks up to see Steve's face schooled into Earnest Concern.

"Peachy," Bucky says. "Hey," he gestures to the hole the goddamn street urchin just popped out of, "where do you think those stone covers lead to?"

Steve shrugs. "Old sewer? Sophisticated Ancient underground bunker? Weapons store?"

Bucky feels his lips twist into a frown. Steve's eyes are twinkling.

"I know you're joking, Rogers," Stark says, swanning over, "but just because there hasn't been another Genii infestation, doesn't mean there won't be."

"I think calling them an infestation is offensive," Steve says.

"Are we done here?" Bucky asks. His skin is crawling. They're being watched.

"Nope." Stark claps Bucky on the arm and Bucky growls at him.

Stark tells him to, "Chill out, tiger," because he's a raging asshole, and the only reason Bucky doesn't punch him in the face is because Steve ducks his head to hide a smile.

Jesus.

Wilson moseys over, thumbs looped into his belt and gun draped across his back, even though he must notice Bucky's still on high fucking alert. "I don't know about you guys," he says, "but I can't wait to get off this weird-ass planet. I am not letting that grand high poopah dude read my chakra or whatever the hell he was twitching about."

Stark's face is practically plastered to a tablet but he waves a hand and says, "I believe the appropriate term, Wilson, is probe."

Over Steve's shoulder, Bucky sees the kid again, this time rapidly skirting the edge of the woods. He rolls his lips and doesn’t say anything and hopes it isn't a mistake.

Two days later, Bucky's cursing at the general motherfucking shittyness of their luck with his hands tied behind his back.

The 'jail' is one of the few buildings mostly still standing; dim light filters in from the single high window, and also weakly beams through the gaps in the stone walls. A solid push would probably take them down, Bucky's got enough rage to really put his back into it, but he'd prefer to have his hands free.

Fucking diplomats.

"How's it going, Stark?" Bucky asks through gritted teeth. He's hot, he's sweaty, his hair's all over his face and all he can do is scrape at the ends with his shoulder.

The only good thing is that Steve and Wilson weren't served the same fate. Steve's probably still in the 'talking them around' stage of negotiations, where he tries to explain that Stark didn't really mean it, and Bucky wasn't trying to assassinate anyone by accident, and it's sweet the way Steve always alwaysthinks that's going to work, even when it never does.

"It's going," Stark says absently. "Can't you bludgeon your way free with your robo-arm?"

"It's off," Bucky says.

At that, Stark lifts his head and an eyebrow, gaze slipping down the metal of his arm twisted behind his back.

"No," Bucky says, manfully resisting rolling his eyes. "They fucking turned it off. Nutbar wizard has the ATA gene."

"You mean old Turkey Face? Yeah, that guy's a treat," Stark says, and then his arms loosen and drop with a sigh and tiny robot with a saw climbs up over his shoulder to say hi.

Just as the little gizmo starts in on the ropes binding Bucky, the door slams open and street urchin kid gets tossed in with a yelp, and a shouted, "Sure! Be that way! See if he doesn't eat you, now!"

A guard kicks him in the leg, but he bounces up almost immediately and clings to the small slotted hole in the wood. He says, "Kidding! I'm kidding, please don't hurt him," and curses under his breath.

"Hello," Stark says, like he's real interested.

The kid's tall, but probably not as tall as he will be. He swings his arms when he turns and then leans up against the door, watching them warily. His mouth quirks up in a smile, though, and he says, "Hi. What are you in for?"

"Treason, apparently," Stark says dryly. "And failure to acknowledge the royal 'we.'"

Street urchin nods a lot, says, "Sure, sure," and paces to the small window and back to the door again. His lip's crusted over and his busted nose has radiated out into a black eye.

The tiny robot finishes Bucky's ties and he shakes out his hand in relief while the street urchin keeps one eye on him, and the other on the door. He's backed himself into a corner, arms crossed.

Bucky silently moves toward Stark and shifts so he can still see the kid.

Stark says, "Did you forget how to use your words, Barnes?" but reaches out for the latch underneath his arm, the Ancient tech lighting up in response to his own ATA gene.

Bucky doesn’t have one, the synthetic never stuck, and he's never considered it a liability before.

Stark, frowning, says, "We need to get you better non-Ancient tech attached to this thing. Give me a week after we get back. You can be a little lopsided in between missions."

"Gee, thanks," Bucky says.

His arm powers up with a whirl and a few clicks of the plates shifting. He's highly aware of the kid gawking at him as he lifts his arm and folds his fingers into a fist.

Stark waves him forward and says, "After you."

Bucky grins at him, feral around the edges, and punches straight through the wall.

Shouting from the guards kicks up as soon as they crawl through the rubble.

The kid says, "What the fuck was that?" blue eyes big.

Bucky only feels a little guilty when the awe and hesitation are what get the kid caught.

"Aw, man, no," he hears faintly as he takes off down the dirt path, conscious of Stark keeping pace beside him, because that's his job. Not saving some raggedy teenager who doesn't even have enough sense to wear shoes.

He's gonna see those big blue eyes in his nightmares. Jesus Christ.

He slows to a jog and then skids to a stop.

This sucks.

Stark says, "Hustle up, Barnes," and Bucky shakes his head.

"I'm going back."

"You want me to tell Rogers I lost his best friend to a sad-eyed alien that looks like a half-grown man-child?"

"Steve would go back," Bucky says, because it's true. Mostly true. He's pretty sure if it were between Bucky and a stranger, Steve would unhesitatingly go for him.

But Bucky's always been the only exception that feeds his martyr complex, so whatever.

Stark sighs like Bucky's a heavy burden. He says, "You don't have any weapons."

Bucky wiggles his metal fingers.

Stark pinches the bridge of his nose and says, "Take Tiny with you."

Tiny shoots tiny missiles. Tiny is Bucky's new best friend. Stark is never getting Tiny back.

Bucky goes for mass chaos over finesse, and has just enough time to grab the kid by the scruff of his neck and haul him backward before a wall falls on two of the three guards that were holding him down.

The shouts and explosions have brought out half the town and most of the diplomatic delegation, and Bucky sees Steve book it sideways in all the confusion, Wilson bringing up his rear.

This mission is officially fubar, unsalvageable, and Bucky just wants to get back to his tiny bunk in his tiny room with his own private tiny bath. Halfway down the street, he lets the kid go and hopes he just keeps running. It's not his problem anymore.

The Stargate is in an open field almost two clicks out of town. Bucky and Steve are the only ones not panting by the time they reach the dial.

"You came through the ring," the kid says, staring up at it with his mouth hanging open. "You came through the ring."

"Yep," Stark says, rapidly dialing out, sending his ID code through as it whooshes open. "What's your name, kid?"

"Clint." He rubs a hand over his mouth, staring at the rippling portal like he's never seen it open before.

"You going to be okay, son?" Steve says. He drops a meaty palm on join of his neck, squeezing once and then letting go.

"Oh yeah, sure," Clint nods, "but, uh," he drags his gaze away from the 'gate and up at Steve, "this planet is really small, and they were gonna cut my hand off, so, you know, anyway you can see yourselves letting me tag along?"

Steve's face goes dark. "What." Oh no.

"And Lucky and me don't take up much room, swear, except for the fact that Lucky actually does, but, uh—what?" Clint seems to finally notice how Steve's gone expressionless.

Stark whistles through his teeth and says, "Are we in Aladdin?" and Wilson snorts a laugh even though he says, "Not funny, man."

Steve says, "They're going to what?"

"Uh." Clint darts his gaze from Bucky to Steve and back again, like Bucky can somehow stop this clusterfuck of a situation.

Luckily, Bucky speaks fluent Steve. He hitches a shoulder and says, "He means you're coming with us."

"Oh, but. I mean, that's great," Clint says, but he doesn't look like he thinks that's great. He looks wary. He looks like a kid who was hoping for the best but clearly expecting the worst, and doesn't trust an inch of it—or them. "Don't you want to know why?"

"It doesn't matter why," Steve says—it totally matters why, Bucky thinks darkly, but keeps his mouth shut—and claps Clint on the shoulder, urging him forward.

Clint staggers and stops, digging his bare heels into the dirt, and blurts out, "I was stealing food."

Steve's eyes go soft. "That's okay, Clint."

"No, but. I was stealing food for him." He jerks his chin to something behind them, and Bucky whirls around to see….

It looks like how a dog would look like, if no one had ever seen a dog. If someone had just said describe a dog to me, and then drew it with their eyes closed. It's… an approximation of a dog. Floppy ears, lolling tongue, tail that wags like a flag. Big, four-footed, furry all over, but with too many teeth for its mouth and eyes too wide-set on its pointed skull.

It is, quite frankly, disturbing as hell to someone who emphatically knows what a dog should and should not look like.

Clint's shoulders slump. They're ridiculously sharp under his threadbare shirt, and he's woefully underfed. This beast looks sort of fat.

"It's okay," Clint says. He's sad. Hell, Bucky's sad. But, like, that thing can't come to Atlantis. It might eat everyone.

Which is why he's actually too stunned to protest when Steve says with deliberate, forceful calm that Bucky knows is absolute bullshit, "He can come too."

Wilson squawks. He says, "Steve."

Bucky tries to murder Steve with a glare, but Steve doesn't take an order he doesn't believe in, and doesn't offer anything he isn't prepared to back up with his whole soul. It's one of the things Bucky both loves and hates about him.

"Sheppard's gonna have a field day," Stark says gleefully, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "C'mon, blue eyes, the first step's a doozy."

Clint throws up all over the 'gate room to absolutely no one's surprise.

Also to no one's surprise, a bunch of guns get immediately pointed in the not-dog's direction until it bounds over and licks Bucky in the back of the neck. Christ.

"I have to go debrief," Steve says. "Buck, can you take Clint and, uh…"

"Lucky," Clint says, swiping at his mouth while gazing narrowed-eyed around them. Bucky doesn’t want to say he's casing the place, but he's a self-admitted thief.

"Can you take Clint and Lucky down to medical?" Steve gives him puppy eyes behind Clint's back, which is the only reason Bucky says yes.

Stark says, "I'll be in my lab." He jabs a finger at Bucky. "Barnes, arm. Tomorrow or Wednesday, whenever you're feeling it."

Bucky's tempted to not feel it at all, but on the other hand it's his arm, and he'd like it to work better.

Wilson mutters something about taking a, "Goddamn bubble bath."

Steve lifts his fingers like a boy scout but says, "Two hours. Full reports or I'll make you go talk to Sheppard. He'll hate it just as much as you will."

Clint follows Bucky out of the 'gate room, and Lucky follows Clint until they're stopped by an over-excited scientist from the xenobiologist lab. Bucky has no idea what her name is, but she's really insistent on quarantine and scans and people not accidentally dying, so he lets them herd Lucky down a split in the hallway.

Clint says, "What are they—" before cutting himself off with a sharp clack of teeth.

"He's going to the animal med bay," Bucky says. "We're going to the people-shaped one." Can't say human, he guesses, but Bucky actually knows fuck-all about the genetics of the Pegasus Galaxy. Supposedly they were all cut from the same Ancient cloth, so who the fuck knows.

In the infirmary, Dr. Biro tuts over Clint's clothes, his dirty hands, his crud-encrusted feet, and shoves a pair of scrubs in his hands before flipping the curtain around him closed.

She says, "Well," to Bucky with her hands on her hips.

"I guess… call Captain Rogers when he's done?" Bucky says.

Her eyebrows deepen into a V. "You don't want to wait."

Did he want to? Kind of. He's just not sure he should. He didn't make the decision to bring Clint back to Atlantis. He's definitely not his responsibility. At all.

Bucky sits down on the edge of an empty bed with a sigh. He needs a shower, and he needs to write up his report, and apparently he needs to make sure a too-thin alien street urchin isn’t going to die on them, too.

A half hour later, Bucky's half asleep sitting up. But Clint's got a mostly clean bill of health—dehydrated, half-starved, lacking nutrients, but in great spirits!—and is eighty percent dirt-free. He needs a shower, but his nose is taped, a butterfly bandage on his lip that definitely won't last, and the scrubs show-off his lean build and the bruises on the back of his arms, like fingerprints. He looks older and taller, even though Biro says, "He's eighteen or nineteen, he can't remember, and age in years is an Earth construct I still haven't figured out how to apply to multiple planets outside our solar system."

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Clint wiggles his toes in the fuzzy socks Biro had given him. He grins, "Hey, look."

"Real fancy, Clint," Bucky says. He quirks an eyebrow at Biro. "So he's good?"

"For certain definitions of good, sure," Biro says. "I want him hooked up to a IV for an hour and then someone can come collect him."

"What's an IV?" Clint asks, watching curiously as Biro takes hold of his arm and starts tapping along the veins.

Bucky wants no parts of that. He nods at Biro, says, "Good luck," and then slips out the door.

Bucky has a routine in between off-world missions. Breakfast at 530AM, followed by a two hour sparring session, followed by a second breakfast of whatever fruit they have on hand, preferably sitting on the highest balcony he has access to.

After that, it's a toss-up between a nap and a run around the serpentine corridors on third floor. Lunch, usually with Steve, and then he reports for duty wherever he's being rotated in for the day—control desk, lab security, clearing out and constructions. He winds up the time before dinner swimming laps off the southeast pier, if it isn't crowded. Very infrequently, he's bullied into team movie nights by Wilson. It's nice. Structured, but not too structured.

His first job after the bullshit mission where they found Clint is to… find Clint.

"What do you mean he's gone?" Bucky asks Steve, falling in step next to him as they walk down the corridors toward the living quarters. "Can't you just have Atlantis pinpoint his vitals?"

Steve's mouth tightens. "Apparently his biometrics haven't been entered into her systems yet. No one's seen him since I dropped him off after medical."

Bucky stops. "That was two days ago, Steve."

"Yeah, I know." Steve swings on him, visibly irritated. "But Corporal Jamison didn't see him leave his room, and when he finally went in to check—"

"Finally?" Jesus, did they not think Clint was eating? Or his... not-dog thing?

"Yeah." Steve looks real pissed about that, and it's only slightly mollifying. And then he looks hangdog and guilty, because of course Clint's their—Steve's—responsibility, and the thing Steve's gonna focus on most is that Clint hasn't been coddled enough to his satisfaction, and not the fact that he's a unknown variable in what is, technically, a hybrid civilian-military war zone.

Frankly, Bucky's more worried about that too. Not that he'd eversay anything about that out loud.

Steve says, "When he finally went in to check, there was zero signs of Clint anywhere. So that's where we're going to check first."

"The place where he isn’t," Bucky says, but follows Steve when he starts moving again anyhow.

"The place Clint somehow got out of without using the door."

Clint's assigned room is small, located on a less used corridor in the living section. It's sparsely furnished. There's a narrow bed, and round table with two chairs, and a postage stamp bathroom. The bed doesn't even look slept in. There's a pair of boots shoved into a corner. A folded pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt on a chair.

Bucky idly picks up the gray Air Force shirt and says, "So he's in sock-feet and the scrubs Biro gave him," hopefully, "and no one has fucking seen this guy for two days?"

One of the chairs is at a weird angle, spun around from the table and halfway into the cramped 'living space' that boasts a skinny tower bookshelf.

Steve places his hands on his hips and goes, "Huh."

Bucky skims fingers over a light dusting of debris on the shelf and then glances up at a roughly 12x24 vent in the ceiling. "D'you think his collarbones unhinge like a cat's?"

Steve says, "Well. Shit."

Clint could basically be anywhere on Atlantis. The main problem, though, as Bucky sees it, is that so could Lucky.

"So how can he hide a hundred and fifty pound… dog," Bucky generously allows, "in our recycled air system?”

The duct work threads all over the city, spilling out into every room, and god knows he's probably sleeping in there too.

Steve says, "Good question," and radios Colonel Sheppard, who lets out the longest, loudest sigh Bucky has ever heard in his life.

Steve and Bucky are unsuccessful in their mission that day, because a) the damn not-dog is still quarantined in the xenobiology lab, and b) Bucky almost punches Colonel Jamison in the face when he says he told Clint no when he asked for him.

"Now we know why he bolted," Steve says, looking like he wants to punch Jamison, too, "and we know where he was going. But we don't know why he didn't get there."

"Well," Dr. Simmons pushes her glasses up her nose. "The xeno labs are routed through a different ventilation system, since everyone was complaining about the smell."

Lucky is licking at the glass partition, staring longingly at Bucky, and he still looks like half a horror. An incomplete sketch. What comes for you in the dark and lives under your bed. Christ.

"So he's lost," Bucky says, which is why they had to end up gathering all two hundred and fifty three inhabitants of Atlantis in the 'gate room and commissary and then run a full scale vitals search on the rest of the compound.

No one is happy about it, even when Sheppard says everyone can get an extra jello.

Lost for two fucking days stuck in the vents without anyone knowing, and, god, Bucky just really hopes he got to sneak out to go to the bathroom.

An hour in, Bucky's lounging along the wall of the commissary, dreaming about all the ways he's gonna take Jamison apart in the gym, when Stark shouts, "Got 'em. Unless another bird got stuck in the tower again." He looks up at Steve. "The spire overlooking the west end."

Bucky swears under his breath. He's out on his Second Breakfast balcony. "Let me go," he says without really meaning to.

Steve looks as surprised as he feels. "You sure?"

Bucky nods. "Hold everyone from another twenty minutes, just in case he disappears."

"I'll let you know if he moves," Stark says, tapping at the tablet. He flicks his fingers over the screen and then spins it to show Bucky. "The transporter at the end of the hall only goes up to three, but it'll still be faster than going all the way around to the 'gate room. You might want to take the stairs the rest of the way."

If he thought he had the time for it, he'd stop and bring Lucky, too. He's only a little relieved that he doesn't.

He doesn't bother with stealth. He figures if Clint hasn't moved in the ten minutes it's taken Bucky to advance on his position, making noise isn't going to make a difference. When the door whooshes open, the high winds hit Bucky like a smack in the face. A storm must be heading in.

Clint's sitting on the ground with his legs dangling out under the railing.

Bucky drops down next to him and nudges him back a little, just for his own peace of mind. Clint doesn't react other than shifting further away, bringing his legs up to hug his knees.

"So," Bucky says after a long, quiet moment, "Jamison refused to bring you your dog and you go off and sulk, making the entire fucking city of Atlantis waste hours searching for you."

Clint glares at him. "What." He scoffs. "If I asked you, you woulda just let me have him?"

Bucky opens his mouth to say yeah, except who the fuck knows what he would have done. He would have at least asked the xenobologists if he was safe.

Clint snorts like a punk.

Bucky wants to wring his skinny neck and also, inexplicably, make him eat an entire plate of mashed potatoes.

He says, "Have you eaten anything?"

Petulance melts into a smirk. He says, "Maybe," which Bucky is taking for yes, and also the high probability that he’s been breaking into their stores.

Bucky sighs. This is going to be a full time fucking job. "Come back to your room," he says, "and I'll see what I can do about Lucky."

Clint makes Bucky feel old.

"You're not old," Steve says, determinedly sawing into his too-dense waffles. "We're not even thirty yet."

"Steve," Bucky says seriously, reaching across the table to cover his hand with his. "Steve, you're thirty-two."

Steve's mouth drops open, then snaps closed again. "No, I'm…. am I?"

"Stark's forty-one."

"No," Steve says, scandalized.

Clint befriended Romanov five days after he stopped hiding in the vents and they haven't stopped running rings around every single other person in the city since.

Clint can shoot an arrow at a bullseye two hundred feet away with his eyes closed.

He's bendy. He does handstands and walks across tables. He swings up into the rafters of the ‘gate room because using stairs takes too long.

Bucky's knees crack when he crouches down to pick up a dropped fork.

He's in shape, he's in great shape, and he's more active now than he ever was on base back on earth, but he also wears a brace on his left knee, and has to use reading glasses and if he were at home he has a sneaking, depressing suspicion that he'd have trouble driving at night.

Clint makes him feel old, and the only fucking reason that it matters at all is because he's definitely, maybe gotten a little crush.

It's been two months and Clint's filled out considerably and apparently has the arm strength to climb up the outside of Atlantis all the way up the second breakfast balcony—on a dare, because he's reckless and young—and it's fucking with Bucky's head.

Competency is hot. The fact that Clint trips over Lucky whenever he goes to open his room door and routinely falls off chairs like it's his job—he tilts them back way too far and can't seem to help himself—sadly doesn't detract from this at all.

Bucky wishes it did. In fact, it should. There's nothing sexy about a lap full of tough chicken, gravy and rehydrated rice, and yet…

So Bucky feels beat and old, even though he's twenty-nine and lied like a rug to Steve about it—Steve's hilariously susceptible at 5:30 AM—and Clint’s probably a good ten years younger than him and also an alien.

It's never going to work.

Romanov has been on permanent team rotation ever since she justifiably shot Rumlow and sent him hurling into space out the back of a puddlejumper. She subs for people stuck in the infirmary or if teams need an extra assassin on hand.

She teaches Clint how to fight dirty and gives him a gun and not even Sheppard has the balls to complain about it.

Bucky turns down every single request to spar with him because he's not a masochist, but he still manages to claim the seat next to him on the movie nights Wilson guilts him into going to.

He knocks their shoulders together and watches Clint's eyes light up when he says, "Hey."

Clint sits like an acrobat, knees and elbows in weird places, and Bucky feels all the points that press against him like fire.

They're watching Jaws and Clint's breath is fast, but Bucky can't tell if that's a Clint thing or a something is wrong thing, and he nudges his fist into the side of Clint's thigh.

"Okay?"

Clint turns to look at him, pupils blown in the half-light. "What?" he asks with a lick of his lips.

"Um." Bucky wants to reach out and curl a hand up under the hinge of his jaw. Without the tape and bruises and swelling, he's got smooth cheeks and a slightly crooked nose. "Are you okay?"

Clint's grin blooms across his mouth in honest, open affection and Bucky feels like he's been donkey kicked in the chest.

Bucky scrambles to his feet and ignores half the room staring at him like he’s lost his mind and books it out of there.

The next time Bucky sees Clint, he’s sitting on a table in Stark’s lab, swinging his feet and humming what sounds like Chariots of Fire.

“Bucky!”

Bucky winces at the volume, and Stark puts a hand on Clint’s knee to get his attention and mimes dialing it down.

Clint points at Stark and says, “Tony’s fixing my ears.”

“I didn’t know anything was wrong with ‘em,” Bucky says, watching the way Clint carefully watches his lips.

“He’s got truly horrendous tech in them that someone cobbled together out of what looks like twigs and bubble gum,” Stark says.

Bucky peers over his shoulder. It looks like regular wires and doodads to him, but he knows fuck all about that kind of stuff. “Those were in his ears?”

Tony hmms absently, but then he pins Bucky down with a look and says, “I haven’t forgotten about your arm either. Who made that crap, anyway? Hammer? Ancient tech is good, but mine is better.”

Clint stares curiously at his arm, but doesn’t say anything.

Bucky was down here for a reason, but now he can’t remember why. He’s losing it, mind and body. This is the worst.

Suddenly Clint waves his hands and says, “Oh! Guess what?”

“Uh… what?” He swears he’s usually more suave than this. He used to have game. He used to charm the pants off of ladies and men alike. His mouth feels too big.

“I’m 22 earth years,” Clint says proudly. “Tony figured it out.”

“Clint,” Bucky says, throat dry. “You weren’t even sure how many of your years you were.”

Clint shrugs. “Eh.”

Bucky takes a deep breath. “Okay, so…”

“Barnes,” Stark says, clacking what looks like a pair of tweezers together, “take the kid to lunch and a slow bone before I choke and throw up on all this tension.”

Bucky freezes. “Did you just. Did you just say slow bone?”

“What’s a… slow bone?” Clint says, head cocked, and this is when Bucky realizes that Stark hadn’t been facing Clint but Bucky is, and now he has to kill himself.

Stark arches an eyebrow at him. “That is not my fault.”

Bucky ignores him and rolls his shoulders and bites out, “Lunch.” He jerks his head toward the door and mans up. “Coming?”

There is a single glorious planet in the Pegasus Galaxy that boasts no less than fifteen different kinds of dinosaurs, and the fact that they have to keep going back to it to get a certain herb that both the botanists and medical doctors go gaga over is a source of unending joy to Bucky.

He fucking loves Dinosaur Planet.

He keeps trying to convince Steve to let him bring back an egg.

He knows the only reason Steve volunteers their team for these missions is because of Bucky. Stark usually insists on sitting them out, which is why they have Romanov with them this time instead. He has absolutely no idea what military organization she’s a part of, but she’s definitely not a scientist. No one’s willing to fuck with her after the Rumlow situation.

She’s got a cold, calm eye that gives Bucky the willies, but he doesn’t have a problem with her. They don’t have problems with each other.

Except, apparently, for right now.

“Uh.”

Romanov has her arms crossed. “Well?”

“You realize you’re ruining Dinosaur Planet for me, right?” Bucky could be getting run down by a T-Rex right now.

“Answer the question, Barnes.”

Bucky could have lived his whole life happily never having heard Romanov ask him if he was interested in boning Clint, Jesus, and he knows this entire clusterfuck is Stark’s fault.

“What answer is the one least likely to get me stabbed?” He’s not above lying to Romanov if he has to.

Luckily or unluckily, Romanov seems to take that as whatever she actually wanted to hear, so she nods smartly and then gestures over his shoulder with a lazy, “Incoming,” and that is how they spend the rest of the day dodging pterodactyls.

Bucky can’t wait to come back.

Clint doesn’t hesitate. Whether it’s shooting an arrow, sparring, eating, swimming, talking—Clint just goes for it, all in, even if he ends up making a fool of himself.

Bucky admires that.

He’s also extremely tired, hot off the Dinosaur Planet, and three minutes ago he was dead to the world face down on his bunk.

He scrubs a hand over his face until the blurry shape in his doorway in front of him resolves into Clint’s grinning face. “Huh?” He’s almost entirely sure it’s the middle of the night, but the city does weird things to his circadian rhythm.

“Sam told me what bone means.”

All Bucky’s body parts wake up and freeze at once. “I’m going to murder him.”

Clint says, “I hope it can wait,” and then lunges forward and kisses him. Kind of. It’s aggressive enough that Bucky thinks maybe it’s his first kiss, which is goddamn charming and almost irresistible. He’s just so enthusiastic.

Bucky slides his hand up to cup Clint’s cheek, rests his metal one on the small of his back, settling him into slowing down. He eases out of the kiss with, “It’s the middle of the night, Clint, and Stark’s probably watching us through his peephole.”

Clint’s mouth is red and his eyes are wide. “Oh,” he says, but looks out of it enough that Bucky’s ninety percent certain he hasn’t understood a word Bucky’s said.

Bucky says, “Go to bed, Clint.” His legs hurt from running from dinosaurs all day and he needs at least another four hours of sleep before figuring out how to handle… this.

“Right,” Clint says, but doesn’t move.

Bucky reaches out and squeezes his hand. “G’night,” he says, and the steps back and slides the door closed behind him.

The only thing that Clint loves more than Lucky is pizza, and the only thing Lucky loves more than Clint is also pizza, so Bucky sweet talks Corporal Lovett into making him a pie in exchange for three chocolate bars he’d been saving. It’s an approximation of an earth pizza, and it’s only 9 in the morning, but he’s due for second breakfast anyway.

Bucky rings the bell on Clint’s quarters and tries not to be skeeved out by the echoing wooffrom Lucky, like he swallowed an actual dog and that dog is making that sound from the bottom of his throat. Lucky’s cool. Bucky gets along great with Lucky if he doesn’t think too hard about him.

Clint’s normally open face is wary when he sees him. He’s wearing shorts and an old t-shirt that has ‘Barnes’ across the right breast that Bucky’s been missing for over a month. He’s still wearing the fuzzy, slouchy socks from that first day in medical.

Bucky says, “Pizza?” holding up the tray, and Clint’s grin finally reaches his eyes.

Clint takes the pizza with a too-subdued, “Uh, thanks?” and Bucky swoops in oh so suavely and slides a hand onto the nape of his neck, tugging him into a swift kiss.

If they’re doing this, Bucky’s gonna do this right—they’re gonna date first, second breakfast, lunch, dinner—and then they’re gonna bone.

#winterhawk #for lissadiane #writing buddies!#oh god

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