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jinxhallows · 1 year

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Uninvited [ The Finale Part 2 ]

Uninvited. a short-ish series ft. Felix, Chan and Hyunjin (& a sprinkle of Jisung for a little razzle dazzle)

cw: 100% AU, afab reader, blood and gore descriptions, ritual self-bloodletting, supernatural creature themes/tropes, vampire theme/tropes, hybrid theme/tropes.

word count: 6.0k (woo dis a big boi!)

Part I - click here

Part II - click here

Part III (explicit content) - click here

Part IV - click here

Part V (explicit content) -click here

Part VI -click here

Part VII - click here

Part VIII - click here

Part IX - click here

Part X - click here

The Finale Pt. 1 - click here

-- SO IT HAS COME TO THIS. THE END OF THIS JOURNEY. I love each and everyone of you that took the time to read my story. This was so much fun! I really enjoy AU writing and supernatural tropes. Please be kind to yourselves ! <3

**taglist <3 (If I missed anyone let me know! it wasnt on purpose i tried to comb all my posts and make sure )

@planetdemon ; @a-person-with-void ; @haleyms ; @wonhottcakes ; @hydroyaksha ; @just-randomm-stuff ; @sooinvu ; @ninjaleeknow ; @thegoddessharmony ; @kittycatkrissa ; @ominous-crow ; @sikebishes ; @strawberriesandknives ; @violetpenguinkris ; @koovvie ;

-----

The Final Chapter (Part Deux)

“Don’t peek!”

“I’m not peeking, I promise.”

“I don’t believe you.”

You press your fingers together firmly resting them against Chan’s eyes as you guide him past the large cardboard boxes that were stacked alongside the walls, a few sit on the floor in the middle of the bedroom. You’re penguin waddling behind him and end up almost tripping.

“Hey! You’re supposed to have hybrid coordination here!” You chide as he laughs.

“I’m a hybrid, I’m not Superman!”

You make a face, even though he can’t see it.

“What’s Superman got to do with your garbage coordination when your eyes are covered?”

Although Chan’s placement is perfect for the surprise, right in front of the bathroom sink and facing the mirror; he can’t help the dismay at your question and he grasps your wrist, slowly removing your hands as he turns to face you.

“You don’t know Superman has x-ray vision?” He almost looks hilariously disgusted with you.

“Syu-puh-man yourself into the mirror and look at all my hard work!” You mock as you spin him by his shoulders to the sink.

“Are you making fun of my acc--” Chan finally faces the mirror, but pauses instantaneously, barely recognizing the beast reflected in front of him. He hadn’t had such dark hair in ages.

“Do you love it?” You say with a wide grin.

“Little witch I--” he runs his fingers through the deep brown, black hair. It was textured in its naturally wavy state after being freshly washed and towel dried.

“It's been so long... I love it.” He shakes his shaggy hair out, his bangs falling perfectly on his forehead. He looks so innocent and unsuspecting like this, especially with his new color. “Do you know how difficult it was to keep that blue? God...” he scoffs, and you giggle as he wraps his arms around you. He’s wearing dark pajama pants, and you’re comfortable in an oversized gray tee and an extra pair of his sweatpants.

“Well, you’re welcome.” You smile as his embrace tightens and he kisses your lips once, twice, before nuzzling his nose into the fine hairs that had escaped the front of your scarf, right by your ear. His breath tickles your jaw and neck.

“God I’m so glad you’re back.” he murmurs into your skin.

You can hear the pain in his voice. The whole lot of you were traumatized from the entire ordeal. Others carried this weight near-seamlessly; Hyunjin being at the top of that list if it were to be listed from best to worst at displaying a false mask of composure and balance.

It had been a little over a week since you and Jisung made it back from purgatory. Other than the gaps in knowledge that Hyunjin had about modern living, he appeared to be coping alright. He remained to himself, or in Felix’s study.

The next best person at hiding their trauma was, you guessed it, Felix.

He isolated himself, so he only truly had to keep his cool for brief moments in the company of others. You two had a few private conversations over the last few days. Sometimes, you’d notice his eyes glass over as he would disassociate. When asked about it, he would firmly insist he was alright and just dealing with the emotional aftermath of the incident, in such a self-aware way, that it would easily ward off any further intrusive questions.

Chan was where the scale began to tilt. Not only was he coping with the situation in his own, unique manner---he was also coping with the fact that he was going to be a father, in the most impossible of ways, and he was feeling all sorts of emotions he hadn’t felt in an extremely long time; and quite a few he had never felt at all prior to now.

It was Chan who pioneered the decision for them to move out of the estate they had been on for hundreds and hundreds of years. Through an old mutual supernatural friend of he and Jisung, they had secured a home on several acres about 4 hours away. Chan agreed to it right away, without even viewing it. He simply wanted to uproot the household and mask their whereabouts as swiftly as he could.

As far as he was concerned, you all could collectively figure out a forever home after the child arrived. The safety of all was his top priority.

He kept his ability to bring the spirits of others up, but he barely honored his daytime deaths, instead opting to stay up and vigilant. The events were trying on his psyche, and sometimes he would break, at night. You’d hear him crying, softly; sometimes you would feel what felt like a kick in your stomach (though according to mortal fetal development cycles, you were far too early to be experiencing such phenomena). It would wake you from your slumber and you’d sluggishly crawl across the bed to where he sat on the edge. You would wrap your arms around him, and hug him tightly, kissing the back of his head as he cried. Oftentimes you would cry too, but you would bite back your sobs, your nose pressed against his silken hair as you’d grip him tighter still.

Not only was Jisung’s ability to conjure severely affected by crossing the lines between the dead and the living an added time—he was experiencing a strange bout of dizzy and fainting spells that Felix was still trying to get to the bottom of. Until he was back to his full health, Chan didn’t feel comfortable allowing him to be alone at his home. Without the level of conjure he held prior, Felix also noted that the protection around the perimeter of his home might have new vulnerabilities.

Jisung refused to leave the guest room unless it was necessary. He felt extremely vulnerable the way he currently was and busied himself sick trying to find a solution alongside Felix.

You hadn’t escaped psychologically Scot free yourself. You suffered from nightmares of an unknown origin that you were trying to keep under wraps from the others. When Chan would ask why some days you would wake up in fear, nearly springing from the sheets, you simply blamed it on PTSD; which was half true.

The other half of the truth was that in the nightmares, you couldn’t see much, it was as if you had been blindfolded. You always heard the same two muffled voices, but it never became clear enough to decipher. What was ingrained deep within you from the visions was the fear and hopelessness that you felt. It was as if everyone had abandoned you, all at once. The darkness was overwhelming and began to make you feel so trapped you’d grow sick to your stomach, oftentimes, the nausea carrying over into your waking life.

Today was no exception. At the break of Dawn, you feel yourself growing groggy. You had been more tired than usual, but of course, this was how things went for pregnant women, right? It didn’t feel misaligned, the symptoms you carried. You fall asleep, feeling the peace of your body being put to rest. Yet what feels like only mere moments later, you blink your eyes open and see darkness.

You feel the rough fabric that’s tied tightly over your eyes. Your heart rate quickens, and you strain to hear the exchange of voices happening right in front of you.

‘...onl...ay’

‘br...a...store....power’

You capture a full word for the first time since your nightmares began.

Power

---

You end up getting a bit more rest than you had expected, which was a welcome recharge to your system. You don’t mention the context of your nightmares, or the full word you managed to catch last night. It would only make Chan more protective, Felix more curious, Hyunjin more stressed, and Jisung more terrified. You could tell everyone, hell even yourself included, were waiting for the other shoe to drop. Chan had told you in the entirety of his life, he’s never felt safe, things have never been normal. Ever.

So, for now, you keep your mouth shut and enjoy the cool, night breeze on your face as you have your passenger side window rolled down. You smell the Northeastern Atlantic Ocean shores, only yards away, the moonlight reflecting off the moving water. As Chan drives further, the tree line gives you brief glimpses of the ocean, but it’s clear, you’re heading far in the opposite direction of it. The forestry thickens and you soon smell damp moss and rotting wood more than the coastal sealine.

Hyunjin is sitting in the backseat, also staring out the window, his facial expression blank. He couldn’t shake off the feeling of being trapped in a world he didn’t understand.

“So, this is it? This is where we’re going to live?” Hyunjin asks, with a hint of sarcasm.

Felix, who’s sitting alongside Hyunjin in the roomy SUV, speaks up. “It’s a roof over our heads. It’s a start.” He replies coolly.

“We’ll make it work, Hyunjin.” Chan says, glancing in the rearview mirror at his fire-haired brother. “We always do.”

“We’re a family. We’ll figure it out, together.” You add softly.

Hyunjin doesn’t reply, but the tension in his shoulders relaxes slightly. You all drive in silence for a while, each lost in your own thoughts.

Finally, Chan breaks the silence as the car slows down on the dirt road. “We’ve been through a lot, but we’re all here now. We’re going to make a new life for ourselves. We don’t really have a choice but to move forward now. “

“Anyway then, here we are.” Chan twists the keys in the ignition and the low rumbling of the engine stops. It’s so silent, you could hear a pin drop at least a mile away. You lean forward, glimpsing the large, Victorian style dwellings. Your eyes are immediately drawn to the thick vines that seem to be growing out of every crevice. The moonlight casts an eerie glow on the overgrown plants, making the house seem almost...alive.

You can feel the discomfort in the car as Chan, who was driving, and Jisung, who’s in the backseat, exchange a look of concern. You can see the dust on the windows and the cobwebs in the corners of the house.

As you step out the car with everyone else, you can’t shake off the feeling of unease. The house seems ancient, and it’s clear that it hasn’t been lived in for a long time; but Chan and Jisung’s friend had assured them that it’s a safe location, and you trust them.

You try to put your feelings aside and focus on the task at hand, but as you walk up the creaky front steps, you can’t help but wonder what kind of secrets this old house holds. Chan wriggles the knob, expecting it to open, but to no avail.

“Hold on.” Jisung emerges, wrapping his slender fingers around the rusted knob. Without turning, you can hear the locks inside of the door turn slowly, as if there was someone on the other side. The way it opens, dust falling from the frame, you begin to second guess this decision to yourself once more.

“There’s no way you sprung me to live like this...” Hyunjin says, walking inside and glancing at the peeling paint on the walls. The rooms are large and empty, with no furniture anywhere. The floors are wooden, and a dark, cocoa color.

“Brother, we’ve lived in worse.” Chan says, his hands in his pockets as he walks forward, looking up and surveying the large chandelier that hovers in the foyer. He looks down at the rug underneath his feet and taps the spot with his toe.

“This is a recipe for a D-List horror movie accident just waiting to happen.” He notes as you join him underneath, slipping your arms around his waist, squeezing the fabric of his fleece jacket between your fingers as you also look up at the chandelier.

“It's almost a full moon.” You say with a grin, kissing him and moving on to explore the rest of the house yourself.

“Yeah?” Chan follows behind you, now that you’ve piqued his interest.

“Yeah, you get really paranoid about things the closer it gets, I’ve noticed....” Your voice trails off as you run your hand over an old hallway display cabinet. Dust clings effortlessly to your fingers, and you brush them against one another to scatter it away.

“You don’t think there’s any way Edith could like...come back, for me...or the baby, or anything, right?” You blurt.

Chan’s brow furrows. “No. We sealed her soul in purgatory, little witch why—does this have to do with your nightmares?” Chan’s gears begin to shift as he puts two and two together.

“No! I--” You look around before lowering your voice, “No, I’m just still afraid. Can you blame me? I barely got out alive, and now I have to keep myself and this...thing alive--”

“This thing? That’s my child that’s...our child.” Chan’s voice softens. He realizes his fuse is shorter around the Full Moon and tries to maintain control. He normally doesn’t let it slip, but he was feeling out of sorts the last few days. “You let me worry about keeping you, and our child, alive.”

You’re a little taken aback at his tone, but you blame it on the oncoming Full Moon. The last one didn’t go as well as it should have, and after everything, his body and emotions were tense. He seems to notice the shift in your demeanor and runs his fingers through his dark hair, now styled back slick and straight. He sighs as he places both hands firmly on your upper arms.

“All of this, its gonna take some getting used to for me, for you, for everyone here. She could be a vampire, a witch, a wolf, or all three. My father was a hybrid, and I came out as a wolf. There’s no rhyme or reason to this it's just...a wildcard, really. It’s a wildcard. I feel like I’ve been given a second chance to get it right this time.”

You can feel the neediness in his voice, you see his eyes, begging, pleading for you to understand him, to validate his reasoning, experience and existence.

Your big, bad wolf.

“Did you say...she?” You tease.

He’s caught off guard as you laugh at his expression.

“Did I? I said she? Did I really?” He asks in disbelief. “I didn’t even notice.”

“Do you want a little girl? Do you think you can handle that?” You say with a cheeky grin.

“No, absolutely not! That’s why I can’t believe I said it!” He touches his lips and looks at his fingers, as if the answer would be splayed on the tips.

“Hey lovebirds, it’d be nice to have some hybrid strength for some of these boxes, yeah?” Jisung slaps the doorframe that he’s looking out from behind as he hoists his box higher against his body to get a better grip. He takes it into the living room and sets it among the other boxes that Felix and Hyunjin had managed to use their unnatural speed to build up.

They didn’t bring everything from the old house, only enough to be able to live comfortably for a little while. The family estate was in their name and would always stand where it was built; but that area couldn’t be considered secure. People over the centuries had been guests, although there had been no disturbances, folks in certain circles close enough knew where they laid themselves to rest.

You were barely pregnant, and certainly felt strong enough to help. Your speed wasn’t up to par like theirs, nor was your coordination, but you had little boosts every now and again. You glance into the trailer attached to Chan’s truck. Figuring out that you could carry a box or two, you grasp one and make your way back up the creaky stairs and into your new home.

Chan’s about to approach you, to chastise you for doing too much, when Felix stops his brother, arm across his chest.

“Let her do something for herself, you can’t control everything, brother.” The white-haired vampire murmurs in an intimate tone. “You’ll drive yourself mad trying and drive her away in the process.”

Chan takes a few steps back, watching as you set the box down in the middle of the room and stand up, feeling more winded than you usually were. You shake it off and head back outside to join the others.

“I can’t escape the notion that something isn’t right, brother.”

Chan crosses his arms across his chest, the sleeves of his deep navy fleece jacket rolled up to his elbows as he stands beside Felix, near the staircase in the foyer. Hyunjin zips back and forth so fast, only the sound of his rustling clothing and dropping boxes can be heard. Jisung is struggling to carry heavier boxes, to get you to not worry about them. You find yourself stumbling along Jisung, trying to capture the other end of the boxes that were too heavy for him alone to conquer.

Felix watches everyone too, his arm resting against the wooden, curled start of the banister.

He wants desperately to disagree; but the brothers knew how their undead lives worked. Now they had a pregnant witch descendant of one of the most powerful clans in the world in their midst.

Felix chews the inside of his lower lip as his brain begins spinning the webs it always spun when it came to strategizing. He answers his brother, barely above a whisper.

“It’s not.”

Chan glances over his shoulder at his younger, pureblooded vampire brother. “Has something been ailing you?”

“The bloodlust.” Felix never takes his eyes off you all milling about, despite Chan boring holes into the side of his skull. “Normally I keep myself well fed, the blood of a witch, the blood of your little witch, it’s tempting but...” Felix’s gaze breaks as he glances down at the floor. His index and thumb rub against one another anxiously.

“The reason Hyunjin and I have stayed out of the way isn’t because of what happened. Well maybe, possibly for him but the bloodlust, it just feels almost out of my--”

“Shit!”

You wince, ripping back your hand from the edge of the box where you had just accidentally sliced the side of your palm with the box cutter. The box cutter clatters to the ground as you grip your wrist, sucking in air through your teeth. You’re pinned suddenly to the ground and look up to see Hyunjin’s eyes, an emblazoned amber, his sclera an ugly shade of blood red as he breathes heavily.

There’s no time to embody enough strength to let out a terrifying scream, as Hyunjin's body is violently propelled across the room and Chan is kneeling beside you, breaking the skin on his wrist and lifting your head enough to feed you his blood. You drink, chest still heaving with adrenaline as you observe Felix, holding Hyunjin up by his fingers tightly enclosed around his throat as the youngest brother thrashes against the wall. The wound on the side of your palm closes itself up as you close your eyes from the sights of it all and continue drinking.

Jisung’s hand lay against Hyunjin’s forehead like a priest performing an exorcism. With nothing but pure, ancient magick, Jisung sends a voltage-like stream of energy through Hyunjin that immobilizes and renders him unconscious; and afterwards, he crumples to the ground, powerless. Felix flits away in the blink of an eye, Hyunjin over his shoulder.

As Chan is overseeing everything and allowing you to heal, he suddenly feels a sharp stab from your mouth.

“Hey, hold on a sec...” He coaxes you from the blood spilling from his wrist, and he looks closer at your teeth, covered in blood and saliva, as you breathe heavily from the consumption of power. The tips of your canines were thinner, with a sharper tip. You had felt overwhelmingly in need of his blood for a while now, and you didn’t know what cravings you were dealing with until you had tasted it like this once more. You were dizzy with how good it felt. It soothed a need inside of you.

“Your teeth, little witch--” Chan says in disbelief and concern as he glances over to Jisung, still unconscious on the floor. In a split-second decision, Chan crawls quickly over to Jisung, placing his head into his lap and re-opening his wrist wound to feed Jisung and hopefully bring him back. You’re busy licking the blood from off your lips and fingers as you quietly watch them. You feel feral, but not in a good way. You feel impulsive, and your emotions are now rising to an uncomfortable place.

Jisung stirs awake groggily, coughing and spitting the excess blood on the floor as he pushes himself up to sit and look around, regaining his breath once more.

“Shit how long was I out for?” he asks Chan as he’s helped back up to his feet.

“A minute, maybe two at most.”

“What the hell was that? That wasn’t normal bloodlust, veins were popping out of his skull, he was being consumed by something else entirely.”

It's just like Jisung getting back to normal immediately after falling unconscious.

“It could be because of the baby, or how long he’s been in purgatory Jisung, I don’t know.” Chan drops his hands to his side in confused exasperation as he kneels next to you, helping you to your feet. Your carnal desires had weakened just a bit now that the aftershocks were settling in. You feel the fuzziness in your brain returning to clarity once more.

Felix is coming back down the stairs, and the four of you gather in the living room. He wipes blood from his fingers with his handkerchief as if it were a kitchen condiment.

“Little Witch, I need you to be honest with me, yeah?” Felix asks, looking directly into your eyes. “Have you experienced anything strange, or off since you’ve been back? Any foreboding feeling, visions, nightmares, hallucinations, cravings?”

You instinctively want to start out by lying, but with Felix’s ability to sense the shifts in your circulatory system; and Chan’s capability to literally smell your fear, you answer honestly.

“I’ve been having trouble controlling my powers and experiencing intense mood swings,” you admit, wringing your hands nervously. “I keep dreaming about being held hostage and hearing voices, last night they said ‘Power’. And to top it off, I’ve been having these cravings, like...I need to consume something that I know I shouldn’t.”

Chan doesn’t add that he witnessed fang like projections from your canines earlier. He decides to leave the others in the dark about it. You’re grateful, unaware of what it could mean for you.

Felix and the others exchange a look of concern, knowing the implications of what you just revealed. They were all well-aware of the dangers that came with pregnancy for a witch, especially when the witch in question was carrying a child of an unknown species.

“We need to keep a close eye on you, Little Witch,” Chan says firmly, his arm coming behind your waist from the side to pull you in. “We need to make sure that you and the baby are safe.”

“I don’t feel safe in an unprotected house, no matter what Minho told us.” Jisung says as he walks around the perimeter of the living room, observing the cracks in the walls, little scratches here and there.

Minho...

That was the first time you’ve ever heard that name before.

“He’s all the way in Russia, I don’t even know why you involved him in our mess.” Felix retorts. He’s now extremely cautious about what family friends they decide to include so closely into their lives. Anyone who joined them were at risk of death in any number of gruesome ways with the danger they attracted.

“You know the Lee family has safeguard housing up and down the East Coast, who else could deliver us enchanted real estate in a week’s time? Besides,”

Chan looks around, “Now nobody in America knows where we live.”

-----

The night before the Full Moon, the night of the Waxing Gibbous moon, progresses, and Jisung is busy using as much of his power reserve as possible to help with protection incantations and conjure to at the very least, make you all undetectable for a solid 3 weeks. With some rest, he could add catch-em's throughout the woods, to signal if anyone was encroaching upon them, and trap them until someone could investigate.

Three weeks would allow the brothers the time to procure a witch of substantial power to drain for the purposes of Felix and Hyunjin helping Jisung to finish the task. You didn’t allow yourself to use unnecessary magick until you could figure out what was going on with your body.

The energy of tomorrow’s Full Moon hangs heavily in the air, which was causing your powers to become increasingly volatile.

It turns out that you weren’t the only one becoming volatile.

The next night, you experienced not one nightmare.

Nothing.

In fact, you sleep quite well, the best you have had in ages. The large, four post bed in the room you and Chan chose is old, with its elaborate gold metal headframe but didn’t have a foul smell and had been covered with plastic. When you further examined the 6, close to 7-bedroom house, you discovered some rooms were furnished, and others left bare.

The loud bangs and clattering were what startled you awoke, followed by muffled voices yelling argumentatively. This house isn't as modernized as the former. The thick, heavy curtains that blocked out sunlight did the same for the moon and stars, unless you physically drew them back. The old place had fancy electronic drapes that rose and fell at the precise moment of sunrise and sunset.

You reach out and turn the bedside lamp on, rubbing your eyes as you stumble over to the curtains and draw them. The moon hangs high in the sky, big and full. You ran to the top of the stairs, clenching your robe closed, as you had little time to get yourself together.

Underneath the central chandelier in the foyer was the large wolf with fur blacker than souls that stir in the dead of night. Scraps of fabric were strewn on the floor, along with quite a fair amount of blood spattered along the walls and carpet. The wolf crouches down, readying for a predatory launch.

“Chan!” You shriek impulsively, covering your mouth when his yellow eyes snap at you, standing atop the staircase. He growls, a snarl from deep inside of his chest, and then he blows air from his nose, almost like a sneeze, backing up two paces with a whine before he’s off, out the broken front door at a speed far faster than an average wolf could manage, and into the night.

You run down the stairs and out onto the porch, but to no avail, he’s already out of your sight. The sounds of coughing and boards falling and creaking are what alert you to Hyunjin as he climbs out of the hole in the front porch, shaking the crumbled dirt and dust from his crimson locks and brushing his plum-colored button up, tucked into his black slacks.

“Well, that was a very rude way to say ‘no’.” he tilts his head to the right ever so slightly, and you wince from the crack that results from the realignment of his spine. “I guess I forgot how strong he was.” he murmurs to himself as he adjusts the cuffs of his sleeve around his wrist.

“Hyunjin, what the fuck happened to you last night? You nearly killed me, and the baby!” Your anger explodes in that moment, but didn’t you have every reason to? If bringing Hyunjin back means you were in more danger than before then maybe you were the only one capable of doing something about it...

You stop in your tracks from approaching him and physically shake your head to get rid of those awful thoughts.

You didn’t mean that.

Why did that even come up intrusively into your mind?

“You’re feeling it too, aren’t you, pretty witch?” Hyunjin hasn’t flinched from his spot, simply placing his hand into his pocket. He looks amused. “I’ve never seen you so fired up like this before. I kind of like it on you--”

You take in your breath and hold it to stop yourself from saying something impulsive.

“Hyunjin, think about what Chan can do to you, and magnify it by 300, I will wear your fucking insides as mardi gras beads if you don’t tell me what the fuck is going on—right—now.”

“You don’t have to sweet talk me that like to get information out of me, besides, I don’t know what the fuck is going on, alright? Christophe seemed to have transformed against his will and now he’s God knows where in this area none of us know anything about.” Hyunjin says crossly with his unique sarcasm.

“And I didn’t attack you on purpose, alright?” his demeanor shifts as he glances away, and you sense a little...worry? Sadness?

“I keep having these fucking...flashbacks of being sealed away. Those first few hundred years...I fought every, single moment I breathed. I – I bled out so many times, and would black out, only to come back impossibly weaker—forced to fight again, and again--”

“Hyunjin, I--”

You wordlessly bring him into a hug and his body stiffens at first, he doesn’t reciprocate.

“Pretty witch I can’t--”

His hands come up to embrace you in return.

“Pretty w-witch--”

His hands are quivering on your back, and you feel wetness seeping into your shoulder that makes you pull back and see the saliva dripping down his jaw, his fangs full and bright, needle sharp, just like Felix’s as he fixes his stare blankly ahead at nothing, his body beginning to slowly rock. He looks like he’s fighting a possession.

“Run.”

You take off down the porch stairs and into the woods.

You glance back as you run, the robe catching on the tree and ripping from your body. You manage not to stumble, but as you’re not paying attention, the remains of a hollow dead tree strike a gash in your shin that makes you cry out, hunched over, trying to keep some distance between you and whatever these wild creatures that you knew as close friends, family even, had become. This wasn’t them. You had to be hallucinating. You were in some nightmare. You stand to your feet again and come face to face with Felix’s hungry eyes.

“Are we playing a game, little witch?” he asks in a lively manner, with a disarming show of his teeth in an innocent grin.

“I win.”

Felix’s lips close, then turning into a smile that reaches his eyes, before he grips you up, his lips pressing against your neck, your pulse racing as you squirm against him, trying to manifest your strengths, your capabilities, your power.

“You smell like pure moonlight.” He says after taking a big whiff of your skin before you feel needlepoint fangs puncture your artery while you feel an icy heat emerge from your fingertips and onto his thigh that you were gripping behind your body. Felix yelps in pain, mutters mumbled profanity, and you hear the breeze through the branches as he disappears into the night.

You’re gripping your neck as its spurting blood all over the ground beneath you and you fall to your knees. You want to be strong; you want to cry out for help, but you blackout from the blood loss and pain from the venom, your body hitting the forest floor.

-------

“--manifesting differently in all of us--”

“-- dead!”

“--sealed her soul, you didn’t--”

You groan as you groggily open your eyes to see yourself back in the four-post bed of your room.

“She’s awake.” Chan exclaims at your bedside. You tilt your head to look at him and then sit up a little more.

He’s all human. All there. He’s cleaned up and well-dressed, which was a stark contrast to the beast you laid eyes on before you passed out.

You passed out.

You touch the side of your neck, but feel the skin totally healed. You move your head back and forth and feel no pain before you spot Felix sitting at the foot of your bed. Jisung is seated at an old desk to the right. Hyunjin is leaning against the window, staring up at the moon that continued its cycle regardless of what happened down here. It's a waning gibbous; at least the energy of the full moon had passed. You feel calmer, and the energy between the boys is subdued.

“Good, you’re awake.” Felix says as he lifts his head to look at you.

“First of all, about last night—I lost control of myself in ways I haven’t felt in hundreds of years. I can only remember what even happened through Jisung bringing my memories back. The last thing I remembered was Jisung and I in the woods, figuring out the lay of the land, and then, I smelled blood...I didn’t just, smell blood, I heard voices in my head. Collective voices like a swarm of bees, all telling me to follow it. The entire time I was fighting impulse and I couldn’t stop myself. I remember feeling a stabbing pain in my leg, and I tasted your blood on my lips and ran as far as I could with what little control I had.”

You listen to him, remembering what you could of the chilling events that occurred last night. The way he smiled at you, so friendly, so unassumingly, he could’ve taken candy from a baby with no consequence. This was only moments before he ripped a hole in your carotid artery.

“I’m sorry.” He murmurs.

“At least I gave her a warning.” Hyunjin shrugs as he continues to watch the trees blow in the wind.

“You call telling her to run headfirst into her death a warning?!” Chan snaps as he stands up, the chair he’s in scraping back against the floor with the haste of his aggressive movement.

You remember the conversation you had with Hyunjin last night before he told you to run, and you tug at Chan’s hand, shaking your head, signaling for him to stand down. He sighs as he reaches between his legs to pull the chair back and sits back down.

“How are you feeling? Is anything different?” Chan asks.

He wants to know about the baby.

“I’ve never been pregnant before but, I feel okay—a little tired but, nothing too crazy.” You grunt as you push yourself all the way up. “I guess this is what you meant by us never being safe, huh?”

Chan exchanges a glance with Felix, who stands to his feet.

“I don’t think there was a way to prevent this from happening, I don’t even know how it all works yet....”

You cling to each word as Felix speaks.

“I have a theory that Edith had a counterspell on her earthly remains. If they were ever to be destroyed, a curse is set loose to reign hellfire on those responsible, bringing out the worst in all of us. I don’t feel it at all today, neither do any of the rest of us. It must somehow work with the Full Moon.”

“Meaning its wolf-based?”

“There are other important things that happen during the Full Moon that don’t involve us.”

“I knew it! I knew she wasn’t gone!” You shove the blankets off of you as you stand up in anger, interrupting their discussion. You look at Chan. “You told me she was gone, you told me there was no way she could come back--”

“She is gone, and she won’t come back.” Hyunjin’s voice cuts between the room’s tension.

“If we can break the curse.”

End.

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blazing-spectre · 3 years

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Everyone lives AU my beloved

Reblogs over likes! :3

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yesimwriting · 3 years

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Anastasia (prologue)

A/n ive been talking about my Anastasia x SOC story for awhile and im finally ready to post the prequel,, ive also been working on some requests and thinking about my next multi-part fic (ive made some posts about it lol)

things to know before reading: i tend to like to make up my own countries when writing these type of politically/plot driven fics that revolve around a royal family bc i think it makes it not only easier to write but less confusing bc it takes out the issue of potentially conflicting with canon, so i made up the country ‘Anastasia’ is from,, this also follows the musical Anastasia a little more bc i feel like that version of the story is more mature and easier to write for SOC (the only difference is that not everyone is happy that Anastasia is alive and someone tries to kill her bc they hate the royal family)

Series Summary: y/n makes an unconventional deal with Kaz to save the life of her best friend. No one’s ever made a deal with the infamous Dirtyhands that resulted in them shedding the title of orphan from a revolution-torn country that can’t remember her life before the orphanage and taking on the title of Princess Anastasia. As time progresses, things are made more complicated as y/n has to deal with royals, revolutionaries, a grisha general who has a lot to gain from an alliance with a princess that doesn’t know what she’s doing, and potential feelings for a conflicted Kaz Brekker that has more to do with Anastasia’s disappearance than he’s ever admitted.

The world seems to be made up impossible things. Each day, people defy odds, strangers fall in love, the universe expands, and the Saints watch it all. I am not the kind of person to sneer at a miracle, to try to explain it away instead of acknowledging it for what it is.

But what this stranger is proposing is laughable.

I lean more into the chair, doing all I can to get away from the desk that he sits at. A nervous kind of giggle threatens to escape me, a laugh at the expense of the foolishness of the situation. If his demeanor was any less brooding, I would have already laughed at the irony. Kaz Brekker, the Dirtyhands, creating a ploy so colored by the fairytale notions of dreamers.

The longer I go without reacting, the worse this situation becomes. I haven’t seen Verne since Brekker and his people separated us. I can see the world of torment my eldest friend must be experiencing at this very moment while I sit at this desk.

“Me?” I’m the most ridiculous part of his plan. He said the only reason me and my partner are still alive is because I fit the general description of the kind of person he needs, and if I’m blackmailed into it he won’t need to waste kruge paying me. “A princess?”

He blinks, as uninterested and stoic as he’s been since he first ordered me into his office. “A pretend one,” his correction feels like a slight, “a surrogate one.”

My eyebrows furrow together. “But what--I know the odds of the real Anastasia coming back are beyond slim, but if we’re caught in a lie the Dowager Duchess of Avila will have all of us killed. She may be in Ravka now, and her title nothing more than decorative due to the revolution, but she still has people loyal to her.”

“Anastasia can’t come back.” The graveness of his voice is so certain a part of me has to wonder if he could have anything to do with her death. I dismiss the thought almost immediately, I don’t know his exact age, but he doesn’t look much older than me. He couldn’t have been more than two or three years older than Anastasia when she died, and she was a child at the time. “No one remains missing that long unless they’re dead.”

I awkwardly scratch the back of my wrist, “You’re the expert here.” No--I did not just say that out loud. “Sorry--I didn’t mean to say that out loud. Not that thinking it makes it any better, but at least then you wouldn’t know and I’d seem like less of an idiot and I wouldn’t be talking about it right now, and just rambling at a really inconvenient time for me to just...” I cringe slightly, opting to stare at his desk instead of meeting his judgmental gaze. “Sorry, again. Normally Verne is here, and he just kicks me in the shin or something to shut me up.”

“If you’d like to see what apparently is your only source of impulse control alive and in decent enough condition to kick anything ever again, you’ll agree to what I’m proposing.”

I straighten my posture slightly, nerves and guilt twisting in my stomach. “I’m going to be as transparent as physically possible.” The warning is for both of us, the urge to hide all my weaknesses bubbling in my chest. “Mr. Brekker.” That’s awkward--what am I supposed to call him? “I’m a university student that’s only in Ketterdam because of an academic scholarship. I’m from somewhere average--I’m not from a place nice enough to give me the manners I’d need to pass as a girl who spent her fundamental years growing up in luxury and I’m not from a place grimy enough to make me a quick enough liar to make up for what I don’t know.” I inhale slowly, ignoring the sting of the flaws I laid out for a cruel stranger. “I’m not particularly graceful or sly or talented in any field that someone like you would value. The closest thing I have to talent involves things that can be tracked on paper. I wasn’t even supposed to be here tonight, I was just doing a friend a favor.”

“You claim that you’re not a decent liar or a thief and yet your closest friend is one who believed himself talented enough to challenge me?”

I resist the urge to shrink back into my seat. “This is Ketterdam, you try finding someone that doesn’t dabble in crime and ambition.” He does’t reply to my retort, which I think means I won. “Cards on the table, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to save Verne, but you don’t want me for something like this.”

He pauses, jaw locked and eyes too stony for me to interpret. “Every flaw you just pointed out, every reason you think makes you unfit for this job, is exactly the reason I’m offering you this.” I keep a thousand questions to myself as I wait for him to continue. “Those used to lying lack the warmth that will be needed to sell this. The Dowager Duchess is a grandmother first when it comes to Anastasia, that’s why she’s offering so much gold. She, and the rest of the royals that desire to know what happened to Anastasia, want to believe the story I’m telling. If you present yourself as someone real and warm and you understand table manners enough to not disturb the serene picture they want, they’ll squint at ugly details until they disappear.”

Wow. I know that he’s intelligent, but what he’s constructing is so much more bullet proof than I thought it’d be. “I’ll admit you’ve constructed an airtight narrative.”

I know my approval means nothing to him, but it’s the most agreeable I’m willing to be. “A narrative the background you told me of fits perfectly.” I shouldn’t have answered all those questions he asked me earlier so honestly. “A child born in Avila who was sent to a Kerch orphanage due to a war-relief effort during the revolution. A faceless orphan who was found during the height of the revolution with no memory of anything before the morning she woke up in a hospital cot.”

I say nothing. My skin burns in protest of someone knowing so much about me. He must take my silence as a sign of me teetering the line away from what he wants, because he then says, “your friend is fortunate, if things aligned a little less perfectly he’d be dead already.”

Dead already. The words elate my heart in a way that pinches. He’s still alive. Verne is alive. “If I agree, you let me see him and then you let him go.”

“If you need a contract to believe me, I can have that arranged.” The words have an almost mocking edge. I guess it’d be a little ridiculous to get an official contract drawn up for something so small. “If you at any point change your mind, I’ll do the same.”

The threat is clear. I back out and Verne pays for it in blood. Verne’s safety is once again in my hand. This situation is much more precarious than Kaz Brekker wants it to seem. “You need me to do something that will literally last the rest of my life. Tiaras aren’t something you can slip in and out of.”

“Yes, I’m forcing you to give up a life in the slums for a palace for your friend’s life. This must be a difficult choice for you.”

I look down to avoid rolling my eyes. “It’s still permanent, and it’s large because at any point I could reveal the truth and take you down with me.”

“Remember who you speak to.” His voice has turned to pure darkness.

Don’t wince. Don’t wince. Don’t wince. “All I’m saying is that you’ve offered Verne’s life to buy my cooperation, but you have yet to mention the cost of my silence.”

His expression is sharp enough to draw blood. “The Dowager Duchess is old and sick, wait at most two years and you’ll have more gold than you could ever spend. The revolution took that family’s power, not the wealth the Duchess took with her to Ravka the night of the massacre.”

I shift awkwardly. “I’m not trying to get kruge from you for me.” I fold my hands neatly on my lap to avoid fidgeting. “Verne--he’s beyond desperate for kruge, that’s why he risked angering you.” The urge to shy away threatens to break my resolve. I think of all the times Verne has saved me. “Let him keep what he tried to take.” The request is awkward from my lips. I’m asking for more when I should should be grateful any type of mercy came from him. Any type of offer. “Half. Let him keep half.”

He’s silent for a long moment, weighing the implications of loss. “You’re already entitled enough to pass for royalty.” I don’t let myself shrink. “Deal, but not because you threatened me--try that again and you’ll find yourself wishing you had never left the orphanage you came from.” The relief is practically crushing. Verne is going to be okay. He’s going to live and my resistance earned him enough kruge to have a week or two without worry as he plans what he’ll do in my absence. “You better be as good a study as you made yourself seem to be.”

I don’t understand the second threat. “Studying?”

“You didn’t think you could wander into the Dowager Duchess’s home, use the excuse of amnesia to explain why you don’t even know your own mother’s name, and expect them to think you more than an Avilan orphan with a desire for wealth.”

“I actually don’t know my own mother’s name because of amnesia.”

He’s in no mood to be contradicted, glowering sharply, “not anymore, anything that doesn’t fit the narrative I’m constructing is no longer true.” He straightens slightly as he begins to pace away from me. “You’ll have five minutes with your friend and then we’ll see where your table manners are at. I know someone who knows enough to correct you.”

I try to picture where someone like him would meet someone that knows about etiquette. My mind provides nothing useful, but it doesn’t matter--I’ve agreed. It can’t be undone, not without having the blood of my dearest friend on my hands.

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otonymous · 4 years

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A Bolt From The Blue (MLQC Shaw - NSFW) - Part IV (End): Courage, My Love

Description: The final chapter. The Big Bang 😉 Warnings: NSFW/18+: Explicit/graphic language & mature themes — reader discretion is advised. Potential trigger warnings: physically aggressive behaviour, ex-boyfriends, angst, size kink, profanity, vaginal fingering and intercourse Word Count: 4237 words (~21 mins of thrills, real talk, fluff and smut) Author’s Notes: To all the lovelies who have been patiently following this story: you’ve made it! 🥳 Welcome to the final chapter in this Shaw saga, where we aim to go out with a massive bang (pun intended 😆). Once again, thank you all for every like, reblog, and comment I’ve received on this story. You are all amazing, and I appreciate your support! 💕

As always, tagging the lovely @op-peccatori — I hope you enjoyed this story! I certainly had lots of fun writing this! Please note the potential trigger warnings listed above, dear readers, and happy reading!

Jump to Chapter(s): One | Two | Three

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The quiet is back.

But there is no peace, no relief in the monotony that follows after the man known as Shaw burst into your life like a bolt from the blue, stirring up long forgotten feelings like dead leaves animated by a carefree wind — here one minute, gone the next.

And with each passing day, hope erodes.

Little by little, your heart learns not to race as the clock above the magazine rack approaches 1:30.

It becomes harder to remember the sound purple sneakers made walking through the store.

You stop hoping, wishing, to see a head of lavender hair; that the next person to approach the register would place a cup of Pepsi mixed with Coke on the counter, amber-eyed gaze speaking volumes without uttering a single word.

Days become weeks, and then eventually…

…you stop counting them altogether.

* * *

“You’re looking good. I see you’re doing well for yourself.”

He reaches for the jade pendant hanging around your neck, eyes flashing with amusement when you hit his hand away with an audible smack.

“What the hell do you want? Haven’t you already done enough?” You say through grit teeth, steps quickening as you head for the better lit part of the street, trying to outpace the man and silently cursing the fact that returning to the convenience store was no longer an option at this point.

“C’mon baby, don’t be like that. It took a lot of effort to track you down and I waited a very long time for you to get off work. It’s cold, dark and lonely out here. Is that any way to treat your boyfriend? Or friend, at least?”

“ ‘Ex-boyfriend,’ asshole, and you’re no friend of mine, especially not after the way you took my life’s savings and ran.”

“Baby, it wasn’t like that—”

“Oh yeah?! Did you try telling that to the loan sharks too before they came and trashed my place? I had to move, Leto, because it wasn’t safe for me anymore, not with the way they kept harassing me and the neighbours asking about your whereabouts. They even came to my office. I lost my fucking job. So don’t come around here and tell me that I’m doing well for myself.”

Breaking into a sprint, your mind races as you try to think of a way to lose your ex, anger and anxiety prickling every nerve in equal measure. He had ruined your life, singlehandedly taken away everything you had. And though you had known him once, desperation has a way of making monsters out of men.

And right now, for all you knew, he was desperate and dangerous.

“Please, I just want to talk. I don’t need much this time, just a little bit to get me through this rough patch. I’ll pay you back, I swear, just…just STOP FOR A MOMENT!—”

You shriek to feel Leto wrap his hand about your wrist, but before he could tighten his grip, another arm is thrown around your shoulder, pulling you back until you’re pressed up against a hard, muscular chest, staring at a close up of Snoopy riding a skateboard.

“You got business with my girl?”

That voice. Dangerous and cocksure, yet comforting like nothing else as the muffled words reverberate through the tiny bones of your ear, a prelude to the soothing ba-bump of his heart, rhythm steady and concrete as the ground upon which you stood.

Shaw.

He’s really here.

“Hehe. Your girl?” The derision in Leto’s voice makes you sick to your stomach; you can’t help but hold your breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop as he looks Shaw up and down, zeroing in on his old t-shirt. “Tsk, tsk. So, not only do you enjoy wearing second hand clothing, you also have the habit of picking up sloppy seconds?”

BOOM!

Deafening thunder rolls moments after a bolt of lightning rends the night sky in two, throwing a jagged spotlight on the fury written on Shaw’s face when he moves just as fast to grab a fistful of Leto’s collar. The muscles of his forearm bulge as he holds up the entirety of Leto’s bodyweight in one hand, the sky opening in a sudden downpour as your ex struggles in midair, rain dripping almost comically from dangling feet.

And when Shaw brings Leto’s terrified face up close, the ferocity in those amber eyes sends a chill up your spine.

“This is the last time you’ll ever talk to her, see her, even think about her. Or else I’ll find you and take my sweet time making you wish you were never born, do you understand me?”

Head bobbing in vigorous nods, drops of water fly off the tips of Leto’s rain-slicked hair. Seemingly satisfied, Shaw tosses him onto the ground at your feet, voice low yet audible as it cuts through the din of the storm when he says, “Beg for her forgiveness.”

The fear in his expression almost palpable, Leto looks between you and Shaw — cowardice etched onto features you had once found so pleasing a lifetime ago. He prostrates himself onto the wet pavement, voice cracking in between sobs as he yells over the sound of the rain:

“P-please…please forgive me! I’m a piece of shit! I’m nothing, I’m garbage! I…I deserve to go to Hell for what I did to you! I-I’m so sorry! Please forgive me!”

Leto reaches out a shaky hand towards your soaked shoes before he remembers Shaw’s warning, but it is too late. Black combat boots hit the concrete hard within an inch of Leto’s face as Shaw stoops, yanking back a fistful of hair and pulling until your ex is looking up at you like a pitiful supplicant begging for mercy.

“Satisfied?” Shaw looks to you as if he were asking about something as mundane as the weather. You nod, suddenly too tired to even speak. You wanted to wash your hands of Leto, wanted nothing to do with all that had happened since you finished your shift at the convenience store. All you could do was watch as Leto scrambled away on all fours the moment Shaw loosened his hold, running until he was nothing more than a speck of darkness merging with the night.

The rain is cold, wetness driving against your body to leech even the final bits of warmth from bone. Your clothes are drenched, heavy as they cling uncomfortably to skin. But you are too drained to care, lacking the energy to even notice when the dim light of the streetlamp above is blotted out — Shaw holding his leather jacket over your head in the place of an umbrella.

All you are aware of before your vision goes dark is the anxiety in his voice when he calls your name over and over again, how weightless it felt to be carried in the cradle of his arms.

How much you missed the scent you thought you had learned to forget.

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

“Finally awake, Sleeping Beauty?”

You opened your eyes to gaze into irises of warm amber, the situation similar to one you experienced before except for the fact that this time, you were the one lying in bed, staring at a man who sat on its edge, brows knit with concern beneath soft lavender strands.

“If you slept for any longer, I would’ve had to knock on your neighbour’s door.” Shaw chuckles but the sound is hollow, mirthlessness obvious like the blanched knuckles of his tightly clenched fists.

“What…how did we…” You begin, voice raspy as it dies, a sudden sharp pain in your throat making you wince.

And immediately, Shaw is on his feet, rummaging through cupboards in your kitchen until he finds a glass. You watch him run the tap, fill it to the brim. Feel the strength of his arm around your back as he holds you up, touch lingering even as you down the water in gulps to chase the discomfort away.

“You passed out not long after your douchebag of an ex ran off with his tail between his legs. I found your keys in your purse, so I let myself into your apartment — hope you don’t mind. Although, to be fair, I was also carrying you at the time, so it’s not really breaking and entering.”

Head feeling like it would explode as the events of the evening come rushing back, you turn towards him…slowly…slowly, afraid Shaw might disappear before your eyes should any movement prove too sudden.

Thank him. Now. Before he goes away again.

He is close, so close that you can count those long, beautiful lashes; almost feel the minuscule shifts in the air between you every time he blinks — those pupils encroaching onto gold as they expand and pulling you into their depths as they do.

“Why are you doing this?”

He doesn’t flinch at your question, and you can’t bring yourself to be shocked by the discrepancy between what you meant to say and the words actually spilling from your lips. And as the grey memory of days spent counting the hours of his absence settles like lead in the pit of your stomach, the only thing you knew was that your heart couldn’t survive latching onto this sliver of hope only to have it ripped away again.

All you wanted…was the truth.

“Because I can’t stand to see you sad anymore.”

There is no smirk to stretch across that handsome face, only pain that hurts your heart to see it. Resignation heavy in his voice, Shaw takes a deep breath before he continues.

“Turns out I’m weak when it comes to you. Selfish. I know I’m no good for you; there’s no future with me. I can’t give you anything, can’t even promise you tomorrow, but…I just can’t stop thinking about you. Wondering how you are. Whether you’re eating well, sleeping well. If you’re safe…happy.

“Tonight wasn’t supposed to happen. I just wanted to make sure you got home okay, that some asshole wasn’t going to hassle you at work. But then your ex showed up and when he tried to get fresh with you, well…I couldn’t let that slide.

“Listen, I don’t know what’s wrong with me but…I’m sorry, if I ever made you sad, if I scared you. I’m sorry for everything.”

His gaze drops to the rip in his jeans, the drip, drip of the leaky faucet the only sound in the ensuing silence of his confession. That is, until you say,

“I’m sorry too…that you’re such an idiot.”

His head whips up, brows furrowed and mouth slack as if caught in a rare moment of speechlessness. The shock makes him seem years younger, lending him an air of innocence that you couldn’t help but smile at.

“In case it wasn’t obvious, I’m a grown woman, capable of making my own decisions. I’m not so naïve that I don’t know what I would be getting into by being with you. You say you can’t promise me tomorrow, but tomorrow isn’t promised to anyone. All we can ask for — hope for — is the here and now.

“Love takes courage, as does life. But a life without love…it’s not much of a life, is it? So I’m willing to be brave if that’s what it’ll take for us to be together.”

As quickly as they came, the words are gone, leaving you cotton-mouthed and faint as your heart pounds to send the blood rushing to your ears. That could’ve been the only explanation as to why Shaw’s “I knew there was a reason why I loved you” sounded so muffled you had to ask him to repeat himself.

“Too bad, I only say things once.”

And there it is again: the spark in his eyes, smirk on those lips — igniting the fire you only allowed yourself to feel in dreams of his body on yours, skin to skin like kindling to flame.

“Are you that single-minded about everything?” You ask, the smile on your face mirroring his as it approaches closer…

“Only when it comes to not letting go of the one I care about.”

…closer…

“Tell me one thing.” Your voice is barely above a whisper.

…and closer still.

Lips now a hair’s breadth apart, the gentle rhythm of his exhalation blows soft upon your cupid’s bow; a shy request. Your vision is filled with him, wonderfully awash with colour — lavender, amber, the soft pink of his mouth — and you wished you were the very clothes upon his body; saturated in his intensity, dyed in his hues.

His eyes fixate on your tongue when you wet your lips before asking, “That night, when you were hurt so badly you passed out in my store…why did you still insist on coming in?”

Shaw’s breath catches, hitching in his throat. You know because you can feel it, the way the warmth stops short on your skin. And when he speaks, the eyes that hold yours tell you this is no lie.

“Because if it was going to be the last night of my life, I didn’t want to go without seeing your face one more time.”

Love is a funny thing. Formless, senseless, yet the strongest thing that could bind two strangers. You hadn’t known Shaw for long, could count the days you spent together on one hand. And still, entirely without reason, he bled into each and every hour, crept into the darkest corners of your mind to fill your weary heart with a desperation that made it very clear that love was far from done with you.

That right or wrong, the only place you wanted to be was here — held in the arms that wrapped around your body: hot, tight, safe…

…Shaw.

His lips are softer than you ever imagined when he brings his face to yours, plush silk gliding corner to corner to cover your mouth in reverent kisses — one for each night he came into your store, watched over you from afar.

Your stalwart protector.

You tasted it now, the remnants of cinnamon on his tongue from the gum he was so fond of chewing, intensified by the memory of all the times you wondered about its flavour: pink bubbles popping in his mouth as he coolly dealt with the robber, the night you emptied his pockets as your neighbour stitched him up on your bed.

Shaw tasted sweet. Far sweeter than you ever imagined.

And when his tongue slides against yours — slow and sure as it explores your mouth with increasing fervour before drawing back just as you clenched around emptiness, yearning for more, the beast within you refuses to abide.

You like the shock that passes over his face when you move, sudden and forceful, to push him onto the mattress beneath you; the artless way Shaw sinks teeth into his bottom lip in response. You like how he watches as you straddle his hips — gaze earnest and body honest, hardening as you grind undulating circles upon his groin.

But, perhaps most of all, you liked the spark of something wild in those amber eyes, an unpredictability warning that if you weren’t careful, you’d be the one to find yourself pinned to the bed.

Because wasn’t that ultimately the push-and-pull that characterized so much between you and him? Maddening at times, but always, always binding you to Shaw like some red string of fate.

So you nod when he whispers “May I?”, unable to suppress a moan to finally feel his hands on you: tracing along your jaw, cradling your face…resting the pad of his finger on your lip before pushing past to stroke your tongue.

Every sound he makes pleases; the soft hiss preceding the bob of his Adam’s apple to feel your lips pucker around his finger to suck, pink tongue enticing as it swirls along the length of that digit, drawing it deeper into the hot wetness of your mouth.

You never saw yourself as seductive before, but Shaw made you feel sexy. Perhaps the impulse stemmed from some primitive desire, an instinctive call to please the man you felt so profoundly for that shame was the farthest thing from your mind when you pulled his hand from your lips to guide it to your breast, only partially aware of how wet you were becoming from his gaze alone — half-lidded and heavy with lust.

The heat of his touch permeates your blouse, white and transparent still in patches from the rain. You watch his hands as they play: cupping your breasts in a gentle squeeze, thumbs and forefingers catching your nipples to pinch and roll until they stood stiff against the drape of your clothing, the flush of your flesh bold through fabric.

“You’re so beautiful that there are times I think you can’t possibly be real.”

His voice is low, husky. You let it wash over you, almost frightened by how stupidly happy you become, willing the magic to linger even as his words dissipate amongst the sounds of the night: neon buzzing and the faraway screams of sirens in the distance.

A world apart.

Your hands find the broad expanse of his chest, tracing along muscle before circling the nipples that stood erect against his damp t-shirt. Each twitch is endearing, every erratic breath he draws to feel your touch making you fall harder. And when he tries to focus on unbuttoning your blouse while fighting the impulse to tear it clean off your body, the stirring between your legs grows in intensity until he finally pulls the silken panels aside, a quiet gasp escaping his lips to see his necklace nestled between your breasts.

“It really does belong on you.”

The admiration in his tone is laced with a hint of possessiveness that makes you throb. Shaw pushes himself to sitting, gathering you onto his lap in one smooth motion as he buries his face in your chest, inhaling deep. You gasp to feel gentle teeth sink into the flesh of your breasts, Shaw following the chain of precious metal with his lips until it leads to the pendant. And when his tongue slips out to draw the piece of jade into his mouth, he brings your nipple along with it.

“Oh!…”

The sensation is unlike any you’ve known before, the soft wetness of his pliant tongue a searing contrast with the cool, smooth stone rubbing against the sensitive tip of your breast in equal measure. You feel his smile on your skin when you fist your hands into lavender hair, spine curving as your legs begin to tremble.

And he had yet to touch you below the waist.

“Your body responds so well to me. I knew you were a good girl.” He looks up at you, teasing shamelessly even as he continues to lavish attention on your breasts.

“Just your girl, if you’ll have me,” you say without second thought, long past the point of caring to keep your cards close to your chest.

Something breaks in that expression, the final walls crumbling like dust when Shaw blinks once…twice, revealing eyes that shine with emotion when he replies, “For the rest of my life, if you’ll have me.”

* * *

“Hmm!—”

Your moan is muffled, swallowed by Shaw’s greedy lips like he does with every sound of ecstasy that leaks like you do around his cock, buried impossibly deep in your body as it rocks back and forth, back and forth on his muscular thighs…

…doing your best to adjust to his ample size.

He had barely suppressed a chuckle when you first slipped your hand into his jeans, a subtle mix of pride and amusement on his face to see your eyes widen when you couldn’t quite wrap palm and fingers around the entirety of his girth.

And foreplay had only just begun.

“Still doing okay?” Shaw asks, touch tender as he brushes loose strands of hair from your eyes, lips smoothing along the apple of your cheek to feel its pink heat. “We can go as slow as you want, there’s no rush. If it’s too much, we can stop—”

“No! No…I’m okay. More than okay, I’m great. Please…please don’t stop…don’t stop…”

Struggling to string words together, your breath comes in disjointed pants as Shaw begin to thrust up — the look on his face effortlessly sensual when he bites his lip to feel you spasm around him, tight wetness yielding in increments to accommodate his body as it broke new ground.

For you had never taken a man of that size, the litheness of Shaw’s muscular body belying the impressive package he’d been hiding in those jeans. Your jaw ached just to look upon the length of that thick cock, mouth watering as a fresh wave of arousal made you press your thighs tighter together. The movement didn’t go unnoticed. Shaw had drawn you to him then — deft fingers dipping low to trace the outline of your swollen folds through moist panties, lavender head bending to kiss its lacy trim.

He took his time preparing you, licking his fingers before he eased them into your pussy — first one, then two…curling deep until the slippery sounds of arousal told him the time was ripe to introduce the third, leaving you blooming for him even as he whispered, “Think you’re ready for me to make you my girl for real?”

It borders on overwhelming, this sensation of fullness — between your legs, within your heart. And as skin stretched to capacity to accommodate the sweet friction of his slide, you wished there was a way for the euphoria of this connection to last forever:

To the one you could never forget, no matter how hard you tried.

To this man you loved like no other.

“Shaw.”

His name is faint on your breath when he falls back onto the bed, taking you with him. And as you found yourself straddling his hips once more, the altered angles of your bodies gave him the leverage to make you gasp when he begins to thrust in earnest. The eroticism of his face, lost in lust, drives all thoughts from your mind as you drop a hand to your clit, fingers drawing tight circles before his hungry eyes.

The violence of your climax takes you by surprise, having no time to consider neighbours and thin walls as the lewdest sounds escape your lips at high volume. Intense convulsions wracking your body in waves, you clench in time around your lover. The sensation proves too much to bear, drawing out Shaw’s own release as he pulls out to spill onto the folds of your pussy — swollen and pink and trembling still beneath the coat of his pearlescent seed.

* * *

“I love you.”

Morning light trickles across your walls like the slow crawl of spidery legs. Shaw’s words hang in the air between you, a final, sacred moment shared between lovers before the rest of the world wakes.

You loved the hoarseness in his voice; a testament to the hours of noisy lovemaking you had shared in lieu of sleep.

You loved the weight of his hand, stroking softly at the crown of your head.

You loved the rhythm of his heart, echoing just below your ear to confirm his existence.

“I love you too.”

You look up into those amber eyes, trying to discern whether those four little words were sufficient in conveying that fact that you adored every fibre of the man before you.

The smile that graces his face in return is tender, honest…more brilliant than the day breaking in the East.

Your hands find his body, bare beneath the sheets. And as a curious finger traces along the ridge of the scar that runs in a broad stroke across his sculpted abdomen, your gaze falls on his t-shirt, draped over the back of a chair.

“You should probably throw that Snoopy shirt away, especially after what happened last night.”

Shaw follows your line of sight, chest rising and falling in a deep sigh. “Shitty as its previous owner was, I could never bring myself to hate something that reminds me of you. Aside from saving my ass, this was the first gift you ever gave me. And I never throw away gifts from my girl.”

His girl.

The mystery of life is that filled with unknowns though it is, we continue to live, brave in the face of the uncertainty that comes with every passing day. You had no idea what fate had in store for you or Shaw, had no way of knowing if your relationship existed on borrowed time.

The only thing you were certain of was that your feelings for each other were real, that try as you might, neither of you were very good at forgetting the other. That in this moment, here and now, the only thing that mattered was this love that hit you…

…like a bolt from the blue.

Thanks so much for reading! I hope you all enjoyed this Shaw saga! 💖

Check out more of my work here! 📚 (Please do not repost/copy/alter my work. Reblogs, on the other hand, are perfectly fine and much appreciated! 💖👍🏼)

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callmeelle22 · 3 years

Text

Blue Dream VII

Pairing: Iris West x Barry Alen

Rating: E

Chapter Word Count: 9, 034

Summary: A series of sporadic dates between Iris and Barry turn into something more, a story in its own making.

Chapter I: Primetime

Chapter II: It's Cool

Chapter III: Anything

Chapter IV: Comfortable

Chapter V: The Way

Chapter VI: Say Yes

Chapter VII: Brave; They fuck with the rain like a soundtrack behind them, like a song that swells and stretches, telling their story, but you're so brave; stone cold crazy for loving me; yeah, I'm amazed; i hope you make it out alive, a song that rises and rises, that sounds too good to be real, that might destroy you, but only in the best way. (Read below or on AO3 linked on the chapter title.)

Chapter VIII: Blue Dream

Brave

Broken hearts are made for two

One for me and one for you

Tell me have you heard the news

We are now in love

Fall break from school is scheduled during the last three days of the last week of October. Before she can take some time off, Iris has midterm articles to write and grade. Barry is busy testing DNA samples or whatever it is CSIs do so they don’t see each other for several days after he leaves her house the morning after Wally’s party.

On the Wednesday of Fall Break, the first day off, Iris lets herself sleep in until almost 10, and then she packs up her bag, stuffing a notebook, a couple of pens, and her laptop in, before dressing comfortably in a pair of dark leggings, and a white oversized CCU hoodie she stole from her brother. Throwing on a pair of white low-top Chuck Taylors, Iris heads out to Jitters. It’s a rainy day, and other than workers who’ve no choice, not many people are out. A storm is brewing for later in the night, the sky dark and cloudy, but for the moment, it’s just a steady rain that has Iris walking carefully to her car and driving a lot slower, thanking her lucky stars that she finds a parking spot right in front of the coffee shop.

Back in high school, especially once her dad had gotten her a used car during the beginning of senior year, Iris and Linda would come to Jitters to do homework or stare at the college boys who would come in. The coffee shop has expanded since then, buying the small antique store that had been next door and adding more seating and a bar that specializes in alcoholic coffee brews. It’s still one of Iris’s favorite places to work because now the manager is a young Black woman with wild curly hair always dyed in one bright color or another and a soft spot for mid to late 90s R & B female singers. The shop is comfortable, with couches and overstuffed chairs in mismatched browns and beiges and blues set up near the walls and windows and several tables, two- and four-tops, taking up the space in the middle. Two of the walls are exposed brick and the others are painted stark white and feature framed prints in wild colors. It’s changed since she was a child, but Iris likes to think that she’s changed with it, that as this integral part of Central City has grown and added light and color and comfort, so too has Iris.

Today, her plan is to outline at least two entire stories from interviews she’s completed over the last couple of weeks before she even thinks about leaving the coffee shop. She settles into one of her favorite spots, a soft navy armchair behind a small circular table. She sets up her laptop, her notebook with her notes, her pens, and once a waiter drops off her brown sugar latte and a chocolate muffin, she lets the sound of the rain, and the Erykah Badu playing on the speakers, get her into her work.

“Hey, beautiful.”

Iris looks up just as Barry stops beside her. She’s been at Jitters for just over three hours now, and her shoulders are cramped and she’s coffee high and hungry. The rain is still pounding down, so hard that it looks like it’s raining sideways, and Iris curses her inability to get any work done in her own home. Besides all that, she’s reeling. She’s just outlined a story of a man explaining the story of the woman he’d loved his entire life: from growing up together in a small city in North Carolina, to becoming best friends and de facto siblings when his parents died and her dad agreed to foster him; from not dating but seeming like it in high school, to falling for other people in college; from having other spouses and children to one night of passion before they found their way back to each other when she decided to leave her husband after his wife died. It was a ride from start to finish, such a roller coaster of feelings—of love and pain and joy and heartbreak—that make Iris feel a bit heavy with them, a little loopy with them.

Barry stands to the side of her, towering above her, in as simple an outfit as what she’s wearing, a pair of black joggers and a white sweatshirt. She’s startled that he's there because she figures that he should be at work, but her heart does tick up at the sight of him. That is, until she lets her eyes rake over his lean frame. He looks a little...down, like a physical manifestation of the story she’s just outlined. His hair is messier than usual and his eyes aren’t carrying their usual sparkle, in addition to the darkening bags that frame them. He’s also a little stubbly, his jaw covered in a fine layer of coarse hair, his pallor a bit ashen.

(Iris will also admit that she thinks he looks sort of, well, good, like this; but that’s neither here nor there and she feels terrible—and maybe a bit perverted—that she’s lusting after him when he’s obviously going through something.)

“Hey,” she responds softly, and she stands up to assess him further. He seems so much taller than her like this, when they’re both in sneakers. She hasn’t seen him since the morning after Wally’s party a week ago when he dropped her back off at her car after spending the night at her place. They’ve talked a bunch and FaceTimed once, but she’s missed him. She reaches up into his hair, rubbing at his scalp a little until his eyes close and he lets out a soft little moan. She keeps at it and then touches gingerly at his face, at some of the moles dotting his cheeks, at the stubble he’s grown. He reaches up to stop her, eyes still closed, and it startles her a little bit. She goes to pull her hand back, but then he holds on to her wrist to bring her hand down and presses a kiss to her knuckles.

She’s never seen him like this. He’s always so open and, maybe not happy, but never so melancholy. There is always a pep to his step, as her grandma used to say, a smile on his face that always said that he feels some sort of contentment in his life. And obviously, people are allowed to have days like this. But it does something to Iris, to see him this way. She wants to lash out at whoever has made him look like this, like he’s drowning in emotions that he can’t easily pull himself out of.

“Bear, you okay?”

He nods, a little woefully, and he catches her eyes again. She bites at her lip as she stares back at him and, on impulse, she leans up to kiss him. It’s just a little more than a peck, something to tell him that she’s there with him; but he takes it a step further, kissing her harder, biting at her lip enough that there’s more pain than she’s expecting. She moans at him and he pulls back, breathing labored.

“I’m sorry,” he speaks. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“It’s fine,” she says. “You didn’t hurt me. Well, a little, but I didn’t hate it.”

That gets a more real smile out of him, and he thumbs at her bottom lip. “Hmm, I guess my good girl is a little bad.”

Iris rolls her eyes and gives him a look, sobering for a minute. “Bear, what’s up? You okay?”

He doesn’t answer her question. Instead, he nods at her table and asks, “you get a lot of work done?”

She eyes him, wanting to ask again. But she knows how she is when she doesn’t want to talk about something and so she lets it go. For the moment.

“Yeah. Or, at least, I’ve done most of what I set out to do.”

He nods, casts his eyes out of the glass, looking at the rain for a moment, watching it fall in heavy sheets. Normally, Iris likes the rain. It’s soothing and she enjoys how it makes the world take a moment to slow down. When she was a little girl, her grandma (her dad’s mother who grew up somewhere at the bottom of Georgia) used to say that when it was raining, and particularly when it was storming, that the Lord was doing His work and that it was the time to be still. They’d have to sit quietly, usually with the TV and the lights off, and just be. And while life doesn’t allow her to drop everything because it’s started raining, there is always a hushed feeling that comes over her when it rains, something tranquil, but also a little turbulent, a little uncontrollable, quite like the very rain she’s reveling in.

“Wanna come over?” he wonders, voice unsure.

She nods readily. “Okay, yeah. Sure.”

He goes to return her mug and plate while she packs her bag back up. He meets her at the door, opening up a large umbrella and throwing an arm over her shoulder to lead her out into the rain. She walks with him past her own car as he takes her a short black away to where his Jeep is parked. He helps her into the Jeep first, watches as she tucks her bag under the seat, and then closes the door before walking around to the other side.

They ride to his house in silence. He lives far on the south side of town, a good twenty or so minutes from downtown if they hit the highway. Instead, he takes the streets, adding another ten minutes to their drive. Iris doesn’t mind; as she said, she likes the rain, and in this big Jeep, tires sluicing easily through the flooding roads in a way her car definitely can’t, she’s enjoying the ride. He had silently connected her phone to his car’s Bluetooth, so she took it to mean that the music choices were hers. She contemplates finding something that he might like, but she figures he likely wouldn’t even be paying much attention. So she decides on one of her slower playlists, ones with songs that dip and fade, that take listeners on a journey of highs and lows, and she lets it play. The lyrics tell too much, so i guess that i should mention; that i am in no condition; to put you in this position; i might fuck this up, although with the heavy weight on Barry’s shoulders right now, she can’t tell if she’s talking to him or vice versa.

He takes them past one of the major shopping districts in the city, past the Apple store and the Michael Kors shop and the one restaurant her dad took her to when she graduated college where pasta dishes run nearer to forty dollars. These shops, and the nicer mall and a couple business buildings that rise as tall as those downtown, lead into longer stretches of road where trees interspersed with beige or cream apartments begin to take up where businesses once stood. He turns into the familiar subdivision that she remembers; it’s a little older than some, which makes sense if his parents were able to buy and pay it off before they were gone. That also means that none of the houses are the same cookie-cutter versions that tend to make up most subdivisions these days, where houses are identical save for the color and the trim and what children’s toys litter the front yard.

He presses a button on his visor and the garage opens as he maneuvers the car so that he can back up into the driveway. He stays in the driveway, though, the music cutting out—but whatever the case, you're my favorite mistake; more than happy to make you—when he turns the ignition off. She waits for him to come around with his umbrella and he half picks her up to pull her out, holding on to her as he walks her through the garage.

She’s as quiet as he is, taking in her surroundings, trying to get a better sense of who he is by what he’s got going on in his house. There isn’t much in the garage; there are a bunch of boxes neatly stacked on one wall, a couple bicycles in another corner. There is a wall full of tools and a couple tables that have science looking tools on them, like a microscope and several bunsen burners and petri dishes, though nothing looks as if they’re currently being used.

He leads her through a door that opens up into the kitchen as he presses another button to close the garage. His house is as cute on the outside as it is on the inside, although she wonders how he might feel if she were to call it cute. The kitchen is large, done in white, gray, and green, with steel appliances, gray marble countertops, and the look of a place that doesn’t get a lot of use. They both stop to toe their shoes off right outside of the kitchen where a couple other pairs of Barry’s shoes lie. His living room is pretty big: a wide space that features a real stone fireplace as the focal point and a large screen television situated above it; a huge sectional in a slate gray with a few throw pillows; and a big square wooden coffee table. It’s masculine and clean without being gaudy or too bro and Iris wonders if he did this himself because even if she never knew her, she doubts a woman who loved flowers as much as his mother would decorate her living room this way.

The dark curtains on the windows are open wide and Iris can see the backyard but the rain coming down in sheets keep her from being able to make out much besides the patio with what looks like a grill and wicker furniture. Iris remembers being told that his dad had been a doctor and his mom some sort of university researcher and the house matches that.

Barry lets her hand go to tug his sweatshirt off, revealing a plain white t-shirt that rises up over his taut belly. She doesn’t avert her eyes, giving herself permission to track how the sweatpants hang off his slim hips and how he isn’t so much sculpted as he’s hard and tight, with just the beginnings of abs. He catches her staring and he smirks at her before dropping down in the corner of the couch, one leg spread out along the seats of the chair.

“Come here,” he tells her, and she moves toward him, sitting so that her back is pressed against that hard chest and his arms are wrapped around her. She grabs a hold of his forearm with both her hands and settles her head in the crook of his elbow. She’s surrounded by his scent, lemongrass and clean cotton, and for a while, the only sounds are his breathing and the pounding of the rain. He touches her, the hand she’s not holding on to stroking up and down her thigh. Her leggings are pretty thin and she feels his touch fully; if she concentrates enough, she can feel those beloved calluses on his hands. He rubs his hand towards the juncture of her thighs and then over her hip and then back again, and like always, his touch ignites something in her, even as she’s wondering how she might be able to help him out of whatever funk he’s found himself in.

“You ready to tell me what’s up?” she wonders a while later.

“Hmm,” he hums, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Not yet. Tell me about your day.”

She shifts so that she can look back at him, noting the way his eyes have darkened a touch, become grayer like the sky outside, and it’s different from the bright blue-green she remembers from the day of the festival or the wicked blue-gray they always are right before he pushes hard into her.

He blinks down at her and licks his lips slowly. It’s not an explicitly sexual act, even if her body thinks it looks that way, and Iris finds herself lost in it, in whatever he’s emanating. It’s erotic in that it’s intimate, a whirlwind of whatever hurt made him seek her out at Jitters, of whatever still lies unexplored between them, of the attraction that doesn’t ever seem to dissipate.

When she pulls herself out, she tells him, “I was working on a story today. One that made me feel a little bit like how you might be right now.”

“Yeah?”

Wanting to look at him more comfortably, she uses his pause so that she can turn around fully and seat herself on his lap, straddling him. His hands automatically go to her hips, one sliding inside the waist of her leggings so that he can touch her skin.

“Tell me about this story,” he requests. She knows that he’s asking so that he can think about something other than what’s on his mind, so she does, giving a little more than she would originally, working out how she might want to tell the story in her blog.

“It was a couple,” she starts, “that grew up together, in the country. They bonded by playing together in the lake, climbing trees, and playing pranks on each other. And then they start to grow up. Their swimming becomes fraught with tension, the bathing suits showing the same skin, but more, ya know, both of them recognizing the differences, cataloging them, thinking about them, remembering them. They don’t act on it, because they’re friends, and he doesn’t actually understand what it means, that he’s 13 and he keeps dreaming about her at night, waking up with a wet bed and a pounding heart. And then his parents die and her dad, who’s a do-gooder in the community and had been his parents’ best friend, takes him in. Now they’re siblings, but of course not. Regardless, it makes it all harder and odder because she sleeps right down the hall from him, their shared bathroom always smells like her, and he understands now, that he likes her smile and the way she speaks and the curves she seems to develop out of nowhere.”

Barry squeezes at her and she pauses as he asks, “And what about her? How does she feel about him?”

“Well he doesn’t know it, but she’s there too. At first she thinks that she’s just conflating it, confusing their friendship. Because she doesn’t laugh with anyone else like she does with him and she never has as much fun with anyone else as she does him and she never feels as comfortable with anyone else as she does him. He’s her best friend. But she sees him, one night, in his room where the door hasn’t fully closed and he’s, well, he’s masturbating, touching himself, eyes closed and moaning, and for the first time outside of the books she’s read, she feels something. And she knows it’s not just because she’s seen him naked because she’s kissed boys before, she’s felt them hard under her before, but something about this feels different for her.

“But she doesn’t act on it. And he doesn’t either, because remember, he only thinks this is one-sided. They graduate. They go to the same college. But their majors are different and their friends are different. She joins a sorority; he gets into a couple of clubs. Their paths separate, even if they still laugh and talk and be when they’re home for the holidays. Then she gets a boyfriend.”

“She never had a boyfriend before this?” Barry questions.

Iris shrugs. “Sure. But it was high school and the beginning of college. They were mostly hookups that didn’t last. This guy is serious. He’s a couple years older, got his own place, and eventually she moves in with him. Heartbroken, he gets a girlfriend too, one of her friends. That doesn’t last long because she figures out that he’s a little bit in love with the main girl, and then he moves on, to someone sweet, someone who’s been not so subtly hinting that she wants to go out with him.”

Barry seems to be engrossed now. She can’t say that the dark look he was sporting is completely gone, but she can see that he’s not as deep in it, interested in the story she’s weaving.

“They go on to marry these people, even if their hearts are not fully in it. His wife has a kid first, her baby comes next. And meanwhile, they’re still friends. Her dad is still his guardian, so to speak; they are together for whatever holidays they don’t spend with their spouses’ families. They still laugh and talk and be. They still look a little too long and want a little too much.

It comes to a head one Christmas. The gods or fate or just some movement on their parts mean that they both go home to her dad’s house with their spouses and children coming in the next day. But her dad is called in to work so they order take out and watch movies in front of a fire. And they laugh and they talk...and they hug and they kiss and they…

“Be?” Barry tries, a tiny little smile on his face.

She matches it. “Yeah. And it’s beautiful, transcendent. But they’re married. To other people. With kids. So they vow to forget it, to never bring it up again. A couple of years pass. They don’t laugh as much, don’t talk as much. She’s having troubles in her marriage. He is too. He actually consults a divorce attorney because he thinks that it’s unfair to both him and his wife, to live like this. And then the wife dies in a car accident.”

“Oh damn,” he mutters.

“Right,” she agrees. “He’s wracked with grief and more than a little guilt, because he loved her but was never in love with her and she had no idea he was going to leave her.”

“What about her? The one he loves?”

“She’s there for him. She consoles him, cares for him, takes his kid when it gets too hard. Her husband doesn’t like it though. Thinks she’s doing too much, thinks that there’s another reason she’s over at his so much. Later, he learns that this wasn’t a new accusation, that even before she and her husband got married, the husband would question their closeness, would wonder what, if anything, had ever happened between them.

“Eventually she gets tired of it. Her kid is older, in their teens now, and she leaves her husband, packing her things and her kid’s too and moving back in with her dad for a while.”

“And what happens between them?” Barry wants to know.

“He and his son come over more. They hang out more, the four of them, going to dinner and to the movies and to the arcade together. And when their kids are gone, at sleepovers or game nights with their friends, they laugh again, talk again. Fall in love again.”

The ending is implied. Iris closes her eyes when she’s done, letting Barry continue to rub at her back, his fingers so so warm on her skin.

“It's a happy ending,” he says, eventually. “But getting there was a little...depressing.”

Iris chuckles softly, lightheaded again at having gone through that again. It likely didn’t make Barry feel any better, but she’ll take the win that it took his mind away from his own problems, if only for a little while.

“Yeah, it is,” she agrees. “But it reminds me that just because it’s not easy and just because it takes some time, it doesn’t mean that things aren’t worth it.”

He nods, slowly, thinking.

“What about things that are...easy? That come like breathing? That start as a simple dance and just, just keep going?”

She stares down at him and she knows that this is rhetorical. She can see the question in the depths of his eyes, feel it in his hands still kneading her flesh. It would be easy to retreat, to tell him that nothing is ever easy, even if the reality is that it is because they are, because they fall into each other so effortlessly, that she’s terrified. There are always hiccups, obstacles, and the fact that she can’t find any keeps her on edge, waiting, anticipating trouble she knows must be coming. She doesn’t want to believe it, wants to stand firm in them—stand firm in the lyrics she keeps hearing, if you decide to stay, know that there is no escape; there's no one here to save you—and she holds onto that as he asks,

“Don’t you think it’s worth it, Iris? Even if it’s this easy?”

She can’t speak, but his eyes are imploring her to answer. Pleading with her for a response. And however terrified Iris is, or however much Iris tells stories, she is not a liar. So she nods and whispers to him, “yes.”

Without waiting for her to say anything more, he kisses her. He squeezes at her waist and leans up to capture her mouth. She meets him with his same fervor and it’s different, this kiss. She knows the passion of his mouth when he’s high, the boldness when he’s teasing her. But this is new, this is fervor, warmth and agony and doubt and pleasure, all wrapped up together.

(Something also tells Iris that there is another word for this, that this is the part of the story where feelings would be laid on the table, where hearts would be splayed open and she’d say it, or he would, and the other would respond in kind, with declarations of adoration, of infatuation, yearning, of any other word that means what she can’t say yet.

But she feels it, what she’s wanting to say, what she thinks he is saying, in this kiss. It is slow and nasty, all tongue and mouth. Her eyes flutter closed at the feeling, at how he licks into her mouth and then sucks on her bottom lip, at how he licks against her tongue and then holds her face to bring her closer to him. She feels it, she feels it, she feels him…)

He stands, holding on to her, and she wraps her legs around his waist, tightening her arms around his neck as he carries her through the house. The kisses don’t stop, though they become shorter, more mouth now, and he takes her down a long hallway past several doors until he turns into one at the end of the hall. She makes a quick note of the light gray and burnt orange decor, the side tables holding books and knickknacks, the one window that spans nearly the entire wall, but she focuses most heavily on the king-sized bed on which he throws on her, the soft comforter half hanging off the bed.

Her clothes come off first, Barry pulling her sweatshirt over her head and yanking her pants over her hips. He comes out of his own clothes as she discards her underwear, and then he’s between her thighs again. But she wants something else first so she taps his shoulder to flip them and then she’s hovering above him.

She gives him a kiss, slow and sweet, and then she makes her way down his chest, kissing as she goes. She loves the feel of his skin against her lips, likes how his skin tastes as she presses tongue kisses on him. His belly clenches and unclenches under her ministrations, and by the time she’s looking back up at him from her position near his crotch, she can see the way his chest rises and falls with his heavy breathing.

She reaches for him, wrapping her fingers around his dick. It’s long like the rest of him, and thicker than she would have expected just looking at him. It’s a pretty dick, the base the same color as him, the head slightly pinker. It’s a little veiny, but the skin is smooth, and already he’s starting to leak. She lifts her eyes to find him watching her, his own gaze hooded. In her peripheral, she sees his hands grip the bed sheets and she revels in how she hasn’t even done anything and his control is starting to slip.

“Tell me what you want, Bear.”

She says the words softly, but Barry doesn’t miss the cheek that lies under it, if the slight smirk he gives her is any indication.

“Your mouth,” he says. “I’ve been dreaming about that pretty mouth wrapped around my dick.”

She shudders at the tone of his voice, at the vision of her on her knees for him. She likes it.

“I bet you have too,” he guesses.

Without a response, she licks him, holding him at the base and running her tongue up one side of him. She does it again, and then one more time, acquainting herself with the taste of him and the satiny feel of him on her tongue, and then she adjusts and covers the whole of him.

“Fuck,” he breathes out.

She hums around him and she sucks him down, taking him until he hits her throat. Then she pulls back until just the tip remains. She licks around his head and sucks him there, letting the spit pool in her mouth, letting it mix with his own wet. She opens her mouth and lets it slide out, dripping down onto him, and her own body starts to drip at his wrecked whisper, “god, baby, look at you.”

She adds her hands, palming his testicles in one and rubbing her spit down the length of him with the other. She finds a rhythm, sucking him down, inch by inch, hollowing her cheeks as she goes, and then stroking his back up. Barry keeps his hand clenched in the sheets, but he cants himself into her mouth, rocking his hips lightly. She’s getting into it, loving the way he responds to her.

“Come here,” he says, suddenly, reaching for her, and she pulls back with a soft pop.

“Barry?” she furrows her eyebrows in question.

He gives her a gentle smile and grabs at her arm; Iris moves at his request, crawling up his body.

“But you didn’t finish,” she says, pouting a little.

“I know. I want to come when I’m inside you.”

She’s mollified by that, and he settles her on his lap.

“You were so good though, baby,” he says, kissing her. “My good, good girl.”

He reaches down to touch her, slipping his fingers easily into her sex. He groans into her mouth at the feel and he pulls back to ask,

“Is this all for me? Did you get wet sucking me off, good girl?”

She nods, rocking her hips against his hand, against his sex still hard beneath her. “Can, can you…?”

He tilts his head at her, fingers still caressing inside of her. “Can I?”

She huffs out a small laugh because he’s always fucking with her. “You said you wanted to come inside of me,” she reminds him.

“I did, didn’t?” He takes his time removing his fingers, eyes on her as he does. Even with the window curtains wide open, the dark sky has the room dark

(and she doesn’t dismiss the fact that the window faces the side of someone else’s house, where they could be seen if the neighbors were so inclined to watch)

and his eyes look a little like molten lead in the faint rainy light like this. He goes to reach over to his bedside table but Iris stops him.

“I want to feel you,” she says.

He licks his lips and she doesn’t mistake the twitch of his dick she feels under her. “You sure?”

“Yes. I’m on birth control. And I trust you.”

He nods once and again, and then he takes her by her hips and slides her down his cock.

After, Iris decides that this time is the single most erotic experience of her life.

They fuck with the rain like a soundtrack behind them, like a song that swells and stretches, telling their story, but you're so brave; stone cold crazy for loving me; yeah, I'm amazed; i hope you make it out alive, a song that rises and rises, that sounds too good to be real, that might destroy you, but only in the best way.

She rides him, and he’s so full in her like this, so deep in her like this. His back is against his fabric headboard and she’s so close to him, her knees jutting into the headboard, her thighs holding around his hips, her breasts rubbing against his chest, nipples pebbling with each brush on those hard planes.

She holds on to him with her hands holding the back of his neck, softly scratching at the nape. But he’s touching her, always touching her, his hands caressing her spine, and then holding her waist, and then squeezing her hips. He guides her: keeps his favorite pace, smooth and languid; bring her up to the tip and fucks her back down; shows her how he wants her to roll her body when he’s full in her, so her clit is brushing the soft hairs on his pelvis, the sensation incredible.

He uses his mouth too: to kiss her throat, deep tongue kisses that’ll leave marks she knows she’ll have to cover up; to whisper against her mouth, “see how easy this is; see how good, baby; fuck, see how good this is; yes, yes, yes, my good girl.”

And Iris feels so caught up in it. She can’t stop looking at him, loving when the lightning slashes across the room and illuminates those eyes, the constellation of moles on his skin, his wet, pink mouth. Her body hums with pleasure, soaking her thighs and his, tightening around his dick as if it never, never wants to let him go. She voices her satisfaction, in soft sighs and heavy pleas, and his name on her tongue like a chant, or better, a song, “Bear, Bear, Barrryyy.” They’re so close, her skin sticking to his wherever they’re touching, chest to chest and ass to thigh. She feels full and whole and filled...with him and with desire and with, and with love, the thought of it making her shudder and close her eyes.

“No,” Barry whispers. “Don’t. Just let it, just let it...stay here with me. Can you do that for me? Be brave for me?”

She nods, head heavy as her body starts to reach its climax, as her body loosens at the same time that it tightens and she has to fight to hold on to him. “Yes,” she moans again, holding his gaze again.

He touches at her face, holding her cheek and staring back. “Good girl.”

She doesn’t know whose climax triggers the other. She just knows that at the same time that her body explodes, fluttering wildly around him, he comes too, so hard that she feels him throbbing against her walls, that she feels him filling her up with his cum.

He doesn’t let go of her right away. He just holds her, hands at her hip and her face, and then he kisses her, cementing what they’ve just done, cementing what Iris feels for him.

“It’s the anniversary of my mom’s death,” he says, out of the blue. “And when I went to visit my dad earlier, I found out that he’s sick, something with his heart, and I’m-I’m reeling.”

It’s been a long while since they separated and Iris climbed off of him to pad into his bathroom and warm a hand towel under warm water to clean them both. They’ve been lying in his bed, only half under the covers as they let their bodies cool. It’s quiet now, so quiet that Iris has thought he’d fallen asleep; she’d almost fallen asleep. But when he speaks, she blinks wide and then turns her head to face him.

“14 years today,” he adds. He’s looking up at the ceiling as he talks, but Iris feels the hand that’s settled at her waist tighten, the move bringing her closer to him. She understands that he just needs the contact, so she turns so that she’s all the way curled on him, one of her legs thrown across him, her arm tossed over him too, hand settled on his heart. It’s beating slow, steady, and so she strokes his bare chest, right it.

“How’d you find out?”

“I was still at school,” he tells her. “It was a Friday and some of my friends had convinced me to go to a football game, so we were there pretty late. Games could run until 11. I was 17 so I had my own car. It was an old car; we’d bought it from a guy she worked with. By this time, my dad had been gone for a couple years, and my mom was always working late at the lab, so when I got home around 10:30 that night and the lights were out, I wasn’t surprised.”

He shifts a little and continues. “I took a shower, put some leftover pizza in the microwave, and just as I was sitting down to eat, the doorbell rang. It was the police looking for her next of kin to tell them what had happened.” He sighs heavily. “I got lucky. The courts let one of my friend’s parents take me in until I graduated a few months later. I was able to get a work study job in college to pay my bills since the mortgage was already paid off.”

He says it all like he was lucky, but there is nothing lucky about losing both of your parents in that matter, even if one of them was still physically alive. Iris knows from experience that he doesn’t want pity, doesn’t want anyone to feel sorry for his story. But she can’t help the way she wants to comfort him, and so she lets herself do that, tightening herself around him, snuggling even more into his chest.

“How are you feeling about your dad?” she asks, mumbling against his skin.

“Devastated. He looked like, like, I don’t know, like he’s giving up. I don’t get to go see him too often, every couple of months, really. And he looked so different from when I saw him last: smaller, frailer. I think there might be something he’s not telling me. Like he’s been sick longer than he says he has.”

“Is he supposed to get out soon?”

“Another couple years. But I don’t know if he wants to hold on that long.”

She feels them first, the tears. She tries to hold him even tighter, tries to crawl into his skin almost, trying to stem his pain. He doesn’t cry for long, just a few sobs, and then he’s inhaling deeply and wiping at his eyes. But it must be enough because he sounds a little hollow when he says,

“And truthfully, I’m not so much sad as I am mad, that he seems to be giving up. On getting out. On me.”

She hums, not dismissively, but because she understands. “Wanna know a secret?”

“Yeah.”

“Sometimes, I hate my mom.”

He sort of jerks up at that. Not fully, he looks down at her, eyes widened in shock. However inappropriate it might be, she finds herself laughing a little at his expression. Then she explains.

“I know that addiction is not a moral failing. I know that she struggled right up til the end. I know both of those things as completely as I know anything else. But sometimes I wonder why my dad wasn’t enough, why me and Wally weren't enough. I wonder what she was trying to find in those pills that she couldn’t find in us, and I get so pissed that she let it take her away from us.”

She’s startled when he moves. He pulls himself from under her, letting her fall onto her back, and then he’s hovering above her, holding himself up on his elbows. He falls into the spread of her thighs, his sex nuzzling comfortably against her still warm center.

“I’ve seen some of the worst effects of addiction,” he says, “when their bodies end up on a slab of metal and it’s my job to dissect the things around them, to even sometimes help detectives dissect their lives to figure out what happened. And something I’ve learned is that it’s always, always about them. Never about the people they love.”

He searches her face, brushing a piece of hair back from her forehead. “And whatever your mom was or wasn’t thinking, you are enough. You are more than enough, Iris.” He leans down and gives her a kiss, deep and dirty, and she moans in frustration as he pulls back from her. He gives her a grin, one more reminiscent of the Barry she’s used to.

“Repeat after me,” he commands. “I, Iris West…”

“Really, Barry?”

“Yes, come on. I, Iris West…

She sighs, but says it. “I, Iris West…”

“Am more than enough.”

She licks her lips then, blinks, works to not let the tears that have suddenly gathered in the corner of her eyes escape.

“Am more than enough,” she whispers, finally.

Barry’s smile turns fond. “Good girl.”

She shakes her head because she doesn’t know what else to do besides kiss him. Which she does, deeply, reaching down to grip him in her palm. She pauses, just for a moment, to tell him “you know that you are enough too, right?” and she kisses the look of awe off of his face. It’s a long while before she stops kissing him, and then it’s only to moan into his mouth, to let him whisper his dirty somethings into her ear.

“What are your plans for tonight?”

They’ve just shared a shower. Barry is throwing on another pair of sweats and a hoodie and Iris puts her own leggings back on, sans underwear, and thumbs through Barry’s closet for another sweatshirt to put on.

(There’s no reason that she can’t put hers back on, but she’s feeling particularly sentimental and she wants to take something of Barry’s with her, something that smells like him, that feels like him.)

“None, really.” She pulls out a red sweater that reads Central City University Track & Field and throws it on over her bra. “Why? You kicking me out.”

Barry rolls his eyes. “Of course not.” He glances down at the watch on his wrist. “Wanna get dinner? And then go with me to my tattoo appointment? It’s at 8 tonight.”

She smiles at that. “Sure.”

They take the highway back downtown. The rain is still beating steadily and there is still the occasional rumble of thunder, the sporadic flash of lightning. He parks a bit further in the arts district, in front of a restaurant specializing in wood-fire pizzas and craft beers. This time, she knows to wait for him to come around and open the door for her so that she can walk under his umbrella. Once he locks his jeep, he grabs her hand, and they walk the couple doors down and into the restaurant.

The place is brightly lit, in direct contrast to the dark sky and even the faint light that had been on at Barry’s place. The weather assures that it isn’t densely packed, just a couple booths of families and what looks like a couple, so they’re seated quickly and easily. They eat fast since they’ve only got an hour before his appointment. In the meantime, they both keep the conversation light. It’s been a day, for the both of them really, and Iris doesn’t think that she can cry twice in a day.

After he pays, she goes to the bathroom and he tells her he’ll wait at the door for her. She goes in and it’s as brightly lit as the rest of the place and she quickly does her business and washes her hands before heading back out to where he knows Barry is waiting in the little space between the outer door and the door to the restaurant.

She walks through the place and out of the restaurant door, likely too quickly and without really looking. She takes several steps, straightening out Barry’s sweatshirt again, and then she’s bumping into what feels like a solid wall, almost falling backward. A quick hand reaches out to catch her, the hand large, easily wrapping around her forearm.

“Shit,” she says, shaking her head to clear it as she looks up. “I’m sorr..Scott?”

He doesn’t move back right away and so she has to look up, up at the man holding on to her. Scott Evans is the literal definition of tall, dark, and handsome. He’d been her editor when she’d work at CCPN right out of college, and she’d had the biggest crush on him. Tall with dark caramel skin and a neatly trimmed beard, he’d been the one to help guide her in the ways of mass story-telling. They’d gone on one date and Iris is not actually sure why they’d never gone on another.

“Iris West.” He says her name slowly, his grin widening at the same pace. He gives her a once-over, slow and heated. “How’ve you been?”

“R-really good,” she says, stumbling a little at that grin. Even if she doesn’t actually regret never seeing him again, Iris can admit that a man this good looking makes her a little tongue-tied.

“Yeah? I’ve been catching your blog when I can. It’s some good shit, West. I can see why you left our little paper.”

“Please,” Iris rolls her eyes with a little laugh. “There’s nothing little about Picture News.”

He shrugs, humble all the way. “Still, I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks, Scott. I appreciate that.”

“It’s the truth.” He looks down at her, swiping at his lips with his tongue, and she suddenly realizes that they’re still too close. She steps back fully from him, glancing over Scott’s shoulders to see Barry watching them, his expression unreadable.

“Um,” she speaks, catching his attention. “I gotta go Scott.”

“Oh yeah; of course. We should get together soon. Maybe do dinner.” Scott looks back out of the window where rain steadily pours. “It’s still raining out. Can I walk you to your car?”

Her eyes don’t leave Barry’s and he tilts his head, waiting for her answer. “Scott, I’m not alone.”

He turns as if he’s just realizing that Barry is standing there. Barry is still quiet and only lifts his eyes to look at Scott when he mutters, “oh, hey man.”

Barry nods. “What’s up?” Then he looks at Iris. “You ready?”

“Yeah, I am.” Her voice is soft, cautious, and she throws one more glance at Scott. “It was good to see you.”

He graces her with that smile again. “Yeah. I’ll see you around.”

Barry takes her hand and they walk back to the truck. They’re on the road again, driving to a neighborhood near her own. For a second, she thinks he’s going to take her home, but he passes the road to her apartment and goes on to a neighborhood featuring several bars and little shops that cater to the college crowd. He pulls into the parking lot of a place called Black Gold, the lights inside near as bright as those in the pizza place.

Again, she waits until he comes around and turns as if to get out. He stops her though, holding the umbrella high, standing in front of her open legs. He does his thing, his stare like he's trying, and succeeding, to get inside her mind.

“That your ex-boyfriend?” he wonders.

She shakes her head. “Ex-boss.”

His expression doesn’t change. “All your bosses look at you like that?”

She swallows at the sudden feel of his hand on her thigh. The rain is pounding and drops fall on them, but she’s not noticing it. Instead, she’s caught in the storm that’s returned to his eyes, in the feel of his hands inching steadily toward her center.

“Don’t tell me you’re jealous,” she says, instead of responding to him.

One corner of his mouth lifts, and the confident, bordering on cocky, Barry is looking at her now, even if that sparkle hasn’t returned quite yet.

“Nah,” he says. “Not jealous. You’re here right now. And you were with me earlier, moaning for me, coming for me.”

He slides his hand between her thighs and because she is, almost literally, always thirsty for him, wet for him, her legs spread easily. He fingers at the crotch of her leggings, and she knows that he can feel her warmth through the thin material. He thumbs at her until she gasps against him, finding her clit in a way that reminds him that he knows her body better than she knows it herself.

“He ever touch you like this?” Barry asks, voice a whisper above the rain. “Make you whimper even without getting your clothes off?”

She is whimpering, as he keeps his thumb on her clit, rubbing on her in slow circles. That’s all he’s doing: touching her with one hand, looking at her with those eyes that tell as much as they conceal, with his voice a deep rumble that rivals the thunder. He might be turned on, but he’s proving a point, naming himself as someone who, well, who owns her, even if she recognizes that no man should claim any power over her.

Heat spreads through her, a low, simmering sort of heat, but it’s enough that her folds grow slicker, start opening like the flowers of a petal waiting to be plucked. He keeps rubbing at her, staying on her clit, staring in her face, so much that she can’t hold his gaze. Because it feels better than it should, and her wet is soaking through these too thin leggings, and her breaths are coming in longer, coming in heavier.

“Tell me he hasn’t, Iris,” he says, commands, and Iris throws her head back, legs widening at their own volition, hips canting against his hand. “Tell me.”

“No,” she moans, eyes fluttering closed. “He never even touched me at all.”

“Tell me it’s just me,” he adds and she’s too far gone to note the pleading in his voice. “Tell me no one has ever touched you like this.”

“No,” she shakes her head. “Just you, Barry, shit, just you.”

“Good,” he groans. “Good, good girl.”

Even if touch is the word he’s using, Iris understands that it’s more. She understands that they’re both wrapped up in uncertainty, never too sure of where they lie in others’ affections, never too sure of where they lie in life at all. She understands that he’s asking her if she feels it too, if she’s there with him, if this too easy, this too natural, feeling is a first for her too.

He’s asking if she’s brave enough to tell him the truth, if she undertands is meaning-understands that I'm no walk in the park; all these scars on my heart; it’s so dark here-even as she’s wondering the same, as she’s feeling the same, wondering if the churning feelings of abandonment make her unworthy somehow. Wondering if he’ll come to see that unworthiness.

Barry leans forward, just a touch away from her mouth, eyes blazing.

“There’s only you too, Iris,” he says, unprompted. “I swear I’ve just been waiting for you.”

He closes the distance to kiss her and that’s enough to take her over. It’s not a powerful orgasm, not like usual, but it does make her shut her eyes tight, make her limbs seize up as she rocks her hips through it. She breathes out, and she can’t stop the little laugh that comes out.

“You really are a dick,” she muses, opening her eyes slowly.

“A polite one, though,” he says, as he stands straighter and holds his hand out to help her down from the car. He holds the umbrella high over her. “See how I’m making sure you don’t get wet.”

“You didn't think of that earlier.”

His grin is devastating but it doesn’t hide the plethora of emotions in his eyes: the simmering lust, the faint traces of insecurity, the grief that’s been hovering all day...the love she doesn’t think he wants to hide anymore.

She hikes up on her tiptoes to plant a kiss on his cheek, and then she walks beside him into the parlor, words flashing in her head like a sign, but if you’re a warrior, there’s nothing to fear; nothing to fear.

And later that night, as she cuddles up next to Barry is his large comfortable bed, she listens to his soft breathing, the sound a melody to the rain still pattering against his windows. She listens and she stares at him, taking in his features, softer than they were before, the stress of today easing away with every second he’s lost to sleep. A flash of lightning lights the room, and it catches her eyes again, the new tattoo, the purple ink bright on his skin, covering the space from a lily on his shoulder to just over his heart. It goes dark again, his room blanketed once more, but in her mind’s eyes, she can still see the vibrant ink on his skin, the pretty drooping petals of an iris.

Cause you're so brave

Stone cold crazy for loving me

Yeah, I'm amazed

I hope you make it out alive

#westallen fanfiction #westallen #barry x iris #iris west #strangers to lovers

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high-supernatural · 3 years

Text

The Merge

Kai Parker x Female Reader/Character

Word Count: 1687

Warnings: typical tvd themes, the merge (not fluff, not smut, there’s a sentence of angst but its not much, mostly just toxic friendship)

Summary: “V” took Kai out of his prison world with a condition that they’d stick together. She helps him find his family and prepare for the merge. ((read part I – IV of the series to understand the backstories))

***since y’all like the one shots better than the series, I’m gonna write one shots for female readers under the name V for what I would’ve/will write in the series***

V and Kai have been out of the prison world for a few weeks. She got him out under the conditions that they would stick together no matter what, and that’s what she was doing, sticking by him.

Kai explained his plans to V when they got there and put together a plan. She knew his true motives, and she wanted to help.

While they prepared, trained, and got everything ready they stayed at motels but were mostly busy with the plan and didn’t see each other very often. The motel they were staying at only had one bed. They checked in in the middle of the night when they got back, “queen room fine?” asked the clerk, “absolutely,” Kai responded in his dramatically sarcastic tone.

“Hope sleeping in the same bed as me doesn’t scare you off… I’m a violent sleeper,” he joked with big eyes.

“Better than sleeping in vamp infested woods with a violent sleeper… I think I’ll be fine,” V responded with the same dramatics.

There were a few nights Kai had woken up in the middle of the night or before V and had intrusive thoughts come into his mind of killing her, not that he really wanted to. When he woke up one morning with his hand resting on her throat, he decided to sleep on the couch instead. He might have been a proclaimed sociopath, but he had morals for killing, and killing people who help him weren’t on that list. It scared him, but he ignored it.

V had the gift of seeing behind people and what they say their motives are, which is part of the reason Kai didn’t scare her. She knew why he started sleeping on the couch but didn’t bother to tell him she knew, just like she knew where he went during the day to antagonize his family, but still didn’t bother to confront him about it. She already knew why and what he was doing.

She liked pushing boundaries with him. To see how far he’d really go or what he’d do if she didn’t act scared or flinch even an inch at the things, he’d say to get a rise out of her. She liked seeing how he’d react to her affections, knowing he hadn’t experienced much of it.

When he started sleeping on the couch, she would sometimes join him, walking over to him with a blanket around her shoulders and laying on top of or next to him under the blanket. She liked how he’d tense up until he fell back asleep, nervous to put his arms around her. Sometimes she’d tell him she had a bad dream and say, “this is the part you put your arms around me,” when he wouldn’t.

They were best friends who loved pushing each other’s buttons.

V found his twin for him and told him where she worked, she found this out through gullible Elena. She didn’t question him about his whereabouts when he found out either, she knew this too.

They made another deal with each other when they started playing out their plan – if either of them was going to be out, they have to tell the other how many hours they’d be gone before the other should start worrying, and the general location they’d be, just in case anything went wrong. They didn’t have to explain what they were doing, they actually preferred if the other didn’t know, it worked perfectly.

When Kai disappeared for longer than he said he’d be gone, V knew to worry. She went to the cemetery he said he’d be around and saw Damon, the person who sent her to the prison world before her and Kai got out.

She hid behind a tree just enough so Kai could see her, but Damon couldn’t. Through the Earth, V sent Kai some of her magic to siphon, just enough so he could siphon the magic out of Mystic Falls that the travelers put there and free himself.

“How do you feel?” V asked Kai when they got back to the motel.

“I feel…. Really good,” he responded, “I soaked up a lot of magic,” he chuckled.

“Do you know how to use it?” She asked, “I can’t even imagine how much magic was in that spell.”

Kai jittered and sat down, “I uh… I should probably practice, you know? Make sure I can control it.”

“Let’s practice then,” V said.

He looked up at her when she said, “push me with your magic.”

“I don’t know if I can control it—” she cut him off, “I can handle it, I can’t die, remember?”

“Remember we can’t hurt each other though, that’s the pact,” he said. Kai was a lot of things, but deal breaking wasn’t usually one of them.

She stood in front of him and pushed his head playfully before getting on his lap with both legs on either side of his, “we said no fighting, this isn’t fighting, it’s practicing.” She pushed his shoulders back and pinched his face to annoy him, “come on, do something to get me off of you,” she played.

He grabbed her arms, “I can’t practice on you,” he spoke to her with an almost serious tone for the first time.

She grabbed his biceps and shocked him with her magic before sending burning waves up his arms, making his face turn in pain.

“Fight back,” she said, “or I’ll go hotter.”

Kai squeezed her biceps as she squeezed his and tried sending the magic she was using on him back to her, but it didn’t work.

“Try harder,” she said.

“I can’t—”

“Yes, you can, you have to focus,” she sent warmer magic through his arms and down his chest making him groan. “Make me stop at least once, you’re not gonna hurt me, you got this, focus on sending me the pain.”

With that encouragement Kai was successful not only in sending the magic she was using back to her, but sending it back more intensely, causing a sensation of being on fire for a couple of seconds.

When he heard her wince and felt her arms go limp, he knew it worked and quickly pushed her off of him to stand up, not knowing if he could stop if they were still touching.

She let out a “whoof” breath and chuckled, “you did it,” she looked at him, “why the long face?”

He stared at her like he just killed a puppy, “I need someone else to practice on.”

“Kai, it worked, what’s the problem?” she asked.

“I just need someone else to practice on, I’ll be back tonight,”

“Wait, I think I know who you can use,” she said, stopping him from rushing out and finding a random person.

“Elena Gilbert. She’s always pissed me off. When I found out vampires were in town she acted like I was crazy, now she is one. She never treated me how she treats everyone else, she’s still hung up on the fact that her brother confided in me instead of her,” V said, “everyone’s always saving her and letting others die for her own life. I think she could be put in her place a little better.”

Kai was always confused about why V was so helpful to him, another thing that scared him a little. It was unusual to him.

He practiced his magic on Elena at the high school after he left while V did her own thing, which usually included writing, drawing, or causing some chaos, until she got a call from Elena.

‘great,’ she rolled her eyes before she answered the phone.

“What?” she answered harshly.

“Kai just tortured me for hours,” Elena whined.

“Ok? How is that my problem?” V answered, knowing that all of them still didn’t know she had been with Kai this whole time.

“He’s on his way to the woods to complete the merge!” Elene blurted out.

“What,” she said with concern this time, “I’m on my way,” V left and went to try and stop Kai from doing the merge so soon.

She called him multiple times on her way, but he didn’t answer. When she had got there, Kai and Luke’s eyes were already white, and they were about to complete the merge.

Just when she was about to run up and stop them, they both fell back, and everybody stood like statues until Jo ran to help Luke.

V watched them both with wide eyes, looking for psychic signs that one of them has died or merged, but saw nothing.

After a few seconds of watching, she walked up to Kai. Everybody was watching Luke at this point, so V knelt down and put her hand on his chest, feeling for magic but felt none.

She teared up and tried blinking them away, shaking him by his shirt and saying his name before pressing her hand on his chest to transfer magic to him, waking him up.

His eyes darted open and he grabbed her wrist, sitting up silently. Nobody had noticed him yet. V sat behind him with her hand still on his chest when he turned around, “thanks, kid,” he whispered before he stood up.

Kai said some words to Jo before turning around and offering his hand to V before they walked off. They heard them ask, “did they just leave together,” but ignored it.

V drove them back to the motel and glanced at Kai every so often with worried expressions as he sat silently and wondered at his hands, “how do you feel now?” she asked.

“I feel good.. I feel.. different, I don’t know how to describe it,” he said in breaths.

“That’s good, I think,” V said still confused and paused for a few seconds to think, “we should get out of town, like, tonight, they’re going to look for us,”

“Don’t worry, I got it covered,” is all Kai said.

She looked over at him with a worried face again, “no really, we need to get out of town,” she was serious.

“I dunno, I kinda like it here,” he smiled ominously.

((read the next story for continuation of this one))

#kai parker #kai parker x reader #kai parker x you #kai parker imagine #kai parker series #kai parker fanfic #malachai parker #tvd #tvd au #tvd fanfiction #tvd series

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kybervisions · 3 years

Text

slight obsessions [bucky]

summary: after months of obsessing over a senator, bucky is given the opportunity to save her. he then visits her in the hospital

author’s note: warning, warning, this will feature aspects of the u.s government,,, \\ lil bit of fluff and mentions of torture ,, just a kidnapped senator and bucky pining ,, requests are open :)

The security footage of your kidnapping at the fundraiser was leaked to the media. Millions watched as a prominent U.S senator was ambushed and drugged before being dragged into an unmarked vehicle. Bucky’s heart ached. “We’ll find her,” Sam, well-aware of Bucky’s infatuation with you, promised his friend.

Bucky was unprepared to find you in the state that you were, bloody and bruised. There was a cut above your eyebrow and blood dripped down your face. Your skin was riddled with red and purple. The metal cuffs around your wrists and ankles dug into your skin and caused you to bleed. There was track marks on your arms and your knee didn’t look too good either.

You looked nearly unrecognizable — almost nothing like the senator that so adamantly advocated for his pardon.

“Captain?” You mutterly weakly, barely recognizing the two figures near the doorway. The drugs they pumped into you fucked with your vision and made you feel absolutely sick. You could barely keep your eyes open. Everything hurt and you shivering from the lack of warmth.

Sam quickly ran past Bucky and his fingers searched for a pulse on your neck. Weak, but it was something. Once up close, Sam could see the multitude of track marks on your skin and his fingers gently touched them, causing you to cry, something that completely shocked you. Zemo had stopped giving you water a few days ago.

“We’re going to get you out of here, senator,” Sam pulled out a Widow’s Bite, which he had secretly stolen from Natasha, and used the electricity within the bite to override the power source of the cuffs.

When the cuffs opens, you were released from the vertical interrogation chair. Before you fell on the concrete floor, Bucky quickly reached out to catch you.

“Fuck!” You shouted and startled Bucky. You bit your lip in an attempt to silence your pain. After weeks of absolute hell, you were sensitive to touch. Tears filled your eyes and you weren’t strong enough to hold them back. “It hurts,” You whimpered. You felt sick. Cold and weak and wanting to puke but having nothing in your stomach to regurgitate.

A protectiveness he had not felt since before the war consumed Bucky. Seeing you so weak and in pain filled him with both anger and the need to make you feel better. Your big, soft, and tear-filled eyes awakened his primal instinct to defend and protect.

He acknowledged there was still something wrong with him, because even in the state that you were in, Bucky wanted nothing more than to press his lips against yours and hold you against him.

For a short second, while looking down into your eyes, the world was quiet.

“C’mon, man,” Sam urged them. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to be in here when the timer goes off,”

“Alright, alright,” Bucky agreed. “Um, can you run?” He looked down at you again. You were smaller in person. The television must make everyone look like titans. On the screen, you had such a larger than life presence. Whether it was asking questions during committee hearings or speaking out against a bill, you were imposing.

“She can barely stand,” Sam answered before you. With all the drugs in your system, you were nearly unresponsive. “Pick her up and let's go!”

Once they reached the C.I.A medical facility, Sharon told a room full of reporters that the senator had been found and was being examined by professionals. She did not give too much information, which was typical for intelligence agencies.

By “being examined by professionals”, Sharon meant you were undergoing surgery because whatever was injected into your body caused you to go under septic shock. She omitted that part, not wanting to give the public further cause to worry.

After the surgery, only family was allowed to enter your hospital room. Some of your staff was able to bypass that rule. You were still recovering, but your top aide, Winnie, had begun planning your first public appearance.

“You’re a certified badass now,” Winnie informed you, and it made you chuckle. Winnie had been by your side since you were a congressional freshman and you loved them to death. “The corpses will have to show you actual respect now,” They smiled, referring to your coworkers as corpses gives them a bit of joy.

“I’m sure Stern will find a reason to call me a traitor to the country,” You replied. Your strong opposition of the intelligence agencies earned you a lot of enemies.

“Yeah, well, he’ll — ”

The door had opened and there stood a “Hi, sorry. I, uh, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Bucky stopped at the doorway. He was holding a small bouquet of your favorite flowers and scratched the back of his head, avoiding eye contact.

“Sergeant Barnes,” You smiled. Bucky looked to you, and he’d never seen or heard anything as beautiful. He had heard you say his name a thousand time over, but hearing it in person was just swell.

“Bucky’s jus’ fine, senator,” Bucky returned a toothy grin. You swear you had died and gone to heaven. He was even more beautiful in person.

“Bucky,” There was a shine in your eyes when you said his name. His name sounded so pretty coming from your mouth.

“O-kay,” Winnie chuckled and their eyes bounced between yourself and the soldier, who was just a few feet away from them. “I’ll be back tomorrow to hash out the details,” They turned to look at you and gave you a small peck on your head. “Be careful,” It was a warning.

Bucky stepped into the room, allowing Winnie to easily slip out.

Now that the blood and dirt had been washed out, Bucky could truly admire how striking you were. You were glowing. There were still bruises and healing wounds but they didn’t diminish your beauty.

He set the flowers on the visitor’s chair.

“I wanted to properly thank you and Mr. Wilson for saving my life,” You told him. He took a few more steps towards you. “W-Winnie has a press conference planned once I’m discharged, and there might be a Medal of Freedom in your future, after the Congressional Gold Medal, of course,”

“What?”

“Yeah,” You smiled. “It took a little bit of convincing but the bastard caved eventually,”

Of course you had recommended him, and Sam, for such prestigious awards. It was further proof that he had been vindicated from the dark part of his history. You helped profoundly in his path to finally accepting himself, and for that, he would always love you.

When the nightmares returned, Bucky would rewatch your old speeches for the campaign to pardon him. He felt pathetic — having to listen to a woman he had never met before passionately advocate for his freedom in order to feel better. You saw him as human, worthy of forgiveness.

“I know they’re practically worthless in the age of superheroes, but I thought I would be nice,”

It would be nice. “Thank you,” His smile slowly faded as the conversation took a serious turn. “For everything, the campaign and the pardon and now these medals,” A breathy chuckle escaped. “I...you never attended the ceremony,” He commented on your absence during his pardon. It had plagued his mind for countless nights.

“I wasn’t invited,” You chuckled at the irony of it — having spent months working for his freedom only to not be present to watch it happen. “A picture leaked of me at a protest in college and they thought it would be too controversial for me to attend,” You shrugged it off.

Ensuring Bucky’s freedom was all that mattered. Your acknowledgement was not important to you in the greater scope of things.

“I’ll make sure you get invited this time,” Maybe you could give a speech before he’s awarded the medal. He could finally be present to hear you praise him.

Bucky’s eyes lingered on your lips. Your nervousness returned. There was a distinct look in his eyes that terrified and excited you all the same.

“Senator, time for your medication,” A nurse entered the room and pushed a cart with her. There was an IV set, some pills, and a cup of water on the cart and all that medicine made Bucky feel anxious.

He was well aware of the dangers of so much medicine and he was scared. He couldn’t afford to lose you now. Not when he finally has you within his grasp.

“The pills help with the pain and the IV gives me nutrients,” You noted the panicked look on Bucky’s face when he saw the cart. “Or so they claim,” You looked at the nurse, who was not entertained by your accusatory comment.

“I should head out,” Bucky nodded. “And allow your drugs to be administered in peace,” You laughed, and he was quite proud of that.

Feeling bolder, Bucky took a few final steps toward you. You offered your hand and he lightly held your wrist, stilled bruised, and bowed down to kiss your hand. It was a small and sweet gesture, but it left you an absolute mess. You held your breath and felt your heart in your throat.

Bucky admired you once more before leaving the room. He nearly memorized how you radiated in spite of the harsh cold white light that illuminated the hospital. In that moment, he was certain you’d be his.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x you #marvel imagine #winter solider x y/n #marvel one shot

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whump-town · 3 years

Text

Heart Attack

This one goes out to whoever said “death. this is how i confess love”.

I will write the other fic as well

Warning: Major Character Death (rip my favorite big old idiot)

The initial weakness in his left arm is not noteworthy. The deep ache, daggers shooting from the inside of his wrist to the clavicle, are sadly not either. Chronic pain is just a part of his daily life and after the ugly, deep scars Foyet left on his forearms, not even simple movements are free. He’s always assumed Foyet put them, the long slashed scars that look nearly self-inflicted, there just for show, claiming him perhaps but certainly to maim. Doesn’t matter right much now, all he knows for certain is that it hurts and there’s nothing he can do about it.

It happens so frequently that it nearly slips his mind-- as much as pain can but what he really means is that the coffee in his hand slips. He’s standing in the kitchen, contemplating taking an Advil to at least dull the pain enough to better concentrate on the book he’s been trying to finish since Friday. “Fuck.” His left hand just releases the mug. He liked that mug. Advil it is.

His days pass in quiet contemplation. Just him and these beige walls. He misses the days that were filled by Jack’s toddling steps, rampant little footsteps, and happy squeals of delight. Coming home to the sound of some new band Jack’s conjured up and is going to torture him with for the next week until he moves on to the next. He misses Emily and Dave and having drinks on his couch. Being forced to go to Dave’s for family dinners and Emily coming by, uninvited, of course, to eat his ice cream and make fun of his documentaries.

Now he’s alone most of the time. Well, unless Jessica coming by to count to his pills counts. He doesn’t really think it should but she means well. Someone has to make sure he doesn’t just die on them but would they even notice?

Not immediately, not for a while.

Maybe if something strange happens on a case but those calls come less and less frequently. No one needs his specific knowledge. Emily is becoming an assured leader and she doesn’t even call him to fuss about the idiots that he hired and left her to deal with. He and Dave don’t really talk anymore. The best he gets, these days, is a quick update if someone gets hurt just so that he doesn’t worry if it pops up on the news.

Jack is off at college now. Hotch can’t blame him for being fairly radio silent but it does give him something to work with every few weeks when Jack does remember that he exists and sends a thousand-odd texts his way.

So, if he just… died no one would notice until Jessica’s Thursday visit. Even then, she’s just here to look at the pillbox he leaves on the counter for her easy access. She just checks what she has to and leaves. Life goes on.

As he’s crouched on his kitchen floor, mumbling very inappropriate and obscenity-ridden things, he feels that lightheaded fog encroach. Something that he really only knows from other encounters, one that he doesn’t associate with immediate danger. He takes a fist-full of medication each morning and roughly two list lightheadedness as a side-effect. While a dangerous fallout of Foyet’s stabbing is this strange platelet problem that messes with his iron. So while he sits for a moment and breathes through the feeling of his body trying to give out on him he assumes this problem is what it always is: his awful health.

He gets the coffee cleaned up with a towel but leaves the towel over the broken bits of the mug. The cartilage in his knees saw better days roughly twenty-years ago and by the time that the coffee has been contained, he can hardly stand the pain in them. So, guiding himself with a hand on the counter (then leaning on the wall and using a kitchen chair and so on and so forth until he gets to the couch) Hotch limps away from the kitchen.

He’s never been so thankful for his habitual manners as he sinks into the cozy couch and finds his heated blanket already plugged in and sitting on the lowest heat. A fire hazard? Yeah probably but if this damned blanket kills him one day then so be it. He finds some background noise in a nature documentary about penguins and closes his eyes, waiting for the blanket’s heat to soothe his old bones.

Despite how far he’s pushed himself down into the blanket, his body breaks out in a cold sweat. His chest tight and arm throbbing or maybe stabbing-- he can’t tell the difference right now just blinded by the pain. Blind and so stupid and as he sits up, shaking he’s shivering so hard, he knows what’s happening.

Haley used to dismiss his fears with soothing promises. She wouldn’t let something like this happen to him. They’d get old together “so old we start to wish one of us would just die and get it over with but every day I’ll turn over in our bed and find your craggy, old face right beside me and I know I’d still love you so much it hurts”. But Haley died before she even turned forty and he’s spent too many birthdays and anniversaries alone to know she couldn’t have meant that.

Drunk, vulnerable with the recent loss of Haley and the sudden return of Emily he’d admitted to this fear. Not just dying alone but of dying like his father-- a hated bastard on the outside with no family and no loved ones. To paint the wall with the horror in Dave and Emily’s face could stand as a solid reminder that he is loved but those faces mean nothing. The way that Emily had hugged him that night is nothing. Despite their assurances, he can feel his heart skipping beats. Painful kicks, each one.

He is alone. Gasping as he struggles to fight off his anxiety and crying through the agony ripping chest. Alone. Curled down into himself to try and find some comfort.

He manages to call 911. As he’s blinking tears from his eyelashes there’s a moment where the only number he can think of is Garcia. For years her number was his emergency number and now … He’s still thinking about her when the operator picks up but he’s losing his functions so fast. Settling back on the couch, using what’s left of his energy to tuck his feet back under his black he does his best to stay awake and hum in response to questions.

He thinks about Garcia. She’s always there, he finds, in his mind and every accident he’s had. Even during Boston despite the fact that she just joined the BAU. She’s always there and he wonders if she’ll appear this time. Talk his ear off about David Bowe but hold his hand tight enough that he never has to question if she’s really there.

Heart attacks hurt a lot worse than internal bleeding but he’d, personally, still put it under being actually stabbed.

He doesn’t hear the paramedics arrive or even feel the IV being placed in his arm. Though unconscious, he gives the faintest whimper of discontent as he’s lifted and pulled away from the couch. Not given the chance to brace for the cold winter air of March in Virginia just moving and moving fast.

“Agent Hotchner?”

He groans, turning his head from the penlight shining down in his face. Though he moves his face, he can’t escape the tight pressure across his ribs. Constricting tightly. The agent bit catches him by surprise-- he’s been “Mr” now for some time. Very few people still throw the “agent” in there.

“There you are--”

The sirens make it hard to hear. His hearing has been going for some time but if there’s one thing he can take from this encounter it might be that he should invest in the hearing aids he’s been putting off for a while now. He blinks up at the woman talking to him. Gently pumping a blood pressure cuff around his bicep and calling his name when his eyes slide back shut. He does try to stay awake but he’s in a lot of pain and he’s tired. Even retired he doesn’t get much sleep.

He’ll have to remember to tell JJ that. She’s always worried about his sleep schedule (or lack thereof) and thought, or rather hoped, his retirement would bring him the chance to finally catch up on two decades’ worth of lost sleep. She’ll be disappointed but not surprised.

It’ll give him a reason to reach out, to talk with them.

“Stay with me, Agent Hotchner.”

The world rocks and something that taste like plastic is placed over his face, wrapped around the back of his head.

“Deep breathes, you’re doing just fine.”

The cold air hits his sternum and his eye fly open, panicking as hands touch his bare skin. Oh, God. Foyet. I have to stop-- someone much stronger than him grabs his wrist. Two hands push his shoulders down into the gurney and he can’t fight. Can’t move.

“Agent Hotchner,” someone tries to calm him. “We’re trying to help you. I understand you’re in a lot of pain--”

He wants to go home. Away from the cold and the hands that keep touching him. “Dave?” he pants, turning his head and searching through the hazy mess of people. He cries softly, tears stinging his face as they slide down his face. He wants to recognize one person, to know one of the hands belongs to someone he trusts. Dave is okay. He likes it when Dave touches him. It’s calming and reassuring and he wants someone to call Dave. “Please,” he whimpers, curling his legs as he feels someone tear the worn fabric of his jeans. “No. No.”

He’s confused and he’s in pain and he wants all these people to stop touching him.

“Aaron--”

No, no he doesn’t like that. He cries out, failing to dislodge the hands as he kicks out. All his height, all the power he’s spent decades learning to command is useless. “I want to go home,” he rasps desperately. He can’t move, anymore. They’re holding him down and he can feel the drugs pumping into his arm. Too cold and too fast and it all hurts. Why are they hurting him?

“Just stay with us, Agent. We’re almost done and then--”

For the first time in nearly twenty years, all of his pain just is gone. He feels nothing for a blissful second. Around him, there’s a panic. The machines attached to him frantically going off as his heartbeat goes from rampant, wrong to gone. The pain comes back suddenly, sharper than before, and he turns his head with a moan as his lungs contract painfully. He coughs, rasping as his chest heaves.

He slips back under the haze but this time the pain stays.

He chokes as they try to intubate, fighting weekly but he’s too far gone to even move away from the touch anymore. Dave isn’t there. He wishes Dave were here. Dave always cups the side of his head, speaking in soft Italian that he’s never managed to pick up. But it’s soft and gentle and Dave. Garcia doesn’t hold his hand-- she always holds his hand. There’s not the soft scent of lavender that comes in with the hard rain that is Emily Prentiss. No one to jostle him for his carelessness and then crawl up into the bed with him. Reminding him of memories he’s nearly forgotten of when they were just kids.

No Jack.

Jack’s at college.

He comes in at 9:45 a.m.

By 10:15 a.m. there’s a doctor over his chest. A nurse makes quick work of trying to get a hold of a medical proxy. There’s a kid, he has a son, but there’s no contact information listed for him. She gets voicemail twice from the numbers that are listed.

Jessica is in a meeting. Her phone is on silent. It wouldn’t have mattered if she’d had her phone. He’s thirty minutes away and his heart gives out only twenty minutes after he arrives at the hospital.

Dave is in Seattle, sitting in a puddle of rainwater and trying to contain his anger as Luke changes a tire on the SUV. His phone is too wet to work. He won’t get the news until nearly two hours later when he and Luke arrive back at the precinct. Emily will not cry for nearly a week after she gets the news. She tells Jack.

The doctors assure them that there was nothing they could have done. It was a freak accident. They always knew this was a possibility, an outcome that was very real with the amount of damage done to Aaron’s heart. It’s been broken so many times… And standing in that hospital, shivering under the intensity of the air conditioning and the white burning paint, they are left with the burden of knowing he protected them tell the very end.

But they never reciprocated that care.

#criminal minds #aaron hotchner #criminal minds fanfiction

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fancyfade · 3 years

Text

so ive been debating editing chapter 3 on my fanfic to make 1 scene line up more from canon. (chapter 3 is this one, where the characters deal with the aftermath of battle for the cowl, Tim finds out Damian’s Robin, and Dick and Damian move to the penthouse)

I’m debating making the Tim finding out Damian’s Robin scene a little more canon compliant along what happened in Red Robin (link) for a few reasons, the main of which is in the scenes that I’m writing next (like... chapter 47 lol), Tim and Dick do have to talk about what transpired when Dick made Damian Robin. Potential reasons for change

In my fic Tim kind of just left on his own without a push, but I’m not sure if Tim would have left on such bad terms if there wasn’t the complication of Damian antagonizing him and him feeling as if Dick was picking Damian over him (even though in the comic we saw Dick trying to de-escalate and get Tim’s back, it still felt that way to Tim)

I dislike the way some of this was handled in the comic and I can’t really comment on it in my fic if I just retcon it out

it seems fair-er I guess if Tim is allowed to have flaws just like Cass and Damian and Dick all have flaws in this fic. i know many tim stans think otherwise, but punching a ten-year-old victim of child abuse in the face out of anger is wrong.

the con side is obviously this involves Damian getting hit and that kid has been through so much already. I’m really trying to figure out how it works with character dynamics vs like. give the poor kid a break-ness.

anyway if I did decide to replace the current chapter 3, this is what it would be replaced with (only the first scene, the second would be the same). If you are a reader of the fic feel free to leave your comments. I would do an “oh and I edited chapter 3″ note before the relevant stuff was mentioned if I go through with this, I wouldn’t like expect everyone to know what happened. Some of the dialogue is not like exactly like in canon (cuz thats boring and also to match with what I wrote the first time) but the feeling/ beats should be similar

Gotham’s finally had a bit of lull in the violence, and Dick is just wondering how he’s going to do this.

He’s accepted that Damian’s his responsibility – seeing the kid shot in the chest made that perfectly clear, as much as he would’ve liked it to be otherwise. He felt like he was way too young to be watching out for a kid in any capacity other than cool older brother, especially a kid who’s as difficult to get along with as Damian. He was a great fighter, of course, and he knew it – Dick’s not sure he’s ever heard the kid be humble about anything. To make things worse, Dick feels like he’s constantly stuck in the middle between Damian and the kid he actually views as his younger brother – Tim, who Damian tried to kill. Evidence in point:

“Robin?!” Tim asks once he’s gotten back on his feet and Dick's explained his plan – away from Damian, who's still recovering from surgery.

“You made Damian Robin?!” Tim asks again.

Dick sighs. He’s in the cave, in a Batman costume he feels doesn’t fit right at all with the cowl off, and Tim’s still in his regular clothes. He has no idea how to explain this to Tim – no idea how to make him feel like he’s not being replaced. Dick never wanted to be the one doing the replacing – he remembers how much it hurt to find out that Jason was Robin from the papers, and that was after he officially stopped being Robin. Tim never quit – and Dick’s not about to make him – but he has to come home to the guy who tried to kill him getting his name.

“Tim, I know this looks bad, but Damian needs this.”

“Remember when we thought Bruce was going to retire after Crisis?” Tim asks. “Batman and Robin was supposed to be us. You and me. Not you and the psychopath that tried to kill me.”

“Tim, you’re not my sidekick, you’re my partner – ” Dick takes a step towards Tim with his hand out, prepared to offer sympathy, but Tim shakes him off angrily.

“Obviously not!”

“And Damian needs me way more than you do. If we don’t keep an eye on him, he’s going to kill again.”

Tim scowls intensely. “That should really not be an endorsement for being Robin, Dick! He’s a killer! He belongs in jail!” Tim swallows a little and then lowers his voice out of shouting range. “Dick, he didn’t try to kill me because he for some reason thought it was the only way to stop me from doing something bad, as far as I can tell he just wanted to replace me. We’re talking about someone with absolutely no sense of right or wrong.”

“Of course he doesn’t have a sense of right or wrong. He’s a ten-year-old child who was raised as an assassin from birth!”

“Lots of our villains have really sad or sympathetic reasons for doing crime, that doesn’t mean we team up with them.”

“Are you serious?” Dick asks. “This isn’t the same, Tim.”

“How not?”

“Well for one,” calls Damian's voice from the stairs, and Dick can't help but cringe and think not now – “I'm a lot better than them.”

Dick's cringe only intensifies when he turns around to see what Damian is wearing. His new Robin costume.

Tim's hands clench into fists the instant he sees Damian. Dick knows he has to de-escalate things quick before Tim and Damian have another fight.

“Damian,” Dick says, trying to keep himself carefully neutral-sounding. “Shouldn't you be resting?”

Damian lifts his head up slightly so his nose is in the air, and walks down the stairs almost normally. There's only a little hesitation in the twist of his torso, a little stiffness of his right arm.

Either he's zoned out of his mind on painkillers or depressingly good at masking his pain for a ten-year-old.

“Please,” Damian says. “I was trained in the League of Shadows. Do you really think an over-the-hill ex-Robin could put me down?”

Tim's fist clenches further, and so Dick says, letting a bit more urgency slip into his voice, “Damian, shut up. Now.”

Damian puts his left hand on his hips and looks intentionally at Tim. He adds, “I'm not Drake – ”

He's barely got the word out before Tim leaps forward and punches him in the face. Dick's out of his seat, grabbing Tim to hold him back, who is still distressingly struggling against him, like he wants to keep up the assault despite the fact that Damian fell to the floor.

“My name is Tim Wayne!” Tim shouts as Dick is still holding him back.

Damian gingerly sits up. Dick prepares to release Tim, prepares to stop Damian if he has to, if he decides to get revenge. But he doesn't. He just briefly braces his right side with his left hand before wiping the blood off his face.

“I let you get that shot in, Drake,” Damian says, again dropping intentional emphasis on Tim's original last name.

As he does, Tim struggles forward.

“Tim, back off!” Dick says, because Tim still isn't cooling down –

“I want you to feel good about yourself,” Damian continues.

Tim seems to relax his stance slightly, so Dick, possibly in an error of judgment, lets Tim go. But Tim doesn't try to attack Damian again, he just shakes Dick off and starts stomping away. “You want me to back off? Fine.”

He's going for the exit.

If he leaves –

Dick can't chase him. He's not sure that he can leave Damian alone –

“Tim, wait!” Dick says, taking a step forward. “Bruce is gone. But I still need you.”

“For what?” asks Damian and damn it is there anything this kid isn't going to try to ruin?

“Shut up, Damian,” Dick says again, even though as far as he knows he's just going to wind up pushing Damian away too –

And Tim leaves.

Dick turns to look at Damian. The kid's already back to his feet, like nothing happened, and Dick takes a step forward to inspect the injury – though he's really more worried about the gunshot wound than Tim's punch. Both Tim and Damian had wound up injured pretty badly during the chaos that gripped Gotham in the rumors of Batman’s death. As his new and not-improved version of Batman, Jason had tried to kill them both, which Dick is way less than pleased about. He’d been kind of hoping that they could talk Jason down, but this seems like a line he doesn’t know if Jason can ever un-cross. He shot a ten year old in the chest.

Damian grabs Dick's wrist as he reaches out.

“Are you all right?” Dick asks.

Damian scoffs. “You're worried about Drake? I've been hit harder sparring my mother.”

“I was thinking about the gunshot.” Alfred had said the primary damage was blood loss and a punctured lung (well, traumatic pneumothorax, but Dick knew what he meant) and given the kid a minimum of four weeks downtime to heal.

It's hard to tell due to the domino mask, but Damian adopts the position of a kid who's rolling their eyes, head slightly tilted to the side with a loll. “It's not enough to impersonate Batman, now you want to impersonate my mother?”

Dick doesn't know how to approach the mother thing, so he doesn't even try. He just explains the logic for being Batman – (and there is logic behind it. It's not like he wanted this). “Someone has to step up and convince Gotham things can get back to normal,” Dick says. “And serial killer Batman wasn't going to cut it.”

“Did you at least take care of him?” Damian asks.

Dick knows that Damian isn't actually worried about Jason's wellbeing, so he says, “Do you mean 'did I kill him'?”

“Tt. Obviously.”

“Obviously not.”

Damian presses his lips together in a thin line.

Dick might as well get this out of the way now. He's going to have to sometime. “Alfred wants you out of the field for four weeks.”

“That's preposterous!” Damian shouts, and as he shouts, he coughs. He rubs his chest quickly and then glowers at Dick when he sees him staring.

“Damian, you could have died.”

“I didn’t.”

Jeez, doesn’t this kid have any sense of his own mortality? Though, Dick supposes, growing up around Lazarus Pits and a centuries old grandfather might make that impossible.

“I’m not a fool, Grayson, I know I’m not capable of healing instantaneously. I’ll take a break for one week,” he offers, like it’s a huge concession on his part.

“Four weeks,” Dick says.

“What about you?” Damian asks. “Didn’t you get injured?”

“Not as badly.”

“Are you taking a break?”

“Someone needs to convince Gotham that Batman’s not dead,” Dick says. Also, he doesn’t want to take a break. He doesn’t want to be alone with his thoughts. Losing Bruce. Failing Tim.

“Tt. Then I don’t need one either. I’m younger. I heal faster.”

Dick actually has no clue whether that’s true, because he’s not a doctor, but he knows that people usually say kids heal faster.

Dick swings his arms a little, trying to feel them out. They’re still stiff, and as they move, a jolt of pain shoots through him. Even when he’s not moving, his shoulder is still sore. He knows that he might get injured going into the field like this and that it’s not a smart decision – last time he went into the field while still healing, he wound up blowing his secret identity to Blockbuster.

He decides that at least if he’s going into the field, he won’t tell Barbara and Alfred about it. Okay, so that’s probably not the smartest of his plans. Most plans that you have to hide from people who care about you aren't smart.

“I’ll take a week long break with you,” Dick concedes. “And we can see how fast you’re healing.” The second part is a lie, of course. He's not going to supersede Alfred's orders on medical matters.

Dick sighs a little. He figures that while they’re both on bed-rest duty, though, he can try to figure out how to set things up so they can operate effectively once they get a clean bill of health.

“How do you feel about not living in the manor?” Dick asks.

“Kicking me out already?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, I wouldn’t be living here either,” Dick says. It’s true. He’d rather not feel like he’s living in all of Bruce’s old places, wearing Bruce’s old costume, … replacing him, essentially. He needs a place he can clear his head.

“Where would you live then?” Damian asks skeptically.

Dick shrugs. “The penthouse, maybe. Bruce already made a bunker nearby, so we could operate out of there pretty easily.”

Damian narrows his eyes. “Why do you keep saying ‘we’?”

Because you are ten and not ready to live on your own. But Dick just says, “Well, you’re Robin now, right? That means you’re pretty much obligated to team up with Batman.”

“Batman isn’t here, Grayson. He never will be again, no matter how much you play dress-up.”

Charming kid. Like Dick didn’t already know that.

“You know I operate effectively alone, right?” Damian continues. “I don’t need to be hand-held and babysat like all of Father’s previous partners.”

Dick figures that it’d be a jerk move to remind Damian he just almost died and therefore really shouldn’t be on his own. Instead, he says, “Well, Alfred’s staying with me, so unless you want to get all your food and clean the house by yourself, you have to put up with me.”

“Tt . I don’t need a servant. I’ll just eat at restaurants.”

“On who’s money?”

“In the event of his death, my father’s assets should have transferred to me. His blood son.”

Oh boy. Dick rubs his face. “Does this have to be a thing, Damian? No one’s doubting your capacity to take care of yourself but I think it’d really be easier if we were operating out of the same building. “

A long silence on Damian’s part. “Fine,” he says eventually. “I’ll allow you to stay at my penthouse.”

My penthouse. Of course. But Dick takes it. “All right,” he says. “Let’s move in.”

#idk even #to my followers #my fanfic #dc comics #dc fanfic #tim drake #damian wayne #dick grayson

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sourwolf-sterek32 · 4 years

Text

Sucker for Pain ( Daryl Dixon x Reader)

Summary: Everyone has demons, some louder than others and some, like yourself, who use blades to silence them. Before the world died, you were an assassin and thought you were better off alone, until you kept running into the same blue eyed archer who changed your mind.

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Assassin!Reader

Word Count: 4.5k

Trigger Warnings: Mentions of self harm and physical and sexual assault and rape in a few chapters

Chapter 11- Final Chapter

The doctor wheeled Y/N into some patient room and Beth was instantly by his side and started cutting open her jacket like she had done all of this a thousand times, but Daryl didn't miss how the girls hand shook as she used the scissors.

"Is she going to be okay?" Rick questioned, jogging into the room.

He stopped beside Daryl who was standing on the far side of the room, his arms crossed over his chest as he slowly paced along the back wall and Rick let him, knowing it was how he dealt with it.

"I don't know." The doctor admitted looking over at Rick.

Beth began to set up some IV drip after she finished cutting off Y/N's jacket. Exposing the bandage that was stained with dry blood over her left wrist which made Daryl's stomach drop at the sight of it as he thought back to when Y/N had cut herself too deep.

He wanted to ask what the doctor meant by 'I don't know.' He wanted to ask so many questioned, but he couldn't get the words out as he watched the doctor start to dig inside the bloodied bullet wound trying to find the bullet and he had to turn around.

He couldn't watch this.

"What do you mean 'you don't know?'" Sasha's voice questioned from the door.

Rick grabbed his shoulder and squeezed it gently for comfort as Daryl leant his forearms against the back wall and dropped his head, trying to stop the tears from falling down his face. This couldn't be happening. Not to her.

"She was shot from point blank and she's lost a lot of blood and we don't know her blood type and we don't know if the bullet hit any vital organs and we don't-" The doctor rambled before Rick cut him off.

"AB-negative."

"What?" Beth questioned as she finished setting up the IV and jogged around the gurney over to Rick, who still had his hand on Daryl's shoulder who had his back turned to the doctor and Y/N.

"AB-negative. That's her blood type. Shane and I studied her file for months and the only solid information we had on her was her blood type. It's AB-negative." Rick explained which got Daryl's attention as he turned back around and glanced between Rick and Beth before a small smile spread across her face.

The next few hours felt like an eternity as Daryl stood back and watched the strangers and Beth work on Y/N.

Rick never left his side and the others all stayed outside in the hallway, not wanting to be too far away from them, but wanted to give them some privacy. Nobody trusted this other group, despite them trying to save Y/N's life.

"The bullet is out. She has 13 stitches and has had two blood transfusions." The doctor informed as he checked on the IV drip beside the bed before he began to take off his blue plastic gloves.

"Now what? Is she going to be okay?" Rick asked, because for the life of him, Daryl still couldn't get himself to say anything.

All he could do was stare at Y/N's still pale body lying on the gurney in her jeans and sports bra with a thick white bandage wrapped around her mid section.

"I can't tell if there's any internal injuries, but so far she looks to be fighting still, so that's a good sign." The doctor answered glancing between the two of them before he sighed.

"I'm sorry this happened, but hopefully she'll be awake within the next 24 hours." The doctor continued before he walked out the room leaving him and Rick standing there while Beth sat beside Y/N's bed.

"Ya with me, brother?" Rick asked, squeezing Daryl's shoulder slightly, but Daryl couldn't tear his eyes away from the thick bandage wrapped around Y/N's stomach. "Hey, look at me. She's gonna be fine." Rick tried to reassure him, but Daryl shook his head.

"Ya don't know that." Daryl muttered, rubbing his face with his hands.

He leant back against the wall still unable to take his eyes away from her because if he did then she might just slip away and he couldn't let that happen. Not after everything she had been through, she couldn't die like this. She couldn't die.

"She's strong. She was strong before all of this, if anyone can pull through, it's her." Beth spoke up with a confident tone and if wasn't for her tear stained cheeks and red eyes, Daryl would have almost believed her.

"Wait, you knew who she was before this?" Rick asked looking over at Beth who was starting to make her way out the room.

The young girl nodded before walking out the door, leaving the two of them alone as Rick turned his attention towards Daryl.

"Did you know who she was before?" Rick questioned, but Daryl didn't look at him as he kept his eyes on Y/N.

"Yeah, wasn't hard to figure out." Daryl muttered.

"You knew who she was and you're okay with it?" He asked in disbelief and that was all it took for Daryl to snap.

"Why the hell wouldn't I be? She saved my life too many times to count 'n yours included. She ain't ever killed someone who don't deserve it 'n we both know that!" Daryl shouted, throwing his hands in the air in frustration as he began to pace the small room again.

"She's a murderer." Rick stated causing Daryl to scoff.

"Technically, we are too. But, the world ended, that shit don't matter no more." Daryl responded, shaking his head.

He walked over to Y/N's bedside and sat down on the chair Beth was sitting earlier as he rested his elbows on the edge of her bed and covered his face with his hands. He wasn't having this argument with Rick. Not now.

"Why didn't you tell me? She's been with us for weeks, sleeping in the same area as Judith and Carl." Rick continued to say and Daryl had to take a deep breath, trying to calm himself down before he did something he would regret.

"She ain't a rapist or nothin'. She was the one who actually got raped trying to save us!" He snapped, glaring over his shoulder at him before he turned back towards Y/N as he reach forward and brushed a few strands of hair out her face.

"You still should have told me." Rick said softly, all the heat in his voice vanishing as he watched Daryl.

"Wasn't my secret to tell."

Rick sighed, but didn't say anything for a few seconds as he stared at his best friend. He hated how much pain Daryl was in watching Y/N lie on the bed and Rick was slowly starting to realise just how much the assassin truly meant to his brother.

"I think Y/N and I have a lot to talk about if she wakes up." Rick said after a few moments of silence.

"Ya gonna kill her if she wakes up?" He muttered, not bothering to look over at Rick who shook his head before he realised Daryl couldn't see him and actually answered with words.

"She saved Beth's life, on top of all the other times she's saved us. She pulled the gun towards her so it wasn't aimed at Beth... she sacrificed herself for one of ours." Rick began to say, shaking his head at himself as he ran his fingers through his hair.

"She's earned her place, no matter what she used to do before all this." Rick announced, walking over to Daryl as he rested his hand on his best friends shoulder.

"Rick, the others are here." Tyreese suddenly called from the doorway causing them both to turn around in confusion.

Why were the others here? They were going to DC for the cure... why would they come back?

Suddenly, Maggie popped her head around the corner of the door with her arm wrapped tightly around Beth's shoulder as the younger sister clung to Maggie.

"How? You were going to DC?" Rick questioned, staring at the her in shock.

"Eugene lied. There is no cure, so we came back and picked up a couple hitchhikers along the way who told us we'd find you here." Maggie answered, happy tears laced in her eyes as Carl walked into the room with Judith in his arms and Rick sighed with relief as he rushed over to his kids and hugged them.

Everyone slowly left Y/N's room, not wanting to crowd the area and gave Daryl some privacy as he sat beside her bed, refusing to move.

Shepard, the new leader of the group offered them all hospital rooms with beds for the night. She even told them that they could all stay if they wanted to, but Rick refused and said once Y/N was awake and okay to leave then they would and the group agreed.

However, nobody took Shepard up on her offer and they all ended up camping along the hallway by Y/N's bedroom.

Beth gave them all pillows and blankets as they sat against the wall and laid on the ground to sleep. Maggie never left Beth's side, still unable to process the fact that her little sister was alive and okay.

Daryl didn't move from beside Y/N unless he needed to take a piss, but he made sure someone was sitting with her while he was gone, even if it was for only a few minutes. He barely slept at all that night and the following day wasn't much better.

The doctor came by occasionally to check Y/N's vitals and make sure everything was going smoothly as far as he could tell. Beth monitored her IV drip and made sure it was always full, but other than that, there was nothing anyone could do.

The cops gave them food and water, constantly apologising for what went down and he knew they felt bad about what happened, but Daryl didn't give a shit. All he cared about was Y/N waking up and that was it.

Silence.

That was the first thing you noticed when you started to wake up. It was too damn quiet, where the hell were you?

Slowly you forced your eyes open, in fear that you might be passed out in the woods and were sitting walker bait or something. But, as you blinked away the blurriness you quickly realised that you were not in the woods, you were in a building.

You glanced around the room in confusion, spotting some medical equipment and machines set up beside your bed and that's when it hit you.

Flashes of Dawn's handgun and the blood pouring from your stomach filled your mind and it all came flooding back. You were shot and you were still in that hospital with the cops. That's not good. You had to get out of here.

Without another thought you quickly sat yourself up, ignoring the sudden pain and dizziness that took over your body as you took a deep breath and swung your legs over the side of the bed.

"Y/N?" Daryl's groggy voice question from somewhere behind you.

It was clear that he had just woken up by how tired his voice sounded, but you didn't answer as you forced yourself to your feet, but that was a big mistake.

The ringing in your ears started again as your head began to spin and you stumbled a few steps before black dots began to cloud your vision. The last thing you were aware of was Daryl guiding you back down onto the bed before you passed out.

*Three Hours Later*

"She's waking up, someone go get Daryl and the doctor." A soft female voice said in the background somewhere.

Slowly, your eyes fluttered open and instead of staring at the ceiling, all you could see was Beth's face hovering over your in relief.

"Y/N? Can you hear me?" She asked gently and you nodded weakly.

As the seconds ticked by the pain through your stomach began to rise and you glanced down to take a look at the bullet wound to find that you had a thick white bandage wrapped around your stomach. Your jacket and tank top were gone, leaving you in jeans and a sports bra, but you were too out of it to give a shit right now.

Your eyes flashed over to your left arm and you sighed realising that the scars, cuts and bandage around your left wrist was extremely visible, but it was too late to try and hide them now. Guess everyone knew about it now.

"Do you remember what happened?" An unfamiliar voice asked.

You turned your head to the right to find a man dressed in a lab coat standing beside Beth just as Daryl rushed through the door behind them. He stopped the second his eyes locked with yours and you tried to give him a reassuring smile, but it probably looked more like a grimace than anything.

"G-gun shot." You groaned, trying to sit yourself up, but the doctor quickly grabbed your shoulders.

"Take it easy, just lay down." He said calmly causing you to glare at the man.

"Get your hands off me." You instructed through gritted teeth and the doctor did as you said before you slowly moved yourself into a sitting position, ignoring the pain flaring through your stomach as you did so.

"This should help." Beth informed as she added something to your IV drip which you assumed were painkillers before the doctor continued to ask you questions and you answered them, silently wishing the guy would just go away.

"I think you're going to be okay. It doesn't seem like the bullet did any major damage, just stay in bed for a while and let your body heal." The doctor explained and you nodded.

You didn't say anything more to the doctor before he walked out the room and your eyes landed back on Daryl who still hadn't moved from where he stood by the door, staring at you.

"I'm so sorry, Y/N. If I didn't stab Dawn, then she wouldn't have drew her gun and you wouldn't have-" Beth began to apologise before you cut her off.

"It wasn't your fault, kid. I couldn't let her kill you. I'm just glad you're alive and back with your family." You answered causing Beth to smile through teary eyes as she leant down and hugged you gently.

"I'll go tell the others the good news. Get some rest." Beth said a few seconds later as she walked out the room, leaving you and Daryl alone.

He was still standing by the door and even from the distance and the hair covering part of his face, it was clear that he had barely slept and you hated that you were the reason for it.

"You look like shit." You commented, breaking the silence and you relieved that your voice sounded semi-normal as you watched Daryl's lips twitch up in a slight smile as he shook his head.

"Ya should see yourself." He muttered as he walked over to you, taking a seat on the chair beside your bed and your eyes locked with his.

"Ya almost died." He whispered.

You didn't miss the tears starting to rise in his eyes as he spoke and your heart broke.

"Well, wouldn't be the first time." You tried to joke, but Daryl just glared at you as he reached out towards your left hand and took it, lacing your fingers together and you sighed, but didn't pull away.

Neither of you said anything for a moment as you stared at him. You were the reason for his tears and you hated that. Nobody should cry over you, especially not Daryl, you didn't deserve that.

"What I said to you earlier about doing whatever Rick decides, you have to go along with it. I'm a bad person and I'm not letting you get dragged down with me once your group realises that I'm still alive and want to kill me." You explained, but Daryl just shook his head.

"It doesn't matter what ya did. It doesn't change how I feel 'bout ya." Daryl responded, his thumb tracing small circles over the back of your hand.

"It should." You whispered.

"It doesn't. 'N the group wants ya with us, they don't care 'bout ya past no more." He stated and you shook your head, not believing him in the slightest before something clicked. He said the group. The group wasn't here, half were back at the church and the others would be halfway to DC by now.

"Everyone's here. All camped out in the hallway as we speak. The cure was bullshit 'n they came back." Daryl added, sensing your confusion.

"I totally called it. I knew the whole cure thing was a load of crap, kinda sucks I was right though." You mumbled.

Daryl to rolled his eyes at you as he slowly traced his thumb over the old scars across your wrist with a sad smile.

"C'mon help me up, I'm not saying here any longer." You declared, wanting to get his thoughts away from your scars and wanting to get the hell out of this damn hospital.

"Nah, doc said ya needed to rest." Daryl argued, but you didn't listen as you pulled the IV needle from your arm and slowly swung your legs over the side of the bed.

In an instant Daryl was by your side, his hands hovering over your shoulders knowing you didn't like being touched without permission, but wanting to be there in case you passed out again.

"I'm good." You said, standing yourself up straight as you rested your hand over the bandage trying to ignore the dull ache, but at least it wasn't a sharp pain anymore thanks to Beth's painkillers that had finally kicked in.

"Here." Daryl said as he began to pull his leather vest off, leaving him in his sleeveless button down as he helped you put the vest on.

It was a little big for you, but it covered your bra and most your upper body without having to do the buttons up, so you gladly took it.

You spotted your sniper leaning against the wall at the far corner of the room and Daryl must have saw what you were looking at as he walked across the room and grabbed it before handing it to you and you smiled, taking your weapon and slinging it over your shoulder.

Slowly, you began to limp towards the door and nearly tripped over in the process if it wasn't for Daryl who grabbed you just in time and threw your arm over his shoulder to help you and you didn't argue.

The second you stepped into the hallway you froze.

Holy shit, Daryl was right. The entire group was literally camped in the hallway, all of them sitting and lying down, covered in various blankets and pillows. Most of them were asleep, but Beth was talking softly with Maggie, Glenn and Abraham, who were the only ones awake.

"Oh my God, should you be up and walking?" Glenn suddenly questioned once his eyes landed on you.

He said it a bit too loudly, but he didn't seem to notice or really care as the others all groaned and slowly woke up, but the second they spotted you, they all quickly stood up in shock.

"Well shit, you're one tough son of a bitch. Glad to see you still kicking." Abraham commented with a friendly smile and you smiled back at him, knowing that was his small way of apologising for the shit he'd said to you before he left the church a few days ago.

You talked with everyone for a while and to your shock they all seemed to be happy and relieved that you were okay before Rick walked down the hallway with baby Judith fast asleep in his arms, but the second he saw you standing there he froze with wide eyes.

"Ya still gonna kill me, Deputy? If so, make it a good shot. I don't die easily apparently." You half joked motioning towards the bandage that was slightly visible under Daryl's vest causing Rick to shake his head as he began to walk towards the group of you.

"We might have been on opposite sides of the law back in the day, but you have earned your place in the group. You're a survivor just like us, I just wish it didn't take you getting almost killed for me to realise that." Rick admitted, taking you by surprise.

You stared at him for a few seconds before the group erupted in happy cheers and Daryl sighed with relief, still holding your arm over his shoulders as you leant into his side and rested your head against his shoulder.

"Thank you, now let's get the hell out of here." You stated and the group didn't bother arguing with you.

Rick spoke to the cops before you left and somehow convinced them to give you a spare car along with bags of food and water to take with you.

The group of you piled into the car along with the large truck that Abraham and the others had found along the way because apparently they crashed the bus and wrecked it which was a shame, that bus would have been perfect.

Nobody really had a destination in mind, so you suggested a small power station that you had stayed at once. It had high wire fences around it and was secure the last time you saw it. Nobody else had a better idea so they all agreed on the power station.

It took nearly five hours before you pulled up in front of the tall barbed wire fence that lined the small power station.

You stayed by the cars with Carl, Beth and Judith while the others went through the front gate to check and clear the place. You leant against the bonnet of the car with your sniper in your hands, watching their backs while Carl and Beth kept guard by the back of the cars, but to your relief they reappeared within five minutes and declared the place clear.

There wasn't much in the area minus the power lines and electrical boxes, but you pulled the cars into the yard and began to set up beds and tents in the small area. Tara and Maggie took guard duty and set up on top of one of the metal electrical boxes to give them a view of the whole area.

Daryl had disappeared to go hunting while you still had a few hours of daylight left and the rest of the group all worked on getting a small fire lit and some of the canned food cooked.

Everyone sat around the small campfire while you waited for the food to cook. They all talked quietly amongst themselves as you stood back, leaning against the side of the cop car and took in the moment.

"Hey." Rick voice said softly and you glanced to your left to find the former Deputy walking towards you.

"Sorry about how I dealt with everything... I guess things aren't as black and white these days like they were when we first met." He explained causing to you chuckle softly which you quickly regretted as pain spiked through your stomach and you to winced.

"Sorry." Rick quickly apologised, but you shook your head.

"You know, you could have figured it out yourself without Gareth telling you. All the clues were there, especially that first night on the road, I killed those bikers with bullets through their eyes and I was almost certain you'd put two and two together, but you never did... You didn't figure out that I was the assassin because you didn't want to." You answered truthfully

Rick stared at you for a few seconds as he though about what you just said and nodded in agreement as he leant back against the car beside you, both of you watching the others sitting by the campfire.

"You're probably right. But, why fake your own death? The whole car crash thing? Why?" He asked curiously.

"The Feds from downtown were getting too close. I needed something to distract them while I laid low, so I staged my own death and then the dead started to walk a few months later. Crazy times." You stated shaking your head causing Rick to laugh softly from beside you, but he nodded agreement.

"Ain't that the truth."

Judith began to whimper in Carl's arms from where he was sitting by the campfire and you watched as the young boy glanced over at his father with a 'help me' expression causing you to smile softly as Rick chuckled and pushed himself from the car.

"Duty calls." He said and you nodded as he walked over to his children and scooped Judith up in his arms and the little girl instantly settled down.

Slowly, you began to limp over to the group, Carol instantly moving over so you could sit between her and Beth and you smiled and carefully sat down with a slight wince as you grabbed your stomach. The doctor had given you a small bottle of painkillers to take if you needed, but you kind of wanted the pain, so you kept the pills in the car.

"How are you feeling? Do you want me to get the painkillers?" Beth asked worriedly, but you shook your head as you rested your sniper down beside you.

"Nah, I'm good. But, I think I'll take that Sharpie now, if you still got it?" You asked quietly so the others couldn't hear.

For a second, you thought that maybe you had said it a little too quiet, but then Beth's face stretched out into a smile as she pulled the Sharpie out from her sweater pocket and held it out towards you.

"I'm glad you asked for it. Sorry, pink's the only colour I got." She apologised, but she didn't sound sorry as you took the Sharpie to find that it was in fact pink causing you to roll your eyes as the young girl smiled even more.

"Thank you, pink will be just fine." You replied with a gentle smile.

You twirled the pen around in your hand while the others all continued to talk quietly amongst themselves. Some were telling stories and sharing memories from the past, others planning and thinking of where to go next while you sat there and silently listened to the friendly chatter.

20 minutes later, Daryl came back with a dozen squirrels tied to a rope and the whole group broke out in huge smiles and instantly began helping the hunter clean and skin them.

Once the squirrels were ready to cook, Daryl swapped seats with Carol who insisted on cooking the food so he could be with you and you weren't going to complain about that.

"How's the bullet wound? Ya alright?" He asked, sitting down beside you as he stretched his legs out, his thigh resting against yours and you smiled softly at the small contact.

"I'm fine, just wish I could help more around camp." You admitted and you didn't realise you were talking so loud because half the group all spoke up at once.

"You nearly got yourself killed saving Beth, you deserve a rest."

"You told us about this camp, that's helping."

"You have done more than enough for this group."

They all called out from around the campfire. catching you by surprise. All them were looking over at you with friendly smiles causing you to roll your eyes, but you just nodded, unable to stop yourself from smiling at their words before you all began to eat the squirrel and canned food.

A few hours later, everyone had fallen asleep around the campfire covered in blankets, pillows and sleeping bags. Glenn was the only one awake as he kept watch from the top of an electrical box, but neither you or Daryl were asleep either as you leant against Daryl's side fiddling with the Sharpie while you both stared at the small glowing embers of the fire.

"What's with the pen?" Daryl asked quietly.

He rested his chin on top of your head while you leant against his chest, but you didn't answer him straight away as you thought about how to answer it.

"Ya don't wanna tell me? That's alright, ya don't have to tell me."

"It's a therapy technique... Beth told me about it, to stop me from... you know." You trailed off lifting the sleeve of your new jacket -thanks Maggie- as you showed him the small pink stars you had drawn on your skin earlier and you felt Daryl nod his head slightly.

"I guess everyone knows about them now." You whispered, watching as Daryl ran his fingers gently over the old scars near the pink stars over your left wrist.

"Nah, they only know 'bout the rumours, that's it... Why do ya cut? Ya never did answer that question all those weeks ago." He asked quietly and you shrugged your shoulders trying to think about a way of answering that actually made sense.

"It's the only pain I can control." You answered and Daryl didn't say anything for a few seconds before he nodded.

"That make sense." He whispered, catching you by surprise slightly as you tilted your head up towards him to find him smiling softly down at you as he pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead.

"You're the first person who's ever said that." You said, lowering your head slightly as you thought back to the first time you started cutting and about your life before the dead started to walk.

You were so young, but you had a purpose. You were taking down the people on your fathers list, you were making the world a better place, but now... you didn't have a purpose. Being an assassin was all you knew, what were you meant to do now?

"What's wrong?" Daryl asked a few minutes later.

You didn't realise you had been sitting there staring at your wrists in silence and you shook your head. It was stupid. You were alive and with a good group of people, your thoughts were stupid.

"C'mon, what's goin' through that head of yours?" He asked, his voice slightly concerned and you sighed.

"I was the best version of myself out there, following in my fathers footsteps, trying to make the world a better place... I had a purpose, I was fighting for something, but now... For the first time in as long as I can remember I don't have a purpose. And I guess, if I'm being honest, I'm just... I'm scared." You admitted, shaking your head at yourself because that sounded so pathetic, but it was true.

"Ain't gotta be scared. Ya have a place here, with this group, with me." Daryl insisted, wrapping his arm around your shoulders as he pulled you into his chest.

You smiled, letting him hold you as you both stared at the campfire and for the first time in a long time, you could actually see the light at the end of the tunnel and you knew things were going to be okay.

A/N- Link in bio for Masterlist. I will reblog with my Daryl Dixon Tag List, if you want to be added to the list, just comment below.

Firstly, I just want to say thank you to all those who have stuck through this fic and have supported me throughout this journey. This fic was a first for me, it was completely different from anything I have ever written and darker than I have ever written, but i had to give it a happy ending and I am so grateful for all your sweet comments.

I will admit, i wrote some of this fic based off my own experiences with self harm and I just wanted to say to those of you out there who can relate, you are not alone. You are strong. You are brave. You are worth it. And you have to keep fighting. I know sometimes it might not feel worth it, it might feel easier to give in and give up, but there is light at the end of the tunnel even if you can’t see it yet, i promise you, there is and sometimes the brightest light comes from the darkest places. I don’t know who you are or what you have been through, but from the famous words of Jared Padalecki ‘ALWAYS KEEP FIGHTING’

I love you all, stay strong, stay safe and thank you again for reading this fic xx

#Daryl Dixon #The Walking Dead #Daryl Dixon x Reader #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon fanfic #twd #the walking dead fanfic #the walking dead fanfiction #Norman Reedus #reader insert #assassin reader

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the-irish-mayhem · 3 years

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This is a series of short, unrelated vignettes/oneshots that was supposed to be posted for Fosterson Week a year or two ago and I finally got around to finishing it. Enjoy!

5 Universes In Which Jane Is Worthy and 1 Where She Isn’t

Read on AO3

On the top ten list of bad ideas she’s ever had, this is so, so, so bad the number one spot doesn’t even seem adequate. The guy who thought he was Thor clearly got caught trying to get her stuff back, and so she is so screwed unless she goes in herself. God, why did she go along with this again? He’d claimed he’d fly out once he got what he was looking for (which, god , again, why had she kind of believed him?)

Her feet crunch quietly against the hard-packed sand leading to the hole in the plastic tarping making up the walls of the facility that Thor had kicked a guy through, and she, without nearly as much hesitation as she should probably feel, hops in.

The place isn’t huge, and it doesn’t take long for Jane to find the main room.

Thor had helpfully drawn nearly everyone in security away from where her equipment is stowed, next to a… hammer in the dirt. Literally, they built this entire site around a hammer? What the hell , archaeologists never get this much funding and government attention. And what does her equipment have to do with it?

Jane shakes herself. She has a lot more important things to do instead of trying to puzzle out the weird and wild workings of shady government agencies. Things like capitalizing on their inattentiveness and getting her gear back.

She grabs her notebook first, stuffing it into her back pocket, and then trying to figure out how she’s going to cart out at least two hundred or so pounds of equipment.

“Hey!”

Jane nearly leaps out of her skin and turns, seeing a pair of security guards sprinting towards her from one of the halls.

“Shit,” she spits, and frantically looks around at her equipment. Lightest and hardest to replace… Radio spectrometer retrofitted for wormholes. Yep, that one. She scoops it up in her arms and takes off.

Even running as quickly as she can, the guards are still within arm’s length of her before she’s taken five steps.

Oh, they are not taking her work. Absolutely not. Erik isn’t here to hold her back this time.

She reaches an arm out, barely managing to hold onto her spectrometer as she grasps the handle of the hammer. Old or valuable, the thing is still a hammer, she can still swing at them with it.

A crack of thunder. A blinding flash of light. The feeling of grabbing a live-wire running through her body for a handful of terrifying seconds until the euphoria comes.

If she be worthy , she hears.

May she possess the power of Thor.

Oh, Jane thinks.

Oh, fuck .

“No, I don’t know what… That’s why I’m coming out here to… Look, all the issues with our readings at the site are originating from this one spot, so yeah, I’m going to go take a look,” Jane says into the phone.

“Who is it?” Darcy whispers. Their truck rumbles along a remote road in Norway leading to the coast, and the interference from their mystery site makes it so they don’t get any radio stations, so Darcy is starved for entertainment.

Jane covers the mouthpiece and whispers back, “Caplan. He’s--” she uncovers the mouthpiece. “No, there’s not any danger. You--no… No… Wait, but that time wasn’t actually my fault, so…”

“Being a dick again?”

Jane’s eyeroll is all the answer required. “Look, we’ll be ba-- in--” Jane makes an almost comical crackling noise in the back of her throat. “Wha-- interference from the-- thr-- breaking up--bye.” She hangs up without any further discussion.

Darcy contains a laugh. “You’re gonna pay for that later, you know.”

Jane rolls her eyes again. “Well, it’s my being at his facility that’s even getting him funding in the first place, so, you know.” She shrugs. “If he wants to fight me, I’m the one with more published papers and theories that changed the laws of physics.”

Darcy pumps a fist. “Fuck yeah.”

She waves a hand. “He’ll be fine. He’s pissed we took the Mule without asking.” Where they plan on going, there’s no vehicle access, so the ATV was their only recourse. “If he thinks I’ll be satisfied with this one spot fucking up my results over and over again, he’s got another thing coming. Speaking of which,” the device that rests in Jane’s lap begins to ping, “pull over here.”

“Woo, off-road time,” Darcy cheers, and follows Jane’s instructions.

Another hour of driving in the Mule later, they reach the geographic nexus that’s been screwing with their readings.

It’s a pretty spot, bright green grass running all the way to the edge of the cliff, where a sheer drop would land them in the ocean. Norway’s fjords are always breathtaking, and Darcy counts herself lucky yet again that she gets to visit places like this and get paid for it. All in all, a pretty rad job.

“Can you set up--”

“Magnetic perimeter and radiation scanners?” Darcy finishes. “Yeah.”

Darcy unloads the equipment from the back of the ATV as Jane approaches the nexus.

It looks like a storm is beginning to swirl overhead, and Darcy eyes it nervously. Without any cover, they are pretty much sitting ducks if any rain starts to fall, god forbid if lightning starts. Where the hell did all these thunderheads come from? This blew in awfully fast.

Jane crouches down and reaches for something on the ground. “Darcy, you should come look at this,” she calls out.

Quite suddenly, the hair on the back of Darcy’s neck stands straight up. The sensation is so strong and sudden that it literally causes her to gasp in shock.

“Jane--” she starts but she doesn’t get the chance to finish.

Faster than the blink of an eye, a massive bolt of lightning tears from the sky, slicing straight down to where Jane kneels.

Darcy barely has time to scream.

She is thrown backwards by the force of the lightning strike, and she thinks she hears a voice whisper before she hits the ground behind her.

If she be worthy.

When she looks up again, she knows she hears it.

A strange woman stands where Jane once was--massive, tall, blonde, with impressive armor and Mjolnir in her fist.

May she possess the power of Thor.

Fragile isn’t a word that could ever have been used to describe Jane Foster, but with her cheekbones hollowed out by weight loss, neck and wrists gone skinny and tendons standing out against her skin in sharp relief, fragile almost seems generous. A plastic band wraps around her wrist, stamped with her name, attending physician, allergies, and a barcode encoded with all her patient information.

She is tired, often, but with Darcy’s help still manages to go through her research and rough out an outline for her next paper she plans to publish.

Jane likes to plan, likes to say things like there’s a conference next September that this paper will do really well at, and Jane knows that Darcy is trying to hide her heartbreak at these statements. Darcy used to not hide anything from her, used to barely have the capacity, let alone the desire, but it’s strange the effect dying can have.

Her hospital room is outfitted with several whiteboards scribbled over with notes and formulae, the answers Jane constantly seeks waiting to be pried out of the clutches of the equations she can spend hours puzzling over. It’s a good use of her time, when she’s not--

Elsewhere.

Jane is careful to hide the hammer. It’s her secret legacy, her last hurrah, her hidden responsibility and duty--

Mjolnir is many things to her, but burdensome is certainly not one of them.

She swings her legs over the side of her bed, gripping her IV pole to help her stand. She walks over to the window, where the sunlight of the early afternoon has been shrouded over by storm clouds. She slides open her window, the cool wind of the storm washing over her face.

In the distance, she hears the rumble of thunder.

Jane Foster smiles.

His axe is buried in Thanos’s chest, and there’s a blinding moment of what feels like sour vengeance--so many have died already, and now the Mad Titan will perish for his crimes.

He presses the blade of Stormbreaker in further, for Loki, for Heimdall, for every one of his slaughtered people.

Then Thanos whispers, “You should’ve gone for the head.”

And he feels his heart drop.

And then, and suddenly as Thor himself had dropped from the sky, another streak of lightning blazes in from the east, and Thor can feel it-- Mjolnir .

But how?

He can’t even tell who is wielding it until the hammer smashes Thanos’s skull in, and the Mad Titan is finally felled. The Infinity Gauntlet drops, the stones unused, the universe saved.

The woman holding Mjolnir is tall, with shining armor that looks well-crafted, including a helmet that hides the upper half of her face. In spite of that, he can see her eyes.

Eyes he would know anywhere in the galaxy.

She looks almost as stunned as he is.

“Jane?”

The cell phone footage is grainy and difficult to make out. Shot by a civilian in Garching, Germany, the shaky video peeks at the action from behind a brick wall. A voice out of frame whispers, “Dude, I think it’s Thor!” and is quickly hushed by the one holding the camera. So at least two more witnesses to track down, Natasha thinks tiredly.

The observation, though, is rather striking in its accuracy. The figure has a red cape and flowing blonde hair, and displays a command of lightning that Natasha hasn’t seen since Thor more-or-less retired after their last showdown with Thanos.

The opponents are a small gaggle of aliens, impossible to fully make out but probably more scavengers who’d come to pick the bones of Thanos’s last battlefield. In the two years since the Snap, they’d been getting a steadier stream of extraterrestrial threats looking to take advantage of Earth’s vulnerability.

“How is it that we have holographic video technology widely available, but every civilian who has useful intel has a Nokia from 2004?” Natasha grumbles, squinting and trying again in vain to enhance the footage.

From her place next to her, Okoye chuckles. “I think we’ve demonstrated that we have the worst luck imaginable,” she jokes darkly.

The figure is still hard to make out aside from the gaudy cape and lightning. The electricity in the air made the audio on the video spotty at best, mostly static and a few loud bursts of accurate recordings of a fight, but mostly useless. Then a few video frames give them a clear view of the front of the figure.

“Pause,” Natasha says, sitting forward in her chair. “Go back three frames?” The computer obeys her voice command, ticking back to the moment when they had the best view.

Both Okoye and Natasha freeze as they take in the image.

There’s a shard of disappointment that goes through Natasha when she realizes, once and for all, that it definitely isn’t Thor. That disappointment turns swiftly into suspicion because she does not know this person, and they certainly have powers that would’ve landed them at the top of a SHIELD watchlist back in the day.

It’s a woman. She’s massive, arms and legs thick with muscle, and extensive armor that could be Asgardian make, but with the graininess of the video, it’s hard to tell. Her helmet covers almost her entire face, only exposing her mouth and jaw. Some sort of chainmail on her legs, perhaps, and a sleeve on her left arm. Her right arm is bare, and clutched in that hand--

“Mjolnir,” Natasha breathes.

“I thought it was destroyed,” Okoye says.

Natasha nods. “We all did.”

Despite the video quality, there’s no mistaking that hammer. Especially when Natasha resumes the video and the mysterious woman throws the hammer, and it returns to her hand moments later.

“We haven’t seen any new powered people since the Snap,” Okoye says, breaking the silence. “With our… situation being what it is,” she continues, tactfully calling the mess they’d made of the world a situation , “we should either ascertain if this woman is on our side, get her on our side, or terminate her as soon as possible.”

Natasha nods in quiet contemplation. They cannot afford to have a powered person running around the world unchecked, not with the way things are. They’re barely managing to hold it together as it is, and the Avengers are spread extremely thin. Not to mention their help is often rejected in an official capacity, a lionshare of the blame for what happened falling to the World’s Greatest Heroes who failed to save the world. It’s a PR nightmare, and there are many nights when Natasha wishes that she’d just been dusted along with the half of the world who didn’t make it.

But she didn’t. She’s still here, and someone needs to lead.

“Want me to track down Thor and ask him about her?” Okoye says. “Based on her strength from that video, she’s probably Asgardian.”

Natasha’s kneejerk reaction is to say no, that Thor can’t handle this, that he’s been in an almost constant state of inebriation and/or depression for the last two years and she won’t expose her friend to something that might be painful for him. Then her rational mind kicks in and she nods at Okoye. Thor is their best lead. “I’ll come with you.” (Then her vicious mind raises its hackles and says if she’s got to wade into the shit that is the post-Snap world, then Thor should have to get right into it with her.)

That night, the evening news features a story with the grainy footage Natasha could’ve sworn she’d managed to scrub from everywhere (but alas, she is no Vision.) The ticker at the bottom of the screen reads The New Thor: Who is she, and can we trust her?

***

They find him at a hightop table in a hole-in-the-wall bar in New Asgard, and if Natasha had been serving him, she probably would’ve cut him off at least four drinks ago, but the bartender doesn’t seem concerned with denying their monarch his alcoholic solace.

“Do I need to go get Brunnhilde?” Okoye whispers to Natasha.

Thor sways in his barstool, hands clasped around a large stein of beer, but seems coherent enough to answer their questions.

“Not yet.”

“Wha--?” Thor mumbles, eyes half-lidded. “What’re you saying?” His words are disturbingly slurred. Maybe getting Brunnhilde wouldn’t be a bad idea.

Natasha refocuses. “Have you watched the news recently?”

Thor snorts and takes a drink of beer. And doesn’t stop taking a drink of beer until the stein is half-empty. Natasha’s eyes widen when he lets out a loud belch.

“Apologies,” he says, not sounding apologetic, “but you’ll have to excuse me for not keeping up with current events.”

Okoye cuts in, “How about this current event?

She slides a set of photos out of a manila envelope, laying them down on the bar table. The paper sticks to the surface of the table.

Thor shakes his head once, as if trying to rein in the spinning the room is likely doing around him. He leans down and squints at the photos. “That--” He cocks his head. “That isn’t me.”

“No,” Okoye confirms. “It isn’t.”

“These photos were taken two days ago in Garching, Germany. Know of any Asgardians who settled there?”

Thor swallows, and doesn’t immediately answer. He raises his free hand not on his beer to the photos, and the tip of his middle finger drags over where Mjolnir is inked onto the paper. “I thought it was gone,” he mumbles.

“So did we,” Natasha says, tempted to reach out to him at the abject sadness in his voice.

Okoye slants a glance at Natasha. Focus , she seems to say with her eyes, before redirecting Thor, “Are there any Asgardians in Germany?”

“A few,” he says. “None that look like this woman.” He looks up at them. “Do you know how she found Mjolnir?”

It’s his most coherent question yet. Natasha shakes her head. “We just found out about her. She looks pretty confident with it, so maybe she’s been training somewhere.”

“I don’t underst--” Thor loses his battle with his balance and gravity and falls off his barstool. Natasha and Okoye both reach out to steady him, but he manages to catch himself before he hits the floor.

Natasha goes to Thor’s side, her heart falling quickly as she puts an arm around him. It’s hard to see Thor like this, especially knowing the kind of man he used to be. (Of all the people she thought would stick with her, after Clint and Steve left, she thought that Thor would be the one to stay. He’d fought through so much heartache, sided with them in New York against his own brother, protected the Earth from the Dark Elves after his mother’s murder, faced down Thanos even after his planet had been destroyed, and yet he’d always been ready to fight. It’s downright unnatural, utterly tragic to see him laid so low.)

Turning to Okoye, Natasha says, “Go get Brunnhilde.” Okoye doesn’t need to be told twice.

“Thor,” Natasha prompts, getting the man to look at her. His eyes look pained. She’s sure hers must reflect his. “You’ve gotta stop this.”

“Stop what?” he mumbles.

“You know what.” She hesitates before offering, “You could come back, you know. Join the Avengers again. I really could use the help, and you’ve got more experience leading than everyone else on the team combined.”

He’s already shaking his head. “No.” Clear, concise, and completely at odds with his drunkenness. “No, I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

His answering smile is sad. “I have nothing left to offer you.”

“Yes, you do,” Natasha answers softly, but based on his tone, this isn’t an argument she’s going to win. Not today, at least.

A beat passes. “You really didn’t know about Mjolnir?” she asks, one more time.

“I’m not worthy anymore,” he whispers. “Why would it call to me?”

Natasha doesn’t answer that. There’s a lot of layers there that she doesn’t think she’ll ever fully understand.

Okoye returns with Brunnhilde at her side. She says to Okoye, “You know, sometime you’re going to have to visit me when it’s not for the purposes of picking his sorry ass up off the floor.”

Okoye chuckles. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Brunnhilde proceeds to pick Thor up in a bridal carry, making Natasha stumble a bit when his weight is no longer against her. “Come on, your majesty,” she says, tone almost bored. “Let’s get you home.”

Natasha bites her tongue against all the questions she wants to ask.

How often do you do this for him?

How is everyone around here blind to what’s happening to him?

Where on earth is he getting enough alcohol to regularly get drunk?

Before she can even think of pursuing another line of questioning, she gets a call from Carol--she is needed urgently back at headquarters.

She sighs. The hunt for the new Thor will have to wait for now.

***

It’s only once Natasha and Okoye are on a quinjet and flying back to their base that Brunnhilde unceremoniously drops Thor on the ground.

He huffs, but quickly stands up and brushes himself off, perfectly sober. “Unnecessary.”

She glares at him. “How long are you going to keep this act up?” she demands. “Those are your friends .”

“Natasha is a friend,” Thor corrects, “Okoye thinks I’m a worthless drunk.”

Brunnhilde rolls her eyes. “Because she’s never known you as anything else.”

He grits his teeth. “It’s for the best.”

“That’s what you keep telling yourself, but they know about her. What’s your act doing to keep her safe now?”

The muscle in Thor’s jaw works furiously, but he calmly answers, “They don’t know her identity. They think she’s a rogue Asgardian.”

Brunnhilde bristles and brusquely pulls a folded manila envelope out of her back pocket. “Okoye gave these to me, said to ask you about them again when you sobered up.” She quickly opens the envelope and tears its contents out and holds them right in his face. The edges of the photo paper crease under the force of her fingers clenching down on them. “You see this? The better she gets, the more this is going to happen. And you know what’s eventually going to happen?” She jerks her head backwards. “Your friends are going to find her. She’s on a crash course, and then she will be a part of this. You can’t stop that. It was a fantasy to think you ever could.”

“I didn’t think I could keep her from it forever,” Thor replies evenly, and he wraps his fingers around Brunnhilde’s wrist and lowers the photos from his face so he can look her in the eye.

“Then why ?” she asks.

“Because she needs to be better than me,” he says, like a release of steam from a pot. “She needs to be better, and she’s not yet.”

Brunnhilde shakes her head. “I don’t know if you’re going to get a choice for much longer.

and the one time…

“Jane.”

His shoulder jumps under her head.

“Hm?”

“We’re almost there.”

“Oh,” she says groggily, and pushes herself off Thor’s shoulder. “Oops,” she says when she notices the spot of drool on his shirt. “Sorry.” The weird half-sleep that comes along with car rides is slow to depart, clawing at her eyelids until she reaches to her right, where a bottle of water sits.

After she downs half the bottle and truly wakes up, he gives her a soft smile, one that says he probably wasn’t far behind her in terms of falling asleep. “It’s no matter. I thought you’d want to be awake before we arrived.”

She stretches her hands over her head as much as the towncar’s roof allows, and a series of satisfying pops go down her spine. She grunts in satisfaction before saying, “I need to go over my speech one more time.”

“I’m fairly certain I could give it at this point with how many times I’ve heard it.”

“You’re a good person to practice with!”

“I’m only teasing,” he says. “And besides, this is hardly your first time doing this.”

“This still feels bigger, somehow.”

He makes a soft sound of agreement. Jane offers the water to him, which he accepts and drinks his fill before capping it and setting it aside.

Jane continues, “It’s one thing to get, you know, a big science award. Like, the last time I got the Nobel I felt almost old hat at it, you know?”

Thor gives her a look. “I recall you saying that you felt like you were going to throw up before you went onstage to give your speech.”

Jane flaps her hand at him. “Okay, sure I was nervous, but I was….used to the shape of it? This is a completely different type of thing.”

“Yes, excelling at heroics is something you usually leave to me.”

“Hey, I have plenty of behind the scenes heroics!”

“Of course, dear,” he says with a laugh, “but none of those behind the scenes heroics resulted in a singlehanded defeat of the Infinity Stones, handicapping Thanos’s plan, and saving untold lives.”

Jane tilts her head back onto the headrest, a smile spreading across her face. That day, that last fight that Strange predicted would end in only one way, would be permanently emblazoned in her memory as long as she lived. Thor had asked her to stay away from the battlefield, and initially, she’d agreed. She and Tony had been theorizing about the nature of the stones, and they hadn’t had time to parse out the quantum entanglement theories together before her thinking buddy had to jet off to try and save the universe.

It came to her like a lightning strike only minutes after the team had left for the last battle. She’d built a frequency jammer that would disrupt the quantum entanglement of the stones in thirty minutes flat, and then raced out of the Avengers compound like a bat out of hell. She’d just have to get within range of the stones, and they’d be rendered inert, their effects immediately reversed, and they’d just be ordinary stones, and then they could be destroyed.

And, incredibly, even though the science of it was shaky at best, and she’d had to improvise on the fly when some of the wiring on the jammer had shorted out, it worked.

The army from the past was gone, snapped back to their original chronological configuration; Natasha and Gamora were spat out of whatever pocket universe they’d been trapped in; and Tony hadn’t had to use his gauntlet, hadn’t had to sacrifice himself for the universe as she’d known he’d planned on.

(Dr. Strange had sputtered, shocked, saying that of the fourteen million six hundred and five futures he’d seen, he’d only seen one possible outcome where they won, and it wasn’t this.

Jane shrugged, breathless, dirty, bloody, and grinned. “I found number fourteen million six hundred and six .”)

“And all without a single power to her name aside from her intellect,” he finishes.

“I am pretty cool.”

“Both pretty and cool, much agreed.”

She lets her head fall to the side so she can look at him. His beard is long enough to be braided, and he’d done so this morning, and he’d taken care to braid some of his hair as well before pulling it back with a tie. He looked good. Great. Amazing, even.

She reached out her hand closest to him, trailing a finger along one of the braids in his beard. A streetlight from outside catches on her wedding ring just so.

After the Snap, she and Thor had drifted back together, partially out of shared grief and guilt, but had ultimately rediscovered why they’d worked together for years before the distance had become too much strain. They’d officially tied the knot a few years after Tony and Pepper had. (Steve had been Thor’s best man, and Darcy Jane’s maid of honor. Tony walked Jane down the aisle in Jane’s mother’s absence. Morgan had been their flower girl.)

She wonders if any of this would’ve happened if they hadn’t found each other again. If they hadn’t rekindled their love for each other in the horrible aftermath of the Snap, would she have been around to help? Would Tony have reached out to her with the time travel issue? Would he have invited her to collaborate on the quantum entanglement of the stones if she hadn’t re-integrated herself into the Avengers circle? She likes to think so--they were friends, at least somewhat, before the Snap (but their closeness now was only formed in those last five years of wounded peace.)

“What are you thinking about?” Thor asks, and mirrors her position so he can look at her.

“Just that I’m really glad I married you.” She nudges forward so she can kiss him. “Really, really glad.”

“I’m glad you married me, too,” he answers. “Not many women would have had the fortitude to put up with me for as long as you have.”

She grabs his hand and pulls it over to her lap. “How many people did Pepper say were going to be here?”

Thor shrugs. “Less than two thousand, but there is the webcast as well.”

“ God .”

He squeezes her hand. “Go through your speech once more. It’ll make you feel better.”

“I’d feel better if we could skip past the ceremony and go right to the drinking and partying portion of the evening.”

Thor laughed. “If only I were planning the evening, Jane Foster. Now start from the top.”

Jane laughs, and closes her eyes. With her husband’s hand in hers, his warmth a steady reassurance at her side, she recalls the words she’s memorized and feels her nervousness retreat as she begins to speak.

#fosterson #jane foster #thor #fosterson fic #my fic

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poorrichardslegacy · 4 years

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Kacxa Week Day 5 - Conversation in the Black Lion

Icebreaker

SUMMARY: What happened between Keith and Acxa between the time they blew up the Pirate cruiser and they made their way to Acxa’s base camp?

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26892517

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Voltron: Legendary Defender Rating: Teen and Up Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Acxa/Keith (Voltron) Characters: Acxa (Voltron), Keith (Voltron), Keith’s Wolf (Voltron) Original Child Character(s), Original Galran Character(s), Keith's Family (Voltron) Additional Tags: Kacxa Week 2020, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Family Dynamics

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

Keith checks the star charts as he maneuvers his way through the asteroid field. Acxa comes forward, looks over his shoulder, giving it a squeeze.

“Does this area look familiar, Acxa?”

“Yes, it does. I spent the better part of two decaphoebs here. Androse should be just ahead.”

From the rear of the shuttle Keith and Acxa’s sixteen-year old daughters step into the cockpit. “So, Mom, you’ve been here before?”

“Yup. Back when I fought with the Voltron Coalition. Your father and I were…reunited here after he was missing for three decaphoebs.”

“NO WAY! This is where you fought with the Voltron Coalition? Where did you meet up with Dad? On some super-secret mission where you swept him off his feet and you fell hopelessly in love with him.”

“Well…Not quite. We met up on a pirate ship…run by Zethrid and Ezor.”

“NO WAY! Aunt Zethrid and Aunt Ezor were pirates?”

Keith chuckles, his attention still fixed on the asteroid field. “So was your mother at one time.”

“NO WAY!”

Acxa gives Keith a light smack on the back of the head for that wisecrack. “I was a pirate for about two movements. Then I joined the Voltron Coalition. When Voltron returned after being missing for three decaphoebs, your father and the other Paladins managed to get themselves captured. I broke into the pirate ship and got them out.”

Keith loudly clears his throat. “Acxa…love…if you’re going to tell them the story, tell them the whole story of how creative we were when we got off that ship.”

“Creative? NO WAY! That’s dad-speak for blowing something up! Mom did you blow something up?”

“No…but your father certainly did. He had the Paladins blow up some Synthian Nitrate canisters in the cargo hold. He blew a large hole in the side of that ship. We were lucky we got out alive. In fact, that’s how I got my first and only ride in the Black Lion.”

“NO WAY! YOU RODE IN THE BLACK LION?”

Keith glances over his shoulder at his daughter. “Do you know any words other than ‘no way’?”

Mireya stands erect before her father, folds her hands in front of her, and speaks formally to Keith. “Why yes father. Thanks to mother I am endowed with a large vocabulary of extraneous and sizable words of dubious import that no one knows the meaning of that I use when the situation requires it. Indubitably, people are impressed by my syntax and the breadth and intellectual depths of my comments.”

Keith turns and stares deadpan at Mireya while Acxa and Cataleya do everything in their power to keep from splitting their sides with laughter.

“You got the sarcasm gene from your mother, didn’t you?”

Having made her point, Mireya resumes her usual demeanor. “Maybe. I got the stubborn gene from you. So, Dad, are you going to tell us about how you and Mom took your first ride together in the Black Lion?”

“You want a story? Here’s one for you…”

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

He grips her hand tightly as he and his fellow half-Galra jetpack at full speed away from the exploding pirate cruiser. Ahead, the Black Lion awaits them, its jaws open in anticipation of their arrival. Keith looks back at the woman who just risked everything to save the Paladins.

“I’ve got you. Don’t let go.”

She grips his hand tighter, an expression of determination on her face, and trust in her eyes. “I won’t.”

They land in the jaws of the Lion. They close, and after a moment the atmosphere within the jaws is restored and the hatch to the interior of the Lion opens. Still holding her hand, he looks back to her and smiles, a lock of his hair hanging down in front of his eyes.

“Welcome back to the Black Lion. Come on, we need to get to the cockpit.”

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

He leads her to the cockpit, where he checks in with the Paladins.

“Keith, where are we going?”

“I’m not entirely sure yet, Hunk.”

Acxa puts her hand on his shoulder. “I have a base camp about three vargas away from here.”

Lance overhears the conversation, guesses what the Black Paladin is thinking, and calls him on it. “Keith, can we trust her?”

Keith looks Acxa squarely in the eye. “We can trust her. She risked her life to help us.”

Acxa pulls up a star chart on her wrist device and shows it to Keith. “Set a course for Androse. There is a ruined base there. Just below it is a plain where the Lions can touch down. My base is in a cave in the hillside just off that plain.”

Seeing movement in the rear of the cockpit, Acxa spies Cosmo, and greets him.

“Hello…I don’t suppose you remember me?”

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

It has been just over three decaphoebs since she last saw Keith’s loyal Cosmic Dire Wolf. Following their last fight against one another, just before Lotor’s meltdown, Acxa critically wounded the Black Paladin. Establishing contact with a semi-conscious Keith following the battle and realizing what she had done, she pleaded with Cosmo to teleport her into the ship so she could tend to the rapidly fading Paladin’s wounds and save his life.

Suspicious of her motives at first, Cosmo watched Acxa carefully and saw that she truly had Keith’s best interests at heart. Cosmo asked her why she was so concerned with saving his life after she tried to kill him.

Her emotional reply was telling.

“I wasn’t trying to kill him. I never wanted this. I just…wanted to scare him away.”

Watching the care that Acxa took with Keith and listening to the remorse in her voice on the recording she left for him told the perceptive wolf one thing. Before taking Acxa back to her ship, he shared his thoughts. “There is more here than meets the eye, Corillian. Hopefully, some day you will see what I see. For your sake and for his.”

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

Cosmo saunters over to greet her. “I remember you, Corillian.”

Acxa scratches Cosmo behind his ears with both hands, an act that the giant wolf greatly appreciates.

Not wanting to overdo it, Acxa sits back on her haunches and admires him. “A Cosmic Dire Wolf. Before Braylar IV I had never seen one.”

Keith is grateful to have an icebreaker to get Acxa talking. Something that does not involve pirates or exploding cruisers. “Neither had I. I had a dog when I was a boy. I loved him. He was really attached to Dad. The dog fell into a funk when he died, and I was separated from him when I was taken to the orphanage.”

Acxa detects the sadness in Keith’s eyes and reaches out with her words to offer empathy. “I’m sorry about your father, Keith. I lost my parents as well. My father when I was 2, my mother when I was 9. I too spent time in an orphanage.”

“Sounds like we have a few things in common.”

Acxa gives him a wry smile. “Yes, it does.”

So much for the icebreaker. They fall into silence for a varga, as Keith focuses on piloting around the minefields laid by Zethrid and Ezor. Acxa gives him the information he needs to navigate through them then moves away so as not to crowd him.

She sits back and watches him, trying to understand the feelings she has for the Black Paladin. Feelings that drove her to sneak onto the pirate cruiser to free him. He was gone for three decaphoebs. She expected any feelings she had for him to have faded.

They have done anything but fade.

Sensing she is feeling blue, Cosmo comes over to comfort her. He speaks softly so only she can hear him. “Still haven’t figured it out, have you Corillian?”

“Obviously not, since I’m still trying to figure out what I haven’t figured out yet. I don’t suppose you could call me Acxa? That would go a long way to making me feel better. At least I’d know I had one person on my side.”

Cosmo curls up next to her and places his chin on her lap. “Don’t sell yourself short, Acxa. Keith over there…he is your biggest advocate. Cheer up. He really is glad to see you.””

Acxa scratches the wolf behind his ears. “Thank you. That’s good to know.”

Keith, blissfully oblivious to the dialog between Acxa and Cosmo, looks over his shoulder at the two of them. “I think he likes you. I always knew that wolf had good taste.”

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

Finally clear of the minefield, Keith puts Black on autopilot. “It’s going to take about a varga for us to get there. The power in the lions is low, or we’d be there by now.”

“It’s ok. I doubt those pirates are coming after us. You badly crippled them by blowing up that cargo hold.”

Keith notices something about her. “Your uniform. I didn’t notice it in all the excitement. That’s a Voltron Coalition uniform.”

“It is. I was part of Matt Holt’s rebel cell for two decaphoebs. I joined them after I split away from Zethrid and Ezor.

“Wow…so, you fought against the Galra Empire? With Matt Holt of all people?”

“Yes. We fought together for almost two decaphoebs. It was not an easy life. We were constantly on the run. At the end it was almost as if we were being hunted. As if somehow the Galra military and the factions knew where to find us.”

“Interesting. How did you wind up with Matt Holt? I seem to recall the first time you two met he wanted to throttle you for kidnapping his father.”1

“After I left Zethrid and Ezor, I put feelers out that I was interested in joining the Coalition. After a few phoebs with no response, Matt suddenly showed up. He did not trust me at first. I had to prove myself on my first mission. I guess I did that. He let me stay on.”

“So, I hate to bring up bad memories, but why did you leave Zethrid and Ezor?”

Acxa stares at the floor, silent for more than a few ticks. “I had my reasons.”

Before she can go any further into her explanation, they come upon a dense asteroid field. She perks up and stands behind Keith to get a good head-on view of the navigational screen.

“We’re close to my base. Pull up the star chart and I’ll guide you in.”

The Lions approach the ruined base on Androse. The buildings have the look of being abandoned for decaphoebs. Several of them have collapsed from neglect or the impact of meteors.

“At one time this was a forward listening post for the Empire. When they conquered this sector, they didn’t need it anymore and they abandoned it.”

She points to a flat plain at the foot of the hill on which the base rests. “Set down over there.”

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

Acxa greets the Paladins and the rest of Keith’s entourage once they are safely on the ground. Everyone seems standoffish, which is what she expected. Trust is something that take time to develop. Still, she cannot help but notice the critical in not outwardly hostile eye Keith’s mother uses to look her over. Acxa wonders if it will ever be possible to win Krolia’s trust.

Keith notices Krolia’s hard stares at Acxa and he cannot help but see that Acxa is bothered by it. He approaches her and whispers in her ear. “Don’t let Krolia’s stare get to you. She’ll come around.”

After showing the Paladins around the area Acxa turns to Keith, the one person in the whole group she knows trusts her. “It gets cold here on Androse at night. I have some firewood we can use to start a fire. We’ll need to gather more to make one big enough to keep all of us warm.”

“I can help with that. I just need to check the Lions first. Just tell me where it is, and I’ll bring it when I come back.” Getting directions to the firewood source, Hunk excuses himself to check on the Lions.

Keith gently takes her arm and looks her in the eye. “You’ve done so much for us today. Take a break. I’ll start the fire; Hunk and the others will bring the wood in to keep it going.”

Acxa gives Keith a shy smile. “Thank you.

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

“That sounds cool, Dad. So, what did you guys talk about at the campfire on Androse?”

Before Keith can answer, a notification pops up on the star chart. “We’re getting close to Braylar IV. About a varga out.” He looks to Acxa and smiles, then he turns to his daughters. “The story about what your mother and I talked about during and immediately after that campfire is one we’re happy to share, but on another day. It’s too long to tell with the time we have left in this trip.”

“Ok, I guess we can cut you some slack this time. But you’re not getting out of it. No way! Deal?”

Seeing the mischievous look in Mireya’s eyes, Keith can only chuckle. “Deal.”

Acxa studies the star chart carefully as Keith makes his approach to Braylar IV. “I wonder what Ashira and Soran have been up to all these years. And Cosmo. I wonder what Mr. Sassypants has been up to since he left to go home to rejoin the Sonai. Well, I guess we’re about to find out. Everyone, get ready to strap in. It’s time to pay a visit to some old family friends.”

1. Rise of the Black Paladin, Chapter 4, Blood Duel

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