#chastises you for startling him because he's holding a knife | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

slasherhaven · 3 years

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HI, I discover your blog and i really love it. i dont know if youre already done it but could you do how the slasher would react to dreaming about they killed their s/o and wake up finding his s/o peacefully asleep next to them? im pretty curious (and sorry for my english :,3)

The Slashers having a dream were they kill you:

Thomas Hewitt

It was horrible and he woke up feeling sick.

In the dream you had been terrified of him, pleading with him to let you go, but you didn’t seem to recognise him. He didn’t recognise you either, you were just the next victim in the basement. Just a job. He woke up just as his dream self killed you.

He panicked, suddenly terrified of losing you, needing to see you.

But there you were, where you always were at night, practically laying on his chest, sleeping peacefully. You even had a small smile on your face. Nothing like in the dream.

He didn’t want to wake you, he knew it was just a dream but it had really shaken him. So, he just wrapped his arms around you tighter, holding you close and refusing to let go as he buried his face into your hair.

He loved you so much, he didn’t want you to get hurt, and the thought of being the thing that hurt you killed him inside.

“Tommy, are you alright?” you asked quietly, barely even awake. Still, it made him jump a little, he didn’t mean to wake you.

He just nodded, making you smile to yourself as you cuddled up to him some more, placing a light kiss on his chest before falling back to sleep.

Michael Myers

He hadn’t even realised it was a dream at first, he was stalking a house like he usually did, targeting the person inside. But then he realised that the house was his own, the one he now shared with you, and the victim inside was you. That didn’t seem to stop him though, he found his way into the house, taking you by surprise and driving his knife into your stomach.

You had looked up at him with wide eyes, hands clutching his arms. “Michael?” you sounded scared, betrayed...it wasn’t an image he would soon forget.

But then he woke up, finding himself in your shared bedroom, looking up at the ceiling of the dimly lit room.

It felt so...real...

He sat up and looked down at your place on the bed, finding you sleeping peacefully, unaware of the inner turmoil he was feeling. He did not like this feeling.

Killing somebody had never once left a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach but this did. If he killed you, you would be gone forever, and that was something that unsettled him more than he would like to admit.

You were sleeping deeply, so he luckily didn’t wake you up. He didn’t want to have to explain himself to you if you found him laying back down, shifting closer, and wrapping an arm around you, holding your body closer to his. He focused on your breathing and your warmth.

Maybe he was only just realising it but now, for once, he had something to lose.

Jason Voorhees

The dream was horrible. The scream, the blood, your limp body. You had been so afraid, so afraid of him, and he had killed you mercilessly, something he couldn’t even consider doing in reality. You had screamed before choking as the machete hit you. Jason had lowered you to the ground, your hand raising and leaving a bloody handprint on his mask before falling limp, the light leaving your eyes. You were gone...

And that was when Jason woke up, eyes wide and panicked.

The first thing he did was look for you, reaching out to touch you. Finding you sleeping soundly in his embrace.

You were here, alive and happy. Sleeping by his side, completely unafraid of him.

He didn’t want to wake you, he just wanted to hold you. So, he did.

He couldn’t help but tear up as he held you. It had all felt so real, for a moment he really thought he had lost you and it was painful, it had broken his heart before he realised that none of it was real. He wouldn’t be able to get that vision out of his head, of him stained in your blood...

You would wake up the next morning held in a tight embrace with Jason’s face buried in your hair, refusing to let you go.

Brahms Heelshire

In the dream, you had been busy and he was having a tantrum. You tried to shush him while getting on with the work you needed to do, but you kept denying him, ignoring him, telling him to give you a moment. Then you shouted at him. And then there was blood...so much blood. One moment Brahms had stabbed you, the next he was trying to stop the bleeding, begging you to stop. He couldn’t stop it, and he saw you die.

He woke up, shooting up straight in the bed, breathing heavily with tears in his eyes.

He was absolutely panicked. He hadn’t done that right? No, he couldn’t do that!

Frantically looking around, he saw you sleeping beside him, having clearly been disturbed by his sudden movement.

You woke up a little, sleepily asking if he was okay. He swallowed the lump in his throat before laying back down, cuddling up to you, holding you like his own personal teddy bear.

“I’m sorry, Y/n. I wouldn’t ever hurt you. I’ll be good” Brahms promised you, the pain obvious in his voice.

“Of course you wouldn’t, Brahms. You’re a good boy. Why are you saying these things?” you asked but he just buried his face into the crook of your neck. “Bad dream?” you asked and he nodded. You sighed before petting his hair, slowly lulling him back to sleep before joining him.

The next day he would be on his absolute best behaviour, he couldn’t do enough for you. He would also be extra clingy, not letting you out of his sight for a moment.

Bo Sinclair

Bo had his fair share of bad dreams, he just wasn’t very open about them, but you knew. This dream was different though, it wasn’t about his childhood, it was of present day. He was taunting you as you begged him to let you go, promising to do whatever he wanted, asking him why he was doing this. But he only laughed at you, not caring, all before killing you. Watching the life leave your eyes as you reached out to hold onto him, your hand wrapping tightly around his wrist as you feel to the ground.

Bo woke up suddenly with an uncomfortable feeling in his chest. It was a dream, he reminded himself, chastising himself for being so pathetic.

Then he felt you shift beside him, moving closer and getting his attention. Bo looked down at you and slowly felt that feeling in his chest fade, replaced by warmth.

You were alive and well, and sleeping peacefully right beside him.

He wrapped his arm around you, letting you cuddle up to him some more.

He wasn’t going to wake you up because he didn’t was to share the dream with you, not just yet anyway.

For now, he was quite happy to just lay with you and hopefully get some more sleep.

Vincent Sinclair

Everything had happened so fast in the dream. A new group of victims had come into town and Bo had sent him after them. He did, as he always did, finally catching up to the last victim, stabbing them, killing them. Only then did he realise that it was you, looking up at him in horror, your blood coating his hands.

Vincent woke up breathing heavily, eye wide as he tried to ground himself back in reality.

He instantly looked to you, gradually calming down as he watched your body rise and fall with steady breaths.

He didn’t want to wake you up or disturb you, he just needed some comfort.

He carefully shifted closer to you, wrapping an arm around you and pressing his chest to your back, nuzzling his face against your hair.

He felt a tear threatening to fall and he just allowed it, as long as he was quiet as to not wake you.

All he wanted right now was to hold you and calm down. Everything would be alright in the morning, he knew that.

Lester Sinclair

Lester had a bad dream every now and again, just like everyone else, but they had mostly stopped since you started sharing a bed with him. Tonight seemed to be an exception. Lester never did the killing, he brought the victims to the brothers. This was no different. He had taken you into town, handed you right over to the twins, even when you begged him not too, both of you knowing what your fate would be. As Bo walked you away, followed by Vincent, you had looked back at Lester, begging him one more time, a look of complete betrayal and heartbreak on your face.

Lester startled awake, breathing heavily and sweating slightly.

His sudden movement woke you up, making you roll over to face him, rubbing your face sleepily. “Lester? You okay?”

“Y-yeah, just a bad dream...you’re okay, right?” Lester assured you, looking over you as if checking for any injuries.

“Of course I am” you frowned slightly, confused by his question. But he seemed to relax then, joining you in bed again.

“Good...good” Lester sighed as he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you towards him as he buried his face into the crook of your neck. You just wrapped your arms around him and held him as the two of you fell back to sleep.

Bubba Sawyer

It had been an accident in the dream. He was chasing down an intruder, chasing them through the house, nothing too new. He thought that he had caught up with them, dealing with them using his chainsaw...but once the chaos was over, he saw you laying on the floor, your blood pooling around you.

Bubba woke up, instantly panicked and searching for you. But he found you sleeping with a content smile on your face right beside him.

He quickly moved closer, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you against his chest in a tight embrace.

The movement woke you up but you knew it was Bubba so you just happily moved closer and cuddled into him.

“You okay, Bubs?” you asked and he nodded, letting out a few concerned coos. “Bad dream?” he nodded again.

You lifted your head, kissing his cheek, silently assuring him that everything was alright, before cuddling up to him again. Falling asleep in his arms.

Billy Lenz

Bad dreams weren’t new to Billy but this one was. He was walking through the house and he had a knife in his hand, he had a destination in him, a victim was waiting for him. He slowly pushed the bedroom door open before stepping in, the slither of light illuminating your sleeping face. He moved over to you, raising the blade above his head before forcing it down into your chest.

Then he woke up with a gasp, eyes wide and frantic as he sat up.

The suddenness waking you up slightly. You asked if he was alright, altering him that you were alright.

“Bad dream” Billy murmured as he returned to you, tangling his limps with yours and clinging to you. “Billy wouldn’t hurt you. Billy loves you” he mumbled.

“Did you hurt me in the dream?” you asked softly and he hesitantly nodded. “It’s okay, Billy. I know you wouldn’t hurt me in real life. I love you too” you kissed the top of his head, feeling him hold onto you a little tighter before trying to get some more sleep, you joining him.

Asa Emory (The Collector)

For Asa, bad dreams usually related to his childhood, not anything from his present life. Sometimes he would dream about his crimes but he wouldn’t call them bad dreams, he was very neutral on them. This...even he couldn’t feel neutral about what he was dreaming about right now. Of hurting you, not even making it quick, drawing your pain out before finally doing you the mercy of killing you.

As soon as he wakes up, he steadies his breathing and focuses himself.

It was a dream, nothing more.

But that didn’t change the sense of contentment he felt when he looked down to see you sleeping, arm around his waist and head on his chest. A perfect reminder that it really was just a dream, that you were still here, and he wasn’t going to hurt you.

He wrapped his arm around you some more, just holding you more securely without waking you up. He wasn’t going to discuss this with you, not right now anyway.

Jesse Cromeans (Chromeskull)

In the dream, it was like you were just another victim. He had subdued you but you were still away, tears staining your face as you pleaded with him to show mercy. He just took the camera off of his shoulder and zoomed in on your terrified face, he was enjoying it. He soon put the camera back in place before pulling out his knife.

Your piercing scream of agony rang through his mind as he woke up, greeted by the ceiling of his bedroom.

He turned his head to the side, seeing you sleeping beside him. Perfectly well and unharmed, your arm resting over his waist.

You were alright, you were safe. He would never hurt you.

Jesse wrapped his arm around you, gently pulling you closer to him.

It was just a dream, he was well aware of that, and knew not to let it effect him too much. Still, the thought of hurting you made him cringe.

That would never happen, he would protect you, he promised himself that.

Otis Driftwood

It was a violent dream that unsettled him more than he cared to admit. Just him carrying out his true nature but on you instead of a victim he couldn’t care less about. You had cried, pleaded, tried to get through to him, but he didn’t stop, he didn’t care. And then, you were dead. He had killed you, your blood staining his hands and clothes.

Otis is pretty used to disturbing dreams, they rarely bothered him, but this one definitely did.

He woke up, instantly focusing on you. How your head was resting on his chest and your legs was draped over his hips. Very much alive, not a spot of blood on you, perfectly content.

He never thought that somebody outside of the family could have such an effect on him. That somebody’s loss could...scare him so much.

His arm remained around you as he made himself more comfortable, causing you to shift closer as well, letting out a quiet, sleepy hum.

He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, nearly chastising the fond feeling he felt when you smiled in your sleep.

Baby Firefly

Gory dreams never bothered her, they couldn’t be any worse than reality, in fact she wouldn’t consider them nightmares at all. This though, this was certainly a nightmare. You were bleeding, crying, and in pain, but she was just giggling, being the person hurting you. And, just like that, you were dead and her giggling stopped, a look of worry spreading over her face.

She woke up, running a hand over her face and brushing off the dream. It was just a dream, you were alright.

There you were, sleeping right beside her. She knew that, she was looking at you.

Still, she shifted into a more comfortable position, brushing your hair out of your face and beginning to scatter kisses over your face.

She wasn’t going to mention the dream right now, it was silly. She just wanted to hear you wake up giggling at her playful attack.

Yautja (Predator)

Dreams weren’t all that common for him, at least not like this one. Even in teh dream it was an accident, him forgetting how fragile you were compared to Yautjas. And it cost him everything.

He woke up just as you died in the dream, leaving him with a sickening feeling.

But when he felt you shift, making him relax.

You were curled up on his chest, sleeping peacefully, just like you did every night.

He purred soothingly as he gently combed his clawed fingers through your hair, purring some more when you smiled and nuzzled into him.

You trusted him. Trusted that he wouldn’t hurt you, that he wouldn’t let anything like that dream happen. He just had to trust himself, and he could do that.

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sunsukuna · 3 years

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— (call me by my name, and i’ll call yours). pt. i

☞ gojo x fem!reader. rated m. tw in tags. ☞ wc: 2959.

Gojo Satoru is a thief.

As evident by the notably empty container resting atop the cool and dark granite counters of your kitchen.

You didn’t cook often. There’s never really time, with your profession, for that. Cooking is a commodity turned luxury. Along with other basics like sleeping, sleeping restfully, sleeping in your own bed, sex, and sleeping.

You’re rarely home; your kitchen, along with most of your small studio, is kept fairly bare. Nothing in the fridge aside from a couple of water bottles. Nothing on your counters aside from sparsely used glass jars where you keep sugars, flours, and other dry ingredients. Nothing inside your cabinets except a few plates, bowls, cups, and a handful of your favorite spices. And nothing in your drawers besides enough eating utensils for a maximum of two people.

When you do have the time to cook, you prefer to savor the experience. The most substantial chunk of your time is spent contemplating flavors, textures, and smells—along with considering options for accompanying wines and desserts and hunting for fresh ingredients. Last night’s meal had been a tender salmon filet, picked from the nearest seafood market, baked and drizzled with tangy lemon and sweet honey. You had peppered with a dash of your most loved dried red peppers and served it with a plentiful side of vegetables. The recipe you put together turned out to your liking, even more so when you realized you had enough left to enjoy it again for lunch today.

Yet, here you are. Standing alone in your apartment, eyes unmoving from the plastic container, sans your fucking food, that was supposed to be neatly tucked away in your fridge.

Eyes still on the container, you wordlessly reach into your back pocket to grab your cellphone.

“Hey, Siri,” you say, jaw clenched and shoulders taut with tension. “Call ‘That Gojo Fucker.’”

Gojo is suspiciously quick to answer to your call, the phone not even ringing before his voice is blaring through your speakers.

He greets you cheerfully, almost singing your name and then humming a quick, “How can I help you, darling?”

His voice, laced with mirth and mischief, is enough to make your skin crawl and your gut twist with anxiety.

At his best, you consider Gojo to be a likable nuisance. You’ve know the ocean eyed curse user for a little over a decade, his presence constant even during the more tumultuous stages of both of your lives. He had managed to surprise you early in your friendship with his loyalty and earnest demeanor. Seemingly flighty by nature, Gojo Satoru holds unwavering dedication to the select few he chooses to accept into his life. Though occasionally rash and more often than not self absorbed, Gojo is a friend you’re thankful burrowed his way into your life.

But at his worst—you imagine him on the other end of your phone with an irritatingly familiar grin on his face, a smile stretched wide with ill-placed excitement—Gojo is just a nuisance.

“I told you not to call me weird names,” you chastise. “You ate my food, Gojo. Again.”

There’s a beat of silence followed by muffled sounds you can’t fully distinguish. The sound of fabric (ah, maybe clothes?) rustling and unintelligible whispers coming from a surprisingly dainty voice you’re not sure you recognize. And then—did he just mute himself?

“I’m not sure I know what you mean,” he finally responds after another moment.

“We’ve already discussed this,” you continue, choosing to ignore the fact that he’s very obviously in the middle something he doesn’t want you to hear. “You’re not even supposed to be in my apartment when I’m not here, and I—”

“Darling, how am I supposed to know when you’re home if you never answer my calls?”

“Enough with the pet names,” you scold quickly, your voice overlapping his. “And that’s literally not the point.”

“You never respond to my texts either,” Gojo continues as if you hadn’t spoken. “You respond to nerd-Nanami’s texts.” His tone matter-of-fact.

You can feel a migraine taking root, sprouting a dull ache between your brows. The urge to hang up is tempting as you consider ordering take out.

“Kento only texts me about work.”

A startled and undignified squeak tumbles from your mouth when a thunderous boom bounces through the speakers of your phone and straight to your eardrum. You hastily pull your phone away from your ear and decide it would be safer to put the call on speakerphone.

“What are you doing?” You nearly yell while your right hand tenderly massages your ear. “Are you on a mission?”

Your questions are followed by another wave of deafening silence. He’s muted his mic again, causing your forehead to scrunch in confusion. Gojo shouldn’t be on a mission today. A frown falls upon your lips. He’s supposed to be taking a day off.

“Gojo, you’ve gotta stop working during your time off. You’re going to go bald early,” you sigh, shoulders slumping as tension is released.

Another beat of silence trails behind your voice before you decide to hang up. Ordering delivery is starting to sound better and better as you start rustling though the drawer in your kitchen dedicated to local take away restaurants you adore. It won’t bring you the same satisfaction as a home cooked meal—your eyes shift to the empty food container once again as a sharp pain settles in your stomach—but it’s better than nothing.

“…”

Your brain is fast to process the unexpected sound behind you, just a few steps away, as being undeniably familiar. It’s the voice of a friend, you realize, who’s just called you by your given name. A name you covet so fiercely you’ve only shared it with a humble group of three. But your body reacts faster than your mind, a kitchen knife is in your hands and sent whistling out of your hands before your heart beats twice. You throw it with practiced ease and precision. Enough force to injure but not to kill.

A second knife is in your hand not a breath later as you turn to face your intruder, prepared to thoroughly mince whoever had the misplaced gall to break into your home. You have to force yourself not to scream when you find the first knife you threw frozen in the air in front of an ashen haired fiend fashioning a devilish grin staring at you.

“Gojo,” you seethe, your brain catching up. Your words tumble out in mess of curses and shaky breathes. “What the fuck is wrong with you? I told you to stop fucking teleporting into my home, you slimy bastard.”

The impulse to throw the second knife isn’t lost on you, but you decide to toss it to the counter, abandoning the urge, knowing it wouldn’t make contact with your target.

“I really, really don't like when you do that, Gojo! It’s goddamn bad enough when I’m not here; it’s a complete invasion of privacy,” your voice is shrill at this point, vexing to your own ears, but you keep going. “But I really fucking hate when you sneak up on me, Gojo! It’s so—”

“Gojo this, Gojo that,” he interrupts your tirade, lazily pulling the knife you’d thrown out of the air and placing it on the counter. “Never Satoru, but always Kento. You know, darling, you’re kind of a brat.”

For the second time today, a feeling of confusion washes over you.

“I—w-what?” You reply a bit dumbly, your anger quickly replaced by growing bewilderment.

“You’re a brat,” he repeats simply. His voice is low, hushed, and ladened with unnerving apathy that causes you to bristle. You’ve heard this tone before—calculated and deceptively passive—but you can’t recall a single time he’s directed it at you.

Gojo takes a few steps forward, long legs quickly closing the already small distance and caging you between him and the countertop. His proximity is making you unusually nervous. His closeness makes your skin itch and your mouth dry. A new fluttering of anxiety bubbles in your gut, climbing the walls of your rib cage and nestling itself beneath your chest where you can feel heart thumping faster than you’d like.

You’ve been close to Gojo before. Your initial aversion to being touched by others dissolved entirely after years of missions and training sessions that have placed you in unavoidable positions. Gojo, especially, isn’t a bother after becoming accustomed to his incessantly grabby hands and roaming fingers that often found themselves lingering on your waist, squeezing your shoulders, tracing the patterns on your wrists, or laced between the waves of your hair.

Gojo’s touch, above anyone else, is one which you are well acquainted. And yet, in this moment, you realize you’re terrified for him to touch you.

You feel like running when you catch his crystalline eyes peering down at you, his midnight tinted lenses discarded alongside the knife on the counter. The look in his eyes, maddening and hungry, is enough to drown you. You want to bolt when his hand finds its way to the hem of your too large t-shirt, a jarring reminder that you have nothing on underneath because you hadn’t been expecting guests. Gojo’s other hand snakes itself into your hair, a sensation normally welcomed and relaxing, but you let out a surprised gasp when his fingers tighten around your locks and give a sharp tug.

Your hands quickly find themselves pressed against his chest, desperate to push him away and reintroduce much needed distance. You will yourself to ignore the heat of his skin that burns your palms through his thin button up. You give Gojo a push that does nothing to move him but does earn you another pull, this time harder, on your hair. A whimper crawls its way from the back of your throat, and you watch as his pupils bloom—obsidian eclipsing sky colored eyes.

“Did that hurt?” He licks his lips, eyes dropping quickly from yours to your neck.

The audacity of his question pushes you to finally speak, despite your still rampant nerves.

“Of course it hurt, you fucking creep,” you hiss, pushing at his chest again. “Gojo, let me go right now or I’ll—”

Another sudden jerk on your hair causes your words to be lost within a painful whine.

“Satoru,” he cuts you off with a grunt, hooking the hand that had been toying with your shirt under one of your thighs and lifting you onto the counter with ease.

You shudder at the feeling of granite beneath you. It’s frigid against the bare skin of your thighs. Even more chilling against the bare heat of your pussy. An overbearing rush of panic clouds your thoughts, jumbling your mind with anxiety, anger, confusion, and something else you’re uneasy to name.

Gojo discards your hair, both of his hands resting atop your thighs and dangerously close to touching—

“Call me Satoru,” Gojo breathes out, distracting you again. “I want you to call me by my name.”

“You’re being really weird.” You muster your voice, albeit weakly, and ignore his odd demand. “I want you to back up, and let me go. Please.”

His grip on you tightens, blunt nails digging into your thigh. You can’t stop yourself from wondering if his hands have always been so large. Your eyes widen as you realize they nearly swallow the whole of you.

“Oh,” he offers you a short, hollow laugh, “I didn’t know you could say please.”

“Gojo, I’m serious.”

Your eyes meet his again, and a long forgotten feeling scorches your insides. Starting in the pit of your belly and settling hotly in the center of your cunt. The realization makes you want to run away again, adrenaline sweeping over you amidst your panic and anger. The look in Gojo’s eyes is upsettingly knowing, as if he’s also unearthed what had been lost, perhaps purposefully buried, between your storm of emotions. That feeling you had been fearful to identify just moments ago, so severe you’re forced to acknowledge it.

“You’re so fucking disobedient,” Gojo groans. He sounds annoyed, but the low sound and unexpected swear leaving his lips sends another wave of longing through you.

“You’re fucking bratty,” he continues as he readjusts his already firm grip on your thighs and pulls you forward.

His hips meet your cunt, and your breasts press against his chest. You hazily consider if he can feel how wet you’ve become through his trousers. If he realizes your bra and panties won’t be found underneath your shirt should his hands wander any further.

He must because his next words leave him in a shaky breath. “You’re fucking mouthy,” he rasps, lips now pressed against your neck while his teeth lightly tug at your delicate skin. “I ask you for one thing, and you—fuck—can’t even do that.”

Your hands that had desperately tried to push him away earlier find themselves covered beneath a cascade of soft, snow colored locks, pulling Gojo closer. You can’t remember when you put them there. Your mind is too clouded with want; your thoughts are too fogged with images of what it would feel like to have his large hand cupping your breast, his tongue lapping at your pert nipple while he fucks into you, two fingers deep, with his other hand.

“You’re so wet, baby,” his voice no louder than a whisper. “You’re dripping on me, you’re fucking soaked, and I haven’t even stuffed you with my cock yet.”

You open your mouth with the intention of telling Gojo to kindly fuck off, irritated by the mocking undertone that had plagued vulgar his words, but all that comes is a lewd moan so shameless it spurs another humorless laugh from him.

“If you say my name, I’ll touch you properly,” he hums, mouth hovering over yours. His fingers dance along the slick folds of your aching cunt, teasing as he presses a finger at your entrance and his thumb to your clit. “Say my name, and I’ll fuck you.”

Greedy for more, you rock your hips forward, moaning loudly when you feel his finger slip inside you. The sensation is lost as quickly as you’d found it, though. Your brows furrow in confusion as your vision suddenly tilts, your mind sluggish to realize you’re being lifted from the counter and thrown over Gojo’s broad shoulders. A choked cry unintentionally falls from your mouth. Your hands, balled into fists and beating at his back, go ignored as he wordlessly carries you to your bedroom.

“Put me down, you asshole!” you screech, indignation and embarrassment leaking into your voice. “Fucking put me down, Satoru, I swear to fuck—”

Another strangled cry flies out of you when you’re sent falling backwards onto your plush bed. It takes a moment before your vision looks like it’s supposed to, the world correcting itself to be right side up. Gojo stands before you, and for the first time since his arrival you can really see him.

His white shirt, normally pressed and tucked neatly beneath the waistband of his pants, is disheveled. His hair, too, is a beautiful mess made by your hands. His lips plush and pink from painting your neck with kisses and bites that would probably leave marks. You swallow thickly as your eyes travel to his pants. They’re black, as usual, and tailored to fit his tall build. Your jaw drops, ever so slightly, when you see yourself smeared across the front of a tent in his pants.

When Gojo calls your name, your eyes snap upward to find his. Heat pools in your cheeks, and your ears feel like they’re on fire. You can’t help but feel ashamed of yourself. What the hell were doing trying to fuck your longest friend and coworker? And on your kitchen counter? You’re woefully aware that it’s been a long time since your last sexual encounter, but surely nothing could excuse or justify this type of mindless behavior.

This isn’t who you are. And Gojo, despite his prowess and frequent affairs, isn’t this either. Not with you—never with you. In over a decade, he’s never made any kind of advances that made you feel uncomfortable. Playful flirting and pet names aside, Gojo’s never touched you like this. He’s never spoken to you like this. There’s never been a single indication that he’s ever viewed you as anything beyond a friend; that line had never been crossed. Crossing it had never even been considered.

So how the fuck did a phone call about your missing salmon turn into you almost getting your guts rearranged in your kitchen?

Something must be wrong, you realize, your mind buzzing with newfound clarity as your lust driven haze dissipates. Gojo says your name again, clearer and louder than before. His underlying distress and panic don’t go unheard either. When you catch his eyes again, your heart plummets to your stomach and you feel like sobbing.

“I see,” you say numbly. The puzzle pieces are starting to fit together. “You were cursed, ‘toru.”

Whether he flinches at your use of the old nickname you hadn’t spoken in years or the fact that he had come to the same conclusion as you, you’re not sure.

“If we live through this, I’m gonna make fun of you for years,” you say resolutely.

Gojo Satoru, the strongest jujutsu sorcerer of your era, owner of The Six Eyes and Limitless techniques, has been cursed by a nightmarish pair of curses you’ve only had the displeasure of reading about in tattered textbooks and ragged scrolls. The man is a thief and a fool.

And, just your luck, he’s dragged you into his curse.

“So, sweetie,” you smile bitterly, “how do we kill an incubus and a succubus?”

#gojo x reader #satoru x reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojo x you #gojo satoru x you #Gojo Satoru smut #tw.dubcon #tw.food #suna.scum #no beta

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friendlylocalwhumper · 3 years

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“Shhhh. Alright, darling. It’s alright. Breathe for me.”

Chest fluttering with ragged breaths, sweat prickling across raised scars spanning his chest and arms, Lux obeys. His brows furrow as he tries so hard to draw in air and his lungs burn in complaint.

“Th-thank you,” The warlock splutters in a rush to be sweet and grateful.

The Hunter’s face creases with a smile and accompanying age lines. “For what, sweet one?”

“For - f-for - hurting me. For letting me breathe. For to-ouching my hair, calms me down.”

It’s a lie. The unwelcome, confusing touching scares him as much as it comforts him, but the Hunter is charmed by his words anyway. “Of course.” His fingers comb through messy curls, tousling them and then twining them around, admiring how soft they get when played with. Lux tips his head up to lean into the touch and to widen his torturer’s grin.

“Sweet boy. Climb up, I want to hold you close while we do this.”

Upset crosses Lux’s face, but he doesn’t dare argue. It’ll help to be held, it has to be better than lying on the cold floor to take the pain… still, he’s afraid. Bloody hands press to the floor and thin arms tremble as he pushes himself up to his knees, then climbs into the Hunter’s lap, legs on either side of the man’s waist, arms wrapped around his torso. A hand at the back of his head encourages Lux to tuck his face against the Hunter’s neck.

“I’d like you fevered, I think,” The torturer murmurs, a hand coming up to Lux’s head - but the warlock jerks in an attempt to escape it with a desperate, cracking “Nnh, no! Please no…”

The arms around his back tightens. Lux whimpers and falls still at the stern grip holding him in place.

“A dangerously high fever, since you want to be disobedient. Hold still, now.”

Lux quakes as the hand explores for a moment before finally settling at his back, squarely behind his lungs. Magic presses into him, thick and slow, spreading into his core. Lux feels heavier only seconds in, sagging against the man holding him. Sweat beads across his skin, his own breaths feeling hot under his nose. Aches settle deeply into the places that his chronic pain strikes worst. His lungs pump air more and more slowly, struggling to make any use of it. His thoughts drain out like a plug has been pulled in his mind.

In a matter of minutes, he’s limp in the Hunter’s arms. Wheezing faintly, shivering sporadically. Everything spins, the walls melting into the floor and morphing, finally, into the shape of the Hunter with those glinting, kind-but-cruel eyes. A pain at the back of his head informs him that a hand is fisted into his hair. Oh - the Hunter is looking into Lux’s eyes. They must be big and dilated, unfocused. He knows the Hunter loves to see him that way.

“Is it hard to breathe, darling? Do you feel cold?”

Lux nods, morose and weak. “Ca-an’t… feel like I can’t breathe,” He rasps. Indeed, his breaths are shallow and wispy. His chest jerks impatiently for more air to be brought in, but his body can’t manage it. “C-cold.”

More magic sinks into him, and Lux whines. He’s loose and pliable as he’s pulled into a hug, a broad hand rubbing circles in his sweat-slicked, heavily scarred back. Lux is so warm to the touch that his captor shifts in discomfort, growing too warm himself. But he settles down when he decides that it’s well worth it to have Lux in this state. Miserable and helpless. So uncomfortable, struggling even just to stay awake.

“No sleep, sweet one,” The Hunter chastises, feeling Lux relax against him and breathe slower. A knife slipped from the sheath at his hip comes up to press its tip at Lux’s back, and the warlock whines at the familiar feeling. “Time to hurt. Say please.”

“Please,” Lux repeats obediently. “Ple-ease hurt me.”

“If you really want it, darling.”

The knife presses, creates a divot, then finally, suddenly sinks in - Lux startles sharply, jerking in the Hunter’s hold, letting out a hoarse scream. The Hunter holds him tight and calmly presses the knife all the way in, slotted between two ribs.

Lux’s screaming is interrupted by a reflexive cough splattering blood across the Hunter’s shoulder. Then comes the most wonderful, blood-and-sickness clogged breath chased by a terrified whimper.

“Just a punctured lung. Nothing to be bad for. Nuzzle against me, there you go. Shh. Oh, the coughing is annoying. Let me just…” With a brush of magic to the base of Lux’s neck, he paralyzes the warlock, who sags fully, unwillingly relaxed against his torturer. “There you go. Yes, you’ll choke on your own blood a lot sooner this way, but at least you won’t disrupt my comfort by hacking away. Just relax, breathe as well as you can. You know I won’t let you die. No reason to panic.”

As much as Lux is panicking in his mind, his body is the picture of full boneless trust. His breaths mostly serve to move the blood in his throat, not providing him with any oxygen at all. His body still shivers with illness. But he’s helpless to save himself from suffocating, kept cuddled close by an arm around his back and a hand in his hair. The knife has been left stuck in his back, ignored for now.

“You’re so good, Lux,” The Hunter hums, and the words steal away the prisoner’s mortal panic, just for a second. For a glorious second, he feels praised, feels loved. He’s doing a good job.

Not that it matters when his panic returns anyway. He remains relaxed. A hand rubs up and down his back, under the knife. He continues to fail to breathe, and the Hunter continues to force him to endure it, because he’s just so comfortable to hold like this, so fun to control. And he will breathe, will be healed, will have his fever lifted when the Hunter decides that that will be more fun.

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let-the-dream-begin · 4 years

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A Place to Belong Chapter 31: Patchwork

Chapter 30

Read on AO3

January 27, 1750

Moonlight and the fire were the only things illuminating Brianna’s sleeping face as Claire rocked her gently in their usual nighttime chair in their bedroom. She had just finished tucking her in when there was a little knock on the door. She pulled a shawl over her shoulders and tiptoed to the door, expecting a hungry little Maggie to greet her. Instead, wee Jamie was looking up at her with those big doe eyes, his cheeks stained with tears.

“Jamie?” Claire said. “What’s the matter, darling?” She crouched down before him, feeling his head. “Do you feel ill? Is it your tummy?”

He sniffled, shaking his head. “My heart hurts, Auntie.”

Claire’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean, sweetheart?” She held onto his shoulder and pushed back some of his hair.

Fresh tears trickled down his ruddy cheeks, and he sniffled loudly.

“Did I kill the bairn, Auntie?”

Realization hit her like a ton of bricks, and her eyes immediately swam with tears.

“Jamie…Come here…” Claire wrapped her arms around him and held him tightly. He quietly blubbered into her shawl, and she rocked him gently in the doorway.

“It’s alright, darling…I’m here…” She swallowed thickly and blinked back her own tears. “Come on, let’s sit down. It’s alright.” She released him to take his hand, and shut the door behind them. She led him to the hearth and pulled him into her lap in the armchair, as she’d done every night with Brianna. He curled into her reflexively, resting his head in the crook of her neck.

“You didn’t hurt the baby, Jamie,” Claire said softly, stroking his head and rubbing his back.

“But I made the Redcoat angry. And Mam had the bairn because the Redcoat hit me.”

“Your mother had the baby because she was ready to come out,” Claire said, deciding to not explain stress-induced labor to an eight year old boy. “Little Caitlin was very, very sick, even before she came out. And that has nothing to do with what happened with the Redcoats. Do you understand?”

He hesitated a bit before he nodded against her.

“Da and Mam hate me.”

“What?” Claire adjusted him in her lap so she could look into his eyes. “Your parents do not hate you, Jamie. They could never, ever hate you.”

“But Da doesna play wi’ me anymore, and Ma doesna sing anymore. They’re mad because I hurt the bairn.”

“No, no, darling. You’ve got it all wrong.” Claire used the edge of her shawl to wipe his face clean of tears. “It’s like I said, you did not hurt the baby, and your mother and father know that. They don’t blame you, not at all. They’re just…” Her voice broke, and she swallowed and wet her lips. “They’re just very sad, sweetheart. Because they miss little Caitlin so much. When people are sad, it…it takes a long time for them to…to do the things they used to do before they were sad.” She sniffled quickly, wiping her own eyes.

She knew too damn well what she was talking about.

“Your Da wants to play with you, and your Ma wants to sing to you. But it’s just…very hard for them. Because their…their hearts hurt, Jamie. Like yours.” I poked gently at his chest, and then placed a hand over her own heart. “My heart hurts too, love. For Caitlin, for your Uncle Jamie. When I lost your Uncle, I thought my heart would hurt forever, and I thought I’d never want to sing again.” She knew there were tears falling out of her eyes in earnest now, but she was powerless to stop it.

“But slowly, with time, the pain became easier to bear, and all of a sudden, I wanted to sing again.” She stroked his hair again, running her hand down his face to caress his cheek. “Your Da and Ma will be better again, someday. But even now, they still love you. So, very much. Do you understand?”

He nodded, sniffling again.

“Good lad.” She kissed his forehead. “You’re very, very brave, Jamie. Did you know that?”

He shrugged and averted his gaze.

“D’ye…d’ye want to sing now, Auntie Claire?”

Claire’s heart constricted in her chest. “Do you want me to sing to you, darling?”

He nodded, and then curled himself back into her, not at all different from the way his baby cousin did. Claire decided on a lilting French lullaby, rocking him gently as she sang. She waited for his breathing to become heavy and even before she allowed herself to weep quietly, stifling her tears in her shawl.

This poor, dear boy.

How long had he carried this guilt? How long had he felt like he couldn’t share it with anyone?

God, how she loved him. How she loved them all.

Claire debated not getting up at all, but eventually decided to try her hand at maneuvering her grip on him to get him into her bed. He only stirred a bit as she moved him, and he was out cold again by the time she pulled the blankets up to his chin. She nestled herself in between the two little ones and kissed both of their heads before falling asleep herself.

The next morning after breakfast, Claire pulled Ian aside and told him what had transpired the night before. The pain in his eyes upon hearing what Jamie had said to Claire was indescribable. He pulled her into his arms, hugging her perhaps tighter than he ever had.

“Thank ye fer giving him comfort, Claire. When I couldna.”

Ian brought his son outside to talk to him shortly after, presumably for a heart-to-heart that was a long time coming. Jenny was none the wiser, and Claire kept it that way. She was burdened with enough guilt; she didn’t need Jamie’s anguish added to the list.

And slowly, so very slowly, the family rebuilt, stitching together the fraying pieces of each other’s grief like a patchwork of hearts.

Gradually, they healed.

——

March 1750

A loud clap of thunder tore through the air, sudden and startling enough to cause Claire to drop her knitting needles. All three little girls on the rug gave shriek, and little Michael and Janet stiffened with shock, quickly bursting into tears, their red faces screwed up comically.

“Och, dinna fash, Michael,” Maggie crooned, gathering her baby brother into her lap as expertly as a mother of three. Claire could tell she was still nervous at the loud noise, but she was channeling that energy into comforting her little brother.

“Kitty,” Maggie chided as she rocked Michael. “Hold Janet, like I’m holdin’ Michael.”

Michael was still weeping, but had considerably calmed, while Janet was still openly wailing.

“Dinna want tae!” Kitty blurted directly into Maggie’s face, causing Michael to cry out again, and Janet to wail all the harder. Brianna tossed her head back in a ruthless giggle.

“Och, that’s enough ye wee devils,” Jenny tutted, setting aside her knitting to join them on the rug and gather Janet up herself. “When are ye going tae learn to be a good sister, Katherine? If ye keep makin’ the weans jump, they’ll grow to hate ye someday.”

Kitty just laughed again, echoed by Brianna.

“I want them to hate me!” she exclaimed, standing up and pulling Brianna off the floor as well.

“What a thing to say!” Jenny exclaimed, aghast at her daughter’s tongue.

“I’m bored, Mam,” Kitty ignored her, going on. “I dinna want tae sit in the house like a bairn.” She gestured emphatically at the whimpering toddlers in Jenny’s and Maggie’s arms. Apparently four years old was no longer a bairn in Katherine’s eyes, and recently having turned four was getting to her head.

“Well it’s storming something fierce outside. If ye’d like the wind tae carry ye away into the sky, ne’er to be seen again, be my guest,” Jenny quipped, kissing Janet’s head and stroking her cheek.

“Really, Mam?” Kitty’s eyes lit up, and Claire had to bite her lip to stifle laughter. She made eye contact with Ian, who was sitting at the hearth, showing wee Jamie how to carve wood. Ian, too, was desperately trying to hide his amusement at the absurdity that was his daughter.

“Come on, Banna! Let’s fly on the wind like faeries!” Kitty seized Brianna’s hand and dragged her roughly behind her, causing her to shriek with giggles.

“Faeries!” Brianna repeated enthusiastically.

“Oh, no you don’t!” Claire interjected, quickly throwing her knitting aside to stop the little heathens from marching right out the door. “You’ll catch your death from the cold, wet rain.” Claire caught both of their little arms in the hallway.

“Ye’ll heal me, Auntie. Dinna fash.” Kitty tugged against her grip, and Brianna copied, even repeating: “Dinna fash, Mummy.”

Soon, they were both grunting with the effort of breaking free of Claire, clearly not getting very far.

Claire opened her mouth to chastise them, but another loud thunder clap suddenly sounded, causing them both to squeal and stop pulling away, burying their little bodies in her skirt. Claire laughed softly, shaking her head.

“Still want to go outside?”

“Aye, Mummy,” Brianna said dubiously, her resolve having weakened considerably.

“Fergus and Rabbie are outside,” Kitty said stubbornly, despite the obvious fear still lingering in her blue eyes.

“They’re in the barn, silly girl,” Claire corrected.

“We’ll go in the barn. Right, Banna?” Brianna nodded.

“And get underfoot of the lads? I don’t think so.” Claire started ushering them back into the parlor, and they did not much attempt to fight her.

“Why do they get tae go outside when it storms?” Kitty complained.

“Because they’re big lads now, Kitty.”

“Da’s a big lad,” Kitty quipped. “Da’s inside wi’ the bairns.”

“That’s ’cause yer auld Da will lose his footing in the mud,” Ian interjected, patting his pegleg knowingly. “Come here to me, ye wild wee heathen.”

Kitty bounded over to him and scrambled into his lap, and Ian handed his block of wood and carving knife over to wee Jamie.

“Can ye teach me, Da?” Kitty said, pointedly staring at Jamie and the carving tools. Claire settled onto the rug with Brianna in her lap, joining the circle that Jenny and Maggie had started with the little ones.

“No, he canna," Jenny interjected quickly. "I'll no' have ye losing any fingers."

"Auntie will heal me!" Kitty said for the second time that day, sounding exasperated that nobody seemed to agree with her that it was as simple as that.

"Ye're too wee, Caitríona," Ian crooned.

"Because I'm a lass?" she challenged, jutting her chin up. A wide grin spread over Claire's face. Her own little voice echoed in her memory, an ingrained response for when she was advised against — or strictly forbidden from — doing something she felt she should be allowed to do.

"Because I'm a girl, Uncle?”

“Och, ’course no’,” Ian said. “I’ll no’ be coddlin’ ye because ye’re a lass, Kitty.” Jenny fired a look at him, and he just winked in return. “Ye can carve as much wood as any lad, but no’ today. Yer wee fingers need to grow a bit first, aye?”

Kitty pouted dramatically, crossing her arms with a loud huff. Janet and Michael began squirming; it was about time for their feeding and their nap, but there wasn’t any chance of them sleeping with the howling wind and the clapping thunder.

“I have an idea,” Claire suddenly piped up. “Why don’t we play a game?”

“A game, Auntie?” Maggie said, her soft voice pitched higher with excitement.

“Yes, a game we can play inside the house. No need to get all wet or carried away by the wind.” Claire tickled Brianna’s side, and she giggled, nuzzling into her breast affectionately.

Jenny threw Claire a look that could only be described as: God bless you. She departed shortly after with Janet, then returned with Mrs. Crook, who took Michael from Maggie. They disappeared upstairs together, presumably to get them fed and put down for at least an attempt at a nap.

“Alright, if you want to play, you must join me on the rug in a circle, and listen to the rules,” Claire commanded, gently pushing Brianna out of her lap. Claire got up on her knees, sitting back on her heels. Jamie looked to his father for approval, and he nodded, and the little boy scrambled to the rug, nestling between Maggie and Brianna. Claire made a big show about starting to talk, but then stopped, letting her eyes fall on Kitty.

“Kitty! Don’t you want to play?” Claire said, aghast.

She shook her head. “Games are for bairns, Auntie.”

“Ye are a bairn!” Jamie shot back, an edge of blatant annoyance to his voice.

“Am no’, clotheid!” Kitty shouted.

“Oi!” Ian cut in, clamping a hand on Kitty’s shoulder. “Ye’ll no’ speak to yer brother that way. Like it or no’, ye’re still a wee lass. And ye can either sit here and be a grump wi’ yer auld man, or ye can have fun wi’ yer Auntie and yer sister and yer cousin. And yer brother, clotheid that he is.” He whispered that final bit into her temple, coaxing the tiniest of smiles from her stubborn little face.

“C’mon, Kitty,” Brianna said, her diamond eyes wide with pleading, her little lips downturned in a begging pout. “Wan’ you play.”

Kitty looked at Brianna, then back at Ian. Ian whispered something softly in Gaelic, and another grin broke out over her face before she slid off his lap and plopped to her knees next to Brianna.

“Alright!” Claire said, pitching her voice higher for the children’s sakes. “This game is called hide-and-seek.”

“How d’ye play?” Jamie blurted.

“If you’ll be patient,” she playfully poked his nose. “I’ll tell you.”

Claire proceeded to enlighten them on the rules of this coveted childhood game, their eyes wide with wonder. She was occasionally interrupted by another clap of thunder, or a particularly loud gust of wind, but the children didn’t seem all that bothered, too engrossed in the new game.

“We can hide anywhere we want?” Jamie said.

“Anywhere inside,” Claire said emphatically, looking directly at Kitty, then Brianna. “If you leave the house, you lose the game. And your mother will punish you.”

They all stiffened, nodding in understanding. Apparently one of those statements was far more weighty than the other.

“Alright. I will count first, all the way to twenty.” Claire stood up and tapped the empty chair by the hearth. “This is where we’ll go to count. Home base. Alright?”

Ian’s eyes were sparkling with affection from the other chair, a calm, peaceful smile having settled over his features.

“You have to close your eyes too, Ian,” Claire said, hands on her hips. “Can’t have you cheating and telling me where the children hid.”

“Aye, Da! Close yer eyes!”

“No cheating, Da!”

“Alright, alright,” Ian acquiesced, folding his hands and closing his eyes.

“Good! Now, are we ready?”

“Aye, Auntie!”

“Yes, Mummy!”

Her ears were assaulted with a cacophony of excitement, and Claire could not help but laugh.

“Alright! I’m closing my eyes…” She dramatically brought her hands to her eyes, and the four children squealed. “One…two…three…”

“Come on, Banna!” Claire heard Kitty hiss, and there was a great bustling of little feet.

They each giggled like mad when Claire found them, hiding in trunks, wardrobes, under beds, behind curtains or tapestry. Kitty and Brianna were always found stuffed in the same hiding places, hands clasped together and eyes squeezed shut. They played several rounds for almost an hour, the house full with pitter-pattering, squealing laughter, and not-so-quiet whispers. Ian helped the smaller ones count, Brianna especially never having counted so high. There was even a point where Ian gave up his carving and joined in, much to the excitement of all the children.

It hit Claire halfway through Ian’s second round: This was the first time he was playing with the children again, the way he did before Caitlin.

It’ll be alright, little darlings. Da is playing again, and maybe your mother will sing again soon.

——

April 16, 1750

Claire, Fergus, and Brianna were sitting on a blanket for their second annual picnic with Jamie. This year, Brianna’s vocabulary had vastly expanded, and she babbled on and on to the gravestone, most of it hardly understood by either Claire or Fergus. She proudly showed off her lamb again, describing all of the games they liked to play together, all of the things she did with Kitty and her other cousins. She eventually became restless, and Fergus took the cue.

“Alright, ma petit, time to go,” he said, putting a hand on the stone. “Say goodbye.”

“Bye, Da.” She blew a kiss at the stone as she had last time. Fergus stooped to kiss Claire’s cheek before erupting with a ridiculous growl to chase Brianna with. She squealed and scampered out of the graveyard, laughing her little head off. Claire turned around and watched them go, her heart warming as she watched her boy, not at all so little anymore, chase after his baby sister.

When they disappeared from view, their laughter still echoing through the fields, Claire turned back to the stone.

“Hello, love,” she said softly, resting a hand on the stone. “Somehow, I…” She sighed with a shudder, quickly swiping at her tears. “I feel weaker today than I did last year.”

“Christ, I don’t have any right to be so shaken by this, do I? I didn’t carry her for months and hold her as she lay dying…” Her voice broke. “But I suppose I know what that’s like.” She was crying in earnest now, her body trembling. “It’s so fucking unfair, Jamie. Hasn’t this family suffered enough…? It feels like…God, it feels like I’m the only one that can’t move past this. Your sister…she’s so strong, Jamie. She’s stronger than I’ll ever be. She’s…handling this all so much better than I could have hoped she would. So it makes no fucking sense that I’m so…”

She stopped herself in frustration.

Broken.

She wept quietly for a few minutes, unable to muster any more words, her hands aching to fist his shirt in her hands, her body pulsing with the need to be held by him.

“I just…I feel like I was holding it together, you know? Before I…I saw another baby buried.” She wiped her eyes again, finally catching her breath. “Now everything hurts again as terribly as it did after I lost you, after I lost Faith. I finally learned to live without her, without you…and then I had to hold my dying goddaughter in my arms.”

“Most of the time, I already know what you’d say. I can hear it in my head. But right now…I don’t know what you’d say, Jamie. I don’t know how you’d handle watching your family starve, watching your sister lose her child. I just…I don’t know.”

As she often found herself doing, Claire took hold of the rosary, squeezing it into her palm as if trying to permanently imprint God’s grace into her skin.

“But,” she said, lightly stroking the top of the stone with her free hand. “I do know a few things. I know that our daughter loves me, and needs me. I know that our son loves me, though he doesn’t need me as much as he used to.” She smiled a tiny bit for the first time in several minutes. “I know that all of our nieces and nephews love me, and they need me in a different way than they need their mother and father. And I know that Jenny and Ian love me and need me, too. Especially now.”

“I pretended long enough to believe it last time, so I can do it again, I suppose. As always, I’ll carry on, Jamie. Even though people starve and beautiful children pass away…there’s nothing else to do.”

She bent and pressed a kiss to the stone, gently returning the rosary to its proper place.

“Keep them close, my love,” she whispered. “Both of those little angels.”

#outlander #outlander fanfic #outlander fanfiction #claire fraser #jamie fraser #brianna randall #brianna fraser #ian murray #jenny murray

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anika-ann · 4 years

Text

Tall as the Skyline, Roots Like a Tree (S.R.)

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader

Word Count: 11,150 (oh, oh no)

Summary: You are one step from officially becoming a SHILED agent. Involved in a secret relationship with Captain America, you feel like the world might lie at your fingertips. Until it doesn’t because of your stupid inexplicable phobia.

Steve’s friend might be able to help… except it would take an open mind and a huge leap of faith on your part.

You wonder… how much can one endure to get where they want?

A/N: for a challenge hosted by @tilltheendwilliwrite. Congratulation to your rightfully earned milestone! Your writings are a work of wonder and you deserve evry single one of those followers *✧･

Prompt: Phobias - What if your phobias are based off how you died in a past life.

Warnings: !! Some might be extremely upsetting I’m afraid: - elements of horror, talk about phobias (dogs and needles), character death (past lives), use of lethal injection, mention of murder, canon-typical violence (brief), swearing… French and fluff

◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦ *✧･◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦

For the briefest moment, you allowed yourself to smirk as the door to the lab slid open, shuffling along the bodies two unconscious guards.

You knew cockiness was an enemy, but you the security system yielded after less than a minute of work. Was that supposed to be… hard? You guessed that taking the class that called anything but Hacking 101 bore fruit after all.

Also, you could smirk all you wanted – that obnoxious facemask you wore as a security measure might be obnoxious, narrowing your field of vision, but hiding your expression was a sweet perk of it.

Your smile slipped upon seeing the lab, upon being reminded of how much you hated the environment. The three scientists and two more guards staring at you did not help.

The alarm started blaring instantly.

Before the guards near the door could draw their guns, you sprang forward, kicking one of them to his knee and elbowed his face, causing him to fall to one knee with an unmistakable ‘crack’ in the joint. You twisted his gun from his right hand, using him as a shield as the other one fired his weapon.

From the corner of your eye, you saw the scientists gather by the wall, opening a small vault and placing a container that was doubtlessly that container there. Shit.

The first guard fell to the ground and you quickly aimed at the other one’s arm. He yelled and grabbed at his wound as crimson painted his already dark sleeve black, but didn’t release the weapon. Grimacing, you fired again, this time with more success. The gun clanked as it fell on the ground and you strode towards your opponent rapidly, knocking him out with a well-aimed punch to his temple before he could use the knife he pulled out from his sheath.

You turned on your heels, only to see the scientists had hogged improvised weapons; two of them armed themselves with those round flasks and started throwing them at you. You quickly ducked, swearing out loud when one of them grazed your arm. Luckily, you could barely feel the sting of the shards, barely sparing the injury a glance, crouching behind a counter instead.

Firing without much aim, you managed to hit something behind them, sending them to the ground as they tried to avoid the spray of sparks flying from the machine.

The third one, the only one with grey hair, was the one who nearly stopped your heart when he grabbed a dark bottle of something. You gulped in fright; you definitely didn’t want to be hit by that, whatever was the content.

Focus. Breathe, you chastised yourself mentally, narrowing your eyes at the last man standing, the senior scientist readjusting his hold. The moment was enough for you.

Two shots rang in the lab, followed by the sound of shattering glass and a scream. You peeked from your hideout, seeing crimson staining the snow-white lab coat, while the man tried his best to discard his stained shoes – or what was left of them – without touching the chemical with his bare hands.

Checking on your surroundings, making sure everyone else was still down, you paced to the scientist, grabbing a metal platter on your way, unceremoniously striking him in his head. He dropped to the ground and your path clear at last.

The vault made you sweat a bit, approximately two minutes passing before you managed to crack it. But here you were, pulling your gloves on – and you carefully extracted the container with three vial.

This time, you allowed yourself to smile fully.

“Bingo,” you mumbled to yourself, satisfaction rumbling deep in your chest.

The Sigma virus. Friggin’ jackpot.

Wasting no more time with revelling in your victory, you headed to the exit, container in one hand, gun in the other, just to make sure.

The sudden vice-strong grip on your ankle took you by surprise.

You weren’t proud of it, but you nearly yelped at the sensation, instinctively jerking your foot to free yourself as your gaze shot towards the attacker.

All of sudden, the world spun, your heartbeat skyrocketing, loud pounding echoing in your ears.

It was only one of the younger men in a lab coat, easily to be ridded off, unlike a guard, except-- except-

You felt your knees wobble, your chest constricting so tightly that when you tried to breathe in, it hurt. The gun slipped from your hand as did the container at the sudden wave of faintness.

No, no, no, please no--

The tip of the long needle rested against your calf, thick enough to pierce through your tactical suit, the liquid in it crystal clear, glimmering in the fluorescent light-

Your stomach made a quick somersault, your ribcage aching, darkness swimming in front of you-- it embraced you almost peacefully, as did the feeling of a free fall and then… then you felt nothing.

◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦ *✧･◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦

A dull ache pondered at the back of your head, rush of blood in your temples, as you slowly realized you were lying on something soft – relatively soft –, dim lights dancing behind your closed eyelids. With each second passing, memories of what happened poked at your brain, causing you to groan.

Fucking shit, of course it would happen to you.

You passed out during your final exam – one that would officially saw you as a SHIELD agent. You royally fucked up.

Your heart raced, the headache only growing more intense with your anger rising. You were raging, in fact, the feeling bitter on your tongue, heavy in your stomach.

You had just ruined your shot at your dream job, because of a stupid fear of needles. There you were; a badass wannabe SHIELD agent, afraid of a harmless pointy object.

Just recalling the ugly thick thing brought nausea that told you the item was as far from harmless as you could imagine, but that wasn’t the point. The content of the syringe could be pure water for all you cared; you still fell apart like a house of cards under the slightest breeze, only seeing the needle too close to your body – and it meant that you failed.

Fuck needles. Fuck you.

“Hey, you with me?” a male voice asked, so gentle and careful it made you want to cry, startling you all the same, because him being here – wherever exactly ‘here’ was – was the last thing you expected.

“What are ya’ doin’ here?” you asked, throat unpleasantly dry, your tongue feeling like sandpaper, sticking to the roof of your mouth. In response, warm fingers closed around your bicep, shortly squeezing.

Your eyes snapped open, surprised by the touch; every minute ever since you had come clear about your mutual attraction, about your feelings for each other, you had tried to keep physical contact – or any contact at all – on minimum, at least in places where it could bring unwanted attention.

After all, Captain America had no business dating a to-be SHIELD agent. Better yet, the said to-be agent should not as much as try pursuing a relationship with Captain America.

But here you were, four months in, four months since your first date that left you with no doubt that you were quickly falling for the man behind the shield, exactly one person besides you and Steve knowing about it for they had eyes of the sharpest female spy known to the world.

And now Steve was here, by your bedside, touching you, no less-- well, not anymore. However, his concerned blue eyes fixed on your face still spoke volumes. One corner of his lips rose in a lopsided smile.

“Well, I’m checking on one of my best recruits. I was worried a bit,” Steve explained as if it was clear as day. Then, he sobered up a little. “No one is in the room. What they can’t see doesn’t hurt them… or us.”

You smiled at him weakly, shifting in the bed, testing the strength in your arms so you could sit up. It was embarrassing really – hell, it was maddening.

You couldn’t believe you had done that. You had passed fucking out. Because of your stupid phobia of needles. It had been in you since you could remember, ever-present. Most of the time, you could deal with it somehow, distracting yourself, making a deal with your hospital attendant to use peroral medication… or to simply made sure you were out of consciousness when needles couldn’t be avoided.

You weren’t a complete idiot; you knew it posed a problem, especially considering your career choices, but nothing seemed to work, any kind of therapy, not even exposure therapy. And you weren’t really into hypnosis, the idea of someone having power over your mind truly terrifying.

What drove you even crazier though was that you couldn’t recall why you should freak out at the sight of a needle alone in the first place. Your fear was absolutely laughable and you hated it from the bottom of your heart. However, that didn’t change the fact it was there, seeped deeply into your bones, just a glance at a damn needle causing your heart to hammer in your chest.

And seeing that-- that thing near you, the man’s finger ready to pump the whatever in you-

You trembled at the intense shiver that ran down your spine, goosebumps rising on your skin.

Steve’s voice snapped you from your trance, salvaging you from the spiral of self-depreciation and unpleasant memories.

“How do you feel?”

You almost wanted to scoff at the routine question, no matter how valid one it was.

“Tired. My ego is hurt. I’m mad at myself. Kinda glad you’re here,” you listed, answering honestly, unable to resist the pinch of sarcasm.

Steve smirked, yet his gaze remained kind.

“I’m kinda glad too… and hey, don’t be mad. You can’t help it. You did your best and from what I saw, you were absolutely amazing. I’m sure Cortez will still clear you for service.”

His optimism and support would be sweet hadn’t you been a realist.

“Steve, I literally passed out in the middle of a mission to retrieve vials with a dangerous virus. I’m pretty sure I dropped the container, actually,” you deadpanned, earning a grin. What was so funny?

“It didn’t break.” Okay, now you understood. But still. “You were about ten seconds from the end of the simulation. You might not pass with flying colours, but I have a firm belief that you will.”

You pondered for a second, staring at Steve’s expression; he was genuine in his effort to cheer you up, but also appeared perfectly serious on a professional level. He meant what he said. Against your will, a flicker of hope fluttered in your chest – and you could tell he noticed the change, the blue of his eyes diluted by a green twinkle of joy.

“If you say so…” you mumbled, now fully seated up, scooting so your back was resting against the headboard just in case your body betrayed you again.

“I say so. How about staying at my place tonight?”

You hesitated for a moment, weighting up your options; no matter the ray of hope he had provided, you had no doubt that your failure would come back to haunt you. Which meant that you would sulk at home, stuck with wanting to punch things, but being too exhausted to do so, because hello, passed out, and with crying yourself to sleep, possibly with a tub of ice-cream. Or you could do all that in Steve’s arms, which sounded more pleasant for sure, except it meant he might see a side of you he wasn’t ready for – and you weren’t ready to show him.

Steve’s eyes never left your face, hypnotizing, patiently waiting for you to think it through; but you did notice the minute fall of the corners of his lips when you hesitated a minute too long.

Oh no, you don’t.

“Sounds great,” you blurted out, a tired smile finding its way on your face as well, quickly turning brighter when Steve’s face lit up again. How could you even think about saying no? “Where can I find a doctor to tell them I’m completely fine and ready to sign discharge papers?”

◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦ *✧･◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦

An hour later, you were meeting Steve in the underground car park, relieved to find it empty except for your boyfriend. You slid to the front seat, softly returning his barely audible ‘hey’. The ride was silent, something heavy hanging in the air, something neither of you wanted to address; Steve was clutching the wheel tightly enough for his knuckles to turn white, but you didn’t find the courage to comment on it, wondering what that was about instead.

He had told you to meet him in the garage in an hour, saying that he only had one errand to run. It didn’t take you long to figure out what kind of an errant, however the idea of calling him out on his actions caused your stomach to twist unpleasantly.

You hadn’t talked until you were snuggled on the couch, mindlessly watching the TV – what was on again? – a steaming mug of tea in front of each of you.

“He’s not letting me pass, is he?”

Steve’s fingers stopped their periodic motion on the skin of your arm, his body tensing, his heart speeding up under your cheek just enough for you to notice as you had nestled your head on his chest.

The absence of immediate verbal answer was an answer on its own, his body language all you needed to catch on.

The pit in your stomach was now gaping open, a gnawing pain; a voice in your head whispered your dreams were in shambles. Tears burned in your eyes, but you kept them at bay.

“It’s okay. I wouldn’t deserve to pass anyway.”

Steve instantly straightened in his position, his palms sprawling on your arms to pull you up as well, leaning down a bit in attempt to catch your gaze. Vain effort, naturally.

“Hey now, that’s not fair. They used your biggest weakness against you. It was—it was a real low blow,“ Steve argued, squeezing your arms firmer, probably trying to reassure you and get you to look at him.

You had to swallow against the lump forming in your throat, your gaze flickering to meet his gaze only to avert it again, unable to bear it.

“Well, had it been a real mission, I’d be dead or captured, spilling the agency’s secrets. It’s only fair.”

You heard Steve gulp in the silence that followed – he couldn’t argue with what you said.

“They are gonna use it again if I retake. But I’ll be more prepared next time, knowing it’s coming. I’ll-“ you stopped in the middle of a sentence, shaking your head with a bitter chuckle. The words tasted almost disgusting as you knew you were bullshiting yourself completely.

You had tried to fight it, to get rid of it, to swallow your fear, to bury it so deep it would never crawl out again. You had tried so many times. But the phobia just wasn’t going away, that stubborn piece of shit-!

You hated it so much. You hated it, because it kept getting in your way to happiness. You had dreamed of being an agent since you were twelve, feeling it in your bones like a damn calling. It only intensified when you met Steve, the desire growing practically unbearable once you started dating.

This wasn’t only about your pride anymore. This was about him being proud of you. This was about you being worthy of being by his side. You would be no Avenger by any means, but you’d be a SHIELD agent.

The rational part of you argued that love wasn’t to be bought by titles; your gut was telling you that despite the relatively short time you and Steve were an item – a rather stealthy one, but still an item – Steve wouldn’t leave you just because you didn’t succeed. He would love you just the same had you been a SHIELD agent, a doctor, a librarian, an artist, a worker in retail, a mechanic, anything. He wouldn’t care.

However, another part of you suggested that people talked and you’d hate to have Steve deal with that shit. Not to even mention that eventually, it might lead to him leaving you nonetheless because of the constant pressure, his heart be damned. Captain America and a SHIELD agent simply had a better ring to it than Captain America and a failed SHIELD agent.

Goddamnit, you had to succeed, for both you and him, because he was the best damn man you had ever met and he loved you, if his words of two weeks prior and his behaviour were anything to go by. And you loved him too.

You couldn’t lose him and you couldn’t lose against something as ridiculous as a needle.

But how?

You groaned, pressing the heal of your palm to your temple, feeling your headache return. “I’ll deal with it. It’s a Tomorrow Me problem.”

Steve chuckled at your antics and pressed a light kiss to the top of your head, sweet and loving, one of his hands moving to cradle your cheek, causing your eyes to flutter close, a warm feeling of contentment sneakily replacing your agitation.

“And Tomorrow Me.”

At that, your eyes snapped open, blatantly staring at him.

Really? Tomorrow Him? What was he going to do? Out your relationship to Director Fury and start a battle for favouritism? No thank you.

You’d hate to be the woman who got somewhere because of her boyfriend’s connections. For one, it would be about as humiliating as passing out at the sight of a syringe. For second, it wouldn’t solve the problem of your phobia and – more importantly – the potential dangers it posed in the field.

“I don’t need you to fight my battles for me, Steve,” you hissed before you could think twice of it, before you could realize how absurd that thought was.

Steve would never do that; it went against what he believed in and he knew you’d never accept it.

Your jaw clenched when it hit you just how hurtful your words might have been, shame filling every fibre of your being, your gaze falling to your lap where your restless fingers fumbled together. You were acting like a little ungrateful piece of shit. Steve was only trying to help. He was only being here for you, declaring his support.

An apology already on your lips, his hand slipped under your chin, his thumb caressing your cheek before he applied the slightest pressure and raised your head to face him, his expression serious.

“This isn’t that,” he said, voice laced with severity. It caused your body feel as heavy as made of lead and yet unbearably weightless.

“I wouldn’t dare,” he added in a light joke then, his gaze locking with yours. “But I’d like to fight your battles with you. We’ll figure something out.”

He kept you in the beautiful prison of his eyes until you finally nodded, not voicing your doubts, not saying you were only convinced to a point.

You stretched out, catching the corner of his mouth with yours to express your gratitude and settled back into his chest with something dangerously resembling a smile tugging at your lips.

“I love you,” you whispered, the words no less true despite the battle raging inside of your head. Of that you were certain. Of your future, not so much.

“I love you too.”

Despite the few stray tears that soaked into his shirt several minutes later, these were the last words spoken before you drifted off to sleep.

◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦ *✧･◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦

Sensation of a free fall and an instinctive jerk of your foot snapped you from your restless sleep.

Your eyes opened to the darkness, a groan dying in your throat when you came to yourself enough to feel strong arms around you, ones belonging to a man you loved and whose sleep you sure as hell didn’t want to disturb. Less so since you were obviously lying in his bed where he had had to move you since you had fallen asleep on the couch.

You couldn’t remember what you dreamed of, but it must have been nothing pleasant.

However, Steve’s arms winding around you tighter, bringing you close to his warm bare chest definitely did count as pleasant and you hoped for an early return to the dreamland.

The lightest of kisses landed in the crook of your neck, whispers barely audible, mumbled to your skin.

“You alright?”

You grimaced, snuggling further into Steve’s form, your hand settling over his on your stomach.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to wake you,” you said at the very same volume, wishing not to ruin the peace of the night any further.

“You didn’t.”

His reassurance eased your guilt only for a moment – only until you realized that what he said carried two different meanings.

You shifted in his arms, rolling over to look at him, finding his face without any trace of sleep… as if he never even tried to get a shut-eye in the first place. His eyes were like reflectors even in the dark of his bedroom, intense blue shining with something you couldn’t quite grasp. In only fed the guilt suddenly gnawing at your chest, for not only waking him up, but actually keeping him awake the whole time, his serum-boosted brain even more restless than yours.

“I’m so sorry, Steve,” you apologized sincerely, your hand leaving the warmth of the sheets to lay on his cheek.

He smiled at you softly, covering your hand with his palm, bringing yours to his lips to show you he didn’t blame you, no matter how clear it was that you were the reason for him losing sleep. The guilt stabbed you again, your momentarily fully frantic mind racing, your lips quick to peck his shoulder, his sternum, his chin in silent apology.

“I’ve been simply… thinking. That’s not on you, mon cœur.”

Despite yourself, you smiled against his skin; his ‘mon cœur’ never failed to make you smile and feel warm all over. You had learned about his decent French when one of the recruits snapped at him, calling him an asshole in his mother tongue, clearly not expecting a comeback; a smart one, not necessarily a rude one, but certainly a hot one.

Steve then let casually slip a word or two in conversations, calling you his heart as if his French alone wasn’t turning you putty in his hands, and you were a goner.

“Nice attempt at distracting me,” you praised him, nestling your chin on his chest to face him. “What’s on your mind, mon amour?”

He hesitated, watching you for long moments as if assessing whether he should tell you or keep you in your blissful ignorance. You hoped that he wouldn’t shut you out, especially if his thoughts concerned you.

“I’m thinking… about Wanda,” Steve whispered finally, causing your heart to jump in your chest in surprise, your body going rigid. His eyes widened at instant, a groan leaving his throat, rumbling under your chin. “That came out so wrong— don’t look at me like that, it’s always you-“

“Sure am,” you snorted silently, relieved and actually rather amused. For all his smooth lines, he could be just as awkward as your next guy.

He swatted your rear lightly to shut you up, wordlessly telling you to quit being a smartass.

“Sorry. Please, go ahead, talk about your gorgeous Avengers recruit,” you encouraged him, earning a glare. “She’s gorgeous, you can’t deny that. And if not that, she’s definitely at least cute. Anyway. Speak up. I’m listening, Steve. It must be serious if it’s keeping you awake.”

He licked his lips, his gaze rising to the ceiling, his thumb drawing a circle on your bare arm.

“When we were fighting Ultron – Tony’s genius murder robot –, before Wanda joined our side… there was this fight and she… entered our mind, sort-of. She… she trapped us in visions, showing us our deepest fears. She offered a glimpse at things we were trying to keep buried inside for no one to see. The fear of… not being enough, not belonging, fear of missed chances that would never come back.”

You listened, gulping at the mentions of visions, of his very own fear lying in the open, simultaneously dreading where he was going with talking about it. You had a good idea that it wouldn’t get any more pleasant.

You squeezed his arm softly to ground him, noticing his breath hitching, determined to hear him out nonetheless.

“I’m sorry you had to go through that,” you crooned sympathetically, even if it could barely make him feel any better.

He still seemed to appreciate it, gently threading his fingers through your hair, taking a deep calming breath.

“I’m here. The thing is, she showed us something else too, something more… primal, I suppose? Carnal? Like… fear of spiders, dark, drowning, things like that…?”

You stiffened, sensing that now he was much closer to hitting home that you liked. But you supposed he was about to make a point, so you tried to keep your voice neutral despite your curiosity about what that specifically meant for him.

“Okay?”

“You can ask what she showed me.”

You shifted in his embrace, frowning as he glanced at you – slightly uncomfortable, but definitely sincere.

“What… what did you see?” you asked lowly, your hand sliding down his arm to interlace your fingers with his.

His heart sped up under your chin, his Adam’s apple bobbed, but he still told you.

“I was torn apart by wolves. Dogs maybe, I’m not sure. I just remember claws and sharp teeth-“

“Jesus,” you breathed out at the vivid image appearing in front of your eyes, squeezing his hand tighter.

At the same time, your mind raced as much as his heart did.

Was Steve afraid of dogs? That would be… strange. For one, there was a reason he was compared to a golden retriever at times, but the idea was even more surprising because you had seen him interact with dogs on occasion. He was… maybe not enthusiastic exactly, but alright.

Why would he be scared of them anyway? Was there a story? A childhood memory perhaps? You of all people should know that phobias often had been caused by a negative experience in childhood – it was one of the reasons you hated yours so much, because you couldn’t pinpoint the moment that had caused it.

But this wasn’t about you. Not yet anyway, you guessed.

You remained silent as Steve gathered his thoughts, his eyes misted as he lost himself in a memory.

“I’m still not great with them, but I… manage. Wanda was the one to help me achieve that.”

Somewhere in the back of your mind, a jealous bitch of a voice whined. You shushed it mentally, trying to follow his train of thought. The conclusion was ridiculously clear.

“You think she can help me too,” you stated the obvious, finding Steve fully in the present again, gazing at you intensely.

“Only if you want to try. You… you don’t know what your fear is based on exactly, right? No concrete memory?”

You shook your head automatically. “No clue. One of my past therapists thought that it was the reason why our sessions weren’t working, not even after repeated exposure. We never got to the bottom of it.”

Steve was still watching you with almost unnerving intensity. There was more to what he was suggesting, you could tell. You only didn’t know what – was it about the nature of Wanda’s powers?

You wouldn’t lie – the idea of someone intruding your mind scared the hell out of you, but here you were… growing desperate to get rid of the only thing holding you back.

“She might be able to help then. But… eh, hear me out before passing judgement, okay?”

That caused you to frown deeply – wasn’t it what you were doing?

“Okay?”

Steve bit the inside of his cheek, wavering again and you sighed, propping yourself on your elbow, staring down at him in utter confusion and with a healthy amount of expectancy.

“Some people believe that-- no, uhm- what Wanda did was that she made me see the very cause of my fear, the exact memory. And this might not be making any sense at first, but— I was seeing it from my perspective, it was definitely me… and my hand was— it was a black man’s hand.”

“…huh?”

Colour you fucking clueless.

What the hell was he talking about?

Steve grimaced helplessly, his explanation apparently not turning out the way he wanted to.

“Some people believe that our fears are based… on the way we died in our past life,” he finally admitted and you… froze.

Your eyes grew wide, your body tensing and for a brief second, you wondered if Steve had gone completely mad, because the look on his face was deadly serious.

Past life?

Seriously? Steve, of all people, the very rational guy desperate for factfulness, was talking about reincarnation?

What. The actual. Fuck.

Steve, the guy who had scientists pump his body with supersoldier serum – by needles, of all things, seriously, the procedure sounded downright terrifying and reading about it made you respect him even more –, a guy who survived being frozen thanks to science, was trying to convince you that past lives existed.

Your mind went entirely blank.

The worst thing about it was that he had a solid reason to believe this thing, that was if he was telling the truth and he had been able to lessen his fear. And if Steve believed something, then for the reasons you had listed to yourself, there must have been a damn good portion of truth in it.

It was just a lot to wrap your head around.

You cleared your throat, feeling Steve’s eyes burning a hole into your head as he awaited your reaction, possibly with dread, which was perfectly justified.

It sounded insane… but.

“So… let me get this straight. You think that the origin of my fear lies in… some past life of mine. A life which ended, because of a-- a needle?” you choked out, the words sounding even crazier when spoken out loud.

You shook your head, still processing the information when Steve confirmed it. “Well… yes.”

“Uh-huh.”

You lowered yourself back to the cushions, rolling over to your back, staring at the ceiling instead. You could feel Steve fidget next to you nervously, his eyes still on you.

“You think I’m crazy.”

The corner of your lips twitched, your chest rising and falling calmly, the sentence easing the pressure that built there during his explanation.

“Well, yeah, but I knew that before you told me all that, so-“

“Hey-!“

You slapped your hand over his as it neared you, pinning it to the mattress and casting a grin in his direction, a strange feeling of contentment spreading through your body.

Maybe you fear wasn’t your fault. Perhaps it wasn’t the worst thing in the world that you needed help. Hell, even the great Steve Rogers, the bravest man you knew, had sought assistance – and then he had won.

Knowing that felt so damn liberating.

Mostly because maybe, just maybe, you had a chance of overcoming this. Maybe you could still become a SHIELD agent.

You were lying here in the bed, side by side, hand in hand, head turn to side, gazes locked, and while you were smiling, Steve’s lips slowly spread in a hesitant smile as well.

God, you loved this man so much, more than words could express.

“Thank you for trusting me with this, Steve,” you said simply, but from the very bottom of your heart.

His eyes narrowed a fraction. “Does that mean you’re… willing to give it a shot?”

You shrugged, scooting closer to him and he eagerly opened his arms for you, contentedly wrapping you in his embrace again as you pressed a kiss to his sternum.

“Not gonna lie. It might be a very long shot and the idea of someone raking through my mind is… unsettling to say at least, but if you trust her enough to let her do that… I trust you, Steve. I trust your judgement and I believe you wouldn’t come up with something like this just for laughs. So yeah. I’m willing to give it a shot.”

His hand found its way under your chin to tilt your head back, chasing your mouth with his, sealing the deal with a surprisingly sensual kiss which turned into another and another… gradually growing lazier and sloppier until you settled for one last kiss goodnight, melting into each other like you belonged there and nowhere else.

Maybe you did – for all you knew, you could be lovers who reincarnated time and time again only to find each other across time and space.

The thought made you chuckle, the breathless sound escaping your lips before you finally fell asleep.

◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦ *✧･◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦◦

You shifted uncomfortably in your seat on the couch, one you had taken after anxiously pacing the living room for what felt like forever. Steve had called Wanda the first thing in the morning-- well, almost the first thing, and she had agreed to meet you this very day, accepting the offer to be picked up after lunch.

One light meal later, because you could barely swallow anything with your throat tight and stomach twisted, and one unpleasant call later in which you learned you officially failed the exam, oh joy, here you were, waiting in Steve’s apartment in Brooklyn.

For the millionth time you thanked heavens for Steve wanting to have his own space outside the compound. You really didn’t want to deal with this near everyone and you weren’t certain you were comfortable with the woman you didn’t know at all in your crampy apartment.

The lock clicked and you jumped to your feet, instantly making your way to the door. You stopped in your tracks when you realized you would probably freak her out right from the start.

Better let Steve handle this part. And the introduction-

Shit, can she read my thoughts right now?!

Naturally, your mind suddenly filled with the most embarrassing moments of your life and you wanted to scream in frustration, mentally apologizing to the young ‘witch’.

Yep, still weird to think that.

One sweetly familiar and one foreign voice reached your ears, the female one chuckling silently and you just knew she heard every single one of your thoughts.

Well. Worse things had happened, you guessed.

You sighed, took a deep breath and tried to fix an inviting smile that wouldn’t seem too desperate and awkward as hell. You probably failed, but you would take what you could get.

“I still can’t believe Sam challenged you to a flying contest. I really thought he’s a sensible guy,” Steve said as they entered the common space and you wiped your sweaty palms to your jeans, searching his face first.

His lips were smiling, but if you looked into his eyes closely, you could read the hints of anxiety you felt yourself.

Your gaze shifted to his companion then; the pretty brunette with shade of red in her hair shrugged at Steve’s remark, smirking.

“Who am I to argue with him if he wants to have his behind handed to him?”

If you were being honest, you had been slightly intimidated at the mere idea of meeting the Scarlet Witch; however, you took an instant liking to her.

She was young and while her eyes carried pain of her complicated past, she radiated strength and positive energy, a glow of something extraordinary that had nothing to do with her powers, but more with her personality.

She met your gaze, smiling at you kindly and you shook yourself, registering Steve making his way to you, dropping a chaste kiss to your cheek.

“Hi,” he whispered and you returned the sentiment, brushing his hand before deciding to grab it firmly and squeeze in greeting.

“Hello, miss Maximoff. I’d say ‘welcome’, but I’m not sure I have the right since this is Steve’s apartment,” you rambled, mentally cursing yourself for it. You couldn’t just keep your cool, could you?

The woman only smiled wider as you went and offered your hand to shake along with introducing yourself.

“I appreciate the sentiment anyway. And please, call me Wanda. It’s nice to meet you. I only heard good things.”

You frowned slightly, trying to imagine how much Steve could tell her about you during the ride, when Wanda subtly pointed to her head.

Oh. OH.

What should you even say to that? She had seen you before and possibly knew things about you she didn’t ask for (was that how that worked, people throwing thoughts on her without her will, or-) without even meeting you.

You gulped and from the corner of your eye, you noticed a slight hint of red to Steve’s cheeks. Interesting.

“Likewise. Uhm… I’m sorry to meet you like this though. I—we barely introduced and… I’m already asking for your help,” you said apologetically, honestly ashamed for that. “I’m sorry.”

It might have been a mutual decision of Steve and you to lay low with your relationship, which meant postponing meeting his friends to later, however it didn’t change the fact you felt like you were using Wanda.

It was not the best feeling in the world. This was how low you had steeped-

“Please, don’t even worry about it. Steve’s… friends are my friends as well. I’ll be happy to try and help, more so to help people that make Steve happy.”

A twinkle of mischief appeared in her eye and Steve next to you cleared his throat loudly, rushing to be a good host.

“Anything I can offer you, Wanda? Water, tea, coffee…?”

You did not miss the pointed look he gave her and the beautiful creature she was, she grinned at him, amusement dancing across her face.

“Tea would be great. Shall we sit?” she beckoned to the couch and you nodded, asking Steve for a cup of tea as well. Coffee and talked about your phobia did not sound like a good mix after all. “Alright. Let’s see what can we do about your situation.”

Steve had told her most of the essential information, obviously including the fact you didn’t know when the phobia developed.

“Okay. Are you comfortable with me trying to reach out into your mind? To create a mental connection of sort?” she asked after a while, sitting in an armchair opposite to you, while Steve nestled next to you in respectable distance, not touching you at all, letting you choose how much of a physical contact you wanted.

You greatly appreciated both Steve and Wanda for respecting your boundaries and allowing you to push them whichever direction as you seemed fit.

Because having Wanda probing in your head was fucking terrifying.

Steve trusts her, you reminded yourself, and she gave you no reason not to trust her either. She was in fact so welcoming you could cry.

Wanda smiled at you patiently and you felt heat rising into your cheeks, once again realizing she could probably hear your hesitance as well as seeing it.

“Yes. Tell me what to do,” you decided, hoping you sounded at least twice as firm as you felt. “…that is if I need to do something.”

“I’d be much more comfortable if you did, I’m sure you would like that better too. Once you do what I say, you will feel certain nudge, my mind reaching out – please, try to let me in. Now I want to you to close your eyes and imagine a safe space. A truly safe space, somewhere you feel like nothing can touch you, can’t hurt you in any way, not physical one, not emotional one. Just a completely safe place,” she coaxed you gently.

With a deep breath, you eyed Steve, catching his supportive smile before following her instructions.

Your first thought was of your childhood bedroom. You were surprised how sharp the memory felt – probably an effect of Wanda’s powers.

You stood there, as if truly there, looking at your desk, papers with amateur doodles scattered all over it, and you couldn’t but smile at the memory of your notebooks being filled with little results of boredom. And then the angry male voice reached your ears, followed by a shout from a woman, and the illusion shattered just like the plate that hit the ground, causing your eyes to snap open to reality.

The intense weight on your chest startled you, the fights you had heard from the relative safety of your room during your early years crushing your ribcage with each breath you tried to take.

You met Wanda’s kind eyes, feeling Steve’s hand gently brush the back of yours which was gripping the edge of the couch.

The young witch shook her head lightly, your gazes locked with such strength you felt like she was staring into your soul through a looking glass – and boy, did you feel like Alice in wonderland yourself.

“There’s no rush,” Wanda assured you, voice low. “You don’t need to force it. Breathe in, breathe out. In and out, how many times you need. Close your eyes and try to remember. When was the last time you felt truly safe?”

Steve’s hand squeezed yours before withdrawing and leaving you to your own thoughts again as you took several calming breaths and let your eyes flutter shut.

You honestly had no idea why you had thought of your childhood first, when you in fact only felt safe once you left to pursue your dream career. You loved your tiny apartment much more – because it was your space, your safe space.

Your couch bought on extra sale because of the horrendous colour, that bookshelf that remembered better days, but still didn’t yield under the weight of your books, the three pitiful plants you got only to shut your friend up… you walked to the poor excuse for a kitchen cabinets, involuntarily smiling at the mismatched door that your neighbour was able to get you and installed after the original one nearly knocked you out as if fell off without warning.

Your fingers traced the counter when a pair of strong hands landed softly on your hips, an arm sneaking around your stomach, a kiss pressed into the crook of your neck. It didn’t startle you, a sense of comfort enveloping you instead, Steve’s lips curling into a smile against your skin.

“Tu m’as manqué, mon cœur,” he admitted and you couldn’t but melt into his form, a content smile tugging on your lips.

“Missed you too.”

His grip grew stronger before he allowed you to turn in his embrace so you could give him a welcome kiss. He had been on a mission for a week and you somehow found yourself at that stage in a relationship where you felt comfortable enough to admit you fell hard for each other, while retaining that sense of your time together being precious and too limited no matter how much of it you actually spent together. Or at least that was what this was for you – judging by the satisfied smile painted on Steve’s lips when you withdrew to catch your breath, the feeling was mutual.

“…though that phrase is still not making a damn sense,” you complained, earning a chuckle and another kiss, his arms lifting you so you barely stood on your tiptoes.

You were an independent and a dare to say badass woman, but hey, you would not deny that such display of strength made your toes curl.

“So, what’s on the agenda today?” you asked once he set you back down, though he never released you from the cage of his arms.

The sudden dull pressure in the back of your head surprised you, but wasn’t necessarily unpleasant.

More than anything else, it brought you back to reality a little; this was nothing but a memory. Steve appearing as if his motions slowed down only proved that.

Unsure what to do, you massaged the back of your head and stepped back, Steve’s arms easily falling; his gaze remained fixed on your though, patient. A game your mind had built, you realized, a mirage created with the witch’s help.

Let me in, Wanda had said. Yeah well, a manual to follow would be nice.

Willing yourself to relax as much as possible, you felt a slight pop and the pressure disappeared.

Before you could question it, a voice sounded somewhere, close but yet far.

“Thank you for letting me in,” Wanda said simply, causing you to jump few inches above the floor.

But the Steve in your memory nodded and you focused on breathing in and out, trying to take in his comforting presence in the safety of your apartment rather than focusing on Wanda, the intruder you invited.

The thought of the witch seeing this however felt anything but comforting – embarrassment filled your being instead. A part of you couldn’t quite believe Steve, your boyfriend of barely four months, belonged to your safe place as much as anything else.

You were honest with each other, but how would he react if he knew that? What Wanda must have been thinking?

“There is no reason to be ashamed,” her voice reassured you softly, sounding as if she was smiling a bit. This really was awkward. “I won’t tell on you either way, but you must know you are on his mind often. I believe I was being clear on that earlier. He would be – and he should be – honoured by this. Plus, it’s still your apartment, he’s just an addition.”

Letting her words sink in, you noticed a strange red glow by the edge of your couch, just a flicker of something that certainly didn’t belong – and sure as well wasn’t making you feel safe.

In fact, simply watching it caused your stomach to somersault.

“Think of your fear for a bit. What you see is a rift to the world you’re trying to reach.”

Balling your hands into fists, you gulped and reluctantly did as Wanda told you.

Needles. Christ, why.

The glimmer of red energy pulsated, growing in size considerably – and with it, so did the cold sensation in your stomach. Your breathing picked up, your heart hammering in your chest.

Gentle fingers curled around your wrist, causing you to look at Steve, having been ignoring him for a while. He swept his thumb over the sensitive skin on your inner wrist, a smile spreading on his lips when your eyes met.

“You’re doing great,” he encouraged you and you briefly wondered if this was your imagination, Wanda’s doing or actual real-life Steve touching you.

Whichever it was, it grounded you, your ribcage expanding easier despite the pain.

The rift stretched to your height, its powerful presence feeling like a punch in your solar plexus, making your skin crawl, your body shrinking into itself. The wave of nausea that hit you didn’t help either.

Your hand was lifted, lips brushing your palm before letting go.

“You’re going to hate this, but I need you to touch it,” Wanda instructed you and indeed, you hated the mere idea of coming closer to that thing. But what other option did you have?

Steve smiled at you again, supportive and understanding, and you clenched your jaw, forcing your feet, suddenly feeling like made of lead, to move.

“Once you touch it, you’ll find yourself in the memory. Sadly, I can’t follow you there, but trust me – and trust Steve –, we will pull you back. It’s nothing but a memory,” Wanda explained and that truly did not ease your building anxiety at all.

You supposed it shouldn’t have, she was only stating facts, but the remark about her and Steve did give you strength as did looking around your apartment again.

All you had to do was to touch that-- weird thing… and relive your death. Death involving needles. Charming.

You took another shaky step, every fibre on your being screaming at you to run the opposite direction instead. Leaning onto the couch for support as your legs turned wobbly, you let the familiar sensation of the fabric sooth you.

You had to do this. You could do this.

You casted one more glance at Steve, who crossed the short distance you had walked and placed his hand on your shoulder, clearly not having any difficulty approaching the rift. It made sense, you supposed – this was your fear you were dealing with, not his.

“I’ve got you,” he promised, his palm sliding down your back, its warmth so damn pleasant against the goosebumps that rose on your skin. “And you’ve got this, mon cœur.”

“Damn you,” you mumbled and that bastard had the audacity to chuckle and squeeze your hip.

“Go. I’ll be right here when you get back.”

Easier said than done.

With a suffocating lump in your throat, you forced yourself to take the last step and reached out your trembling hand towards the pulsing red energy.

A scream ripped from your throat when that thing gripped you fiercely and sucked you in.

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The lights were bright, burning in your eyes as did the unshed tears. After the dark corridors you had walked with a man at each of your side, both shorter than you, and another man behind your back, the startling clinical white made you nauseous.

Or maybe that was just knowing the inevitability of fate. Bile rose to your throat, the world spinning, shadows of the hall following you like claws of death, already reading for you at the mere thought of what waited in this room.

You didn’t try to run; each of your steps felt too heavy for that.

You didn’t try to break free of the men’s hold on your veiny arms; they felt like made of lead, weak and clammy from the lack of sleep and sustenance.

You didn’t try to insist on your innocence anymore; there was no point in talking if words fell on deaf ears.

People always heard what they wanted to hear. People always saw what they wanted to see.

Truth was a matter of circumstances and death was the only certitude a man had.

The door fell shut behind your group of gloom, the white walls closing on around you, the hairs on the back of neck standing at attention. The icy tone of the room barely aggravated the cold seeped in your core, in your very bones. Each step echoed in the almost empty room, every breath – as much as your last would.

You had practised yesterday; you knew the drill. Enter the room slowly. Don’t look at the one-way glass as it might startle the high representative of state whose daughter you had (supposedly) violated and strangled to death. Lie down and let them strap you to the table.

When you had obediently sat down and one of the guards – Franz they called him, decent guy you thought – met your gaze, a warning in his eyes mingling with regret as you laid down.

Staring onto the ceiling, tears gathering in your eyes, your heart was beating its way out of your chest, anger, so much anger at the injustice once again battling with the feeling of resignation. Justice didn’t exist int his world; they had found their scapegoat. Your innocence virtually didn’t exist. Your testimony was a lie, everyone thought so.

You squeezed your eyes shut as you heard the buckles at your feet, a torturously loud sound in the silent room and then your feet were restrained. Your chest right under your armpits came next; the guard fastened it harshly, so tight your eyes snapped open in surprise.

You stared into the eyes of a guilty man, a man whose face held no remorse for wrecking and taking two lives. You remembered the black orbits from the night you saw them widened with wildness, a savage pleasure gleaming in the dark, noticing your figure behind the beams.

Strange, you pondered. The restraint on your chest felt like a tickle in comparison to the pressure on your chest when you looked into those eyes, your breath hitching in your throat, suffocating weigh squeezing your lungs and heart; was this how it was going to feel? You had heard rumours.

Like a liquid fire running in your veins, slowly licking until it reached your heart. You wondered – who spread the tale? Everyone with this treatment met their death, didn’t they? Then how could people know?

Was it something made up so the inmates died a bit by bit, every minute before even feeling the pinch of the needles?

A violent shudder shook your whole body, but you didn’t think you moved at all.

Your limbs didn’t belong to you anymore as they uncuffed your wrists in order to strap them to the table instead.

God, it was so so cold- what was the last time you were warm?

Your eyes followed Adams’ hands, hands painted in invisible blood, invisible tonight as least, as they fixed the strap on your right wrist and moved to your head, jerking it so you faced the blinding light instead.

You couldn’t plead Satan to take the true killer anymore; you were out of time. You prayed instead.

You prayed for your soul to find peace and justice, for the light to engulf you quickly, before you could feel the fire in your veins in stark contrast to the ice in them present now.

Now I lay me down to sleep

To an eternal sleep. To death. This was your end. Tears ran down your cheeks, silent and useless. Shame on a man who cries for himself – but you lied to yourself, just this one time, that you were crying for the unjust world where lies and deceit won over the truth.

I pray the Lord my Soul to keep

Your gaze blurry, your head restrained, you could still make up the needles piercing the skin of your forearms, attached to the bags on the IV poles. The liquid in them was clear, pure like water, seemingly so innocent – as much as the inmate on the table.

If I should die before I wake

It was a strange dichotomy – the numbness spreading from one side, the burning heat from the other. Your fingers twitched and closed into a tight fist at the sudden surge of pain, gnawing, blinding.

Oh God, please, please-

I pray the Lord my Soul to take

A scream filled the blank room, a sound so animalistic it couldn’t belong to a human being, deafening to your ears. You couldn’t breath as the fire burned its way through your arm, leaving ashes in its wake-

“-the fuck-“

“What’s-“

“Just--it! ---thing!”

The fire subdued as the world lost its colour, everything swallowed by blackness, a bleary image of a spasming arm with a glint of thin piece of metal flickering before disappearing altogether.

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Your throat burned from the scream ripping from your its depth, a blurry image of a woman in front of you casing you to back out into the bed— no, you were sitting up now, the room wasn’t white, was darker-- the scream was definitely not male anymore, no, it was a female one, it was yours-

The room spun and disappeared, replaced by a sharp image of an apartment, your apartment, and you looked around frantically, catching a glimpse of a tall blonde figure in the corner of the room, your heart, hammering so painfully in your aching ribcage fluttering in relief. Your gaze swiftly returned to the man, like a drowning person to the sun glimmering on the surface of water.

Steve.

Your apartment and Steve.

Your name was being called silently and you realized that the scream had died down, only your harsh breathing remaining.

“You’re safe. Remember? Nothing can touch you here, no one can, not unless you let them,” Wanda’s voice soothed you, causing your eyes to flutter shut in respite, your knees giving out.

Despite having been standing several feet from you, Steve was suddenly there to catch you, scooping you into his arms, enveloping you in a protective embrace while you sobbed into his shirt, his soft voice whispering sweet nonsense, not saying a word of complaint about how desperately you were clinging to him, inhaling his aftershave and detergent and him.

You’re safe. I’ve got you.

Je te protègerai toujours, mon cœur.

I’ve got you, I’ve got you.

I love you.

When you opened your eyes again, the images blended together. His heart was beating vigorously against your cheek, his lips pressed into your hair, but you could hear Wanda moving around – you were in Steve’s apartment, back to reality.

Upon realizing that, you gripped him with all you had and whispered a shaky sorry, which only resulted in his embrace growing tighter.

It took you another hour to settle down enough to discuss what would be your next steps, ones that certainly wouldn’t be taken today.

“I know how hard this is to hear, but I won’t just magically snap my fingers to make it go away – I mean, I could, but no one can tell the consequences in the long run. It will take several sessions, short though, when we dull your very understandable fear a bit. You’re strong – I believe we can deal with this. Thank you for trusting me,” Wanda said nonsensically, as if she wasn’t the one helping you.

Even if her help so far felt entirely awful.

“Thank you, Wanda. Truly. It means a lot.”

“Thank you,” you echoed Steve’s words lamely and heard a hint of a smile in Wanda’s voice when she was leaving the apartment.

“You’re welcome. Get some rest. I can get to the compound on my own – I need to practise for the match with Sam anyway.”

Involuntarily, the corners of your lips twitched at the image of Wanda floating above the city and landing in front of Steve’s gobsmacked friend, cursing himself for challenging a witch. About thirty seconds later, you were laughing, practically doubled over with the force of it, tears still streaming down your face.

To be fair, you did deserve to be hysterical all you wanted.

Much later, you fell into an uneasy sleep, Steve’s voice laced with amusement and concern at the same time as he read to you about adventures of a young telekinetic girl, about her sweet teacher and the terrible headmistress bullying them both.

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You might have been fiddling with your fingers, anxious about what you were about to face, but you couldn’t’ quite shush the excitement spurting in you with each joyous beat of your heart.

You eyed Steve in search for silent support – or any support really – but if his expression was anything to go by, he was highly amused at your antics. The corners of his lips were twitching as he stared ahead, ignoring your very pointed glare.

You elbowed his ribs playfully, but made sure to dig you bone into him. Cocky little shit.

He actually chuckled at that, fully aware that you probably hurt yourself more than you hurt him, because his damn serum turned his abs into stone. A very hot stone in both senses of the word, a stone sensitive as hell when you ran your fingers over it (or your mouth, for that matter), but still.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he let out between his chuckles and you didn’t believe him one bit.

You knew that you were being a tiny bit ridiculous, but… he didn’t have to rude about it.

“Likely story,” you muttered grumpily, trying to recall just when had the anxious but fully supportive Steve turned into a laughing mess.

It must have been when you passed your fucking exam. Finally!

After weeks of Wanda working her magic on you – and of your work on yourself, being very brave and determined, as she had never forgot to mention, as did Steve – you had been able to retake your exam, the last one in the line of group missions and tests. You could have been done long before today, but truthfully, you couldn’t be happier with the result.

Besides passing your exams and officially becoming a SHIELD agent, you had learned how to control your phobia. Not entirely, but considerably, just enough to do your damn job.

Your dream job.

The fact that it meant you and Steve not having to be shy about your relationship anymore was an entirely pleasant bonus. By no means you had been shy when you succeeded – you had assaulted him right in front of Director Fury, jumping into your very secret boyfriend’s arms. Thank god for Steve’s reflexes, because while he had seemed utterly shocked at your lunge, he still hadn’t dropped you. Needless to say, you both had to collect your jaws from the floor when the director just snorted in amusement, a knowing look in his eye. Apparently, nothing escaped this man’s attention. It was almost funny, actually.

Naturally, with majority of your friend being off to missions, because they had graduated spy school at their first attempts, you were left with Steve to celebrate with; no complaints were filed though, celebrating in Steve style was very much glorious. One might say you even saw fireworks.

Anyway, since his friends were in town for once, he decided that the time had come for you to meet them, with not having to hide your relationship anymore and all that.

Hence you being worked up again; you were about to meet Steve friends. The Avengers.

You had every right to be slightly terrified. What if they didn’t like you? SHIELD agent or not, how would you face an angry Hulk? Or a demigod? Hell, Barton or Romanoff—okay, Romanoff at least knew you existed, occasionally catching your gaze in the corridor or during training, but-? And Wilson could fly in that get-up of his-! Not to mention the android!

Steve’s arm winded around your waist, pulling you to his side and spinning you to him until you were chest to chest. That did effectively snap you from your gloomy thoughts.

“You just defeated your phobia and showed everyone what a great agent you will make. You can handle a bunch of people with the same goal as yours,” Steve reasoned with you, smiling down at you widely, even dropping a kiss on your forehead. “Plus, they are excited to meet you.”

Was that supposed to make you feel better? Because your stomach dropped even lower and you sighed, meeting Steve’s eyes, soft and yet joyful.

His enthusiasm was infectious. Plus, you did become a SHIELD agent today… Steve had shown you his appreciating in many ways… plenty of reasons to be happy.

“What did you tell them about me?”

“All the good things. Stop worrying, they have to be nice to you anyway, it’s your day after all.” A smile spread on your face at the reminder and Steve’s arm tightened around you. “The moment we started to plan the reunion, they knew celebrating your big break would be on agenda.”

You leaned your head onto Steve’s chest contentedly and closed your eyes, showing him how sweet you thought he was being. In the back of your mind, you wondered just how long one elevator ride could be, even if it was to the top of the Avengers Tower, and if the AI running the building happened to slow it down just so you could try and calm your nerves.

Which was exactly why it took a moment for Steve’s words to truly register. Your eyes snapped open in horror and you quickly retreated, not missing the shit-eating grin forming on your boyfriend’s lips.

“Steve… when did you start planning this get-together?” you asked warily, narrowing your eyes at him and swallowing the luckily unnecessary panic.

“Four days ago. Why?”

He knew damn well why!

You slapped his left peck with vigour, half-angry, half-moved by his stunt. He chuckled and placed his palm over yours, pinning it to his chest, shaking with hushed laughter.

“This isn’t funny, Steve!” you argued only half-heartedly, because to his utter luck, things worked out. “What if I have failed? That would be so-”

He removed his hand from yours in order to cradle your jaw. You wanted to be angry with him, you did. Furious, in fact, but he was making it really hard and you officially got your dream job today and- yeah, he was hard to be mad at, especially when he spoke with sincerity that took your breath away.

“I knew you wouldn’t. I had faith in my girl.”

Steve pecked your lips as you sputtered a curse, frustrated with your inability to chastise him properly when he was being charming and melting your heart with every word.

“You know, everyone keeps saying that you’re reckless…” you grumbled and one corner of his lips rose higher in a lopsided smile, twinkling eyes watching you with a blend of admiration and amusement and love and how could you resist him? “Punk…”

His fingers sneaked to your nape, pulling you in for a deep kiss; lips parting, tongues meeting just because you couldn’t get enough of each other and of the delight you tasted on each other with every kiss.

His arm just lifted you from the ground a few inches, causing your stomach to flutter in the most pleasant way, when the elevator doors slid open and a snarky comment welcomed you.

“Rude.”

You jerked away from Steve, startled, but the ball was in his court as he had to place you back on the ground. Your cheeks were burning with embarrassment when your gaze fell on a smirking Tony Stark.

Well, shit. As far as first impressions went, this could have happened much better…

“You sure you want to celebrate here and not somewhere else?” the Ironman himself continued, gesturing his hand in a so-so motion and you wished to face hundreds of needles rather than him and the rest of Steve’s friend who had just got a free show. A rather PG one, but a show nevertheless.

“Stark, quit being a dick,” a female voice stuck up for you, rendering you speechless as it didn’t come from Wanda, but from Natasha Romanoff. “Congratulations!”

The rest of the team had various mixture of amusement and surprise written over their faces, but neither of them seemed hostile. In fact, they did look eager to meet you despite your dramatic entrance. Wanda smiled at you reassuringly from behind the android – Vision, you believed – and nodded, probably hearing your thoughts practically scream at her.

You smiled back at the witch before turning to the Black Widow herself.

“Thank you, Agent Romanoff,” you replied politely and a grin that told you that one day, you might even become friends, appeared on her face.

“You’re welcome, Agent 18.”

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S.R.masterlist

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Title taken from Halsey’s Haunting. Pics used are not mine, credit to original creators.

Also: yes, Steve was reading Matilda to our brave to-be SHLED agent as a comfort book.

Thank you for reading!

(If you at least a bit and you’re a fan of Wanda being awesome, please consider reading Walpurgis Night. It’s a result of rereading too much of T’s work anyway.)

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Tags: @scentedsongrebel @orions-nebula @cxptain @patzammit @kayteewritessteve

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atc74 · 4 years

Text

Soul to Souls - One

Square(s) Filled: None for this chapter

Warnings: Mentions of death, wolf hunt, Sassy OC, Guilt Ridden!Dean, so many more to come

Summary: Since she was four years old, Annaleigh has seen the same boy in her dreams. For twenty-five years, she grows to love the boy that has now turned into a man. Dean Winchester just lost the only family he has ever known. The guilt drives him to work harder than ever before. He works to forget the pain, until he meets Annaleigh and she turns his world upside down. What she learns changes both of their lives forever, but what will he do when he discovers the truth? Will he accept it or run back to the only life he has ever known?

Pairing: Dean x OC Annaleigh (evenutally)

Word Count: 1974

Beta’d by: @amanda-teaches, @katehuntington, thank you both for being my guides! Dividers by the amazingly talented @talesmaniac89.

A/N: This was my very first series I ever wrote four years ago in September 2016 and I am so happy and proud to bring this back home.

Like Dean’s scent? Buy it here from @scentsfromthebunker!

There are things that go bump in the night. Monsters, demons and the like. This isn’t about human monsters or the fact that we all have our demons. No, this is about real monsters. Vampires, werewolves, black-eyed bastards; things you have nightmares about. If your kid says there is something in his closet, don’t go look. Grab your family and run.

Dean Winchester and his brother, Sam, hunt the non-human monsters of the world. They were raised to be hunters. Their mother was killed by a demon when Dean was only four. Sammy was still a baby, six months old at the time. That night, their dad packed up and moved the family from town to town, doing his best to eradicate the evils that plague our planet. Heaven and Hell, angels and demons, God and Lucifer; it’s all real.

Since the age of four, the constant moving and fighting evil was the only life Dean can remember and the only life Sammy has ever known. This isn’t just what they do, it is who they are.

Their dad was killed by a demon about four years ago, when he made a deal to save his eldest son's life. That was the turning point for Dean; he finally understood his father’s need for vengeance, for justice. It had just been Sam and Dean ever since. The only family they had left was Bobby Singer - hunter, lore expert and surrogate father - to keep them on the not so straight and narrow path through this life.

It had been just the two of them, until Sam inadvertently started the Apocalypse and ended up in Hell, in the cage with the Devil himself. Now, Dean was flying solo, feeling like he was losing his way. Dean chastised himself for not doing more; not being able to save his brother. Everything was written in the Heavens many millennia ago. Dean didn’t know that there was nothing he could have done to save his brother.

Dean spent days, nights, weeks on the road; for months he drove. He followed one hunt after another, never stopping. Wherever Bobby needed him or whatever he could find on his own, he went there to keep busy. It didn’t matter how big or small the threat; Dean took it without question. He needed it. He needed the action, the danger, the adrenaline. Anything to keep his mind off Sammy. Anything.

Ever since Sammy was taken from him, Dean had felt empty inside. The adrenaline of the hunt felt good for a moment, until he finished and remembered he was all alone once more. He wished he couldn’t feel anything, well, most of the time anyway. Until he met her. That was three months ago.

Bobby had asked Dean to look into a possible werewolf case on his way back from another hunt, so there he was in a sleepy little podunk town in Idaho. The view wasn’t bad, but he really wanted out of there as quickly as the hunt would allow. He checked into a run-down motel and quickly went in search of food, beer, whiskey, and pie, not necessarily in that order. He could already smell the rain permeating the mountain air. He just hoped it held out long enough.

Not far from the motel, he found a bar with only a few cars in the lot. Walking through the front door, he noticed three guys shoulder to shoulder watching something mindless on the bar television. One bartender, one waitress. Easy, Dean thought to himself, as he slid into the corner booth where he could keep an eye on both entrances.

The waitress approached his table. She was short, cute, and curvy. She had a nice smile, the bluest eyes he had ever seen, and straight red hair, up to her chin. Dean looked away quickly before her eyes met his.

“What can I get you?” she asked, not too sweetly, just a little bit of an edge to her voice, like she had had enough tonight.

“Whiskey, neat. Beer, bacon cheeseburger, fries,” he replied without looking up.

Without a word, she walked away. She returned soon enough with the whiskey and a bottle of beer, setting them down sharply on the table. “Sorry,” she mumbled and turned to walk back to the bar.

Dean sat in the booth, scrolling through his phone while he waited for his meal, looking at pictures he had of his little brother. He didn’t need this down time, thinking about Sammy rotting in Hell. It was a new form of torture, one he was a little too intimately familiar with.

A chuckle escaped Dean’s lips when he saw the picture he had snapped of the drool hanging out of Sam’s mouth during a case in Utah. Dean kept scrolling through the pictures, landing on one he didn’t remember. He was standing next to Baby, his pride and joy, a 1967 jet black Chevrolet Impala, with Sam by his side, both of them with a cold beer in their hands. Sam was laughing at something without a doubt hilarious that Dean had said. When was this taken? He thought. Then it hit him: this was after Dean was cured of the ghost sickness and they all thought he was a goner. Bobby, that sneaky bastard, must have snapped that photo, Dean thought to himself. He kept looking at Sam in the picture, how happy he looked, how happy they both looked. Was it because he said something funny or was Sam just glad that he was able to save Dean for once? Dammit! I was the big brother. I was supposed to look out for Sammy. And I let him down. Again, Dean thought to himself.

A soft hand on his cheek startled him, bringing him back to the dingy bar. Slowly and gently, the waitress with the piercing blue eyes wiped away a tear he didn’t even know he had shed before she sat down across from Dean. “Why so sad, Handsome?” It was just one simple question but he couldn’t even answer her. Where did he even start?

“Oh, nothing you need to worry your pretty little head with, Red.” Dean took the plate she offered and went to pick up his burger. She continued to peer into his soul as if she knew exactly what he was thinking, that he was a failure.

“You carry the weight of the world on your shoulders and you don’t have to. I can help you, Dean, but only if you let me,” she said quietly, as she looked around the bar as if someone would overhear her words.

He dropped the burger and reached into the back of his pants, his hand on the pistol he had concealed there, finger already on the trigger.

“Who the fu--” was all he got out before she reached a hand across the table and gripped his wrist lightly, interrupting his anger.

“Bobby called me last night and told me you were on your way. I was just about to give up and leave.” She continued to gaze at him. “My name is Annaleigh Newmiller. I am a friend of Bobby’s. And, I know what you are going to ask. No, I am not a hunter, I’m just his eyes and ears out here in the boonies.” She let go of his hand, but he could still feel her touch lingering on his skin.

Dean was more handsome than Annaleigh remembered; a little more rugged and much sadder. But, the same devastating smile and green eyes were there, with just a few more crinkles around them. The same, yet so different.

Dean collected his thoughts as she looked at him, her gaze never wavering. He did not put the gun away but kept it next to him in the booth. One glance towards the bar indicated the three stooges didn’t even know they were in the back and wouldn’t be interrupting anytime soon.

He had to get answers from her right now, he didn’t want to walk away to call the old man and risk her skipping out. “Bobby didn’t tell me he had someone out here in the mountains. He didn’t tell me someone would be waiting for me. How do I know you are who you say you are?”

Slowly, she took an iron knife and a flask out of her apron. She took a sip from the small silver bottle then handed it to him; he checked to make sure it was holy water. Next, she wrapped her small hand around the handle of the knife and slid the blade through the soft flesh on her left forearm, letting a bit of blood bead up on the surface. Not once did she take her eyes off of Dean’s. She removed the purple bandana from its home around her neck and wrapped it around the fresh wound on her arm.

When she was done, Annaleigh reached over with her right hand, grabbed a french fry off his plate and popped it in her mouth. “Field to fryer... good, aren’t they?”

Dean continued to watch her, slack jawed, while she ate more of his fries. Finally, Dean picked one up and brought it to his lips, taking a bite. She was right, they were good. Hold on, what the hell? Fries!? She’s distracting me from who she really is. He leaned forward in the booth grabbing her wrist with his free hand as she reached for another french fry.

“Why don’t you start by telling me who the hell you are and what you know!” He didn’t exactly yell it, but it was loud enough that it brought an unwelcome glance from the bartender, who looked at Annaleigh, sternly, but she just nodded to let him know she was okay, and he turned back to the TV on the wall.

“Like I said before; my name is Annaleigh. Bobby was a friend of my brother’s. My brother... Well, he’s dead now, but every now and then Bobby calls, asks me to look into something for him. I have lived here in the mountains most of my life and I work here at the bar for extra cash. I’m a massage therapist full time and I work from home.” She was giving Dean the whole nine yards. He asked for it, so he just sat there, listening. And, boy, she had a lot more to say.

“I am 29, I’m a Leo, my middle name is Grace. I enjoy strong men and stronger coffee. I like country music and classic rock. Yeah, an odd combination, I know. I do not and will not put up with other people’s bullshit. Anyway, a couple days ago, a body turned up in the woods behind my house. The heart was missing. I called the sheriff, and he said it was an animal attack. Animal, my ass. So, I called Bobby. I already figured it was a werewolf from all the research I have done in the past for my brother, but I needed him to send someone, because, while I know about the life and the lore, I don’t hunt. He said you were on your way back to his place from Oregon. How did you like the drive through the mountains? Can I get you another round?”

He mulled over everything she had said. She didn’t seem like she was bullshitting him, but maybe just a little reluctant to get into the thick of it. He finally let go of her wrist and put his gun away. Dean picked up his burger and took a bite before speaking, ignoring the questions she had asked him. “Well, Red... looks like I have a wolf that needs putting down. Why don’t I finish up here and you show me where this body was found?”

Did you like it? The nicest thing you can do for a writer is reblog their work and tell them, and others, how much you like it!

Soul to Souls tags: @emoryhemsworth @flamencodiva @iwantthedean @jensengirl83 @deanwanddamons @smol-and-grumpy @waywardbeanie @whatareyousearchingfordean @princessmisery666 @spnbaby-67 @shy-violet-soul @lastcallatrockysbar @winchesterxfamilybusiness

#dean winchester #dean winchester x oc #dean x annaleigh #supernatural fanfiction #Supernatural fanfic #oc's are people too #oc appreciation day 2020

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anerdinallherglory · 4 years

Text

Approaching Sun (28)

Author’s Note: The goal had been to type around 6,000 words but a family occurrence disrupted my writing progress (it happens) and I am out of time to go beyond 4,407 words. Sorry for the high hopes, but I wanted to give you guys an update before my July class starts tomorrow. This particular chapter is dedicated to Elyssadora for her consistent funny reviews. I hope this chapter doesn’t damage your “nerve endings” too much, Elyssadora. Same, for the rest of you. One step at a time. Love you all!

Pairing: SasuSaku

Previous Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27

Chapter 28: Wherever You Are

Sakura was already closing the inches between them. Her fingers were already brushing his cheeks as she brought his face to hers. She hesitated. Just for a second. Just long enough for him to pull away from her. But Sasuke barely took a breath before Sakura touched her lips to his.

Sakura placed her lips on Sasuke’s carefully. Although she held his face, she did not pull him to her in desperation, but simply guided his mouth to hers gently. Their lips touched for a very long second, brushing each other as Sakura leaned into it. Sasuke wavered for just a moment and then Sakura felt his body bend toward hers. His fingers brushed her left hip hesitantly and Sakura responded by deepening the kiss. The very moment their kissing became more substantial, Sasuke’s hand rose from her hip and took hold of her left hand. He pulled it from his cheek.

Sakura’s soaring heart suddenly dropped to her stomach.

“Stop,” he whispered, and turned his head away from her. He held onto her wrist for just a little longer before dropping it. He took a step back and Sakura wanted nothing more than to grab hold of him and pull him back to that moment, but Sakura knew that if she spoke, the tears would come and her voice would break.

“What are you doing?” he asked her coldly and the question felt like a knife in her gut.

“Sasuke, I…” she began, stumbling for what to say. Had she misunderstood? No, Sakura had been sure of what she saw in his face just moments before she kissed him; she had been sure that Sasuke had entwined their hands together. There was no mistaking it, but maybe she had moved too fast which startled him. Sakura cursed her eagerness. She had wanted to kiss him ever since they were genin together; had been imagining this very moment for so long.

“Do you think I brought you with me for this?” Sasuke finally asked, eyes downcast and blank.

Despite the cracking in her chest at his harsh words, Sakura tried to think clearly about what she could say to fix this. Her thoughts returned to when Sakura had fought Sasuke back in Konoha as an attempt to get through to his stubbornness. When she had been suspended in the air by Sasuke’s Susanoo arm and he had demanded why she expected him to play at love with her, Sakura’s answer then was her answer now.

“No,” she responded in the gloom. “I don’t expect anything from you. I told you that.”

Sasuke made brief eye contact with her through his shaggy hair. The fear that Sakura had seen just seconds earlier was now shaded by anger and confusion.

“Sakura,” he began, rubbing his forehead with his hand. “We can’t do this.”

Sakura wanted to shake him for saying that. She didn’t understand his logic. What was going on in that head of his? She had told him before that they didn’t have to be together; that she didn’t expect him to stay in Konoha; that she had absolutely ZERO expectations if they could just love one another. So what was it for him? What had him so hung up and determined to keep his distance? Frustrated, Sakura could only think of one reason. It always came back to one thought for Sakura. “Why can’t we?” she finally demanded. “Am I wrong? Do you really not feel love towards me?”

“It doesn’t matter!” he dismissed her heatedly. He was glaring at her now, no longer avoiding her eyes.

That statement was only more confirmation for Sakura. Sasuke would be lying to her face if he said he didn’t love her. It was true that he had feelings for her and they both knew it. Then what? Before Sakura could ask any more questions, Sasuke’s sharp voice pierced the space between them.

“I’m getting tired of repeating myself. I told you I can never be that person for you.”

Sasuke had said that to her before. When he had chosen to walk away again after her confession since he had returned to Konoha. The way he said it now was a little different, Sakura realized. His exact words to her before had been “That person is never going to be me.” This time he said, “I can never be that person.” Maybe she was reading too much into it, but there was a subtle implication there like it wasn’t Sasuke’s choice. Like there was something else preventing him from being so.

Sakura concentrated on her breathing to calm her thoughts which were speeding up while she watched Sasuke turn away from her toward the counter. He was beginning to gather the food pills from the container and placing them in his travel pouch.

“Where are you going?” she asked, comprehending what was happening.

“I need space to think,” he spoke distantly. Sakura began to take a step towards him. She wanted to demand that he stay put. To tell him that they could work through this together; think together and be on the same page.

But it was too late to change that stubborn Uchiha mind. A crackle in the air split open the space between them and Sasuke stepped through it without even so much as looking at her. Before Sakura could even think of racing in the portal after him, it sealed itself, leaving no option for her to follow him. The sensation was deeper than rejection; it felt like she had been slapped in the face.

Sakura immediately sat on the ground in shock. Sasuke had left again. Again. When Sakura grasped this, she felt suddenly so tired that she slumped completely to the floor and stared up at the ceiling. There were no tears this time; she was not angry. She was not sad. She felt confused and everything else was empty.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

When Sasuke landed firmly on his knees in the airless dimension, he immediately slammed his fist in the sand out of frustration. He cursed into the air as if it was personally at fault. It was at fault, he decided as he gave the ground another swipe. These dimensions, his mission, Kaguya, himself and his past—it was all at fault.

God, what had just happened!? He threw himself back against the sand and stared up into the green sky which was suddenly so similar a shade to Sakura’s irises. He moaned and turned himself over on to his side.

He replayed what had went wrong in his mind. Sasuke had been caught. Sakura had caught him loving her and when she confronted him with his own feelings, Sasuke couldn’t convince her otherwise any longer. If only he hadn’t given in to his impulses; he had been chastising himself for so long now about it—what had he been thinking and why did he suddenly give in?

And that kiss. When the secret had been revealed, Sakura had crossed that line Sasuke was so desperate to keep undisturbed. And he had kissed her back! When her lips touched his, Sasuke hadn’t pulled away; in fact, his instincts took control as he began to reach for her. He had wanted to pull her closer, cup the back her neck, part her lips with his own and never stop. And it was that intense desire for her that surprised Sasuke and had him pulling away.

Damn.

All he knew in that moment was that he desperately needed space from her. He needed time to clear his head and come back to his senses, because if he didn’t, Sasuke knew that line would be crossed indefinitely. If he had stayed any longer, Sakura would have successfully been able to persuade him. And if Sakura was able to persuade him to pursue a future with her, then what?

Sasuke listed the reasons again to himself, to remind himself just what.

First, if he and Sakura kept hurtling towards this direction, then Sasuke could no longer consider her just a friend which would have various consequences. For instance, Sasuke knew that if he gave Sakura that kind of hope, she would never stop waiting for him. Despite her claims of never looking for someone else, if Sasuke did give in, she really would never look for another guy to make her happy, and while that was a satisfying thought for Sasuke, he admitted that it was also very selfish. And he could not in good conscious leave her waiting for him for the rest of her life.

Which leads him to his next reason. Sasuke was duty-bound and secure in his promise to the Leaf, like Itachi, to take on the hard tasks and ultimately protect the leaf. This life was a symbol of selflessness and his ultimate punishment for his sins. This path was how he would atone for everything he did in the past.

Thirdly, being associated with Sasuke had already been detrimental to Sakura. Her run-in with Kido was a prime example. He had told himself this a thousand times. Sakura already had a target on her back because she was his friend; imagine the penalty for being his wife.

Finally, the scariest one of all. If Sasuke decided to allow himself the happiness of a relationship with his teammate, what would happen to him if that happiness was taken away? If his relationship with her was the reason she was ultimately taken from him, Sasuke was afraid of who he would become again.

Sasuke kept getting hung up on these reasons. He sat up in the red dirt of the sand and thought about the past few weeks with Sakura, their conversations, and advice from Naruto. With this in mind, he reassessed his reasons.

For the first reason, Sakura had already reassured him that his absence would not guarantee her future happiness with someone else. Sasuke allowed himself to believe that one. Sakura had made sure he would by giving him a throbbing black eye to remind him. But was it right for him to make that final choice?

The second reason, concerning his journey of atonement, Sakura had said multiple times: "All I would need to know is that you love me back. We don't have to be together to love each other.” To which Sasuke’s train of thought always brought him back to this: what a miserable life. Which is why he had vowed not to tell her his feelings. Doing so would give her hope, but now she had figured it out without it coming directly from his mouth. So perhaps this reason was invalid now. He had screwed up and revealed it all, and now she knew. Would he be creating a miserable life for her by continuing to reject her after letting his true feelings become apparent?

Sasuke shook his head, moving on to his third and fourth reasons. Naruto had assured Sasuke that he would protect Sakura, but if anything ever did happen, then Naruto would get through to Sasuke like he had in the past. Sasuke believed in Naruto more than anything, but just as equally didn’t believe in himself.

Sasuke slumped forward against his knees, a headache forming quickly with is pent up energy. All of his reasons seemed to be becoming invalid which is why the Uchiha was slipping dangerously. If all of those sound objectives were becoming gray, Sasuke still believed it all boiled down to this: did he deserve any of it? He knew that Sakura did. He decided to just stop thinking for a minute—he was confused and didn’t know about anything anymore.

Frustration soon coursed through Sasuke’s body in the form of chakra. The way it always had in the past when he was angry and felt like taking his anger out on the world. Soon his body was crackling with electric chakra as it sizzled down his arm and exploded from his palm into the sand.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

When Sakura woke the next morning, she forgot where she was for a second. She was curled on the small sofa in the medicine preparation room where she was with Sasuke in the middle of the night… before he left. She groaned as her memories came back to her and jumped when she heard a familiar voice say, “So this is where you’ve been all night, Miss.”

Sakura rolled over quickly and found herself looking up at a grinning Mako. He must have woken her up, and in embarrassment, Sakura immediately sat up and patted down her staticky hair, a result of tossing and turning against the microfiber fabric in her sleep. “Mako,” she acknowledged as he sat beside her on the snug couch as if they were lifelong friends. And like a lifelong friend, Mako was pressing a cup of warm tea into her palms, a habit of his that Sakura was recognizing.

“Did you pass out up here because of your medicine?” he inquired learnedly, a doctor assessing a patient. Sakura had been heavily dosed with antihistamines before she and Sasuke had come up here.

“Sort of,” Sakura mumbled dejectedly into her tea as she took a sip.

“Sasuke, then?” he asked knowingly, and Sakura spat the tea.

Mako laughed and explained, “The pills are gone. I’m assuming he ditched you.”

Sakura cringed at his bluntness because it was technically and brutally true. “I kissed him.”

“Whaaat?” Mako dropped his mouth and spun toward Sakura with the expression of surprise. His reaction reminded her of a combination of Ino and Naruto, someone who was both dramatic but expected all the details. Maybe it was because of Mako’s kindness, familiarity, and constant presence, that Sakura felt like she could confide in him.

“Yeah. I was reckless and acted too quickly. And then he just left.” Sakura placed her palm on her forehead. “I can’t believe myself right now.”

“Huh,” Mako stated, turning back around and pinching his chin in contemplation. “I didn’t get the impression that he would leave like that.”

Sakura laughed. “Are you kidding? It’s a special talent of his.”

Mako patted his co-worker’s shoulder in comfort. “Don’t worry. He’ll be back.”

Sakura looked over at him after he said that and then she took another thoughtful sip of tea before asking, “What makes you say that?”

“Well, it’s obvious that he likes you. To be honest, I thought you were already a couple.”

Sakura coughed on her tea again which made Mako chuckle in amusement. “Give me that before you choke,” he said, taking her tea into his own hands.

“What…gave you…that idea?” Sakura questioned between coughs and punctuated each part of the broken sentence with a pat on her chest.

“Actually, I guess it was his conversation with Satou yesterday that made me think that.”

“Really? What happened?” Sakura sat up, both nervous and excited about the content of what Mako would say next.

“Well,” Mako began, considering the ceiling tiles as he recalled the scene, “the first thing that stood out to me was when he told Satou something along the lines of ‘I care more about her and her goal than the few minutes I could be doing something more beneficial than talking to you.’”

Sakura’s mouth fell open in disbelief. “He said that?!” The Sasuke that Sakura knew would never say something like that. Well, maybe the second, rude half of that statement, but not the first part.

“Yeah,” Mako responded with a smile, continuing with “then the genjutsu was awfully showy, followed by the threatening.”

Sakura jumped out of her seat. “He did WHAT?” She raised her hands to frame her wide-eyed expression. Just last night, Sasuke had told her the talk with Satou had gone fine! He called that fine? She dragged her palms down her face in anxiety. She knew she had been right to eavesdrop on them; what did she honestly expect to happen?

Mako explained that it turned out to their benefit despite the possible violations to several codes of conduct. Sakura couldn’t agree that the genjutsu approach was beneficial, but Mako explained that they both had tried to talk to Satou, but he was the type of person to only respect a show of force. Sakura let out an unsure sigh. She felt like she would have to bring it up with Sasuke later. No wonder he tried to change the subject last night.

“Oh!” Mako exclaimed, jumping back to their previous topic of conversation. “And his reaction to you going into anaphylactic shock was extreme, even for a friend.”

Sakura started to disagree with Mako, relaying that Sasuke’s reaction was far, far less dramatic than Naruto’s would have been. She stopped herself though, wanting to believe in the fantasy of Mako’s perception of their relationship. It was somewhat a relief for Sakura, to see Mako’s opinions as missing puzzle pieces to the question of whether or not Sasuke loved her.

“Thanks, Mako,” Sakura smiled sadly, leaning against the wall to the right of the couch, “but we aren’t a couple.”

Mako stood up then, and started shepherding Sakura towards the door, stating “You know what they say! Work is the best remedy for worry. Let’s go do what you’re good at!”

Sakura laughed and let Mako escort her downstairs, grateful for a friend.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Isao was awake in his room, staring out the window when Sakura opened the door, revealing the delicious lunch she had brought for him. When Isao saw that it was Sakura coming into the room, he gave her a surprised smile.

Hisa, the female medic whom Sakura had taken a liking to, had informed her of Satou’s current episodes of anger at the hospital. Apparently, Gaara—wherever he was—had issued a warrant for Satou’s arrest since he had taken to destroying the hospital machinery in his room. Ninja had come for him this morning, escorting him out publicly. Isao had seen his father’s apprehension from one of the top story windows. Hisa explained that Isao had not cried or seemed distraught, but instead just watched silently as his father was escorted down the road.

Sakura had decided she had better check up on him anyway. Placing the food on his bed, Sakura crouched on the floor like she had done only a few days ago when the child was having episode of night terrors. The good news was that Sakura’s prescription seemed to be doing its job by helping the child pass on to REM sleep more quickly, bypassing the night terrors. According to the staff, Isao had yet to have another episode. Sakura was still mindful of the child’s trauma despite this, so she took the humble position of sitting.

“Isao,” she whispered as the child ate ravenously. “Do you want to spend some time in the Leaf Village?”

Isao’s head jerked, and he swallowed his food before answering, “What?”

“Your father won’t be in prison forever. Gaara will make sure he is punished for what has happened to you, but he will get out eventually.”

Sakura hated to be so blunt with an eleven-year-old, but she had to make sure that Isao knew the ins and outs of the entire situation. She was certain that Gaara would allow Isao to spend some time in Konoha, but she wanted to make sure it was what Isao wanted.

Isao took another bite of his rice and nodded in thought as she continued, “If you spent some time in the Hidden Leaf, you could train as a Genin there without fear of your father. We all know he hates Konoha. You would be safe there and could continue treatment at our facilities.”

Suddenly Isao spoke with a hopeful voice, “Will you be there?”

Sakura gazed at the boy as he shyly dropped his head and looked away from her. Sakura considered his question before replying honestly, “Yes, but not immediately.”

When he met her eyes again, Sakura explained further. “I am traveling with my partner right now. I don’t know when I’ll return to Konoha.” It was true that Sakura would not immediately return, whether it was a few days or a few months. The way things were with Sasuke right now, she wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t return for a while, leaving her to find her way back to Konoha on her own. She was determined to find him herself, crossing dimensions and whatever else, if this was the case.

“Then yes,” Isao announced, startling her out of her thoughts of Sasuke. “I want to be wherever you are ma’am.” Sakura’s heart melted instantly for the little boy who was looking at her as a long-lost family member. Maybe Sakura had been the first person to care about him since the loss of his mother. He had clung to her so desperately the first night she had spent comforting him through his terror. This was a sad realization that almost made Sakura cry.

“Then it’s settled,” she smiled sadly. “I’ll begin confirming everything with the Kazekage and Hokage.”

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Later that evening, after seeing all her patients, Sakura sat down at a desk upstairs at the hospital and began to write letters.

Her first letter was to the Kazekage, requesting official permission for Isao’s relocation to the Hidden Leaf Village for continued treatment. She informed him that she wasn’t aware of how much time he would be spending, but that she predicted for as long Satou remained a threat to the boy’s person and health. She relayed her wishes for the village’s fostering of the child to strengthen the bond between villages.

Next, she wrote to the Hokage and her sensei, Kakashi Hatake. Despite her close bond with her mentor, Sakura remained formal in her letter. She requested permission for the child’s temporary stay and care, along with his continued education. She informed Kakashi of the entire situation, including Satou’s resentment towards the leaf (although she had yet to figure out exactly why). Sakura explained the basics of Isao’s situation but included another letter for Lady Tsunade that covered the details of his illness, along with his treatment history and medical notes. Sakura requested that once permission was granted, that Kakashi pass this note immediately to Tsunade after an envoy had been sent to retrieve the child from Sunagakure; Sakura informed Kakashi that her hope was to remain with Sasuke for a little while longer.

As she sealed both letters, Sakura imagined Naruto’s disappointed face when he comprehended that she included nothing for him. He would say, “That old granny gets a letter, but I, a fellow member of Team 7, does not?” Then he would push in over Kakashi’s desk, cramming his face next to his and insisting to see what all Sakura had wrote, ‘just to be sure.’ She laughed aloud to herself at that particular scenario. She suddenly missed that idiot so much that her eyes pricked with tears and she quickly wiped them away afraid that once her tears started, they wouldn’t stop. There seemed to be a lot to cry about recently.

Unexpectedly, tea was being placed down before her. She jumped at Mako’s sudden appearance, catching her once again in a state of vulnerability. “Sorry,” he smiled, leaning his hip against the desk. “You seemed a little down.”

Sakura returned his kindness with a smile, taking up the tea and taking a drink of the warm sweet liquid. “Just a little homesick,” she explained. She didn’t want him assuming it was about Sasuke, although the Uchiha had in reality been occupying her thoughts for most of the day. How different and similar lovesickness and homesickness were. To Sakura, Sasuke would always be her home away from home. When he was gone, lovesickness consumed her. Yet, away from Konoha, Sakura felt a similar grief.

“Is that why you are writing?” Mako questioned, pointing towards the letters on her desk.

“Oh, this is for the Kazekage and Hokage about Isao’s transfer,” Sakura clarified. “Writing home does remind me of my friends, which is why I might have seemed down.” Sakura took another drink of the tea.

“I see,” Mako answered emotionlessly, peering up at the ceiling. As she watched him, Sakura wondered suddenly how he knew she had been up here. She hadn’t seen him for most of the day, the two deciding to split the work. Not knowing what else to say, Sakura took another full drink from the steaming porcelain cup in front of her. And another. After the fourth gulp, Sakura began to taste something beneath the sweetness. Anyone else might not have been able to sense it, but Sakura’s palate was trained to detect oddities. She coughed a little, clearing her throat of the bitter aftertaste.

Mako turned to fully face her suddenly and Sakura frowned as she realized that his outline was a little fuzzy and she couldn’t blink hard enough to read his facial expression.

When Mako reached out before her and took hold of the two letters, Sakura’s body wasn’t responding to stop him. When he stuffed the letters into his whitecoat, all Sakura could do was drop the cup in shock, watching it as it rolled across the table.

“It’s nothing personal,” came Mako’s detached, unfamiliar tone of voice as Sakura’s consciousness began to slip. “I just can’t let you go on any further.”

“You,” she managed to spit out as she forced her body from her chair, knees hitting hard on the ground. She didn’t understand what was happening, why Mako would be doing something like this to her; she cursed herself for blindly accepting his tea as often as she did. Even her thinking began to fade as she tried to army crawl toward the door. Her voice was suddenly gone, the possibility for screaming for help suddenly damned.

The last thing she remembered was hearing Mako’s footfalls get closer and the door being shut in front of her closing eyes.

#approaching sun #sasusaku #ssfanfiction #sasusakufanfiction #naruto fanfiction #narutoshippuden #sasuke and sakura #sasukeshinden #sakura hiden #Sakura Haruno #Sasuke Uchiha

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hopefulsunshinegirl · 4 years

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Runaway child

So I had a thought and then I wrote it down. What if because he walked away from one child that destiny was just like well tough luck mate here's another one. Please note that is it just based from the TV show. Have no idea if this will go down well but worth a try. It’ll be a father daughter relationship and super fuffy and I just really wanted some more soft Geralt.

Title: Runaway Child

Description: Don’t mess with destiny. A lesson Geralt will have to learn the hard way in the form of a tiny stubborn girl who has decided to be his new travelling companion.

Warnings: None

Length: 1347

The sun had set and her feet were aching by the time the Witcher stopped to set up camp. It had been a long day but thankfully the Witcher and his friend stayed on foot so she was able to follow them out of her town this morning, keeping a safe distance away as they made their way through the wood. Quietly, she settled down under a tree while they lit the fire, not close enough to feel the warmth of it but enough that she wasn’t completely surrounded by darkness. After a while the bard started playing a gentle melody seemingly to the Witchers annoyance. The calming notes drifted through the trees and almost of their own accord the girls eyes began to drop. She was relaxing further into the nook of the tree when the Witcher’s rumbling voice broke through the song startlingly her, “The night will be too cold without a fire.” She tensed at his words, holding as still as she could practically holding her breath in the now deadly silence.

“Which is of course why we have one Geralt. Are you not feeling well or are you just talking to Roach again?” The confusion is clear in the Bards voice as he replies, but the Witcher does not speak again. “Well alright…that wasn’t weird at all. Always knew you were a bit lacking up there but now you might have actually lost it.” He started to play again.

“We will do you no harm.”

“WHO are you talking to? Wait is someone there?” the bards voice rose in pitch as the girl listens nervously to the sound of leaves crunching under foot, “If I didn’t know any better I might think you were just trying to stop me playing.” He shouts as the fire light around the girl is blocked out by the very imposing, very tall form of the Witcher. Panicking, she jumps up and spins away as if to run, but a large hand catches the back of her cloak, picking her off the floor and stalking back toward the fire.

“Put me down! What happened to no harm? Let me go, I haven’t done anything!” She struggles her voice slightly breaking in fear, before being unceremoniously dumped on the damp ground next to the bard. The Witcher sits himself opposite her, his orange eyes catching in the glow of the flames as they stare the girl down.

“A child. You found a child?” The bard directed his question across the fire, eyes wider than she thought possible, “Where did you even come from?” this question was for her, but she didn’t look away from the Witcher.

“She’s been following us all day.” He replied for her. The girl couldn’t tell if the man was cross with her or not, his voice always sounded the same.

“And you let her? Geralt,” the bard chastised, “she’s so small, you should have sent her back once you realised! This is no place for someone who cannot defend themselves.” He reached out towards her shoulders, but this time she was prepared and before he knew it had reached into her cloak and put a dagger between the two of them.

“I am not some helpless little girl.” She practically growls and the bard lowers his hands cautiously, “He didn’t let me do anything. I needed to leave.” She starts to explain, putting her weapon away, “You seemed like you knew where you were going. Thought it was a good place to start.” She looks back at the Witcher, but he does not respond, “When I saw you in the village I knew you could lead me out; the kind eyed stranger and his funny little friend who travel the continent helping people. Maybe they could help me.” The last bit is almost a whisper and suddenly she does feel small and helpless, releasing now she’d just put her destiny in their hands. If they were to send her away she would have nowhere to go and no one to call safe.

“Look here, I’m not his funny lit-”

“I don’t help people.” The Witcher interrupts now gazing into the fire.

“That’s not what the songs say.” She argues, but the Witcher just continues to stare at the flames. “I won’t be a burden. I’m used to looking after myself. I just want to get to somewhere else. I will stop following you if you want, but I shan’t be going back to that place” Stubbornly she crosses her arms and eyes the uninterested Witcher.

“Yes that sounds like a good plan. We’ll help you get somewhere safe, but we can’t be travelling with a child” His friend nods to himself sounding decided, but it is not his opinion she wants, especially as he’d just said the complete opposite of what the girl wanted. Silence descends upon the small camp, with each second she can feel the tension growing and her heart begins to fall. She starts to think the Witcher will agree with him and turn her away, and just as her eyes start to prickle with unshed tears he speaks.

“How old are you?” the question is so startling innocent and unexpected that she forgets for a moment that he was speaking to her.

“Oh,” she chuckles, “I’m (Y/N) and in 2 months I’m going to be 13” she proudly state, beaming up at the stoic man, “How old are you?”

“So you’re 12 then. That is much too young to leave home!” The bard throws is arms up and the girl glares at him about to start an argument, but the Witcher saves both of them the trouble by answering.

“I’m 97”

There’s a pause as she stares at him, “That’s old.”

“Yes,” he grunts.

“I bet you’ve be able to see the whole continent then.”

“Most.”

“See, that is exactly what I want to do. I guess you do know where you’re going” the girl starts to ramble taking off her bag and setting out a sleeping mat. “You’ll be able to show me everything,” a yawn escapes her as she lies down, “I should sleep. Tomorrow will be just as busy, yes?” not really expecting a reply, her eyes start to close. “Goodnight Witcher. Goodnight Bard.”

The night is silent with thought for a long time after the child falls asleep. Both men staring into the fire occasionally glancing towards her small figure illuminated in the dim glow. “Preciouses little thing.” Jaskier smiles, “Wonder what she’s really running from? You know-”

“Don’t start Jaskier”

“No it’s actually quite funny this. Despite how you try to deny destiny it really seems to want you to have a child. First the Child Surprise and now a runaway child. Maybe you were meant to be a father…” Jaskier looks up at Geralts scowling face, “or not…But you have to admit that it is weird it’s happened twice. What I don’t get is why didn’t you send her back to the village? Surely you knew she was following us?” He waited for a reply but the Witcher didn’t even look like he was listening. “Oh come on, you were answering her questions! Are you going to let her stay?” Jaskier practically demanded.

“She’s sleeping be quiet.” Geralt warned, eyeing the bundle for movement just in case she’d been disturbed by the Bards prattle. “I thought she would get bored following. I was wrong.”

“Amazing. A 12 year old is what makes you admit such a thing. Does that mean you’re keeping her? Because she didn’t give up?”

“Isn’t that how you managed it?” Geralt almost smiled at the thought.

“That’s different! I’m here for a purpose, who else will tell your heroic stories to the public. You need me. She is a child. She needs to be kept safe, we are not equipped to look after her, how will she mange on the road with us?”

“She’s already proved she can manage better than you,” he smirked at his friend, as he to lay down to sleep, “She came with a knife.”

Okay so I do have an idea of where I want this to go, but do you think I should continue?

#the witcher #netflix #imagine #geralt x reader #the witcher x reader #daughter/father #platonic #geralt #jaskier #reader #self insert

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awhitehead17 · 4 years

Note

#48 songbird, with Tim and Jason?

This turned out a bit longer than expected but I hope you enjoy it! :D

“You need to be more careful Jay.” Tim chastises the older man as he wraps a bandage around the wounded leg.

Jason grunts in acknowledgement.

“I mean it.” Tim sternly voices. He finishes treating the wound by tying the bandage off.

“I know,” Jason grumbles, “I heard you the first five times.”

Tim sighs and gets to his feet from where he had been kneeling on the hard floor treating a knife wound in his brother’s leg. Said brother was currently sprawled out on the couch with an arm thrown over his eyes.

Tim eyes Jason’s form for a moment before shaking his head. He should know better than to try and lecture someone on taking better care of themselves, especially someone from his own family.

While Jason doesn’t seem to be moving any time soon, Tim decides to go and grab some food as it’s been a long night and he’s feeling hungry. Taking off the medical gloves he was wearing, Tim chucks them onto the coffee table and starts heading for the kitchen in his apartment.

As he was passing through the door and onto the corridor, a loud thump makes him pause in his tracks. He turns around to look at Jason, who happened to be still in the same position as Tim left him, so apparently the thump wasn’t him. Frowning Tim shakes his head, he must have been hearing things.

It was only a couple steps later that a second unusual noise makes him pause in his tracks. It was a high pitched noise that sounded like chirping. Tim stops and listens to it, trying to work out where it was coming from. After a moment Tim realises it was coming from outside of his apartment.

Out of curiosity, he turns back around and wonders through the living room until he’s at his balcony door. Opening it up, the chirping only gets louder. By this point it was clear that it was a bird, but what Tim couldn’t work out was why it seemed to be hanging around his apartment, birds aren’t really known for coming this far into the city.

Tim studies the night-time darkness, looking for the noisy bird. He could still hear it chirping but couldn’t see where it was coming from. It wasn’t until he looks down that he realises the bird was actually on his balcony floor and not in the air (he should have noticed that sooner, its late and he’s tired, give him a break).

Tim stares in surprise as the animal scrambles uselessly across the floor, seeming unable to lift itself up. Its wing was dragging behind its body like it was damaged. Could that be what caused the thump earlier?

Feeling bad for the creature, Tim rushes back indoors to grab a small towel from the bathroom before heading back outside to quickly capture it. The poor thing freaks out in his hands, its chirping only intensifies and Tim could feel it scrambling to get out of his hold.

He rushes inside and starts thinking about what he could do. It takes a moment but he soon remembers there being an empty storage box in his kitchen, once that comes to mind he speeds to the kitchen and finds the box conveniently uncovered. Tim carefully places the bird and the towel inside the box which seemed to be the right choice because soon enough the bird calms down and stops trying to escape.

Tim takes a breath and lets it out as he tries to decide what to do next. He isn’t a vet. He doesn’t know how to look after injured animals.

“What’s going on ‘placement?” Jason mumbles from the doorway.

Tim startles and swears at the appearance of his brother. He had completely forgotten he had human company in his apartment.

Once his heart is beating back at a normal rate, Tim waves his hand in the direction of the box. “There was an injured bird on my balcony. I couldn’t leave it so I put it in the box but now I have no idea on what to do”

Jason blinks at him for a moment. The older man doesn’t say anything as he pushes himself away from the wall to shuffle to Tim’s side. Tim watches as Jason peers into the box to see the now sleeping bird bundled up in a towel.

Jason reaches out and very carefully moves the towel off the bird before replacing it again. “Huh.”

Tim looks at him expectantly after that noise. “’Huh’ what?” He prompts, when Jason doesn’t elaborate.

“It’s a songbird, or more specifically an American Robin. Strange given this part of the country and given time of year.”

Now Tim’s staring at him in disbelief. “How the hell do you know that? Also you should be resting.”

Jason gives him a side glance before shrugging nonchalantly. “Because I do. How do you not know that?”

Tim huffs and crosses his arms over his chest. “I don’t exactly have the time to learn different bird species Jason. I help run a multi-billion dollar company, why would I learn about birds?”

“What, didn’t daddy bats ever make that part of your training?” Jason snorts with a roll of his eyes. “I only know because when I was younger Alfred taught me. It was just nice sometimes to go out the back of the Manor grounds and spend time in the woodlands to do something as mundane as bird watching.”

Jason’s response cuts off any snarky comment Tim was about to make. Tim hadn’t expected that kind of information, he especially didn’t expect to see a faraway look appear on Jason’s face as he spoke.

“Anyway, now onto your bird problem,” Jason points out, bringing Tim out of his thoughts, “I would suggest ringing the demon spawn. He likes animals doesn’t he? He can nurse it back to health and play Snow White with the thing before freeing it.”

Tim nods, “That’s a good idea actually. I can see if he can come and get it on his way back from patrol.”

Apparently having nothing left to say, Jason waves a hand around lazily and shuffles out of the kitchen. Tim hopes he’s heading for the couch because he really should be resting.

Sighing, Tim grabs his phone from his pocket and dials Damian’s patrol number, while he waits for the brat to pick up he starts thinking about ways to try and pry more information about Jason and his bird watching knowledge because that is something he didn’t know and finds kind of fascinating.

#prompt #songbird #Tim Drake #Jason Todd #batbros #fanfiction #bit of fluff #birds #brotherly bonding #kinda #hope you like it

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frostedroyaltea · 4 years

Text

since I added a lot more and I edited and the format was kinda weird and I am reposting this. enjoy!

____________________________________________________

among us - russian mafia bros play among us

A door slammed against the wall, startling Felix from his sleep. He scowled in the direction of the door. “What do you want?”

“Lixa!” He groaned. “Were you asleep?”

“Yes.” He rubbed his eyes and groaned again. “Urg.”

“What?”

“My eyes hurt.”

“Why would they be hurting?”

“I fell asleep with my contacts again.” Felix swiped at his computer screen. Nothing. He frowned. He tried the power on his computer. Still nothing. Dead. He sighed and plugged it back in.

“So.” Ivan sat in the chair next to his. “Why is it that whenever I come to visit you’re sleeping? I thought Grisha didn’t like slackers.”

“I was working. I was waiting for some things to download and it was taking too long so I was watching a show… And then forgot about work. Anyway-” Felix spun in the chair to face Ivan “-what do you want?”

“So there’s this new game-”

“Vanya I have work,” Felix said and he gestured to the still blank monitor.

“Hmm.” Ivan peered closer. “Computer still looks dead. So we can play.”

“Fine. What is it?”

“It’s called Among Us. It’s people on a spaceship and they get to kill each other and then the other people try to figure out who the murderers are.”

“Where do I get it?”

“On your phone.”

The game was quick to download. As soon as Felix had it up Ivan thrust his own phone at him and told him to put in the code. “So. How do I know if I’m a murderer or not?”

“If you’re imposter you kill people. If you aren’t you try not to die and try to find out who the imposter is.”

“Seems simple enough,” Felix said to himself.

He died almost immediately. The computer was back and alive and he went back to downloading what Vladimir needed and looking for a way to contact an old ally. The search came up empty and he looked back at the game. The ghosts were currently in the chat yelling at the imposter. Felix felt he could relate.

“You die yet?” he asked Ivan.

“Never,” Ivan said in a low voice. “I. Will. Not. Lose.”

“...You must really like this game.”

Ivan must’ve introduced the game to some of the others because the next day they were arguing about it when Felix walked in. Grisha was staring from the doorway to his office. “Why,” he said, looking like he was staring off into the distance. He looked at Felix. “How does this always happen?”

Felix just shrugged and continued his search through the of the internet.

On their way back to the safehouse a group of, they were kids really, stopped them. There were ten of them to their eight.

“Move,” Vladimir barked.

“Make us,” own of them taunted. Vladimir glared at him and he faltered under the weight of the stare. “This is Irish territory. Go somewhere else,” he said weakly.

One of the other, bigger, ones shoved his way forward. “This is why Maeve put me in charge.” He puffed his chest out and stared at Vladimir. “You have to go somewhere else! This is irish territory now.” He stuck his chin up and grinned triumphantly.

Vladimir took a step forward. “Since when.”

“Since last week. Now go! Maeve doesn’t want any uhh. Uhh. Gop-”

“Alright.” Vladimir walked up to their leader and stared down at him. “I’ve had enough. Get out of here. Go home.”

“Or else what ?”

Vladimir narrowed his eyes and glared down at him. “Do you want to find out?” He crossed his arms and tapped his foot.

The kid eyed him, swallowed and took a step back. “There’s more of us than you .”

“Listen kid-”

Somehow one of them had snuck off without their notice. Ivan yelped and they turned to look at him. He had one of the kids by their hood and was holding a switchblade in his other hand. “Kid tried to stab me,” he said and he shook the kid roughly. The kid look close to tears and they let out a whimper as they tried to sneak away and Ivan tightened his hold.

“You listen here,” Ivan all but snarled. “You stay out of here. Don’t do shit like this. You can get killed.” Ivan shook them again. “Do you understand?”

The kid whimpered a ‘yes’ and scampered away as soon as Ivan relaxed his hold. Most scattered after that, leaving in groups of twos and threes.

While their peers left three rather bold, rather stupid, kids still held their ground. They quickly left after being starred down but not before one of them managed to get Felix with his knife.

There was a clattering on the fire-escape above them and all of them looked up. Matt was standing there, in his old black attire. “Must you all be getting into fights on my doorstep?”

“Sorry Motya,” Vladimir said.

“Someone’s bleeding. You had better come in.

“Through the door ,” he added after Vladimir made for the fire-escape. “I’ll let you in.”

“I know,” Ivan said after they had settled on the couches and had been introduced to Matt’s friends and thoroughly threatened not to hurt them, “we could play Among Us.”

“Your awfully good at that,” Foggy commented, eyeing Piotr stitching the cut on Felix’s chest.

“Thanks. I work with a bunch of idiots. Can you believe,” he nudged Vladimir with his foot, “this one thought it would be a good idea to dump vodka on an open wound? A bunch of tupitsy all of them.”

“Rude,” Vladimir said and punched Piotr’s arm.

Felix yelped when the needle jabbed him painfully. “Sorry,” Piotr soothed. He glared at Vladimir and kicked him. “Don’t do that. That’s why you get called ‘tupitsa’.”

“Did you make a game?” Felix asked through gritted teeth. He screwed his eyes shut at a particularly painful stitch.

“Yeah.”

The rest of them, excluding Piotr and Vladimir who was put in a ‘timeout’ by Piotr, got on, to Ivan and Felix’s surprise. Ivan picked his way through them quickly until the very end when he was inevitably voted out when he was slipping.

Several games later Matt, Foggy, and Karen were invested in the outcomes of their numerous rounds. They had been given food and drinks and seemed inclined to stay as long they’d be allowed.

Another game was started after a rather sloppy one that resulted in arguments over what rules should be made specifically for the players involved. Their ‘discussion’ came to no such argument so another game was started.

"Vanya," Felix grumbled, "stop following me and do your tasks."

"I am. I guess they're in the same direction."

"Uh-huh." Felix looked over at Ivan's phone and narrowed his eyes. "Why is your name red?"

"Oh Lixa," Ivan said sweetly, "you don't have your glasses on. You must have seen it wrong.” Ivan twisted around and turned the screen away. Felix scowled.

"I found my contacts liar ." Felix looked back down at his phone and his mouth dropped open as he watched Ivan kill him. It dropped lower when he watched Ivan report it.

"You see who did it?" Piotr asked.

"No. I just saw the long tongue thing impale him," Ivan said.

"That is not- "

"Shh." Ivan pressed a finger to Felix’s lips and Felix blinked and stared down at him. "You're a ghost so you can't talk."

"That wasn't a rule when you died last round."

"Scream into the void," Aslan said. He looked at Felix's phone. "Was that you who died?"

"Yes. You should know this. It shows our names on screen. Anyway, Ivan is not being fair."

"Quit pouting," Piotr chastised. "So the rules changed. It's not that big a deal."

"You don't think it's suspicious he made that rule after I died and he's the one who reported it?"

"No. Why?"

Felix blinked. "Of course not," he grumbled.

"Someone just killed me!" Anatoly yelled. It seemed only Felix noticed the faint smirk on Ivan's lips.

"Now you can't talk Tolya," Piotr said and he smirked. Anatoly scowled.

"I say we need to do an emergency meeting," Vladimir said.

The meeting did not come to a final conclusion and Vladimir found himself gawping at his phone. His character was lying there, beheaded.

He opened his mouth to say something but Piotr shushed him. "No talking Blondie."

Aslan and Sergei shared a look. They looked at Dmitri. Sergei called another meeting.

While the meeting was going on Anatoly, Felix, and Vladimir raged in the chat about the unfairness of it all. All three came to the conclusion Piotr was very much "sus" as the kids would put it. Very much sus indeed.

"Hey!" Ivan cried as he watched his character being thrown out of the spaceship.

"I knew it!" Felix shouted.

"Shut up Ghost," Sergei said. "And sit back down. You almost knocked the food and my drink on the floor.

"Of course you say your drink. What about other people's drinks?"

"I mentioned the others food didn't I-"

"Maybe we should be more concerned about the stitches he almost pulled out," Piotr said and he sniffed. "Again. For the third time actually."

"I'm sorry- "

"You all are very competitive about this aren't you," Matt said.

"These people are cheating," Vladimir whined, though he later profusely denied it. "Make them stop."

"I don't know. Foggy, should I?"

"Nah. It's pretty entertaining."

"I'll say," Karen said, and she lifted her drink in their direction.

"What the hell! Who killed me!?" Dmitri whipped his head around and scowled at the remaining players.

Piotr stared back nonchalantly. He pointed at Aslan.

"Rude," Dmitri growled at Aslan. "I thought we were supposed to be teammates!"

"We are! I didn't kill you!"

"That's exactly what you'd say if you did kill me!"

"I didn't!"

"I don't know," Piotr drawled. "Seems pretty sus to me."

Ivan let out a drawn out breath. "Please don't say sus. You're too old."

"Sus sus sus sus sus," Sergei chanted and Aslan cuffed him on the head.

"Knock that off. You're the reason we're banned from using internet words."

"That's another reason," Felix said. "You say stuff like that."

"Guys!" Dmitri shouted. "Would you stop fighting already! Piotr has killed you both already!"

Sergei and Aslan looked down at phones heads and stared in horror at the glowing red 'defeated'.

Piotr and Ivan both cheered loudly. "Again!" Ivan shouted and he was immediately shot down.

"I've had enough," Vladimir said. "You both always gang up on everyone. Even if you aren't imposter you team up with them and end up voting them off."

"Well you better find yourself a teammate than spoilsport," Piotr said. He patted Vladimir on the shoulder. "You're losing your game Voldoya."

"I'll show you losing your game," Vladimir growled and he lunged at him.

"Hey! Enough of that! Not in the house!"

Vladimir sat back down almost sheepishly. "Sorry, Motya."

"You've really mellowed him," Piotr told Matt and Vladimir stood up again.

"I'll show you mellowed-"

"How about we call it a night," Foggy said. "I think we've had enough of all-" he waved a hand "-this."

"Foggy," Karen said as she stood, "is right. Good night everyone." She waved goodbye as she left and a chorus of goodbyes followed her as she shut the door.

"Goodnight everyone," Foggy said, and he too left.

Piotr insisted he check Felix's stitches again and Felix let him with a sigh.

"You all staying or going?" Matt asked.

"Leaving," Aslan, Dmitri, and Sergei all said. They left and said they'd be waiting for Piotr by the car.

"You," Piotr pointed a finger at Felix, "don't leave yet. Wait until Matt or Claire or I says it's fine."

"Fine dad," Felix said with a roll of his eyes.

"Vanya. Same goes for you."

"But-" Ivan whined.

"No but's. Tolya is going to stay here-"

"Uhh, since when?" Matt asked.

"Why do I have to play babysitter," Anatoly huffed.

"Because I said so and because the rest of you are hopeless at being responsible. Goodnight." He spun on his heels and left before any protests could be made.

Matt sighed in exasperation. "Let's go, I guess." Vladimir stood and followed him into his room.

Somehow Ivan ended up curled around Felix on one of two couches. Felix was horrified to realize Ivan was now at least as tall as him.

"Who knew members of the mafia could be so cuddly." Felix cracked an eye open and closed it when he saw it was Foggy.

"I did," Matt said.

"Shut up," Vladimir said weakly.

"I let him do it because he's warm and I'm cold," Felix mumbled.

The arm around Felix's waist tightened. "No," Ivan mumbled. "You love me."

"Do I?"

"Jerk."

"Brat."

"You haven't shoved me off yet."

"You're warm. I'm cold."

"Mhmm. Deny it all you want. But I know the ~truth~."

"He isn't wrong Lixa," Anatoly said.

Traitor," Felix grumbled. "What time is it?"

"Noon."

"What!?" He sat off and Ivan fell off the couch with a yelp.

"Relax." Matt walked over and kneeled by the couch. "I should check the stitches."

Said stitches had not been pulled out or messed up since the night before and Matt happily released the Russians out onto the street. He said they could come back as long as they’d be quieter about playing and arguing.

Foggy said it wasn’t likely to happen. Anatoly sighed in agreement and apologized for the lot of them. Both came to the conclusion something similar was likely to happen in the future and they shouldn’t try to stop it.

Matt glared and told them to knock it off, and yes, he would kick them out, and do it gladly. It would be deserved so they couldn’t complain he said. Anatoly agreed with that as well.

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ears-awake-eyes-opened · 4 years

Text

Three Seasons in Wonderland

(Haymitch sleeps better holding Effie instead of a knife. Sensual content. NSFW depending on your sensitivities. — I hopped on board this ship quite late, like the white rabbit. Better late than never; this experience is a joy.)

*TAKE ME*

🐇 🎩

‘...Have I gone mad?’ ‘I'm afraid so. You're entirely bonkers. But I’ll tell you a secret. All the best people are...’ (L.C.)

***

*OPEN ME*

WINTER 🌧⚡️

‘...How long is forever? Sometimes just one second...’ (L.C.)

The first time he slept with her — with anyone — he was 47. Then it happened. Inadvertently... almost.

“Don’t let me fall asleep,” he told her.

“Why not?”

They’d been having sex on and off for 5 years, and she knew he would answer as he always did.

“I don’t sleep without holding my knife.”

“Keep holding ME instead...”

She was persuasive that night: clinging afterwards as he softened inside her, threading her fingers through his hair, taking his warnings on the tip of her tongue and swallowing them whole. In that moment of intoxicating sobriety, he fell asleep with her.

When he startled awake later, he thought her a courageous fool to be tangled up with him. Logic called him to go sleep on the couch, as usual, but the air was cold, and he told logic to wait. He wanted more of her.

His mind was too sleepy to tease out the fragrances — flowers, maybe vanilla. Tracing the handle of his knife was his usual routine. He obviously couldn’t do that without the knife, but his fingertips could sketch its length at the base of her spine, along her wrists, between her breasts.

Sliding down until his feet hung off the bed, he rested his forehead against her heartbeat and slung his arm over her hip. If she woke, he’d caress her in other places until she was ready for him to fuck her again, but he didn’t want to wake her. He wanted to feel her breathing. He wanted the fleeting feeling of safety that came to him on rare occasions.

In thundering stillness, he slipped down the rabbit hole and held her there in Wonderland. On the roof, rain tapped into nothingness. He’d walked through it, and she’d made him warm. For a second, anything beyond Effie ceased to be relevant.

‘...In another moment down went Alice after it, never once considering how in the world she was to get out again...’ (L.C.)

Haymitch didn’t dare name the feeling. He just let his eyes close.

***

*DRINK ME*

SPRING 🐦💦

‘...At least I know who I was when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then...’ (L.C.)

The room was still dark when a Mockingjay called her awake. Another echoed, and a conversation between the two ensued. The geese started up next, searching for a breakfast of shoots and worms in thawed soil.

Haymitch slept through it all like the dead, even though he’d gone to bed relatively sober. His chin rested above her collarbone, and he breathed evenly against her neck. The sensations tickled, and she leaned into them instead of pulling away.

He shifted his hands on her arm, holding her like a child snuggles a blanket. Effie wriggled her toes in between his leg and the flannel sheets. She pulled at the covers which had slipped to his side of the bed.

His side of the bed. The thought was a novelty.

His warmth made her sleepy, but falling back to sleep was impossible with every bird in District 12 gathered outside the window and the first light of sunrise peeking through the curtains.

She’d brought those last year to replace the yellowed sheets which used to hang in the window. At first Haymitch had complained about her *gift* as controlling, but he must have liked the curtains since he didn’t take them down.

As much as she wanted coffee, she needed this more — this closeness of waking up with him beside her rather than on the couch. She covered his hands and tucked her fingers against his chest.

“Are you trying to freeze me to death,” he muttered, “Your hands and feet are like ice.”

“Well, they wouldn’t be if you hadn’t stolen the blankets — again.”

“You have them ALL”

“I just took them back!”

He stretched across her waist. The far side of her body was cold too, so he acquiesced to her version of the truth.

“Want me to warm you up?” he whispered into the crook of her neck, plucking kisses in between words.

She caressed low on his stomach, feeling fine hairs and scar tissue. The intimacy was tempting.

“Don’t touch my dick until your hands are warm.”

She chuckled and thought for a moment. “My mouth is warm... Do you want to feel it?”

He propped himself up on his elbow and brushed a thumb across her lips. Her hair was a tangled halo on the pillow. She was a soft mess, and, fuck yes, he wanted her mouth on him.

“Yeah, I wanna feel it.”

“I want to feel yours too. ...Shall we?”

“I sure as hell ain’t gonna say no to you sitting on my face and sucking my dick.”

Effie rolled her eyes. “Must you be so unromantic!”

“Romance is overrated.” He stroked the laugh lines on her cheeks. In the dim light he couldn’t see them, but he liked knowing that she was smiling and they were there.

She touched his chest. “I think you actually have more inside you than you care to admit.”

“I’ve got PLENTY inside me, sweetheart, but it’s not romance.”

The deep truth was she enjoyed him like crazy. She’d been thirsty so long for sleeping with him and waking up him. Now that this connection was accessible to her, work was in the Capitol and his life was here. His life was always going to be here.

‘...If you knew Time as well as I do,’ said the Hatter, ‘you wouldn’t talk about wasting it. It’s him...’ (L.C.)

Effie wasn’t sure what she wanted to do in time with this awareness.

***

*EAT ME*

SUMMER ☀️🔥

“...A dream is not reality but who’s to say which is which?...” (L.C.)

Midnight was as warm as high noon had been. Every window was open, yet the house was still filled with the day’s stagnation. A cotton nightie was the only thing separating Effie from the furnace that was Haymitch’s body. In sleep, he’d rolled onto her pillow and draped his arm and leg across her. His fingertips brushed low on her spine, which might have been erotic if not for the sweat beading up everywhere he touched.

She tried rolling onto her back with a plan to escape to the edge of the bed, but he was dead weight pinning her down. She tried rolling him off, but he just pulled her closer in an unconscious death grip — death by heat stroke, considering the way this was going.

“Haymitch...” she whispered, not wanting to startle him.

Irritated when he didn’t respond, she spoke louder. “Haymitch, I’m suffocating here.”

“Haymitch Abernathy!!”

In a dream he heard his mother’s voice, chastising him for running into the house and leaving the door open behind him. Still asleep, he mumbled her old words. “We don’t live in a barn.”

He was hard to wake after falling asleep drinking. Effie considered the possibilities: smacking him, pinching him, stroking his dick... The latter seemed like the safer way to try to wake up a man who sleeps with a knife when he’s not in bed with her.

She was not gentle about it, tugging him while describing the things she could do to him when he woke up. Like ring your neck!

Still asleep, he murmured, “Need you, Effie.”

“Then wake up, honey,” she told him.

“I love you.” The words came out so quietly in sleep that she wondered if she imagined them.

Holy shit. “What?” Reeling, she stilled her hand. She hadn’t imagined them.

Haymitch groaned, and finally woke up, disoriented at first, then aware of her fingers curled around him.

“What are you doing, sweetheart?” He yawned. “Not that I’m complaining.”

“It’s hot. I need space, and I couldn’t wake you...” Her voice wavered. “So I thought... ” She was too choked up to keep talking.

He lifted his arm and leg off of her. She was sweating where his weight had been.

“Are you alright?”

You love me. She didn’t say it, because all at once she knew it was true. Maybe the reality was unconscious. Maybe it was a conscious truth which he kept silent. Tears gathered in her eyes and threatened to spill onto her cheeks. She held them in, because how would she explain them?

Having heard them in her voice, he touched beneath her eyes in the dark and was confused when her face was dry. She let go of him, sat up in bed, and stripped off her nightgown. He watched her silhouette framed by the open window behind her. A fleeting breeze on her skin chased away some of the sweltering.

“You can’t hold me so tight!” She was breaking open, and how could she explain? She loved him. She was in love with him, but those words were only for dreams.

“Sorry, sweetheart. I didn’t mean to. Guess I’ve just gotten used to this.” Sleeping without you is miserable now, he didn’t say. He sat up and slung his legs over the edge of the bed, facing away from her but not leaving.

She knelt behind him and gently kneaded the back of his neck. “Do you have any idea how much it means to me to sleep in this bed with you?”

“Yeah, I do.” His certainty surprised her since they hadn’t discussed it.

“This with you is like air for me.” She was crying now for sure. He didn’t need to touch her cheeks to know it. “...I also need to be able to actually breathe.”

“I don’t want to hurt you. I still think that I’ll wake up, and you’ll be dead. I don’t know how I’m ever not gonna think about that.”

She slid her hands down his chest and kissed the top of his head, his temple, the soft spot beside his ear. “We’ve been sleeping together for 7 months, and I’m still alive.”

He gripped her hands. She was part of his life. Confusing as hell, annoying as fuck, and so precious. You’re the best goddamn part. He’d known it for years. “I want you to stay alive.” I need you to stay alive.

“Come here.” She let go of his hands and lay back on the sheets.

There was too much running through his mind. “I don’t want to sleep.”

“Neither do I.”

He turned to see what he could of her in the dark. The moment was silver and otherworldly. “My ma called this ‘The Witching Hour.’ When I was a kid, it made me think of demons and shit.”

“Maybe that’s something parents say to convince their children to go to sleep long before midnight.”

“Could be.”

“My Nana called it ‘The Magic Hour.’ She’d say to me, ‘I miss the magic hour. My bones are too old to stay awake for it.’...”

Haymitch slid back into bed. Her stories of her great-grandmother were soothing.

“...When she talked about it, I wanted to stay awake to feel that magic too. ‘Your bones are still too young,” she’d say, ‘You’ll feel the magic when it’s your time.’”

Effie scooted closer, lying face to face with him on his pillow, close enough to feel his breath on her lips.

He was hesitant to touch her because of what happened before. “Is this your time to feel it?”

“Yes, honey. We’re in it.”

“I wanna kiss you.”

All that she was feeling poured into his mouth and over his body, and came flooding back as he fucked her in the feeling of stagnant fire and magic.

Her eyes closed afterward. “I’ll be alive in the morning. Do you trust me?”

He held her arm, and traced the tendons along her wrist instead of the handle of his knife. “I’m trying.”

‘...Alice had begun to think that very few things indeed were really impossible...’ (L.C.)

Almost anything could happen for a moment, and what’s life if not a series of moments? Madness. Rain, song, and demons. Falling into the unconscious, and coming undone.

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romioneficfest · 4 years

Text

Truth or Dare

Title: Truth or Dare

Prompt/Day: Bank Holiday (kisses)

Tumblr name:

Rating: K

Brief summary: It’s the last night of sleepaway camp, and the boys of Cabin 4 are all playing truth or dare. But when Ron declines to kiss his friend Hermes as a dare, he finds he can’t get the thought out of his mind until he actually does it. (All-boys Muggle summer camp AU)

Tags: Just a couple of 14-year-olds awakening to their feelings, but nothing beyond kissing :)

“So whose turn is it?”

It was the last night of camp, and the boys of Cabin 4 were crowded around. The lights were out, to not alert the counsellors; the only illumination came from a few flashlights. In celebration of the culminating night of six weeks, they’d decided to pull a leaf out of what they’d seen in those movies they all loved to hate, and play truth or dare— because they were 14, dammit, and they needed to feel it.

It had started when a plump boy named Neville had offered up what remained of his the sizable stock of snacks; another boy, Gene —a 13-year-old fiery redhead who’d been lumped in with the Cabin 4s because he’d been born a day after the cutoff and he adamantly refused to be put with “the rest of those babies” (by which he meant his contemporaries, the Cabin 3s)—, had snuck into the counsellors’ cabin and swiped a couple of beer bottles.

“I don’t know about this, Gene,” Neville had said tremulously at first, eyeing the bottles guiltily.

“Don’t sweat it,” Gene had said, popping one of the caps with the bed frame. “My big brother Percy’s a counsellor, so if we get caught, only I’ll get in trouble. And they’re not supposed to keep the mini-fridge in their cabin. If they report us for stealing beer, we’ll just report them back.”

“I’ll drink to that,” a sandy-haired boy named Seamus cheered, necking from the bottle— and immediately grimacing. His reaction was common: all the campers who tried the beer found it disgusting, with some of the more dramatic ones (namely, a white-blond boy named Draco, who had a flair for the theatrics) rushing to the bathroom to rinse out their tongues, while the ones who felt cooler tried to fake they’d liked it. But even Gene had to admit it tasted disgusting, and when their ringleader caved, so did the rest: they dumped the beer down the sink and proposed to break the bottles to hide the evidence.

“Wait!” a voice rose, and Pencey elbowed his way to the front of the crowd, a wild glint in his eyes. “Keep one: let’s play truth or dare.”

And so they had come to be sitting in a circle on the dirty cabin floor, holding their breaths every time someone spun the bottle, releasing a sigh when they weren’t the victim. So far, the unlucky ones had been Seamus, who had licked the floor (but done so with questionable zeal); Neville, who had admitted to having been the one who’d woken up all the boys with a loud fart back in Week 3; and a boy nicknamed Pat (short for Patil), who’d stood under the ice-cold shower for fifteen seconds. He was now wrapped in a towel and shivering next to the screen door, hoping the warm breeze that drifted in from the outside (which had so often made them all complain about how stuffy their cabin was) would dry him now.

The thrill of Pat’s dare carried them for a while, but now, it was time for the next spin. In the suspended instant between the now and the later, Gene’s brother Ron, older by a year, turned to his left and shot a furtive smile at his friend Hermes. Hermes looked up, met his gaze, and knowingly smiled back.

***

Everyone thought Ron and Hermes’s friendship was odd. Ron was happiest when he was playing goalie in the games of pick-up football that often followed a mid-day lunch, while Hermes preferred to sit up in a tree (he’d originally stayed off to the sidelines, but that had ended when a stray ball had hit him in the face) with a book. Ron ate hoggishly during meals, stacking his plate like a tower and shoveling food rather than eating it, whereas Hermes ate primly with a fork and knife (even watermelon) while throwing grossed-out glances Ron’s way. Ron was loud, boisterous, and jokey; Hermes was quiet, reserved, and preferred to bring his humor out in a sharp-witted sarcastic comment that most of the time went completely over the boys’ heads.

However odd, though, it was a friendship that had started the very first day. They were sitting in an awkward circle on the main lawn for what Percy the counselor had excitedly announced would be a round of icebreakers: they’d go around in a circle and say their names, and an interesting fact about it.

When it got to the bushy-haired, buck-teethed boy with the sharp eyes, he let the silence sit for a moment before he cleared his throat and stammered out an introduction: “My name is Hermes. Hermes Granger.” He met the blank-eyed stares dumbfounded before remembering he was supposed to dole out a fact too. “And my name comes from the messenger god in Greek mythology.”

“Any questions for Hermes?” Percy said, blissfully ignorant of how awkward his dynamic was becoming.

“I have one,” a short, reedy boy with spiky jet-black hair had said, but the glint in his eyes seemed more of malice than of good-hearted curiosity.

“Go ahead, Pencey!” Percy squealed, delighted at the first question that had come up.

“Are your parents stupid, or why would they name you after some dude from geek morphology?”

‘Morphology,’ Hermes thought, looking down to conceal his blush, but more annoyed at Pencey’s incorrect vocabulary than at his insult. The idiot somehow uses an even more complicated word than 'mythology’, and he has no clue what it means.

But Hermes’s intellectual retorts were not in everyone’s style, certainly not for the lanky, long-nosed boy next to him: “Why don’t you shut up, Parkinson,” he rose slightly into a crouch. “When your own name sounds like they baptized you after some preppy rich-boy boarding school.”

Snickering rattled the circle, and Pencey’s face scrunched up into an expression of disgust. Hermes looked at the redhead boy with a grateful little smile. The redhead gave him a wink in return, and then turned to the circle to make his own introduction: “I’m Ron, and a fun fact about my name is that, since I have six brothers and we all look the same and I’m the least important out of all of them, my parents get confused and never call me by it.”

“That’s not true, Ron,” Percy chastised him, trying to be the voice of reason over the raucous laughter. “Mom loves us all the same.”

“Yeah, well,” Ron whispered to Hermes out the corner of his mouth while the next boy over began his introduction, “he can say that because he’s the favorite. Eighteen, off to some Posh Uni— but he’s stuck in the same camp as a bunch of prepubescent dumbasses.”

Hermes let out an uncharacteristic giggle, and Ron winked again. From that moment onward, they both knew they were going to be friends.

***

“My turn,” Pencey piped up greedily as he leaned forward to spin the bottle. He made a whole show out of flicking his wrist, presumably to brag again of how he’d already been to a high school party his sister Priscilla had let him stick around for. The bottle spun around once, twice, thrice— and finally slowed down to a drift before its neck pointed decisively, fatefully, at Ron.

“Bring it on, Parkinson,” Ron snorted, leaning back with crossed arms and a defiant expression turning his freckled face up. “Dare.”

“If you say so,” Pencey feigned nonchalance, as if the idea were only just occurring to him. But when he spoke, he did it with such assertiveness that it was clear he knew where he was going from the beginning. “I dare you to kiss Hermes.”

The circle fell into stunned silence, and Ron and Hermes’s heads whipped around to look at each other with wide, startled eyes. Hermes quickly broke away to look down again, as he did whenever he was concealing a blush, and Ron looked back at Pencey, mouth agape.

“Oh, come on, Weasley,” sneered Parkinson, reveling in the chaos he’d created. “We all know you’re together all the time, and we’ve seen how you look at each other. Come on, it’s just a kiss. Could be a peck.”

“I’m not going to do that,” stammered Ron, flushing a furious red. Beside him, Hermes sagged a little— was he kind of hoping he would? Forget it, it was stupid.

“Don’t be such a pussy, Weasley.”

“Knock it off,” said Gene, rising to his big brother’s defense. “First, Parkinson, we don’t use that word. We’re not misogynists. And second, quit it. Ron said he doesn’t want to do it.”

“Alright then, truth,” Pencey said, looking disgruntled. “Okay, Weasley, truth: do you want to kiss Hermes?”

“Out of bounds!” roared Gene, standing up to smack Pencey. Ron and Hermes had fallen very quiet, neither wanting to look at each other, each pretending they weren’t blushing furiously. “Out of bounds, asshole, that doesn’t count! Ron gets a pass this round, just because he has to deal with this fuckhead,” he announced to the group, which nodded its agreement.

“Thank you,” mouthed Ron to his brother, who gave a solemn nod and returned to his seat, piercing Pencey through with a murderous glance.

A boy named Dean spun the bottle, which landed on Draco, who chose 'dare’ with a sneer.

“Go outside and stick your hair in the mud,” Dean said with a smirk. Draco immediately protested, bringing his hands up to the hair he was so proud of, while the rest of the boys chanted wildly in support of Dean’s dare, slapping the floor rhythmically. It all was going back to normal, and Ron even allowed himself to faintly join the chanting. But Hermes stayed tight-lipped, retreating to his bunk shortly after. Nobody questioned his departure.

Not even Ron, though it’d made his heart sink.

***

The cabin was quiet. They’d given up on truth or dare an hour earlier, alleging it was boring (what no one wanted to admit was that it was actually because they were exhausted), and had gone to bed. They’d all gone out like logs the moment their heads had hit the pillow, and they were snoring, by now adapted to the camp’s uncomfortable bunks.

Only Ron remained awake. He couldn’t shut his eyes for longer than a second; he wasn’t sleepy. He couldn’t stop thinking about Pencey’s dare, and every time he closed his eyes, the image of a disappointed-looking Hermes was tattooed onto his eyelids, sending a twinge of pain through his heart, though he didn’t know why.

In fact, he didn’t know why it all had happened as it had. If it’d been any of the other boys, even Draco, he’d have valiantly stepped up to the task and sustained a short peck.

It’s because it was Hermes.

Lovely little Hermes, who didn’t know how lovely he was. Who squeaked rather than talked when he got excited about something. Whose brows knit together whenever he turned a page in his ever-present book. Who told Ron off for poor table manners more than his own mother. Who was so full of facts. Who bickered with him all the time, using college-level words that sounded to Ron as if they were in another language. Who showed off his buckteeth when he laughed. Who was always grumbling about his bushy hair and how the humidity in this place made it so frizzy. Who, in the space of these six weeks, had become so dear to Ron.

Was he lying awake in his bunk, too? Was he just as unable to sleep, this same multitude of thoughts swirling in his mind? Was he crying? Ron hated seeing him cry. What if this was the last memory of Ron he took from this month and a half?

That did it: the very thought was inadmissible. Ron rolled over in bed, pulled out his flashlight, and flicked it three times at the top left corner of the second window’s curtain, he and Hermes’s signal for when they wanted to talk at night. Then, Ron slipped out of bed and exited toward the back porch of the cabin, careful not to make any noise. If Hermes was awake, he’d have seen the signal. He’d know where to find him.

Sure enough, soon the screen door creaked open and out came Hermes, puffy-eyed, in his pajama pants and worn math camp tee. Wordlessly, he sat next to Ron, leaning against the cabin wall. In the moonlight, Ron’s pale skin seemed to glow, and Hermes noticed that his blue button-down pajamas were a bit shorter on him now than they’d been at the beginning of camp. They sat in silence in the symphony of crickets, chirping placidly around them as the breeze rustled the trees’ leaves.

Hermes spoke first: “Nasty game, isn’t it? No wonder Pencey likes it so much.”

“Yeah,” Ron gave a dry laugh, and they sunk into silence again. Something was on Hermes’s mind: Ron could practically hear it whirring under his masses of hair, and wished he would just come out with it.

It took a while before he finally did, shakily: “Was the thought of kissing me so bad?”

“What? No! I mean— I don’t know,” sputtered Ron, trying to string together a coherent enough sentence to comfort him.

“D'you think it’s true? Do we spend too much time together?”

“Hermes, no,” Ron said, and his hand ventured forward to close around his friend’s. The gesture surprised them both: they jumped to look at each other in alarm for a second. Tension reigned briefly— and then, slowly, Hermes’s fingers curled around Ron’s. “No,” Ron picked up again, a little flustered, a little breathless. “Hermes, I like spending time with you. I wouldn’t wanna spend it with anyone else.”

“Oh, good,” Hermes said, and Ron thought he felt his grip tighten. “I like spending time with you too.”

Silence fell back on them, but it was an easier one this time. Hands still clasped, the two friends looked out at the campgrounds.

“I’m gonna miss it, aren’t you?” Hermes piped up suddenly. “My dad forced me to come, but I’ve actually had a great time.”

“Yeah,” Ron said, but he was looking at his friend now, and thinking that what he would most miss was not exactly the campgrounds. As his eyes settled over Hermes’s profile, who was lost in thought as he gazed over the lake, he realized that being with Hermes didn’t feel at all like being with his other friends. His chest felt warmer; his cheeks, too. He felt calmer, more at home, without the need to impress him. He felt butterflies at the base of his stomach, and now, with Hermes’s hand in his, he felt a tingle flow from his fingers, through his arm, all the way to his heart.

He burst out: “It’s not too late on that dare, y'know.”

“What?” asked Hermes, turning toward him.

“I said…” Ron whispered, bringing his face closer to Hermes’s, so close he could tell apart every speck in his chocolate eyes. “It’s not too late… for that dare…”

He’d never been great with words; they eluded him. So instead, he acted. He left his sentence trailing and lunged forward softly to catch Hermes’s lips with his, squeezing his eyes shut. Hermes’s eyes flew wide open in shock, too startled to do anything.

Feeling him not kiss back, Ron pulled away disappointingly, seeming to wilt as he swayed back. “Oh. I’m sorry. I just thought—”

He was cut off again, but this time, because it was Hermes who had leaned into the kiss— a little too abruptly, by the feel of his teeth against Ron’s. But Ron overcame his initial surprise and adapted, closing his eyes more softly this time and molding his mouth to fit around Hermes’s, pressing the smaller boy’s lower lip between his own. He raised the hand that wasn’t holding Hermes’s to his cheek, placing it there to pull his friend in closer, and Hermes’s hand left his own to wrap around his neck. At this change of position, they both broke away momentarily, staring at one another to confirm it was okay.

Always able to understand each other without words, they broke into a laugh and dove back into each other’s lips. The kisses were clumsy and inexperienced: neither boy had any experience, considering how new they were at this whole awakening thing, but they were hungry and passionate, and each kissed as if they wanted more and more. Hermes’s arms only wrapped tighter around Ron’s neck, careful not to choke him, but desperately trying to hold him tighter, and Ron’s fingertips stroked Hermes’s cheek, venturing even to tangle in his bushy hair as the kisses got more intense.

After what seemed like a small eternity, they tore away again, gasping for air, Hermes practically in Ron’s lap already. Ron, grinning uncontrollably, pressed forward again to kiss him, but Hermes turned his head away and Ron’s lips landed instead on his cheek.

“What’s wrong?” Ron asked delicately, reading the worry in Hermes’s eyes.

Hermes let his eyes water for an instant before he stammered: “You’ll write to me, won’t you? I slipped my address into the side pocket of your duffel last week. I didn’t want you to lose it, I hoped you’d find it and know what to do, because I was so nervous to ask. But you’ll write to me?” He took Ron’s momentary silence as a no, and launched into an apologetic ramble: “You don’t have to, I mean— I know it’s just six weeks, and none of this likely matters, and you’ll forget me, and we can pretend this never happened—”

“Hermes,” Ron cut him off, pressing a clumsy peck to his lips. “Hermes,” he repeated, brushing the bushy hair out of Hermes’s face. His heart swelled with honesty, and something close to love, and spoke with more candor than he ever had: “I’ll write every day.”

#Romione FicFest 2020 #Fic Post #Romione #Ron Weasley #Hermione Granger #Submission #Queue Up for the Dragon #Rated K #Ace Safe #Mod Note: Edited for formatting

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xiolaperry · 4 years

Text

The Piano - Chapter 5

Summary: Belle French and her daughter arrive in New Zealand to an arranged marriage with Gaston LeGume. Gaston shows little interest in her or her piano and books. However, Mr. Gold is fascinated…

Rating: E (for smut, dark subject matter and violence in future chapters)

Also available on AO3

A routine was established. Belle came three times a week for hour-long “lessons.” When she finished, he'd lay a book on the bench. She'd give him a wary look, pick it up, and leave. He prepared tea before she arrived, placing it on a small table next to the piano. She never drank it.

Tilly accompanied her on sunny days and ate any available treats. On rainy days she would stay home and play with her doll or do lessons in a McGuffey reader Regina had given her. When there was a torrential downpour, they both stayed at home.

One damp morning, Tilly said, “Say hello to Ebony for me.”

Ebony? What was she talking about?

Tilly responded to her mother's puzzled look. “Mr. Gold's cat.”

“I didn't know she had a name,” Belle signed.

“When I asked her name, he said she didn't have one. Mr. Gold says when you name something you make a bond with it. It is a tree-men-dous — is that the right word, Mama? Tremendous responsibility. So, he told me I could pick a name! I thought and thought and picked the name 'Ebony'. Because she's black, like the black keys on the piano. Mr. Gold said it was perfect.”

As Belle picked her way through the mire that day, she pondered the cat story. Perhaps she ought to stop ignoring Mr. Gold.

---

Gold was in despair. Having her come and play for him was not having the desired effect. He'd hoped that familiarity would breed contempt. That hearing her perform regularly would make the music ordinary, and her also by extension. But the opposite happened.

Gold never spent time watching a woman before now. He enjoyed women, found them attractive, received sexual pleasure from them. But Belle’s concentrated playing meant he could study her without being chastised for staring. And he liked what he saw. He cataloged the different emotions flitting across her face, and they were like moonlight reflected on water, shimmering and changing.

She entered the house stiff and proper, wrapped up tight in her dark long-sleeved dresses, relaxing only when her fingers touched the keys. She was layered, a mystery to uncover. He wanted to know her. What did she think about when she walked home? Did she hate him for possessing her piano, her books?

Every evening he chose a book to peruse, his reading painfully slow. He’d exaggerated when he said he couldn’t read — he just wasn’t good at it. For the first time he wished he was better educated. His candles burned low as he struggled, sometimes only deciphering six words in a dozen. If he understood these things she valued, he might understand her. But for now he used the books as a gesture, a way to show appreciation and perhaps reach a truce.

It did not change the fact that he was at least twice her age, an old man. And she was married to Gaston. A proxy marriage, not even in person, and most likely unconsummated if his suspicions were correct. But it was a marriage nonetheless.

During the night he’d resolve to return the piano and never see her again. It was ludicrous to torment himself with something he could never have. His will would crumble the moment he saw her face.

Now, he walked around the room as he listened and observed. Her hair was up, leaving her beautiful neck bare. She was irresistible. Without thinking about what he was doing, he reached out and caressed her neck and shoulder.

Belle jumped, startled. She bumped the small table with the tea on it, knocking it to the floor.

“I'm sorry,” Gold said.

Belle knelt to pick up the blue and white cup. It now had a chip in it. She appeared contrite, holding the cup out to him, her trembling finger tracing the damaged rim.

“It's just a cup. I shouldn't have touched you. It's my fault.”

Her complexion ashen, she grabbed her bonnet and turned to leave. Gold was sure he would never see her again if he didn't act quickly.

“Belle, wait.”

She stopped, but did not face him.

“I would like to make a deal.”

She remained motionless.

He thought fast. “I've been returning one of your books each time you've come. But wouldn’t you like more than books? Would you like to earn your piano back?”

This got her attention. She spun around, skirts swirling.

“One visit for each key. You come here, play for me, and we'll spend some time together. When you're done, the piano will be yours again.”

She pointed at the piano and walked two fingers up her arm. He frowned, then understood.

“Yes, I would have the piano delivered to your home. I wouldn't keep it here.” Clever girl, spotting a potential loop-hole and asking for clarification. Tricking Belle that way never crossed his mind, but he'd turned ambiguous terms to his favor many times. Few people recognized the importance of details.

She bit her lip, considering his proposal. After a moment of reflection, she ran her hand down the black keys, then did the same to the white ones while shaking her head.

“One visit for each of the black keys?”

Belle nodded.

“That's a lot less. Half.”

She started toward the door again.

“All right,” he conceded. “The black keys.” He supposed it was appropriate. They were dark, like he was inside. He wanted to enjoy her light for a little while longer, and then he would let her go.

Belle sat down. She played the lowest black key and held one finger in the air.

“The deal is struck.”

---

Belle continued her visits with renewed confidence. His cool hands had shocked her, and her initial concern at the mention of a 'deal' was that he'd ask something indecent of her. Instead, all he seemed to want was her time. Mr. Gold had offered a choice, and she would get her piano back.

Now, more comfortable, she drank the tea Mr. Gold prepared and ate the food he put out for them. Sneaking glances at him from the corners of her eyes, she noted he drank from the chipped cup. Who was this man that didn't throw away something damaged, who traded some of his land for a piano he couldn't play and books he couldn't read? And then traded them back simply for the pleasure of her company? He dressed well, in quality waistcoats and cravats. His long hair, silver at the temples, looked soft. He was rather handsome in his own way. He wasn't who she thought he was at the beginning, and she was glad.

Belle paid close attention when Mr. Gold spoke to Tilly, who visited Ebony on pleasant days. He was never condescending. He asked questions and listened to the answers, offering advice on her little projects.

After their conversation Tilly would take the cat outside to play, dressing her up in hats and skirts she'd made from scraps of fabric. The cat, though tolerant, only endured the indignity for so long, and then would hide under the house. She never followed her under there, even though she'd fit. Spiders might lurk in the dark.

Mr. Gold's insomnia had not returned, and his dreams were filled with music. And of her. How had she so permeated his life? He made it a point of pride to need no one, and now this tiny woman and her child turned everything upside down. As he carved a piece of kauri wood, he realized he was lonely. And he wanted to touch her again, desperately. When he stroked her neck, it had been the first time he had touched someone deliberately in as long as he could remember. And, having done it, his fingers itched to do it again. But she was so closed off in her wrist length sleeves and heavy skirts.

Small shavings piled on the table as his deft fingers coaxed a cat out of the wood. He turned it in his hands, scrutinizing it. He added whiskers and tiny eyes with the point of his knife. And pondered it until the candle burnt out.

The next time she came, he sat down on the floor as she played.

“Lift your skirt please.”

Her playing faltered.

“I want to see your feet on the pedals.”

The request surprised her, but she complied. She took a deep breath and lifted her skirt and petticoat to her knees. The music began again.

Belle's legs captivated Gold. He watched her shapely calves work the pedals until the compulsion was too strong. He reached out with one finger and traced the line of her calf down to her small muddy boots.

Belle felt his stroking, but went on playing. He stayed below her knee and strayed no higher. How strange to play the piano while being touched by another. It was distracting, but not unpleasant. His touch tantalized; the prospect of what he might do next slowed the melody down, the notes becoming lazy and sensual. Her focus narrowed in on the unfamiliar sensations he was causing and the music ceased.

He talked to fill the silence. About Scotland, his youth in Glasgow, the topic mundane to keep his yearning in check. It was as if he was talking to himself. His fingers continued traveling over her stockings. When he paused, she played a loud, upbeat tune to break the moment. The jarring melody doused him like a bucket of icy water. He stopped, trance broken. Using his cane, he stood up and sat in the chair across the room. He stayed there, motionless, until she finished.

He added the carved cat to the customary book he gave her.

“For Tilly.”

Her eyes sparkled. Gold chided himself, noting her flushed cheeks as she left. He had embarrassed her with his clumsy pawing and inane conversation. Terrorizing some townspeople would make him feel more like himself. Instead, he picked up his knife and another piece of wood.

Granny stopped in a few hours later.

“What's wrong with you?”

“I don't know.”

“You're sitting around here, moping. Kamira hasn't seen you in days. You haven't been yourself ever since you brought that woman and her child back from the beach.”

“I know.”

“Well?”

“I've made a deal, dearie, and I intend to follow it through. And when it's done, everything will return to normal. You'll see.”

#my fic #the piano

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hillnerd · 5 years

Text

Waking Up - Chapter 1

Rating PG-13 A03 ff.net Chapter word count- 6791

fic summary: The war is over, but there’s still plenty of battles ahead for Hermione and Ron. Her parents are still in Australia, Ron is hiding secrets, and she has to wonder when she’ll wake up and it’s not from a nightmare. My version of an ‘Australia fic’ - Romione abounds Thank you to @abradystrix for the betaing and birtpicking! :) Thanks to @amysthefardareismai for a quick look over as well!

Chapter warnings: cursing, graphic descriptions of violence, romantic touching

Chapter 1- Hiding Spots and Whisks

The spell ripped through her. She was sure that muscles tore away from bone. She was flayed, raw and screaming. Ropes cut into her skin. Her back arched unnaturally. All she could feel was the pain searing through her, again and again. Unrelenting pain.

Please kill me...

And then it stopped, and she let out a pitiful cry, rocking back and forth as much as the ropes would allow.

“I think the Mudblood enjoys it. Otherwise it wouldn’t continue to lie.”

She brokenly sobbed. Every muscle spasmed, and all strength left her. She couldn’t even twist her face away as Bellatrix Lestrange’s nails cruelly dug into her jaw.

“That filthy goblin will reveal your lies, and when he does, nothing will be able to save you,” Bellatrix whispered in her ear. Hermione whimpered, trying to repeat that the sword wasn’t theirs, but she couldn’t speak. Her tongue was slack and nerveless.

“The sword is the true sword of Gryffindor,” the little goblin declared.

An unholy shriek wrent from Bellatrix. She roughly pulled Hermione to her feet and snapped back her neck. All Hermione could see was the chandelier. A knife was brought to her neck and painfully pressed into her flesh.

“Let’s see how filthy that blood is.”

The knife tortuously sawed through her larynx. Blood was choking her, and gushing down her body. Was she was dying from the wound, or from drowning in her own blood?

With a gasp, Hermione woke up, hands going to her throat.

Her throat had not been slit; it was whole, with only had a small scar marring the otherwise smooth skin. She wasn’t in Malfoy Manor being tortured. She was at the Burrow, probably one of the safest homes in all of England.

She gave a cold shiver. The patchwork quilt was wet through with perspiration, and her clothes clung to her. Her throat felt raw, which meant she had been screaming in her sleep again.

The silencing charm seemed to have held for another night, as Ginny was sleeping away in the bed beside hers. She puckered her lips to give a small whistle, but no sound came with the blow of air. Good. The charm was still working perfectly. With a wave of her wand she undid it.

There was no point in trying to fall asleep; she never could after a vivid nightmare like that one. She snuck out of the room and walked down the wooden steps to the sitting room with practiced ease. Making the journey almost every night, she had quickly learned how to avoid the creakiest floor boards. Her path along the hallway was pitch black, but the last bit of moonlight illuminated the sitting room, along with the earliest tinges of morning light.

In the darkness at the end of the sofa sat Ron. She wasn’t surprised to see him. He’d been down there almost every night the past few weeks. It didn’t matter if it was midnight or four in the morning, there he’d be, as if keeping watch for the house. She didn’t think anyone but herself and perhaps his parents knew. She'd heard his mother admonishing him for his poor sleep habits, having come across him early in the morning.

From what Hermione gathered, he almost never went to bed until someone else was up, as if he were still taking watch outside that horrid tent. He would hold his wand and stare out the window, for hours sometimes. On a few nights where she hadn’t felt like talking to anyone, she’d sat on the steps from the first landing and watched him pace back and forth, occasionally taking breaks to sit and bounce his knee. He didn’t even have much of a lie in the following morning. He looked exhausted, but continued on as if nothing had happened, waking early and tending to everyone in the house like he was fine.

Tonight he was hunched over his chessboard. He grimaced in pain as he rubbed at his left shoulder. Fingers dug along his trapezius, before he gave a rough roll of his shoulder, stretching it around a bit. He let out a hiss, whether in pain or relief she couldn’t say, until he gave a small smile and stretched, rotating his hand with a satisfied look on his face.

Hermione slid her feet along the floor a little louder than necessary to announce her presence. She knew better than to startle him, otherwise she would meet a wand pointed in her direction. Of course, this was true of almost everyone after the war. Harry was the fastest draw, but Ron was a close second, with equally flayed nerves and fast reflexes.

“You should be in bed,” Ron chastised, but his actions belied his admonishment. He budged over and patted the sofa for her to sit beside him, which she happily did.

“Have you even been to bed yet?”

“Yeah, but I can only sit and listen to Harry’s snoring and moaning about my sister in his sleep for so long.” Ron had great purple bags under his eyes, but he skillfully changed the topic and she was too groggy headed to pursue it further.

“Well, you shouldn’t have to sit in the dark like this just because you’re having trouble sleeping. It can’t be good for your eyes.”

“I don't want to wake anyone with lights,” Ron said with a tight shrug. “Past few nights Mum has scurried down the second I turned them on. She needs the sleep more than anyone. Plus, I wanted to be alone.”

“I'm sorry I intruded,” she apologized. She knew how hard it was to be around people anymore. Of course he needed an escape. Especially from her! She was rotten company anyway. “I'll just scarper back— ”

She moved to get up, but he put a staying hand on her arm and gave her a faint smile.

“I'm happy to be alone with you, though,” he said, smoothing a bit of her hair behind her shoulder, his hand lingering around her jawline.

“Oh!” she replied, a smile breaking across her face. Her cheeks burned as she settled in and leaned into his good shoulder. It wasn’t as bony as it had been even a few weeks ago. He was back to having a deceivingly solid build for one so tall and thin.

He was always handsome to her, but the hunger they had experienced while they were runaways had made them all rather emaciated. During the war it was hard to take in the gradual changes they had gone through physically. In the fleeting moments they’d changed clothes in front of each other there wasn’t the time to take in each other’s forms. They were too focused on getting warm, and surviving, to even spare a glance much of the time.

It wasn’t until they were at the Burrow, scrubbed clean of all the muck and dust that Hermione could finally see how hollow they all were. Ron had looked the most normal of them. He had always been tall and thin with broad shoulders, so no matter how much weight he lost, the width of his shoulders basically stayed the same size. He looked almost his usual self when dressed.

Normally Molly Weasley would practically be force feeding them, but the loss of her son kept her out of the kitchen. She stayed sequestered in her bedroom, sobbing for well over a week, barely leaving the room except for the myriad of funerals. Ron and Fleur had taken over the task of feeding everyone during the first weeks after the war.

A few days after Fred’s funeral, Mrs Weasley finally started taking an interest in her remaining family again. She had little energy for cooking, but enough to start working on healing them all up a bit more properly.

One by one she sat them down and used a number of spells and tonics on the scars they’d picked up. Hermione thought Mrs Weasley’s ministrations would be wasted, given how long ago their injuries had been, but she was able to achieve great progress on a few of the burns and scars.

One morning Hermione had come downstairs to see Ron shirtless in the living room, his mother tending to his shoulder to see if she could heal it any better.

“You did a number on yourself, Ron, splinching yourself like this,” she heard the matron tut at him. It was Hermione’s fault he’d been splinched so horribly, but he said nothing to correct his mother.

Hermione had quietly tried to read in the corner, but her eyes kept going to his body, specifically his left shoulder and the terrible scarring that was all her fault. She realized that day how skeletal he’d become.

His ribs, even the ones near his collar bones, were all apparent, the knobs of his spine far too pointed, and his hip bone, just visible from his sagging jeans, stuck out like a handle.

After that, his mother seemed to see it as her personal mission to make them plump up again. The boys were able to tear into her meals with fervor and pack on the pounds quickly, but Hermione found it difficult to eat much of anything.

Eating Molly Weasley’s cooking for weeks had Ron filled out almost magically fast, and with it Hermione realized that he was broader of shoulder and taller than ever before. His threadbare clothes were all far too small for him, and no stretching charms could make them fit him much better at this point. She quite liked it when his jeans were a bit too tight, but she had never dared tell him that.

For all the ways their relationship had changed and brought them closer, there were still boundaries she hadn’t dared to cross. She’d been able to cover up her nightmares from him for weeks. She didn’t want anyone to know, but she especially wanted to keep the nightmares from Ron.

It was not just her that he was always watching over. He was watching over everyone. He was carefully watching Harry and prodding him to come out of his shell. He was watching his mother and making sure nothing disturbed her when she was in a somewhat calm mood. He was watching his brothers and making sure they got along. He was hunting down George and making sure he got home in one piece after drinking a bit too much. He was watching his father and making sure he had privacy when he was about to cry. He was looking after his sister, to make sure Harry and she were getting on. And he was suspiciously watching any stranger who came near them whenever they ventured from the confines of the Burrow.

He’d watched his brother die right in front of him, and he was doing his best to comfort everyone. He was so overwrought, she didn't want to burden him further.

“You’re being quiet,” Ron commented, not for the first time in the last few weeks.

She gave a sigh. Her mind was buzzing, but blank. She felt like her mind had been put through a french press, and all that was left was the grounds to be thrown out with the rubbish.

Even if she had her wits about her, it's not like she could sit and tell him about the fascinating day she’d had. Most days she sequestered herself in a dark corner and pretended to read until she nodded off. Anything interesting he’d probably seen, as they were quite joined at the hip. Under no circumstances would she tell him about her nightmares.

She gave a shrug, and wove her hand into his.

"I suppose I'm just tired.”

And she was. Her whole body ached and she longed to curl up where she sat for a long nap. She wasn’t even missing out on that much sleep in the scheme of things. She might have been woken by horrible nightmares, but she was getting so much sleep during the day she didn't see how anyone could still be so tired. Of the two of them, it was Ron who didn't sleep, yet he seemed more capable than ever.

Ron hummed in response.

“Let’s go for a walk.”

“A walk? It's four thirty in the morning!”

“And who doesn’t enjoy a good early morning walk?” He rose and offered a hand to her. “Personally I think they’re meant for a comeback.”

“You do love an underdog,” she replied, taking his hand, which pulled her to standing with ease.

He grabbed jackets and wellies from the scullery. They had a small collection of weathered canvas jackets, all smelling of hay and bonfires. She felt quite dwarfish when she put on the heavy jacket and its sleeves fell past her fingers by nearly a foot.

Ron laughed as she struggled to fold the heavy fabric back from her hands.

“Here, let me.” Ron folded the fabric up her arm in a sweet doting way.

“Merlin, you’re tiny. This is the smallest one they have!” he said, as he finished the job and held her hand in his own.

“Why don’t you have a small one for Ginny or your mum? Neither of them are taller than I am.”

“Oh they just wear the same ones we do if they happen to need them. Plus it’s not like Ginny was made to shovel chicken coops, or dig up fence posts. Her chores were always more domestic.”

The tiniest bit of morning light was beginning to peek from behind the hills, catching a few clouds and staining them pink.

“We can watch the sun rise soon,” Ron said, seeing where her eyes were looking.

“It's funny. Technically I know when sunrise is, but somehow it always surprises me how early it starts getting light.”

“I think that’s because you grew up in the city.”

“Why would that make a difference?”

“Well, when you grow up in the country you get pretty familiar with getting woken up early to do the chores before it gets hot.”

“I don't remember you waking up early for anything,” she teased.

“Course I did. We all had to at least a few times a week. We had a chart and everything for whose turn it was to feed the chickens, check the fences, get eggs and veggies. I never was a morning person, of course, so half the time I’d just go back to bed as soon as I was done with my lot.”

"I never once noticed.”

“Well you were asleep, weren’t you, city girl?” Ron cheekily grinned as he easily hopped the wooden three rail fence they’d come upon. She struggled with her footing and awkwardly tried to climb it rail by rail. She’d never been particularly athletic or balanced, and found getting her boot over was a predictably unsteady affair. She had just managed to awkwardly straddle the fence when Ron put his hands at her hips, taking most of her weight and guiding her to the grass.

She gave her thanks and gave him a shy, but pleased, smile. He’d become more and more bold with touches here and there, but also a bit more tender and gentlemanly in how he looked after her. He’d always been chivalrous when it came to defending her, of course, but now he was practically gallant on a daily basis, putting out a hand to assist her, pouring her tea, holding an umbrella for her as they walked outside.

He had his elbow out for her to hold as they journeyed through some longer grass that hid a bevy of roots that she nearly lost her footing on. If it weren’t for his heavy cursing and deep dose of sarcasm, he could easily fit into a historical romance novel from the way he doted on her.

“Where exactly are we going?” she asked, looking around at the unfamiliar bit of field.

“To get a better view of the sunrise.”

Ron got to a tall tree and began hoisting himself up its branches.

“Ron! I can’t climb the tree in—in wellies! I can’t bend my ankles enough to do that in these and I’m not much for climbing, if I’m honest.”

"I know that,” Ron laughed, his upper body disappearing among some leaves. “Stay there a moment.”

“Oh don’t worry, I'm keeping my feet firmly on the ground! I don't care how good the view is, I'm not climbing that tree!”

“As fun as it’d be to see you try, that’s not the plan.”

In the twilight the upper branches were still blue hued and hard to make out. If not for the loud rustling of the branches, Ron would be easy to miss.

“There it is!” he cried in triumph. His feet dangled, as if he’d taken a seat. “Stand back!”

A wood and rope ladder clattered and unrolled itself from the tree before magically becoming rigid and straight as any staircase, complete with rope handrails.

“Come on up!”

She smiled as she easily ascended the stairs to join him. There was a little wooden platform, not much longer or wider than a bench. She wasn’t afraid of heights, she liked to tell herself, but she also didn’t enjoy them and would avoid them whenever she could.

Seeing her hesitation Ron rolled his eyes.

“There’s a barrier around the edge I just reinforced. You couldn’t fall off if you tried.”

He flicked a twig at the edge and it fell no further than the edge of his trainers.

She sat beside him and leaned against his shoulder.

“I imagine that spell was your mother’s work?”

“Dad’s. We have a couple of these tree blinds hidden around. We’d sort of half-arsedly build them, then Mum or Dad would put protective spells around it so we don’t break our necks or something. This one was usually Charlie’s getaway place. And the- the twins… They were always trying to follow him up, so Dad put in some spells to make it safer if any of us weaseled our way up, but still afforded Charlie some privacy.”

“I can just imagine you all now: sticky fingered,muddy knees, running about the property, climbing any tree you come across and throwing rocks into the pond to watch the ripples.”

“It was pretty nice, yeah,” he said with a pained smile.

“It sounds like the idyllic wild sort of childhood that I’d only been able to wish for.”

“Your childhood never sounded so bad to me.”

“It wasn’t bad at all, really. I had everything I needed, and it was quite lovely most of the time. It just afforded very few places to commune with nature. I remember loving the local hardware shop my father would take us to when he had some home project to take care of. They had a wonderful garden area I loved to get lost in. I’d pretend I was in the jungle like the Swiss Family Robinson, and wanted a house like theirs so badly.”

“So are these, like, famous Muggles or something?”

“They’re a made-up family in a book. They got shipwrecked on a tropical island and had to make do. They built an amazing treehouse in the film, and we watched it every Christmas. It wasn’t a particularly Christmassy movie, but it was a tradition of sorts for us.”

“Dad would fish out the ornament boxes from the attic, cursing the whole time as he crawled in the cramped attic. Mum and I would make hot chocolate and hang the lights on the tree. It was a tradition that the tree would remain clear of everything but the twinkle lights until the whole family was together. Then we’d put the ornaments on together. We’d try to time it out so we’d put the star on top of the tree as the song ‘O Christmas Tree’ played in the film.”

Hermione could remember her father trying to time it out year after year and they made it a sort of family challenge to get it right. They’d only properly managed twice, but the large whoops of glee they’d given had drowned out the film.

The last time they’d done it, was the Christmas of her sixth year. One by one they’d each hang ornaments. ‘Baby’s first Christmas,’ woven lolly stick stars, fine German ornaments, and a few ugly old plastic electric ornaments from the 70s. Those had little child figures spinning in them that would short out the room if they were all plugged in to the same power strip. All the ornaments were placed on the tree with equal care. Her family grinned ear to ear at one another.

They were so happy. What had her parents done this year? Hermione had left the ornaments in the attic as she didn’t have time to sort out the ones connected with herself, or that had their former names on them. Had she ruined their Christmas? Had they continued the tradition without Hermione? It wasn’t like it was their first Christmas without her. She’d skipped four in a row, from ages thirteen through sixteen.

“That sounds loads nicer than Celestina Warbeck,” said Ron. “I’ve never seen a film. Was the Swede Family Robins alright?”

“Swiss Family Robinson. It’d probably be slow paced for most people, as it’s an older movie that came out back when my parents were just kids. It made quite the impression on me nonetheless. I begged and begged for a treehouse like the one in the film, but they said I’d grow tired of it too quickly and that it wasn’t worth the danger of me falling. I tried to make myself a secret fort under a large rhododendron bush and got a good scolding from my nanny for it when she saw I’d dragged a nice table cloth in there. She tried to get me to leave, and I wouldn’t. No matter how she grabbed for me, she couldn’t get a hold of me. It was one of my first bits of magic. She thought I was wiggling out of her grasp somehow, but her own arm had gone rubbery and useless every time she thrust it into my little fort.”

“How old were you when you had this little adventure?” Ron laughed.

“Oh, four or five. And don’t make fun!”

“I’m not! I just like picturing that angry little look on your face. I can see it now, so tiny with hair twice as wide as your body, curled up with a book in your little fort, all excited for a piece of adventure and rebelling against nannies,” he said, with a warm smile. “Did any of your friends have a playhouse or something you got to adventure in?”

“Oh… Well, I didn’t… There weren’t many children in my neighborhood, and I attended a small Church of England primary school, so even if I had friends, it was quite a lot of work to see anyone, make arrangements to be driven over and everything, so I didn’t.”

“So it was just you and some posh nanny?”

“Well don’t think me a terrible snob for having a nanny. Both my parents worked, so there was no one else to tend to me until I was old enough to attend school all day,” she rattled off, a bit embarrassed by her relative privilege. She felt silly complaining about it now. The poor little rich girl who didn’t get a tree house!

“Sounds a bit lonely,” he said, with a sympathetic look.

It had been lonely. Sometimes it felt like he could see right through her. Until Hogwarts Hermione had never had any real friends. There were a few children here or there that she’d gotten to play games with, but no real friends. Her parents were very loving and gave her every opportunity, but it wasn’t like the loud warm familiar household of the Weasleys. In some ways her somewhat distant parents made it easier for her to leave for Hogwarts. You couldn’t miss what you didn’t get to see much of. She never resented it. It was just how things were. It also made it much easier to lie to her parents. She lied and lied, then finally just erased herself from their minds, and they’d never forgive her for it.

Hermione shivered at the thought and brought her knees to her chest.

“Well, that’s enough about me,” she said, trying to center herself. She plastered a smile on. “Did you have a hiding spot like this tree house?”

Ron jerked up sharply. The warm smile and deep eye contact he’d been giving her broke.

“No nothing like this.”

He stared down at his hands and began to fidget and pick at his cuticle. She wondered what could have caused such a change in him, but perhaps it was just memories of Fred. She hated how good memories could become so painful. She gave his hand a squeeze and after a moment his big warm hand squeezed back.

“There it is,” said Hermione as the sun began to peek over the hill. The puffball clouds became a lovely mix of peach and coral. “This really is a spectacular view. Thank you for— Ron, you’re bleeding!”

Ron blinked before confusedly looking about himself. She grabbed his left hand and inspected it. He’d ripped the cuticle so deep it made her wince in sympathy. It had to sting with how deep he’d torn it and how much blood there was.

“Your thumb...”

“Oh…” He blankly took his left hand from her hold and sucked the blood away. She gave a tut.

“Don’t put your mouth on it! Your mouth has all sorts of bacteria!”

“It’ll be fine. It doesn’t hurt at all.”

And now he was pretending it didn’t even hurt, and he was bound to get it infected.

“Well I don’t care how fine you think it is, you shouldn’t mutilate your finger like that then introduce bacteria to it.”

“It’s really not a big deal.”

“You’ve messed up your fingers enough,” she admonished, taking hold of his hand to point to his missing fingernails. “You don’t need to mess up your thumb too.”

“Just leave it, Hermione!” he snapped, ripping his hand away and marching down the ladder, shoulders tight and high. He was a few meters away from the tree when he sighed and turned around.

“I’m sorry. I’m just…” he shook his head. “I don’t have a proper excuse. I was just thinking about— And you were pushing me and I… I’m sorry. Do you wanna continue watching the sun rise or did I bollocks it up?”

Hermione was about to shout back that he’d bollocksed it up pretty well, but stopped herself when she saw how pale he was. He was biting his lip and his hands were so clenched the knuckles had gone bone white. Something had rattled him, she just wasn’t sure what.

“Are you alright?”

“‘M fine,” he said with a shrug.

The magic of the sunrise had been a bit tainted. She left the light of the sunrise and stepped down the wooden steps to hold his hand.

“How about we fix up your thumb, and then you show me your morning chores I’ve never gotten to see?”

“And I’ll try not to be such an arse.”

“And I’ll try not to be so pushy about something so minor.”

They walked in silence, hand in hand, back to the house before Ron gave her his lopsided grin. “Was that our first fight?”

“Of course not! We’ve fought loads of times!”

“Well yeah, but never when you were my girlfriend… At least I don’t think?”

A thrill passed through her. Girlfriend! It felt silly, but she quite liked hearing him call her that.

“You’re right,” she agreed. She was sure she had a goofy smile on her face, but she didn’t care.

“I guess I owe you a make up kiss.”

“Yes, I’d say you do.”

He gently pushed her up against a nearby tree and leaned over her. She stood on a root that helped narrow the height gap. His uninjured hand trailed up her arm before cupping her cheek and stroking it. His eyes were trailing all over her face and she couldn’t bring herself to look directly at him. The intensity of his stare made her tremble.

“Aren’t you going to kiss me?”

“I’m thinking about it,” he said with a crooked smile. He leaned down, but missed her mouth entirely, his lips finding their way to her jaw and slowly working their way to her neck. She let out a small moan as he sucked at her pulse point, and her hands went to his copper hair. His kisses trailed back up her neck to finally find her mouth. A flush went through her as he kissed her deeply, one hand cupping the back of her head, another trailing up her side. She was just starting to kiss back with equal furor, hands on his hips when he pulled back with a hiss and jerked away from her.

“What’s wrong?”

“Er… My hand got trapped,” he explained, flexing his hand a bit.

“Oh right! We really need to fix that up.”

“Sounds good,” he said, turning away from her. “I think Dad has some Dittany and plasters in his shed.”

“No argument?” she said, following his long strides.

Ron gave a shake of his head, before giving her a tight smile.

“I figure sooner I’m fixed up, sooner I get to kiss you again.”

She beamed at that. He helped her over the gate again, and by the time they reached the shed she was quite grateful to be indoors. The morning dew had seeped through her pajama trousers and she was shivering. The shed smelled of musty wood and dust, and the floor wasn’t paved. They called it a shed, but it more resembled a small barn. Ron turned a knob and the lamp above them glowed warmly, lighting up the dark space.

She’d never been inside Mr Weasley’s shed before, and it was a fascinating sight. As Ron went to find some plasters, she took her time looking about. Everywhere she looked there were collections of Muggle paraphernalia she couldn’t imagine anyone else in the world wanting to collect. She found boxes of twisted up slinkies, wires, batteries, holographic stickers, magnets and even a box of old fashioned rotary whisk.

She’d not ever used one of the mechanical whisks before and took it out to give a quick whirl of the handle.

“Found one of Dad’s collections have you?” Ron asked looking at the whisk with a mix between embarrassment and distaste.

“Yes. I hadn’t seen one of these in a while.”

“What’s it for? No, lemme guess! Looks like it could be a hair curler or something, doesn’t it?” he said taking another whisk from the box and haltingly moving the handle. It gave a terrible rusty clatter. “God, do all muggle things have to make such terrible sounds?”

“No they do not,” she laughed, demonstrating her own whisk.

“Oh, hand over the good one then,” he said with a grin, giving it a test. “So is it something so people can get hair like yours?”

“Nobody would make a device to purposefully have hair like mine,” she replied with a shake of her head. She could just make out her reflection in the mirror and frantically started to comb her fingers through it. “Oh no! I look like I’ve been snogging!”

“You have been,” he laughed.

“Yes, but I don’t want to look as though I have! Your mother will be up any moment and then she’ll think I’m ghastly.”

“I doubt she’d notice.”

“How could she not! I look like a bramble patch.”

“But a very attractive one.”

“Oh! You’re no help!”

“How am I supposed to help? Use this thing?” he said holding up a whisk.

“Don’t you dare!”

He pointed the whisk at her and gave a pretend menacing look. She gave a laughing shriek as he gave chase. She weaved and ducked out of his way as he pursued her, twirling the handle all the way. When he’d finally cornered her, she was quite breathless as they smiled at one another. His grin faded into that same piercing look from earlier.

Her eyes fell to his lips, and she gave a rough swallow. He slowly wrapped a free hand around her waist, leaned down and kissed her again, this time so deeply she thought she might pass out from the pleasure of it. Their tongues began to dance with each other, and she felt a deep hunger growing within her that had nothing to do with food.

Her hand trailed up under his shirt and stroked against his solid frame, and his hand was making a similar journey up her top, just grazing the underside of her breast when the door to the shed burst open with a resounding crash.

They wrenched their lips apart, practically making a popping sound like a cork from a champagne bottle.

Mrs Weasley was pointing her wand at them in a menacing fashion, but upon seeing their intimate hold her eyes went wide and she dropped her wand to her side. It took considerably longer to retract their hands from each other’s shirts.

“M-Mum!”

“I was feeding the chickens when I heard what sounded like screaming,” she explained, face red. The sheepish look on her face quickly turned stern. “You two shouldn’t be doing that with all sorts of dangerous Muggle things about… Skulking about in the dark. You’re lucky neither of you ended up eklecktrified or worse! You should know better, Ronald Weasley. And what in the world is that?”

She said pointing to Ron’s hand.

“Er… Hair curler?” Ron said.

“Well neither of you has use for that, now do you? Put it away before you poke out an eye or something.”

Ron mutely nodded and put the whisk in its place, face a flaming red. Hermione imagined her face was a similar color, given the heat she could feel burning through her cheeks.

Mrs Weasley stood in the door and opened it, ushering the teens out and towards the house. They walked ahead and she marched behind them, until they reached the kitchen step. Ron made to open the door but Mrs Weasley gestured them to sit on a pair of weather worn wooden chairs beside the door.

“Now, you two, I understand something of young love and all that. Arthur and I weren’t much older than you when we got married. I won’t delude myself and think you’ve not… done certain things. After all you were off alone for months with no supervision, and you’re of age—”

“Merlin, Mum!” Ron bleated, face the shade of an overcooked radish. He seemed to know where his mother was going with this. Hermione was in pure denial. Surely Mrs Weasley wasn’t inferring that she and Ron had…. Had relations during the war? They’d barely snogged more than five or so times at this point. Hermione was mute with mortification.

“Honestly, Mum! We weren’t doing— Doing that.”

“I saw you two not minutes ago! I have seven children, and I know where that sort of snogging leads! If you’re going to be taking things to that level of intimacy you really must make sure to use all the correct charms and potions.”

Hermione’s cheeks flamed as she closed her eyes tight in embarrassment.

“Now Hermione, I know you won’t have learned them from your parents, of course, but do you know about contraception charms?”

“Mum! Please stop— We weren’t—!”

“If you’re caught snogging like that by your mother, you have to put up her making sure a pair of unwed teenagers don’t make a silly mistake!” She turned again to Hermione. “Ron and all his siblings were taught this, but I want to make sure you know them too, dear. You need to use it every single time. I know some people will say it feels better without it, but that’s complete rubbish! Do you know—”

“I know them, Mrs Weasley, thank you!” Hermione said, voice unnaturally high and loud.

“We both know them, Mum! Now can you please stop!”

“Fine! But don’t make me catch you like that again!”

“Believe me, no one wants a repeat!” Ron said with a rueful shake of his head.

“Well, that’s said then. Why don’t you tend to the chickens and get some eggs, and I’ll start on breakfast. Sausage and egg sandwiches?” Mrs Weasley asked lightly, not waiting for an answer as she went back into the house.

Hermione sunk her head into her hands.

“So….” Ron began. “That was— ”

“I don’t want to talk about it!” Hermione squeaked from behind her hands. Ron gave a laugh.

“Thank Merlin the twins didn’t hear tha—” Ron cut himself off and blanched. Hermione quickly made a movement towards him, but he’d already risen from his chair, shoulders tight. She didn’t know what to say in these moments.

Ron took a rattling breath, and Hermione was fairly certain he was stifling a sob. What would Ron do if the situation was reversed? He’d put an arm around her, let her say anything she needed, then distract her or make a joke. She was no good at jokes, but she could hold him and distract him.

She gingerly put a hand on his arm and gave it a squeeze. He wiped at his eyes.

“For a second I honestly forgot…” Ron said with a shrug. “What kind of bastard forgets their brother’s dead?”

She bit her lip. Seeing him hurt like this was painful. It would be so easy to start crying alongside him, but she refused her body’s instincts. The last thing he needed was her sobbing all over him.

“I think it was more a behavioral habit than you actually forgetting. You’re used to saying ‘the twins’ and noting what they’d find funny. It doesn’t mean you did something bad. It will take a while, but eventually your habits will change.”

“I don’t know if that’s not worse…”

Hermione didn’t see how that was worse, but thought it was best not to argue the point.

“Well, if I want an egg sandwich, I’ll need to get Mum some eggs, won’t I?” Ron gave a deep sniff and smiled.

She hated the brittle smile he’d put on in these moments.

It had been weeks since the Battle of Hogwarts, but Fred’s loss was still raw and painful for everyone. She couldn’t imagine the family would ever really recover. Fred and George were always ‘the twins.’ It wasn’t the first time someone had forgotten for a moment that Fred wasn’t alive and referred to the twins this way. It was probably why George had been holed up in a Muggle hotel for weeks. At first she thought he’d want to be home, surrounded by family. He hadn’t.

The morning of Fred’s funeral George went missing. They looked all over for him, but no one could find him. When it was time for the funeral itself they kept waiting for George to arrive, or for him to pull some sort of prank in Fred’s honor, or do something like set off some fireworks, or turn the somber event into a joyous wake. He hadn’t.

Angelina had tracked him down to a Muggle hotel and informed the family with a Patronus. A few of them had wanted to track George down, but in the end they decided to honor his wish to be alone. They thought he’d change his mind and come home, or start up the shop again. He hadn’t.

Ron had looked so lost that day. The whole family had, but seeing Ron look so devoid of focus had been disturbing. Even on the Horcrux hunt, when all of them were dazed from the locket, he’d managed to be a bit sharp. Yes, he’d complained and been aimless as she and Harry, but he’d been present. It was the one day Ron had taken to see to himself. He’d gone to the funeral, then spent the rest of his day in his bedroom unable to talk. She’d held him for hours as he stared off into space. The next day he was back to catering to everyone and fixing everything. He was back to hyper focusing on everyone’s needs, and keeping himself so busy that he didn’t have time to mourn.

She couldn’t very well make him stay still, so she followed him to the chicken coop. She might not be able to fix anything for the Weasleys, or for anyone, but at least she could get them some eggs.

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#romione #australia #fanfic #harry potter fanfiction #Ron Weasley/Hermione Granger #waking up #hilly writes #fic #hillnerd writes #my writing

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daxfarroh · 4 years

Text

Chapter 2

Six months earlier. …

It had been a week since the battle at Crait, a week without standing on solid ground. On a larger ship this would not be so bad, but the Falcon with its trademark bumps and rattles made forgetting you were barreling through uncharted space in a rusty metal projectile impossible. It was quickly becoming unbearable for Rey. She had never been off-planet for so long, nor gone so long without being alone. A few short weeks ago, she would have killed to be in this exact scenario: far, far away from Jakku on a ship of her own, travelling with those she called her friends or even her family. But it seemed the habits developed over a lifetime of simple survival do not die easy, for she found herself hiding out in dark corners, leafing through the Jedi texts and sneaking tiny nibbles from the rations she'd squirreled away. And, despite the mustiness of all the bodies packed into the ship, the ceaseless static of nervous conversation and the reverent nods that greeted her at every turn, she had never felt more alone.

She knew she was lying to herself when she wondered why she felt this way, but she lied anyway. In her moments of weakness, when she couldn't distract herself with books or stupid exercises or games with Finn and Poe; when everyone else was sleeping, and she was left to deal with the throb in her chest, she remembered his senseless face. Melancholy and young in the light of drifting embers. How she'd knelt beside him on the lacquered floor and brushed the dark locks from his forehead so she could kiss him there. It was gentle, so he would not wake; so that she would only be a whisper in his floating mind, one that would weave itself in and remain long after she was gone.

Why had she done that? She truly did not know. He'd tried to kill her, after all, not long after she'd given him that kiss.

Then there was his face again. Hurt, defeated, betrayed. She'd stared deep into eyes that were no longer pleading but still retained a singular question, and she’d shut the door on him. Again. In that moment, it had felt right to end it. She had been infuriated - enraged by his viscous retaliation and high off the thrill of piloting the Falcon and wielding the Force to save her comrades. She didn't need him. She didn't need a teacher. She had her friends and the Jedi texts. As Leia would say, she had all she needed.

But now, after countless hours spent poring over dense pages of head-splitting jargon, she had made no progress in the Jedi department. As for her friends, Finn was still Finn, but it wasn't like it was before. As she watched him linger for days over the comatose Rose, she realized how little she knew him, how brief their time together had been. And Leia? She was entirely occupied with saving their rebel asses, and there wasn't much Rey could do to aid her in those diplomatic endeavors. Their interactions were few and far between - nowhere near what Rey would have liked.

So, she was left with this feeling. It was familiar, the one she hated most of all.

A memory of a memory. A mother and a father; promises made and tears shed. And then their absence and the sand whipping up to sting her eyes as a ship lifts off, watching it dissolve into the atmosphere under broiling heat. ... That first night spent alone and the shock of the cold setting in. That first mark scratched into scrap metal with trembling hands. … Another memory - more vivid: a trader with kind eyes. "A gift fit for a princess," he says as he pulls a shimmering orb from his bag. He holds it before her with two hands. "Coruscant," he says. Spiderwebs of golden light stretch around the tiny planet, and as she takes it delicately and holds it up to the sun, the lights dim to reveal a mosaic of geometry. When brought close to her eyes, she can see towers and arteries and the movements of life. It is the most beautiful thing she has ever seen. … She carries it with her everywhere. She knows the risk, but she wouldn't dare leave her treasure unattended, lest it be stolen. She is always wary of it there, wrapped in the folds of her scarf. But one day she slips, and she hears the shatter far below. When she slides down to its resting place, it is an opalescent dust. Beyond repair. …

It had been a week since the Bond last connected them. Rey assumed that when she'd shut the door on the man she once knew as Ben Solo, she had quite literally done the same with the Bond. This understanding did not settle well with her as yet another restless day passed by on the Falcon, and her comrades fell silent in sleep.

Despite her best efforts to deceive herself, she felt as though she'd done something very bad. Dirty, almost, like she had stepped on a beautiful moth. But it wasn't real, she told herself, again and again. We were only mice in a maze. …

Somehow, that thought twisted the knife deeper still. And it was because of this that she plunged even further into her book, filling her mind with a din of meaningless words to occupy the dark space inside of her.

She felt him before she saw him. When she looked up, he was sitting at a desk, engrossed in some kind of clerical work. He glanced back and forth from one data pad to another, typing entries with nimble fingers. He had dark circles under his eyes and his unwieldy hair was unkempt. Rey knew he felt her there, though he didn't make any moves to show it.

She waited, breathless. It felt like it had been an eternity since she last saw him, and there may as well have been an eternity between them. She understood this, so she just watched him. The hunched, dark mass of his form, conforming awkwardly to the confines of a chair; the crease in his brow, the slight movements of full lips.

He may be Supreme Leader, but an actor he is not, she thought as he visibly struggled to feign indifference. His eyes never wavered from his work and his demeanor was collected, but the jumping muscle in his jaw gave him away. It amused Rey that she could read him so easily, but after several minutes of watching this, her intrigue gave way to frustration.

"So, this is how it's going to be from now on?" her voice rang out.

Nothing. … She sighed audibly.

"You're going to ignore me? Like a child." There was a lightness in her tone. She wasn't trying to chastise him too much. He had every right to ignore her, given the circumstances. Though, in all fairness, she had the right to kill him, given the circumstances. So, he could at least acknowledge her.

When he finally spoke, it was calm and controlled, but he couldn't keep the edge out of it. "You're up late." He did not look up or stray from the task before him.

Rey hadn't actually considered what he would say if he did speak. "I - I'm reading."

"The Jedi texts?" he asked without hesitation.

"Yes—how did you know?"

"I'm Supreme Leader of the galaxy and the most powerful Force-wielder with formal Jedi training alive. Did you think I would not know if the sacred texts of the Order were stolen?"

Rey gulped.

"Well, don't worry. I'm not mad," he said, a bit mockingly. "You can keep them. They're the stuff of antiquity. I suppose you could trade them for a better ship.”

"Actually, I'm learning a lot," Rey lied. She was about as good at that as Kylo Ren was at acting. "I just started healing, actually--"

“Even if those books were at all useful, you can't learn how to wield the Force from a book. You need a teach -"

Rey stood abruptly, cutting him short. Why was this one subject the cause of so much strife?

“We are not doing this again.” She fought to keep her voice low so as not to wake the ship. “I don't know how long we'll be stuck here in the Bond, but I won't hear anything else from you about being my teacher. Is that understood?"

It shocked Rey in her trembling rage as Kylo Ren finally raised his eyes to meet her. As he did, she was sorry to look at him, because those eyes were so very dark.

"I wasn't offering," he said.

His dismissal stung more than she could have expected.

"Fine," she nodded. "Good."

He said nothing more and returned to his work. Not knowing what to do or say, or how long this pleasant interaction would continue, Rey sat back down and pretended to read the dusty old text that was before her. They remained that way, in stretching silence, for many long minutes. Rey snuck glances in his direction, but he did not reciprocate (as far as she could tell). It was like being alone, almost. With the entire ship fast asleep, the only sign of their presence the occasional snore or groan.

After a while of sitting like that, she forgot herself and that he knew she was there, and just observed him. The formidable Kylo Ren bent over his clerical duties. It was a sight that warmed her, strangely enough. She had never seen him this way, so quiet and still. And the longer she watched him, the harder it became to remember why she had ever been afraid of him. What was this man capable of? she asked herself again. This question had consumed her over the past week. Dark or light, how far could he go?

Rey realized then that perhaps the Bond was waiting for her to ask. That perhaps it was sentient and merciful, and it knew she could never truly rest if she did not know. Thus, in a leap of faith, she asked.

"Did you know that I was flying the Falcon?" Her own voice startled her.

As the dark knight raised his black eyes to meet her own, she immediately remembered why she had been afraid of him.

"What?" he asked quietly.

"Did you know?" she repeated, gathering her courage. "Did you know I was flying the Millennium Falcon at Crait?"

Rey saw something pass through his eyes, but she didn't know what it was. She could not read him now.

"No," he answered. It was definitive. Simple and firm.

Rey released the breath she had been holding with a heavy sigh. Emboldened, she probed a bit more. "Are you hunting us now? Is that what you're working on?"

"No."

Rey found that very hard to believe. "So, you're not chasing us?" Surely, he had something up his sleeve.

"No," he repeated dismissively. "I know you think ruling the galaxy is all rape and pillaging, but in reality it's a lot of paperwork. I have more important things to do than chase you and your friends through deep space."

"So, you're just going to let us go?"

"Are you disappointed?" There was a ghost of a smirk on his pallid face. "I'm sorry to break it to you, but you and your - cause - are now irrelevant. It's over. You should find a planet to land on before you run out of rations. Or, on second thought, maybe you should just keep going." He shrugged wickedly. "Bottom line: I don't care what you do, as long as you stay out of my way."

"That’s not true," retorted Rey, finding herself unable to sit. She rose to her feet once more, leveling with him. "It's not over. Leia will bring us back. You know she will."

"Maybe," he shrugged again. "I know she won't give up. She's never known life without war. ... I, for one, would like to."

"Like to what?"

"Know a life without war." He delivered those words sagely, as if he were addressing a six-year-old student. Then, he returned to his datapads.

Rey studied him for a moment, growing increasingly hot and irritated. He could hate her all he wanted, but she would not allow him to treat her like a fool.

"No. No, that isn't it." She shook her head vigorously. "Kylo Ren is not a pacifist.” She took a step toward him, growing taller over his seated form. "Kylo Ren thrives in battle. A lifetime of this," she gestured at his desk and his datapads, “would kill you. …. No. That is definitely not it."

"It isn't?" he retorted, eyebrows raised in mock interest. "What is it then?"

She took another step, now looking down at him slightly, which gave her confidence. "You won't chase us anymore because you know you can't kill us." She didn’t wait for a response. "You've tried, many times, to kill me - and your mother. And each time you've failed." Kylo Ren's face remained stony, but his jaw was working overtime. She pressed on. "I can't believe that it was a lack of prowess or resources on your part. No. You can't kill us, and you've finally realized it."

Her words settled over them like drifting snow, and the typically close cabin of the ship grew icy cold. Had she overstepped herself this time? He wasn't saying anything, and he was looking very volatile indeed. Suddenly, he was a man barely hanging on.

Abandoning his task altogether with the abrupt flinging of both datapads, he rose to his full, looming height, balled his broad hands into fists and fixed his eyes on the desk, which he now dwarfed.

"What do you want from me, Rey?" His voice was unnervingly low and strangled through clenched teeth. “Do you want me to say it?"

Without warning, he swiveled his massive head to face her, piercing her with a deathly stare. Rey stood very still. She would not provoke him any further.

"After all this," he swept his arms madly at everything around them and in between them. "After all of this, you want me to say it?"

At this close distance, with the heat of his breath almost palpable on her face, Rey could take him in fully. He looked exhausted. Yet slightly crazed. The scar she had given him was stark against ashen skin. And he looked distinctly tortured - more so than usual. He was an animal that had been kicked too many times.

"Do you?!"

"No," she whispered.

The silence hung for a moment before he sat back down, still shaking with whatever emotions were raging through his system. He struggled to regain his composure as he bent down to pick up the datapads and placed them on the desk.

"Just stay out of my way." His tone was tinged with finality. “And stop reading those books. They'll only make things worse."

With that, he was gone. As if he had never been there at all. Rey breathed a sigh of relief. It took her a moment to gather her thoughts. She wasn't sure what had just transpired. There was so much swirling around inside her. Laying her head back against the wall, she closed her eyes and allowed the vibrations of the Falcon to lull her into a quieter state.

No, she still wasn't sure what had happened between them. But as she went over in her mind the truths that he had revealed to her, she arrived at a startling conclusion: Ben Solo was not dead. Kylo Ren was now Supreme Leader, but it was Ben Solo who could not kill her. And it was Ben Solo who could not tell her why.

#starwarsfanfiction reylo

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