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thesakuragarnet · 6 months

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I'm Not Okay, I Promise (PHOENIX AU ONESHOT)

Summary: Snippet deleted scene from my PHOENIX AU. The first time Toya ever comes back to his roommate, Keigo Takami, with marks from his home life.

MAIN FIC IS 18+ ONLY!

Tags (for this oneshot only, not for the main fic): POV Toya Todoroki, Hero! Dabi AU, prequel oneshot for another one of my fics, child ab*se, domestic ab*se, pre-DabiHawks, Hawks and Mirko are best friends, Swearing, physical v!olence, implied/referenced s3lf harm, angst, hurt/comfort, todofam drama, teenage Toya and Keigo

Word Count: 1,752 words

AO3 link

Early 2117. First Semester.

I didn’t sleep at all last night… and I had to drive all the way back to campus. All Might did something fantastic again…I guess. No other explanation was feasible for my father throwing one of his temper tantrums. I could hear him breaking shit. I could hear shattering of either glass or porcelain ceramics, thuds and thumps against walls, an occasional muffled scream. It practically vibrated the entire fucking household. I’d made the mistake of confronting him last night. I don’t know why I kept doing that…it never ends well for me… ever …

...

THE NIGHT BEFORE

My face pales when I realize what I’ve done, and it feels like my words echo through my parents’ room. I’d stomped all the way up here, threw the door open, and demanded for my father to stop shaking the house…only to be greeted with empty darkness…they were in the master bathroom. The ominous footsteps get faster and faster, and I feel like my feet are stuck in concrete. I can’t move. I grit my teeth. I have to maintain my resolve. Enji Todoroki appears out of the shadows before I can register him.

“GET. THE FUCK. OUT OF HERE,” He thunders, and he grabs me by the shoulders before shoving me backward, pushing me toward the door. My feet slide against the floor; I can’t gain any footing. My mom’s faint protests seem muted, and, when he finally gets to the doorway, he starts slamming the door in my face. Frantically, I reach for it, trying to fight to keep it open, but Enji is an unstoppable, towering force. He slams it so fast that it knocks me back, and I slip, stumbling past Natsuo’s room…my feet shoot out from under me, and I realize I’m falling backward down the stairs.

“SHIT!” I scream in panic, grasping at empty shadows, trying and failing to grab onto the banister. At the last second, I cover the back of my neck and my head with my arms, doing the worst tuck and roll in the history of the world that leads to the side of my face smashing into the banister pole. I hit my back in several places falling on the way down. My body fucking hurts, and my eyes start watering as I pull away from the pole, trying to sit up. I hear the shouting get louder, and, when I look up, my mother is standing at the top of the staircase, her hands covering her mouth.

“Toya! Toya, are you alright?” She calls down, and I just leer up at her. Before I can make a snide comment, she’s jerked out of my sight, and my eyes widen as my father dwarfs the space where she stood.

“Walk it off,” He mutters gruffly before turning on his heel. I hear the door slam, and I taste blood in my mouth.

…

I was lucky. I’d woken up with only a couple bruises on my back, sore limbs, and a cut on my lip from biting it on impact. The only noticeable thing was a nasty purple splash on my cheekbone. I just stare blankly into the empty bowl. I can’t even remember what Mom had put in it. I just zoned out, forcing myself to pick away until there was nothing left. Today was one of Shoto’s training days. The little bastard was already going through drills way earlier than I was permitted…way earlier than should’ve been allowed…and not just because I was jealous…it was hard to listen to.

“Toya!”

My mother’s voice jars me out of my brain fog as she sits down across the table from me. She has a bunch of pamphlets in her hand, and she gently places them on the table before sliding them toward me with a kind smile on her face. A forced smile. A fake smile. A smile that shows she’s trying too hard. I blink, barely acknowledging her.

“I picked these up on my way home from the store today! UA has open house in a few months! Are you sure you don’t want to transfer? I know there’s some things in General Studies that you’re passionate about-”

She continues, but I stopped listening the moment I picked up one of the pamphlets and saw what it was for. I look up, staring into her soul. I’m not sure what my face looks like, but it can’t be anything good. Not with the emotions of betrayal and disgust that have come swirling to the surface.

“And what exactly do you think I’m passionate about?” I snap, venom in my voice, and, for a second, she seems to flinch.

“Well, I-uh, I remember how much you like constellations, dear. Maybe you could do something with astronomy or-”

I hear the muffled screams of Shoto crying out in pain and my father’s angry tone echoing through the halls from the training room. I was supposed to be in there. I was supposed to be training. My fists clench, crumpling the paper, and my ears ring. More thuds vibrate the house. I smell smoke. My mother is still talking. My mind is racing and thinking a thousand thoughts. I’m so fucking overstimulated…and I lash out. The papers turn to ash in my hands.

“YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND ANYTHING ABOUT ME, MOM! AND YOU NEVER WILL! BECAUSE ALL YOU CARE ABOUT IS ME NOT FOLLOWING THE PATH THAT I CHOSE !” I seethe, stalking out of the room and snatching my duffel and backpack.

“IF YOU’RE NOT GONNA TRAIN WITH ME TODAY, THEN THERE’S NO REASON FOR ME TO BE HERE!” I shout loud enough for Endeavor to hear as I fish for my keys in my pocket and storm out the front door.

…

I pull the hood over my head to hide my angry tears as I stomp down the dorm hallway, determined to not be seen by a single soul. I’m a fucking mess. I’ve ruined everything…as usual. My mom didn’t deserve that. I know she’s just scared that I’m going to get hurt again…that I’m going to have another episode…that another incident is gonna happen and that they’re gonna get another phone call from Miss Kaminari and our principal. I just can’t take it anymore. I thought she’d understand by now. I wanted her so desperately to understand. It didn’t help that I was in physical pain. It exacerbated every negative emotion in my body. It just filled me to the brim with this horrible energy that made me want to hide from the world and burn it down at the same time.

“It’s not fair. It’s not fucking fair,” I mutter under my breath as I turn the corner, stopping in front of the door to fumble for my keys. I work it open and burst through, slamming it behind me. When I look up, Keigo is sitting on his bed, reading one of the books Miss Kaminari assigned for our class. His eyes are wide when he sees me.

“Hey,” He says slowly, and I can tell he’s staring at the mark on my cheek. The scowl remains plastered on my face as I stalk toward my bed, throwing my duffel so hard that it hits the wall; luckily, there’s nothing breakable in it. I don’t even respond to him, but I can feel him staring at me as I kick off my shoes and climb into my bed, pulling the covers over my head.

“Toya. It’s like…not even dinner time yet. You’re not already going to bed are you?” Keigo’s voice is muffled through the comforter. I turn toward the window, putting my back to him.

“Not hungry,” I grumble, my voice sounding particularly gravelly from all the screaming I’ve done within the last twenty-four hours.

“Have you done the reading yet? I’m not sure how to-”

“Keigo, could you just not talk for like two minutes?!” I harshly snap, interrupting him, and a tense silence falls over the room. I take a few deep breaths, closing my eyes, trying to calm myself down. I feel my heartbeat slow, and I clear my throat before wiping my eyes and throwing the covers back.

“What were you saying?” I mumble, turning back around, and Keigo sits up straight before holding the textbook open to where I can see it.

“There’s this question under the text that we’re supposed to-”

He keeps talking, but I can’t concentrate. I can tell he’s still staring at the damn bruise on my cheekbone. I just…I can’t…I can’t take his pity. I can’t take the stares.

“You’re smart, Takami. You’ll figure it out,” I sigh, grabbing one of my pillows and sandwiching my head between it and the other.

“But…did you do the reading? We’re gonna have to talk about it in class tomorrow,” Keigo continuously nags, and his curiosity is pissing me off. I’m already not in the mood.

“Takami. Why don’t you worry about you . And I’ll worry about me . Okay?” I blurt, and silence envelops the room once again.

“Because…you’re my friend.”

I blink. I’ve known this kid for a month. Truth be told, he’s barely let me spend any time by myself. He’s always following me around with a dumb smile, trying to get me to put myself out there, cheering me on for literally no reason. It’s insufferable…it’s the kind of support that I’ve never had before.

“You don’t mean that,” I bitterly reply without thinking.

Silence.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Creak. Creak. Ksht.

He left the room.

Creak. Creak. Ksht. Thump. Thump. Thump. Whoosh.

The pillow I’d pulled over my head is whisked away by a swarm of feathers.

“HEY!” I snap, sitting up straight, only to see Keigo standing by my bedside, holding out an ice pack.

“Yes. I do.”

My mouth drops open just a bit…but I don’t know what to say. I silently take the ice pack, holding it to my cheek. It stings…but…it brings a little relief.

“I’m gonna go study with Rumi. You’re welcome to join us whenever you want,” Keigo sighs as he shoves his textbook into his book bag.

“She doesn’t like me…I’ll probably just take a nap,” I mutter, and Keigo shrugs.

“Suit yourself.”

He grabs the door handle and is about to open it when I pipe up:

“Hey, Takami!”

Keigo pauses, humming as he raises his eyebrow.

“Thank you.”

#my hero academia fanfiction #fanfic #ao3 writer #dabi #dabi x hawks #dabihawks #toukei #keigo takami #hotwings #ao3 #pro hero dabi #angst #hurt/comfort #dabi angst #hero dabi #hawks mha #todofam #todoroki family #touya todoroki

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emwritesstuff · 3 years

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housesitting | bucky barnes x reader

summary: Housesitting for Steve Rogers has many perks. The man has the comfiest bed you’ve ever slept in; his coffee machine is top tier; and he also pays for every single streaming service you could think of, because he doesn’t wanna miss anything.

You can hardly see how Bucky Barnes stumbling into his apartment at 3 am with multiple wounds is one of them. But I guess it might be?

notes: this is my attempt at a more ~comedy centered one-shot, with some making out in the middle because uh, who doesn’t like that? In other news, reader is Chaotic. Canon mcu (Infinity War/Endgame) is non-existent in this. (word count: 3K)

warnings: language, mentions of blood, gunshot wounds, general patching up shenanigans, some making out/grinding but not quite third base

[PART 2: breaking and entering]

Housesitting for Steve Rogers has many perks. The man has the comfiest bed you’ve ever slept in; his coffee machine is top tier; and he also pays for every single streaming service you could think of, because he doesn’t wanna miss anything. An old popsicle thing, you assume.

It’s peaceful, too. The neighborhood is nice and quiet, the other tenants are either extremely polite or too scared of Captain America to make much noise. You’ve had very nice stay-cations at his place, where you were free to choose to binge The Office while eating an entire pizza in the spam of 2 episodes or taking advantage of the quiet to write your grad-school thesis.

So when a loud BANG almost makes you drop your coffee mug on the floor, your spidey senses are immediately on alert. You don’t care how many times Peter insisted that it wasn’t a thing, your arm hairs stood up and your heart started hammering on your chest all the same.

You contemplate squeezing under the bed, turning off the show that was long abandoned and hiding until whatever it is goes away, but before you can do any of that, a string of sharp cursing and soft thumps and thuds snaps you out of your fear.

Maybe it’s a burglar. You could take a clumsy burglar, easy.

Now feeling like Tony had just welcomed you into the Avengers, you hop off Steve’s bed and let your baby Yoda socked feet carry you stealthily into the living room, holding a table lamp as if it was a baseball bat.

Everything is quiet, with no signs of forced entry at the door (you remember someone on Law and Order using those words), and in the dark you don’t notice the bloody trail coming from the kitchen.

You’re imagining things, then. When was the last time you slept? You don’t even feel tired, but you know sleep deprivation always gets you all kinds of crazy.

It happens the second your arm falls to your side and your posture shows the slight of relaxation. A strong arm around your neck and a hand against your mouth to muffle the screaming.

In the quiet of Steve’s apartment building, there is only you shrieking and howling and thrashing against the hold of a stranger.

“Don’t fuckin’ move.” You still.

And then you bite into the hand that is muting you, immediately regretting it when your teeth sink into something hard. Metal? Concrete? Ouch. You resume your resistance, determined, and is shoved away.

“Who the fuck are you?”

“Who the fuck are you.” His voice is gruff and dulled over the mask he is wearing, and as you’re taking this giant of a man in, you notice it.

The metal arm. The strapped leather jacket. The tortured blue eyes.

Winter Soldier.

The intruder is James “Bucky” Barnes, Steve’s best friend. That’s who the fuck it is.

“I’m Steve’s house sitter! I even have a key.” You say, with arms in front of you to signal no harm but inching closer to the table lamp with every step.

“House…sitter? Where’s Steve?”

“Who knows. Maybe a mission. He texts me, I come over.” You shrug, and put a chair back to where it was before it got knocked over.

“I don’t believe you. Where is Steve?”

“Listen, I don’t know, okay? I guess he’s just out for a few days. I don’t ask. He just lets me stay in here so I can water the plants and feed the Avengers.”

“The– the what?”

“The Avengers! The fish, see.” You point to the aquarium, where a handful of colorful fish swam peacefully in.

Peace. So much for your peace, because now what you have is a surly super soldier eyeing the fish tank like it was the most loathsome thing in the entire universe, except maybe for you.

“I hate this thing. Naming them makes it even worse.” He trudges back to the kitchen, stomping on the floor like he was on a parade.

So much for the other people’s peace, too.

“Hey! Sir. In case you haven’t noticed, it’s 3 in the fucking morning?” You sass, putting your hands on your hips when he retorts that yeah, he does know. “What are you even doing here?”

“Back from a mission.” He grumbles without looking at you, as if you’re the one who stumbled into his place in the middle of the night.

It wasn’t your place, but still.

“Don’t you have a house?” There’s a part of you that knows pushing the Winter Soldier’s buttons is asking for trouble, but your tired and confused brain decides to ignore it.

“You interrogating me? I need a motherfucking– ” He wheezes and nearly doubles over, holding on the door frame between the living room and the kitchen. You finally spot the blood, both on the tiles and seeping out of the Soldier’s jacket and pants.

He’s hurt. Shit.

“– first aid kit.”

“You need a motherfucking hospital!” You shrill, panic chilling your bones. You don’t do blood. Or any kind of wound, for that matter.

The man ignores you, opening up cabinets hastily. You huff, and walk past him to get to the actual home of the first aid kit. Steve’s oldest, closest friend and can’t even find a box with pharmaceutical supplies in his kitchen. You slam it on the counter next to him.

“You’re welcome.”

“Zip it.”

Just a look from him is enough to render you speechless, and not in the good, butterflies-in-your-stomach kind of way. You’re positive that one swat of that metal arm and you’ll be flying out of the window.

He begins by removing his mask, revealing a handsome face underneath, and you try your best to focus on how dark and menacing it looked while locked in that scowl of his. Then, he unbuckles his jacket and discards it on the floor, it coming to a stop next to your feet.

Oh man, he’s naked. Well, not really, just the incredibly toned, strong and muscular top half of him, but you stare wide-eyed as if he was.

“See somethin’ you like, doll?” He quips, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, and you turn your back to him, mostly to hide your own embarrassment.

“No.” You cross your arms resolutely, because you definitely don’t think he’s attractive. He is a rude, grumpy, private-property-invader-bastard. Doll. Yuck.

You hear a rumble come out of his chest. Is he laughing? Shithead. Other noises follow, wheezes, small grunts and the tinkle of metal on the marble counter.

A particular pained grunt makes you turn, and you see Barnes with his body twisted, trying to reach a bloody hole on his back. It would be funny if he wasn’t trying to poke a gunshot.

“Do you need… help?” You ask, against your own will, only to be met with his icy gaze.

“No.”

“Come on, you can’t even reach that.”

Another glare is shot your way, and you quirk your brow up. He did need the help, you think, because aside from the muscles and the sweat making him glisten like a delicious – wait what – glazed donut, the man looked like hell.

“…fine.” He slides a pair of surgical prongs, something you identify in your head as oversized tweezers, and you instantly regret your offer. Pressing an iodine-soaked cotton ball to a wound, sure. But not this.

He turns his back to you without a word, supporting himself on the marble. You think that he’s about to make a dent on the goddamn stone if he keeps holding onto it that hard.

“Ah, fuck. Shit. Fuck. Ugh, it’s so gross. Fuck.”

It’s the most horrifying thing you’ve ever done, but you try your best to get to the bullet quickly, so very thankful that Barnes holds himself perfectly still for you. “Got it!”

He lets out a long breath when you toss the prongs and the bullet on the counter with the rest and resumes his cleanup. So, he’s not even going to say thanks. Great.

You try not to think about how you still want to make conversation while you hurriedly scrub the blood from your hands, because aside from the hostility and him jumping on you as a meet-cute, the guy peeks your interest.

Steve has said Barnes is nice, too, and you believed Steve, because he’s basically incapable of lying. Or maybe because he’s pretty. Both, for sure.

With your hands now clean, you turn to him, mouth open with some kind of conversation starter that is immediately forgotten.

Oh man, he’s naked. For real this time.

Bucky Barnes has stepped out of his pants while you were overthinking by the sink, now standing in only a pair of black boxers. It’s like he feels you staring at his butt, because he turns to you with raised eyebrows.

“Last one’s on my thigh. I got it.” He’s holding the prongs this time, and you’re glad you don’t have to do anything, because your face next to that groin might make you go into spontaneous combustion.

“Yeah.”

He hums. You hope all of this is a fever dream.

“Isn’t there a med bay at–”

“Don’t like people prodding and pokin’ at me.” His comment makes you grimace. He’s the Winter Soldier, damn it. You know the stories, everyone does. Of course he doesn’t like being prodded.

He looks at you funny, probably because you went dead quiet. You don’t want him to think you feel pity, because you don’t, but god don’t you feel bad for poking him now, even if verbally.

“I’m gonna – grab one of Steve’s – uh. Dude you need to put some clothes on. Jesus.”

He laughs at you again, which you’re thankful for because anything is better than the awkwardness of the other subject. You pick up a black pair of sweatpants that was so deep in one of Steve’s drawers that you know he’d have to have bought it and never had the guts to put it on. This one would do just fine.

If there is one thing Steve Rogers isn’t, is a black sweats guy.

“Here.” You deposit the sweats and a white tee on the counter, one of the millions that you found inside the closet. Barnes was patching himself up now, bandages wrapped everywhere on his body.

Got his ass kicked good. You shudder when you imagine the state of the other guy.

He eyes the clothes, and saying nothing, returns to his task. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

“I didn’t ask you to help me.”

“Yeah, but I did anyways! ‘Cause I’m stupid, I guess.” You almost hurl a dirty plate at him when he scoffs, muttering a yeah, guess you are. “God, why are you so grumpy?”

“Well you try being shot 5 times and see how cheerful you are after.”

“You got shot 5 times?!”

Looking at you from between his brows, the Soldier nods to the five mangled bullets sitting on the counter. You think about how you’ve made yourself a sandwich just hours earlier on the exact same spot. You want to puke.

Taking time to look around yourself, you can finally grasp the state of Steve’s ever-so-pristine kitchen, now a mess of dirty clothes, blood and your own few dishes from the night before. You don’t even think about what you’re doing as you move, gathering every single cleaning supply you can find, and start working on the cleanup.

You’re struggling, because obviously you’ve never done this before. Anyone can tell, from your soft abdomen and your severe lack of muscle, that you’re not an Avenger. Sure, you work with them, but you’re usually neck deep into advanced tech, not in the gym by any means. Also, you don’t do blood.

That means you have to think about something else, anything else, while you’re manically cleaning the floor. One sheep, two sheep, three sheep, the Winter Soldier’s tight ass, four sheep, get it together goddamnit –

“Leave it. I’ll clean.”

You huff, he huffs back, and you look up at him.

“You got shot five times. Go sit down or something before you blow your back too, grandpa.” You call him that to assure yourself that he is old, like actually super old, and thirsting over him is weird. Even weirder when he’s all bandaged and bleeding. And still shirtless. Shit.

He mumbles something that you ignore, and stomps off. You think you actually did a pretty decent job with the cleaning, considering.

You need coffee. Definitely an entire bottle of vodka too, but there was no alcohol in this god’s good home, so you settle for the brew that you made earlier. You pour a mug for Barnes too, because you’re nice like that, and amble into the living room to find him slumped on a chair.

“Coffee?” You start, settling his mug on the table next to him.

“It’s almost 5 a.m.”

“Guess I’m up early for once. Maybe I should go for a run.”

He snorts, and opens one eye to inspect you from where he is. He reaches out for the coffee, using his metal hand, and you consider the two ways this could go.

He’d shatter the mug right then and there. Or, he’d throw it at you. Your jaw goes slack at what he actually does, sirens blaring loudly in your head. Truly astonishing, the most bewildering turn of events.

He drinks from it.

“Thanks. Quit staring at me.”

“Wow, Mr. Winter knows the magic words. Mr. Barnes. Sergeant?” You’re thinking aloud, abandoning any trace of sanity you’ve been holding. You even sit on the couch next to his armchair.

“It’s Bucky,”

Again, absolutely bewildering. You must be going insane.

“– and you talk too much.” He finishes, with an end-of-story tone, and returns to his rest. At least that felt like normality.

“Bucky. Bucky.” You roll the name on your tongue, feeling a weird buzz start to take over you. It grows stronger when you notice he’s looking at you, one brow quirked as if you lost your marbles. “You know, Bucky, this is definitely not how I saw my night going. Home invasion, playing surgeon – not my usual kind of fun.”

You get up, maybe because you decide that you – and Bucky – need a blanket, or maybe because you need a distraction from his chest going up and down like it’s got a business with making you want to touch it.

You’re not a slut, but who knows? Jim Halper would get it.

“You’re that kid, aren’t you? Stark’s assistant.” Bucky’s voice, low and husky, makes you jump. You look at him, your eyebrows furrowed slightly.

It’s surprising that he knows you, considering. He’s – well, he’s basically a celebrity, if ex-assassins could be considered that. You’re only Tony’s techie, and you and Bucky have never actually met, not even in the few parties you had attended to stop your boss from nagging you that you had to actually go out and have some fun sometimes, because you’re still young and cute and you need to enjoy yourself before you get saggy and bitter.

Jokes on him, you were born bitter.

“I’m no kid.”

“Nice socks.”

You wiggle your toes and it makes the ears of one of the baby Yodas move.

“Still not a kid! If you wanna be sad and wear your sad, plain socks, Bucky, that’s entirely your choice.” You said, pointing your index at him, making circles in the air with it to really get your point across.

Bucky smirks, and you go up to him with the two blankets on your arms. He’s blocking the door with that bulky body of his, and you raise your eyebrows quizzically.

“I’ll have you know – meeting Steve’s annoying, mouthy, pretty house sitter is not how I saw my night going either.” Bucky puts a doubtful tone on house sitter, as if he still doesn’t get exactly what it means.

You blink. You’re positive you heard it wrong. Is he… is this flirting?

“You think I’m pretty?”

“I called you annoying and mouthy too.”

“Yeah, I mean I know that much about me.” You chuckle, rolling your eyes. “The pretty part is new though.”

Bucky still hasn’t moved from the doorframe, and you find yourself staring up at him. He is inches away now, pupils blown wide in the darkness, and you can see a ring of steely blue around them. He licks his lips, and you’re drawn in.

The maelstrom in his eyes sends you spinning.

“I think someone should say you’re not see through, much less–”

Bucky shuts you up by pressing his lips onto yours, a slow, exploratory kiss, the tenderest he’s been all night. His metal hand rests on your lower back, making you shiver at the cool touch.

You’re all panting and eagerness when you cup his face with both hands and press your body against his. You need to deepen this kiss. You haven’t drooled over Bucky Barnes all night to keep things lovey-dovey.

He responds in earnest, pulling you closer. The flesh hand on the back of your neck is a stark contrast against the chill of the other. You and Bucky stumble from the corridor and back to the living room, knocking over a few of Steve’s decorations in the process.

“I don’t feel as bad for this one.” You mumble against his lips, stopping to look at a particular framed picture of Captain America in uniform, surrounded by every single counterfeit Cap in Times Square.

“S’ one of his favorites.”

You nod, you’re aware. Steve thinks it’s the most hilarious thing ever.

Bucky’s breath tickles the hairs on your neck when he continues.

“I hate it.”

“Yeah.”

You capture his lips again, and you two resume your chaotic redecorating. You’re thankful for Bucky’s strong arms keeping you from falling over, because at this point you’re not sure if your legs work anymore.

He takes you with him when he drops down on the same armchair from earlier, and the dizzy spell you find yourself in is broken when you hear him groan.

Right. He’s battered up and stuff.

“Shit, Bucky, I’m sorry–”

“No.” He pulls you close again, and guides your body to straddle one of his thighs. “Stay right here, doll.”

Doll. God-fucking-damnit.

His hand moves under the elastic band of your pants, oh my god you’re making out with Bucky-Hot-Piece-Of-Ass-Barnes in your wiener dog pajama bottoms, and finds the hem of your underwear. He pulls on it, and you yelp when he lets it snap against your side.

He laughs, and you vibrate along with his chest.

You find yourself grinding on his leg, sucking on his bottom lip, raking your nails along his shoulders, doing anything, everything for more, trying to burn the taste and the feel of him on your memory. He moves on to kiss your neck and you sigh, tugging on his hair and making sure you’re holding on for dear life.

Your eyes flutter open, enough to see the fish Avengers in their tank.

The Avengers.

Steve Rogers is an Avenger. So is Bucky, technically.

You’re making out with Bucky. One of his hands is on your boob.

This is Steve’s apartment.

You manage to sober you up enough, despite Bucky’s constant attacks of open mouth kisses and bites on your neck.

“I don’t think Steve would – if we–” You lift your head begrudgingly to look at him. “You know, on his armchair.”

“Right.” He didn’t seem convinced, but his hand moved up from your butt to your waist again.

Steve Rogers was probably miles away right now and still cockblocking you.

Even worse, his furniture was cockblocking you.

Stupid star-spangled IKEA shopper.

And his hot best friend. Who’s currently smiling at you in a such a way that makes you almost abandon all comradery towards Rogers and the sanctity of his place.

You debate getting up, but resign yourself to burying your nose in the crook of Bucky’s neck and just staying there, because honestly, when are you going to have the chance to do this again. Never, that’s when.

Also, he’s surprisingly comfortable for someone with a metal arm and such a jacked-up body.

“You’re sleepy.”

“No, I’m like, super awake.”

It’s a lie, because now that the sparks have flown and the rush of blood in your ears gave way to the quietness of the early morning, you feel yourself drifting, on and off, surprising yourself when you come to once and find that Bucky is still there, warm under you.

“Sleep, doll. I need it too.”

You shift, ready to let his rhythmic breathing lull you to sleep. The last 75 sleepless hours catch up with you.

“Bucky? If you want to break into someone’s house again sometime – I have a first aid kit too. Just sayin’.”

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x y/n #avengers x reader #emwrites

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luckyasfuck · 3 years

Text

back seat of his car [k. bakugou]

pairing // katsuki x fem!reader

warnings/themes // NSFW, mafia leader!katsuki, illegal racer!katsuki, mentions of stalker!reader, gun violence, katsuki point his gun at your neck, katsuki checks under your skirt without conset, slight knife play, breeding kink, creampie,

synopsis // finally gathering your courage to confess to the guy you’ve been admiring, the night takes a dark turn when he assumes you’re working for his enemy, and all the secrets unfold.

word count // 2.5k

a/n // i am aware that race cars don’t have passenger seats nor back seats, just shut up and read already.

tonight was exciting. the skirt you wore hung beautifully around your hips, giving your thighs the attention they very much deserve. the nights were always cold, but you’d do anything to get bakugou katsuki to glance at your way. tonight was the night you’d finally make a move after practically stalking the male car racer for weeks now. it was obvious he knew about your ministrations, he’d look back here and there and become more cautious as the nights dragged out.

a black face mask covers your face, the competition was illegal and it would be a bitch to be caught by those bastards that call themselves cops. boots clicking on the pavement, you speed-walked to the street. the muffled screams and sounds of cars grew louder as you turn the corner, already seeing people cheering the racers on. pushing through the crowd, you manage to slip through the dudes that called themselves ‘guards’ and onto the road. a quick span around the area and you see him.

katsuki is wearing a black leather jacket, his infamous skull shirt underneath and black pants to match the aesthetic of his black racer car. his blonde hair is messy as he takes off his helmet, leaning on the car. you gulp, could you really do this? the satisfying click of your boots makes the respected racer glance at you, eyeing you up and down. with a quick and confident, you eye his car. “that’s a really fucking pretty car.”

he scoffs, “you competing here, woman? don’t even try.” he clicks his tongue. “why? cause i’m a woman?” a death glare is sent his way before you chuckle, leaning on his car too. “no, cause it’s really risky. police are gonna raid this area any second now, that’s why i parked here near this alleyway just incase.”

huh? “and how would you know that?” the crowd screams louder and your voice is barely heard, new racers coming in from all areas. the sound of their car engines fill the silent night and you watch katsuki pull his phone out, texting someone. this fumes you, does he have a girlfriend or something? i’ll fucking kill her-

“so,” the phone is shoved back inside his pocket, now his attention is all on you. half-lidded vermillion eyes stare into yours as he smirked, putting his hand inside his pocket. “where’s your car?” his eyes span the area, looking for a car that you might own and use. “oh, i’m not racing.” this response shocks him, looking at you with knotted eyebrows and his head tilted slightly to the side.

“how’d you get past those guys?” the ‘guards’ push the crowd away harshly, preventing them from entering the road. they push, throw, do anything to keep the crowd at bay. they’re pretty big guys so they don’t get beat up that easily. “i’m a woman.” you reply with a giggle.

“and i may have told them i know you.”

the blonde’s phone dings with a notification, “do you really know me now?” he reads through the text with a smirk. muffled police sirens are heard and the crowd silences for a minute before everybody’s frantically exiting the street, the car racers getting in their car and driving off full speed.

fuck, where you gonna go no-

the sound of a car door opening breaks you from your trance as you see flashes of red and blue lights rounding the corner. “get in.” katsuki rushes to his side of the car and without a thought, you enter his car. with a quick and professional manuever, the both of you are rushing through the empty and dark alleyway in seconds. the darkness seems endless until the blonde turns the corner and stops. looking back, he squints his glowing red eyes to check for any police cars.

a relieved sigh leaves his lips and he gets out the vehicle, leaving you confused. a hand opens your side of the car and you’re yanked outside harshly, “what the fuck?!” a loud thud fills the silent alleyway as your back hits the hard concrete. a sound of metal is heard and the next thing you knew, katsuki has you pinned on the wall with a gun held straight to your throat. “don’t fucking think i haven’t seen you lurking around.”

how were you supposed to know that your harmless stalking sessions meant so much to him? you gulped, forcing yourself back on the wall trying to detatch your sweating neck from his cold gun. “you working for deku or something, hm?” the weapon is shoved into your skin more and your eyes close in fear. “i... i don’t know who that is.”

katsuki tears the weapon away from you and the sound of a loud bang makes you whimper, eyes tearing up. “oh really, now?” opening your eyes, a tear trickles down your cheek as you looked up at his hand pointing the gun he just shot to the sky. noticing this, katsuki puts it back in it’s place against your neck. “i- i really don’t! i just stalked you... cause- cause i liked you and you’re- you’re hot.” you admitted, fearing for your life.

ignoring the confession, katsuki kneels down and using his unoccupied hand, he uses the flashlight on his phone. his hand hoists your skirt up without warning, attaching the hem to your waistband as he shined the flashlight on your thigh. expecting to see the symbol for deku’s little clan on your thigh, his hand is already on the trigger, ready to pull it and end your life.

but he saw nothing, just your bare, quivering thighs. and maybe your lace panties too, but he looked away before he could stare at it for too look. with a harsh movement, he fixes your skirt and pulls the weapon away from your neck before grabbing your collar and staring right into your eyes.

“listen here, you fucker. you like me don’t you?” a relieved sigh leaves your lips and you nod, staring back into his lust-filled eyes. “i’ve been fucking stressed lately, and you fucking added to that. so let me fuck you into oblivion as a punishment.” the straight forward statement made your pussy wet.

it was the fact that he still asked that made you agree, even after you life was fucking threatened 30 seconds ago. katsuki bakugou may be bad, but he’ll never stoop to that level. plus, it could be a form of sorry for pointing a gun to your neck and almost pulling the trigger. in the back of his head, he made sure he would make you feel like a fucking princess.

it was an ‘in the moment’ kind of thing, the car was heated and condensation pooled at the windows as you and katsuki made out with each other, his thigh making its way in between your legs to rub your clit on the rough material of his jeans. the shirt you wore was cut open by the knife he kept in his pocket and in an instant, he attacks your collarbones and a hand creeps up to cup your boob under your matching lace bra, your nipple being twisted around by his fingers. “you fucking slut. you absolute whore. getting off to someone who almost ended your life? yeah, you want this cock in your slutty fucking pussy, don’t you?”

without you noticing, he had ripped off his leather jacket and shirt. you drooled over his toned torso, admiring his abs and the slight hint of a blonde happy trail leading straight down into his pants. unconsciously, your hand goes to graze your fingers down his bare upper-half, trailing down the blonde hair leading you to where you wanted to touch before you cupped the large tent in his pants “yes, i want it.” you whimpered out, squeezing his bulge slightly, making him grunt.

katsuki massages your inner thigh as his unoccupied hand goes to unzip his fly and rid himself of any remaining clothes. as soon as his underwear is out of the way, his cock slaps right against his lower stomach and you stare in awe, gulping. the size and girth intimidated you, but this is exactly what you wanted. he strokes himself a few times before teasing your sensitive clit with his tip, moaning at the feeling of your lace panties against his slit. your panties are soon yanked off, katsuki leaving them dangling off your ankle as he propped himself between you, hands pinning your wrists above your head and your legs hoisted up on his shoulders.

he angles his cock to tease at your entrance, smirking at you. “come on, beg for it.” the tip goes in and out of you and you whimper out in a frantic state, “please! just- just put it in already, i want it, i want it, i want it- fuck!” your toes curl in both pleasure and pain when katsuki slams inside your without warning. the stretch burned, he was probably the biggest thing you’ve put inside you in a while. his hips still and he looks down, admiring the way your cunt swallowed him up, feeling you clench around him. “good girl.” an unoccupied hand grips your hips as he started to thrust into you slowly before gradually picking up the pace until he was pounding into you.

the car shook back and forth as the racer railed you in the backseat, skin slapping and moans prominent even outside the car. “fuck! t-too deep, bakugou, too-” a pair of lips slam into yours, cutting your sentence off. katsuki ignores your complaints and lets out a dark chuckle. “am i hitting your womb, slut? that’s what you wanted, right? you want me to fuck my babies into you so you’ll be swollen for nine months.”

“ye-”

“no. we can’t have my little fuck toy be too sensitive for sex, right? you’re my fuck toy, my cumslut. mafia boys like me are always stressed and need obedient girls like you with tight fucking cunts to keep sane.” there’s no time to think about the term he used for himself as your eyes rolled to the back of your head, mind going blank as you neared your orgasm. cumming all over his cock with a loud moan, your legs quiver as katsuki goes faster and sloppier, chasing his own orgasm. his hips stutter when he cums, painting your insides his shade of white. a few more thrusts and he pulls out of you, panting. he stares straight at your glistening pussy, watching his semen slowly seep out of you.

the sight makes whimper, feeling himself getting hard all over again. “i hope you can take more, princess.” the grip on both your wrists becomes tighter and you let out a loud moan, tears spilling from your eyes down your cheeks as katsuki bottoms out inside you for the second time that night. “’cause i’m not stopping for anything.” he doesn’t wait for anything and starts pounding into you again, abusing that sweet little hole of yours. “bakugou! fuck! too much!” your legs quiver, but his speed doesn’t falter. instead, he goes faster.

lips attach to suck on the supple skin of your neck, “call me katsuki.” he whispers, biting your neck softly. “k-katsuki, gonna cum again.” you cried out, fingernails digging into the hand that kept your hands at place. “then cum, cum all over this cock again. no one, and i repeat, no one is ever gonna make you feel this good. got it?” the question is left unanswered when a loud moan erupts from your throat as you came. katsuki follows a few thrusts after, moaning uncontrollably.

the both of you pant, a heavy layer of sweat covering both your bodies. katsuki pulls out of you, instantly replacing his cock with two of his fingers, making you jump as he scissors them inside you. “katsuki, n-no more... please...” you begged, whining.

“shh...” he calms you down, pulling his fingers out and prodding them at your lips. “suck.” the command instantly has your lips encaging around his fingers covered in both of your love juices. a moan escapes your lips at the taste, pulling away once you’ve lapped all of it up. the car becomes silent, katsuki taking a roll of tissue from the corner of his car, starting to clean you up. large arms gently keep you from jumping up from the overstim. “just a little more, it would be uncomfortable if you had cum dripping all over your thighs.” a choked ‘okay’ leaves your lips as he cleaned up the remnants of his orgasm.

“there,” the window opens and katsuki throws the used tissues outside. “are you hurt anywhere?” he helps you sit yourself up on his lap gently, his red eyes looking all over your body for any bruises he might have left. “i’m fine, thanks.” you panted out, smiling at him. the blonde looks away, gently setting you down and handing you his shirt. “sorry for tearing yours.” he picks up his clothes and the weapons on the ground, starting to dress himself. you did the same, heart jumping in joy at his scent on the shirt.

the both of you climb to the drivers and passenger seat, katsuki still half-naked. the black jacket is thrown to your exposed thighs and you look at him in confusion. “you’ll get cold-” a hand keeps the jacket on your thighs as the car starts. “i can handle it.” he started to drive through the rest of the alleyway. “whatever you say.” you stay put in your seat.

“i’m... part of a mafia group.” katsuki starts. “deku, the guy i assumed you work for, he wants my head. i don’t know why, but i am sure not losing to a broccoli looking headass. and since you couldn’t mind your fucking business, you’re involved now.”

“how so?”

“i need to keep you at arms length. not to protect you or anything! it’s so you can’t go around telling everybody, and i still don’t know if you really work for that bastard or not.” the car rounds into an abandoned street. god, you were gonna get killed, weren’t you? you thought as he stopped at a worn out house, stepping out the car. “come on.”

his footsteps are loud, and you do follow him. he left his weapon inside the car, as if to make you trust him. “we were pretty sure that you worked for deku, but i think you’re too dumb for that. don’t be surprised.” the blonde warns as you both near the door. nothing was heard inside. katsuki opens the door and in an instant, metal clads with metal and 6 guns are pointed straight at you. but with a raise of katsuki’s hand, all the guns are put down. you shook uncontrollably in your spot, maybe the fact that you could barely walk from what you guys did earlier. “she doesn’t work for dek-”

“she’s pretty.” another blonde smiles at you, waving and winking. as you’re about to wave back awkwardly, katsuki pulls you beside him by your waist. “don’t even fucking try, denki.”

“she’s mine.”

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crossbowking · 3 years

Text

More Than Anything (Part 2)

(Click HERE to read More Than Anything Part 1)

Summary: (Set mid-season 6) The reader’s feelings towards the archer evolve, but a supply run that goes south threatens to destroy it all.

Request: “I’d love to see something w protective Daryl and some angst, maybe set at the start of their time in Alexandria w an established relationship?” - @pulplorrd

A/N: See, you'd think I would've learned after making you guys wait a year and a half for No Way Out Part 2, that I should probably FINISH my stories before actually posting the first part...yet, here we are, one month later lol I'm sorry for the wait but hopefully it's worth it!

Happy reading and let me know what you think :)

xx Jess

Masterlist

Tip Jar

Previously...

But as its grasp slipped away from around Tara’s arm, the walker’s deadweight, in turn, collapsed against you.

You lost your footing and fell backward.

Except the solidity of concrete never rushed up to meet you.

Instead, you were embraced by water, the tarp that’d laid across the motel pool coiling around your body as you sunk deeper and deeper into nothingness.

Now...

When the world ended, you’d accepted the idea of death — your death, specifically.

You knew that one day, your life would undoubtedly end — most likely at the hands of the dead, ripped to pieces, torn to shreds, the way so many others before you had been taken. But you’d always hoped your death would at least mean something — maybe laying your life on the line, sacrificing yourself so the people you loved could survive.

Something noble, something brave.

Not like this.

Before the fall, you’d managed to inhale a sharp breath — though once you’d submerged into the grimy pool water, the coldness, the darkness, the shock of it all, had zapped the air right out of your body. You were becoming increasingly aware of the tightness in your chest, the burning in your lungs as you struggled against the walker pressed against you, its weight sinking you further into the depths of the pool.

Then, the panic set in — your heart pounded against your ribcage, right alongside the immense pressure crushing your lungs. Glimpses of sunlight hung just above you, peeking through parts of the drifting tarp you frantically attempted to push aside. You were completely disoriented, your vision obscured by the murkiness surrounding you, floating specks only visible beneath the shattered light above.

When your back connected against the bottom of the deep end, you managed to wriggle out from under the dead’s listless body — though the tarp remained twisted around your limbs. No matter how hard you fought, how hard you struggled, you couldn’t free yourself from the suffocating material. You could’ve sworn you were caught in a dream, your movements lagging and sluggish as you thrashed beneath the surface.

It felt as though someone had reached their hand directly through the center of your chest, squeezing your insides in a vice-like grip. A tingling sensation crawled down your spine, settling atop your churning stomach as the throbbing behind your ears began to slow.

You were listening to your last heartbeats.

It became unbearable, the water threatening to force its way past your clamped lips, the simple need to breathe. A sharp stab of pain shot through you as the blackness in your vision intensified, pulsing reddish-white around the edges as the fire in your chest consumed you at last.

Then, with nothing else left to do, you inhaled.

You weren’t sure what happened next — everything felt faint and fuzzy and quiet. The darkness that lingered no longer struck fear in you — instead, it was warm, enveloping you in its arms like a long-lost lover. The silence was soothing as you drifted in the emptiness, like careless whispers and forgotten melodies. You were weightless, you were freed, you were everything and nothing all at once.

You were dying.

That you were sure of.

Yet much to your surprise, you weren’t afraid — no, instead…you felt at peace.

But the brevity of calm didn’t last as you were suddenly aware of a vague pressure, though it wasn’t all-consuming nor constant. It was distant at first, a feeling you could’ve easily brushed aside had it not begun to gradually grow in force, in vigor — a steady pounding, coming from the center of your chest, over and over again.

The warmth around you began to splinter, shattering like shards of glass, the fallout piercing your skin as it collapsed around you. The pain was deep and burning and you longed for just a moment ago when all you felt was the sweetness of oblivion. The pressure pounding against your chest increased, becoming the sole thing you could feel, the only thing you could focus on, the unwavering thuds drawing you back from whatever place you’d drifted off to.

In the next moment, you were awake.

Your body flailed, jolting upright, but you’d only managed to get an inch or two off the ground before water began to suddenly spurt from your mouth. Your eyes squeezed shut as you choked on the liquid, every nerve ending in your body red-hot. You were vaguely aware of hands, rough and calloused and familiar, gripping onto your arms and forcing you onto your side, the motion allowing the water leaving your lungs to flow easier.

You gasped a constricted breath, coughing harshly on the exhale, completely and entirely disoriented as to what in the fuck just happened. Your chest tightened as you spit up more water, your throat closing around the sensation as you fought for control of your breathing, the feeling of concrete against the side of your body grounding you.

When your coughs finally died down, the same hands from before grabbed onto your arms, pulling your deadweight upright, maneuvering your limp body as if you were a rag doll. You blinked your bleary eyes open, wincing from the sunlight directly above as you drew in shaky breaths.

And then you saw him.

Daryl knelt in front of you, his ragged breathing mirroring your own, soaking wet from head to toe. Strands of hair stuck against his forehead, droplets of water still dripping from the ends as he stared at you, wide-eyed, his expression a mixture of horror and shock — something you rarely witnessed when it came to the archer.

He was mouthing something — no, he was shouting something — but you couldn’t hear him. You couldn’t hear a damn word he was saying as you sat there, dazed and confused, wondering if what just happened actually happened.

His hold around your arms slipped away, his hands cradling either side of your face instead, tilting your head up and brushing your drenched hair back. He leaned forward a fraction, frantically studying your features, his haunted eyes bouncing back and forth between your own as though making sure you were there — really there.

The silence was becoming a little less resounding, the world around you gradually seeping back, though muffled and dull — but the way Daryl was looking at you, the apprehension in his gaze, shook something loose inside you. Your mouth opened, but no sound came out. You wanted to tell him it was okay — that you were okay — but damn it, why couldn’t you speak?

So instead, you slowly lifted your hands, weakly grasping onto Daryl’s wrists, the small motion all you could muster — you had to let him know you were here. He glanced down at your hands, a small huff of relief escaping him.

But when he looked back up, you noticed the moisture that’d built in the corners of his eyes.

Daryl’s hands slipped behind your head, holding you still as he leaned forward and pressed his forehead gently against yours.

You, on the other hand, silently thanked whatever God or higher power was out there for giving you one more moment like this.

When the archer pulled back, you spotted a red streak smeared across his forehead that hadn’t been there before. Your brow knitted together as he sat back on his haunches. You tried clearing your throat, the sensation burning the rawness that’d spread. “You’re —” you croaked, your voice sounding foreign. “— you’re bleeding, D.”

Daryl’s expression darkened, his jaw clenching as he lowered his gaze and unsheathed his hunting knife. “It ain’t mine,” he rasped, suddenly slicing a long strip of fabric off from the bottom of his dampened shirt and balling it in his fist, ringing out some of the water.

Before you knew what was happening, he was reaching forward, pressing the material gingerly against your forehead and wrapping it behind your head, tying the strip into a knot to keep it in place. You were surprised at the sting of pain you felt, unsure when you managed to cut your head open in the midst of what had happened — everything was still sort of…fuzzy.

The sound of a car door slamming drew your attention. You peeked out of the corner of your eye, spotting Tara jogging towards you, the car you’d driven to the motel running idle in the parking lot.

“They’re coming!” she called out, motioning towards something just behind Daryl.

You craned your neck, attempting to get a look, but before you could, the archer was looping his arms beneath your armpits and hefting you up to your feet. The world tilted unsteadily around you, and had it not been for Daryl’s hold, the ground would’ve surely rushed up to meet you.

“I got ya,” he rasped, slinging one of your arms across his shoulders, his grip snaking around your waist.

Tara appeared at your opposite side, slightly out of breath. “Welcome back, chicka,” she shot you a slightly strained smile before following Daryl’s lead and winding your other arm across her shoulders, keeping you propped upright between them.

You wanted to tell them you were fine, that you were more than capable of walking on your own — but your strength had depleted, your legs shook beneath you, and the shock was beginning to wear off, making all the little aches and pains in your body alarmingly obvious.

Then, you were moving.

They half-dragged, half-carried you across the stretch of concrete, hurrying towards the parking lot where Tara had left the car. You peeked over your shoulder, managing to get a glimpse of what you were leaving behind — the small herd from earlier had been taken down, their bodies splayed out sporadically on the other side of the pool. Some sporting knife wounds, others bullet holes. The pool itself was rippling, the water sloshing back and forth, air bubbles visible at the surface.

Some of the dead had followed you into the water.

Just beyond the pool, you spotted exactly what you were running from — another herd, three times the size of the first one, ambling in from the woods behind the motel, most likely drawn in by gunfire.

When you reached the car, Tara slipped away and jumped into the driver’s seat. Daryl flung open the back door and maneuvered you carefully inside. You grimaced as you inched further into the car, only stopping once your back was pressed up against the opposite door. The archer quickly slid in after you and slammed the door shut, grabbing onto the back of the driver’s seat as Tara peeled out of the parking lot.

The silence that followed rang heavy.

Your heart hammered against your chest, your breaths coming out slightly wheezy, almost like there was still some water left in your lungs. You met Tara’s eyes in the rearview mirror before she focused back on the road — you noticed then that the sleeves of her shirt, up to her elbows, were wet.

She’d helped drag your body out of the pool.

You glanced over at Daryl, the archer’s grip on the driver’s seat white-knuckled as he stared at the back of the headrest. Waves of tension rolled off him, the feeling nearly palpable. But his eyes flickered towards you a moment later, as though he felt you watching him, and some of the rigidity faded.

He wordlessly shuffled closer, grabbing your arm and pulling you away from the door you leaned against. You were too tired and too sore to object, your body slumping against his side as he wrapped his arm around your shoulders — you thought for a brief moment that he was hugging you.

But instead, he wound your seatbelt around your body and locked it in place.

Daryl fell back against the seat beside you with a huff, keeping his gaze focused ahead, staring straight through the windshield. He didn’t look at you again — he remained still, like he was carved from stone. You weren’t even sure he was breathing. His arm just barely grazed the side of yours, but despite whatever hidden turmoil was surely happening inside of him, he made no effort to move away.

He needed time to process what happened — what almost happened.

But so did you.

You shifted, closing the small gap between you and resting your head against his shoulder, ignoring the way he stiffened. The material of his shirt was still damp and smelt like a mixture of chlorine and mildew from the murky pool water, but you couldn’t find it in you to pull away either.

You hadn't realized you’d dozed off until the archer gently shook you awake, the car now parked outside Alexandria’s makeshift infirmary.

You still felt weak and lethargic, but you managed to make your way inside without any help — although Daryl, silent and stoic as ever, remained at your side, his hand hovering over the small of your back.

The infirmary was quiet as Denise checked you over — Tara had gone to update Rick and the others on what happened, as well as distribute the supplies you’d managed to bring home. Daryl, on the other hand, paced — back and forth, like a caged animal, on the opposite side of the room. Almost like part of him desperately wanted to run, but a bigger part of himself needed to be there.

“Are you feeling any nausea? Confusion? Loss of basic motor skills?” Denise suddenly asked, breaking the silence that’d stretched on, looking up from the textbook she was reading from. She’d never dealt with an ‘almost drowning’, but had been able to scrounge up some old medical textbooks for help.

“Uh,” you cleared your throat, shaking your head once. “No. No, nothing like that.”

“Okay, good. Yeah, that’s good…” she murmured, mostly to herself, before flipping to the next page and skimming the stretch of words. “Besides your forehead, any other lacerations?” she looked up at you once more, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose.

“I don’t —” you shot Daryl a look, but he was too busy pacing to notice. “I don’t think so,” you shook your head again, your fingertips ghosting over the bandage Denise had patched your head up with.

“Good, good. We’ll want to keep an eye on that in case of infection,” she informed before flipping to the next page, mouthing the text to herself. “Okay, and any soreness?”

You grimaced as you sat up a little straighter. “Just — just right here mostly,” you admitted, motioning towards your center, below your chest.

Denise shut the textbook and placed it on the metal table you sat on top of. “Can you show me?”

Your brow knitted together but you obliged, sliding off the table and grabbing the hem of your shirt. You fought back a wince as you rolled the material up, stopping just below your chest, exposing your skin.

The first thing you noticed was the way the room suddenly stilled — you glanced up, spotting Daryl standing frozen across the way, pacing no longer. But he wasn’t staring at you — he was staring at your midsection, a look in his eyes you’d never seen before.

When you lowered your head, getting a good look at yourself for the first time, you realized exactly what he was seeing.

Bruises. Dark and discolored. Scattered down your sternum and along the center of your ribcage.

Your head snapped up at the sound of the front door slamming shut.

And Daryl was gone.

You tried to ignore the pinprick of tears that grew, the hurt that settled across your chest as you lowered your shirt back in place — but when Denise suddenly reached out and placed her hand on top of yours, patting it softly, your features crumpled.

Everything that happened seemed to catch up to you in that moment — the fear, the shock, what Daryl must’ve felt pulling your unmoving body out of the water. You’d nearly died. What would’ve happened if he hadn’t been able to bring you back? Would he have been the one to put you down when you undoubtedly turned? Or would Tara have done it — the act far too painful for the man you loved to follow through with.

The man you loved.

Denise wrapped her hand around yours, squeezing gently and drawing you back. “Hey, it’s okay,” she soothed.

You quickly swiped at the tears that slipped down your cheeks, huffing a hitched breath. “I know, I’m just —” you glanced up at the front door, hanging onto the foolish hope that it’d swing open once more. “I don’t know,” you finally mumbled, albeit defeatedly.

Denise followed your gaze, scoffing slightly. “Men suck,” she finally shrugged.

You sniffled softly before shaking your head. “Not that one,” you murmured fondly.

Denise squeezed your hand once more, shooting you a sympathetic smile before she pulled away. “It could’ve been worse — most people who have CPR done on them end up with broken ribs or punctured lungs. You, my friend, are one of the lucky ones.”

You inhaled a deep breath, fighting back a wince, the motion stretching your bruised body. “Thank you. For everything.”

Denise nodded before taking off her glasses, using the hem of her shirt to clean the lenses. “Y/N, I don’t mean to overstep my boundaries, but,” she paused, sliding her glasses back on as she regarded you seriously. “You smell like a sewer rat.”

You faltered, completely caught off guard by her statement before remembering that you were still wearing damp, swampy, pool water clothes. Then, despite everything, a laugh slipped past your lips, breaking the tension. You let out a hiss as the movement sent a wave of pain through you. “Ow, fuck, don’t make me laugh,” you bit back another chuckle, lightly swatting her arm.

Denise smiled before motioning towards the door. “Go home, shower, get some rest — Doctor’s orders,” she grinned, turning away and beginning to clean up her workstation.

You thanked her again before hobbling out of the infirmary.

As night drew near, most residents of Alexandria were already in their respective homes — you were grateful for that. You didn’t want to see anyone right now, their worry and endless questions something you were more than happy to put off until tomorrow.

When you made it back to the apartment you and Daryl shared, you were, yet again, fighting back feelings of disappointment — he wasn’t home. You felt a pinprick of worry, but knew he needed time and space to process whatever it was he was feeling.

And when he was ready, you would be too.

You walked through the kitchen, the morning you’d shared earlier feeling like a lifetime ago — the pan he’d used to make eggs, now dry, remained sitting on the counter. The bedroom was untouched, looking exactly how it had this morning, just the way you’d left it. You grabbed a fresh set of clothes before making your way into the master bathroom attached, ignoring the bone-deep tiredness settling over you.

Showering was a good call — the warm water rained down as you scrubbed your body of the muck that clung to you, being extra careful not to get the bandage on your head wet or make any sudden movements. When you were finished cleaning up, you stood beneath the shower head for a few minutes, eyes closed, inhaling the steam around you with deep, calming breaths.

You were okay. You were alive. You were here.

You shut off the water, stepped out of the shower, and dried yourself off, gingerly patting down your chest and around your ribs, before slipping into clean clothes. You wiped away some of the steam that’d collected on the bathroom mirror before hanging up your towel, combing out your knotted hair, and brushing your teeth — the same routine you did every night.

The normalcy was soothing — you were already beginning to feel better, more like yourself. You were ready to put what happened behind you and move forward, sure to never take another day for granted.

But when you opened the bathroom door, ready to curl up in bed and doze off, all of your feelings from earlier came rushing back at the sight of Daryl.

Once again, he’d been pacing the length of the bedroom, only stopping after you’d entered the room, his gaze snapping towards you. He shifted his weight back and forth, opening his mouth before clamping it shut. You could feel his energy, rolling off his body in waves — tense, rigid, wild. He was struggling to say whatever was on his mind, only furthering his evident frustration. He flicked his hair away from his eyes, turning to face you head-on, clearly gathering up the gall to speak.

You took a small step forward. “Daryl —”

“Ya were blue,” he suddenly rasped, a fire in his gaze that wasn’t there before. “Tara was shoutin’ for ya an’ I — when I went in an’ pulled ya out, there wasn’t — I didn’t —” he huffed a breath in frustration, his face tinged red. “God, damn it, Y/N, ya were fuckin’ blue,” he finally growled, chest heaving, hands balled into fists at his side.

His anger wasn’t directed at you, but the situation itself, you knew that. But still, his words — or more so the emotion, the truth hidden behind them — had you recoiling from him, your heart breaking at the thought of what he’d seen, of what had run through his mind when he realized you weren’t breathing.

You couldn’t imagine how scared he must have been.

And that was what was beneath his outburst — not rage, but fear.

But he wasn’t finished with what he needed to say — if anything, he was just getting more and more worked up as he began to frantically pace once more. “This is why — I fuckin’ told ya — I didn’t need ya comin’ out there. I didn’t need ya on that run but ya — ya didn’t listen ta’ me an’ then —”

“I love you.”

Daryl stilled, mid-stride, his gaze widening as if all of the air had been sucked from his lungs.

You felt your face flush, the air between you so thick it could be cut with a knife. You hadn’t meant to say that aloud, but the words just sort of…tumbled out? And now, there they were, hanging between you. Part of you wondered if the archer could hear your heart pounding from where he stood — or maybe it was his heartbeat, synched up to yours.

You sputtered a soft breath, shaking your head in disbelief, trying not to panic because the last thing you wanted was for Daryl to look at you the way he was looking at you after telling him you loved him. “I’m —“ you took a breath, regarding him earnestly. “I’m sorry if that makes you uncomfortable. And I promise — I promise — you do not have to say it back. Hell, you don’t even have to feel the same way,” you huffed an awkward laugh, but the noise hitched somewhere in your throat, betraying your words. You grew serious once more. “I just — I couldn’t have another night going by without you knowing. Not after what happened today,” you swallowed the lump in your throat, shrugging a shoulder up meekly. “So, I love you — I love you more than anything.”

You weren’t sure what sort of reaction you were expecting from him. But you absolutely refused to acknowledge the tiny part of you that secretly wished he’d swoop you into his arms, pull you close, tell you he loved you too — because that wasn’t Daryl. That wasn’t the type of man he was — and you were okay with that.

Because you hadn’t fallen in love with that type of man.

You’d fallen in love with the man standing shell-shocked in front of you.

You cleared your throat and stepped forward, moving away from the bathroom doorway. “The shower’s all yours,” you murmured, needing to break the uncomfortable silence that carried on.

You sidestepped around his frozen form, ignoring the way your legs shook like jelly beneath you as you made your way towards the bed. You took a seat on the edge of the mattress, keeping your back towards him, staring ahead at the blank wall in front of you instead.

After what felt like forever, the floorboard squeaked beneath the shifting of his weight, his footsteps growing faint as he slowly walked away and entered the bathroom, closing the door shut after him.

You strained your ears, listening for any movement beyond the door he’d disappeared behind — but you heard nothing. It was like you could feel him through the panel of wood between you — you could almost picture him, just standing there, trying to process whatever the hell was going on inside that mind of his.

A moment later, the shower turned on.

And you released the breath you’d been holding.

Exhaustion swept through you, the day’s events wearing you down. You carefully maneuvered yourself into bed, pulling a thin sheet over your body and settling onto your side. Your eyelids grew heavy, the sound of the shower lulling you to sleep despite the strange, sort of freedom your admittance had brought you, the feeling buzzing through your veins.

You didn’t regret your vulnerability — he needed to know he was loved, damn it.

When you heard the shower turn off, you snapped your eyes shut. You listened to the archer move about the bathroom until the door finally creaked open. He seemed to be just standing there, and you could’ve sworn you felt him staring at the back of your head as if he was gauging whether or not you were actually asleep. But a moment later, you heard his footsteps padding across the bedroom before the mattress dipped beneath him.

You held your breath, covers drawn to your chin as Daryl shifted in bed, eventually lying down beside you. Another beat of quiet passed, neither of you moving, nor breathing it seemed.

But then suddenly, you heard him speak, so softly you almost missed it. “I know ya ain’t sleepin’,” he rumbled.

The corner of your mouth quirked up — because of course he knew.

You sighed, shifting gingerly onto your back, the sheet pooling at your waist as you looked over at him. He laid on his side, facing you, propped up on his elbow. He was dressed in clean clothes, his hair still wet from the shower, pushed back out of his face.

He really was rather beautiful.

“Busted,” you smiled, though the archer’s expression remained solemn.

Ever so gently, he reached towards you, his fingertip grazing the material of your shirt, over your ribcage, below your chest, hovering the bruises that lingered. “Does it hurt?” he rasped, the mouth turned downward into a small frown.

You shook your head. “Not really.”

Daryl’s eyes met yours, his expression skeptical and knowing.

You never were a good liar.

“At least you didn’t break a rib?” you offered sheepishly, your lame attempt at a joke falling flat given the current audience.

But when Daryl’s features fell, a flash of what looked like guilt settling over his face, you placed your hand on top of his, resting them against your stomach. “Don’t do that,” you murmured, reading him like a damn book as you rubbed circles with your thumb over the back of his hand.

The archer grumbled something indistinct, staring down at your intertwined hands.

Your grip tightened around his. “I mean it,” you spoke, an edge to your voice, only softening when he looked at you instead. “You saved my life, D — that’s it. You can let go of anything else you’re holding onto.”

Daryl’s lip twitched as he chewed on the inside of his cheek, seemingly mulling over your words.

You were sure he’d hang onto whatever unnecessary guilt he carried — because that was just who he was — but eventually, he nodded once and settled down on his back, staring up at the ceiling. You were too tired to press the subject further so you curled into his side and rested your head against his chest, winding your arm across his midsection. His arm automatically wrapped around you, his fingertips trailing absently up and down your spine, sending shivers through your body.

You weren’t sure how long you laid like that, melting into the warmth he exuded, the steady pounding of his heartbeat easing you to sleep.

You’d nearly faded away when Daryl suddenly spoke.

“Did ya mean it?” he rumbled, the noise vibrating from deep within his chest. “What ya said before?” he grunted, his hand pausing at the small of your back.

You could’ve imagined it, but you almost felt the slight tremble of his fingertips against your skin.

You slowly pushed up onto your elbow, your faces mere inches apart. You searched his uncertain gaze, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Of course I meant it,” you whispered. “Every damn word.”

Daryl’s eyes narrowed, as though not entirely believing what you said could be true.

So you leaned forward, closing the remainder of space between you, and pressed your lips gently against his. He returned the kiss, a quiet desperation growing as one hand came up to cradle the side of your face, his thumb sweeping back and forth across your cheek. You broke away from the kiss, brushing his hair back before meeting his lips once more, settling your hand on his chest, feeling his heart racing beneath your touch.

When you pulled back, you noticed his skin flush, surely mirroring your own. He looked up at you, slightly breathless, a fondness in his gaze that sent your stomach somersaulting. He cleared his throat, the ghost of a smile flickering across his face. “Well, alright,” he finally resigned, accepting your answer to his question.

You snorted a breathy laugh, leaning forward and kissing his cheek before burrowing against him. A soft sigh slipped past your lips as Daryl’s hold tightened around you, as though afraid you’d disappear if he didn’t.

You closed your eyes, reveling in the feeling of contentment, unsure how many more moments like this you, or anyone else for that matter, had left in this kind of cruel and harrowing world.

But for at least tonight, you could be at peace.

“I love you,” you murmured groggily, beginning to sink deeper into unconsciousness.

Right before sleep came, long after Daryl thought you’d drifted away, you heard him whisper three, simple words.

“More than anythin’.”

Then he pulled you closer and the world dimmed.

A/N: Aw...a happy ending! (I figured I owed ya after putting y'all through Honey & Whiskey lol)

P.S. Feedback is incredibly important. I write for my own happiness, but I also write for YOU. So don’t be afraid to shoot me an ask or leave a comment with your thoughts! It truly motivates me and helps move along the writing process. Also, please consider donating to my Tip Jar. Every little bit helps!

P.S.S. I can no longer tag people on this account, so my tag list has been transferred to my side blog @crossbowking2. If you’d like to be added/removed, please let me know!

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modern-vellichor · 2 years

Text

Motion Sickness

summary: Bucky's Handler finally breaks. pairing: bucky (winter soldier) x reader warnings: grief, torture, angst, violence a/n: Motion Sickness by Phoebe Bridgers (Demo - Bonus Track, my fave version)

Masterlist || Bucky Barnes Masterpost || Lay A Little Love On Me

As Soldat's hand tightened around your throat, tears began to fall down his cheeks. You were sobbing, begging your creation for your life. You regretted everything you had ever done, but it was that or be killed. You loved him, loved him like he was... you didn't know what he was.

"I hate you for what you did," he growled.

"Don't do this," you whispered.

"I can hardly feel anything, I hardly feel anything at all!"

"I can fix you," you begged. "I know how to get Bucky back."

He dropped you at that. The first mention of his past self ever uttered within these walls. He had killed your whole team already. There was no reason to let you live, until this.

"I didn't want to break you, Bucky. I had to, they'd have killed me otherwise."

He said nothing else, just took you with him when he made his escape. You sobbed with relief when you were a safe distance from the torture chamber that you had called home for most of your life.

"You know, they had me working part time on another serum, like the one we gave you. But just the slowed aging, not the superhuman strength or anything, just for us biologists, or whatever you want to call us."

He grunted in response, pulling you further away from the compound.

Somehow you ended up in Manhattan. Bucky got a job doing God knows what and you spent your days locked up in an apartment that Bucky visited in the evenings. He brought you all sorts of trinkets and tools to toy with, chemicals and reagents, expensive metals and all sorts of high end scientific equipment. Sometimes he would stay to eat, but he never slept or stayed longer than a few hours. Sometimes he would disappear for weeks at a time with nothing but a text.

"Here," you said quietly. Handing him a wad of cash, and then returning your focus to your overcooked dinner.

"What's this?"

"there's a hypnotherapist upstate, go see her. She can help you."

"but you could do it for free."

You shook your head. You could do it. You were trained for it. But ethically, morally you couldn't. Not after all you'd put him through.

"you're giving me 1500 to see a hypnotherapist?"

You nodded.

He would only go once, but you let it slide. It was hard. This last year had been hard. You let everything he did slide. Like sleeping on the floor, and disappearing, and never speaking to you, and controlling you. You had done the same to him for all those years. You remember sleeping next to him on the cold, damp concrete because you were scared he felt lonely. You never feared your death, even though you always through it was coming. You always thought he would wind his hand around your neck one night and you would never wake up, and you welcomed that idea with open arms. Freedom and rest.

"Bucky?" You called tentatively. His grunts were muffled by the closed door, but you were worried. He had come home covered in blood and went straight to his room and shut the door. Whether it was his blood or not, you still worried.

You opened the door just enough to peek through. He threw his knives at the wall and angrily shucked off his uniform. He stood with his back facing you, bruised and bloodied, several stab wounds weeping down the expanse of his back.

He turned around suddenly, eyeing you up and down with a murderous glint in his eyes. You slammed his door and ran out of the apartment. You leaned your back against the front door, bare feet on the carpet of the hallway. You heard his heavy footsteps echo through the apartment, you knew he was mirroring your stance inside the apartment, pressing a bloody imprint of his back into the door.

You'll be glad that you made it out.

"I'm sorry that it all went down like it did," you whispered. He heard you and thudded away from the door and back into the safety of his bedroom.

You've got a sort of heartache that will never resolve itself. It will never leave you. You carry a deep rooted guilt. a type of grief that embeds itself into the very fibre of your being. It's complicated and everlasting. It's the kind of sadness that follows you around like a dog with a bone. It looms over you, threatening and ominous. You know in your heart that this guilty grief will last forever.

"What's wrong with you?" He asks one day.

You rack your brain for a simple answer. A simple sentence to sum up the vast expanses of all your emotional turmoil. You stutter over your words for a bit, and Bucky is uncharacteristically patient.

"I have emotional motion sickness," you say finally. "And there's no one to roll the window down."

He nods, in agreement or in sympathy you don't know.

"There are no words in the English language that I could scream to drown it out."

"I know how that feels."

"and I wanna know what would happen if I surrender to the sound."

He reaches over the table and grabs your hand. You flinch. His touch is cold. You attempt to pull your hand away, wanting to wallow rather than be comforted. He doesn't let go. Instead he pulls you in, so his face is mere inches away from yours. He presses a cold, unsure kiss to your cheek. Tears well in your eyes. You choke on guilt that bubbled up from your soul into a throat that twists and constricts until you can no longer breath and you are sobbing and gasping for air.

He holds your face gently while you sob. You try to scream but your voice fails you. You wail and cry until it seems your body has been drained, of tears, of blood, or life. Suddenly you are nothing but a shell, Bucky sees a mirror of who he used to be.

He presses his lips to yours and you gasp. He holds you still, his hands cold against your cheeks. Life and colour and salt and blood and water and wine bleed into your empty corpse once again, air fills your lungs and you feel brand new, Everything is bursting with colour and alive and screaming and while you didn't ask you are suddenly bursting full of life and everything seems good again.

"Thank you," you breath.

he just nods and leaved. He shuts the door quietly behind him. You don't know when he'll be back but you're free of your once sided dependency and the city seems undaunting and the air seems fresh. Looks like things will be alright.

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goldenboywrites · 3 years

Text

house of cards

“Were you seen?” He had heard the footsteps coming but hadn’t turned to greet the man. A shoulder brushed against him and he fought back the flinch that came naturally to him these days whenever he was touched unexpectedly. It was a sign of weakness that he couldn’t afford any longer, not with so many people looking at him and his brother. The soldier muffled a cough against the back of his hand and took a step back hesitantly, realizing the overstepped boundary by standing next to the prince.

“I was discreet, Your Highness,” The head of his guard, Xander, replied. “And I have news. The healer who treated your parents before their untimely death has fled to Ivarstead.”

Quinn rubbed his chin and nodded. It made sense, that the healer would flee there, Ivarstead was out of his reach, and at least 4 days of travel. With his brother’s coronation approaching, Quintus was unable to leave the castle to get him. He turned to face Xander and at the look on his guard’s face, Quinn’s eyes widened curiously. He was hiding something else, the prince was sure of it. Since he was a young boy, Alexander had been placed in direct charge of the prince’s safety. He could read the man easily. The way his feet shuffled from side to side, the way he refused to look directly at the prince, instead he glanced just over Quintus’ left shoulder. Definitely withholding information. “What else did you find out that you’re not telling me?” He hissed through his teeth. “You know how I feel about secrets, Xander. Do I need to remind you that you work for me?”

“I found a lead on who funded the healer’s trip.” Quinn felt his heart thud painfully against his chest. If his theory was correct… “It appears that he is using your uncle’s funds for travel.” But a theory was just a theory and words were only words until there was proof.

“I’m assuming you have concrete evidence of this?” He asked, fighting to control the tremble in his voice. His theory was becoming reality and soon he would have enough evidence to tell his brother that he believed their uncle killed their parents. “I know you wouldn’t throw out my uncle’s name like this unless you were certain of this claim.”

Xander bowed his head, another nervous shuffle and Quintus sighed. He already knew the man’s answer. “I’m working on it.”

“Good. Continue working on it and be discreet.” Quintus stepped forward and laid a Juliet rose on top of the marble tomb that encased both of his parents. “And the other thing I asked you to find out?”

If Quinn through Xander was nervous before it was nothing like how the man acted now. The man actually took a step back from him and cleared his throat. “The crown prince said…”

Quinn’s gaze snapped to the man and his eyes narrowed dangerously. “You…”

“He said that if you are curious about who is attending the coronation that you can ask him directly for the list instead of having me sneak around asking for you.” Xander gulped, Quintus watched the quick movement of his throat. “And if you specifically want to know if he is attending…” Quinn held up a hand to stop the man. Alexander’s mouth closed abruptly and he bowed his head respectfully.

“Enough,” He snapped and walked past Xander, grinding his teeth because his fucking brother had the nerve… “I’ll deal with my brother on my own. You have your orders. Get me that evidence and do not speak a word of the other thing or I’ll have you publicly flogged.”

“Understood, Your Highness.”

__________________________________________________________

Quintus stormed his way through the castle and didn’t stop until he reached his brother’s quarters. One look at his face and the two guards stationed stepped aside, allowing him access to the door. Quinn stepped inside, the door slamming shut behind him.

“I told the guards… ” Maximus turned and saw Quinn standing there, flushed and slightly out of breath. He was standing on a platform in the middle of his room. His coronation robe was on and a servant on her knees before him, working on the altercations. “Oh, Q.” His brother turned back around, straightening his robe. “Have some water, you looked flushed.”

Quintus inhaled slowly and deeply because if he didn’t, he would probably strangle his brother. Now that Max was days away from being King of Vivec, strangling him would be considered treason and not just brothers being brothers. “I don’t want water.”

“Do you want the list of attendees?” A smirk graced Max’s features as he looked at Quinn through the mirror. The younger brother’s hand curled into a fist, his nails digging into the palm of his hand. “I have a scroll on the desk if you’re curious or I could just tell you..”

“I don’t care if he’s coming,” Quinn snapped but his feet betrayed him and he walked towards the desk anyways. He didn’t pick up the parchment. He just so happened to glance at it but saw that his horrible brother had folded it in half. He couldn’t see any names and he certainly wasn’t going to fall into the trap of opening the scroll.

Maximus bent down and touched the servant’s shoulder. She stopped working on the hem and glanced up at him expectedly. “Let’s take a break for now.” She stuck the last pin in and then stood. She helped Max out of his robe, folded it over her arm, and then bowed before exiting the room quickly. His brother descended from the platform and walked over to where Quinn was standing. He reached first for the pitcher of water and poured a goblet first for Quintus then reached for the other pitcher filled with wine and poured one for himself. “I didn’t mention anyone specific,” Max said in that infuriating voice of his that made Quinn want to scream. “But if you wanted to kn-”

Quintus slammed the goblet down on the desk hard. Water splashed over the sides, coating his hand. “I don’t want to know.”

“You asked-”

“Keep it up and I won’t be going to your coronation.”

Max chuckled into his goblet, shaking his head. “I know you’ve never been one for public events but I know you would never miss this one. I need my biggest supporter by my side.” To that, Quintus rolled his eyes but couldn’t help but feel the flare of flattery at his brother’s words. A hand fell on his shoulder, squeezing it gently. Now that their parents were gone it was the two brothers against the world. Against their uncle but only Quinn knew about that. “He told me that he wrote to you when our parents…” The crown prince’s words trailed off softly. They were still trying to figure out how to navigate the conversation about their parents. It was always tense and difficult. Maximus, the more naive of the two, was oblivious to the discrepancies surrounding their death and Quinn knew he couldn’t bring it to his older brother’s attention until he was certain. “You didn’t write him back.”

“He’s your best friend, not mine,” Quinn snapped back, glaring at his brother for meddling in business that wasn’t his own. “If you want to write to him that’s your mistake to make but I am not required to communicate with him.” He brought the goblet of water up to his lips and took a mouthful in, hoping Max would get the hint that he didn’t want to talk about him any longer.

“He was your friend too once upon a time,” Maximus reminded him, in the most annoying ‘I told you so’ kind of voice possible.

Quintus set the goblet down and cross his arms over his chest. “Yes. Years ago and then I grew up. I suggest you both move on from it and stop pestering me about it.”

His brother snorted and shook his head. He reached out and ruffed the prince’s hair affectionately. “I think you’re forgetting, little brother, that you are the one who sent Xander on a secret mission to obtain the guest list and you are the one who stormed into my private quarters to retrieve it yourself when your guard failed you and you were the first one to mention him. So to answer your question, yes, he is attending the coronation.” Maximus stepped away from Quinn and walked to the far window, the one that overlooked the gates that surrounded the palace. Quinn, feeling on edge from the coversation, picked up the goblet again as a means of distraction. “He should be arriving before dinner. Didn’t Xander tell you about the feast tonight?”

The goblet slipped from Quinn’s grasp and fell onto the floor. Water spilled on the ground, coating his shoes. This time his hands did itch to strangle his brother and Alexander too. Fucking traitors. Both of them were fucking horrible beasts who clearly wanted to see Quintus suffer from their games. “Today? He’s coming today? The coronation isn-”

“He’s coming early to review the alliance between our countries. Now that I am being crowned there are some necessary tweaks to make that will benefit both countries. You’re more than welcome to attend if you can behave yourself.”

He chewed on the side of his mouth and mulled over the information. Quintus hadn’t been prepared for him to come early but he should have expected it. He was, after all, Max’s best friend. He had, after all, been terribly worried about both brothers after the death of his parents. “I’ll attend.”

“And you’ll behave?” Maximus’ eyes narrowed playfully and Quinn distracted himself from it by bending down to pick up his now empty goblet. “Quintus…”

“I’ll behave if he does and that is all that I will promise.”

“He always behaves. You, however, do not.” Max rubbed his temples and sighed. “I wish you would tell me what happened all those years ago to make you feel this way about him. He doesn’t know why you refuse to write him back or why you will not travel with me to visit him.”

Quintus shoved the goblet against his brother’s chest and walked past him towards the door. If he stayed, his brother would only continue to badger him with questions he had refused to answer for years. And there were things he needed to get into order especially now that he knew who would be arriving shortly.

“Are you coming to the feast tonight?”

His hand was on the door and he turned to look at his brother from over his shoulder. A sly smirk graced his features. “Yes.”

“And you’ll behave at the feast?” Maximus had on his serious face but Quintus was far too wrapped up in his own games to care.

“No.” He slammed the door on his way out, cutting off whatever warning his brother was attempting to give him.

There was a pep in his step as he made his way back to his own quarters.

#house of cards

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thewhitehotspotlight · 3 years

Text

Dean sits on the floor, the chill of the concrete seeping into his clothes, and cries. Presses the heels of his hands- the ones that had been rebuilt by an angel and been used as weapons again and again and again and- to his eyes as if he can scrub the scene from his memory.

He can’t look up and see the empty room again. The room distinctly missing Cas from the center of it.

His shoulder burns.

(Why would Cas have been in the middle of the room? He wasn’t in the room.)

He’s on his feet, staring at the angel in the middle of the room, who stares back at him with tears in his eyes.

(That wasn’t right. He’d warded the room, Cas hadn’t been able to get in. Dean had only been able to hear him pounding at the door, his frantic voice muffled through the thick metal and wood. Dean had-)

“I love you.”

Dean finds himself shoved aside again, the cloth of a familiar coat slipping through his fingers as he falls.

The Empty comes, thick and cloying and very smug for something that feels literally nothing. And Cas is gone, again.

(Again? He frowns.)

Light flashes and he’s one his feet again (again?), turning to stare at the angel in the middle of the room, who-

Dean blinks. He’s seeing double.

One Castiel stands in front of him, face beatific and agonized.

Another Castiel stands a few steps behind him, eyes wild as he meets Dean’s gaze over his own shoulder. His mouth moves like he’s shouting, but Dean can’t hear him over the booming steps down the hall and the first Castiel’s voice.

He doesn’t have to hear him to understand.

Dean!

He is shoved aside and falls, helpless to watch as the empty comes again (again?). But the other Castiel watches too, horror on his face as he watches his own death.

Dean presses the heels of his hand to his eyes.

(Something is off, here. But he can’t see or hear anything past the overwhelming grief, he is drowning in it, can’t move, can’t speak, can’t-)

Dean, you need to wake up!

He jerks his head up, turning around to look at the angel in the center of the room and the second one who stands behind him.

The second Castiel abruptly steps forward, cutting himself off from whatever he’d been about to say. He reaches out and grips Dean by the shoulder’s.

“Dean, you need to wake up,” He voice sounds like it’s coming from very far away despite him standing right there. “this is a dream. You just need to think, remember, please-”

(That’s not how it’s supposed to go, Dean thinks.)

The Empty comes anyway and Dean lays on the floor, devastation fresh anew.

(But that’s wrong, he thinks, staring at the empty floor. It didn’t take Cas, it-)

He turns to face the angel in the middle of the room and stops.

“Cas wasn’t here.” He says slowly, trying to put something back together. The room had been empty, just himself and his bad ideas.

Before the image/s of Castiel can speak or push him aside, Dean makes a break for the door. He manages to get a hand on the handle before he’s wrenched back.

“No!” He yells.

But Cas confesses again and is gone again and Dean sits and-

(Remember.)

(Dean had run into the room, slamming the door shut and jamming an angelic ward against it before Castiel can follow him. He can hear the thump of Cas’s hand against the door, his voice sounding in confusion. Dean swallows the lump in his throat.

“Sorry.” He whispers, before setting to work as fast as he can.

He can hear Cas get louder and more frantic behind the door, the thudding footsteps behind him. The door breaks down as the Empty and Billie come.

Dean can only stare at the angel in the middle of the room, who stares back at him with tears in his eyes as the thick black ooze covers him.

Castiel stands alone in an empty room, void of Dean Winchester, and falls to his knees.)

Dean turns around to face the angel in the center of the room and bolts past him to the door, wrenching himself out of his grip.

He makes it to the door, manages to yank it open, only to find Castiel crumpled on the floor. He blinks up at Dean and Dean reaches a hand down to pull him up.

“If this is a dream, get me out.” Dean says. Cas nods.

“Dean,” he says seriously. “wake up.”

(The door slams.)

Dean stares at the angel in the middle of the room and realizes, suddenly, that the angle is wrong. It’s his fifth, thirtieth, millionth time in this scene, this memory, and he is struck suddenly with the knowledge that it isn’t his.

This is followed by remembering that there is only one other being in the universe that shares this memory with him. He swears, then runs as soon as the Cas-that-isn’t-Cas turns his shining eyes towards him.

He gets to the door and through it to the other Castiel in the hall, crumpled on the floor, hand raised from pounding hopelessly against the wood and metal. (Dean has been reliving Castiel’s memory, he thinks, but Cas has been forced to listen to his own words over and over and over... To Dean’s silence again and again.) Dean doesn’t know how much time he has before it resets again, so he acts on instinct.

Cas looks up at him, eyes still wide and teary, and Dean inelegantly tackles him to the floor in a bear hug. He squeezes his eyes shut as they roll, once, twice...

(They are falling.)

Dean squeezes his eyes shut and hangs on to Cas’ suddenly limp weight in his arms. He can feel the ends of his trench coat flapping against his own legs as they spin through the air.

They don’t land so much as just suddenly stop.

Dean opens his eyes to thick darkness. He can feel Cas in his arms and he adjusts them awkwardly as he sits up. Nothing happens for a long moment.

“I know you’re there, asshole.” Dean calls finally. “But guess what? You don’t get to have him. He’s coming home, you here me?”

The Empty doesn’t answer.

And what makes you worthy to have him? The oil-slick thought comes from within his own mind and around him. To renege on the deals of angels for them?

Dean squares his jaw. Hefts said angel more securely in his grip.

“It’s not about what I think, it’s what he thinks.”

The oppressive darkness suddenly lifts slightly, a darker patch than the rest peeling away from the rest in a vaguely humanoid shape. The darkness lifts enough that Dean can make out Cas’ slack face. He looks almost peaceful in his sleep.

“Annoying, the both of you.” The Empty’s voice lacks any kind of reverberation. The sound carries exactly as far as it needs to before dropping dryly out of existence. “Prove your worth and leave or stay and be nothing.”

(Everything you did, you did for love. echoes in his brain.)

“Fine.” Dean says. He plants himself on his knees, ready to gather Cas in his arms and run any moment he needs.

The Empty waves a lack of hand and vanishes back into itself.

Nothing happens for a beat.

Then Cas jerks in his arms, eyes opening wide and unseeing, mouth opening in a silent scream at whatever he sees in his Empty memories.

“Cas!” Dean almost loosens his grip as Castiel doubles over as if in pain.

He wrenches backwards, nearly toppling them, and suddenly Dean isn’t clutching at the familiar body, but a deer. It’s wide form kicks and the horns on it’s head catch at his back. Dean buries his face in the soft fur, the same deep brown as Cas’, and hangs on.

The deer becomes a block of ice, cold and burning and heavy, melting and sticking to him. Dean hangs on with numb hands.

(For love, for love, for love, he thinks.)

The ice to a burning sword, a swarm of bees, a towering beam of light, an empty coat, slick feathers that beat at him- Dean clutches them all to his chest. He doesn’t remember if he screams, if he burns, if he chants in tongues.

He holds on.

And then he falls, tumbling down through nothing.

The first thing Castiel is aware of is a familiar voice. It takes a moment to reorganize his ears to understanding the language being spoken, which seems to be mostly curses.

“-ddamn self-sacrificing sonofa bastard, you absolute dumbass, you don’t get to-”

His chest burns and there’s a strange, familiar thudding in his ears. He feels... heavy.

“-ake up, you asshole.” There’s a suddenly impact on his chest and Castiel gasps involuntarily. The burn in his chest starts to subside.

Oh, he thinks blearily, breathing.

He blinks his eyes open, squinting up from where he’s lying on the floor. He blinks again and the fuzzy figure nearly kneeling on top of him comes into focus.

“Hello, Dean.” He manages. Dean stares at him for a moment.

“You’re such a dick!” He yells abruptly, his hands gripping Castiel’s shoulders tightly. “Don’t you ever pull that kind of shit again, ever, you hear? Nearly killed me the last damn time you did it and you think you can just say that kind of shit and get away with leaving forever?”

Castiel can feel him trembling, shaking where their bodies touch. He lifts a clumsy hand and presses it to Dean’s cheek. Dean stops yelling abruptly and freezes, staring at him.

After a beat, Dean lifts a hand and covers Cas’, eyes falling shut as he holds Cas’s palm to his cheek. Cas absently swipes a thumb to brush away tears from his dear face. When had he started crying?

“Why are you... crying?” He asks, befuddled.

“Because-” Dean tries to channel his anger, but his voice simply cracks over emotion instead. “because I thought I’d lost you for good this time, idiot.”

“Oh.” Cas says softly, throat dry. Dean opens his eyes and looks at him, hard.

“You said you think I do every stupid thing in my life for love, right?”

Castiel nods. His head is heavy. Dean’s other hand slides from his shoulder to support the back of his head, pulling him up to sit facing each other.

He carefully watches Dean’s face- the corner of his jaw works as he looks at Cas, eyes jumping around his face like he can’t look at one spot for too long. His lips part as if he’s going to speak several times before he just sighs, coming to some kind of decision.

His fingers card through the hair at the back of Cas’s head, gently pulling his forward as Dean leans in. He pauses a moment before, eyes searching Castiel’s. Cas stares back at him, waiting, breath caught.

His eyes fall shut as Dean kisses him gently, clumsily, as if he’s worried about hurting him. Cas can’t help but smile, his hand sliding from Dean’s cheek to rest loosely on the side of his throat. He can feel the fine muscle there under his fingers as Dean goes to move back, is easily able to most to the nape of his neck and pull him back firmly.

He doesn’t know how long they sit there, kissing softly, hands lingering in an almost disbelief of each other being there, being allowed to touch. Castiel eventually blinks his eyes open again when Dean pulls him closer into a tight hug, shoulder shaking under his secure grip. Cas hooks his chin over Dean’s solid shoulder as Dean buries his face in his neck, taking shuddering breaths, damp and warm and alive against his collarbones.

Eventually the cool concrete under them sinks into their legs, the discomfort marginally outweighing being able to hold each other.

Dean groans and pulls them up. Cas staggers, legs strangely numb, and Dean easily slides an arm around his waist to support him as they stand.

“C’mon, Sam’s gonna have a fit when he finds out what I did.” Dean says.

Cas almost stops him- they need to talk, he wants to understand, but at the same time he does. Dean glances sideways at him. His face softens.

“We’ll, uh, we can talk when you don’t look like you’re going to get blown over by a stiff breeze, Cas.”

Cas nods. Good enough for now.

They hang onto each other as they stagger out of the room, leaving it behind.

#spn fic #destiel #destiel fic #deancas #deancas fic #out of my system beGONE

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supernaturaldesires · 3 years

Text

Dirty Little Secret - Chapter One

A/N This is my first attempt at smut, so please go easy on me! I’m not really sure where this is going yet, I’m just going with the flow.

Pairing: Demon!Dean x Reader

Warnings: Kidnapping, breaking-and-entering, use of handcuffs, non-con/dub-con

Word Count: 1,056

As you parked your car in the underground carpark after a long shift at work and swung your door open, came a thud ‘clack’ as it connected with the concrete post.

“FUCK.” You cursed to yourself. That just about topped off your shitty day. With a huff, you clambered out of your beaten-up old Jeep Wrangler and slammed the door shut. Running your fingers over the large dent, you cursed again under your breath before hitching your bag over your shoulder and trudging your way up the stairs and into the block of flats above.

Sliding your key into your apartment door, the door suddenly gave way and immediately opened - it was unlocked. “What the-” you weren’t able to finish the sentence before you were grabbed from behind, arms pinned to your sides and a rough hand clamped over your nose and mouth. Immediately, you began trying to scream but any noise you made was muffled, useless.

“Hush now, sweetheart, take it easy.” That voice was familiar, and you froze. It was the voice that had been following you all evening throughout your shift at the bar. You wracked your brain to remember the name he’d introduced himself with.

Your intruder kicked your front door shut before swinging you both round and pinning you against the cold wood, one hand still firm over your mouth, though releasing your nose a little, allowing some oxygen in. Your blood ran cold when you suddenly felt metal wrap around one of your wrists and click into place. You struggled and resisted desperately, but you were pushed even harder into the door, your body aching between the weight of it and the man pinned up against you. Seconds later, your arm was pulled roughly behind your back and your other arm was soon met with metal and held firmly in place.

“Now then sweetheart, I wish it didn’t have to be like this,” your intruder breathed into your ear. “But I really fucking hate liars.”

You heard him fumbling for a moment before the hand fell from your mouth. You inhaled a large breath of oxygen, but just as you were about to scream, duct tape was quickly plastered over your lips. You groaned and cried in frustration, throwing your body around violently, trying to shake off your attacker. To your surprise, he suddenly disappeared from behind you and you lost your balance, crashing down onto the floor. Unable to break your fall, pain seared through your shoulder as it connected with the floor.

A dark chuckle came from above you. You twisted onto your back to finally see your attacker’s face and as soon as you did, his name locked into your head.

“Dean!” Your voice was muffled under the duct tape, but the sick smile that grew across his face confirmed your answer. He crouched down over you, gripping roughly under your chin. You tried to shout, scream, anything. His hand moved to your hair and he pulled you forcefully to your feet, tears stinging your eyes at the pain. He brought your face inches away from his own, as his green eyes bore into yours. In that moment, when that dark smile reappeared on his lips, you could have sworn his eyes blinked to black for just a second. You tried to cower away in fear, but the demon’s grip on your hair kept you in place.

“Do you know what I found most interesting once I broke my way into your apartment, Y/N?” He asked nonchalantly. “Which, by the way, was piss-easy to do. You looked smart enough to have a half-decent security system in place. But then again, you were dumb enough to take me for a fool.”

You shook your head vigorously, tears now streaming down your face. When he spoke next, the octaves of his voice raised, a mockery of you. “Well, Dean, I appreciate the offer, but my boyfriend is at home waiting for me.” Your eyes widened in fear and you tried pleading with him uselessly through the duct tape. “But funnily enough,” Dean’s voice return to normal. “I get here, and no boyfriend. Nothing more than a single bed. Not even a razor or extra toothbrush in the bathroom.” He released your hair, before holding a tight grip on your chin. “Which begs the question, my sweet, why did you lie?”

The duct tape was ripped from your face, and a pained squeal escaped your lips. “Please, don’t hurt me.”

A slap strikes across your face. “You’re avoiding the question.” His gravelly voice was stern, his eyes like daggers.

“It wasn’t anything personal - I don’t sleep with customers. I would lose my job. Please, you have to believe me.” His eyebrow cocked then.

“I see. So if I wasn’t a customer, you’d have come home with me?”

You began to stutter. “Well, no, I- that’s not what I-” A hand clamped around your throat.

“Are you lying to me again?” He screamed at you furiously. “Am I going to have to teach you a lesson about telling the truth?” Gasping for air, you tried to shake your head, tears rolling down your cheeks. The demon relaxed his grip on your throat ever so slightly. “My dear, if this arrangement is going to work at all, we’re going to have to teach you some real values. The first being honesty.” Confusion and fear flooded you. Wherever this was going, it wasn’t going to be good.

“What arrangement?” That earned you another strike across the face. “The second clearly being respect - learning to speak only when invited to.” Hand still firmly on your throat, Dean pushed you backwards a few steps until your knees connected with your sofa and you collapsed into the seat.

Dean rounded the sofa behind you out of sight, but you could still feel him close. “But not to worry, my sweet. We have plenty of time to teach you how to be a good girl for me, the perfect slut.”

At that moment, you opened your mouth to scream, but this time a damp cloth was clamped down on your nose and mouth. It only took seconds before you blacked out, just as you fell out of consciousness you heard those last words echo through your head: “I’ll keep you my dirty little secret.”

Chapter Two =>

#dean winchester #demon!dean #demon dean winchester #demon!dean x reader #demon!dean fanfiction #demon!dean smut #supernatural #supernatural fanfiction #spn #spn fanfic #dirty little secret #dean x reader #demon!dean x you #dean x you

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hermankopusortizorsumshite · 4 years

Text

Standing Outside of Heaven

@annluca Babygirl, here’s this. I hope this is all you dreamed. <3

WARNINGS: violence, gunshots

You’d been kidnapped and were currently sitting in a dungeon of a basement, the mildew smell burning your nostrils. Everything felt damp and you were so exhausted. You’d been taken almost two months ago, and the team hadn’t quit looking for you.

“No!” You hear a shout and it piques your interest. Listening carefully, as well as you could; you hear voices super muffled and you start to slam your arms against the bars, the metal handcuffs clanging and tinging, the echoing is deafening as you yell and scream.

“In here! I’m in here!” You cry, tears rolling down your cheeks. You didn’t care if you were dilusional. You could swear you heard voices near you and you knew your chance was now.

“Shut up!” Your captor barks, reaching down and busting your fingers with the butt of the pistol in his hand. As he took off the blindfold for the first time since being kidnapped in the daylight, you find yourself tucked into the corner of a wide open room. You could have sworn you were in a small damp basement, not an old abandoned warehouse.

“Hey! In here!” You hear a voice that almost sounded like Hondo. As the voice’s owner comes around the corner and stands across the room from you, maybe fifty yards away, you find yourself crying. “Luca, Street, this is Hondo. When you come in, don’t panic. Okay?” Hondo croons through his mic. When Deacon steps into the room, tears fill his eyes but he swallows the sadness.

“Holy shit.” Deacon murmurs, his eyes taking in the horrific sight that you are, lying almost dead on the floor. “Luca, Street, come in quietly.” Deacon calls, giving them the signal to join them in the room.

“Target located. I don’t have a clear shot.” Street mutters, the tears falling down his face as he sees you, his little sister, lying on the cold cement floor.

“You shoot me, I shoot her.” The man growls, jamming a gun toward you. Street doesn’t back down, finding a shot at the man.

“Listen dude. Me and Luca here, we just want to bring her in safe. I don’t really care if you leave man. But that girl you got, she’s our teammate. His girlfriend.” Hondo points to Luca who stands as strong as he can, quaking like a leaf.

“Well if the boy shoots, I shoot.” The perp barks back, shaking the gun at you. You lay on the floor, a small frown on your face.

“Holy shit.” You hear Chris and Tan murmur collectively.

“We’ve got a guy down here! We’ve got y/n down here. She’s in critical condition. Listen buddy, I know you like her. You want to keep her, but you can’t man. Not like this. If you don’t let us get her to a hospital she’ll die, do you want that?” Hondo reasons, reaching towards the man hoping to gain trust.

“I got a shot!” Street yells, and in the blink of an eye, Street’s gun fires and a second shot echoes.

“No!” Luca cries, sprinting for you.

“What?” Street breathes, his knees hitting the concrete with a thud. “No. No.”

“She’s going!” Luca screams, grabbing you against him and running for an ambulance anywhere.

“Luca!” Hondo shouts, trying to stop him. “Wait!”

“No! I’m not losing her! Her heart rate is dropping. Her heart is stopping!” He shouts, all but rolling you onto a stretcher. The EMTs start chest compressions and Luca bails into the ambulance. He watches the MedTechs work, willing himself to sit on his hands to keep from touching you.

“Sir, please don’t touch.” He didn’t even realize that his hands were migrating towards your body. Stuffing them under his thighs, he leans forward and puts pressure on his hands to keep them under him. Luca waits until she’s out at the hospital before disembarking the ambulance and sprinting beside the gurney as far as they’ll let him go.

“She’s gonna die isn’t she.” Luca murmurs, staring at the MedTech standing with him.

“Sir, it doesn’t look good.” The MedTech claps Luca on the shoulder before walking away.

“I should’ve ran faster.” He murmurs, heading for the waiting room.

“Family for y/n?” The doctor calls almost fifteen minutes later. The whole team stands and meets with the doctor. “I’m so sorry for your loss. We did everything we could to help her. The bullet was too close to her heart. We were able to pull the bullet out and patch the hole in her heart but it was too late. I’m so sorry.”

As you walk down a glowing white runway towards a golden glow, you find yourself breathing easier. Your feet carry you towards that glow.

Five yards.

3 yards.

1 yard.

2 feet.

You get within reach of the glowing golden door and grab the handle only to find that it sears your hand. Jumping back, you shake your hand look to see your palm is blistering but it doesn’t hurt.

“My sweet child, your child hasn’t been born yet, tell me how you’ve gotten here?” A voice booms from somewhere above her.

“My child?”

“Yes. How did you get here so early?” The voice asks.

“I got shot.”

“My child. Would you like to stay? Or go and experience the rest of your life?”

“Do I get Dominique Luca? If not, I’ll just stay.” You shrug, still inspecting the burn on your hand. The voice chuckles.

“Yes, my child. The Luca is your soulmate.”

“I’ll go back.” You whisper, tears filling your eyes.

Luca slams his fists into your chest, trying so hard to bring you back. You gasp, sitting straight up and stare at Luca with wide, tear filled eyes.

“Luca,” you whisper, pulling him against you.

“My baby.” He whispers, grabbing you up and hugging you tightly to him. Holding up your palm you look to find the sear marks on your hand and now your wrist as you further inspect.

“I met him.” You coo. Luca leans back to look at you.

“What?”

“I met him. He’s real. And we have a child together. I told him I wouldn’t come back if you weren’t my soulmate.” You give him an embarrassed smile.

“You’d rather be dead than live without me.” He laughs.

“Yeah, and he said you were my soulmate. But Luca, look. Look at this.” You hold out your arm and show him the paper white scars that now run up your arm and across your palm.

“Woah, what’s that?”

“I grabbed the door knob and it burnt me.”

“Woah, baby.” He coos, pulling you back into a warm hug. Your eyes drift to your brother who’s confused and shocked and tears-eyed.

“Street.” You coo, waving him over. He pulls you into him as Luca steps away and your arms tighten around his shoulders.

“I love you so much. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay. I’m here.”

“Baby, I love you.” Luca whispers, kissing your knuckles.

“I love you too.”

“Marry me.” He whispers.

“Yes.” You whisper back. He slides a small little ring onto your finger and you grin, tears filling your eyes.

#imagine #luca imagine #dominique luca imagine #dominique luca #luca #dominic luca #dominic luca imagine #streetssister!reader #luca!reader #dominique #dominic #SWAT #S.W.A.T #hondo #street #chris #tan #swat team #deacon

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lovely-little-whumpee · 4 years

Text

Yuliy Morrow - Auction

Okay I finally finished this chapter, I don’t know why it took so long, sorry.

Wordcount: 2.2k

Taglist (let me know if you want to be removed or added): @king-ivory @shigar4kifuck3r @whumphours @whumpzone

Cw: Drugging, human trafficking, non-consensual touching/manhandling, little bit of violence. Please let me know if I’ve missed anything.

Yuliy groaned as he started to regain consciousness, a pounding headache warning him early that it was probably best to go right back to sleep. He’d been getting ready to do just that, when he remembered the events that led to his hurt head -kidnapped-they-took-me-away-they-drugged-me- in the first place. He shot up, only to yelp in pain as his forehead connected with something metal. The headache only got worse, and he felt nausea building in his stomach, though he didn’t know if it were a result of the pain or whatever it was they drugged him with.

Swallowing back the bile Yuliy opened his eyes, catching the sight of a metal lid over top of him, and the metal bars surrounding his sides. He was in a cage, and a rather small one at that. Sitting up—this time being much more successful— he realized that he’d have to stay hunched over or curled in the fetal position to be able to fit inside the small prison. Where was he? Why had he been taken? He tried to remember the words the broad kidnapper had spoken over the phone, but everything was a blurry haze. He couldn’t even remember the faces of his assaulters.

He vaguely remembered the weeping woman, who in retrospect he shouldn’t have approached at all. Hindsight 20/20, Yuliy. Just as he began searching for a weak point in the cage, a door somewhere slammed open, and the lights to the room he was in flicked on. He flinched from the sudden noise and the flooding of the fluorescent lights, hating what they did to his head. He didn’t have the time to lament long before he was taking in as much as he could of his surroundings, what little he could see anyway. Because of the short height of the cage and the lid overtop, Yuliy could only see the bottom half of the room, if that. Still, he did his best to commit it to memory, not knowing whether or not it’d come in handy later on.

“Alright newbie, you’re a bit of a latecomer, so you’re the last one being sold out of this batch.” Wait, what? Yuliy was certain that he’d heard the words wrong, that his headache was making him imagine things. Sold? Him? Why? How?

His tongue sat heavy in his mouth, but he was eventually able to pry it open enough to speak. “Why… why am I here?” He asked, his voice sounding weak and hoarse, his throat dry and feeling like he’d swallowed sandpaper. How long had he been out? The man chuckled, and Yuliy could only see the man’s knees and below, and he doubted he’d see the other’s face for the time he was here.

“Aren’t you a dumb one,” the man snickered, kicking Yuliy’s cage lightly and causing him to flinch as it rocked. “I’ve just told you, have I not? You’re being sold to the highest bidder. With any luck, we’ll never meet again.” The man’s voice sounded so flippant, and Yuliy opened his mouth to yell at him. “And I suggest you don’t speak anymore, unless you want someone to have to come in and gag you,” he threatened. Yuliy decided to ignore him on the off chance that they were close enough to civilization that he’d be heard by someone outside.

“N-no! You can’t keep me here! People will— people are looking for me, right now probably! Just, just let me go!” He shouted, hating the fear in his voice and the way his words caught several times. The man outright laughed, having to take several moments to regain his composure, and Yuliy felt more of that budding fear begin worming its way up his chest.

“You think we didn’t do a little research on you before we grabbed you? You’re Yuliy Morrow, nineteen years old and no remaining family. You live in a rundown apartment in the shadier part of your town. The perfect catch.” Yuliy’s jaw fell slack as the man recited the facts about him, hating how quickly his odds were beginning to fall. “Sad to say this kid, but no one’s gonna look for you.” No, that wasn’t true, was it? Certainly his boss would look for him when he missed work on Monday, right? Maybe his professors would think he’d just dropped out, but perhaps his landlord would check in when he didn’t receive his monthly rent?

Would the trail be cold by the time someone realized he was missing?

Yuliy felt the nausea creeping up once more, and this time, he wasn’t able to swallow it down, and his back hunched from the force of the first retch. By the second, burning stomach acid wormed its way up his throat. By the third, the mouthfuls fell onto his clothes and the floor of the cage. By the fourth, the smell of it hit the air, causing him to cringe in repulsion and try not to retch again. He was unsuccessful, and by the time he was finished, he was gasping for air, his chest burning from the effort.

“Gross kid, I mean we were gonna clean you up anyway, but you didn’t need to go and make our jobs any harder.” Yuliy wanted to curse at the man, to tell him that it wasn’t his fault, and that if they hadn’t kidnapped him in the first place none of this would be happening. The words got caught in his throat though, what with him still heaving for breath an all.

Suddenly, the lid to the cage was pried back, and how hadn’t Yuliy noticed the extra pairs of feet in the room? The vomiting probably had something to do with it. Before he was able to take in anymore than that, Yuliy’s head was wrenched back so hard that he could feel several strands of his hair loosen. A blindfold was then yanked over his eyes -it's-dark-I-can’t-see-what-are-they-going-to-do-to-me- and tied so tightly he groaned from the pain. His world went dark and he wasn’t able to balance properly, though he didn’t know if it was because of the general sluggishness he was feeling or because he wasn’t able to see.

It didn’t matter to the strangers though, as they simply dragged him somewhere for several minutes. Without being able to see anything, Yuliy tried to rely on his other instincts, but he wasn’t practiced in doing so, and really was only able to hear shoes slapping against tile. What did they plan on doing to him? “Please… please just let me go,” he whispered, knowing that his chances were slim but still wanting to try anyway. Even having a one percent chance of getting out of his situation was better than none. Predictably, he hadn’t been answered at all, and he whimpered softly as the hopelessness of his situation continued to crash down on him.

When they finally came to a stop, Yuliy could hardly tell up from down, much less how long they’d been walking or what type of room he was in. He was let go of by one of the bodyguards, but the other grabbed his wrists painfully and cuffed them. Yuliy tried to pull them back to his chest as a layer of protection between him and the invisible man, but a loud clanking sound and thud stopped him. “W-what?” He mumbled, trying to wrap his hands around the object in which his hands were tied to. It felt like a simple metal pole, rather thin but sturdy, as evidenced by it not moving a single inch no matter how hard Yuliy tugged on it.

He only stopped his tugging when he felt hands pulling at his clothes, and then the unmistakable sounding of cutting fabric. He panicked, trying to jerk away but only managing a couple of inches because of the handcuffs. “Get off me! Don’t touch me!” He yelled at the top of his lungs, kicking out blindly but never being able to connect to anything. Without successfully being able to fend off the attacker, Yuliy’s shirt was eventually cut off. Despite his shouting and protests, his jeans were eventually cut off too. He could feel tears forming behind the blindfold because of the invasion -They’re-touching-me-stop-I-don’t-want-you-to-why-are-you-doing-this- and he yelped as the cold air hit his skin, causing the fine hairs on his body to raise.

A gag was suddenly shoved inside his mouth, tied behind his head before he could comprehend much more than what it was. Belatedly he realized that it must’ve been a piece of cloth cut from his clothing. Someone then fisted the hem of his boxers -please-please-don’t-why-can’t-you-just-leave-them- before cutting them off in one smooth motion and in the sudden onslaught of panic and his hyperventilating, Yuliy didn’t realize he’d fallen to the ground, curling in on himself to protect the barest parts of him. The man didn’t care though, and Yuliy heard the turning of a faucet before he was sprayed with a powerful stream of water that was sure to leave bruises.

They hosed him down like he was nothing more than an object, and when they’d finally finished, Yuliy was shaking and sobbing quietly. Something soft was then thrown at him, hitting him in the chest before falling on top of his legs. He’d flinched, having not known what it was before, but now he was simply confused.

“Put it on.” It wasn’t the same man from before speaking, and Yuliy burned in shame and embarrassment at how many people were seeing him so vulnerable, so -naked-they-took-all-my-clothes-and-hosed-me-down-they-all-saw-me-they-still-see-me-naked-they’re-looking-at-me- bare. It took several long minutes— filled with his quiet sniffling and blind fumblings— to find out that it was a pair of boxers they’d thrown at him. He quickly pulled them on, uncomfortable at how well they fit, like they’d known his size beforehand. Still, he wasn’t going to just not wear them. Any covering was better than none.

He was hauled to his feet, and his hands were uncuffed and re-cuffed behind his back. Though he tried to resist, even digging his feet into the concrete, he was still dragged along to another room. Little noises involuntarily bubbled up his throat, but with the gag most of them were almost completely muffled.

Despite being blindfolded, the route they were going down seemed familiar in its length and the amount of turns. Yuliy knew that they were probably throwing him into the same room as earlier for convenience sake. He knew he was right when he was forced into the -too-small-I-can’t-move- cage as before, the metal cold and wet, like they’d hosed it down as they did him. “They show his pictures and information to the crowd yet?” One guard asked another, and Yuliy listened as intently as he could. They were showing people his pictures? What pictures? Had they taken them while he’d been unconscious?

“Yeah, boss said they already started bidding and everything. Say he might be the highest sell tonight.”

“Thank fuck, I’m trying to get home.” Yeah me too, Yuliy thought, but he couldn’t say anything with the gag. With his hands tied behind him, he couldn’t really shift to get comfortable, and his shoulder dug painfully into the hard metal where he lay. Less than before, but still noticeable was the drug that must’ve still been in Yuliy’s system. Either that, or the blindfold was really messing with his perception of time, as it seemed to by quickly after that— which was the opposite of what he wanted.

Eventually enough, the same door as before slammed open, and Yuliy flinched from the noise. “Alright get him prepped for our dear client here.” It was the man from earlier, the one who’d made the initial threat of gagging him. He hadn’t even realized the man had left. Was he the boss the guards were talking about?

The man’s words then dawned on him as he was violently pulled out of the cage, his arm feeling as though it were going to be pulled out of its socket. He screamed and kicked, shouting the words “no”, “stop”, and “please”, most of it muffled and garbled, but the meaning was clear all the same. With his struggling, he managed to get a few hits on the two guards trying to wrestle him down, and then there was a strange limbo where he was suddenly weightless and floating, before gravity came back and he was slammed against the concrete floor, his head cracking painfully on top of it. Oh, that was gonna concuss.

His blindfold slipped up a bit just as he felt the needle pierce his neck with an awful feeling of deja vu. When he glanced over, he saw two men standing by the door, although he didn’t know who was the boss and who was the customer. Which one held his life in their hands? “Alright Bram, he should be out long enough for you to get him home. If you’d like a refund, be sure to contact us within a week, or else it will be void.” The man named Bram didn’t look like he’d heard the other at all though, his eyes never moving from Yuliy.

Bram leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed, looking like he owned the place instead of just being a customer. He smirked before he began speaking, eyes boring into Yuliy’s, “Silly pet, you weren’t supposed to see my face yet.”

Oh.

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#whump #pet whump #manhandling #human trafficking #whumpee #Yuliy Morrow #i'm in here whump series #drugging #dehumanization #this is such a mess yikes #whump writing #my writing #we finally get a peek at the whumper #Bram Caddel #emeto

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desire-to-write-fanfic · 4 years

Text

Blindsided-Part 7

A/N: It has been 2 YEARS since I updated this pic. Two freaking years. I’m not even sure if the people who enjoyed it are still invested, but I am determined to finish this series this time. I hope you enjoy!

Steve hadn’t gone back home after going to a bar last night.

Nat and Tony had both called you to ask if he was at your place when they realized he wasn’t at HQ.

And then he was late. Steve was never late.

You sat on the training mat in the gym, gripping your coffee and scrolling through missions when he made his appearance, stuffing his clothes from yesterday into his duffel.

You glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. You refused to let him know you’d been worried something bad had happened to him, but after three unanswered texts in which you’d been left on-read, you’d stopped bugging him.

“Good night?” you asked casually, sipping your coffee.

He dropped his bag on the bench with a thud, wrapping his hands with tape. “Not in the way you’re implying.”

You held up a hand to ward off any attack, heaving yourself to your feet. “I wasn’t implying anything.” you finished your coffee, setting the mug on the other end of the bench as he turned to face you.

He set his hands on his hips, staring you down with those intense blue eyes. “Yes, you were.”

You shrugged. “You were gone all night. What you did isn’t my business.”

And it wasn’t.

You didn’t care.

That was a lie. You did care, even though you shouldn’t have.

Your feelings were like a tornado and you couldn’t make sense of them. This jealousy at the possibility he spent the night with a woman was ridiculous. Not only had you just ended your engagement, but you’d also agreed to go on a date with Pietro, so you shouldn’t have been thinking of Steve that way at all.

“Y/N, did you hear me?” He probed impatiently and your head whipped up.

“I’m sorry, what?” you asked, meeting his gaze.

“I stayed at Sam’s place,” he replaced the roll he was using on his hands back in his bag and sat down lightly on the bench, his fingers curling over the edge.

“Is this because I agreed to go on a date with Pietro?” you asked, hugging yourself lightly. “I know you see him every day and if it’s too weird for you two, then tell me. I don’t want to make anything awkward.”

He shook his head, his hair falling into his eyes until he brushed it back, retaping his left hand. “That had nothing to do with you and everything to do with me,” he sighed.

“So it is because I told Pietro I’d go on a date with him?” you asked, staring down at your empty coffee mug like it was the most interesting thing you’d ever seen.

“Yes.” your head snapped up as he continued, dragging his hand over his face. “No. I don’t know,” he mumbled, his words muffled by his palm. “Things are complicated.” his jaw snapped together as he stood, zipping up his bag aggressively.

“How?” you pressed, crossing your arms.

“You’re my best friend, Y/N.” He slammed his bag onto the floor and you flinched at the violent action. “It can’t be more than that. I told you I wouldn’t lose you, and I meant that.” He sighed raggedly. “I’m gonna go hit the bag. You don't need to spar with me,” he muttered, brushing past you.

You stood there, dumbfounded, unsure what to do or say.

So you did nothing.

~~~~~~~~

Several days passed, and Steve still kept you at arm’s length.

Men could be so incredibly frustrating, and it turned out super soldiers were no exceptions. Pietro had called and texted you some, but you’d yet to go on an actual date. Although you still had plans to go out for dinner on Friday, so it was still happening, angry, moody Steve, or not.

You sighed inwardly. Tony was having a pool party at his mansion to celebrate his engagement to Pepper, and although Steve had offered to drive you, the car ride was still filled with awkward, insufferable silence. You had no clue how to fix it, but mainly because the stubborn man wouldn’t tell you what you’d done wrong in the first place.

He’d made it perfectly clear he didn’t want any romantic relationship, and frankly, you didn’t think you were ready for more. You’d already begun to regret saying yes to Pietro, but what could one date hurt?

You arrived at the tower and took a deep breath. So much had changed since the last time you’d been here. Then, you’d been blindly happy and engaged. Steve got out of the car, and you followed, more awkward silence stretching between the two of you. Normally, it was a comfortable silence, but now it felt like he was building an invisible wall to block you out.

You followed him to the massive backyard, a gust of wind pushing your hair into your eyes. “Hey, there you guys are!” Pietro waved from a nearby lawn chair. He grabbed two beers from the cooler and jogged over to meet you. He only wore a pair of navy board shorts slung low on his lean hips, and dark sunglasses hid his eyes, although nothing could hide his blinding smile. A twinge of guilt shot through you that his smile did nothing to you, but it wasn’t…..

You shook your head to clear the thought away as Steve strode away, not waiting for Pietro to reach the two of you. He held a beer out and you smiled, taking a sip. It wasn’t your favorite, but it was the thought that counted, right?

“How’ve you been?” he asked, pushing his sunglasses up further on his head. You shrugged. “Busy, honestly. I’m super behind on my reports,” you admitted.

He nodded, and after a moment's silence, laughed. “It’s really hot. I’m gonna get back in the pool. You wanna come?” he tossed his thumb over his shoulder at the crystal blue water.

“Sure,” you smiled, grateful for something to break the quiet. You stripped off your tank top and shorts and tossed them onto the nearest lawn chair, having worn your black and white bikini underneath.

Tony’s friend, James Rhodes, occupied one of the lawn chairs as you followed Pietro, and he looked up at you from his phone. “Hey, Y/N, right?” he asked.

You nodded. You hadn’t seen James Rhodes since the disaster last New Year’s. He’d been absent when Brett and Steve got into a fight, but he’d caught you and Brett in a hallway on his way back from the bathroom. Brett had been shouting at you, making everything out to be your fault, and you’d stood there, mute, as you took his verbal assault. James interrupted, cutting Brett down with quick, sharp words. Brett didn’t yell again that night.

“How’ve you been?” he questioned. “Where’s…?” he paused, waiting for you to fill in the blank.

“Fucking someone else,” you replied, taking another sip of your beer. At this point, you didn’t even care anymore.

James winced. “Sorry?”

Your lips quirked into a half-smile. “You said that like a question.” He paused, seeming to search for the right words. “He didn’t seem very nice,” he shrugged.

“Yeah, I’m glad it’s over.” It was the first time you’d said the words out loud and you felt a stirring in your heart at the truth in them. You were better off without him. Bigger and better things were headed your way and when the time was right, you would fall in love again. For real this time.

“I’m happy to hear that,” he smiled. “Hey,” Pietro pulled your attention away. “You ready?” he asked.

You set down your beer, nodding, and followed him to the pool. Stepping into the cool water felt amazing and you let out a breathy sigh as Pietro forgoed the steps, diving into the water.

He swished his wet hair from his eyes upon surfacing, and swam over, grinning. “Some party, huh?” he asked, looking around.

“Tony likes to go all out,” you agreed, scanning the decorations and guests as you swam over to the nearest wall, kicking out your legs behind you. Pietro joined you, mimicking your position.

“How was your mission?” you asked, squinting in the sunlight. He stretched his palms out on the concrete, and you noted the callouses on his hands. Steve had similar ones. They came from all the fighting. You’d asked if they hurt once, and he said it looked worse than it felt.

“Fun,” he grinned. You chose not to comment, stories of what Pietro did after those missions were common, and most included him taking a local girl to his hotel.

“I wish I could’ve gone with you guys,” you muttered, still slightly irritated your team had been sat out.

“Next time,” he winked, his arm bumping into yours as he drew closer. You opened your mouth to respond, the sounds quickly turning into a scream when someone cannonballed into the pool behind you, drenching your upper body. You turned, ready to go off when Steve surfaced between you and Pietro. “Steve?” you asked incredulously. “What the hell are you doing?”

He shook his head, water droplets flying. “I was hot, so I'm cooling off.”

You’d never wanted to punch him so bad before. You glared, tongue working behind your closed mouth as you tried to form words. “You’re starting to piss me off,” you finally hissed. With an apologetic smile in Pietro’s direction, you pulled yourself out of the pool, ringing your hair out.

You headed for the side of the house, needing a moment to collect yourself before you hit your best friend. His odd behavior the past few days, combined with what had just happened, was more than enough to make you angry.

You’d barely rounded the house when a warm hand caught your elbow. Tiny chills broke out along your spine and you knew who it would be standing there before you turned around.

“Let me go,” You jerked your arm away and he did. You stared at Steve, letting him feel the anger radiating from you. His hair dripped water along his chest, and you followed a bead down his stomach to his red board shorts that hung dangerously low on his hips, disappearing along the trail of dark hair beneath his belly button.

“What are you doing?” you snapped, hugging yourself. “Because you’re being an ass.” He glanced down, having the decency to look ashamed. He ran his hands over his face, letting out a small groan. “I don’t know,” he admitted.

“No. You can't tell me that you don’t want anything more than a friendship and then start acting like a dog marking his territory when I decide to date someone else. This is my life, Steve. Figure out how you want to be in it.” you snapped, staring him down, daring him to try and argue. “I have been going through a lot, especially recently, and I shouldn’t have to be worried about my best friend hating me for trying to put my life back together.”

He nodded, sweeping his hair back. “I know, I’m sorry.”

“Listen, I can talk to Tony and see if he can reassign me to a new team. I’ll be out of your way and things won’t be so tense between us anymore.” you offered. Working with him seemed like it was only aggravating the situation.

“No, don’t.” he protested, shaking his head. “That’s not necessary and I don’t want to derail your career. I’ll get my act together, I promise.”

You hesitated, studying his expression before you softened. Steve had yet to break a promise to you. “I believe you.”

Relief flooded his face and he took a deep breath, offering you a small smile. “Can we just forget the past few days?” he asked. You returned his smile and nodded and he visibly relaxed. He reached forward and tugged you into a hug and you melted against him, feeling the stress of the situation melt away.

“I’m sorry again,” he murmured against your hair. You opened your mouth to respond when a cough surprised you both and you pulled away, Pietro standing awkwardly behind Steve. “I thought I’d make sure you two weren’t trying to claw one another’s eyes out, but it seems like that’s not necessary.” he smiled tightly, looking between you and Steve.

You lifted your hands and wiggled your fingers jokingly. “No claws here, see?” After a moment Pietro relaxed, returning your smile and you breathed a silent sigh of relief. You’d just cleared up the tension, you didn’t need more.

“Shall we?” you asked Pietro, stepping forward to walk with him back towards the pool, his hand landing on the small of your back as you walked. You stole a glance back at Steve, his hands on his hips as he looked at the ground.

He lifted his head slightly, catching your eye and you quickly looked away, focusing instead on what Pietro was telling you, but that brief look from Steve had revealed much more than he’d said and the ache inside you seemed to grow stronger.

#blindsided #Steve Rogers #steve x reader #captain america #captain america fanfic #captain america fanfiction #captain america x reader #marvel fic #marvel fanfiction #marvel #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers fanfiction #my writing

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marlinspirkhall · 3 years

Text

Tomorrow Never Comes, Chapter 01: “Play Me”

For Non-AO3 Readers. Originally published on AO3. Written for the 2020 Star Trek Halloween Bang.

Artist: @idealisticcatastasis

Content warnings: Graphic Descriptions Of Violence, Other Archive Warnings May Apply.

Chapter 1 Word Count: 5,719 words

[Front Cover] [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2]

There’s a groan. Jim shifts, ever so slightly, and the overhead lights flicker on. The room is flooded instantly by a bright, neon green, as if every surface has been covered in ectoplasm from an old horror movie. He’s leaning against something hard, and he pulls away from it with a groan.

It’s a metal bathtub, set into the floor. Above him is a shower head, rusted with age, and the wall is in a similar state of disrepair.

He catches a glimpse of something on the floor. A streak of maroon runs round the outer edge of the tub, trails to the ground, covers the floor in a patch around his feet- and yet, there’s not a drop of it on him. He shifts, tentatively, and it flecks off the metal floor. Whatever it is, it’s been further discoloured by the lights overhead, and it takes him a moment to process it. Not brown, he realises. Red.

Something stirs his stomach. Most of it is darker, dried, but the puddle around him is only half-congealed.

He leans forwards, and grimaces. In the center of the bath, a message is scrawled in blood:

“Play me”.

A long, jagged arrow points to the center of the bath. Tangled in a mess of frayed wires is a single screen, slightly larger than a PADD. Dried fingerprints. For a split second, Jim considers showing his discovery to the others, but the moment passes.

He reaches over, and turns it on. It crackles to life. A video is already queued, and it plays automatically. He fumbles with the screen, almost drops it, because- the person on the recording- is him. He looks different on the recording, though. The saturation of green, washing him out; the strange way he watches the camera. An almost alien confidence.

“Now, I know what you’re thinking,” the recording says, with a smile. “You don’t remember making this video. But, I assure you; you did.” He glances away for a moment, somewhere offscreen, and his voice softens. “It should be safe- he never comes in here.” He straightens up, and turns back to the camera. “But, I’m getting ahead of myself.”

Jim frowns as the figure on-screen reaches for something unseen.

“Now, don’t panic,” says the recording. “I want you to remain completely calm.” There’s a glint of metal.

His eyes widen.

“Everything is going to be alright,” the recording says. He holds a hand out, flat, and raises the other. In one, quick motion, he brings the axe down. Thud. A wet, tumbling sound. A muffled moan, and a hiss. The sound distorts further as the camera is knocked to the floor, pointing up at the ceiling, and the screen is flooded by the bright, overpowering green.

Scuffling. A grunt of pain, then relief. The video shakes, and continues to tremble as the angle shifts, spins, and suddenly steadies. Jim notes the space where the trail of bloodstains ends. When he was recording, he must have placed it on the end of the bath.

His recorded-self blinks, and exhales shakily. His right hand is now wrapped in a towel; soaked through quickly by blood.

Jim stares down at his own hands. There’s not a scratch on them, and he still has all ten digits.

Past-Jim exhales, his face drawn with pain, and gives him a shaky smile. “Now that I have your attention,” he says, “Let’s start at the beginning.”

[INSERT: IMAGE: “Divider green knife”]

On the outskirts of Mars Colony Alpha is a large, concrete complex no-one discusses. A majority of the structure is buried beneath the surface, untold levels stretching beneath the dirt. Somewhere on the ground floor, James Kirk is onto his third book of the day. For the most part, he measures the days in books, and not the even, unbroken schedule of the guards.

The gymnasium is about the size of an indoor tennis court, claustrophobic walls painted shades of beige and grey which don’t quite agree with each other. The tops of the walls are set with small glass observation windows, the glass tinted just enough that you can’t be sure when someone’s watching you.

Some of the other inmates have formed small cliques, and Jim is reminded uncannily of high school. For his part, he keeps to himself, and takes up a space by one of the rowing machines. He’s so accustomed to ignoring the watchful gaze of the guards that it’s easy to pretend he doesn’t see the eyes across the room, studying him.

At lunch, it’s the same. He eats quickly, and keeps one eye on his stalker. He’s certain he hasn’t seen him before. Judging from the eyebrows, he could be Romulan, though it’s impossible to tell for certain, as his ears are hidden by long, dark hair. Still, Jim thinks, it’d be unusual to keep a prisoner of war on this level; most of the people here are ex-starfleet.

On the way out of the dining hall, he doubles back on himself, and slams into the man. He grunts, and Jim keeps walking, until he has him backed into a wall.

“Why are you following me?” He hisses.

The man tilts his head and stares down at him serenely, his dark eyes glittering. His hair goes just past his shoulders, and has a slightly silky quality. Up close, he can see that the man lacks the forehead ridges typical of Romulans- it’s far more likely that he’s a Vulcan. Jim slumps a little, his grip growing slack, but the man doesn’t move a muscle.

“Hey!” A guard yells.

Jim releases him with a blink, and turns on his heel.

Footsteps follow him down the corridor.

“That was not an invitation to continue,” Jim says over his shoulder.

“I assumed you wanted an answer.”

“Well, you know…” He walks faster. “A little mystery brightens my day.”

“In that case, I apologise in advance for depriving you of your entertainment.” The man keeps astride of him easily, and Jim grits his teeth.

“Don’t worry, you get used to it around here.”

“Mm. A man of your talents must get bored easily.”

The corridor splits in two, and Jim takes the left path. “And which talents would those be?”

The man raises an eyebrow. “Your skill for decoding.”

“I’m flattered,” he laughs, “Though, that’s not what the academy called it.”

“Indeed. The academy had remarkably low tolerance for practical jokes.”

Jim slows. “Well, that all depends on the effectiveness of the joke.”

“Yes. Or, how well you cover your tracks.”

Jim snorts. “Well… Hypothetically speaking, of course-” he lowers his voice. “Why would you come to me? I wouldn’t be here if I was any good at that.”

“To respond in terms which are equally hypothetical- it is not a mistake you are likely to make again.”

“Ah; I get it-” a guard passes them in the corridor, and Jim gives them a cheery smile. “You want me to join the prison’s cipher team.”

The man nods. “That is correct. Though, the latest series of-” another guard passes- “Recreational puzzles would be presented to us in Klingon.”

Jim shrugs. “It’s possible, but I’d suggest a xenolinguist, instead.”

“Our search is limited to the confines of the prison-”

“Of course,” Jim gives him a searching smile. “You are an inmate, after all.”

“I always endeavour to remain discreet.”

“Oh; that’s a useful skill,” he comments, as they climb the steps to the dorm areas. “You’ll have to teach me some time.”

“If you’d like.” They climb the rest of the stairway in silence. At the top, the man lowers his voice. “It is unfortunate, when the government which incarcerates you falls.”

“And why’s that?” Jim breathes.

He quirks an eyebrow. “There’s no one left to overturn the ruling.”

“That’s true,” Jim murmurs, and heads for his door. “But I’ve only got three months left, and then I’m out of here-”

The man blocks his path. “Or, you could get out of here tonight.” He tilts his head a little, studying Jim intensely.

“What?” The corner of his mouth twitches. “With you and the cipher team?”

The man gives the slightest nod, and Jim considers it for a moment. It’s almost tempting. But, ultimately, whether he gets out today or tomorrow, there’s not much waiting for him outside.

He steps around him with an awkward smile. “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you-” he pushes the door open, and steps inside. “But it seems that rumours of my intelligence have been greatly exaggerated.”

The man remains silent, yet there’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes.

“… Though, I’m still smart enough to do this.” Jim says in a breathy whisper, as he swings the door shut.

At evening’s meal, Jim once again feels a pair of eyes on him, and pays firm attention to his plate. The main structure of the meal greatly resembles beets, and- if he concentrates enough- almost tastes like it. Still, his attention is split, and, when he next glances up, the man is no longer there.

He frowns, and spears one of the roots.

And sees something from the corner of his eye.

He sits bolt upright, sliding backwards along the bench with a prologued glare at his unexpected visitor. The man is back; watching him with unsettling intensity.

“You move fast,” Jim grumbles, and quickly stuffs his mouth to excuse himself from conversation.

“Yes.” Not completely without manners, he remains standing; his hands behind his back in a posture which looks strangely familiar. It hits him suddenly, and he tilts his head at the man. At ease, he thinks, with a reluctant nod to the seat opposite.

He sits.

Jim swallows, and lowers his fork. “Let me guess,” he says, dully. “Your cipher team’s still one person short.”

The man nods, his face carefully neutral. “Our team leader will be disappointed.”

Something stirs in Jim’s stomach, and it’s not just dubious beets. “And… What happens then?”

The man almost smiles. “You need not concern yourself with it.”

“Uh huh.” Jim tries to remind himself to stay out of it. “But you didn’t come here to make small talk.”

“No.”

“You’re here to try and persuade me again.”

He blinks at him. A silent question.

“You’re going to tell me to

The man inclines his head. “I sound convincing so far.”

“I-” Jim laughs. “Son of a bitch.” He sits back in his seat. “That’s been your tactic all along,” he realises. “You were going to get me to talk myself into it.”

"It is not a tactic. You simply anticipated my arguments before I could state them.”

“And, if I hadn’t done that?”

He considers for a moment. “I would have attempted to make you see the logic in joining me.”

“Right,” Jim straightens up in his chair a bit. “You are a Vulcan, after all.”

The man holds his gaze for a moment, then raises an eyebrow. “Is that enough to persuade you?”

Jim smirks. “Maybe. But you know more about me than I do about you- I don’t even know your name.”

“Spock.”

“Jim. But; you knew that.” He smiles, and sets his hands on the table with a slap. “How many people are on your... Cipher team?” The cafeteria is busy enough that they could talk openly, but Jim enjoys the slow-blinks Spock gives him when faced with unexpected information.

“Two,” he says, finally.

Jim stares at him. He studies his expression for a trace of the humour he saw before, but, apparently, the man is deadly serious.

Jim leans forward. “Granted, I don’t know the nature of the puzzles you’re dealing with, but-” he lowers his voice “- That doesn’t sound like nearly enough.”

“You will only be present for part of the operation.”

“Alright. So how many people are involved in the entire operation?”

“That is a discreet matter.”

“As, I suppose, is the question of who you’re working for.”

Spock nods.

“Discreet.” Jim repeats, as he gives him an unsubtle once-over. “And they sent... You?”

“I am capable of remaining inconspicuous,” Spock says, with the slightest smile.

“Maybe so, but that doesn’t mean people won’t notice you.”

Spock frowns. “To what are you referring?”

Jim smiles, coyly. “I’m afraid that’s a discreet matter.”

Spock stares at the table for a moment, expression unreadable.

“You want to know if you can trust me,” he says, finally.

“Yes.”

“You can’t.”

Jim gives an amused huff. “That’s not a very convincing argument.”

“Nevertheless, it is the truth.”

“I get it. You prove your honesty, I trust you, I leave with you.”

“I am not attempting to manipulate you; I am simply running out of time.”

Jim frowns.

Spock’s hands shift slightly under the table. “My partner, Leland, is breaking me out tonight- me, and the best hacker I can find.”

Jim sits back “And, to think: I thought you chose me specially.”

A breathy, almost-laugh. “He did.”

“I’m flattered.”

He watches Jim. “I…” He jerks his head. “Was not supposed to offer you a choice in the matter.”

“… Less flattered,” Jim murmurs, as his eyes dart to Spock’s hands.

Spock’s mouth twitches, and he lays them flat on the table. “I have no weapons.,” he assures him.

Jim lets out a breath. “Do you need any?”

“Well-”

The cafeteria is plunged into pitch darkness. A murmur reverberates around them, and someone yells. Jim grabs at the table with one hand, and reaches into his pocket with the other. He searches for the familiar, smooth blade handle.

It’s not there. His heart pounds faster. It’s in my quarters, he realises, trying to stave off a blind panic.

After a moment, the emergency lights flicker on: a bright, unrelenting red.

Spock tenses, his face bathed in the light, and he stares at Jim helplessly.

“It’s okay,” Jim places a hand on his arm. “It’s just a power cut.”

“No; it’s not.” Spock stands, suddenly, and surveys the hall. His grip is tight on the back of the chair. “It’s Leland. Stay here.”

He takes a step forwards. Chair legs scrape as Jim scrambles to his feet. “Where are you going?” He hisses.

Spock fixes him with a look. “To stop him from killing anyone.”

“What-?”

“Return to your rooms!” Bellows a guard.

Jim turns, but Spock has already disappeared. Cursing, he hurries in the direction he left, being buffeted between the crowd. He weaves his way down the corridor, and the lights begin to flicker overhead. He curses, and moves faster.

The lights fail as he’s half-way up the stairs, and he grips the handrail for support. The only source of light which remains are strips of bioluminescent paint which line the floor, tingeing everything in a faint blue-green. He stumbles to the top of the stairs. The few people who had returned to their cells wander out again, muttering amongst themselves, and the guards are nowhere to be seen. Jim reaches his room, out of breath, and leans against the wall, gasping.

He should just stay here. He should just lie on his bed, and wait for the situation to be resolved. Instead, he reaches into his mattress, and retrieves the small, fold-out knife. He runs his fingers over the handle for a moment, and then slips it into the pocket of his jumpsuit.

Downstairs, Jim skims his hand along the wall, to help navigate the pockets of darkness. The material is unusually coarse, like concrete with too many air bubbles trapped inside it, and there’s a scream up ahead. Heart pounding, he begins to move a little faster, passing the usually-secure area around the turbolift. Three inmates are clustered around it: two humans and an Andorian, bickering amongst themselves as they attempt to rewire the lock.

There’s shouting up ahead.

A guard stumbles into view, shouldering a phaser rifle. Jim freezes- but their attention is elsewhere, staring at something unseen. A yell echoes down the corridor, and it’s lit up by a flash of red, then blue, as the guard falls to the floor.

Jim grits his teeth, and he pokes his head round the corner.

The corridor is covered in debris, flakes of plaster and brick which used to be the exterior wall. At the other end of the corridor, guards and escapees are firing at each other indiscriminately, and Jim doesn’t stick around long enough to find out if the weapons are set for stun. He simply retrieves a flashlight from the fallen guard, and slips through the gap in the wall, out into the self-contained atmosphere of the prison dome.

Outside, an alarm blares. His nose wrinkles. The air is thinner here, and slightly metallic. Recycled. He begins to walk uphill, figuring that the slight incline will help him find Spock- if that’s still his goal. Still, he doesn’t see how he’s going to make it much further without him.

Still moving, he cranes his neck upwards. In the darkness, it’s hard to tell- the flashlight beam won’t reach that far- but he can just make out a large hole in the glass above him.

As if someone has smashed their way in.

The gap has been sealed by the self-repair protocol: a thick layer of fast-drying plastiform. He picks up the pace, pointing his flashlight at the ground as he comes over the crest of the hill-

A runs bang-slap into the side of a dark grey shuttle.

“Drop the weapon!” A voice growls behind him.

Jim blinks, and steps back from the metal surface. “No… It’s just a flashlight,” he stammers.

Something is pressed to the back of his head. The barrel of a phaser.

“Then drop the flashlight,” the voice growls. “A phaser blast at this range… That’s not something you come back from.”

The flashlight slips from his hands, and his heart pounds. He turns his head slowly.

“Don’t move.”

In the glare of the shuttle lights, Jim can’t see much, but he can just make out a pair of eyes, staring him down.

“Leland-?” Jim realises, as something hard crashes into the back of his head, and he crumples to the ground.

Jim wakes up at the back of the shuttle, lying on one of the stiff benches Starfleet was fond of calling ‘beds’. His head throbs, and he pushes himself up on his elbows with a slight groan. “What…?”

As he sits up, a thin blanket tumbles from his shoulders, and he feels immediately colder. Spock sits in one of the seats facing him, his gaze fixed on the wall, and Leland sits in the pilot’s seat. Jim stares at the back of his head, eyes bleary. He has short, dark brown hair, and a dark grey uniform.

Leland turns to him, and Jim spots a dark Starfleet badge on the front of his shirt. He throws Spock a questioning look, but he keeps his eyes fixed straight ahead, his lips pursed.

Leland smiles. “Hey, Jimbo-”

“It’s Jim.”

“- James,” Leland waves a hand. “I’m sorry about pointing a phaser at you back there.”

Jim gives him an awkward nod. “It’s… fine. But-” He rubs the back of his head. “You do know those things have a stun setting, right?”

Leland smiles. “Well; I had no idea who you were.” He glances at Spock. “Tell him.”

Spock looks up. “He had no idea who you were,” he says, robotically.

“… It’s okay.” Jim glances between them, trying to work out the shift in the atmosphere while still nursing a headache.

“It’s not okay!” Leland insists. “We’re a team now, so we’ve got to trust each other.”

Jim closes his eyes. “Yeah, sounds good,” He murmurs. He leans his head back against the wall.

“Really?” Leland asks. “Because you don’t sound that enthusiastic.”

“I’m just-”

Leland snaps his fingers twice. “Spock?”

“You don’t sound that enthusiastic,” Spock says, dutifully.

“Alright,” Jim exhales, and glowers at him. “It’s just: if we’re a team, then I’d prefer to know who I’m working with. I mean; you can’t be Starfleet.”

Leland turns back to the viewscreen, and fixes his gaze on space.

“Or, maybe you could tell me what we’re doing-?”

“Relax. I’ll tell you the specifics when you get there.”

“But-”

Leland begins to hum to himself, and Jim’s gaze flicks to Spock. He, too, remains silent.

He surveys the shuttle. There are about six seats in total- seven if you count the bench- and everything is a dark grey. Whoever designed the interior was a utilitarian, not an artist.

There’s a pile of clothes at the back of the shuttle, and Jim notes that Spock, too, has changed into what appears to be a modified Starfleet uniform. He doesn’t recognise the badge, and wonders if they can really have gone through such an extensive redesign in six months. It’s sleek, all-black, identical to the one Leland is wearing. The last he’d heard, Starfleet didn’t even exist anymore.

He rifles through the pile of clothes at the back of the shuttle, and changes into a pair of jeans and a red plaid jacket, feeling immediately warmer. As he swaps out the grey jumpsuit, he removes the knife from it, and slips it into his jeans pocket instead. Spock watches this without comment, but quickly looks away when Jim meets his eyes

Jim studies the tense way that Spock holds himself. His hands are tucked away, arms folded just a little too tight across his chest. The shuttle’s internal temperature is probably only programmed to account for human standards, and he knows Vulcans are accustomed to warmer temperatures. Wordlessly, he reaches for the fallen blanket, and holds it out to him. Spock stiffens, and fixes his eyes on it. He doesn’t seem to want to make the first move. Jim leans forwards, and drapes the blanket over his shoulders in one smooth motion.

Jim drifts off. When he next wakes up, the ship is orbiting a purple-blue planet covered in rivers and forests. The readout says it’s M-Class, but it appears to be deserted- no civilisation of any kind, with the exception of one, very faint, signal.

“What is this planet?” Jim asks.

Leland barely looks up. “Heirin.”

“I’ve never heard of it.”

“You wouldn’t have. This is Klingon space.” He nods to something out of the port window. “There’s an outpost on that moon which monitors most of the traffic in this system.”

Jim looks up sharply. “And they just let us wander in?”

“The magnetic disturbance from the asteroid belt on the other side of the system should have masked our signatures. Besides; they’re not on the look out for a little ship like this.”

Jim searches the skies in the direction indicated. “Let me guess; this is going to be our little hacking project?”

Leland gives him a look. “We want you to shut down the outpost via remote link. Heirin is just going to be our base of operations.” He grins, and sets the shuttle on a landing path on the night-side of the planet. Jim watches the tops of the purple-leaved trees get closer, and

“And, when the Klingons find out about it?” Jim asks.

“Relax. It’ll be a long time before they can find someone brave enough to investigate.”

Jim folds his arms. “Klingons aren’t famous for their cowardice.”

“No, they’re not,” Leland hums. “But, for this planet, they’d make an exception.”

The shuttle continues to descend, flying over the purple-leaved trees and passing over vast swathes of pink fields. They cross over a wide river, flying low over a forest which looks distinctly greener than the others they’ve passed so far. Up ahead, a tall structure rises from the trees.

It’s three three stories tall, and made mostly of dark metal. A gap in the center suggests that part of the building has since fallen away. They land in a clearing, to the right of it. Jim steps out of the shuttle, and surveys it from this new angle, as Leland and Spock unload a case of supplies from the back.

“Where’s the server room?” Jim asks.

Leland arches an eyebrow. “You don’t need to see it yet. Relax a little.”

“Right… but you do have one, right? This place looks pretty broken down, and I can’t hack a Klingon outpost from this distance with your shuttle alone, no matter how high-tech it is.”

Leland stares at him for a moment, his expression suddenly sombre. “If I told you where it was, what’s to stop you from shooting me?”

Jim gives a little huff of laughter. “I can think of many reasons, Leland, but number one would be: I don’t even have a phaser.”

Leland laughs in return. “Yeah?” He hands him one. “Well, you do now.”

Jim stares down at his hands in surprise as Leland begins to move towards the stronghold, whistling.

‘What the fuck is wrong with him?’ Jim mouths, but Spock only stares at him.

“Cosy,” Jim comments, as he hauls the first crate into the central hall. Everything about the stronghold speaks to Klingon architecture, but the interior has clearly been redecorated by humans. Large rugs and carpets cover sections of the floor. A wide sofa and two arm chairs sit on one side of the room, with a dining table on the other side.

He prises the top off one of the crates, and peers inside. It contains numerous phaser power-packs. “I don’t think we’ll be needing all of these,” he says, with a nod to the far wall.

An innumerable collection of weapons adorn them, of Terran and Klingon origin. They’re assembled with seemingly little order, hung at irregular intervals by nails hammered into the wall. Five bat’leth’s, a crossbow with a laser, and a gin'tak spear. There are others, too- Romulan, Andorian- things he can’t quite place.

“Whoever was here left in a hurry,” Jim says.

“Or, they never left at all.” Spock says quietly.

On the opposite wall is a large fireplace, comprised of neat, pink stone. The Mantelpiece almost looks like granite, although it’s much smoother. The material is probably local. A single staircase stands to the left of the fireplace, ascending through to the next level. The dining table sits to the left of this, just in front of the windows.

Jim wanders through a set of glass doors, and out onto the balcony.

A Veranda wraps around the second level of the stronghold, seemingly an afterthought: unlike the rest of the building, it is fashioned from a pale, beige wood. It doesn’t resemble any of the trees he’s seen on the planet so far, and he wonders if it’s been imported. He could almost believe it was built by humans, but the pillars follow the trappings of Klingon architecture: angular, wooden supports, slotted into reinforced bases. Still, it could all have been done in an attempt to mimic the existing styles. The one anomaly is a single, spiral staircase just off the center of the platform.

He keeps walking until he gets to the end of the allotted area. There’s a second, smaller communal area attached to the Veranda, fashioned from the same imported wood. Tattered banners adorn the walls, a dusky red: The emblem of the Klingon empire. Three triangular spikes jut out of a ring of white, and Jim stares at the symbol, rooted to the spot, realising for the first time that he’s deep in enemy territory.

In front of the flags is an alcove, which someone has evidently attempted to make comfortable by adding flimsy red cushions. Still, if this was intended as a place to sleep, he can’t imagine it would suffice, because, despite all its comforts- and the ceiling overhead- it is still, technically, exposed to the elements.

There are more pillars laid out in front of the alcoves. As he goes further into the area, his eyes widen, and he stops walking.

“Leland?” He calls over his shoulder.

There are footsteps as Leland approaches, and surveys the carnage in silence.

Blood stains the base of the pillar, some red, some magenta, and the cushions have been scratched up. There are places where the furnishings have been ripped away entirely, and one of the cushions is a deeper red than the others; a carpet placed over a strategic place on the floor. A single blade lies on one of the scuffed-up cushions. It’s Klingon: the blade is shaped like an arrow, with a decorative line cut out of the center. A d’k tahg.

Leland approaches it with interest, and Jim spies a bloody handprint on the wall.

“I thought you said The Klingons never came here,” Jim breathes.

“Worried?” Leland grins, and reaches for the discarded d'k tahg. He twirls it between his fingers before adding it to his belt, a glint in his eye. “Don’t worry; by the time we catch their attention, you’ll be gone.” He claps him on the shoulder, and moves back along the balcony. Jim breathes shallowly, the feeling of foreboding intensifying.

They return to the shuttle via the spiral staircase, and finish unloading the supplies. Everything comes in unmarked boxes, but Jim assumes that the rest of this must be food- although, if anyone is the type to pack more ammunition than food, it’s Leland.

Jim leans on a crate. “You still haven’t told us what this place is, exactly.”

Leland shrugs. “I thought it was self-evident: An abandoned Klingon stronghold.”

“But why is it abandoned? They can’t have forgotten about it,” he says, with a nod to the pylon on the roof.

Leland grins. “The Klingon’s know about it, but they avoid this planet like the plague. There are a lot of… Superstitions attached to this place,” he says, cryptically.

“What; are you going to tell us a scary story?” Jim folds his arms.

Leland smiles. “I might. But you’d need to gather some firewood... Scary stories are best told around a campfire.”

Jim hesitates, and thinks of the nice, warm-looking fireplace in the cabin. Still, he wouldn’t mind the chance to explore- and to get away from Leland for a while.

“Fine.”

Spock stands stiffly, perhaps from the cold, and Leland turns to him. “Go with him, Spock. Make sure he doesn’t get… Lost.”

Jim spreads his arms wide. “It’s a big planet. Where am I gonna go?” He bellows over his shoulder. His voice echoes off the trees.

The bark of the trees here are tall and green, and he’s reminded, suddenly, of the moss back on Earth. The thought is accompanied by a familiar gut-punch, so he instead focuses on the plant life which surrounds them. The trees are surprisingly thin, despite their great height. He’s so busy craning his neck that he stumbles on something hard. He braces himself on a nearby tree, and Spock comes to a sudden stop behind him. The rock he tripped on is covered in a thin layer of bioluminescent fungus. The mushroom itself is a bright, sickly shade of green, though the light that it emits is more pleasant, soft lime.

Behind him, Spock shuffles restlessly, so Jim steps to the side. They make fleeting eye-contact as Spock takes the lead, treading a path through the untouched undergrowth. Though he’d never admit it, Jim feels a small thrill of adventure. He remembers the days when he wanted to join Starfleet; the promise of exploring the unknown too tempting to resist- before The Unknown came to kick their ass.

Jim watches the back of Spock’s head, and wonders what’s going on in there. The man he’d met on Mars Colony and the man in the shuttle were two very different people, which he’d initially blamed on Leland’s influence. Still, there’s something unsettling about Spock’s continued silence.

“So, tell me,” Jim says. “Why were you in that prison? Leland couldn’t do his own dirty work?”

Spock barely glances at him. “He would have been recognised.”

“I’m sure.” Jim trots alongside him. “But, you being in there- that wasn’t just a cover, was it?” He studies Spock’s profile as they walk, trying to work out how close he is to the truth.

A cyan light shines off Spock’s face, and still, he says nothing.

“C’mon,” Jim swipes a branch out of the way. “A guy like you should have made Captain in what, five years, maybe six?”

Twigs snap underfoot.

“That was your goal, was it not?” Spock says, finally. “To become the youngest Captain in Starfleet history, on a bet?”

Jim straightens up a little. “How did you know-?”

“-And the reason you thought it necessary to cheat on The Kobayashi Maru.” He raises a brow pointedly, and sets off towards the woods at a fast march.

Jim slides on loose stones as he hurries after him. “You knew Captain Pike,” he realises.

“Yes.”

“So, it wasn’t your aspirations which landed you here. A mistake, then?” A branch catches in Spock’s hair, and ricochets back into Jim’s face. “Ow!” He hisses.

Spock glances back. “A mistake.”

Jim glowers at the back of his head, and rubs his jaw. “I’ll say,” he mutters.

“Perhaps-” Spock halts without warning “-We are both here for reasons outside our control.”

Jim rubs his nose.

“- As you said earlier; it is a big planet.” Spock turns to him. “Big enough that it is not entirely inconceivable that you could make it back to the shuttle without Leland’s notice.”

Jim blinks at him. “I’d need the keys for that,” he says, finally.

“You would,” Spock says, neutrally. “And you would find them, in my pocket.”

“I wouldn’t get very far.”

“Perhaps. But, the treatment Klingons give their prisoners is likely to be kinder than Leland’s.” He turns to keep walking, but Jim grabs his elbow.

“And, what; you want me to strand you here with him?”

“Preferably not. But, whoever leaves will have a greater chance of escape as long as the other keeps him distracted.”

“Then- why not you?”

“I am responsible for bringing you here.”

He chuckles softly. “Perhaps. But I chose to come. And I’m not leaving without you.”

His eyes dart to him. “Then you are a fool.”

Jim grins. “And I thought it was obvious.”

[Front Cover] [chapter 1] [Chapter 2]

#star trek fic #tomorrow never comes #spirk fic #spirk #star trek aos

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winchester-fantasies · 4 years

Text

Broken - Part 5

Broken Masterlist

Summary: You’re angry and hurting after you turned Dean away, but your broken heart leads you to make decisions with devastating consequences.

Word Count: 1527

Warnings: angst, tension, angry Dean, angry reader, hurt reader, danger to reader, show level violence, death, swearing

Pairing: Dean x Female!Reader

Winchester Fantasies’ Masterlist

You stared out the window as you and the boys drove down the highway, pasture and the occasional tree zipping past. Sam had finally come back with help from the diner, and Dean had eventually come back, too, but now a heavy silence pervaded the vehicle, coupled with tension. You turned to look towards the front of the Impala; Dean sat rigidly as he stared straight ahead, hands gripping the steering wheel so hard, his knuckles were white. Sam was just as silent, daring glances at his older brother. He didn’t know what had happened between you and Dean, and he never asked, for which you were grateful for. You didn’t want to have to explain everything.

Tears pricked the backs of your eyes followed closely by anger coursing through your veins. You knew Dean was upset, and you hated the thought that it was you that had caused it. But you were also upset that he didn’t seem to be able to see how much he had used you - how much he had given you hope time and time again, only to dash it. Your heart was tattered and smarting and you were more than a little hurt that Dean didn’t even seem to care.

You were brought out of your thoughts as Dean slowed the Impala, turning onto a secluded and worn path. The sunlight dimmed as you drove further, the foliage thickening and the sky disappearing behind the trees.

Soon Dean rounded another corner, this time coming to a stop as an abandoned and dilapidated factory came into view a few yards away. You sat still for a few moments, silently scouting out the place, looking for any unseen threat before you reached down to the floorboards, grabbing your machete and opening the back door of the Impala. You jumped out, slamming the door harder than you’d intended before stalking towards the barn, only darting a glance at the boys’ shocked expressions before continuing on, ignoring Sam’s warning to stop and wait for him and Dean.

A vamp stepped out from behind a broken down semi, baring its teeth as you approached, but you barely gave it a glance before leaning your arm back and swiping your machete through the air, the blade slicing through the vamp’s neck, its head rolling past as you continued your path towards the factory.

You could hear Sam’s deep and concerned voice behind you as he and Dean hurried to catch up, but you didn’t stop, instead reaching the old and gigantic metal doors, gripping one of the handles and pulling it open with one forceful jerk. You stepped inside, ears straining and eyes peeled for any danger.

You were thankful for your quick reflexes as a vamp came out of nowhere, lunging your way. You quickly sidestepped it, swiping its head off a few seconds later. You pressed onward, taking down another four before reaching the back of the factory, stacks of unopened wooden crates lining the wall. A small door stood on your right while a long hallway was to your left, winding before veering again to the right.

You could hear Sam and Dean’s footsteps on the dirty concrete floor as they approached and you suddenly turned, taking the hallway. You knew you were being stupid and reckless; you wouldn’t normally act this way if it were just a run of the mill hunt. Which in all reality, it was just a run of the mill hunt. But you were pissed and hurting, and those two together clouded your mind, making you only see red.

You walked stealthily down the long corridor, hugging the walls. You paused for a moment as you neared the end, listening carefully before peeking around the corner. Finding the rest of the hallway empty, you rounded the corner.

The boys’ footsteps had long since faded, and you figured they had decided to check out the room you’d decided to ignore. Normally you would have been hesitant to be alone, especially in a hunt involving a nest, but it was as if all fear had left your mind, leaving only bloodlust. But you weren’t really complaining. It felt good to be taking on everything alone. It reminded you that you could handle yourself. You were better off alone; you didn’t need anybody. Especially Dean.

You stopped as you came to the end of the corridor, another room in front of you, a plastic curtain the only thing preventing you from entering. You swiped the back of your hand across your sweaty brow before looking back down the way you’d come before turning back to face the curtain. You took a deep breath before pushing through the heavy plastic and stepping into the other room.

It was empty except for a few boxes and heavy loading equipment. You breathed a sigh of relief as you leaned forward, your hands on your thighs. You were about to straighten back up and head back to the front of the factory to let Sam and Dean know you’d cleared out this half of the factory when you were suddenly grabbed from behind. You screamed, the sound reverberating off the brick walls before a strong hand was thrown over your mouth, stifling the rest of your voice. You raised your hand, fully intent on going after whoever or whatever had grabbed you with your machete, but your movement was cut off as it was knocked out of your hand so hard you gasped behind the hand still clasped over your mouth. Pain shot up your wrist as the hand that had knocked the machete out of your hand gripped your thrashing hand. Real fear washed over you, and you could only hope Sam and Dean had heard your scream before it was cut off.

“For a hunter, you’re real stupid,” the man behind you growled, and you shivered as you felt him bury his head in your neck, sniffing. You tensed and leaned away from him as you felt his teeth graze the skin of your neck and you prayed to whoever was listening that the boys would get there in time. “But I’m not complaining,” the vamp said lowly. “Not when you smell so fucking delicious….”

Something akin to desperation came over you and you leaned forward slightly before heaving yourself backwards, the back of your head connecting with the vampire’s forehead with a loud crack. He cried out, loosening his grip on you just enough to allow you to jerk out of his grasp.

You reached down for your machete, but it was swiftly kicked away. You didn’t have time to react before the vamp once again grabbed you, this time lifting your off the floor with inhuman strength and hurling you towards the wall, your body slamming into the brick with a dull and heavy thud.

You crumpled to the floor in a heap, your body screaming and breath knocked out of your lungs. The room spun and your hearing was muffled as you tried to gain your bearings.

You were vaguely aware of running footsteps and the outline of someone entering the room before there was a scuffle, the vamp falling to the ground a few moments later.

You turned your head just as Dean ran over, falling to his knees beside you, his eyes filled with panic. “Oh, fuck…. (Y/N),” he breathed, his hands hovering over your battered body as if afraid to touch you as his eyes roved over you.

You reached up, taking his hand in yours, drawing his eyes back up to yours. You smiled reassuringly, giving his hand a squeeze. “I’m fine,” you wheezed. You coughed, the sound wet and labored. You felt a warmth oozing out of the corner of your mouth and you swallowed hard, the metallic taste of blood settling thickly on your tongue.

Dean’s eyes were wide and filled with terror as he stared down at you as if unsure of just what to do. “I’m okay,” you reassured him again, although you were almost sure you were uttering your last words.

Your eyes grew heavy as weariness washed over you and you closed your eyes, willing the pain in your body to subside.

“(Y/N)! Sweetheart!” Dean said, an urgency in his tone. “Don’t close your eyes. Look at me, baby, look at me.”

You felt his arm come under your head as he pulled you into his arms. You opened your eyes, vision blurry as he reached up to brush a strand of hair off your brow. “Please don’t leave me, baby,” he begged. “Please don’t. I can’t lose you, too.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but instead of words a gurgle met your ears, followed by a fresh trail of blood. You could feel your lungs filling with fluid and you knew it was only a matter of time before you heaved your last breath. “D...Dean,” you said, your voice a gasped whisper. He leaned forward, his face only inches from your own. “I...I lo…” you stuttered, willing your mouth to speak the words of your heart. But you never got the chance as everything went black.

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

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Tags:

Everything:

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@weepingwillowphoenix @akshi8278 @thesuicidalflower @adoptdontshoppets

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@roonyxx @deans-baby-momma @fandoms-fiend @my-proof-is-you @vicmc624 @spnfamily-j2 @tiggytaylor @youaremyfiveever @multi-fan-lover

#dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x female!reader #dean x reader #dean winchester angst #supernatural fanfiction #dean winchester #supernatural #spn #supernatural fanfiction series #broken

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