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slutsofren · 3 years

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Danger Days Chapter 8: Save Yourself, I’ll Hold Them Back

summary: finding shelter in an abandoned home, you try to keep your wits about you and care for the still unconscious Joel until some trouble comes knocking

word count: 3,792

content warnings: mention of gore and impromptu medical care, more canon-typical violence, death, murder, arrival of.... cannibals, y'know the deal hurt/comfort

notes: i didn't mention it last time but yeah, your shit really can kill you if you get your lower intestines punctured lol it's a real thing and gnarly af

read on ao3 / masterlist

You woke up in a start. Heavy breaths taking hold in your lungs. The small, barely considerable amounts of sleep were getting to you as they had been for the last month as more and more night terrors racked your brain. Rubbing at your eyes, you pushed yourself up to begin your usual routine.

It had been a couple weeks since your little group found yet another abandoned home and it took some hell of maneuvering to get Joel into the basement but it worked. The winter snow was coming in full force and it was peritive you all kept Joel as warm as possible, there were too many odds stacked against him.

Walking over to his prone body, you checked on his wounds once more as you did practically every couple of hours. He was looking worse for wear, even changing out the gauze could only do so much. Whatever small amounts of clean water the three of you had went to cleaning it out, hoping to stave off the infection.

Joel was, by all means, not doing well.

To top it off, even with your meager amount of medic training from your days with FEDRA could never prepare you for the long-term haul you were in with Joel, he was dying. The bastard was dying and you couldn’t help but feel it was your fault.

Night after night you were haunted by the image of him falling off that balcony, the sounds of his groans of pain still lingered in your head even when you were awake. It fucking sucked.

He was asleep now, he barely woke up since everything went to shit at the university then at the mall. That in and of itself felt like a lifetime ago. You put a hand against his forehead, feeling how his fever still hadn’t broken. With the chill in the air as winter was fully settling in making your fingers cold as ice, he didn’t even flinch away. You closed your eyes and sighed, still not wanting to give up. Not for Ellie, not for Tommy, not even for the grumpy man himself.

A quick glance out the small basement window told you it was nearing dusk which startled you. Ellie had left when the sun was at its peak, sometime around noon, surely. She had been gone much much longer than she normally would have.

Usually it was you who left to go hunting for food once your supplies dwindled but Ellie wanted to help relieve the burden from your shoulders and you reluctantly agreed. Yo hated to admit you needed a break. She had argued she wanted to get better with her bow and arrow and she certainly did, often bringing back animals of various sizes. It was her way of coping with potentially losing Joel, something she confided in you that was one of her biggest fears.

Thoughts of Ellie swirled your mind and you paced back and forth, chewing at your fingernails. A nasty habit you suppressed most days. A part of you wanted to go find the girl, follow Callus’ tracks in the snow. Another part of you didn’t want to leave Joel by himself.

Fuck, you thought.

Compartmentalizing you figured if she didn’t return within an hour, you’d go looking for her. If you couldn’t locate her within a mile radius, a strict rule you enforced her limited hunting zone to, you’d hunker down with Joel and wait until morning to find her and scold her for being irresponsible.

You stopped your pacing to look at Joel’s face, seeing how his face was still warped in the painful scowl he hadn’t let go of. His features were beginning to slowly become gaunt as the small amounts of food you’d been able to get him to eat the rare times a day he’d wake were coming far and few in between. Even his usual tan skin was slowly softening to a cooler shade of bronze. He looked like death.

Joel, by all means, was a handsome cowboy. Even with his patchy beard that was littered with grey hair in a few spots. Now he just looked like a ghost of himself.

Okay, fine, you admit to yourself. With Joel down, you’ve kind of missed the fool. You missed the banter and arguing with him about stupid shit. He irritated the daylights out of you because he always wanted to jump headfirst into things without a care for his safety clearly but dammit, the lack of his presence was palpable. You hated it.

You sat beside Joel, removing one of his hands from under the blanket to hold. His hands still rough and calloused, mirrors of yours if you weren’t missing a finger. Once upon a time, you remembered hearing that coma patients could sometimes hear what people said to them, that it helped. Maybe talking to him now would help not just him but you as well, to keep your mind occupied. Maybe pass the time a little. Maybe.

“Hey, it’s me, you grumpy bastard,” you started off lightly. “I don’t know if you can tell but you’ve been puttin’ that girl and I through hell and back trying to keep your ass alive.”

A hollow laugh escapes you, feeling a little more choked up than you’d ever dare to admit. Composing yourself you tried to use playful banter. “How do you do it, cowboy? Ellie is a goddamned handful. Shit, I thought I was bad when I was a teenager,” you sniff, feeling your voice waver.

“When I first laid eyes on you two, I think it would have saved me a whole lotta trouble and pain if Maria let me shoot you,” you sigh dramatically. Even though there was a smile on your lips, it didn’t reach your eyes. What did were the tears that were slowly forming. The added stress of Ellie being missing was really wearing you thin.

Amongst other things.

“Y’know,” you sniffled, “you really hurt my feelings back at the university. When you thought I led the two of you into a trap.” You took a sharp inhale. “As much shit as you and I put each other through, that was the one thing that stung. More than anything.”

You squeezed his hand and sighed, closing your eyes. Admitting that was hard, stars know you’d never say that to Joel while he was conscious nor in front of Ellie.

“Don’t die, you asshole,” you begged softly, wiping away the light tears that coated your lashes, reluctantly letting go of Joel’s hand as you tucked the blanket around him tightly.

After you said your piece, your mind became overrun with the little turd you grew fond of. The more you began to worry about Ellie, the more your thoughts swirled rapidly into worst case scenarios.

Before you worked yourself into a much deeper frenzy, a loud metallic bang echoed from upstairs. You ran up the steps and came face to face with Ellie, looking just as frantic. She raised her hand and in it, a tied white rabbit, so white it was nearly silver in the dim lighting. “I got food,” she said breathlessly.

“And,” she shoved you aside and took off to the basement, “I got this. Can it help?”

Ellie reached into her pocket and pulled out a syringe and orange bottle, she handed it to you while kneeling next to Joel as he shifted in his sleep. You were still rather shocked to see Ellie who looked faintly bloodied and tired, before you could comment on the new rifle on her shoulder, you took the bottle and were damn near milliseconds from riding into her until you read the faded label of the glass container.

Penicillin.

“Where the fuck did you get this, Ellie?”

Without waiting for her to answer, you dug in your pack and pulled out some disinfectant alcohol and a gauze pad to clean the syringe and a spot on Joel’s arm. Ellie refused to look up from where she kept her gaze focused on Joel’s face, “‘s not important.”

“If I wasn’t so mad at you right now, I’d kiss you.”

Throwing away all the questions you had for her, you administered the antibiotic as quickly as you could, he sighed as the medicine entered his body. Although, it was likely you were giving him too much, truthfully, you didn’t think it would hurt him worse than he already was.

As he relaxed underneath your hands, you looked down at his wound one last time for the evening. The haphazard stitches were taut on his stomach where the swelling was, hopefully by morning, he’d be better.

You didn’t look up from Joel as you laid into Ellie, “I don’t want excuses about where you were, only that you promise me to be more careful in the future, please.”

“Ye- yeah, I promise.”

“Good,” you covered Joel back up, “Now go get some rest. I’ll take care of the rabbit and wake you when it’s done.”

You turned your back to Ellie, it wasn’t that you wanted her to feel bad for her little disappearing act. You just needed some space to gather your thoughts. Between being Joel’s caretaker, Ellie’s temporary guardian, and keeping yourself sane, you were a wreck. You needed a moment.

Before you took a step on the stairs you paused. “Good work on getting the medicine, kiddo. Joel would be proud of you too.”

She didn’t respond as you walked away, the implication that although you were upset with her, you were still proud lingered in the air. Mindlessly, you focused on the rabbit, doing what needs to be done to cook it for dinner, pushing away those lingering worries. Ellie was safe, you reminded yourself, she came back.

It didn’t take you long to finish with your meager dinner, still pretty damn proud of Ellie’s evolving hunting skills. Maybe you’d offer to teach her a couple snares in the morning to leave out overnight. Although they tended not to gain anything bigger than a rabbit or a squirrel, something was better than nothing and you’d figure it would help Ellie focus on something other than Joel’s condition.

You bounded down the stairs, bringing the freshly cooked meat with you. A small shake to her shoulder and she was awake, “Dinner’s ready.”

Ellie didn’t bring her gaze up to look you in the eye, likely still ashamed. The two of you still sat in silence eating, occasionally looking to Joel for any changes or whenever he shifted in his sleep.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice sounding small.

“I know, Ellie. I’m sorry too, I didn’t mean to snap at you. I was just worried.”

Once again, the silence encompassed you both like a blanket, warmer now than it was before. You broke it first, “I was thinking about teaching you a couple snares in the morning. How does that sound?”

Ellie wiped the grease from her fingers on her jeans and looked up, “I think I’d like that.”

Just like that, the two of you were on even footing. It didn’t feel right to be mad at each other, not when Joel wasn’t there to diffuse. Either way, it was much like when you were the one in between their own fight that day you’d met them, it wasn’t healthy when you all had to rely on each other for survival. At least with Ellie, she was quick to forgive and forget in the face of the larger picture. A quality you kind of admired in the young woman.

Both of you finished with your portions of the meat, saving the rest for the morning or for Joel if he wakes in the night. Simultaneously you shuffled through the remaining ammo together, doling out some spare bullets to Ellie for her shiny new rifle, still not going to ask how she acquired it. Let her have her space.

She took the bullets graciously, reloading her sidearm and long range weapons and placing them in her backpack before getting ready for sleep. You stayed fiddling with your own weapons for a few moments longer before calling it quits too.

You laid down on the opposite side of Joel, biting your lip and hoping for the best. You tossed and turned, not knowing if you could take facing Joel’s sickly frame but you also couldn’t turn your back on him and Ellie who laid on her backpack on his other side.

Please, you wished, let the medicine take.

These kinds of wishes filled your mind until you slowly drifted to a fitful night’s sleep.

By morning, you happened to find yourself shaken awake with Ellie’s face close to yours, “Wake up, I need you awake!”

You jumped up, onto your knees. “What is it,” you ask startled, afraid Joel was worse than he was when you fell asleep. Looking at Joel, he didn’t look like he deteriorated in the night, but he also didn’t look like he improved any.

“I was tracked,” she says as if that explains anything. Both of you have your hands on each other's arms in a failed attempt at communicating the other’s panic.

“What do you mean ‘tracked’, Ellie?”

“Those people I got the medicine from, David and-and James, they fucking tracked me!”

“Ellie, what the fu-.”

“Look, listen, I’m gonna draw them away. Keep an eye on Joel,” she tells you in a rush, letting go of you and bolting up the stairs, grabbing her backpack on the way out.

“Fuck,” you practically shout while getting up and looking out the window. Outside you see silhouettes of a few men, searching the nearby area. Frustrated, you kick the washing machine.

Shit, shit, shit.

You don’t know what to do, you feel tied down once again because of Joel’s condition and Ellie’s neverending saviour complex. You mumble out a few more expletives at this situation just as you see the girl bound down the street on Callus shouting for the intruder’s attention. As she rides away, you hear bullets being shot at her, getting further and further away from you.

You carelessly threw your denim coat on and opted to grab your knives instead of guns, hoping to kill anybody who came close without alerting the others. Out the basement window, you could see a few of the men still lurking about, choosing not to follow Ellie.

Just before you followed Ellie out of the house, you doubled back to Joel, kneeling forward and giving him a kiss on the forehead. “We’ll come back, I promise you Joel. Just please, don’t die on me now.” Another kiss on his warm skin and you left without stopping, barricading the basement door as if it was left unoccupied.

Everything in you wanted to panic, your muscles were screaming to fold in on yourself and heave what little food remained in your stomach but you couldn’t give in. Not when Ellie was in danger. She may have been a pain in the ass, but she was your pain in the ass.

After your conversation last night, you’d be damned if anybody hurts your girl.

Taking a deep breath, you shook your worries free and cleared your mind. Although you were a field medic by title with FEDRA back in the day, working with them turned you into a killer. It was a toxic mindset for you, even when you had joined the Fireflies, they took advantage of your ability to focus on one thing and one thing only, turning it into their own game - death.

It took years to shake off that blank emotionless part of you, even Tommy was afraid of it when he saw the horrendous things you were capable of, what the Fireflies exploited from you, but Tommy wasn’t here and the people you loved were hanging on by a thread.

It was easy to see the outlines of the few straggling men who searched the nearby homes, whatever Ellie did really pissed them off. Now, these people only pissed you off.

You stayed lurking within the shadows of the homes, even with the sun just getting ready to set, it wasn’t too difficult to stay hidden. Especially to those who weren’t familiar with the layout. It was easy to spot how the few men tended to remain within a handful of yards together, opting not to venture out into the buildings alone. Alert and yet unorganized as you could see how they would often turn their backs on each other, giving you such a delicious opportunity to sneak in and out, weaving through them and taking them down one by one.

Was it absolutely horrible this was your instinct? Maybe. But you had two people you wanted to protect, two absolutely annoying yet selfless humans who gave you hope. You did love Joel and Ellie, even if you hadn’t admitted to it yet. Besides, you had a whole lot of stress burdening your shoulders and you wanna hit something.

You watched as the small group approached one of the homes off to the left, allowing you ample room to get close without having to cross the street in the open. You took off running, not bothering to try and conceal your footprints in the snow as you got to the house besides the targets. You entered through a broken window - a common for every single house on this block. Taking lighter footsteps, you ducked by the windows and reached the second floor landing.

The homes in this area were built within close proximity to the others, making it easy for, say, somebody needing to jump between windows without being seen. Perfect.

You listened hard and close as the men shuffled and tossed things around the first floor, looking for any sign of Ellie and ‘those two people she was with’. You growled lowly, really hating the implication that these people knew about the three of you.

Taking another assessment, you noticed there were two men standing guard out the front of the house, idly walking to-and-fro, their conversation remaining on wishing they were chasing Ellie instead.

A deep breath in and you jumped with an ‘oof’, trying to make as little as noise as possible, aiming for a wide open window with a snow covered bed on the other side. Between the snow and the mattress, the noise was cushioned to only a small thud, thankfully concealed by the thuds of the men downstairs shuffling through rooms. You quickly got up and went to the doorframe and saw there was only a hallway and stairs leading down.

You took deeper breaths again, trying to center yourself for what you were about to do as you heard one person come up the stairs - alone.

Placing your body flush against the wall, you waited in stark concentration, drawing your knife from its sheath. The footsteps came close, nearing the room you were hiding in and just as an armed gunman came in, you rushed him. Putting one hand against their forehead, you pulled the other hand and dragged the knife into their throat, essentially cutting off the person from making a noise and ending their life. You pulled and lowered their body as they began to choke out, laying them on the floor gently against the wall, carelessly hiding the body.

Downstairs you could still hear shuffling of the other invader and you made your way to them, silently assessing.

From what you could tell, the other person was banging around in the basement. So you rounded a nearby corner to where the open basement door was until finally, finally, somebody came through. You took him down just the same as his buddy.

So unorganized, you thought. If they were really looking for you and Joel, they were doing a piss poor job of it.

You swiped a bottle from the kitchen as you strolled past, taking aim out a broken window. Giving it a nice little toss, it shattered against the other house and without fail, you heard the tell-tale signs of one of the other men asking ‘what was that’. You ducked behind the faded curtain until one of the targets came into view, watching how he was pensive and alert, fortunately he was by himself which made the next part just as easy.

As soon as the man walked by the window, you jumped out from your hiding spot and jabbed your hunting knife straight into the soft squishy part of his eye, surprisingly facing little to no resistance.

You pulled it back and repeated the motion again once the man made an audible noise, probably alerting his friend. In only a slight rush now, you jumped out the window and removed your blade, now stalking towards the front when you could hear the other man yell the other’s names.

Wrapping around the corner of a house in a whirlwind, you surprised the last one when you stood face-to-face with him. He looked at you, astounded, mouth agape and dropped his weapon - a handgun. Looking down at his body, he whimpered as he took in the sight of your knife now buried deep in his stomach as you yanked them up into his chest piercing his heart.

Copper scent filled the air as the hunter’s body gave out. His blood spilling down your front. Under normal circumstances you would’ve likely vomited all over yourself but considering the innate need to protect Ellie and Joel, all that shit is blown out the window.

All in all, maybe thirty minutes have passed, you wanted to check on Joel but the distant gunshots were making you worried. At the very least, the longer they went off, the longer you knew your little fighter was alive.

Okay, think, you tried to get yourself to focus. You came up with a rapid-fire plan and before you could second guess yourself, you ran. Refusing to stop. Each step in the plush snow found you closer and closer to your hideout.

Entering the home through the garage, you gave Whiskey a pat as you walked on by and headed straight for the basement. You pushed the undisturbed barricade from the door, grateful it signaled that Joel was safe. Entering the downtrodden room you grabbed your holsters, strapping them maybe a little more tightly than you should’ve and throwing your backpack over your shoulders. You double-checked your weapons, making sure they were fully loaded.

Once again, you kneeled next to Joel as he laid on the dirty mattress, huffing from the rising pain from the stitch in your side. “Joel? I’m gonna go back out and find Ellie. I’m gonna go get our girl,” you said.

You hoped you were telling the truth.

#joel miller #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal #joel miller x oc #joel tlou x reader #joel tlou x you #tlou #the last of us #tlou fanfic #joel tlou reader insert #the last of us reader insert #joel miller fic #joel miller fanfiction #danger days fic #asher's writing

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galaxysgal · 3 years

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No Hard Feelings, Right? || Frankie Morales

Pairing: Frankie Morales x gn!reader

Summary: You and Frankie are sharing a tent on a mission. This leads to classic cuddling for warmth, and a small confession in the form of a kiss.

Warnings: swearing, typos probablu

A/N: hi i would just like to say that im in love with francisco morales. big thanks to jim for encouraging me to write this :)) the gif makes this look like its angst lol, i promise its pure fluff, I just picked that gif bc of the rain

Wordcount: 1.334

gif by @pascalplease

xxx xxx xxx xxx xxx

You've never been one for dramatics, but as you endure the last half hour of your shift on watch for the boys you're pretty sure that your fingers and toes have all frozen beyond repair. You watch the rain drip down the edge of your makeshift shelter, pulling your windbreaker tighter around you. Well, not your windbreaker. It's Frankie's, he had handed it off to you with a smile when you came to relieve him of his position on watch.

"Here," he says, stripping off his coat and handing it to you.

"No, Frankie I can't-"

"Take it," he insists, going so far as to drape it around your shoulders.

Every second that passes it gets harder for you to say no. "You'll be cold," your protest is weak, but you don't want him freezing to death in that tent with Santi before you can come join him.

"I'll be fine, Santi's a human heater." He chuckles and squeezes your arm, "you need it more than I do."

His smile was gentle and genuine, and deep down you know you could never say no to him. So you give in.

Now you're wearing Frankie's windbreaker. It smells ever so faintly of the cologne he often wears, this mission not yet having covered it up with the stink of mud and sweat. You're immensely grateful that you'll be sharing a tent with Frankie when this shift is finally over. Sure, Santi was a human heater, but with him it was sterile. You had laid back to back, huddled under the one thin blanket you had. And of course a bit of your gratitude is due to your long time crush on the sweet, scruffy pilot. You can't help it, really. Who wouldn't fall for him?

The sound of footsteps draws you attention and your hand gravitates to your gun as you listen closer. You know the boys' walking patterns by heart, a trick you've learned after months of working together. You recognize the footsteps to be Santi's and you let your guard back down with a sigh.

"You good?" he asks, eyes flitting down to where your hand has just drawn away from your gun.

You nod, scooting aside in the shelter so he can get out of the rain. "Yeah, just thought you were cartel for a second."

"Alright, you're dismissed kid," he claps you on the shoulder before sitting down on the rock the lean-to was built around. "Get some sleep, we set out at dawn."

"Aye aye, Garcia," you respond with a grin.

"Hey," he calls out after you. "And no funny business in that tent, you hear me?"

You turn bright red, grateful for the darkness to hide it. Santi knows about your feelings, you had stupidly confided in him one night a few weeks ago when you were drunk off your ass. You don't exactly regret it, though. Santi's a good listener, and he knows Frankie better than just about anyone else. You flip him the bird before turning on your heel and popping up the hood of Frankie's coat, hurrying back to the tent.

When you duck inside you see by dim light that Frankie's up, leaning back on his palms with the blanket pooled around his waist. You can just barely see the glint of his dog tags outside his shirt, resting against his sturdy chest. Fuck, the things this man does to your heart.

"Santi woke me up," he tells you, but you can't find even the slightest hint of sleep in his warm voice.

"What'd he do, step on you?" you ask with a playful smile.

He shrugs in return as you crouch down beside him, rubbing your hands together. "Yeah, something like that."

You can feel his eyes on you as you pull off your mud drenched shoes. Your hands are shaking and the laces are giving you hell. "You're shivering," he observes, his tone gentle.

"No shit, 'Cisco," you reply, no real malice in your tone. You can never be mad at Frankie, he's too sweet. Even when he's done something to legitimately puss you off like steal your sandwich, when he throws that goddamn smile your way, you melt.

You finally get your boots off with a triumphant yelp and Frankie chuckles. You hear him shuffling around as you lay down, leaving a good few inches of space between you and him. But before you can even close your eyes, Frankie protests.

"Oh hell no, we are not doing this like Santi did. Come on, scooch closer." Your stomach flips when you move closer, your hand brushing his wrist. "Jesus! Your hands are like ice!"

"Sorry," you apologize, tucking your arm up against your body. It had only been an instant, but when your fingers had brushed his skin you could have cried at how warm he was.

"No, no, c'mere," he murmurs, his hand reaching over and landing on your waist. "I can't have you freezing to death."

Before you can protest, his strong hands have flipped you over so you're laying halfway on top of him. His chest is warm and sturdy underneath you, the smell of his cologne faint but present, and intoxicating as hell. You can't help but tense up as he finishes fixing the blanket over you.

His arms wrap around your back, holding you in place. "Relax," he murmurs, his lips dangerously close to your ear. "We're professionals-" "Professionals?" you echo with a small laugh.

"Yeah, professionals." You can hear the smile in his voice. "We can cuddle for warmth without any hard feelings, right?"

"Right…" you answer, but your voice is small. You're scared of how close he is, how easy it would be to get used to this.

"Sleep well," Frankie murmurs.

As nervous as you are, exhaustion begins to tug at your eyelids. You're slipping closer and closer to sleep with every passing second. The steady rise and fall of his chest beneath you is so comforting, the embrace of his arms so warm. The effort to stay awake is nearly dizzying, and finally you give in.

Then, teetering on the edge of the cliff of unconsciousness, you feel it. Frankie's lips press against your forehead, gentle but firm. "I don't know what I'm gonna do with you sweetheart." You tense, and so does Frankie. "Fuck- I thought you were asleep."

You push yourself up onto your forearms, looking into his eyes in the dim light. He looks so small underneath you, so nervous. Nothing like the Frankie you know. Those deep brown eyes are wide, unblinking. They lock with yours. Neither of you are able to look away.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have-" he starts, but you shush him.

"Shut up Francisco, I liked it."

"You-" he's shocked, sitting up and leaning back on his palms. "You did? I didn't fuck things up?"

You sit up too, knees on either side of his thighs. Your hands come to rest on his chest and you can feel his heartbeat through the fabric of his shirt. "Yeah, I liked it."

"And… would you want me to do it again?" he raises an eyebrow, still clearly nervous. That's what you love so much about him. He's sweet, a true gentleman. That's what sets him apart. Any of the other boys would've already gone in for the kiss, no questions asked. But Frankie… he's different. He's a little quiet, a little reserved.

You reach out to tuck a stray curl behind his ear. "Yeah, I'd like that," you whisper, just loud enough for him to hear. "And do it for real this time," you add with a smile.

"As you wish."

His lips meet yours, velvet soft and warm just like the rest of him. Your eyes close instantly and you bring your hand to the back of his neck, fingers playing with the hairs at his nape. The kiss is unlike any you could have ever imagined, gentle and sweet. You feel like, to him, you are precious.

End.

Tagging: @tinyphantomsalad

#francisco morales x reader #frankie 'catfish' morales x reader #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales #triple frontier #mags writes

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johnkrrasinski · 4 years

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ℑ𝔫𝔱𝔬 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔚𝔬𝔬𝔡𝔰

Chapter 5: Wonderland

full masterlist // series masterlist

Pairings: dark!Steve Rogers x female!reader

Word count: 2,328

Warnings: smut, kidnapping, oral (male receiving), fingering, dub-con, non-con. (MUST BE 18+)

Summary: after the death of your mother, you decided that you were going to do something new to honor her. You chose a perfect camping spot somewhere down South. You thought it was going to be the life-changing vacation that you never had in your life, until Steve Rogers, a man existed in roughness and control all his life, found you.

a/n: chapter five’s here! i’ve been so focused on my other fic ideas that i nearly forgot i still have an unfinished series. anyways, hope you enjoy! and, things are going to unfold between steve and the reader in this chapter. i truly hope y’all are prepared for some gentle dark steve cause i certainly am. please leave a like & comment. enjoy!

The next morning, you were woken up by the feeling of soft kisses on your shoulders and a few more on your neck. You felt a delicate grip on your hip, as you slowly began to regain consciousness. You felt a broad figure behind you, and you couldn’t help but turn around immediately to see him.

You realized Steve was already naked on your bed, lying on his side as he held you like a lover would. He didn’t stop his kisses even after you were awake, with your body slightly turned to him now, he had easier access to your neck as he pampered you with kisses there too.

You didn’t know why, maybe it was your hazy brain that was still half awake, but you instantly threw your head back to give him more room as you moaned quietly. His hand that was on your hip then went to spread your thighs as he immediately rubbed your clit, not wasting any time in starting with a slow pace.

The wetness that was already there amplified, and after he was done spoiling your neck with kisses, he went to your lips as he hungrily swallowed your moans. He bit your lower lip and you parted them to let his tongue invade your mouth. He kept on kissing you and massaging you at your most sensitive part, and after a few more strokes, your orgasm burst.

He watched the expression on your face as you crumbled. He always loved seeing you fall apart. Your moans were muffled by his mouth that didn’t quit devouring yours until your breathing slowed down. His fingers had slowed down its motion after you erupted, but it didn’t stop instantly to prolong your bliss.

After you were calm enough, he kissed your forehead as you looked into his ocean eyes. “Good morning.” He greeted you. You couldn’t answer due to the feeling that you were just forced to endure, but it didn’t seem to bother him at all.

“Let’s begin our training today, shall we?” He got up from the bed with his eyes still on you.

“Get on your knees.” The authoritative tone resurged. And the commanding look on his face was apparent despite your smoky state. Your legs were still feeble enough to get up. You felt like you needed a little longer respite, but you knew better than to defy him.

You leisurely rose to your feet as you followed him to the centre of the room. After he stopped at the spot that he deemed fit, he wordlessly ordered you to kneel. From this level, the size of his girth was enough to make you tremble. You gulped in cower as you didn’t dare to gaze into his eyes. You waited for his next instruction as you felt his hand caress your hair.

“I know this one is going to be challenging but, you don’t have to be afraid. I will guide you through every step. Is that understood, little one?”

You nodded, “yes sir.” You still kept your head down, the sight of his boots somehow comforted you better than the man wearing them.

“Good girl. Now, look at me.” You gathered every bit of guts you had left within you to glance up and he had his lips set in a thin line. His ocean eyes had turned into the arctic; glacial ice frosting your soul.

“Open your mouth.” Your lips trembled at his words as you slowly parted your lips whilst still maintaining eye contact. He briskly stroked his shaft then he inserted the tip to your mouth as he pushed himself deeper until he hit the back of your throat.

You wailed in resistance as your hands went to his thighs to push him away, but he persevered. “Stop.” He said from above. “Breathe. Slowly through your nose.”

You followed his instruction. “Good girl. Now, relax your jaws.” You tried as best as you could if that was even possible. Every bone in your body was tense. You certainly had never slept with any man before, let alone tasting him in your mouth. You were petrified of what was he planning to do next.

“Now, wrap your lips around them.” You wrapped your lips around his shaft, cocooning it like a caterpillar.

“Good girl, just move your head back and forth. Suck it like a lollipop.” His hand that was in your hair tugged it to guide you back and forward as he repeated the motion. Your horrified eyes were still looking up at him as tears began flowing down your cheeks.

Every time his tip hits the back of your throat, you moaned in discomfort. You held on to his sturdy thighs to ground yourself. Slowly, you began to enjoy the taste of him. You were utterly confused by the reaction that your body had but once you had regained control of the pace, the terror dried down.

He gesticulated his grip on your hair faster, driving you to whimper as you dug your nails into his skin, leaving crescent-shaped marks on his flesh. He didn’t seem to mind. He only threw his head back as you felt him throbbing. He moaned out loud when he reached his climax, ejaculating deep inside your throat.

He kept himself deep inside your mouth and stayed still until every drop of his cum was spilled down your throat, not wasting any from your lips. He then released your hair and he stepped away from you.

“You just passed the test of putting that mouth for good, baby.” Your chest heaved due to the violation. “Now, get on the bed. I’m gonna return the favour.”

You knew there was nothing profitable from the ‘favour’ he was about to pay you back with, but you did what he ordered you to anyway. You laid down on the bed as he grabbed your ankles to pull you to the edge of the bed and spread them wide. He got on his knees as he plunged deep into your cunt, licking a long stripe on your bud, causing you to close your eyes and relish the unwanted pleasure.

And once again, he proved you that your body was entirely his, and there was no escaping him.

Later that day, after you woke up from your nap, Steve was lying beside you with your head on his chest. You tried to push away from him but that only jolt him awake. You really should try to be more subtle. You were perplexed by what you were seeing… What the hell is he doing sleeping on this bed? He had never slept next to you before, let alone cuddle you. If this man thinks that you two were lovers, he must be out of his goddamn mind.

But he only looked at you with a smile and asked with a husky voice, “good nap?”

You instantly sat up and tried to sit as far away as possible from him. “What are you doing here?”

“Well, in case you forgot, I own this cabin, remember?” He sarcastically mocked you for asking such an absurd question. As if he hadn’t just made you cum more times than you could count for the past few days.

“No I mean, what are you doing on this bed? You never slept here before.”

“Didn’t feel like leaving you yet. And I was pretty worn out from our early session.”

“So is this what we do now? Cuddling after you force me to do whatever fetish you have in mind?” You sneered without looking at him. You didn’t know what erupted the courage within you to be that spontaneously brash. Maybe you no longer cared about his threats of punishments anymore. Maybe you were just extremely fatigued by every tragedy that had befallen on you, so you were going to say whatever your fury wanted you to say.

“Would you rather I leave you here all alone, in the dark, waiting for me to return until I make you perform another sexual act for me?” His tone was surprisingly gentle. You expected him to lay a hand on you or make you regret your own words, but his reaction left you a bit taken aback.

“I don’t know. I’m not sure about anything anymore, honestly.” You folded your knees to your chest as you hugged them, trying to shield yourself from the grim reality you were currently trapped in. He ran a hand down your back, as a soothing gesture. You weren’t going to say it out loud, but it did assuage the fuel of dejection within you.

Then he got up to a sitting position as he inched his body closer to you. “I know this hasn’t been easy for you, but I will get you through this. And I have no intention in harming you, I promise. I just need you to trust me enough to let me take care of you.”

When you were clueless on what to say and the muteness fell in the room except for your and Steve’s breathing, he swept the hair that was falling on your shoulders to behind your back. He then caressed your hair as he did earlier when he prepped you to perform a blowjob on him, but this time, it didn’t feel demanding. It just felt… reassuring. Like he was trying to instil every promise that he made into you, to make you understand the sincerity behind them through his touches.

You didn’t meet his eyes and you remained immobile, despite his effort to make you allow him in. “I don’t know if it could be that easy…”

“I know, and I told you we can take as much time as we need but every progress that we make, there should always be a result, and I need to see them, okay?”

You nodded, hoping it was enough to make him content with whatever he was expecting from you.

“Let’s take a shower, yeah? Maybe it’ll help enlighten your mood.” He got up from the bed and he walked to your side, carrying you with his hands behind your knees and his other one behind your back. Despite the nap that you just had, you couldn’t help but rested your head on his chest in the succinct walk to the narrow bathroom.

He washed himself as he watched you do the same. When you were about to grab the shampoo bottle, he beat you first to it and squeezed a dozen amount onto his palm then he proceeded to wash your hair, messaging your scalp tenderly for such a brutish man. There weren’t many words exchanged between the two of you in the shower, but you could hear your own racing thoughts. You let him take care of you as he promised.

You pondered; maybe breaking down the brick of your walls one by one doesn’t seem like the worst idea. This was the plan after all though, right? To gain his trust and convince him that the idea of escaping had been erased from your mind, and then maybe… You can make an escape. But for now, you were going to savour the sanative treatment of his gentle side.

Later that night, after you dried off your hair, he came back downstairs to feed you. He then left you to give you some space and told you that he will come back later. After you were done, you laid in bed thinking, if your mother was still alive… Would she try to look for you? Would she be worried by now? Who the hell were you kidding, of course, she would. But would she be able to find you? You’d never know. It was pointless to ask those questions anyway. The best that you could do is pray to your mother, hoping that she would save you from this bottomless pit.

Your wishful thinking was disrupted by the cracking sound of the door opening and his presence coming into view. He laid down next to you, putting your head on his chest. You complied easily, not having the energy to oppose. It could’ve been a lot worse than sleeping on his chest.

“I was born and raised in these woods, I don’t go to the city too often unless I’m in dire need of something. My mother was ill from tuberculosis when I was 18 and that’s how she died. I work at the local fire department and I love to take some photographs in my spare time. I don’t meet that many people in my life, so maybe, we can help each other out.”

“What do you mean?” You answered meekly.

“I will guide you through our sexual training and adapting to your new life, but you can also teach me the life that you are used to. We can make some compromise to make this work. How does that sound?”

“Okay.”

“Okay. It’s getting late, you should get some rest.”

“Will you be here when I wake up?” You didn’t know what your real intention was aiming that question. You knew it should’ve been about sleeping with one eye open but somehow, there is this tacit need of assurance, like knowing that you weren’t going to wake up all alone in this cold sheets would give you an easeful slumber.

“I’m not going anywhere, baby.”

And that was all you needed to doze off and slowly flutter your drowsy eyelids to the sound of a steady heartbeat. It reminded you that this man was only a man underneath, no matter how unnerving and formidable he could be. It made you think in your ploddingly dissolving state of consciousness, that maybe… Just maybe… You didn’t have to be so fearful by him after all. And maybe… Just maybe… You could start letting your guard down. Who knows what doors it could open?

You could only wonder. But you were avid to find out when daylight comes.

#steve rogers #into the woods #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x y/n #steve rogers x you #steve rogers smut #steve rogers angst #steve rogers fluff #dark!steve rogers #dark!steve rogers x reader #dark!steve rogers smut #dark!steve rogers x you #dark!steve rogers x y/n #dark!steve rogers angst #alpha!steve rogers #steve rogers series #dom!steve rogers #mcudarklibrary #mcudarklibrarykinkmonth

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wlntrsldler · 4 years

Text

Familiarity (Bucky Barnes Imagine)

PROMPT: Love is a foreign concept to Bucky.

WARNINGS: mentions of playboy Bucky

To Bucky, love is a foreign concept.

He spent a large part of his life being deprived of it. He grew untouched, unloved, and discarded, even before the war. It was engraved in his mind that nobody would be capable of loving him, not the way he desired.

Bucky grew up as the playboy between him and Steve. His poor best friend had to watch the young girls run away in utter devastation after Bucky discarded them the morning after. He would always smile, a cheeky, smug, smile when Steve shakes his head in disappointment.

“Life’s too short to not have fun, Stevie.” He would grin, shutting the door behind him. He would walk around their shared Brooklyn apartment in nothing but his underwear, like it was just a normal day for him. Well, to Bucky, it was just a normal day. “Try it some time.”

Steve would blush, red as a rose, catching onto what Bucky was insinuating. He would disappear into the comfort of his now empty bedroom but not before he shoots a suggestive wink at Steve.

Steve would never say it to his face but he saw the emptiness behind Bucky’s blue eyes. The facade of the eligible bachelor that Bucky tried so hard to portray was a cry for help. He wanted more than meaningless flings and random hook-ups. Truth be told, Bucky Barnes was a die-hard romantic. But dear God, the world would end if anyone ever found that out. So Steve kept his mouth shut.

One, because he knew Bucky was running away from commitment, too scared to truly let himself feel and two, because he knew Bucky would kick his ass to a pulp if he ever tried to bring it up. Steve just let him run around, sleeping with and dating as many women as he pleased.

Then Bucky lived his life as the Winter Soldier. The memories of him being the lovable James Barnes were long gone, long erased from his scrambled mind. He only saw it in flashes while he slept- the red of the lips of the women he kissed, the way they looked sprawled under him, the way they made him feel, or the lack of feeling they gave him. It would leave as quickly as they came. Oftentimes, he would lie awake and ask himself if it was real or if it was just his mind playing tricks on him again. He never could trust his own mind.

Bucky would stare at the couples on the cheesy TV shows on cable. He would wonder if love was actually as blinding, as captivating, as the people on his old screen make it out to be. At one point, love was just a theory to him, not a feeling, and definitely not a possibility.

Who would love somebody like him? So capable of destruction and incapable of empathy? Truly, nobody would ever love him after all that he’s done. How could someone love him if he despised himself?

Bucky spent his days post-Winter Soldier in solitude, the feeling of being too scared to open up was the only thing that was the same in the two lives that he lived through. This time he wasn’t afraid because there were too many women to choose from, to devote himself to; This time he was afraid because he felt unworthy of the theory of love. He was broken, cracked, and shattered. Nobody would have the patience to watch him glue himself back together.

Then you came along- with your terrible dad jokes and inability to keep a straight face. He met you for the first time while doing a promotional video for the Avengers, Tony’s PR idea, and the objective was to look as serious as possible to intimidate the audience. After fifteen takes, you managed to keep your lips in a thin line for the five seconds the camera was focused on you. All the rest of the failed takes made it into the Bloopers reel. Avengers enthusiasts really enjoyed the 50 minute Bloopers reel.

Bucky was intrigued by you because geez, you were so goddamn happy all the time. For an old, grumpy man like him, happiness only came to him in dreams. Happiness was a friend that he hasn’t seen in a very long time. It was the friend that checks in once in a while, then disappears just when Bucky grew comfortable with its presence. So yeah, your happiness was intriguing to him because if you were to ask Bucky, gun drawn to his temple and all, when the last time he felt happy was, he would accept his death. He can’t remember the last time he was happy and to you, happy was in your routine.

It started out as slight teasing, banter here and there, before Bucky started to feel something bubble up in his chest. He ignored it at first, blaming his old age for his sudden heart problems. Sam had a field day with making jokes about that. He didn’t stop for months and it only got worse after you joined the soldier in his antics. Bucky would try to block out your constant jokes about him but sometimes he’d let his hard exterior falter a bit. Just a little bit and you’d catch a glimpse of his smile that makes the butterflies in your stomach run wild.

He grew comfortable with you after a while. A year and a half to be exact, a little too long for your liking but you were just glad he started to take his guard down. You would wake up with your favorite iced coffee already waiting for you on your computer desk, a coaster right under it to catch the condensation. He knew you hated the ringlets of water on top of your wooden desk. The coffee was great and you appreciated it but it was the action behind it that made you fall in love with Bucky Barnes. It was simple, mundane, but it was the most amazing thing that anyone has ever done for you.

Bucky’s love was pure. It didn’t need much explanation to be understood. He was a man who never experienced love and you were someone who didn’t know if you had the qualifications to explain exactly what it was. But Bucky didn’t mind one bit. If there was someone he could pick to show him the ropes of the complicated theory of love, he would choose you.

Bucky remembers exactly when he knew. It was when you two were stuck in the tower together. The rest of the team was out doing God knows what in the middle of July. It was a hotter night; The wind that blew towards you was warm, picking up traces of nature on its way. Dust and particles of leaves flew into your eye and you hissed in pain. Bucky walked over to you, worry evident on his face and cradled yours in the palms of his hand.

“What happened?” He murmured, watching a tear slip out of your shut eye.

“Somethin’ flew in my eye.”

“Hold still,” Bucky replied, thumbs opening your eye. He softly blew into it, trying to remove the dust from inside. “You should be good now.”

“Thanks, bubs.”

You said it so effortlessly, like it was normal for you. Bucky stood there, face closer to you than ever before, and just stared at you. You cocked your head to the side, confused as to why he was frozen in his place. It wasn’t until you saw the shy smile on his lips and the pink on his cheeks that you realized what slipped.

But a part of you didn’t want to apologize for it because honestly, you weren’t sorry. You weren’t sorry that the cringey pet name left your lips. It slipped out naturally, almost like it was meant to. And by the look on Bucky’s face, it seemed that he liked it.

Bucky did like it. He loved it. He loved the feeling of love and his heart swelled at the possibility of it. To love and to be loved.

To Bucky, the concept of love is so foreign. But with you, it suddenly seems so familiar.

MAIN MASTERLIST

#Bucky Barnes #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes one shot #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x yn #winter soldier #winter soldier imagine #winter soldier one shot #winter soldier fluff #winter soldier x reader #winter soldier x yn #marvel #marvel imagines #the avengers #frances writes

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mrsalwayswrite · 3 years

Text

Say You’ll Stay- Chapter 1

Fury/ Band of Brothers Crossover Fic

Summary: Don "Wardaddy" Collier just wanted his crew to make it through the war. He carried no expectations for himself. But as each day passed, he worried he would be unable to keep his promise. When fate (or more accurately- Boyd Swan) places a woman in his path with a soft touch and softer heart...perhaps he has more of a motivation to see the end of the war after all.

Hey so I’m back with this series! I posted the first chapter awhile ago and then realized I did not have my plot and characters as “polished” as I wanted. So if you read the first chapter already, I would recommend rereading it.

The first chapter is shorter compared to the others so to make up for it, I will also be posting the next chapter! Two in one!

Our beloved Easy Company will come into play in a couple chapters. Patience, my friends. I have a plan...

Warnings: Swearing, some mentions of wounds/blood

Tag List: @happyveday @evelynshelby @god-of-dramatic-death-scenes @alwaysindecemberfeels

Series Masterlist // Next Chapter

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Sweat dripped down the back of his neck. Dirt and grime covered his skin and clothing. The sound of the Sherman's tracks rolling over the muddy ground encompassed them. Patches of ice and snow still lined the feeble road. He stared ahead blindly, trusting Gordo to get them to the camp safely. The looks on those around him mirrored his own feelings. Everyone was exhausted. Everyone wanted real food. Everyone was tired of watching allies killed by fucking Tigers.

Everyone was sick of this shit.

They approached the camp. The cesspool that it looked like from far away became even more evident the closer they got. Half-demolished buildings with a dusting of snow were the only standing structures left of what used to be a quaint little town. Soldiers in grubby gear, rifle over their shoulders, ran around. From far away the sounds of artillery fire echoed. Don wondered who was dying now.

"Boyd." He looked over at his gunner. "When we get parked, you go find an aid station. Get that hand looked at."

"Yes, sir." The gunner held his injured hand against his chest, wrapped in a makeshift bandage.

After getting directions from a lieutenant, they found the tank squad on the other side of the town. Seeing the three other tanks gave the staff sergeant some hope.

"Boyd, medic. Gordo, fill 'er up. Grady, check that suspension. I don't like the way it sounds. Norman, find us some ammunition and where the hot chow is." Don barked out orders as everyone jumped off the tank. Replies of "yes, sir" made him nod, silently proud of his crew, before stalking towards where he assumed HQ was.

Soon enough he found the building, soldiers scurrying in and out, making the place look like an overturned ant hill. The glass on the store-front was still intact surprisingly, but the door was busted down leaving a gaping hole to walk through. Sliding past a private who looked barely eighteen coming out, he entered the HQ to see a table set out in the middle with maps laid out, paper weights and bullets strewn about.

"Who you?"

The gravelly voice made him turn to his right, eyeing up the man sitting on a wingback chair. "Staff Sergeant Don Collier, commander of Fury, 66th Armored Regiment, 2nd Armored Division."

The man exhaled, smoke slipping between his thin lips, cigarette hanging precariously. "Ah, Wardaddy, eh? Right, come on." He stood up and waved Don over to the table. "Captain Evans. What's your status?"

Don eyed the man, he seemed far too relaxed for being in a war zone. Then again, his greying hair and beard and those sharp eyes made him briefly wonder if this Captain Evans had been in the Great War. Maybe this was easier compared to trenches? Either way, it was nice to see someone in charge for once that looked like they were actually old enough to shave. Fuck knew too many kids were running around with rifles now, having just gotten out of bootcamp. Don wanted nothing to do with them.

"We secured the town here," he pointed at the map, "left 86th Infantry to hold. Then my guys and two other tanks were sent here."

Captain Evans stared at the maps, mind clearly seeing how best to utilize them. "You and two tanks, eh?"

"Yeah. Ran into a tiger though. Now it's just my guys."

His bushy eyebrows shot up, even those around the table quieted down with the news. "Just you?" At Don's nod, the Captain tapped his fist on the table. "Damn those tigers. Alright, good to have you here, Don. We're waiting on some intel before sending you out. You and your guys get some chow and rest. Come back and see me in the morning."

"Yes, sir." Don nodded and walked out of the building, relieved they were not being sent out right away.

As he walked down the filthy, cobbled street, he could feel the shakes beginning in his hands. Quickly, he stepped onto a side street, hoping no one would notice him. Leaning back against the brick wall of the building, he shoved his hands in his jacket pockets before anyone could see them shaking. Memories of the fight from yesterday replayed in his mind without permission. The tiger easily destroyed the rest of his platoon. In a matter of minutes, him and his crew were alone. Ten men. They had lost ten men. Good men...well mostly good. There was that one asshole in Edward's squad no one would miss.

War took the best and worst; death it’s equally possessive lover.

Hands slightly fumbling, he pulled out a cigarette and lit it. The lighter took a few clicks before catching. With the inhale, the nicotine and smoke settled in his lungs beautifully. He closed his eyes, letting the cigarette help calm his nerves and try to erase the memories of his platoon. They were dead now. It did no good to dwell on it.

After several minutes his hands finally stilled. Running a hand through his hair, he pushed off the building and headed out to find his crew. He glanced around wondering the likelihood of finding a roof and real beds for his guys tonight. They deserved it. Especially after all this shit. His own back cried out for a reprieve from sleeping on the hard ground.

Yeah, he would figure out something. Even if he had to toss some goddamn young Privates out into the stained snow.

*****

"Nurse Cooper! You can handle this!"

She pushed the flyaway strands of auburn hair out of her face as she walked past the injured, following the voice of Doctor Erickson. The cries, screams and whimpers of the injured and dying no longer affected her. Or at least that was what she told herself. At least this field hospital had separate areas based on severity and a roof over the top.

She had worked in far worse conditions before.

She nodded to the tall, blond doctor who barely gave her a passing glance as he shoved past her, away from injuries he deemed lesser than what he should be focusing his attention on.

A man sat on the edge of a cot, cradling his hand in his lap, which was wrapped up like a mummy. He was not screaming or swearing, so she took that as a good sign. His eyes were closed, lips moving silently like he was praying, a thick mustache twitching with every movement. He looked like he could only be a couple years older than her own twenty-three years.

"What's your name, soldier?" She stood in front of him, wiping her hands on the stained apron she wore over her equally stained dress. Once they had both been white; now, the apron and dress were a patchwork of stains from blood, dirt and other questionable fluids she chose not to think of.

He looked up, his brown eyes meeting her blue in surprise. "Boyd Swan, ma'am. Those in my crew call me Bible though. "

"Well, Boyd, mind if I take a look at your hand?" She perched on a stool as he offered up his hand. Quickly, she unwrapped it to see the damage with a gentle but methodical touch. A long laceration bled across the palm and past the wrist, thankfully not deep. Honestly, looking it over, it was kind of a miracle it was not worse.

"Well, you're lucky, Boyd. Any deeper and you might have lost use of your hand. You might have some nerve damage; I do not think immobility is a concern at this point. I think we can get away without stitches if you can promise me you'll keep your hand bandaged and try not to use it."

"It's not luck, He's looking out for me and my crew." He pointed a finger on his other hand skyward.

"Yes, He certainly was. Let me grab some new bandages." She grabbed some cleaning solution and bandages for the man. The sooner she finished with him, the less likely there would be concern for infection. If she guessed, it would appear the injury happened at the earliest maybe yesterday. More than enough time for it to become infected. Though her training had taught her to ask and determine when the injury occurred, lately she found herself hating that question. It always led into a story and hearing even more of the horrors these men faced. Her mind had enough memories of blood and guts to fuel nightmares for a hundred years. If she could refrain from hearing others’ memories, she found herself choosing too.

The other reason she wanted to finish with him soon was to open up the bed he currently sat on, in case a worse injury came in. Luckily there had not been a large-scale fight in a week so they only had trickles of men coming in instead of waves of dying men.

"You a religious woman?"

She looked up from cleaning his hand to meet his earnest eyes. "I guess. I don't pray like I used to."

He hummed. "I can respect that. I suspect you've seen plenty of death."

Not wanting to remember all the faces of young men she had slaved over, only for them to die under her care, she changed the subject. "Why do they call you Bible?"

"I'm always reading the Bible... I reckon that's where it started. I stopped trying to convert those heathens in my tank. I pray for their souls though. Always will." His voice trailed off quietly, but the fondness in it was unmistakable.

"You're a good man, Boyd."

He nervously chuckled, looking away for a moment with the sound of his foot tapping repeatedly on the ground. "No, I'm just doing the Lord's work. That's all."

"Well, I'm done." Smiling at him, she pushed back slightly. It was nice to have a patient not screaming at her or leering. There were too many of those men as of late. "Do you know your orders yet?"

"No, ma'am. We just rolled in an hour ago."

"Alright, if you're still here tomorrow I'd like to take a look at your hand again in the morning."

"I can do that."

"Good. Go rest up now, find some food. You earned it." She stood up, holding the soiled cloths, ready to move on to the next patient or task.

"I will.” He rose along with her, clearly understanding the dismissal. "Oh ma'am, what's your name?"

For a moment she hesitated to share her name. Normally she preferred the men to call her Nurse Cooper. From past experience, if she told them her name, they seemed to think she was interested in them. Yet with this man, she found herself wanting to share her name. He was kind and respectful. There were no gut feelings scaring her away from him. "Anna. I'm Anna Cooper."

"Pleasure to meet you, Anna Cooper. You need anything, you let me know, right?"

She was unsure how he could help her. Depending on his orders she might never see him again, but she nodded to humor him. "Sure. It was lovely to meet you too, Boyd."

With a parting smile from both, she hurried to the back of the building where they kept the large tub for boiling cloths. She grimaced when she noticed how low the water was. That meant she would have to go to the river soon. A shiver shot through her at the anticipated cold awaiting her outside. Thankfully most of the snow had melted already but winter’s chill still clung possessively to the air. Plus, it did not help how easily cold sunk into her bones. Back home her family would tease her about that fact. Here, on the edge of the front lines, it only made her life more difficult.

Before Doctor Erickson found a reason to yell at her, she headed back out to assist in whatever way possible. Her conversing with Boyd was her first positive interaction in a few days besides with the few others nurses stationed at the field hospital. She hoped he was not sent away too soon.

#Fury movie #fury 2014 #fury fanfic #band of brothers #Band of Brothers fandom #band of brothers fanfic #band of brothers imagine #Don Collier #Don Wardaddy Collier #don collier x OFC #boyd bible swan #boyd swan #mzwrites

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kestrelmando · 3 years

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Writer Wednesday - The Phone Booth

The great @autumnleaves1991-blog has put together a weekly “Writer Wednesday” where she provides an image prompt.

This one is Jack “Whiskey” Daniels/f!OC.

Set in my, as of yet, unpublished f!OC x Whiskey series “Whiskey Smash”. Basic relevant background info; Whiskey and Mezcal (my f!OC with previous mob ties) were partners in Statesmen, just barely dip their toe into catching feelings when a near death experience with Mezcal scares him away due to his past. They haven’t talked/seen each other in a couple years at this point.

Warnings: Swear words, descriptions of a fight, impalement with a high heel, descriptions of wounds

A mission hadn’t blown up in her face like this is a long time, a really long time – the last one was years ago on that dingy rooftop where he had finally finally yanked her in and kissed her only for the night to end with her shoving him out of the line of fire. Three bullets later, two doses of Ginger’s experimental clotting serum, 3.5 liters of blood loss and she had woken up alone.

Just a note next to a vase of purple hyacinth and white amaranth; ‘I can’t do it again. – J’.

Oh, and she’d protested heavily on taking a mission in fucking New York. He was running the NYC branch, he could find someone local but Champ had insisted. It was supposed to be a simple recon mission; blend, listen, collect evidence.

Mezcal had wined and dined all evening, batting her eyelashes and smiling with doe eyes. She was this close to sticking her hand into the right pocket when someone had recognized her. He locked eyes with her across the room and recognition rippled across his face instantly. One of her father’s high level enforcers – hard to forget the boss’s daughter especially when she all but disappeared.

He knew better than to cause a scene in a private residence with stupidly rich people floating around between them. What the hell was he doing here? She made her excuses, off to powder her nose, and slipped into the empty side hallway. There was a small window in the butler’s pantry three doors down or she could try just walking out through the foyer and the front door. He’d be expecting the foyer, the cleanest exit was usually the simplest, so she made for the pantry.

She slipped off her heels and carried them, the click being far too loud on the marble floor, and quietly slid the pocket door open. The window was small, almost too small, but she was confident she’d make it and more importantly – the enforcer wouldn’t. Mezcal slid the door mostly shut and quickly went the window, shoving the frame up and grimacing at the chilly fall air.

A hand closed around her ankle just as she was halfway out, one knee dangling and the other in an awkward bend, and yanked her back. Her shoulder and head crashed against the upper window pane and frame with a crunch. Dazed, she dropped one shoe to the ground and swayed. Still, her free hand locked around the window frame. She would not be pulled back into the house – the other shoe came up, stiletto first, and embedded into his cheek.

The enforcer howled with pain, ripping it from his face with an arc of blood, and wrapped his beefy hands around both legs before dragging her back inside. They both tumbled to the ground at the momentum and she rolled to her feet, hands raised and ready for a fight.

She didn’t know how long she walked. Her head was swimming, ears were ringing. The cold autumn night bit at her bare feet and tattered dress. It was just like some rich asshole to have his home nearly on the slopes and away from everyone and everything else.

Eventually she stumbled onto a tiny town – if you could call it that. The storefronts were all long closed and she considered breaking into one for a phone and some warmth when she saw the lone phone booth. It stood out like a sore thumb, a relic even, but more secure than using a phone inside one of the stores.

She dutifully trudged to the booth and slipped inside, grimacing and checking the coin return for any spare change. At least one thing went right; seventy five cents in quarters rolled into her hand. Mezcal paused, she had to pick the right person to call and seventy five cents wasn’t going to give her long. After a mental run through of possible contacts, she sighed and let her head slump against the booth.

It had to be him. Goddamit, it had to be Whiskey.

He was all but guaranteed to be at the office still and the New York City branch was only a hour and an half by car. She squeezed her eyes shut tight, willing herself to forget his forlorn face all those years ago when he said he didn't like going home to an empty bed.

She slid the quarters into the phone and dialed the number she would never admit she knew by heart; Whiskey's direct line.

It rang twice before he picked up, voice stretched and thin, "Whiskey."

The air left her lungs and her tongue cemented itself to the roof of her mouth. Absurdly, she felt tears prick at her eyes. Even tired and lacking its usual ridiculous bounciness, it was the most beautiful sound she'd heard in ages. He sighed into the receiver.

She finally found her voice, "It's me."

He breathed her name like a prayer, "Mezcal," he paused and then pressed on more urgently, "What's wrong?"

"I'm in New York, Middletown. I need extraction. I...I was unable to get back to my planned exit."

"Darlin' are you hurt? Where in Middletown?"

She leaned out of the phone booth looking for a street sign, "Oak and Main, phone booth."

"Are you hurt?"

"Nothing a good night's sleep won't fix."

He muttered something she didn't quite catch before saying, "Sit tight, extraction comin' in a hour."

Mezcal hung up the phone, and slid the phone booth door shut in a vain attempt to stem the flow of cold air. She sunk to the floor and drew her knees up to her chest, wrapping her fingers around her numb toes.

Time was immaterial; all she knew was cold. The thin dress offered no insulation and both shoes had been lost on the grounds of the target's home.

Headlights cut through the night and she raised her head to see an unmistakable white bronco and a familiar stetson emerge from truck.

He didn't send a driver.

She tried to unfold her frozen limbs but everything was sluggishly moving. Instead, she reached over and slid open the phone booth door.

He caught he gaze over the hood of the bronco. Whiskey hurried over to her and immediately bent to help her up, hissing at the iciness of her bare arms.

She let herself be pulled up, mumbling, "You didn't have to come."

He knew her meaning; he could've sent someone. Instead he just replied, "Yeah I did."

They walked back to the truck, Whiskey's hand on the small of her back, and he opened the passenger door for her. The interior light of bronco illuminated her face and his face quickly morphed into alarm. He blurted out her name, her real name. "Kenna?"

"You should see the other guy." She attempted with some bravado.

He gave her a once over in the light and all but lifted her into the truck, "Where the fuck are your shoes?"

"Just... let's go. Get the heat on, I'll tell you on the way back."

Whiskey nodded tightly but shut her door and got in on the other side. He turned on the truck, got the heater running, but didn't make a move to go anywhere. Instead he flicked on the overhead lights and reached into the back, broad shoulder brushing against her, and fished out a Statesmen first aid kit.

He opened it with a snap and began pulling out various items, not glancing up from the kit, "Start talking."

"Recon, potential medical front for a bioweapons dealer. Wasn't supposed to see any action."

She sucked in a breath when she caught his eye. Those damn eyes. His brow had that knit in it and his gaze was the same soft one it had been that night all those years ago. She pointedly did not look at his mouth.

He reached up and tucked his fingers under her chin, turning her head to apply antiseptic to a small cut near her temple and on a few scrapes along her arms. Next was a prototype field ice pack, he gave it a few vigorous shakes and the small pouch froze.

His fingers swept across her cheekbone, just below her black eye. "And who did this, sugar?"

Silence loomed between them and he frowned, anxiety swirling in his gut the longer she didn't say. His other hand crept up to cradle her neck.

"Kenna--"

"An enforcer. One of his enforcers, Jack."

The knit in his brow increased, his lips turning down into a frown. "Do we need to go take care of it?"

Mezcal smiled grimly then, "No. Dumb city kid was too enraptured by the fancy dumb waiter. The new, modern hydraulic dumb waiter."

Whiskey smirked at that and pressed the ice pack to her swollen eye. She told herself it was just her icicle limbs thawing in the warm truck, but a wave of heat rolled through her as his gaze openly drifted down her body.

He picked at the tattered line of a slit in her dress, just above her knee, "Anywhere else we need to address?"

Her mouth was a desert, "Just the usual flesh wounds."

Whiskey hummed and slid the slit over slightly to investigate, the fabric sliding across her legs and opening further up her thigh.

Like a goddamn curtain opening on a reminder of their last op together, the dress revealed the raised, white, puckered scar of a bullet wound. The same wound that nearly bled her dry in Jack's arms.

Mezcal slowly raised her head to meet his eyes and she could see it happening in real time; his eyes became distant and his expression closed off. Her heart clenched -- goodbye Jack, hello Agent Whiskey. He moved his hands to wheel and they set off back to New York City.

Later, as she took a company car to drive back to Kentucky that night, she didn't bother saying goodbye. They were back to strangers.

#writer wednesday #jack daniels #agent whiskey #agent jack daniels #kingsmen #kingsmen the golden circle #statesmen #jack whiskey daniels #jack daniels x ofc #agent whiskey x ofc #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fandom #pedro pascal boys #pedro pascal characters #whiskey smash

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winterhawkkisses · 4 years

Text

955.

(for @flawedamythyst)

In the liminal spaces between freezing and waking, between wishing for death and taking it into himself, between breathing and drowning, he remembers what he is.

The rest of the time he is a monster without a soul. He is hands without a mind, a weapon without a will, a waking nightmare that has gone decades without sleep. They stole who he is away from him, but what he is is sleek between their fingers and in the frozen darkness he can feel them crawling over his skin.

Of everything they took from him, his skin is the strongest tether, the worst and deepest hurt.

Barney’s gonna be so goddamned mad at him, Clint knows it. He didn’t get caught, he didn’t fumble or fall or have an attack of conscience because he’s learning to live with its pricking, but he’s turned too many corners and he’s not entirely sure of his way back. It ain’t gonna take a lot to find his way, most likely - how many circuses are there gonna be in town? - but he’s later than he ought to be and Barney shows his worry with the broad flat of his hand. Clint’s never gonna tell him that just ‘cos he doesn’t curl in his fingers, that doesn’t make him different from their dad.

There’s something a little dizzying about being lost, though. Just this moment of breathless freedom where the whole world is at his fingertips, and his fingertips don’t gotta be in someone’s pocket, easing out their wallet, at least for a little while more. He slows down a little, drags his feet, ignores the grumbling of his stomach, ‘cos it’s more than his life’s worth not to bring back everything he took. He looks up, cranes his neck back and stares at the thin strip of blue between buildings, nearly trips over a guy who’s bent down over a crate.

“The hell are you doing, kid?” he snaps, his voice layered thick with some accent Clint doesn’t know, and Clint skitters back a couple paces. The guy’s attention isn’t on him, though; he’s more concerned about the crate he’s hauled out of a dark gray van. Its lid has come loose, and there’s some kinda blue glow from inside, and it looks like the whole structure of the crate was relying on the lid of it, ‘cos no matter how he tries to lift it it finds a new way to try and spill.

He calls something after a minute or two, something guttural and thick in his mouth. Clint kinda likes the way it sounds. Another guy slides out of the driver’s side door and comes to help, bitching and grumbling in words Clint doesn’t understand. They manage to get the crate a little more stable between them, and they disappear into a building that leads off the alleyway without a look back.

And Clint thinks - Clint thinks that yeah, he’s gonna be late, but maybe he can buy his way out of Barney’s annoyance. Maybe he can buy his way past Duquesne. Maybe there’s something left in the van worth taking, and before he’s even got to the end of thinking it he’s climbing into the back, shoving the door a little more open so he can see the building, make a run for it if anyone comes out.

There are more crates just like the one they’d carried off, all of them with the same weird octopus thing burned into the side. There’s no way he’s carrying one of those, though - no way they wouldn’t notice if he did - so he eels between them and looks for something else he can lift, one eye on the door behind him.

He doesn’t expect to find the skin.

He knows what it is. Of course he knows what it is - his mom had one too, and only his dad knew where it was kept. He’d take it out sometimes to taunt her with, so Clint knows what one looks like when he sees it rolled up like that.

The state of it’s familiar, too. Mom’s had that dull look to it, too, worn out and faded away, too long unworn and untouched. Too long in the possession of someone it shouldn’t be. And maybe that’s a little bit what Clint’s thinking, when he tucks it under his arm and clambers out of the back of the van, ducks his head down and runs for it, as far and as fast as he can. Maybe he’s thinking how no one should have something so precious and not look after it the way it should be.

Maybe it’s a little bit the distant, fragmented memory of his mom when she was happy, and the way her soft skin felt against his fingers. Maybe it’s a little how warm it was. Maybe it’s a little how cold the caravan gets at night.

He tells himself he’ll find the selkie that owns it, someday, and that the moment he does he’ll give it back, but he’s aware that he’s kidding himself. How likely is that?

The moment between not-sleeping and waking has always been painful, half-drowned lungs taking a bare and water-logged breath.

This time it feels different. The promise of light, a hole in the ice after too long entombed. A breath of clear air. A freedom unlike anything he remembers.

The Soldier wakes without their hands on him. And he wakes angry.

#winterhawk #circus!Clint #selkie!Bucky

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tickle-bugs · 4 years

Text

Cow-Face

Warning: Mentions of Death

Summary: Sean won’t stop teasing a very tired Arthur about an escapade at a farm. Arthur decides to take matters into his own hands.

Prompt from @amazingmsme: OMG YES SOMEONE WHO WRITES FOR RDR! Would you be willing to write for Arthur & Sean with “Don’t be an ass” & “You think you’re funny?”? I feel like their friendship would be so adorable & it would be fitting for them

“Oi, Arthur.”

Three hours. Three hours of this agony.

“Yes, Sean?” Arthur answered through perfectly gritted teeth.

“You smell like a horse’s arse.”

The Van der Linde gang had been on the road for two days now, and they still had three more to go until they hit Rhodes. All of them tended to get on each other’s nerves now and again—the road was long and lonely, and running from place to place for years on end had its toll. For example, Arthur hated the way that Bill chewed with his mouth open. Bill, in return, hated that Arthur liked to think plans through. Sean Macguire, however, was his own breed of pest.

“Oi, Cow-face.”

“That’s a new one,” Hosea chuckled, bumping into Arthur’s shoulder from the wagon’s movement.

“You never told the gang about the Murphy farm?” Sean gasped, knowing damn well he was playing with fire.

Yep, Arthur was going to kill him.

“What happened at the Murphy farm?” John asked, all innocence, even though the bastard knew and just wanted to egg Sean on.

“Arthur and I were robbing this stage-coach a few years back. It was glorious. We got a hefty payout but the law caught up to us much faster than we thought they would. We had to make a getaway on foot and Arthur…” Sean trailed off into snickers and Arthur heaved a deep, exasperated sigh.

“Well, I went straight for the forest. I was smart, tried to lose ‘em in the trees. Arthur tried to hide in a nearby barn, hoping the law would miss him. Instead, he got trapped in a cow pen with a very...active lady cow. She definitely wanted a piece o’ Mr. Morgan there.”

“You never did tell me that story,” Hosea said, unable to keep a straight face.

“I wonder why.” Arthur deadpanned. He swiveled in his seat to glare at Sean, who was riding in the back of the wagon.

“You’re on thin goddamn ice, Macguire.”

“Love you too, Arty.”

The illusion of peace lasted for exactly two more hours. Sean had dozed off amongst the hay and various crates of supplies, rocked to sleep by the rumbling of the wagon. John had also succumbed to slumber, with his hat tilted low and his chin tucked into his chest. Arthur and Hosea’s relief was nearly palpable.

“How much farther, Cow-face?”

“It was so peaceful,” Hosea muttered, looking out over the countryside.

“Far enough. Go back to sleep. And quit callin’ me that.” Arthur squinted ahead, trying to find some new detail in Dutch’s wagon in front of them. He found none.

“What, Cow-face?” Arthur could hear Sean’s shit-eating grin without even needing to see it.

“Don’t be an ass, Sean,” Hosea chided, knowing full well that it would have no effect. Sean was far too stubborn and mischievous for that.

“Hosea, mind taking the reins for a bit?”

“Sure. Please go shut him up.”

“Gladly,” Arthur growled. He climbed over the back of the seat and into the wagon. Sean, not expecting a physical response, scrambled back a little.

“You think you’re real funny, don’t ya?” Arthur made a show of cracking his knuckles and his neck, not bothering to hide the smirk on his face.

“You wouldn’t hurt an innocent man, would ya Arty?”

“Relax. I ain’t gonna hurt ya. You’re gonna wish I did though.” The tone of Arthur’s voice made Sean realize his fate.

When they were younger, no longer teens but still too young to have any sense, Sean and Arthur were always fooling around. Stealing each other’s hats, chasing each other for no good reason, bickering, the works. 99% of the time it was Sean instigating the confrontation, just to piss Arthur off. That is, until Arthur jabbed Sean in the side a little too softly one day and realized he could get the upper hand.

“Arthur, I will kill you. I will fuckin’ shoot you—no!”

Arthur pounced, digging his fingers into Sean’s ribs, who screeched and went down flailing. He thrashed like a fish on a line, nearly punching Arthur straight in the nose as the two of them grappled. Sean was all talk and all sensitivity, so eventually Arthur’s attack proved far too much for him to handle and he crumbled.

“What was that? I can’t understand ya with all the noise you’re makin’,” Arthur teased, shoving his hands under Sean’s arms like he used to all those years ago. He flinched at the shriek that flew out of Sean but smiled when his laughter morphed into hysterical, uncontrollable giggles.

“Do we have an outlaw back there or a little girl?” Hosea piped up from the front, unable to resist a few chuckles.

“Hard to tell. I should go investigate,” John snickered, climbing into the back of the wagon with a devious smirk.

“Not you too, Marston! Oh, I’ll kill ya. Both a’ you better sleep with your eyes wide fuckin’ open, you hear mehehe?” Sean’s threats once again devolved into wild laughter as John descended upon him like a vulture.

“Watch his feet, there. This son of a bitch can kick. His stomach’s real bad if you wanna try there,” Arthur said, grinning like a kid on Christmas.

“Will do.”

And with that, four hands descended upon Sean’s very sensitive midriff, creating an interesting symphony of squeals, cursing, and unhinged laughter that echoed through the countryside.

“Stahahahap!”

“Nah. You’ve got so many jokes, I reckon it’s your turn to laugh.” Arthur pressed the spaces between Sean’s ribs, making sure to vibrate his fingers as he went. John wiggled his fingers over Sean’s stomach in a lighter but deadly manner and the contrast in pressure was killing him.

“Marston, you–you traitor! Ahaha, I hate you!” Sean made a few weak attempts to slap John, but every time he raised his arms, Arthur’s fingers scribbled in the exposed spots.

“Oh, you can still talk? Let me fix that,” John drawled, completely unimpressed. His fingers darted underneath Sean’s shirt with dangerous precision and Sean completely fell apart.

His face turned such a bright shade of red that his eyebrows seemed to vanish. His laugh went completely silent and he sunk deeper into Arthur’s lap, the fight having literally been tickled out of him.

Had they been alone and a few years younger, Arthur would’ve held Sean for a little while until the latter regained his strength and pulled something stupid. They had company, however, and no time to be soft, so Arthur simply ruffled Sean’s disheveled hair.

“Don’t call me names, Macguire. This is a long wagon ride with nowhere to run and no Karen to save you,” Arthur said, punctuating his statements with quick pokes. Sean giggled but made no move to escape.

“You’re right, Arty. It is a long ride, and I think I deserve a little revenge,” Sean said, bolting upright as if nothing had happened.

“Now, hold on–“ Arthur held his hands in a gesture of surrender, unable to stop the silly grin on his face.

“Marston, grab his legs. He’s in for it now.”

“Wait–ahahaha! Damn ihihihit!”

Arthur smiled to himself, clutching the bundle of wildflowers in his fist a little tighter. He laid them next to the headstone underneath the magnolia tree, swiping away a tear before it could leave his eye. He looked up into the branches.

“I miss you, kid. Don’t get into too much trouble up there.”

Arthur laid Sean’s hat atop his grave, then trudged back down the hill into town. And if he felt a few phantom tingles on his sides that made him stop and turn? Well, that was nobody’s business.

He always knew that Sean was far too stubborn to die.

#my fics #bug’s greatest hits #rdr2 #ticklish!sean macguire #ticklish!arthur morgan #john marston #hosea #sean macguire #arthur morgan

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stevenroguers · 4 years

Text

we are soldiers

Summary: ‘The last time Steve had lost him, on the train, there had been no goodbye.

It’s only fitting that this time there is a month for farewells and loving kisses and broken words that mean more to them than anyone will ever be able to understand.’

Something is wrong with the serum in Bucky’s body. At least he has Steve.

Warnings: Angst, Smut, Terminal Illness, Main Character Death. This fic ignores the latter part of CACW. Basically, Bucky joins the Avengers after HYDRA is destroyed.

Rating: Explicit.

Word Count: 4.2k (yes, I know, it is very long for a Tumblr fic but I had a lot to write for them.)

A/N: This fic has been written for @youngmoneymilla ‘s 15k challenge and if you’re not following her, you totally should because her writing style is mature, fantastic and so captivating. The background score I used as inspiration is here.

The first time it happens, Bucky is making coffee.

He feels the tremor in his right shoulder, just as he picks up the cup and before he knows it, he’s spilt burning coffee all over his front and the granite countertop.

Burns hurt Bucky more than he’s willing to admit, so when Steve comes in to the kitchen, bleary eyed and adorably rumpled from sleep, it’s to the sight of Bucky dabbing a dry, wet cloth to patches of reddening skin on his chest, wincing in pain.

‘Jesus, Buck, what happened?’ Steve asks, eyes widening as he takes in the overturned coffee cup and Bucky’s shirt lying discarded on the floor.

‘Spilt the damn coffee,’ Bucky mutters through clenched teeth. ‘Hurts like a bitch.’

Steve shakes his head and the fondness Bucky sees there still makes his heart clench with wonder. ‘The way you’re fucking going at it, rubbing like that, it’s going to hurt even more. Put that rag away, I’ll get you some ice.’

He turns towards the refrigerator, the rays of sunlight coming in through the windows arcing off his back like golden dancers and Bucky stares, momentarily distracted from the pain.

Steve is fucking gorgeous.

Bucky realises it in the stolen moments when he knows only he’s looking, really looking at Steve.

The few moments of calm after a battle, when everyone is just taking in the surroundings, the wreckage, the disaster– Bucky looks at Steve. Takes in the line of his jaw, the set of his shoulders, the relief and grief battling in his eyes which go from clear blue to overcast skies in the matter of seconds.

Some mornings, he wakes up before Steve and has the privilege of watching the way his blond hair fans out behind his head, almost like a halo, making him look like the goddamn angel he is. He’s soft in sleep, his eyelashes fluttering, his lips parted and his forehead free of the lines that usually crease them.

And now, as the sun dances over the expanse of Steve’s back, Bucky hungrily drinks his fill, feasting his eyes.

They’re soldiers- every moment is precious.

Steve turns back around and picks up Bucky’s shirt from the floor, wraps up a bunch of ice-cubes in it and walks over to where Bucky’s standing, leaning against the kitchen counter.

His brow furrows up in concentration as he presses the ice to the reddening patches of Bucky’s skin.

‘You don’t hafta be so… diligent, Steve,’ Bucky says, his voice gruff. ‘It’s going to heal in a couple seconds anyway.’

‘Doesn’t mean I like to see you hurt,’ Steve says immediately, looking up at Bucky through his fucking perfectly curled eyelashes. It makes Bucky want to lean down and kiss him stupid, so he does.

Their kisses go from chaste and soft in the mornings to heated and filthy in the showers to longing and desperate when one or both of them are about to go away on a mission.

Now it is gentle, searching, soothing as Steve traces his tongue over Bucky’s bottom lip, making him smile into the soft touch.

It makes him forget the strange feeling that made him drop the coffee all over himself in the first place.

–

Bucky wakes up after a particularly vicious mission where his ribs had been battered and bruised beyond belief, feeling achy and sore.

It isn’t something he’s used to- the serum heals him in a few hours, maybe a day at most.

He’s been hospitalised a couple of times, of course, but that’s only when he’s lost a life-threatening amount of blood or when he’s been hit in the head particularly terribly or something else that makes Steve turn pale and his mouth draw into a thin pinched line. If Bucky dares object at being shoved into an ambulance and rushed to a facility, Steve turns furious eyes on him and picks apart his battle techniques and self-esteem issues.

‘You think you’re fucking dispensable,’ Steve had told him once, almost on the verge of tears. ‘How do I make you understand you’re the most precious thing I have left?’

He stopped objecting after that.

But this mission had been harsh and he’d definitely pulled almost every muscle in his body and sprained a couple joints, but nothing too serious.

Which doesn’t explain the pain he’s feeling everywhere, because it’s been almost twelve hours and if not completely healed, all he’s supposed to feel at this time is a slight twinge here and there.

He gingerly walks to the bathroom and takes off his shirt and has to bring his hand up to stifle the gasp that escapes when he encounters his reflection.

The bruises across his abdomen that are supposed to have healed by now are going from red to an angry purple. There’s red lesions everywhere that haven’t healed and a particularly nasty gash on his right arm which seems to be bleeding slightly.

He brings up his metal arm to touch one of the bruises and winces as his muscles seem to shrink away from the touch. The pain is tolerable- Bucky’s been through much worse but he knows this isn’t how it is supposed to be.

So he turns the warm water on (there are perks to living in a tower made by Stark- there’s warm water all the time, anytime) and draws himself a bath, sinking down and hoping the issue resolves itself after a good night’s sleep.

It does- he wakes up the next day to a body that feels and looks untouched by war and detriment but something about the experience leaves an uneasy feeling curling in his gut.

–

Steve notices something is wrong when they’re fucking on the couch.

He’s riding Steve, and it feels like fucking heaven because Steve knows exactly where to touch him to make him see stars but with one particular thrust Bucky arches too far back and cries out from the pain that shoots across his spine.

Steve is on alert in a second, reaching out to grip Bucky’s shoulders in firm hands, pulling him down to meet concerned blue eyes.

‘What’s wrong?’ Steve asks, worry dripping from his tone. ‘Did I hurt you?’

The slight incredulity in his voice stings and Bucky scowls (which is laughable because Steve’s dick is still in him) and says, ‘I don’t know why I bother fucking you, if you’re going to be such a fucking pussy each time I make a sound.’

He cringes the second the words leave his lips and Steve’s eyebrows shoot up. His dick is going soft inside Bucky. The discomfort and embarrassment make Bucky pull off and fall onto the couch beside Steve where he curls in on himself, facing away.

A hand rests on his shoulder and he leans into the touch, even as Steve remains silent, waiting for him to explain. Steve knows by now that sometimes, Bucky says things that he doesn’t really mean when he can’t get across what he wants to say. It all comes out anyway, because Bucky is Bucky and Steve is Steve.

‘The rogue SHIELD branch in Ukraine,’ Bucky murmurs after a while. ‘One of the fuckers got me in the lower back.’

‘But–’

‘I know,’ Bucky sighs. ‘I still haven’t healed.’

He feels the tug on his shoulder and turns around to face Steve with a resigned huff. The concern on his face is overwhelming.

‘It’s been a week, Buck,’ Steve says, worry shrouding his irises. ‘How are you still feeling it?’

‘I don’t know,’ Bucky responds, not quite meeting Steve’s eyes.

‘Bullshit,’ Steve says immediately, tone flat. ‘What aren’t you telling me?’

Bucky sighs and shakes his head. ‘It’s nothing, really. Nothing to worry about anyway. Just that, these days… the healing, it’s not working as well as it used to.’

‘What?’

‘Couple of missions, really,’ Bucky hastens to explain, almost frightened by the shock in Steve’s voice. ‘The ones over the last couple of months.’

‘Last couple of months? Buck, what the fuck?!’

‘Steve–’

‘You don’t fucking talk to me! You’ve not been healing for a couple of months and you didn’t fucking tell me!’

‘Steve–’

‘No!’ Steve’s eyes are blazing and he’s pointing a finger at Bucky. ‘No, you don’t get to fucking Steve me right now. We’re going to Bruce tomorrow morning and you don’t get to argue.’

Bucky would very much like to argue. But one look at Steve’s shaking finger and the fear in his eyes makes him shut up. He nods in acquiescence and Steve pulls him into a hug that’s even tighter than the ones he usually delivers.

‘I love you,’ he murmurs into Bucky’s hair and presses a kiss to his temple. ‘I love you so much, fuck.’

‘Fuckin’ sap,’ Bucky mumbles into Steve’s chest and that’s that.

–

Bucky pleads with Steve to let him go to Bruce alone and finally, after an hour of arguing, Steve says fine with a scowl and stalks out. Then he comes back, scowl still in place, kisses Bucky hard and brutal on the mouth, nipping at his lips and pulling on his tongue.

When he pulls away, he still looks upset but his voice is soft when he says, ‘I want you to tell me exactly how it goes.’

Bucky pulls him into a gentler kiss in response.

Bruce looks alarmed when he hears what Bucky has to say.

‘You’re telling me,’ Bruce says, looking at Bucky over his spectacles, ‘that the main property of the super-soldier serum is not… working for you?’

‘It isn’t the main property, strength is,’ Bucky says. ‘Isn’t it?’ he adds dubiously.

Bruce shakes his head. ‘Strength is a result of that property. The reason you have that much strength is because the serum heals you against weakness, if that makes sense.’

Bucky shrugs. ‘Well then, yeah. It’s not working.’

‘I need to do a blood test. Send it to the lab and get some results,’ Bruce says, looking more worried than Bucky thinks he should.

‘What could be wrong?’ Bucky asks him.

‘Any number of things. You didn’t get Erskine’s serum like Steve did. You got whatever mutation Zola managed to come up with. There’s no documentation of what actually went into your body all those years ago. I don’t know what could be wrong and that’s what’s worrying me.’

Bucky feels the first shred of fear curl around his chest.

Bruce’s eyes are kind when he says, ‘Look, Barnes, I didn’t want to sugarcoat it for you. Figured you’d appreciate no one lying to you. But don’t worry about it till the blood comes back with a bunch of papers telling me what’s wrong with you.’

Bucky nods.

‘And Barnes?’ Bruce says, tone a little sharp. Bucky looks at him in askance.

‘Don’t lie to Steve.’

Bucky shudders.

–

He tells Steve who buries his head in his hands and stays silent and unmoving for long minutes. Bucky doesn’t know what to tell him so instead he crawls up to Steve and runs his metal fingers through Steve’s hair. It usually relaxes him but this time Steve reaches up to take Bucky’s hand in his and though Bucky can’t really feel anything, the sensors Stark put in this arm lets him know just how hard Steve is gripping it.

‘You’ll be okay,’ Steve murmurs, focusing on Bucky’s chest instead of his face. ‘You’ll be okay.’

Bucky doesn’t know if Steve is trying to convince Bucky or himself.

–

As it turns out, Bucky isn’t okay. Bruce comes into their rooms with a sheaf of papers and a grave expression, telling them both to sit down and Bucky immediately knows something is terribly wrong.

He hopes for Steve’s sake that it’s bearable.

Bruce hesitates before he begins and Steve’s grip tightens on Bucky’s waist.

‘You’re dying,’ Bruce says and as soon as the words leave his mouth, he looks horrified. Steve jerks in shock and Bucky still hasn’t really processed what the words mean so he looks at Steve for cues on how to react but Steve just looks… there isn’t really a word.

‘I’m sorry,’ Bruce says, taking his glasses off and wiping them against his untucked shirt. His hair is a mess and there are shadows under his eyes. ’I never practiced, I don’t have a good bedside manner so I don’t have a clue how to do this but… it’s true. Barnes is dying.’

Steve screams.

It’s so uncharacteristic that both Bucky and Bruce startle. In one swift move, Steve pulls Bucky to him and screams into his shoulder and all Bucky can do is bring his hands up to Steve’s hair, brush through the golden strands and try to process what dying even means.

When Steve finally stops, his voice is hoarse as he asks Bruce why and how and what.

The serum Zola put in him is losing potency at an alarming rate, Bruce explains, his voice detached and clinical. His systems are now dependent on it and so they’re going to shut down in due course because there will be nothing to sustain them as putting anything new into Bucky’s body is basically asking for either a painful death or genetic mutation. There’s no way around it simply because of that, Bruce says, hands clenching and unclenching. They don’t know what’s in Bucky’s body. It’s been tested and though isolated elements have been found and explained, the risk is too much.

‘We’ll keep testing,’ Bruce says, as though it will make Steve’s blank, lost expression disappear. ‘We won’t give up.’

Bucky knows they don’t stand a chance.

–

They make love that night, on the bed in their room.

Bucky’s on his back, his nails digging into Steve’s back as Steve gently fingers him open with first one finger, then two, brushing occasionally against his prostate. Bucky cries out, letting all his inhibitions go, pushing into Steve’s thrusts with eager wantonness. He’s always been vocal but today he’s being loud and filthy as he screams Steve’s name into the air surrounding them, heavy with the impending conversations and pain.

‘Fuck, fuck, Stevie, more,’ he cries out as he turns his neck to the side, gasping into the cool sheets underneath. ‘Give me more, please.’

Steve’s barely said anything since they received the news, looking far off into the distance but holding Bucky close with an iron grip. Bucky read and watched one of their favourite films on TV but nothing helped– Steve looked just as blank as he had when Bruce had left. It’s only when Bucky had gently kissed him on the neck, hoping desperately for some reaction that some life had reentered Steve, his eyes brimming with tears as he pulled Bucky into fierce kisses, pushing him down on the bed, holding him there and kissing every inch of him, sucking hickeys down his body, worshipping him.

That’s how they’ve ended up here with Bucky gasping and arching on the bed with want and Steve going agonisingly slow, nothing like the fast, brutal pace he sets in the bedroom. It’s driving him insane.

Steve works in three fingers and Bucky howls with the feeling of them sliding in and out of him, the lube slicking their way. Steve relentlessly targets his prostate, hitting it with every thrust and Bucky has had enough so he finally says, ‘Swear to god, Rogers, if you don’t put your cock in me now–’

Steve jerks his fingers out, leaving Bucky whining and empty from the lack of contact. In seconds, the blunt head of his cock is nudging at Bucky’s hole, gently slipping in, filling him up, piecing him back together.

‘I love you,’ Steve says and his tears fall on Bucky’s face as he moves up Bucky’s body, pressing open mouthed kisses to the corner of his lips, to the shell of his ear. ‘I love you, Buck.’

He’s barely thrusting now, just shifting and moving deep inside Bucky’s body. One of his hands curls around Bucky’s cock and the other moves to Bucky’s metal arm. Bucky runs his own hands all over Steve, touching him, feeling him, committing him to memory (as though he hasn’t already).

‘I love you, too,’ Bucky says, looking up at Steve and for the first time since he’s been informed that he’s going to die in a matter of months, the tears rise in his eyes. ‘Stevie. My Steve.’

And this time, Steve’s crying as he buries his head against Bucky’s shoulder and speeds up his thrusts, making Bucky in turn cry out at the feeling.

He’s nearing orgasm, he can feel it being pulled from him with every stroke of Steve’s hand against his cock and he begins clenching his rim around Steve and the pleasure of it is so unbearable for both of them that they hurtle over the edge almost simultaneously.

When the high wears off, Steve moves away from Bucky’s shoulder and looks into his eyes. There’s a desperation there Bucky hasn’t seen since the last time he slipped into the Winter Soldier’s headspace which had been almost eight months ago.

‘I can’t follow you there like I did in the War,’ Steve says and his voice is so small that Bucky’s heart breaks. The truth of where ‘there’ is hangs like an unspoken weapon between them. ’I can’t follow you there, Buck, so where will I go?’

And because Bucky has no answer, he pulls Steve close and lets him cry against his chest.

–

Bucky gets worse as the days pass. His strength is disappearing so fast that he wakes up each morning feeling like he’s aged ten years. His ninety years are catching up to him now and when he says as much to Steve, Steve gets a hard, cold look in his eyes and tells Bucky to stop joking about something like that.

It’s weird because usually sickness has medicine but Bruce is against putting any foreign substance into his body and that leaves Bucky with an incurable illness and no medicine. When Natalia comes to visit, he tells her and she pulls his head into her lap and they sit in silence for three hours.

Bucky’s accepted it, he thinks.

He knows what’s coming- he knows the end is near and there isn’t anything he can do about it.

‘Your life is not your own,’ Steve had once said when he’d found Bucky standing on the edge of the rooftop, looking down at the lights and busy roads of Manhattan. ‘Keep your hands off it.’

The dead do not know what comes after, but at least they find out.

The living must deal with never knowing.

For those who live, the concept of Heaven and Hell is a comfort. It is a blanket of warmth in a world of cold, hard truths. For those who are about to die, those concepts feel like a tightening noose.

Bucky hopes the afterlife is a void, that is to say he hopes there is no afterlife.

He cannot live somewhere else, knowing that Steve is apart from him, mourning him.

Or worse, forgetting him.

And the possibility of himself forgetting Steve is far too painful to contemplate when those baby blue eyes haunt his dreams, nightmares and waking moments and so Bucky hopes for the void during the sleepless nights where Steve’s breathing beside him is shallow and disturbed from nightmares.

This he tells Stark, who looks at him like he understands and there’s a silent agreement between them that Steve will never know about these thoughts, these conversations.

They make love every night and though Bucky sometimes wants it hard and fast and brutal, the achingly slow pace Steve maintains these days is comfortable.

It gives him more time to appreciate Steve in the throes of passion– that moment before he comes when his eyes fall shut and his lips are swollen and bitten, the moment he first slips into Bucky, the moment when Bucky slips into him.

They are soldiers, every moment is precious.

–

The day Bucky knows he is going to die the minute he wakes up, he coughs blood onto the white sheets, staining them a coppery red.

Steve says nothing, just lifts Bucky up and changes the sheets. He’s stopped going on missions for the past month, opting to stay in the tower.

Sometimes Sam comes over and it had been a weird moment when he’d gone all misty-eyed as he’d insulted Bucky for being on his death-bed. He knows that’s Falcon’s emotionally stunted way of saying he’ll be missed but it had been… strange and Bucky hadn’t known what to do with it or the mist fogging up his own eyes.

The last time Steve had lost him, on the train, there had been no goodbye.

It’s only fitting that this time there is a month for farewells and loving kisses and broken words that mean more to them than anyone will ever be able to understand.

Natalia says goodbye and though she tries to keep it short, unemotional, almost clinical, the long silences she spends in his company speak otherwise.

Stark comes in late in the evenings, sends Steve out to socialise with the others in the tower for a couple of hours much to his chagrin(‘being cooped up here with one person for a month will end up in you becoming some sort of cryptid and we need you, Cap’) and they sit and talk about science and war and sometimes death. It’s both easy and hard around Stark but Stark has accepted that Bucky will die with a sort of stoic cynicism and after Steve’s inability to accept it at all, there’s comfort in Tony’s dark humour.

Bruce comes in one day, sits on the floor and shatters a bunch of glasses against the wall because Bucky is too far gone for any research progress to help him now. Bucky tries his best to comfort Bruce but he doesn’t know what to say that won’t make him sound suicidal so he says nothing.

Wanda once came in awkwardly with a bunch of baked cookies and cried on his shoulder for an hour before telling him that if he ever wanted it, she could come and put him to sleep and ensure he enjoyed some good dreams.

And he’s glad he’s gotten all the goodbyes out of the way as Steve wipes the blood from his chin because he knows, somehow that today is the day he finally finds out what comes after.

He thinks he should tell Steve but when he pats the spot beside him on the bed, Steve sits and the look in his eyes tells Bucky that he knows too.

So Bucky closes his eyes and asks Steve to read to him and Steve does, in his soft, lilting voice the last few chapters of the Great Gatsby. The fact that Steve picks this book makes him smile, and he forgoes the pillow in favour of Steve’s lap and falls back asleep, surprisingly content with the reality of his death.

When he wakes up again, he can barely breathe.

He looks around him and they’re there– Stark and Bruce and Wanda and Natalia, even Sam and Vision. They aren’t surrounding the bed but they’re milling about, in the bedroom, in the living room that he can see from the bedroom and probably in the kitchen because he can hear someone using the sink there.

‘Steve,’ he rasps and beside him, there’s movement and Steve is gripping his hand so tightly that Bucky thinks that strength alone is enough to breathe back life into him.

‘Water,’ he manages and there’s a straw in his mouth that lets him sip in water little by little.

‘They’re here for you,’ Steve whispers and Bucky smiles.

‘No, they’re not. They’ve been here for me for the whole time I was dying. Now that I will, they’re here for you.’ He’s breathless and by the time he’s done speaking, he’s panting hard.

Steve has cried himself dry and Bucky isn’t surprised by the lack of tears in his eyes now. They’re red and swollen but dry as they fix on Bucky.

‘I’ll miss you,’ Bucky says, suddenly, looking at Steve, who clenches his eyes shut. ‘So much.’

‘Wait for me, then,’ Steve says and his eyes are wide, entreating pools of blue that reminds Bucky of the sunshine he hasn’t seen in days. ‘Wherever you are, wait for me.’

He takes him in, the slight stubble Steve hasn’t shaved off in a couple of days, the tense set of his broad shoulders, the warmth of his hands. He can feel his life slipping away and he knows Steve can too because the pain intensifies on his face.

He knows he has just moments left and he can feel his eyes closing but he struggles to keep them open as long as he can, spending those last seconds staring at Steve, falling in love again and again and again.

They are soldiers.

Every moment is precious.

When his eyes finally close, the world turns white.

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imastrangeone98 · 4 years

Text

Warm

(A/N: Behold, the second of the 4 pt smutty mini "series" I'm doing to celebrate 90 followers!! Woohoo!)

Part 1: Sloppy (Devil May Cry: Dante)

Ah yes. The wonderful "we need to share a bed to keep warm from the blizzard!" trope. Except... what if the bed was actually the floor of some random cave?? Haha jk..... unless??

I won't lie... this made me feel things 😏

WARNING: No actual ding-a-ling in the fairy cave- everything's clothed- and even that might be slightly (very) unrealistic. We all know it's hotter when the armor stays on during sex XD well, most of it. dirty talk. Some mild angst and a good amount of fluff. Be careful~

Also, I imagine this when Din and Kyla are younger, but post-azloc iii where they leave the team behind

Mygeeto was absolutely freezing.

Kyla could barely feel her toes and fingers, even with the thick gloves and boots she had purchased from the kind Lurmen merchant. And she didn't even want to get started on her pants- they were hilariously thin, and the wind cut right through the fabric. Why did she even pick these in the first place?

Mando, who marched some feet ahead of her, continued to punch through the snow, helmet trained on the tracking fob in his hands.

At some point, he began to curse.

"What happened?" she asked.

"Bounty slipped. And there's gonna be a storm."

As if on cue, thunder clapped in the distance. The wind picked up, hurling snow and chunks of ice into their faces. The chill alone was enough to make her feel like she was sliced in half.

"Kriff." Quickly scanning the perimeter, she pointed out a small cave nearby. "You think that'll do for a shelter?!" she hollered over the howling wind.

They approached it. It was facing away from the wind, and there wasn't a lot of snow. But it was shallow, and easily exposed to the cold.

"It'll have to do!" He turned to her. "I'm going to get some branches for shelter! You need to find firewood or we'll freeze to death!"

She gave him a thumbs up and hurriedly waddled into the tree line, stuffing moss and various twigs into her pockets while keeping an eye out for any potential dry wood.

By the time she managed to find a dead tree that suited their needs, Mando had found her and helped with chopping off logs and dragging it back to camp.

He began arranging branches to block out the wind and ventilate the cave, while Kyla coaxed a flame from the damp wood she collected. Finally, the familiar warmth of the fire began to permeate through the chill.

They both leaned against the cool stone wall, watching the orange-red flames dance in the air.

But even with the heavy layer of branches trapping the heat in, Kyla could still feel the freezing wind outside. She wrapped her coat tighter around her body, cursing her clothing choice.

Mando noticed. "Are you still cold?"

She turned to look at him. With his heavy durasteel armor and cape, he didn't appear to be shivering. Maybe he was.

She was curious to know what he hid beneath his flashy exterior.

She nodded. "But... at least my teeth stopped chattering. That's something, right?"

He tilted his head. "Your lips are still blue."

...Okay, then. "I- I didn't know that."

"It's more obvious now." With a small sense of elegance, Din tugged off his cape, patting the ground beside him. "Sit here."

Something about his tone just made her shiver in anticipation. What it was, she couldn't put her finger on it.

But she didn't refuse his gracious offer, out of fear that he'd just as quickly retract it.

She scooted over to sit beside him, and he draped his cape over her, adjusting it like a blanket before turning away to stoke the fire.

After checking to see whether he was paying attention she hoped he wasn't, she brought the worn cloth to her nose. It smelled like smoke and... something spicy. Something male.

"Kyla."

She was jolted from her thoughts. "Yes?"

"Are you still cold?" he repeated his question from earlier.

She bit her lip. These goddamn pants. "...Yes."

"...I see."

And before she realized it, his hand tugged her shoulder and she was flung onto his lap. His strong arms wrapped themselves firmly around her waist.

When had he taken off his gloves?

"Better?" His voice had a slight purr to it.

Oh. So he wanted to play that game? Alright, then.

"Uncomfortable," she teased, with a tiny grind on his armored thigh.

He was silent after that. Very silent. It was to the point where it began to grow uncomfortable.

...Had she gone over the line? They were friends now, so she thought it would be okay to make such jokes. Was she too insensitive for not asking him beforehand? She'd never forgive herself if she made him feel defensive-

She was suddenly nudged off his lap, only for his hands to fly at the clasps of his thigh guards and toss them aside. He reached for her again, adjusting her so she sat facing him.

"How about now?" His chest rumbled. She could feel one of his fingers trace patterns on her skin, having slipped just under her shirt.

Her mouth felt dry. Her hands were clammy.

Was this real? Was this really real?

"...It's good," she whispered. Her voice sounded hoarse, even to her.

But he didn't seem to mind. In fact, by the small gasp he let out, he seemed to enjoy it.

It was especially apparent with the growing hardness that pressed right against her crotch.

"You look good like this," he murmured with thought, tracing a finger down her cheek. "On top of me like this."

Tentatively, he rolled his hips. A gasp forced itself out of her mouth- he had brushed right against her entrance.

She quickly covered her face with her hands. Embarrassment burned her cheeks- or maybe it was the fire.

"Stop that." Warm hands slid over her wrists and tugged them apart, exposing her bright red face. "Don't hide yourself from me, mesh'la."

"What-?"

A firm roll of his hips stopped her right in her tracks. The softest moan emerged from his vocoder- it sent a tremor between her legs.

"Do you want me, cyar'ika?" he whispered, leaning forward so the front of his helmet brushed against her forehead. "I know I want you."

Maker. Kyla wondered if it was possible to get drunk on sound alone.

"Yes."

She grinded herself on his muscled thigh, savoring the delicious pressure on her clit. His hands slid up her arms, briefly fondling her breasts, before stopping at her sides. His thumbs rubbed warm circles over her hipbones, and she found herself rocking her hips to its rhythm.

"Just like that, cyar'ika," Din moaned. "My sweet girl. So good to me."

Her core tightened around nothing. Her breathing was ridiculously heavy.

She wanted him. She wanted him inside her.

"Din..." she whimpered, pressing herself close to his chest. "Please..."

He hummed- a low, rumbling growl. "I know. I want you too." As if to prove a point, he thrusted upwards onto her clothed cunt, causing a moan to rip out of her throat. "...But not yet. I... I'm not... clean."

She froze. The unspoken name floated in the air between them.

Xi'an.

"...Oh." Kyla swallowed her disappointment. But she understood.

She really did.

"But one day," he finally said, tilting her head towards him with a rough finger. "One day, you will be mine. And I will be yours. Then, and for the rest of our days."

His words flowed over her, warming her to the bone. "Din..."

"I swear it." His hips bucked against hers, and they both gasped, gripping tightly onto each other. As if they would drown if they let go. "On my honor. On my Creed. I'll make you mine."

"And I'll make you mine," she returned, moving with him as they both climbed towards an inescapable high.

A warm hand cradled the back of her neck as she came. Through the thick fog of pleasure, she heard him let out a loud groan, and felt him as he palmed himself.

Her breath slowly came back to her- the pressure in her core now fully relieved. She felt the cool metal of his helmet press into her forehead once more.

"Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum," he whispered, gently running a hand through her hair.

Kyla slowly blinked the spots out of her eyes. "Mando'a, right? What does it mean?"

Din let out an exhausted chuckle. "Maybe I'll tell you later. Sleep." He nestled her head against the crook of his neck. The soft material of his shirt felt nice against her sensitive skin, and the fire was warm on her back.

Just before she fell asleep, she thought she felt lips press against her temple.

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

A/N: wow I'm actually proud of this one too ^^ this and my previous edition of the series are some good accomplishments of mine

This felt very intimate, which I like

#the mandalorian #din djarin #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x oc #din djarin x reader #din djarin x oc

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anotherdayinchuckletown · 4 years

Text

They’re Funny That Way, Chapter 2

A/N: Hey, guys! I’m pretty happy with the feedback I received on Chapter 1, and I’m so so thankful to everyone who took the time to read it (especially those of you who offered me kind and encouraging words, ily!) So, the story continues!

I’ve found over the years that dialogue is my biggest strength, and scenes with little to no dialogue stretch and challenge me a bit. So this chapter was a touch longer in development than the last. But I hope to get a consistent update schedule going pretty soon here because I have a very fleshed-out plan for this fic.

That said, I hope you enjoy! Please like, reblog, and comment if you do!

(cross-posted to my AO3 https://archiveofourown.org/users/marie_deneuve)

______________________________________________________

Arthur Fleck has seen an angel. There is no other way to describe it.

Things are especially tedious since he returned from his latest stint at the psychiatric ward. The same things, day in and day out, until each day begins to blur together like a watercolor painting. No clear lines separating one grueling day from the next, every shape hazy and undefined beyond the smoke of his cigarettes. He himself disappears into the smog and goes about his life unseen. Unknown. Not to mention, he's now on thin ice at work – Hoyt, his boss, made that much clear to him right off the bat. "You've missed a lot of days, Arthur," he had said the morning he came in to pick up his belongings. "Just try not to be a pain in the ass. No fucking up, you got that?" Arthur can't remember how he responded, if he responded. Only that the voice in his head (it's his mother's voice that time) told him to Smile. At least you got your job back. It's so much easier to smile when he's Carnival, and not just because the expression is painted on for him. He loves his job, honestly, he does. Every once in a while, when he's working gigs at birthday parties or at the children's hospital, when he's able to make the kids laugh, it seems worth it. For just a minute, it seems as though he's good for something after all. As though maybe when his mother used to tell him his purpose was to spread joy and laughter in the world, she was right. And maybe he could actually do it. Then he takes off the wig, the brightly-colored clothes, the greasepaint...and the illusion is broken. Sometimes it's easy to forget the husk of a man that lies underneath the makeup. Arthur Fleck. Who is Arthur Fleck? Hard to say. Carnival is easier. And so Carnival stays that evening as he walks home. Also because he's just so fucking exhausted. Not changing out of his clown costume at work means a little less dealing with his coworkers and a little more getting home to sequester himself from the rest of the world for the remainder of the evening. The woman on the elevator is not part of the plan. She holds the door open for him and retreats silently into a corner. The air between them is still as death as they ascend, her eyes burning holes in the back of his coat all the while. Arthur initially avoids looking back at her, afraid that if he does, she'll vanish into thin air. He's becoming too used to his lonely, damaged psyche playing such tricks on him. She never even pushes any of the buttons for a specific floor – if she's a hallucination, she's not even a convincing one. The trip is not smooth by any means – surprise, surprise – and the woman seems more than a little perturbed. "Does...that happen often?" Her voice, gentle and feathery, suddenly drifts over him, covering him like a weighted blanket. He turns to face her fully, intending to respond, but pauses when he feels his heart stop. She is undoubtedly the most beautiful creature he has ever laid eyes on. She instantly evokes images of those actresses in the black and white films of his youth. The same powerful air of sophistication as Grace Kelly. The same allure as Rita Hayworth. Only she's in vivid color, and they're not separated by a screen, and she's so close. Even in the elevator's dingy lighting, her blonde curls glow like a halo. Her full lips are pulled into a concerned frown, and her icy blue eyes are trained quizzically on him. Right, that's because she asked him a question. And he's so far done nothing but stare at her like a depraved creep. Carnival, his work persona, doesn't generally speak - and thank fuck for that. Arthur doesn't think he could power out a single word if he wanted to, his mouth has gone so dry. In the end, all he manages is a shrug. Idiot. She must not think he's a total loser because she keeps talking to him anyway, even pays him a compliment – a compliment! When's the last time that happened? He's definitely glad he kept the clown costume on now; interacting with her this way is safer, gives him less of a chance to screw it up. Less of a chance for her to see how pathetic he really is underneath it all. All good things must come to an end, however, and they do eventually reach the eighth floor. And when they do, she surprises him yet again. "I'm new to the building, by the way – my name's Emma. It's a pleasure." Emma. Emma. Emma. She extends a perfectly-manicured hand, and for a moment, Arthur just stares. This is most likely when he finds out that this woman, this magnificent vision in his hallway, this Emma, is nothing more than a fantastic dream. And if she is, in fact, a dream, he's not so sure he's ready to wake up. Nevertheless, he gingerly returns the gesture. Their hands connect. Soft and tentative, but tangible. Warm. Light. So light that Arthur feels as though he's floating, hovering just above the tiled floor, and he could continue to float forever, as long as he just holds on. To his disappointment, she is the one to let go. Arthur crashes back down to the floor, a chill running through him at the sudden loss of contact, simple though it was. She bids him good night and takes off down the hall, the click of her heels in perfect sync with the thrumming of his heart against his ribcage. Emma. Emma. Emma. He gets the feeling he won't forget that name for as long as he lives. Arthur Fleck has seen an angel. And she is so, so beautiful. _____________________________________ "Hey, you look like shit." "Thanks, motherfucker." On her way to the kitchen, Emma totters past the open bathroom door, where Eddie is busy shaving his face. Apparently not too busy to comment on her fresh-out-of-bed appearance, though. She will admit, she's not surprised if she doesn't look her best at the moment. Almost a week of sleeping on a rapidly-deflating air mattress on Eddie's living room floor has not done her back any favors. The bags forming under her eyes make her look like she hasn't slept since the seventies, and her hair has become stringy and unkempt since the last time it was washed. To top it off, she still has none of her clothes or other belongings. So she's currently sporting an oversized Creedence Clearwater Revival t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, both borrowed from Eddie. They hang off of her smaller frame, giving her the appearance of a sickly child who will be hard-pressed to survive the coming winter. "You making breakfast?" her brother asks, poking his head into the foyer. A glob of shaving cream drips onto the tile below him, and Emma grimaces. She returns her focus to her previous mission of rifling through the freezer, pushing past an assortment of cheap vodka and TV dinners until she finds his deposit of frozen waffles. "Eggos!" she calls out. "Cool! Pop an extra one in the toaster for me, yeah?" Emma complies, setting an extra plate out for him as well. As the toaster whirs quietly atop the kitchen counter, she begins her morning ritual of planting herself on the sofa and burying her face in the job listings section of the local newspaper. The job hunt so far has yielded results that are...less than stellar. So many applications, so many interviews, and so far...nothing. "We'll call you if something else opens up" here and "we'll keep you on file" there. Even a "your educational background is good, but we're looking for a little more experience". It's starting to take a toll on her self-esteem. The only real offer she's gotten is from a dive bar across town called The Harlequin. She's familiar with the bartending world – it's how she put herself through college. And she likes to think she's damn good at it, too – hell, she had mastered the Bloody Mary with only a couple weeks' practice! Run-of-the-mill margaritas and martinis? Piece of cake. Not to mention, studying psychology at the same time has granted her an uncanny ability to manipulate a conversation, bend it to her will. Sniff out how to get the biggest possible tips from each kind of patron. Yes, she's a master, all right. But she's really hoping to move on to something with a more...prestigious title. "Any new prospects today?" Eddie emerges from the bathroom just as the toaster lets out a soft 'ding!' He quickly joins Emma on the sofa, a plate of waffles in either hand and bottle of syrup under his arm, completely bypassing the dining room table as per usual. She hasn't seen him eat a single meal at that table yet, instead opting to bring his food into the living room and spill his goddamn crumbs all over the furniture. "Nothing yet, besides The Harlequin thing," Emma grumbles, taking the fork he offers and muttering a quick "thank you" as he sets a plate down on the coffee table for her. "I'm tempted to accept it, just so I can end the madness." "Didn't Sophie recommend you at the bank?" Eddie goes to town with the syrup, drowning his breakfast until the golden-brown liquid threatens to spill off of his plate and onto the coffee table. "She tried. Nothing was open." Emma puts down the newspaper for the time being, feeling the beginnings of a migraine creeping along her scalp. She instead grabs the remote and flips on the TV across the living room, the background noise helping her to relax her mind. Eddie shovels in a forkful of his syrupy concoction. "Sorry we couldn't get you on at the record store. We had a spot last week, but Ron's back from rehab now..." he says with his mouth full. "That reminds me, you still thinking about medical school?" That gives her pause. Honestly, she hasn't thought about medical school in quite a while. More pressing matters to attend to. Besides, it's been years since she last studied. Who's to say that she could pick up where she left off now, even if she were to apply? In the end, after a moment's hesitation, she shrugs. "Maybe. I'm a little rusty, you know?" She takes a meager bite of her own breakfast, chewing carefully. "Aw, come on, that's a cop-out!" Eddie abruptly stands and rushes to the kitchen, leaving his plate behind. As he begins to rummage through the fridge, he continues. "You gotta at least try! You're smart and talented, you work your ass off – where the fuck? – oh, there it is..." He returns with a can of whipped cream and unleashes about half of it onto his plate, and the other half directly into his mouth. "Plus!" He grins. "You look like me, so you know you've got it goin' on." The fraternal twins did bear a striking resemblance to one another as children, but age has individualized them greatly. Where Emma remains on the shorter side, Eddie is now a solid six feet tall. Eddie has also experienced a little more horizontal growth; although Emma suspects his rampant drinking (more so than his atrocious diet) is the cause. "I'm not sure what looks have to do with anything..." Emma scans her brother's plate for the waffle. She can't see it - it's forever lost to the sugary onslaught. Maybe it is his diet after all. "Looks have to do with everything, Em. Not fair, but true." His eyebrows furrow, and he scrutinizes her face. "Speaking of which, you really do look terrible." "You mentioned." "No, like...have you been sleeping at all?" His eyes narrow with concern, meeting her own sunken ones. "I know that air mattress is a piece of shit - you can get yourself something nicer if you want." Emma sometimes forgets how observant Eddie can be when he focuses. She really hasn't been able to sleep a wink since she arrived in Gotham several days ago. He's right, the air mattress is an awkward and lumpy piece of shit, but that's not the real reason sleep evades her. The walls of the tiny apartment seem to cry in anguish at night. Sirens blare outside the window near constantly; they're sometimes accompanied by flashing red and blue lights, the colors piercing through the curtains and waltzing unsettlingly across the floor. People wander the streets until the wee hours, shouting at each other, their combined voices drifting toward the sky in an unpleasant cacophony. Emma can easily understand why folks here on the East Side are so exhausted. The only person who sleeps less than she does is the man who lives next door. She's never seen him, but she's definitely heard him. At least once every night, when she least expects it, he bursts into sudden uproarious laughter. Normally, Emma would march right over and ask the man what could possibly be so fucking funny at three in the morning (only a bit more tactfully, she's not an animal), but she never brings herself to do it. Truthfully, she's scared to. Something is not right about that laugh. It's discordant and jarring, as if clawing its way into the apartment like a demon prying frantically through the drywall. It lacks joy, and in fact, actually sounds pretty damn miserable. A part of her wonders if the man is all right. Regardless, a better mattress couldn't hurt. "Yeah, I might do that," she says. "I probably should prioritize getting some clothes of my own first." Satisfied, Eddie returns to demolishing his waffle creation. "Get whatever you want, as long as you can make the space for it. Want you to be comfortable while you're here, however long that is." He chuckles. "With your money, I'm sure you can spoil yourself much better than I can." Emma snorts, gesturing wildly at herself and at her surroundings. "Money? What money?" "You kidding?" He looks genuinely surprised for a moment. "Your ex is a millionaire! You mean to tell me you haven't hopped on that alimony pony?" "Oh, don't be ridiculous, I don't give a shit about Daniel's money." Emma rolls her eyes. "Not to mention, we only separated a week ago. We have to set a court date, fill out the paperwork-" "Yeah, yeah," Eddie drawls, waving her off. "When that check comes, you remember who took your ass in, no questions asked. Got it?" It's nice to know his sense of humor hasn't changed. Emma nods once. "You got it." They eat in peaceful silence for a while, the distant voice of the news anchor on TV the only sound in the room. Something that doesn't happen often for the siblings. After a few minutes, Eddie speaks up again. "Hey, Em?" "Yeah?" "...Glad you're back. Missed you." "Hm." A faint smile plays along her lips. "Missed you too."

#joaquin phoenix joker #Joker (2019)#joker 2019 #joker film #arthur fleck #Harley Quinn #my fic #they're funny that way

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izaswritings · 4 years

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Title: Faults of the Mind

Synopsis: Having escaped the perils of the Dark Kingdom, Rapunzel finally returns home—but all is not well in the Kingdom of Corona, and the black rocks are quickly becoming the least of her troubles. Meanwhile, over a thousand miles away, Varian struggles with new powers and his own conscience.

The labyrinth has fallen into rubble. A great evil stirs in the world beyond. The Dark Kingdom may be behind them, but the true journey is just beginning—and neither Rapunzel nor Varian can survive it on their own.

Warnings for: blood, violence, and death (NOT any of main characters), injury, some cursing, references to past character injuries, PTSD symptoms and the lingering effects of trauma. If there’s anything you think I missed, please let me know and I’ll add it on here.

AO3 version is here.

Arc I: Labyrinths of the Heart can be found here!

Previous chapters are here.

Chapter III: The Puppet

As the stranger danced to silence, the Sun opened her mouth and began to sing.

It was a song unlike any other, a melody created on a whim for this lovely woman and her lonely dance. For a single moment the song hung in the wind as the woman twirled upon the seas; for a single moment they were in harmony, and all the world held its breath at the sight.

Then the stranger realized what had happened, and froze upon the raging waters. At last, for the first time, she saw the Sun. Her dance stilled; the song, too, fell silent. In an instant their eyes met.

The Sun reacted first, an apology rising to her lips—but it was too late. The stranger, frightened by her audience and her heart moved by the beautiful song she had so briefly witnessed, was overwhelmed and fled. The Sun reached out and cried for the stranger to stop, but already the woman had vanished away into the dark, gone as if she had never been.

And so it was that the beautiful Sun met the lovely Moon, and chased her away…

For the second time in under a day, Varian makes his way through the fields back to Port Caul.

It’s early, still, and the whole world reflects it: dew and frost weighing heavy on the long grass of the fields, the sky bright with the pale colors of sunrise. The clouds above, wispy and thin, are lined with a delicate gold; the breeze still carries the heavy chill of the midnight ice. Despite the misty night, the ground is frozen solid from frost. With each step, the iced greenery crunches underneath his worn boots.

Still struggling to wake up, Varian pulls the collar of his coat closer and shivers. The fields outside of Port Caul are endless and sprawling, and in the light of the rising dawn, near breathtaking. The far-off silhouette of the city is gilded by the sunrise, the blue buildings shining soft with a pearly glow in the creeping dawn. Despite the bite of cold and the frosted edges, there is something soft about it all—a winter tempered by coming spring, ice thawed to a chill, something brisk and fresh and clean.

It doesn’t make it any less fucking cold, though.

They must make quite a sight, the two of them, to any strangers who see them: the woman, Yasmin, older and stern, with short dark curls and a confident stride—and a boy, Varian himself, tripping behind her, ragged and worn and trying desperately to keep up.

“How much farther?”

To say Varian is exhausted is a gross understatement. He is bone-cold tired. Numb to the world. A walking dead in the making. His late night has done him no favors, and this long walk back through the twists and turns of Port Caul’s farmlands drains what little remaining energy he has. His mouth is dry and sickly, his head stuffed with cotton, his limbs heavy and shaking with fever chills. The winter sun burns down on the back of his neck, the sunshine bright and as piercing as ice. Before him the wide expanse of the world unfurls at his feet, the fields of the Port Caul countryside near infinite to his eyes. Every time he looks to the horizon, to that distant shadow of the city proper, he feels even more tired than before.

Farther ahead, Yasmin walks with sure strides, making a confident pace through the overgrown paths. Despite her age and small size, she is damnably spry. Varian, still lagging behind despite all his best efforts, squints blankly in the sun and hurries to keep up. It’s ridiculous. He’s barely a head shorter than her, so how does she keep getting so far ahead?

“Hello?” he tries, when she doesn’t answer right away. The exhaustion frays his already thin temper; his fatigue makes him bold. “…Are you ignoring me?” he asks, and frowns as he says it. He’s not sure whether to be annoyed at that or not.

Yasmin, still a few paces ahead, heaves a very pointed and visible sigh.

“We’ve been walking for hours,” Varian points out, refusing to be cowed. He’s tired, she’s a jerk, and he does not care about what she thinks of him. Not at all. Nope. He’ll be as rude and spiteful as he wants to be, damn it. “Seriously, how much farther?”

Yasmin gives another heavy sigh. “Until we reach the city.”

“…Seriously?”

“What, was that not funny? I thought moody teenagers were all about sarcasm.” Yasmin stamps the ground with her foot, crushing stray grasses flat. She doesn’t even bother looking back at him. “We will get there when we get there, boy, now stop asking and start walking. Bah, these roads are awful…”

Varian gives the distant horizon a desperate look. It is so far. “Why couldn’t we take a cart?”

“Because I do not own one, clearly.” Yasmin shakes her head. “Walking is good for you.”

“You sound like Adira.”

“Vexing though she may be at times, she is, unfortunately, also often right.” Yasmin pinches at the brow of her nose. “…We will reach the city in another half-hour or so, if we make good pace. May you cease pestering me now?”

Considering the fact they’ve already been walking for about two hours, Varian thinks he deserves to be put-out by that—but he bites back the rude comment rising on his tongue before it can slip free, and takes a moment to breathe. She’s awful, but he’s better than this—or, well, he’s trying to be—so Varian settles for a dark scowl at her back, instead.

Still. He is so bored with walking. He turns his scowl to the ground and kicks a pebble on the road with all his might, smacking it with all the anger and force he can muster. The pebble rolls three measly times and then gets caught in the grass. It’s barely moved an inch.

Typical.

Varian scowls harder.

He misses Ruddiger. He wishes he’d thought to run up and wake the raccoon before he left, but the rapid exit and Yasmin’s swiftly retreating figure had panicked him, and he hadn’t realized he’d left alone until they were already ten minutes down the road. Now Varian is stuck here with a stranger he doesn’t know and doesn’t like—with no raccoon to keep him company.

The day has only just started, and Varian is already certain it’s going to be a miserable one.

Which sucks, because it’s looking to be a lovely day—not a glimpse of clouds on the horizon, a day so blinding and bright it nearly hurts to look at. The sheer shine of the morning is so intense he almost expects a summer heat to match it, but in contrast the wind blows cold, bitingly numb against his exposed face. The grasses sway and bend in the breeze, the fields awash in dark green and winter blue, frost scalding the pebbled wagon road.

In any other circumstance, probably, the view would be beautiful. But Varian’s head is aching and his eyes are sore from lack of sleep, and so instead of appreciating the sight he rubs his bare hands together and shoves them in his sleeves, and thinks only of how goddamn grateful he is that he didn’t forget his coat, too, along with his raccoon.

“Chin up, boy,” says Yasmin, at his silence. “We will be there before you know it.”

Varian directs his bleary frown to her back. Easy for her to say. She barely looks bothered by the cold at all—is it that she’s used to it, Varian wonders, or is it that she’s just pretending to be unaffected to annoy him more? He… really wouldn’t put it past her.

Still, though, Varian knows better to speak those thoughts out loud. “Why are we even going to the market?” he asks, instead, curious despite himself. “And why do I have to be there?”

Yasmin doesn’t answer right away. Like Varian, she is dressed for the cold, in a long trench coat buttoned up to her neck and a heavy dress lined with fur; she tucks her hands in her sleeves and takes a moment to fuss over the fabric. “That is a rather layered question. I am not sure where to start. Let us say… Adira has somehow convinced me to help. Doubtless this is not what she meant, but she is paying me to do my job, not to listen to her. My help takes many forms. For Adira, it is information. For you?” She shrugs. “Market.”

“I don’t need help,” Varian snaps.

“Nonsense child. Who on earth taught you that silly lie? Everyone needs help. Do not take it personally—I still do not like you. This is not pity, or whatever your knotted mind has conspired. This is simply what I do. If it helps, you may consider my help as part of my job to you.”

…Varian doesn’t even know where to begin responding to that. “That’s…” He throws up his hands. “That doesn’t make sense! What even is your job?”

He gets another side-eye for that one. Yasmin scowls at him, her eyebrows drawn low and twisted. “…Let me guess. Adira did not mention that either?”

He stares at her. “No.” Obviously.

“Bah, of course she didn’t. Why do I bother?” Yasmin slows a bit, letting Varian catch up, and glances down at him. “I am… I am not sure how to explain this. I suppose I am something of a dealer of information, and of rare goods. I know many things, and can find a great many more things, and for the right prices I can be encouraged to share them.”

Varian frowns at her, mind whirling. “Like, an information broker? Or a spy?”

“Hm. You make it sound so ill-advised. But yes, both, that is about right.”

“…Isn’t that illegal?”

Yasmin blinks at him, slow and deliberate. “Yes,” she says. “But so says the wanted criminal.”

Varian turns red, and for a moment he thinks to argue—it’s not like he actively chose to become a criminal—except, well, maybe, yes he had, but…

He gives up. There’s nothing he can truly say against that, though he thinks he is starting to understand Yasmin a little better now. He doesn’t know much about spies or information dealers, just that they exist, but he imagines they tend to be pretty secretive. And if Varian really is a known wanted criminal to the rest of the world…

He turns his head away, not wanting to follow that train of thought any longer. “Is Ella, too—?”

“No.” Yasmin’s voice is curt and cold, shutting down the question before he can finish. “Ella is… she is not involved in my work, though she knows of it. She is a singer, actually. Perfectly legal.” For the first time, something of a smile touches her lips. “My dear wife can hold quite the tune.”

Well, okay. But something she’s said stands out to him. Varian frowns. “How do you know Adira, then?”

“Boy, for Moon’s sake. You have traveled with her for months. What about that woman makes you think she cares one lick for legality?”

Varian briefly flashes back to the last six months. Jumping carts, breaking into caravans, sneaking into cities guarded by soldiers who weren’t convinced by Adira’s sheer force of authority… yeah, no, stupid question. “Is that how you met her? Breaking the law?”

Yasmin snorts. “Nothing so grand. I met Adira through other circumstances.”

“What other circumstances?”

“Tsk. Question after question with you, isn’t it? Yet rarely any answers in return. This is why I despise scientists.” She rolls back her arm, an absent-minded stretch. “It is none of your business, frankly.”

His head drops. “I was just curious,” Varian mumbles, and at his side, his fists clench. He feels a little shamed. It probably was too rude a question, but—this is more than Adira has ever told him. For all of Yasmin’s prickly answers, they are answers.

Yasmin is quiet for a long moment. Then she mutters something, the words too low for Varian to catch, and raises her voice for him to hear. “We were… Adira and I came from a similar place, you could say. Running from the same thing. I always thought her plans foolish, but… well. What are friends for, if not to encourage foolish ideas?” Yasmin glances away. “Though I am beginning to regret that. I have been too accommodating, I think. But that is how I know her. I find her whatever strange item or legend she needs, and in return she keeps me updated on the comings-and-goings of whatever country she’s tromped through this time.”

“Oh.” Varian’s mind whirls, putting together the slim pieces he’d eavesdropped from Adira’s conversation with Yasmin just last night. Their talk of a kingdom… Adira’s frustration. Yasmin, her voice low, to Adira: The kingdom died twenty years ago for me and Ella, though I see for you the death is recent.

He’d known Adira was from the Dark Kingdom—it wasn’t exactly hard to guess, what with that stupid symbol on her hand and all—but for the first time, Varian looks at Yasmin and tries to imagine her there too. Yasmin, and Ella, and their little house in the fields… he thinks of the labyrinth, and the ruins he and Rapunzel found in the depths, and still cannot fathom it. Even for someone as prickly as Yasmin or Adira, it’s hard to picture anyone once calling such a desolate place home.

Unaware of his thoughts, Yasmin’s voice lowers to a mutter. “Of course, this arrangement works much better when she bothers to stay in touch. A little head’s up, a small warning, hello, Yasmin, sorry for the year-long absence, just letting you know I am not dead, and also I am forever grateful for your friendship and the many favors you do for me—” She cuts herself off and clicks her tongue. “Ah, never mind. But that is how it goes. In the end you are just another odd job she has thrown my way.”

Varian hums, distant, and the conversation drops into silence. He lowers his eyes and watches his feet, step after step after step. It’s easier than looking at the horizon. The sheer distance to the city is just starting to depress him.

“…That reminds me, actually,” Yasmin says, apropos of nothing. “I forgot to ask her, and Adira did not mention it—did she say anything to you about a flute, boy?”

Varian looks up, his face scrunching in confusion. “Um… what?”

“A flute.” Yasmin gestures, miming an object far longer than any instrument has a right to be. “Grand old thing, carved from amber, looks quite pretty in sunlight? Lovely music, curved a bit like a hook, so big it is frankly ridiculous? Loaded with religious importance? Took me months to find and secure? Yes? No?”

Varian stares at her. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he admits.

Yasmin’s lips thin. “I see.”

There is a beat of silence.

“If that woman has left my priceless religious artifact in that goddamn kingdom, I am going to strangle her with her sash,” says Yasmin, thoughtfully, and then she turns back around and marches on down the road without another word.

Varian hurries to catch up. Despite himself, and despite the wariness Yasmin still inspires, he finds his lips almost twitching in a smile, a vague sense of relief. It’s good to know he’s not the only one Adira drives bonkers.

…He’s probably being a bit unfair to her, Varian thinks, with sudden flash of guilt. Adira isn’t that bad. She… she has helped him, in a way. Maybe not the way Varian wanted, or the way he expected, but she has. She’s tried to teach him fighting. She’s kept him clothed and fed and moving in these past six months. He thinks he should maybe thank her, at least for that. As frustrated as he is, Varian is—here. He’s here.

That simple fact means more, now, than it ever did before. After the labyrinth, Varian hadn’t… he hadn’t known what to do. Where to go. What next, or where to now, or even if he wanted that. He’d been free, but he’d been lost, too—and maybe Adira hasn’t given him the direction he wanted, but she has at least gotten him moving.

Varian’s smile fades at this thought. He looks down at his feet, throat suddenly tight. He remembers the way he snapped at Adira, barely a day ago, and squeezes his eyes shut. A headache pulses behind his temple. He—he should apologize, probably. Maybe. He doesn’t think he can, now, but maybe later… maybe if she apologizes first…

His thoughts drift. The wind picks up, a chill striking through him. Varian shivers under the layers of his coat and yawns into his elbow. He feels tired, worn, too aware for the exhaustion dragging at his bones—like the wind itself is all eyes, watching and waiting, boring into the back of his skull.

One step, then another, then again. The wind howls in his ears. The shadows stretch and warp in the sunlight. His heartbeat feels very loud, all of a sudden—like the droning thud of the drums of war, pounding like marching feet against his skull.

All at once, a sudden dread overcomes him. A chill that strikes down to his bones. Each step sends his stomach plummeting. His ears ring. He feels as if ice has been dumped down his back, and his breathing has gone shallow. His heartbeat is rapid-fire, faster than a bird’s.

Don’t go.

He steps toward the city. He moves through the fields. He walks.

Don’t go there.

His mouth is dry. His vision swims. With each step, his heart beats out of tune. Varian looks up in the direction of Port Caul, and thinks, for one blinding moment of clarity: You don’t want to be here.

“Are you alright?”

He startles, near-jumping out of his skin. Yasmin is frowning at him. She stands silhouetted against the sunrise, the shadows cast long and deep across her face. Her brow is furrowed. She is looking down at his right hand.

Varian follows her gaze. His hand is—he’s holding it, he realizes, he’s gripping it tight in a vice, his thumb digging into the soft flesh of his palm as if to burrow beneath the skin. It hurts. It hurts with a dull, solid ache, like pressing on a bruise.

As soon as he realizes this, Varian snaps his hand away. His veins feel tight and cold, stone under his skin. He blinks fast. “W-what?”

“Does your hand hurt?” Yasmin almost looks concerned, in her own irritated way. “This is the second time I have seen you do that. Is that why you cannot sleep?’

“That’s—I—I don’t know.” He hadn’t even realized he was doing it. Varian hunches under the attention, and hides his hand behind his back. But even as he does it, his skin crawls, his right palm itching terribly. He has to fight not to claw at his skin. “How did you—wait, why does it matter if I can’t sleep?”

In the distance, the city looms closer than before—they are practically upon the city gates. The wall towers over him, a cold shadow, and beside them a horse and cart rumbles by through the wrought iron gates. The road, beneath his feet, has turned from soft crushed grass to actual paved stone. Varian’s head spins. How long had he blanked out for?

Yasmin scans him up and down, her brow knotted. “That is why we are here, of course,” she says, at last, looking a little reluctant at the shift in subject. “You said to me this morning you have issues with sleep, and I have little remedies for such in my house… so to the market we go.” Her lips press—but then she seems to let it go, shaking her head with a weary breath. “Well. If not an injury, then what is it? Can you not fall asleep, or is it that you cannot stay asleep?”

Varian scowls at the dirt path and stubbornly does not think of dark hallways and darker rooms, the moonlight streaming through the window. “Why does it matter?”

“I have agreed to help you, but I cannot help if I do not know what is wrong.” Yasmin is scowling, but it is a distant thing, not directed at him. She looks vaguely frustrated. “I do not like you, I have made no secret of it; you dislike me too, and you have made no secret of that, either. This is fine. We do not have to like each other. But I have tried to be honest with you, thus far—so please, do me the favor of being honest with me.”

She is frank, she is annoying, she is a bladed voice and angry words—but she has told him more in one conversation than Adira has in months. And it is this honesty that makes Varian duck his head, but it is this truth that finally makes him admit it: for all that he dislikes her, Varian is terrified of the idea of continuing to face the dark alone.

Still. It is so hard to admit it, to put voice to the fears inside him. His words come out a teeth-clenched whisper. “It’s—it’s just—” He doesn’t know how to say it. “It’s just too dark.”

It’s shameful, almost. Childish, certainly. Varian is afraid of many things, but the dark, oddly, has never been one of them. He has always felt so secure in the science of the world that the monsters of myth had been dismissed as easy as breathing. And he still feels that certainty. He still feels utterly secure in the fact there is nothing in the closet, nothing under the bed. It’s just—

It’s just too dark, now.

It’s just too much.

“I see,” Yasmin says. Her voice is quiet too. Another cart rumbles by them, the creak of the wheels almost deafening in the silence. The murmur of voices and the rasp of the sea breeze drifts in from the city gates. Varian looks away from Yasmin and up at the gate, and shivers in the shadow. The whisper comes back to him again. Turn back. Go away. It’s not safe here.

“I see,” Yasmin repeats, and her voice breaks Varian from the spell. “Well then. Just to be sure—you are an alchemist, yes?”

Varian lifts his head, blinking echoes from his eyes. “U-um, yeah.”

“I do not own any alchemical equipment, but I have enough bobbles to get you by, I think, if you choose your ingredients wisely.” She turns to the gates and Varian follows, reluctant, as she pushes through the iron doors. “Come along, boy. In the end it may do little, but if darkness is your issue… then I recommend building yourself a light.”

Eugene leaves the castle that night.

His reasoning is simple: there’s no real reason to delay. Eugene has no desire to draw out this parting any longer than he has to. With his goodbyes to Rapunzel said and her letter weighing heavy in his vest pocket, Eugene returns to his allotted rooms and picks up the travel bags he hadn’t even bothered to unpack. He doesn’t know how long he’ll be gone, but it’s best to be prepared.

That isn’t to say he rushes, oh no—Eugene takes his sweet time. It’s almost like planning a heist, in that way. The devil is always in the details, and Eugene considers details to be the most important step. Missing one crucial item in a theft can be deadly, and in a way, well… this isn’t all that different.

The preparations take him the rest of the day. In the hours following his talk with Rapunzel, Eugene repacks his bags and prepares to leave the castle behind. He chooses new clothes, picks up fresher food, slips in a few items he thinks will serve as a welcome gift for Lance. He finds the daggers he’d stashed away when he first moved in and hides away the finer cloths that would get him mugged five feet out from the castle walls. He has a job to do, after all—and for all that Eugene isn’t the most serious individual, he is most certainly a professional. Either he does this right, or he does this not at all… and doing nothing is no longer an option.

By sunset, he’s all ready to go. Eugene hides his belongings in one of the castle’s many nooks and crannies, goes to bother Maximus in his own silent way of saying goodbye—and, when the daylight has faded and the shadows cover his path, slips inside the guard barracks and goes to find Cassandra.

He finds her in her room, thankfully—he’s not sure he could sneak by her new post in the dungeons without being caught, and he definitely doesn’t want to deal with that kind of drama right now. But his luck is holding true: he’s managed, from the sounds of things, to catch her right before she heads off for her post. Her door is half-open, the lock unlatched, and Eugene knocks on the wood frame with one hand as he toes the door open.

The room is as empty as his was; the evidence of an eight months absence. It’s cleaner than he’s ever seen it, no stray weapons lying about or anything, and her bed is made so well the cover corners look sharp enough to cut. For all that Cassandra served as a palace maid, and took her duties seriously, her own rooms are usually where she throws all tidiness out the window. This, more than the shadows under her eyes, tells Eugene all he needs to know. Apparently Rapunzel isn’t the only one with insomnia today. Cassandra probably hasn’t slept one wink since they got back yesterday morning.

She looks it, too. He’s caught her in the middle of preparing for her shift, armor half-on and hair an absolute bird nest. She’s always been pale, but today the pallor is almost ghastly, the shadows of her eyes rivaling even Varian’s. There’s a new scab on her lower lip, a wound never quite healed: she’s bit her lip hard enough to bleed.

Cassandra glances over at the open door, helmet in one hand like she’s trying to decide whether it’s worth trying to pry it over her bush of curls. It takes her a moment to realize he’s there, but as soon as she realizes her face twists in a scowl. Her glare is practically automatic, but whatever sting it might have held is dulled by the bloodless pall of her face.

“What do you want, Fitzherbert?”

Bad mood, then. The last name thing is always an indicator. Eugene’s lips thin. He’s not upset. He can’t even blame her. She looks…

She looks how he feels, really. What a mess. “Long day?”

Cassandra gives him a dirty look for that. Eugene winces. “Yeah, okay. Too soon?”

She throws the helmet on her bed, looking about to snap… and then sighs, her shoulders slumping. Her eyes squeeze shut. In the darkening sunset light streaming through her narrow window, the shadows under her eyes seem bright as bruises. “Sorry.”

Eugene snorts and leans back against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s fine. You realize I’ve dealt with your prickly temper before, right?”

Cassandra rolls her eyes. “Oh, ha-ha.” She rubs at her face and turns away, sitting down hard on the bed. “Still, sorry. I’m not… I just…” She shakes her head, her teeth gritting.

Eugene can only imagine. Demoted to prison duty, after once having been the top detail of the future Queen? It’s more than a slap on the wrist—it’s a bona fide royal punishment, and it’s going to give her a bad rep, too. And that would be bad enough, perhaps, but that she’s being punished because of the situation with Varian…?

Yeah. Yeah, no. There’s no good ending to that story.

They haven’t talked about Varian, really. They’ve barely said his name at all these past few months, beyond the whys and hows of his disappearance after the labyrinth. There is an understanding between all three of them—a looming fight that Eugene can almost taste in the air whenever the topic is broached, and all three of them have been ignoring the problem of Varian entirely rather than risk the argument it might spike. So while Eugene can’t say he knows how Cassandra feels about Varian… well.

He has a pretty good guess that it’s nothing good.

He doesn’t blame her; some days, Eugene feels much the same himself. His nightmares have come and gone these past few months, ebbing and rising like a tide, but though most are filled with dark stone and the knife-like smile of a terrible god, some are older still. A campfire, halfway burning. Arrows in firelight. The way Rapunzel fell back, the sound of her skull snapping against the stone, and most awful of all: that brief, terrible moment when he thought she’d never get up again.

He knows Cassandra dreams of much the same.

“It’s a bad situation,” Eugene settles on, finally. “As expected.”

“Being right about it doesn’t make it better, Eugene.”

“Uh, yeah, no. Yep. Bullseye on that.” He sags his weight against the doorway, heaving a sigh so heavy it makes his body sink with the sound. He rubs the back of his neck. “I mean, by gods, I sure didn’t miss this. Politics! Hah!”

The briefest hint of a smile curls at Cassandra’s mouth, almost reluctant. “Oh? And here I thought you liked the idea of being king.”

“Yeeeeeah, about that. Sneaky.” He points a warning finger at her. King, hah. It’d been Lance who’d finally told him how succession worked in Corona. Rapunzel gets crowned Queen—and Eugene, marrying into the family, would not be a king, but rather a Prince Consort. Which is a fine fancy title in its own right, but still. “When were you going to tell me that isn’t how it works?”

“When it was funny.”

“Oh-hoh! Fuck you.”

That pale smile flickers to a true grin. Eugene leans back against the door again, pleased with his work. “But seriously,” he says, humor fading to sincerity. “Things may seem like a shitshow now, but… It’ll blow over. Eventually.”

The grin fades. Cassandra looks away. “Sure.”

“Still sucks, though.”

She exhales hard, pointedly. “Eugene. Why are you here?”

This time it’s Eugene who looks away. He taps his fingers against his arm, the uneven rhythm of a bar song that’s been stuck in his head since winter began. His lips press in a thin line. He takes a moment to gather his thoughts, then pushes up against the doorway, bracing himself.

Well. No more stalling it, he supposes.

“I’m leaving.”

He senses rather than sees Cassandra go still. “...What?”

“I didn’t come here to get lectured,” he warns her, straightening up, finally meeting her eyes. She looks as furious as he expected. “I already told Blondie. I’m heading out tonight. If you need to get in touch, the Snuggly Duckling is your best bet.” He hesitates, then exhales heavy through his teeth. “Look, I—I get it. I know what you’re going to say. But I’ve been thinking about this for a while. I… I need to do this.”

“We just got back.” Cassandra’s voice is low. “Just got back, and with things as they are— and I can’t even see her— and you’re leaving her alone?”

“I can’t help her here.” Eugene tries to keep the words even, accusation-free, but he can’t quite keep the coldness out of his voice. He knows this already. He knows, and it's already eating at him, and he doesn’t need Cassandra digging in the knife. “I can’t— I won’t sit here and be useless.” Not again, he thinks, but he bites that part off behind his teeth.

Cassandra scowls at the ground. Her expression has turned dark.

Eugene looks away too, hating the knot in his gut. He rubs at his chin and sighs, leaning back heavy against the doorframe. “Besides,” he says, finally, trying to keep his voice light. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that whole ‘no-contact’ clause part of the punishment. This is Rapunzel we’re talking about. I’d bet good money she’ll find a way to break out of that room and into here in about… oh, three days. Tops.”

“She shouldn’t.”

“Well. It’s Rapunzel.”

Cassandra hums at that, tuneless. She still isn’t meeting his eyes.

Eugene holds back another sigh and shakes his head, dipping one hand in his pocket. “...I didn’t just come to say goodbye, either.” He draws Rapunzel’s letter from his vest, holding it out. “For you.”

She goes to take it, but Eugene pulls it back out of reach. “Cass, before you read it—”

She glares at him.

“You don’t have to do this,” Eugene says, undeterred. “Not if you don’t want to. I know how much this job means to you.”

Something in the tone of his voice must get through, because her hand stills. She’s quiet for a long moment.

“…Will it help?”

He’s not sure how to answer that. “It’s something.”

“Then yes.” Cassandra meets his gaze, her expression tense. “I want to help.”

He thins his lips, but hands it over. He’s not sure what to make of the look on her face—the odd pinch to her eyes. Cassandra takes the missive warily, breaking the seal and scanning the page within seconds. Eugene watches her face, trying to put a name to what he sees there.

Cassandra’s expression doesn’t even twitch. After reading, she folds the letter carefully and lays it flat on her lap. With one hand, she rubs the corner of the parchment between her fingers, her eyes dark in thought.

“You understand, don’t you?” Eugene says finally. His voice is quiet. His eyes unwavering. A flash of clarity has struck him. “Standing aside, watching everything happen… I never want to be there again.”

At long last, Cassandra looks at him. She doesn’t move, but in this moment, he can finally read her. In this, he knows for sure. The labyrinth has left its mark on all of them, in its own way—and for the two of them, it has left the same scar. It has united them in the horror of being left behind and helpless.

Cassandra’s eyes drop. The anger has faded from her face—now, she just seems tired. “...I’ll look out for her.”

“She doesn’t need it, I think. But thanks. I hate the idea of leaving her alone.” Eugene straightens, waves one hand in a mocking salute. “Good luck,” he says, gentling into something genuine. “Cass.”

She meets his gaze again. A smile twitches at the corner of her mouth, and this time, it’s almost real. “You too, Eugene.”

Eugene gives a winning smile back and slips out the room without another word—no need to make this sappy, after all. He closes the door soundlessly behind him, and feels something almost like pleased. The conversation didn’t quite go as he wanted—but he thinks it was a success regardless.

He sticks his hands in his pockets and slips back in the comfort of the shadows.

It is child’s play to get back outdoors undetected. He picks up his bag from the hiding spot and slip it over his shoulder, tilting back his head in the night air. He’s got a long walk ahead of him—a long few weeks to go—and he takes one last second for himself, to settle, to be sure. Taking one last moment to breathe.

Oh, gods. Is he really going to do this?

He looks up behind him, one last look at Rapunzel’s tower room. The window is dark, all the lights gone out. But he can still see the silhouette of a figure on the balcony, the flickering shine of golden hair swept up in a breeze.

He lifts his hand, wondering, a quiet wave. He thinks he sees the figure wave back.

He already misses her. But Eugene turns away from the castle regardless. He slips by those castle gate guards without any issue at all, and just like that: there he is, on the road once again.

His heart is tight, but Eugene manages a smile anyway. Rapunzel will be okay. Cassandra, whatever she decides, will be there for her regardless. They have things handled here—and Eugene’s place, for now, is elsewhere.

He’s got work to do.

It takes him an hour to leave the city behind. By the time he reaches the woods it’s gone completely dark outside. The woods are all shadow at this time of dusk, foreboding and eerie, but Eugene palms his dagger and continues on without worry. Even without a sure light, the moon and stars are bright above him—and he’s always been an old hand at sneaking in the dark.

He walks for most of the night, well on to midnight. The time makes no difference, however—even at this hour, he can hear the Snuggly Duckling before he sees it. Laughter, and roaring music, and then distant light through the trees. Eugene shades his eyes against the startling shine and has to physically bite back a grin when he hears the singing. Oh-hoh, he knows that voice.

He rushes to reach the doors before it’s too late, moving fast as the song and music begin to reach its finale. He makes it just in time.

Eugene throws open the door just as Lance finishes a truly impressive solo, and lifts a hand to his ears with no time to spare. “Good gods, men!” he says, as loudly as he can. “I came here to get a drink—but who let a banshee in this place?”

The music stops. Someone’s cup drops and rolls. The Snuggly Duckling falls into a hushed and reverent silence, and Lance falls off the table.

Eugene stares at the stunned room of thugs. The stunned room of thugs stares back.

“...Surprise?”

Lance’s head pops up from the floor. “Eugene!” he shouts, delightedly, and tackles him in a hug.

Like Lance’s word was the stone to break the glass, the whole bar erupts into noise.

“Hey!”

“It’s Fitz!”

“Welcome back!”

“Where the hell have you been, you slippery bastard?”

Lance spins him around, cackling loudly. Eugene yelps, arms suddenly pinned, torn between laughing and hissing at him. “Hey, hey, hey—!”

“You’re back!” Lance drops him on his feet, beaming fit to burst. He looks—he looks good, Eugene realizes, and it makes some secret weight on his heart lift. It’s just been bad news after bad news for so long, that he’d worried… but Lance is here, his smile wide and true, and he looks happier than Eugene has seen him in a long time. He’s dressed in a new outfit, a snazzy black vest with a red cotton undershirt, a new piercing in his left ear. There’s a glow to him, a veil of health that speaks of regular meals and good care. In contrast to the gloom that haunted the castle, Lance’s presence lights up the room. His hand on Eugene’s shoulder is warm. “Long time no see, Eugene.”

“We’ve gone longer,” Eugene says, an automatic answer, but inside, he agrees whole-heartedly. It has been—too long. Far too long. His returning smile is helplessly fond. He is so glad to see Lance. “How are things?”

“Oh, booming,” Lance says, and he says it casual, but there’s a smile on his face that Eugene knows well— that beaming pride, curdled warm, but this time there’s something softer to the edge of it. “It’s, uh—going really well, actually. I meant to say in the letters, but—well, I got the bar!” He gestures to the Snuggly Duckling. “The whole lot of it.”

“Done good work too!” one man yells, and the tavern shakes with the ensuing roar of agreement. Lance laughs again, looking touched. Eugene looks around at the sea of bright and drink-rosy faces, the warm lanternlight and crackling fire of Lance’s Snuggly Duckling, and grins back.

“Lance!” he says, punching his shoulder. “Buddy! That’s wonderful!”

“It’s been a journey,” Lance says, trying for humble, but there’s a brightness to the words, a disbelieving joy that hasn’t quite faded. “I’ll tell you later. What about you, eh? It’s been ages since your last response!”

Eugene’s smile flickers. Lance immediately pauses. “Oh—”

“You’re never going to believe this, Strongbow, old buddy, old pal.” Eugene slings his arm around him, cutting off the inquiry before the rest of the bar can catch onto the shift in mood. “The number of things I saw across the sea, good man, I could fill a book!”

Lance blinks, rapidly, and for a moment his face is terrifyingly blank—and then his eyes go wide in realization. Thank gods. It’s been awhile since they used that code, but the memory of childhood bonding over Flynn Rider books reigns eternal even now.

Lance slings an arm around his shoulders and grips him in a one-armed hug. “Then I, Strongbow, shall most definitely help you write it!” The word-for-word quoted response. Then Lance winks, and the next bit is all him. “After a drink, of course.”

“Of course,” Eugene echoes, wryly, and manages to grin back.

Lance pushes him through the bar, somehow keeping Eugene from the crowd without making it suspicious, laughing and cheering and chattering like it’s a normal Tuesday. Before Eugene even knows what’s happened, he finds himself in a back room of the tavern, drink in hand and Lance sitting across the table, the room as quiet as any rooms in the Snuggly Duckling can get.

“This is as private as I can give you,” Lance says, sitting back in his chair. His smile is bright as ever. His voice, warm as Eugene remembers. But there is a tightness around his eyes, a worry Eugene reads clear as day, and when Lance leans in, he is as serious as he ever gets. “Okay, buddy. Spill. What happened? And how can I help?”

This is why Eugene came here. This is why Eugene needed to leave. Because he’s good. He’s really good. But he’s always been better with someone at his back—and he’s at his best with Lance by his side.

Gods, he’s missed him.

Eugene drinks deep from his flask, sets down the empty cup, and prepares to tell Lance everything.

“What do you need?”

The sun is high in the bright blue sky, and the Port Caul market in full unbridled swing. Stalls line the main city road, stretching on from the docks to the shopping district, their owners shouting wares from across the street. Vegetables, cheeses, smoked meats and cloth and flowers and trinkets—everywhere Varian turns, there is something new to see, some new dizzying sight to catch his eye. He’d thought the crowd from yesterday had been intimidating, but this one puts it to shame. The sheer amount of people and goods makes his head spin. This is nothing like the market in Old Corona—this is more like the capital than anything, or even the science fair. The amount of people out and about for a daily market is mind-blowing.

“Child, eyes on me.” Yasmin snaps her fingers in front of his face. Varian looks to her reluctantly, fighting the urge to keep gaping at his surroundings. “What do you need?”

“What?” Varian asks, too dazed to follow her questions. His eyes drift to the market again.

Yasmin frowns down at him. “Keep up, boy. For a light. What do you need?”

Oh. Varian blinks fast, thoughts muddled by the market, his own exhaustion, and the constant dread that is stillbeating away at the edge of his mind. He says the first thing he can think of. “Matches?”

Yasmin stares at him. Varian slowly flushes, scrambling to get his thoughts in order—nope, nothing. He tries again. “…Fire?”

“That was not a trick question. I meant—a more permanent light, a manufactured one. A nightlight. Something to help keep the dark at bay without being too bright to wake you.” Yasmin rubs at her forehead. “What do you need to make something like that?”

“Oh.” Well, that makes much more sense. Varian blinks hard, rubbing at his eyes, trying to get his thoughts in order. He feels like he’s wading in molasses, an exhaustion that drags at his thoughts and eyelids. A permanent light… something he could hold, maybe. Something bright enough to let him know he isn’t in the dark but quiet enough not to keep him awake. A soft glow. Unwavering…

“A vial, maybe?” Varian murmurs. “No, glass, breakable, bad idea. Stone… too opaque. Gem, too expensive—”

“Crystal?”

Varian blinks, startled from his thoughts. Yasmin is frowning again, but not at him—just off to the side, looking lost in thought. “Would that work?”

“I…” His mind whirls, thoughts tangling. “If it could hold something—was hollow inside—I think so? I need a space to put in the materials, and then I gotta seal it up after, so—”

“Yes, yes, let me handle that—I am not completely bereft of supplies. I am sure Ella has a jewelry clasp somewhere. We will figure something out.” Yasmin tilts her head. “What would you need to make the light?”

He lists ingredients in his head, remembers the likely lack of equipment, and shoves aside all but a few. Lists down his fingers. “Let’s see… um, distilled water, definitely. Probably some sodium carbonate, luminol… ammonium carbonate, copper sulfate pentahydrate… maybe some 3 percent hydrogen peroxide, or would just using zinc sulfide work better?” He frowns at his hands. “I should probably test that, the zinc sulfide might be too weak to last, but the other mixture might—”

Varian cuts himself off, his hand dropping. At once he realizes he’s been rambling. He flushes, his confidence faltering. There in the market cheer he feels abruptly out of place, too obvious, too seen. His skin crawls. He swallows hard. “Um. But I… I don’t think I’ll find all that here, it’s—”

“Do not worry,” Yasmin says, surprising him silent. She looks almost bemused by his sudden bit of word vomit. “Port Caul markets sell many things— and things like that for rather cheap. You would be surprised at how many children like to play at alchemy.”

Varian splutters. “It’s not playing—”

Yasmin has already turned away. Her coat flaps at her heels as she strides deeper in the market crowd. “Hurry along, boy. Let us go! I haven’t got all morning.”

Varian yelps and rushes to keep up.

It must be market day, he thinks; the place is busier than it was yesterday, and the crowd is nearly dizzying. People shouting, people selling, laughter high and bright in the frozen winter air. They’ve arrived early enough that the sun’s rising warmth hasn’t thawed the streets yet—the cobble roads are slick with frost and sea-spray salt, the wind brisk against his skin, the breeze as sharp as knives.

Varian tugs up his borrowed coat collar and follows Yasmin best he can, tripping in his too-big boots even with his layered number of socks. In contrast to Varian’s hesitation, Yasmin maneuvers the market like a king in court, eyes sharp and scanning, seeing all the market has to offer and dismissing it just as quickly.

“This way,” she says after a minute, and tugs Varian to the side, near a small stall off the corner. The covered wagon has a table with a velvet cloth, small glittering gems and jewels shining on the dark red fabric. The man minding the stall is tall and round, and when he sees Yasmin approaching he sits up with a smile.

“Yasmin! Been awhile. How’s it been?”

“Lovely, Marin, thank you. Have you any crystals?”

The man hums. “All sorts. What are you looking for?”

Yasmin puts a hand on her hip and turns to Varian. He stares back, blank, then jumps when the man looks at him too. “O-oh. Um.” Their eyes make his skin crawl. Yasmin has already recognized him for what he is. What if this man, too—? “A, a hollow… hollow center. If you have that. And, um… clear would be—be best—”

“Of course.” The man’s interruption is kind, his smile unsuspecting. He leans down and rummages at his feet, the clink of precious stones in the air. “I’ve a few like that. Take your pick.”

Varian surveys the offered collection of crystals, ranging in sizes from small to unwieldy, and finally selects one near the middle—not the cleanest cut, but a nice size, fitting well in his palm. It has a hollowed center like a shallow shot glass, the opening just barely big enough for a finger. Hopefully easy to seal closed, once he’s made the light. “T-this one’s fine.”

“Great. That’ll be five gold crowns, then.”

Varian freezes, color draining from his face. Five gold crowns? He doesn’t even have copper. Oh, gods, he’s forgotten money was a thing that existed again. “I—uh, I—”

“I have it.” Yasmin sets the gold down with a sharp click, the coins stacked in a perfect tower. “Take care of yourself, Marin.” To Varian: “Come along. Next stop.”

“Come back if you need any more!” the shopkeeper calls. “I’ll have a lot more next week, if those trading ships finally make it to harbor!”

“I will think about it!” Yasmin is walking away, but Varian doesn’t move, and after a moment she glances back at him, eyebrows raised. “Hello? What is wrong. Why are you not moving.”

He stares down at the ground, eyes burning. “I didn’t ask you to pay for me.”

Yasmin tilts her head. “I am the one helping you, and this is my idea. I would not make you pay for it. In a roundabout way, I am being paid to help you. There is no loss here.”

“I—”

He can’t find the words, the anger rootless, his frustration smarting. He is sick of feeling helpless, of feeling like a drain; he hasn’t asked to be taken care of, to be treated like a child. But he doesn’t yet know how to put it into words, and all he can do is glower at the ground and seethe.

Yasmin considers him. Something in the hard lines of her face softens.

“…Come here.”

He goes reluctantly, stepping out of earshot from the shopkeeper. Yasmin places a hand on his shoulder, steering him away, and when she speaks, her voice is not softer but somehow gentler. “Listen. I do not know what brought you here, nor do I care. But you are here. And it is clear to me that you need help.” She looks down at him. “Boy, you do not need to like me. I still do not like you. But I am not here to hurt you, or slight you, or whatever it is you think I am doing. My dislike does not mean I cannot do you a kindness.”

Varian doesn’t answer. Yasmin draws her hand away. “If it bothers you so deeply, you can plan to pay me back in your own time. But for now—can you accept this?”

He looks down. The anger, rising, turns ashy on his tongue, cold and empty. “…Okay.”

He sounds tuneless even to himself. In the back of his mind, the dread hums like a lightning strike. Turn back. Go home. It’s not safe here.

He swallows back the anxiety and shuts his eyes tight. He hears Yasmin exhale, soft and tired.

“Chin up, boy,” she says, half-way to gentle. “I am sure you will like this next part. Come along.”

Varian, doubtful, sets his jaw and bravely follows after her.

She leads him further into the market, closer to the docks. The scent of salt and sea fills his nose. The crowd is a little thinner here, easier to navigate, and the sudden breathing room helps unwind some of the tension from his shoulders. He tilts his head in the breeze and breathes deep.

It’s the smell that hits him first. The burning hiss, the sudden bitterness on his tongue like ash—

His eyes snap open. He sees it almost at once.

The small wooden stall. The bright pink banner. The small jars, the neat little labels. The smell in the air, even in this crowded and clustered market place, a sour snap like citric acid, like the tang of metal—

He knows the stall even before he sees the sign. This—this is an alchemy store.

Varian races ahead, pushing past Yasmin and nearly running right into the stall. It has been so, so long since Varian has seen alchemy, even longer since he’s done it properly. The road isn’t appropriate for intensive experiments, and Adira never willing to buy materials, and Varian never quite confident enough to ask for them. After six months of nearly nothing, the sight of the stall is enough to make his eyes prick with tears.

Even the memory of his last alchemy experiment can’t bring down his mood. In the labyrinth, this skill was the one thing that brought Varian some comfort. Some denial of fate, some way to fight. Through alchemy, Varian found a chance to breathe. Through alchemy, Varian defeated Moon’s golem.

And now, this alchemy stall—the sight of those elements, neatly bottled, the equipment, newly shined—it makes his vision blur. Varian’s smile nearly splits his face in half. He puts his hand on the table and leans up, beaming at the shopkeeper, a woman with a heavy afro pulled back in a bun and a no-nonsense alchemical smock. “Is this all yours!?”

“Every bottle of it.” The shopkeeper puts down a vial, a latest experiment of some sort. Her gloves, heavy and dark and made of solid stitched leather, make Varian’s own now-bare hands itch with envy. “Why, you interested?”

“Yes.”

She grins. “Well, then. Nice to see someone who appreciates the art! What are you looking for?”

“Something for a light, if you have got it.” Yasmin walks up from behind him, sounding bemused. “What was it? Zinc sulfate?”

“Sulfide,” Varian corrects, automatic. “Zinc sulfide, and also some distilled water, and I was thinking maybe…”

He lists the ingredients off from memory, counting them off his fingers to be sure he doesn’t forget any. “…and some 3 percent hydrogen peroxide, if you have any?”

“Easy enough.” The woman tugs off her gloves, nodding thoughtfully. “How much of each?”

Varian does quick math in his head—some extra needed if things go wrong, enough to make two batches if things go right—and rattles off the amounts in grams. The shopkeeper hums when he finishes, looking vaguely impressed. “Can do. It’ll be a blue-ish light, in the end—should last you a couple months before you’ll have to remake it.”

Varian abruptly pales. The shopkeeper blinks. “Is something wrong?”

Blue, Varian thinks numbly. Blue light. Right. He hadn’t thought of that. He struggles to answer. “Um—I—that is—”

Yasmin touches at his shoulder. Varian looks up at her, but Yasmin is speaking to the shopkeeper instead when she says, “Is it possible to change the color of the light?”

Something like pride smarts in his chest.

“Of course,” says the shopkeeper. “Easy,” Varian scoffs, pointedly, at the same exact time.

There is a beat of silence. Yasmin rolls her eyes. “Scientists,” she says, disgusted. “Would you need an ingredient for that?”

“Alchemists,�� Varian corrects, annoyed, and then blinks as the rest of her words sink in. Oh, right. He turns back to the shopkeeper. “Do you have any pigments?”

“I have all the pigments. Could even mix a few powders, but you’ll have to be exact on the color if so.”

Varian bites his lip, considering. Yasmin looks down at him. “It need not be a difficult discussion,” she says. “The intended use already removes a few options. White, too bright; black, destroys the purpose of having a light at all. Red would be… garish, I think. Sort of bloody. Hmm. What about orange?”

He makes a face, unable to help it. Orange has never been his favorite color, and after the amber… “No.”

“Tsk. Green? Violet?”

Violet is too close to blue; green reminds him of the automatons beneath the castle, and what he did with them. Varian shakes his head.

“…Yellow?”

Golden shine and searing heat, the numbness broken apart by a light that burned as bright as a sun—

Some of his thoughts must show on his face. Yasmin stops herself before Varian can even think to interrupt. “Not yellow, either. Hmph.” She considers, cupping her chin in one hand. “…What about pink?”

Pink. Varian considers it. It’s a pale color, and a soft color, like they wanted. If he makes the glow very quiet it won’t hurt his eyes at all. And pink… there is nothing he associates with the color, no light-based trauma to invite nightmares. Pink is sunrise and sunset, soft flowers in spring fields. It’s a color that reminds him of happy things.

“…Pink would work.”

“Pink it is.”

The shopkeeper nods. “I’ll wrap it up.”

They get the ingredients wrapped in small paper bags, and as Yasmin counts out money for the cost Varian shuffles through the wrapped ingredients with a giddiness he’d almost forgotten. He feels renewed, refreshed, the ever-present exhaustion dulled by a joy that could almost burst out of him.

He tucks the packets away in the satchel and tilts his head into the wind with a soft sigh. His smile is a small thing, barely there—quiet and thin, hidden in the light of the winter sun. The market moves around him, warm and whispering. The noonday sun is melting the frost.

And it is then, in this moment, as the crowd swells silent and the market murmurs soft—that is when the screaming starts.

“Are you sure you’re okay with this?”

Cassandra closes her wardrobe hard, hearing the weapons knock around inside. It is three days after their return to Corona, and Cassandra’s patience is nearing its limit. Outside of her window, the setting sun burns gold at their backs, casting a long shadow across Cassandra’s entire room. “Yes, Raps. I already said I was.”

“I know. I just—”

“You worry. I know.” Cassandra takes a breath, holds back a sigh. She’s not annoyed. She’s not. She’s just—

Gods, she wishes Rapunzel could just let it go.

It’s not that she doesn’t appreciate the gesture—to be honest, she’s fully expected this. Of course Rapunzel would come to check in on her, especially after the last few days. Eugene’s skipped out of the castle with a plan he hasn’t even told Cassandra about, Rapunzel has been avoiding her parents best she can, and Cassandra—

Cassandra is right back where she started.

She supposes it could be worse; the king could strip her of the guard title entirely. Being demoted to the dungeons, being forced to avoid Rapunzel… these things aren’t good by any stretch of imagination, but as far as limitations go, they aren’t so bad. Take this, for example—for all of the King’s grandiose orders, here Rapunzel is, only three days later having already discovered a path through the tunnels that leads right to Cassandra’s quarters.

It could be worse, Cassandra thinks, and ignores the way it feels like she’s trying to convince herself. It could be worse.

“I just… I want to be sure.”

Cassandra turns, straightening up in full as she pulls on the last piece of armor, strapping her arm guard in place. Clunky, bronze, degraded, demoted. She misses the golden shine of the armor for Royal Guards. “And I’m telling you exactly what I told Eugene. It’s fine. There’s obviously something wrong, and—and you need my help. And if what you overheard was true…”

It’s the reason for Rapunzel’s visit, after all. Cassandra had woken up to sunset, blearily about to get ready for yet another awful night shift—only to find the resident Princess and future Queen leaning over her face like a fretting hen, eyes bright with a stolen secret.

“I’m almost certain,” Rapunzel says at once. “I know it was Nigel talking, he’s got… a distinctive voice. And he sounded worried.”

According to Rapunzel, just this morning while on her way to meet with her parents for yet another awkward not-quite-conversation, she’d passed by a hall and heard Nigel talking with a messenger. Which isn’t anything unusual—advisors talk with messengers literally all the time—except the contents of this conversation had been a little… stressed. A deal in the making, a big agreement between the King and another party—only whoever and whatever this deal was about, it didn’t seem to be about anything good.

Still, Cassandra is content to play devil’s advocate for this. “The kingdom makes deals all the time, Raps. Compromise, trade, agreements… that’s what running a country is all about.”

Rapunzel isn’t swayed. “Trust me, okay? This wasn’t like the usual. The way they were talking…” She bites her lip. “Cass, it sounded… bad. Almost like they—Corona, my dad—were running out of other options, but also like accepting the deal would be…”

“Like a deal with the Moon?”

“Or Zhan Tiri. Just. Bad.”

“I believe you,” Cassandra says, finally. She places one hand on her sword. “But that’s why, if it’s really as big as you say, we need more information, if anything we do is going to stick. So, if this is what’s needed…”

I want to help, she doesn’t say this time. She’d already said it to Eugene, two days and a night ago, when he stopped by her room and pressed a letter in her hands.

“You don’t have to do this, Cass,” he’d said then, letter in hand but holding back. “I know how much this job means to you.”

“Will it help?”

“It’s something.”

“Then yes,” Cassandra had said, cold and trying hard not to seem desperate, and she’s spent every night after thinking about that letter and what it meant, and the look in Eugene’s eyes when he gave it to her. Like he knew. Like he suspected.

King Frederick had been cold when he’d demoted her, near icy in tone. In contrast, beside her, Cassandra’s father had been spitting mad on her behalf, only just holding his tongue, his face dark with an anger that the King hadn’t even batted an eye at. Cassandra had taken the sentence with her head high and her heart burning. She’d known what this was really about, even then. It’s not about the secrets. It’s not even about Rapunzel’s silence, not really. It’s this—Rapunzel, flinching and quiet and different behind the eyes, the attack Cassandra can’t elaborate on and the prisoner who escaped, Varian vanished into the wilds.

In the eyes of the king, Cassandra has failed. Never mind that Varian got a chance to attack because Rapunzel let him. Never mind it was Rapunzel who let him go. Never mind that—

But even then. Even then, that hadn’t shaken her. But when the King had demoted her, when that golden shine of royal armor was replaced by lesser bronze—Cassandra had stared down at gloved hands, and wondered what the hell she was doing there.

Standing in line, she thinks. Guarding locked doors. She’s traveled across two continents, she’s traversed the ruins of a kingdom long dead, she’s looked a god full in the face and snarled—

And here she is. Back again in the kingdom, with armor that doesn’t fit quite right and a restless burning beneath her skin, the whisper of opportunity lost.

When did I outgrow you? she wonders, absently, picking up her halberd, putting the helmet under her arm. She draws the sword and looks at it, the person staring back. When did I lose this?

But she doesn’t say that. She can’t, not really—she hasn’t the words, and a little bitter voice in her gut says that Rapunzel won’t understand anyway. Besides, Rapunzel has her own issues to deal with. Her own struggles. Cassandra doesn’t want to become another burden—not any more of a burden, at least.

When did I become so weak as to be used against you?

But those are quiet thoughts. Cassandra shoves them away, locked back in the corner of her mind where they belong, and turns to face Rapunzel with both hands on her hips. Rapunzel is sitting quiet on the bed, head bowed, gloved hands folded in her lap, and at the sight something in Cassandra’s chest eases. She crosses over, and kneels down before her. “Hey. Raps.”

Rapunzel looks up. Her eyes are dry, the green of her irises cold and clear. Her mouth is set in a mulish sort of stubborn. That tight knot in Cassandra’s chest eases further, and she manages the barest hint of a smile. “Look,” she says. “I get it. I do. And you’re right. It’s—a lot.” Which is a nice way of saying basically treasonous, but hey. “Look. It’ll work out, okay? I’ll do a scan on the dungeons when I can, get info like you requested—” As per the letter still in her pocket, anyway. “—and yeah, sure, it’s… dangerous.”

“Treason. If you get caught. And my dad—”

“Yeah. But Eugene has the right idea. Don’t tell him I said this, but… look. You can eavesdrop on the nobles. Eugene is doing…whatever he’s doing. And me?” Her lips thin. “I can see what the prisoners say. I can walk around and listen, and see what they know. And maybe it’s dangerous, but if it gets us what we need to know, gets us where need to go…” She trails off, pointedly.

Rapunzel dips her head. “I’m worried,” she admits, quiet. “And you’re right, I don’t know enough. But—Cass, what if you’re right about this, too? What if it’s nothing? What if it’s not worth it? What if we just make things worse?”

“Yeah, okay. Good point. But you’re doing this anyways, right? So… I—I don’t want—” Oh, how to word this. Cassandra blows out a breath through her teeth, hard and hissed. “I can’t just sit here, Raps. I can’t do nothing.” Her hands curl, unbidden. “Don’t shut me out again.”

The set to Rapunzel’s jaw eases, just a bit. She reaches out and squeezes Cassandra’s hand, brief and firm despite how the pressure on her injuries makes her face twitch with an echo of pain. “I won’t,” Rapunzel says, and a pale smile flickers across her face. “I… I did promise, after all.”

“You did,” Cassandra replies, neutral.

“Okay. Okay. I’ll lay off. If you’re sure.”

“Very sure.”

The smile on Rapunzel’s face settles, a little stronger. “Thanks, Cass.”

“It is literally the least I can do,” Cassandra informs her, dryly, and stands up with the creak of new armor. “Now get out of my room before your new guard realizes you're missing, yeah? Elias is skittish, but he’s going to realize you used your hair as an escape route sooner rather than later, and if I have to go guard the sewers we’re all going to suffer.”

Rapunzel’s smile widens. “Right!” she says, and scampers up, heading back for her newfound secret entrance to the tunnels. Seriously, how does she keep finding those things? “I’ll try and visit again soon. There’s this dinner party with my parents, and I think I might be able to ferret out a few details on this mysterious deal. I’ll let you know!” Something in her face gentles. “…Please take care of yourself, Cass.”

“Only if you do.”

Cassandra watches her go, and manages a small wave and a weak smile when Rapunzel looks back. She waits, patiently, until the stone door of the secret entrance latches shut, and then lets her hand falls with a sigh.

For a moment she just stands there, basking in the silence. Her hand goes to her pocket. The missive Rapunzel wrote and Eugene gave her sits heavy by her side.

I’m sorry to ask this of you. I know my father is your King. But I need you, Cass. I need to know if you’re with me. You don’t have to say yes now. You don’t have to answer at all. And I will never, ever be angry if you say no. You’re my best friend, now and forever. But whatever you’re willing to give. Whatever secrets you find willing to share with me…

If the time comes to choose, if circumstances force us to make a stand—will you stand by my side?

Cassandra has never been readier. But still—

For some reason, the knot remains, cold and heavy in her chest.

She marches out of her room to her new guard shift with her chin up and back straight and proud. Some heads turn when they see her pass; some faces creases in sympathy, others tight-lipped. Odd, she thinks, and remembers vividly Eugene’s offhand comment on the castle’s reactions. She thinks again of her father’s face when the King stripped her of rank, the anger he didn’t even try to hide, and her lips thin further. There’s something wrong here after all—she just hopes it’s not the internal battle she’s starting to suspect it might be.

She turns another hall, pushes open the last door. Cold, rank air blows against her face. Her nose wrinkles.

Once, in a different age, the dungeons of Corona had served as part of the castle proper. In the start of Corona’s great history, King Herz der Sonne had walked these halls and eaten in these empty rooms, enjoyed food and rest in the grand circular hall that has become the main prison pit. These stone walls were filled with history and majesty, until an unfortunate winter earthquake fifty years after his reign brought the whole castle tumbling down.

The castle was rebuilt, of course—better this time, and it has withstood every earthquake since for the remaining hundreds of years. But of that first, lonesome castle, only the tunnels and this hall remain—the tunnels locked down for fear of constant collapse, and the rubble of the first castle become one of the worst places in the whole kingdom.

The point is that the dungeons are a place of history—and at the moment, Cassandra feels as if she’s experiencing each one. As she marches through and down the enclosed halls, the cold deepens, the stone growing soft with age and dark with a grime built up over centuries. Voices murmur low and bitter through the grates as she passes, and the stench of rot and mildew and waste is so heavy she almost struggles to breathe. There’s a slick moss crawling stubbornly through the cracks in the mortar, and as she passes down to the last and final floor, the old stone sagging and heavy, the ceilings low and strained under the weight of the years, even the voices fade out. There aren’t many prisoners here. In truth, there’s very little here at all. Something wet and watery drips down the wall. The cells are silent and empty. Cassandra, standing all and alone in a dark corridor, takes a deep breath and regrets it almost at once.

She’s in full guard armor, the bronze polished and shining, her curls forced under the tight helmet. Her gloves are crisp on her hands, the halberd stiff in her palms; her stance is straight and her eyes unwavering from the door. Every few minutes she’s to turn from her post to pace up and down the corridor for a routine check before she returns back to the door at the end of the hall.

It’s a joke of a job. It’s a job for newbies and rookies and guards with their heads too full of pride for sense, and here she is. Stuck here until Rapunzel either breaks her silence—unlikely—or until the King cools his temper, which…

Well.

She’s probably going to be here for a while, she knows, and as she stops before her new post, she closes her eyes, breathing in deep through her teeth.

Gods, she has no idea what she’s doing here. Cassandra is skilled and she knows it. She’s wasted here, and the fact she’s only been posted here as punishment for Rapunzel’s actions only furthers the insult. She’s not—resenting it, really, or at least she’s trying not to. It’s not Rapunzel’s fault. That the King is punishing Cassandra in order to punish Rapunzel… it’s more than insulting. It’s downright infuriating.

Not to mention being replaced by Elias, of all the guards. The boy is… new is almost too kind a term. He’s barely not a trainee, and while he’s not a bad kid, Cassandra suspects that kindness won’t stop him from reporting Rapunzel’s every action to the King.

They’ve been back for only a scant three days, and already, most of Rapunzel’s worries are proving justified. If this is destiny, Cassandra wishes she could punch it into submission or something. First the Dark Kingdom, now this—for gods’ sake, don’t they all deserve a break?

But no, of course not. And so Rapunzel’s confined in the castle and Eugene’s walking on so many eggshells he decided running was the better option, and Cassandra is here: stationed in the deepest, darkest, most boring corridor in the dungeon, waiting for nothing.

She closes her eyes. “Look around,” Rapunzel had said. “Keep your eyes open. Maybe you’ll find something everyone else missed.” But gods, how is Cassandra going to find anything if she’s stuck miles underground for eight straight hours a day? She’d mentioned the idea of wandering around to listen in on the prisoners herself, but in the secret depths of her mind, even she can admit it’s basically a worthless task. Who on earth would spill the beans when guards lurk around every corner?

She wants to help, but this—

It feels terribly like being shunted. All. Over. Again.

Cast aside and left in the dark, something in her whispers, dark and bitter. Cassandra sets her jaw. There isn’t even a guard on duty to take over once her shift ends— there’s nothing here to guard at all. This job is a joke.

She turns hard on her heel, walking away. To hell with it. If she’s stuck down here, she thinks grimly, she can at least explore. As useless as it is, at least those cells aren’t empty.

The air is like ice around her; the winter cold turned something subzero in the freezing hold of the underground stone. Each breath puffs like fog before her. In her armor, the metal is so chilled her fingers flex on impulse to get blood flow going. She turns down the twisting halls, eyes passing blind over the shadowy cells and water-rusted metal, the withered skeletons of the ruins of the ancient castle. She breathes in, breathes out. Nothing appears. Nothing happens.

Nothing’s ever going to happen.

Who is she even kidding? She’s going to be down here for hours, for days, for weeks. She wants to help but she couldn’t even see Rapunzel herself; the princess had to find a way to her instead. Rapunzel may be trapped in her room, but she already knows how to slip free— and Cassandra’s chains are so much tighter. She has so much more to lose.

And if things do go wrong, guess who’s going to suffer for it? Her, probably. Definitely. She loves Rapunzel, gods know she does, but so much of this mess is just—!

Why did she let Varian go? Why didn’t she ask them? Why hasn’t she explained? What little Cassandra knows of the labyrinth is just that—just the little. Just the bare minimum. She’s not asking for a play by play, but if Rapunzel is going to release known criminals, couldn’t she at least give a real reason? She’d said it was because it didn’t feel right, but what had that even meant? Feeling has no place in politics. No place in acting queen, or princess…

Even after everything, she’s still weak.

Cassandra stops mid-step.

She feels struck, stunned still by her own thoughts. Her hand rises to her head. A wave of dizziness overcomes her, shame like a blooming poison in her gut. The cold of the dungeon bites at her skin like a beast.

That’s… that’s a cruel thing to think. Sure, Rapunzel is a little much at times, but she’s been growing too, changing, becoming more and more sure of her place every day. More confident in herself, even if Cassandra doesn’t agree with all her choices. And—and Cassandra knows that, she understands that, so why—?

“…Cassandra? Is that you?”

She jumps, just barely avoiding dropping her halberd. She whips around, breath caught, weapon raised—and the confused face of a guard blinks back, almost bemused.

She stares at him, mouth open in shock—lowers her weapon rapidly, heat climbing in her cheeks. “I— sorry. You snuck up on me.” She pauses, abrupt. “Wait, what are you doing down here?”

The other guard frowns at her. “Cassandra, this is my post. Aren’t you stationed in the lower dungeons?”

“I…” She looks around, rapid, and realizes he’s right—the walls are lighter, the stink stronger. This isn’t her post at the lower dungeons. This is the first sector—the private prison, for top-priority prisoners, serious threats to the kingdom. Once upon a time, Varian had been kept in this sector, only one floor above her. When had she…? “Apologies. I got lost in thought.”

His scowl deepens. “Look, I know the demotion must sting, but that’s no reason to leave your post. What would the Captain say?”

Cassandra flushes, her lips pulling away from her teeth. “Look, I didn’t mean to—”

The guard is glaring.

Abruptly Cassandra remembers herself. She cuts herself off, breathing in deep through her nose. Her fingers clench white-knuckled under her gloves, curled tight and shaking around the halberd. “…No, never mind. You’re right. I apologize. It won’t happen again.”

She turns away hard before he can say anything more, marching off down the stairs. She doesn’t look back. The guard shakes his head and turns away, pulling the door latched behind him, back again at his post.

She leaves the private dungeon behind, and slams the door tight behind her. She walks quick, her stride furious. Her footsteps echo off the walls. Just like that: alone again.

Water drips uneven on the withered stone. The darkness slithers and seeps in the corners. The lanterns flicker. Unknown even to herself, Cassandra shivers once, and hugs her arms tight.

And in the darkness of a cell just out of view, someone else watches her seethe—and smiles.

“Oh, yes,” the prisoner says. Their voice is nothing but a hoarse whisper; their smile bares feral in the lanternlight. “I agree.”

Cassandra opens the final door, the exit to the prison floor. A sharp, foul gust of air howls through. The lantern flickers. For one shining moment, the prisoner’s eyes glint bright and green.

“She’ll make a wonderful disciple.”

For a moment, Varian doesn’t understand what he’s hearing.

He stands there, before the market stall, hands cold and heart growing colder; the screams, distant, are indistinct to him. It could be cheering, he thinks. It could be celebration. It could be nothing at all.

Except then Yasmin grabs his arm and yanks him back, and people have started to run, and then all at once he hears a boom like thunder and sees shrapnel fly, and he thinks—cannons—and he realizes.

The harbor is under attack.

A whisper drifts by his ears, paranoia crystalized to reality. The wind hisses like a curse. I warned you, child. Now it is too late.

The ground rocks with the force of the explosives; Varian stumbles sideways and just barely keeps to his feet. He can hear laughter, distantly, in the crowd, faint above all the screaming, mingling with the shrieking steel of sword against sword as the guardsmen of Port Caul rush in. But that doesn’t make sense, he thinks—how could it all happen at once, so soon? Or had these attackers planned this, had they snuck in with the market crowd and waited amongst the people for the attack to begin?

Another blast of cannon fire shakes the stonework, cutting his thoughts short. This time Varian isn’t so lucky—he falls hard on his knees, unable to stand on the shaky ground.

A hand grips his arm, nails digging into his shoulder—Yasmin drags Varian to his feet, supporting him against her. In the alchemy stall, the owner has vanished. Varian lists sideways in her hold. “What—”

“Pirates,” Yasmin hisses, and they both stumble when the ground rocks again. Cracks line the street. “I knew they were getting bold, but this is—!”

The jeering grows louder, closer to them. Yasmin pulls him up to his feet, and this time Varian needs no instruction. The pound of blood in his ears, a looming threat coming ever closer—he knows this feeling, this metallic tang in the air.

The labyrinth has etched this lesson into his bones.

He runs, and Yasmin runs with him. The crowd, once comforting, has turned confining; bodies shifting like a living thing, people on the ground, someone crying. Varian shoves his way through, trying to get away. A piercing scream makes him falter, then push on, but Yasmin turns back, vanishing momentarily in the crowd.

Varian stumbles, stopping too, turning back less because he wants to and more on instinct. Panic coats his tongue. He pushes through the mill of people, searching—and finds Yasmin on the ground, kneeling down to help someone up.

“To your feet!” Yasmin is saying, pulling the poor bystander upright. “Hurry! Get others off the ground! We will all be trampled at this rate.”

“Yasmin—!”

“Boy, what are you standing there for? Go hide!”

“I—” He wants nothing more than to run, but her moment of altruism has sent a cloud of shame through him. She’d stopped at the screams and cries for help. He had not. “I can, I can help—”

“I think not.” Yasmin grabs his arm, pushes him away; the crowd swells and ebbs around them. “Go to the buildings, you are small, hide by the crates—this crowd will kill you if the pirates don’t get there first, now hurry and—”

A shrieking sound rets the air, the awful screech of metal sliding against metal. Yasmin cuts herself off, whipping around; Varian stares over her shoulder, numb and horrified. There is a body in armor fallen to the ground, and red smeared across the cobblestone. Above the body there is a pirate, pale like a fish’s belly and smiling with teeth like tombstones, pulling free a crude sword dripping with blood and gore.

Varian claps a hand over his mouth, bile sour in his throat. The sight of blood makes his head spin. He’s never—he’s never seen someone die before, he realizes. Not like this. Not so brutally. He’s never…

Yasmin grips his arm so tight her hand spasms, hard enough to bruise. The pain grounds him, and Varian pulls his eyes away from the dead guardsman with difficulty, swallowing back the sick. Yasmin tugs him behind her, as if to shield him, and herds him back as she steps away from the scene, moving out of the pirate’s line of sight slowly and silently—

And the money pouch in her pocket, still untied and hanging out from her pocket from when she’d opened it, minutes ago, to pay for Varian’s alchemy ingredients—dips, opens, and spills bright golden coins all across the street in a clatter.

Yasmin freezes, her eyes going wide and horrified. Varian’s breath slams shock-still in his throat.

The pirate’s head snaps up. He stands, sword in hand.

He looks right in their direction.

Yasmin says a foul word in a language Varian doesn’t know, grabs his arm, and turns to run.

Varian scrambles to follow, his heart stuck in his throat. He can hear the pirate behind them, beginning to laugh, cackling with a bright and bloodthirsty sort of glee, drunk on something far worse than wine. “Pretty lady!” the man coos over the screams of the crowd and the cannon fire. “Pretty lady, you look like you might have gold!”

“Fuck,” Varian says, distantly, and then Yasmin shoves him into an alleyway. Crates and barrels and open buckets of produce line the dirty side-street, and despite the lack of people it’s nearly a maze to his eyes. Varian dodges crates and spilled fruit, following Yasmin’s sprint best he can—and he thinks, in that moment, he will make it. He can see the other side, the open street, and he is close, so close—

He bursts out of the shadowy alley into the sunlight—and then the ground tremors with a force more than cannon fire, and sends Varian crashing to his knees.

His vision flips. White bursts like stars behind his eyes. The ground rushes up to meet him and he catches himself badly on the stone, cobble scraping up his hands, the street rocking beneath his palms like a bucking horse. Small cracks break through the rock. He doesn’t understand. This can’t be from cannon fire. This is—this is—an earthquake?

He can’t see Yasmin anymore. His head is spinning. Varian pushes dazedly to his feet, and feels so turned around he falls right back down again. His breaths rasp distant in his ears. His hands are shaking. He gets to one foot and lists hard to the side, stumbling sideways until he falls heavy on the thick glass window of a shopfront.

Varian fumbles blindly for purchase, and his fingers catch on the window frame. He gets one hand on the shopfront wall and pulls shaking to his feet, standing hunched and wheezing in the burning daylight. The glass of the shop window shines cold in the sun. He looks beside him, and the shop window reflects back at him, a distorted image of himself. In his reflection he can see the blood on his face, the shadows under his eyes. The fear and confusion clouding his expression.

And behind him. Behind him—

The man. The pirate. Blood on his coat and a smile like death. He is still laughing. Still standing. It’s as if the earthquake hasn’t touched him at all. His eyes burn green in the windowpanes. His hand is raised, and his sword glints bright in the winter sun.

Varian should run. Varian should fight. He doesn’t, though. He can’t. He feels cold. He feels frozen all the way to his bones, all the way to his navel. Like an icy cord has been pulled taut—like a hand on his neck, holding him in place. A weight in the air that is more than fear… an anticipation that is almost supernatural.

All those dreams. All those sleepless nights, trying in vain to fight the exhaustion and the dark. All those whispers in his ears. The memory of it chokes him. The memory holds him still.

The pirate lifts his blade. In the window, Varian’s reflection shimmers like a ripple effect. For a moment, someone else stands in his place. A woman, terrible in her familiarity, with stone-dark skin and eyes glowing yellow like a moon.

Hello, child.

The pirate swings.

Did you miss me?

His right hand is searing with pain. His veins feel like molten metal. The world flashes white, and the pirate’s laughter, behind him, cuts off into a scream.

And like something from Varian’s deepest nightmares—the black rocks begin to grow.

They come out of nowhere: the dark rocks bursting all at once, a starburst of deadly intent. They spear through the cobblestone like a hot knife through butter, crisscrossing and tearing up and down the street in a deadly wave. Dust bursts up in the air like a fog, the streets turned to rubble and ruin. Through the distant ringing of his ears, Varian can hear the rising screams like a final curse.

In the mirror, the Moon smiles. The icy touch at the back of his neck burns like a brand. His hand spasms with a pain white-hot and bleeding, and Varian drops to his knees.

His vision whites. Exhaustion hits him like a physical blow, the drain so sudden it makes his head spin. He blinks, and then—just like that—she’s gone. It is just him in the mirror, now. Just Varian, staring wide-eyed and horrified at his own reflection, blue eyes gone empty and cold with remembered terror.

“—get up!”

A hand pulls at his shoulder, and Varian fights on instinct, struggling to pull away. His limbs are weak, his body aching—he bites back a sob and tries to throw himself back. He hears someone curse.

“Boy, snap out of it! We need to go!”

At last, familiarity seeps through. That voice. He recognizes it.

“Varian!”

Yasmin.

His eyes clear, and he finally recognizes her. Her grip on his arm is almost bruising in its force. Her eyes are wild. There is blood on her cheek.

“Hurry!”

This time, when she pulls him up, he does not fight her.

Varian stumbles to his feet, wavering back and forth. He feels very far away. He feels like he’s drowning. He’s barely breathing at all.

Yasmin is running. Yasmin is dragging him with her. The satchel thumps heavy against Varian’s side like a promise, or a reminder. His hand hurts, but the pain is fading, needle-like piercing turned to dull aching. He feels cold. He feels so cold. He doesn’t want to know.

He looks behind him anyway.

People are crying. People are still screaming. It rings in his ears like the distant toll of a bell. Smoke and dust cloud in the air and drift soft like a fog onto crumbling streets. People are lying still. People are lying silent. He cannot see the pirate at all.

There are rocks, too. Black rocks torn through the ground like a spiny crown, ripping apart the streets. They are everywhere. They are tearing through the city like they once tore up his home. Needle-like and deadly, and each and every last one of them is pointing right at the sea.

His hands are numb. He feels so cold. In the back of his mind, he can hear laughter on a distant breeze, and for the first time he’s not sure if it’s only a memory, or perhaps something more.

Something worse.

Hello, child.

Varian looks away.

In a grand ship by the eastern coast, Lady Caine watches the distant sprawl of Port Caul go up in smoke.

Her hand is outstretched, reaching—her fingers curled as if to grasp the air itself. Her lips have peeled back from her teeth; her dark scowl cuts into her pretty face. The ship is empty but for her, her crew gone out to battle—armed only with their swords and a spare vessel for cannon fire. She is alone here. She is the only one watching. The only one to see exactly when the battle started… and the only one to see how it ends.

It is only Lady Caine that sees the rocks rise up, black towers hanging heavy over the city skyline. Only Lady Caine that sees her crew fall back to the sea, their numbers gutted, their white shirts turned red from bleeding.

She drags her hand away from the water, and her scowl turns to a snarl. She watches, white-knuckled and furious, as the black rocks rise up over the city. Tens upon tens of deadly spears, that lethal black stone slanted and sure, each and every needle-tip edge pointing right towards Lady Caine in her ship.

“Is that a threat?” she hisses, and turns away from the sight, pacing furious across the deck. “No one said the gods would be involved.”

She pivots on her heel, the wind whipping at her hair. Her eyes fix bright and poisonous on Port Caul. Her muttering darkens. “What happened to the Moon being too weak to make an appearance, anyway? I thought she needed a conduit for that. But that fucking moonstone is gone, and all reports say she’s an avid hater of mortals, so how…?”

She trails off, the words falling short. Her pacing stills. She holds herself tall and stiff in the shine of the winter sun, and her hands clench tight into fists. Her nails cut deep in her palm.

Something shudders across the deck. A shadow, a cloud over the sun. The boat creaks and groans like a rusty hinge. Frost crawls along the side of the boat. The wind whispers. Lady Caine closes her eyes in thought.

“Maybe,” she murmurs, the rage falling slowly to contemplation. “Maybe she did choose a mortal vessel. For some reason. Against all reports of her personality.”

A pause. Lady Caine tilts her head.

“And, say, if the Moon did choose a conduit...”

Her eyes open. She looks at Port Caul with fresh eyes. She traces the path of the black rocks. That deadly slant. That unbreakable sword. Those cruel, uncontrolled towers, and the unerring accuracy of their direction, the blade pointed right at her.

Slowly, surely, Lady Caine starts to smile. She watches as her men flee like cowards, running from the dark rocks like cities from a plague, and laughs under her breath. “Someone who can summon the dark rocks, hm…? Sounds like someone we could use.”

Another pause. She tilts her head. She turns to the shadows, to the empty air beside her, and smiles with all her teeth. In the midday shine, the green of her eyes nearly seems to glow.

“Well?” says Lady Caine. “What do you think?”

#tts #tangled the series #varian #rapunzel #rta #rapunzel's tangled adventure #tangled #cassandra #eugene fitzherbert #tangled varian #tangled rapunzel #iza fanfic #fic: labyrinths of the heart #fic series: the long road back to home #fic: faults of the mind

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