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howtosingit · 3 years

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Fic: The Nightmare That I Call Myself

His t-shirt is sweat-soaked and twisted around him, refusing to allow his chest to fully expand the way he desperately needs it to. He tears away at it, trying to get it off, and a sob climbs up his throat and out of his mouth when it starts to feel hopeless. Finally, after an hour or a day or maybe even a year, it comes off. TK throws it across the room with a yell before he wraps his arms around himself, his fingernails digging into his sides.

He just wants to feel something.

But that’s not really his problem right now. He’s feeling too much, all at once. It’s a stark contrast from the nightmare that he found himself trapped in moments ago; a nightmare where he felt absolutely nothing. Because he was absolutely nothing.

Because he was dead.

Or, five times TK wakes up disoriented and confused, and one time he wakes up knowing he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be.

Mature | 5.1K | Also on AO3

A/N: Haven’t written a word in two months, got this idea when I woke up this morning and now here we are, 10 hours later. The muse does what the muse wants. Hope you like it!

------

Someone’s screaming.

TK’s eyes fly open, the red and blue lights from his lamp in the corner adding to the confusion that he’s currently feeling. It feels like there’s an elephant sitting on his chest, and when he closes his eyes again to try to make it all disappear, all he sees is smoke and dust and collapsing buildings on fire.

It’s the same thing he’s been seeing on TV for the past few days, even though his mom changes the channel as quickly as possible whenever he’s in the room.

“TK!”

His eyes open again, finally focusing on his mom as rushes into his bedroom, the sudden lights causing him to blink against their harsh brightness. Before he knows it, there are arms wrapped around him, firm hands on his back, and a soft voice in his ear.

“It’s okay, buddy, it’s okay. You’re okay, it’s gonna be okay.”

That’s when he finally realizes that the screams are coming from his own mouth.

He stops instantly, his throat raw, but he can’t quiet the sob rising in his chest. He buries his face in his mom’s shirt, pressing against her, kind of hoping that he can disappear into her, where he knows he’ll be safe.

He closes his eyes again, and a new image appears behind his eyelids:

His dad. Covered in dirt and dust and blood, his firefighter’s helmet falling from his head, his eyes dark and empty and so different from their normal blue.

“Dad,” he croaks, his voice weak and full of pain. His heart hammers in his chest, thud thud thud. “Mommy, where’s Daddy?”

“Oh, honey, he’s okay,” his mom says, her fingers running through his hair and scratching his scalp gently, a shiver running through him. It helps to pull him out of his head, the fear disappearing at her touch. “He’s just in the other room, he’s okay.”

“Can I go see him?” he cries, the words getting lost in another sob. She understands him, though, like she always does. She’s his mom, so she always understands him.

“Of course, sweetie,” she says, holding him closer. “Let’s calm down a little bit though, before we go see him. We don’t want to scare him, do we?”

TK shakes his head, following along as she shows him how to breathe deeper. He can still feel his heart pounding in his chest, but it doesn’t feel as heavy now. The elephant has been replaced by something smaller. A gorilla, maybe, or something like that. He gets so distracted thinking about all the different animals that he’s seen at the zoo, that he almost doesn’t notice when a different pair of arms find their way around him.

He does recognize the smell, though. His dad’s soap has a really special smell.

“Daddy,” he cries, more tears finding their way to his eyes as he pulls his head back to see those familiar blue ones. They aren’t as bright as they were before, but they’re more alive than they were in his nightmare. His dad gives him a small smile, pulling him into his arms and against his chest.

“I got you, buddy. I got you. I’m right here.”

He focuses on the sound of his dad’s heartbeat, hears the way the soft words rumble through his chest. His mom is still there, too, her own fingers crawling up and down his back.

Eventually, they all lay back down, his body tucked between the two of them. He reaches out, grabbing on to each of them, pulling them even closer.

He hears them whispering above him, but their voices sound like they’re at the far end of the big, long tunnel, so he doesn’t really know what they’re saying. He watches the lights from his lamp slowly dance across his ceiling, watches as they catch on the corner of the twin-sized firetruck bed that surrounds them on all sides.

The next morning when he wakes up, he tells his dad that he wants to change his room. There’s a sad look in his eyes, but he just gives him a hug and helps him pack some things away.

-----

Someone’s knocking on the door.

TK lets out a groan, his stomach rolling. Even through his eyelids, he can see that the sun is up and pouring in through his bedroom windows, his mother’s sheer curtains doing little to keep the daylight at bay. The air around him is stale, sweaty, and smells like sex and weed. He scrunches his face, trying to stave off the nausea.

The knocking gets louder, and that’s when he realizes that it’s not at his bedroom door, but further away. Probably on his mom’s front door. Fuck. He’s going to have to get up and answer it before the neighbors complain. He really doesn’t want to have to deal with his mother when she gets home.

He throws the thin sheet off of himself, the blast of cool air making him aware of his nakedness. The back of his hand comes in contact with something solid to his left and he opens one eye to see tanned skin covered in various back tattoos under a head of shoulder-length dirty blonde hair. His gaze moves lower to take in the bare ass resting on top of his mother’s 800-thread count sheets, the outline of a handprint barely visible on one cheek. With a disgusted scoff, he pushes himself up to sit at the edge of his bed, the stranger now behind him and out of sight.

He instantly realizes his mistake as his stomach somersaults and he barely has time to notice the empty vodka bottle on his nightstand next to a little bag of white pills before he empties it onto his rug-covered floor.

He’s stumbling naked down the hallway towards the bathroom to stand under the water for the next hour or so when his brain refocuses on the knocking on the door. Now that he’s out of his room, he can hear his phone vibrating incessantly from the pocket of his jeans where they lay on the floor by the couch. He can now also hear a familiar voice yelling through the door to accompany the knocking.

“TK! I know you’re in there, I tracked your phone,” his dad yells, his knocking turning into an intense pounding. “Open the damn door!”

With a “Calm the fuck down, Dad,” TK stomps towards the door, throwing it open. He can’t help the satisfaction that crawls through him at his dad’s shocked face as he takes him in. TK doesn’t know why he’s so surprised; it’s not like this beats the time his dad accidentally walked in on him having sex with his high school boyfriend a few years ago.

“Jesus Christ, TK,” his dad huffs, pushing him back into the apartment and slamming the door behind him, obviously trying to maintain some sense of privacy. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

TK doesn’t reply, just stands before him with his eyebrows raised and his arms crossed in front of his chest.

“Well? You gonna say something?”

“What are you doing here, Dad?” TK scoffs, rolling his eyes. He immediately regrets it, as the action causes a sharp pain to flare up behind his eyes. Remembering his previous goal of drowning himself in the shower, he turns to walk back down the hallway. “Mom’s out of town, you don’t have to pretend like you give a fuck about me. There’s no one around to impress.”

“Yeah, I know your mom’s out of town, that’s why I’m here,” his dad says, and TK can tell from the consistent volume of his voice that he’s following him towards the bathroom. “You obviously can’t be trusted by yourself for more than a day.”

“Oh, fuck off,” TK yells, rounding on him. “I’m right here, aren’t I? It’s not like I’ve gone missing and you’ve found me dead in an alley or something.”

His dad glares at him for a moment. Then, with a raise of his eyebrow, he points a finger at TK’s face. “You’ve got some vomit on your chin.”

TK feels a blush crawl up his neck, but before he can say anything, his dad turns towards his room, pushing open the door and walking in like he’s been invited to do so.

“Dad, wait!”

It’s too late. His dad has already stepped inside, taking in the scene. TK cringes as the smell of vomit hits his nostrils.

“This a new boyfriend of yours?” his dad asks, gesturing to the naked guy still passed out in his bed. TK says nothing, having no desire to share that he has no idea who the guy is, or that he can’t even remember his name.

His dad circles around the bed, his hand coming up to cover his nose as he spies the puddle of puke on the floor.

“You’re paying to have that rug cleaned,” he says, turning towards the large bay window and throwing it open.

“Where do you get off telling me what to do? This isn’t your house anymore, Dad,” TK spits out, but it comes out with less fire than he had hoped. The smell is really strong here, and the room has started to spin again. He starts backing away towards the bathroom, knowing he’s going to need the toilet in just a minute.

“Not a boyfriend then,” his dad says, ignoring his question. He’s made it over to the TK’s side table, where the evidence of his drug-induced evening sits. He watches as his dad grabs the bag of Oxy, waving it around before pocketing it. “Your mother is going to kill you when she finds out you brought your drug dealer into her house.”

“That’s mine, I paid for that,” TK says weakly, his heart hammering in his chest. He doesn’t want to be here right now, he doesn’t want to be anywhere right now. He wants the room to stop spinning, he wants the stranger in his bed - the one he let touch him in ways that make him suddenly feel incredibly unclean - to disappear, and he wants his dad to stop looking at him like he’s regretting the day he was born.

(But hey, TK thinks, the familiar nasty voice in his head taking center stage, at least you finally got his attention.)

His dad is across the room and standing in front of him by the time he mentally checks back into the present moment. Before TK can say another word, he’s shoving a pair of clean boxers into his hands, a look of intense disappointment on his face.

“Take a shower, son. You stink.”

And with that, he steps out of the room, leaving TK to stare at his vomit-soaked carpet, his unwanted hookup, and every other regret he doesn’t have it in him to name.

------

Someone’s pounding on the wall behind his bed.

He comes to with a gasp, lurching forward in his bed. His breathing is out of control and he claws at his chest, trying to get a grip on his lungs, to squeeze them until they burst. It’s not like they’re working correctly anyway, he thinks as he struggles to breathe through an airway that he swears can’t be any wider than a coffee stirrer, so what’s the point of having them at all.

He just wants to feel something.

Because he was dead.

The image of his prone body on the floor, unmoving, just a mass of useless limbs and wasted potential, flashes through his mind, unbidden. He chokes out another sob, reaching up to fist his hands in his short hair, his nails scratching at his scalp. He recalls a time in his life when his mother would run her fingers through his hair, grounding him with love-laced scratches. How it would settle him, how it would focus him, how it would remind him that he wasn’t alone.

He’s alone now. She’s not here. It’s just him, and the addict screaming and pounding on the wall in the room next door.

Her face comes to him, the one she wore the last time she saw him, the lines of graceful aging marred by fear and hurt and hopelessness. All for him. All because of him. All because he couldn’t get his shit together. All because he couldn’t handle his cushy, privileged existence, with his middle-to-upper class accepting parents.

All because he didn’t want to do it anymore.

Except, he does. He really fucking does. He’s felt that high of life, the one that he can get without the help of pills. He’s loved before, he’s given his all to love, and sure, it didn’t last, but it was good. It was freeing. It was worth it.

He wants to find that again. Find the people that make it worth it again. Find his purpose. He knows it’s out there, he knows it’s waiting for him to get his shit together.

He’s twenty years old and he’s nearly killed himself, but he’s not dead yet. He’s not done yet.

He’s not fucking done yet.

So, yes, he’s here and he’s alone, with only thin walls and an uncomfortable mattress to call his own. But, if this is what he needs, if this is what is going to help him find out where he goes next, then it’s worth it. It’s all going to be worth it.

He cries himself back to sleep, back into the darkness, back into the moments that will haunt him for the rest of his life.

This time, though, as he gives himself over to rest, his lungs expand to fill his entire chest, his airways now clear and fulfilling their purpose, reminding him just how alive he is.

------

Someone’s shouting.

There are a lot of voices, but they all sound muddled and confused. There are hands on him, pressing down hard against his chest, and now that he’s noticed them, he also notices the most intense fucking pain that he’s ever felt in his life, right below his collarbone. It hurts so bad that he wants to scream, he even goes as far as opening his mouth to do so, but he’s not sure if anyone hears him; he’s not even sure he hears himself.

His eyes flutter open when he’s suddenly lifted into the air, the pain spiking to new heights. He sees shadows crawling across his vision, shapes that amount to nothing more than blobs of mass. There are so many of them, and they’re all moving so fast. Too fast for him to really pinpoint.

“TK!”

Those two letters - the two letters he knows better than any others - swim through the molasses to punch him in the eardrum, and he instinctively looks towards the sound. He finds his father there, his face pinched and sweaty and terrified. It’s a familiar face, one he saw just a few months ago actually, one that he never, ever wanted to see again.

Fuck. Another overdose.

But even that doesn’t explain the sharp pain in his shoulder. He looks around, trying to figure out his surroundings, trying to make sense of all of this. He’s clean, he knows he is. It’s been hard, but he’s in a better place now. He’s with better people now. He’s truly felt like he’s finding himself, finally, after all of these years.

There’s no way he threw that away. There’s no way.

He forces himself to focus, to figure out what the fuck is going on. He turns to see Captain Blake on his left - well, his left, her right, maybe, he doesn’t know. She’s barking orders, and he follows her arms down to find her hands pressed to his chest. He wants to shout at her, tell her that she doesn’t need to push so hard, that she’s really fucking hurting him, but he can’t speak. Just like his scream before, his voice is trapped inside of him.

He looks up to see Marjan above him, lines of tears running down her face. She doesn’t bother to wipe them away, just lets them fall as her bottom lip trembles. He focuses on it, wants to tell her that it’s going to be okay, wants to reach out and rub her shoulder gently. But, as hard as he tries, he can’t seem to do that either.

He’s stuck in a world where he can’t do a single damn thing.

Suddenly, the blurry ceiling above him gives way to what looks like a wood-covered porch, which quickly gives way to the night sky. It’s all fuzzy, but he swears he can see stars up there; he never really got to see stars before moving to Austin, save for the inconsistent trips he would take outside of the city.

He likes seeing the stars. He likes the open vastness of it all. It makes him feel equally too large and too small, which is honestly a really freeing, confusing feeling.

There are blue and red lights painting the trees overhead, and he’s reminded of his childhood room, with his firetruck bed and his color-changing lamp that would soothingly move from red to blue, just the way he liked. It feels so long ago, but he remembers it so clearly. It’s the only clear thing he can see right now.

He can tell he’s fading away again, his short reprieve to the land of the living coming to an end. The voices are still both loud and muted, but he no longer cares what they’re saying. The pain is reaching his maximum capacity, the edges of his vision turning white.

It’s okay, he thinks. It’s all going to be okay.

He feels his head drift to the right, and he swears he sees a familiar face, proud nose and perfect lips under a head of soft brown curls and soulful eyes that have seen deep into the very heart of him.

He smiles, perfectly content with Carlos being his final thought before he goes.

------

Someone’s coughing.

It takes him no time at all to realize that it’s him, that he’s the one hacking up a lung. He feels like his chest is on fire and he can’t take a full breath. There’s heat all around him, flames painting his surroundings an unrecognizable, hazy orange. The bed is gone, the dresser is gone. It’s all vanishing, lost to the fire.

But that’s not what causes him to panic, that’s not what stops his breath. That’s not what threatens to shatter him completely.

Carlos is among the flames.

They’re crawling up his body, latching on to his blue shirt, the one that TK thinks makes him look completely unreal. Well, truly that’s anything he wears, but blue always makes Carlos look soft.

It makes him look like home. The greatest one that TK has ever known.

And now, TK watches as his home catches on fire, unable to move, to step forward, to pull Carlos to safety. His boyfriend watches him as the flames rise up between them, his eyes wide and full of fear, his chest heaving from the breaths that he just can’t seem to catch. TK wants to yell out, tell Carlos to come to him, that they can get out of this together if they just hurry, but every time he goes to speak, a cough climbs up his throat, burying the words inside of him.

He knows he’d be crying if he could, but the flames have stolen his tears from him, too. The flames are going to take everything from him. Everything that matters, packaged inside one wonderful, miraculous, unexpected person.

And before he can even blink, Carlos is gone, swallowed whole, no trace of the man that TK chose to give his entire heart to. He’s gone, and TK desperately wants to follow him.

There’s a creak above him and he has just enough time to look up before the entire ceiling comes down on top of him, granting him his final wish.

He jerks awake, the coughs relentless as he folds himself in half, trying to remove the smoke and ash from his body. It’s dark in the room now, the fire finally extinguished. Except, no, that’s not right, because as he looks around, he sees that everything is intact. Nothing burnt, nothing broken.

He reaches out blindly, trying to find Carlos in the dark, but he’s met with only air. He turns, taking in the empty space on the mattress beside him, the untouched pillow.

“No,” he gasps, shaking his head, and finally the tears come, no longer frightened of the untamable heat. “No, Carlos, no,” he sobs, pulling at the sheets, hoping that he can find him hiding somewhere in their depths. He claws at them, desperate, unhinged.

“TK!”

The voice is salvation, the timbre unmatched in its miraculousness. TK whips around, searching and scanning for the source. He lets out a cry when he finds him, standing in the doorway, dressed in nothing but athletic shorts, a bright white towel pressed to his curls, water still trailing down his bare chest.

Whole, untouched, safe. His home.

And TK just loses it.

In seconds, he’s in Carlos’s arms, his firm hands pressed against his back as his shoulders close around him, encasing him. His lips press to the shell of TK’s ear, his voice pouring into him like lava, filling all of his cavities and crevices left behind by the nightmare that took Carlos away from him.

“I’m right here, baby, I’m right here, it’s okay.”

TK sobs, clinging to him, his voice piercing in the quiet of his dad’s guest room. “You were there and you were surrounded by the fire and I couldn’t get to you, I couldn’t move, and I had to watch you, I just had to watch you go and then you weren’t there anymore, and it was like you were never there at all, but I couldn’t do anything, I just--”

“Hey, hey, Ty, breathe,” Carlos says, drowning out his voice with his own, pressing closer. “It was just a nightmare, we both made it out, we’re both here and we’re both okay. We’re both okay.”

“I… I can’t… I just…”

“Baby, you’re shaking, you’ve gotta calm down, okay.”

“I don’t… I can’t…”

“Here, lay back down,” Carlos says, loosening his grip a bit. TK shrieks, holding tighter. “It’s okay, trust me. TK, I need you to trust me.”

It takes him a moment, but finally TK lets him go. He closes his eyes, feeling the way Carlos lowers him back down onto the mattress. TK can still feel himself shaking, but before he can really start to panic again, he feels a weight on him, one that presses him firmly down, grounding him, holding him steady, from head-to-toe.

His eyes flutter open to take in Carlos above him where his face is pressed into his neck. He breathes, taking stock of their bodies, the way their hips rest against each other, the way Carlos firm thighs bracket his own. He brings his arms up around him, wrapping them around Carlos’s wide back before dragging one hand to the back of his neck and burying them in the soft curls there.

It’s a position he’s intimately familiar with, though unlike other times there is nothing remotely sexual about this situation. Carlos turns his head just enough to press his lips under TK’s jaw, dragging his nose along the light stubble there.

All he feels, all he sees, all he hears, is Carlos.

“Just breathe, baby. I’m right here. I’m all around you. I’ll keep you safe. Just like you kept me safe in the fire, just like you kept me grounded, just like you brought me back down when I felt scared and hurt and lost. I’m here for you now. It’s you and me, keeping each other safe, just you and me.”

He nods, letting Carlos drown him in his own form of a sermon, allowing the words to wash over him like a verse. He lets each syllable piece him back together again, remade in the image of the man he’s deemed worthy of loving him. The only man he will ever trust to do so.

He doesn’t need anything else, doesn’t want anything else. This is all he needs. This is all he will ever need.

Just him and Carlos, like this, forever.

-----

Someone’s snoring.

He comes to slowly, letting the world reintroduce itself to him. He hears music first, though it sounds tinny and, if he’s being honest, kind of grating. He shifts his hips a bit, feeling how the movement pulls against some tension in his lower back. He realizes he’s on a very hard surface and not at all on the very expensive mattress that he and Carlos splurged for a few years ago, when his husband started having his own fair share of lower back problems.

He opens his eyes, watching blue and red lights dance across the ceiling from the TV in the corner. A smile pulls at his lips as he shakes his head slightly, amused for no specific reason. Blue and red, he thinks. He’ll never escape them.

He lifts his head just enough to see the children’s TV show currently playing to an audience of none. He remembers when Carlos, fully offended at Netflix asking if he was still watching the same show after a few hours, finally figured out a way to turn that setting off. TK will have to tease him about not turning off the autoplay function tomorrow morning.

He finally focuses on the snoring off to his right, a sound so familiar that he hadn’t really registered it before, his brain just accepting that it was there. He turns his head, his smile growing as he finds his husband asleep next to him, his head resting on TK’s outstretched (and now very painfully numb) arm.

Carlos’s face is so soft, so serene, his brows slightly furrowed, his crease between his eyes just a little more pronounced. His lips are parted just barely, allowing his shallow breaths to escape and fill the living room around them. TK stares at him, overwhelmed by his beauty, overwhelmed by the feelings that are spreading throughout his chest at the sight of the man before him.

Even in sleep, Carlos is mesmerizing.

TK glances down, his heart leaping at the sight of their little boy asleep between them, his face buried in Carlos’s shirt, his light brown curls resting against the pillow beneath him. Carlos has an arm draped over him, his fingers grazing TK’s arm.

A memory flashes in his mind, one from when he was much younger, of his parents surrounding him in much the same way as they all lay together on his firetruck bed. He remembers how safe he felt between them; how between their bodies, he knew he could never be hurt.

He’s surprised to find that he feels that way even now, even as a father himself. He knows it’s because of the man before him; Carlos’s presence has always meant safety to him. He doesn’t see that ever stopping. He wouldn’t ever want it to.

He scoots just a little bit closer, groaning slightly at the numbness in his arm. He holds his breath as his husband shifts, his eyelids fluttering open. Brown eyes meet green, and TK feels the entire world shift into focus in that single moment.

“Hey,” Carlos whispers, dragging his fingers gently along TK’s side.

“We fell asleep on the living room floor,” TK whispers, scrunching his face as he shifts again, feeling the strain on his hips.

“Actually, you fell asleep on the floor, in the middle of Paw Patrol,” Carlos corrects, his hand leaving TK’s side to boop his nose. “We just decided that we would rather stay with you than sleep in our incredibly comfy beds.”

“Your back is going to kill you in the morning, you know that, right?”

“I could say the same thing about your hips,” Carlos replies, raising an eyebrow. TK says nothing, just nods his head and rolls his eyes.

“Grace is taking him tomorrow night, so we can run a bath, work out each other's kinks.”

“The fact that you are saying that and it’s not about sex makes me feel so incredibly old.”

“I never said it couldn’t be about sex.”

TK feels his jaw drop, watching as Carlos’s eyes twinkle in the blue light from the TV. He leans forward, pressing a soft kiss to his husband’s lips.

“I’m looking forward to it, Mr. Strand-Reyes.”

“I’d be offended if you weren’t, Mr. Strand-Reyes.”

TK drags the tip of his nose along the ridge of Carlos’s before letting out a sigh. “Now that we’re awake, should we move to our beds, save ourselves from total regret and bodily mutilation?”

Carlos hums, looking down at the bundle of limbs between them. “It’s up to you. I just want to sleep next to you, wherever you are.”

TK takes him in for a moment, the way his long lashes brush against his cheeks, the peaceful smile that pulls at his lips as he looks down at their son. It’s a stunning image, powerful in its perfection.

“No, I think we can handle one night,” he says, scooting closer. He does remove his arm from under Carlos’s head, replacing it with the throw pillow laying on the ground next to them. “Besides, I think this is exactly where we’re supposed to be.”

Carlos hums in agreement, wiggling a little closer and smacking his lips softly as he drifts off to sleep.

TK stays awake until Carlos’s soft snores drown out all possible distractions, the feeling of absolute love and certainty filling him with a heaviness that drags him back into the darkness of sleep, all nightmares kept at bay for now.

#tarlos #tarlos fic #911 lone star #tk strand #carlos reyes #I wrote a thing #5+1 fic #please let me know what you think - it's been a minute and I tried some new things

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jean-does-not-have-a-horseface · 3 years

Note

Hello 🥰 Could I ask for a scenario where Levi discovers that his s/o needs to cuddle a stuffed animal for sleeping? 🧸 Thanks 🥺💕

This turned from fluff to fluffly hurt comfort in seconds, sorry it took so long but I hope you enjoy this

Pairing: Levi/ Reader

Warnings: mentions of death and grief

Tags: fluff, hurt/ comfort

Teddy Bear

The dark corridor was merely illuminated by the tiny flicker of a small flame. Hot wax dripped in not too sheer droplets on your thumb, solidifying at the touch as it burned blotches on your tender skin. The feeling stung excessively, leaving an unpleasant numbing behind that you just couldn't ignore even if you tried your best to.

Your night gown felt foreign on your body as it slipped off either of your shoulders once you tried to align it on your form. You were sure you could see it being pumped from your intense heartbeat as you approached the all familiar wooden door, anxiety forming in knot at the pit of your stomach.

Almost every surviving scout had gone through something similar after a certain expedition, that you were sure of. The anger that grief would bear along with it was an enormous bargain to handle on your own and over the years with only a shattered, hammering heart you've had to deal with great losses. You had basically signed up for it.

It had been days since you had gotten out of your room, or let alone sleep. In the span of three enormously long days, you had sat there, eyes dry and shot open as you stated at the wooden ceiling, with your breath hitched on your throat. Any tear had distinguished; whether for the amount of ones you had shed at the scene or in the following days. The only thing left behind was pain and sorrow, grieve and despair.

You loathed that your dorm room, once bubbling with the laughter and tingling giggles of your friends was now bathed in a numbing silence that deafened. As despicable as it could sound you also loathed that there was no one you could trade to have the dorm bed beside you occupied with it's rightful owner once again.

You vividly recalled nights that you and your best friend would lay in silence as you'd tell her all about your forming relationship with Levi, or the way that her eyes looked under the grazing moonlight, awestruck to the sight of you falling in love and even much more eager to get to experience that on her own.

You still recalled how she'd clutch your stuffed bear in between her bosoms, already eager to let you know that her dreams never consisted of peaceful cottagecores nearby rivers unlike other girls'; uncertain as she was for her future she'd rely on her feelings to make her dream of a better future when she'd experience falling in love freely, passionately. And now, with whatever left of her burried six feet under the ground, you knew she would never get that chance that she had so longed for.

So in a way, what you were about to do was comical, ironic and it felt disrespectful to your fallen friend. Your guilt on your upcoming actions ripped through your bowel, causing horrid growls to ring through the paper thin walls of the headquarters and yet, you needed the mellow touch of your lover.

You had turned down his despairate attempts of comfort for a short amount of days in hopes of coming to terms with the loss of your best friend on your own. It was still so hard to get a grip of this new reality that you were forced in, and as reluctant as Levi was, he was all too familiar to the pain of being robbed off of someone of great importance to your character. He had granted you enough space for as long as your sorrows needed to stop burning lumps at the back of your throat, always promising you would be able to find him whenever you wished for.

Along with your hand mellowy knocking on his door twice came a wave of nausea in the pits of your stomach.

"It's me" you muttered. "I can't sleep."

As the door ripped open, the look in your eyes told him everything he needed to know; you were already past the stage of feeling empty and lost. Grey eyes bore into yours with endearment, his own exhaustion hid behind the soft expression of his face. With his brows not furrowed as per usual and his cheeks glowing in the faintest flustered color he stood there calmly, taking your form in for some silence filled moments. Reluctantly he shot his arm to the small of your back, bringing you closer, causing your jaw to clench as it came in contact, ever so slightly with his head.

"I can't do this on my own!"

"I know. That's why I'm here."

His soft voice cooed you as he guided you inside his office, pushing you ever so slightly to help you move faster.

You reluctantly sat on the bed, feet trembling as they barely touched the ground beneath them. The edge of your nightgown swayed as you rocked your feet back and forth in anticipation of what was to come, seeing that you barely had any chance to sleep in Levi's embrace at all; it was only natural for your mind to wander in territories of barely experienced feelings. Nevertheless the newfound warmth in your heart awoke from the comfort that the thought of this action provided you.

Soon enough, your eyes watched as Levi slipped out of his grey wash button up shirt, casually slipping into a loose fitted shirt. His hands came to loosen on his belt and undo the buttons of his military pants; the sight of relief that escaped him was more than enough to confirm to you how long he would have waited to free himself from the uneasiness of military clothes. In a way it felt like you were both saving eachother.

By the time he plopped himself into the bed, dragging your body to accompany his onto the feathered mattress, your eyes were already heavy with sleep. It seemed like Levi's aura was therapeutic, watching his meticulous nighttime routine play out in front of you was set to distract you from your sorrows.

Tonight was going to turn your to be a difficult night, that much Levi knew of; you had seemed his silent comfort, his wordless affection that present its way in the form of his hands around you, bringing you closer to him at any given chance. Tonight he had to be the one to hold you with your back against his chest, the smittening sweetness of the way his lips felt nuzzled against the crook of your neck awakening all of his protective instincts.

But as you cuddled his arm, bringing his somewhat clenched palm under your cheek, Levi's eyes shot wide open.

"Please be my teddy bear." You mumbled in between exahusted, half asleep words. "I burried my teddy with my friend, to keep her company."

The half smile that curled up on his caused an eeree heat to spread throughout him as he nuzzled his pointed nose on your nape, rubbing softly as he puffed hot air out of his nostrils. He wasn't surprised that as calm as he was this heat rushed through all of his body, engulfing him in the tender embrace of sleep.

#levi ackerman x reader #levi x reader #levi #levi attack on titan #levi Ackerman #snk imagines #aot #snk #snk season 4

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jasonndeans · 3 years

Text

young gods - shane “dio” morrissey x reader

word count: 1,990

warnings: brief scene involving harassment and brief use of the f slur at the end.

chapter: 1/?

summary: You weren't looking for anything when you met Dio, but you also couldn't take your eyes off of him. You were drawn to him, shrouded in black mystery and his softer side he kept well hidden under that duster. A part of you knew when you first saw him, he was destined to fly too close to the sun. At first, it wasn't really anything he said or anything he did. It was the feeling that came along with him. You'd never felt this way before, and the crazy thing is, you didn't know if you should. You knew his world moved too fast and burned too bright, but...how can the Devil be pulling you towards someone who looks so much like an angel when he smiles at you? Maybe he knew that when he met you, too.

Dio didn’t have much to bring with him on the day he took you up on your offer to live with you in your small New York City apartment; small, albeit big enough for two. He carried almost all of his earthly possessions with him in his pockets — the keys to his father’s ancient, barely running Honda, a pack of cigarettes, loose cash and change, and his trusty switch. The rest would have to be crammed into his car and hauled over, mostly consisting of clothes and shoes, thrifted or stolen.

“I was wonderin’ when you’d rescue me from the Smack Shack,” he’d quipped, lips curling.

“The Smack Shack” is what he’d dubbed the worn-down, abandoned place he and his buddies — all of them pursuers of a list of drugs, some of them sellers like Dio — often crashed in when a softer, more secure sofa couldn’t be reserved for the night. Thus, The Smack Shack. You’d visited a handful of times despite the fact that it gave you the creeps. Dio had your trust, as did…some of his friends. The neighborhood just wasn’t the safest in Manhattan, needless to say, and there was no guessing what shady characters were looming about in these hollowed out homes. You’re just glad he’s out of there. And with you.

“Ohh, I rescued you, huh?” You’d teased back, your voice lilting in a sing-song tone. “I must be your knight in shining armor.”

He hummed in the back of his throat with a mock grimace, leaning forward to kiss you. “Don’t make me sick, birdie.” His lips were chapped and tasted of smoke, and as much as you detested the habit, it was something so purely Dio. A smirk played on his lips upon pulling back with decorated fingers idly tapping out a rhythm onto a tabletop of a squat little sandwich shop you worked at. “I seem to remember things differently.” Expectant, he cocked his head, casting a shadow of his star-shaped earring onto his neck -- one of many, many things that endeared you to the boy in black.

As if on cue, you turned sheepish with a duck of your head and a bashful smile cast downwards. He was referring to the day you two first met. Officially, that is. Along with the thrill of waitressing and constructing sandwiches, you worked behind a cash register at a record shop -- Empire Records. Music’s always been a constant comfort for you, in your ears when you needed a voice to scream your sorrows, your rampages or your little victories. You’d amassed quite the collection of records as you grew and your music taste with you for a player you’d fixed up and obtained from a seller when on the hunt for more important things like furniture and necessities to fill your then new apartment. You didn’t consider yourself to be one of those douchey vinyl connoisseurs, but you liked the place well enough. It was only a matter of time before you noticed the tall, dark, handsome boy who’d frequent the place without buying anything. He’d stick to the Industrial Rock or Post-Punk ailes and he definitely looked the type, decked head to toe in grungey black attire, adorned with silver jewelry and chains. Every so often the two of you would lock eyes, make slightly painful small talk about whatever was playing through the speakers. You even inquired once if he’d learned your shift schedule with how often he’d appear when you were working, and, leaning suavely on his elbows before you, he’d replied:

“Maybe I have. Maybe I haven’t. That all depends...would you think I was a creep if I said yes?”

Perhaps a normal individual would confirm this, but you had to admit the guy was cute. Okay, he was hot with his dark eyes lined in black, brow piercing and air of confidence. So you smiled and shook your head. Dio smiled back.

You recall during one of your early morning shifts, Dio asked for your coffee order, motioning to the cup in your hands. You gave it to him and he advised against grabbing your morning coffee the next time it was scheduled on your calendar. With curiosity, you obliged and on that day and each day after, in he strolled with your cup in one hand, his in the other. So you carried on like that for a while, chatting over coffee, much to the dismay of your manager.

“Your boyfriend’s a distraction,” she’d remarked one day. “And a loiterer. I don’t care how dreamy he is, he can’t keep hanging around here if he’s not gonna buy anything.”

Admittedly, that caused your heart to sink a little. Yeah, you understood her frustration from a business perspective, but despite not even knowing this guy’s name, his gloomy presence brightened your otherwise dull work days.

When you transferred your manager’s message, Dio issued a breath of...disappointment?

“I don’t believe in money,” came his confession, almost hardly classifying as one what with how casually it was delivered. He chuckled at your raised brow. “Everyone’s a slave to these meaningless pieces of paper and metal, even you. ” A nail painted black pointed at you. “If I want something, nine times outta ten, I’ll find my own way to get it. Seems a little fucked up to work for the essentials for survival, don’t you think?”

For a moment, you sat with this new information. Yeah, it was a little fucked up to fork over hard-earned cash for things like basic needs, but how else was someone expected to live? Mulling it over, you sipped your coffee, once again brought by him. You shot Mr. No-Name-Kid a knowing look. “Am I drinking stolen coffee?” Your smirk couldn’t hide from him.

Dio only laughed.

One night as you closed up shop, you were disheartened at the absence of a certain trench coat clad “customer” in the store that day. You couldn’t place where this was coming from. After all, the two of you were only..what? Acquaintances at most? Names hadn’t even been exchanged, and yet you found yourself scanning the streets outside for any sight of him at the door; reminded of his face when bands like The Cure filled the shop.

Your sigh deflated you as you dug for your keys in your bag -- both to lock up and for your car. It was whatever. This guy had a life too and was under no obligation to visit you as you worked. You turned the key to Empire Records, locking it shut and gave the doors a pull to be sure, Yup. All good. Nodding to yourself, you turned to locate your car in the lot next door. The night was brisk, pushing past the fabric of your cardigan as you walked an empty sidewalk. Under the glow of buzzing streetlights and neon business signs, you tugged it closer to you. The work day was dwindling, at least on this street, cars every so often rolling past. You’re about halfway to the car park when your ears catch a second pair of footsteps behind you. Your lips and spirits lift with the hope that they might belong to the heavy boots of Dio after all and you turn to greet him.

“Nice night, huh?”

This guy’s not Dio. His hoodie covers shaggy chestnut hair, hands in his front pocket as he trudges along. This dude reeks of weed and booze. You ignore him and continue on your path.

“Not a talker. Got it. Listen, honey, you don’t gotta clam up around me, I’m a swell guy. I’ll walk ya’ to your car, that’s where you’re goin’, right?”

Jaw clenched, you ball your cool hands into fists at your sides, keeping your car key poking out from between your fingers should this douche not get the hint. “I don’t need an escort, thanks.” Your reply is sharp, eyes remaining en route. Other than that, you try your damndest to ease calm through your body. Tempting as it is to dash to the safety of your vehicle, you’re not about to put any fear on display for him. You’re okay. Breathe. The lot’s less than a block away now.

Then a hand snakes its way around your waist.

“C’mon, baby, ‘m just tryn’a be a gentleman. Isn’t that what broads want?” His breath is rancid in your nose.

You jerk away, shooting daggers. “Offer declined, now leave me alone.” Now you pick up the pace with your destination in sight. You don’t make it far before you’re jerked back by fingers at your forearm that tug forcefully. The bastard opens his mouth to spew more drovel, but you don’t give him the chance to speak. Screwing up your face, you reel your arm back and jab him with your key in the ribs.

Pain sputters through his lips. No skin was broken (unfortunately), but he’s stumbled back a few paces and grabs where you’d struck him. “You bitch!” He spits, his glare glassy. “Fuck’s your problem?!”

You’re halted by a chilling mixture of fear and shock at your own actions, snapping out of it when the drunk stranger lunges forward. No time is wasted in absolutely fucking booking it now. He may be hammered, but you’re taking no chances. You pay no attention to the string of swears and slurs from behind you and finally reach your car. The vibrations in your hands make unlocking the door difficult, and glancing up you can see your pursuer drunkenly heading toward you.

“Fuck!” You cry. “Stupid fucking--!”

“If I were you I’d stop right there, you piece of shit.”

The familiar voice that hadn’t been there prior snaps your head up, scanning the darkness to catch Dio crossing the street looking more menacing than you’ve ever seen him. You could get in your car and peel out of there right now, but you’re frozen in place watching the scene unfold.

Your attacker finds his way to his feet again, looking dumbfounded at the character who’s walked onto the scene. “Who -- who the fuck’re you?!”

You catch a smirk on Dio’s lips under flickering streetlights. “That all depends on what your next move is, jagoff.” He looks pissed as all hell, though there’s a layer of calm to his words that stirs your stomach. Dio now stands in front of the other with his hands in leather pockets, like he’s provoking him. He’s always exuded this...intimidating aura, clad in all black and chains but you’ve never seen this side of him in action. Maybe now is a bad time to come to this realization, but you have to admit: it’s sexy.

“Oh that’s, ‘s cute,” Mumbles the brunette guy, snickering. “‘S this your boyfriend comin’ to the rescue? Looks like a fuckin’ faggot if I’ve ever seen--”

Dio’s boot to this guy’s crotch cuts him off in the middle of his “insult” and he crumples to the concrete with a groan; if that isn’t enough, Dio lands a second kick to his temple.

You can only stand there lamely with your jaw agape and watch him swagger over after he just knocked a dude in the nuts.

“Sorry I was late,” he says smoothly. “I was in a meeting. You alright?”

Stupidly, you blink at him in the low light. “I--um...I’m…” Real nice. You shake your head to jumpstart your brain. “Yeah, I-I’m okay. I’m good. Thanks. Really.” So he’d come to see you after all.

Dio nods, appearing grateful to hear you’re unharmed.

You two begin to speak at the same time and chuckle in unison. He falls silent, ushering you to continue. You look your rescuer in the face, unable to swallow a smile. You’d missed those eyes, seeming so warm in the cool of the night. “So, do I get to know the name of my savior?” You prod.

He laughs once, low in his throat. “Dio.”

#shane dio morrissey #shane dio morrissey x reader #pedro pascal #dio x reader

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shadowsof-thenight · 4 years

Text

When she least expects it - 2

Summary: When Rebecca’s relationship comes to an abrupt and painful end, she finds herself without a home. With her brother currently stationed in Iraq, she turns to the one person she knew she can always depend on—Steve Rogers.

Warnings: Angst, heartbreak, sadness, mentions of cheating

Ship: Steve Rogers x OFC—Rebecca Barnes

A/n: This was written for Star’s Follower Celebration. The prompt was a roommate AU.

Series Masterlist

***

Chapter two

A few blissful moments of ignorance were all Rebecca got when she woke up the following morning. She stretched her sleepy limbs with her eyes still closed—her mind still empty and peaceful. For those moments she was infinitely content. Then she dropped her arms on the pillows that surrounded her head, and she picked up the scent of freshly washed linen. This was not her brand, she realised, and reality came crashing down in painful waves. She quickly opened her eyes and recognised the apartment as that of her brother—the off-white walls would most certainly not have been her choice for this space. Her heart instantly hammered in her chest as she remembered all that had happened, and she tried to distract herself by taking in the room. There was a significant lack of personal items and too many of his things were still stored in boxes. She knew why—he’d spent shockingly little time in this apartment since he and Steve had bought it. It had been nearly two years since then, but Bucky had spent two thirds of that overseas. Six months ago, Steve opted to train new cadets as his next career move. It gave his life more stability and Rebecca had welcomed his more consistent presence in her daily life with open arms. Bucky had not been ready for the change, and she still wondered when he would be.

She glanced at the nightstand to her right, expecting to find a picture there—one of her and Bucky—and found it to be missing. Nothing but an alarm clock remained on the clean surface. It occurred to her that he must have brought it with him, and it sent a jolt through her aching heart, acting like a balm for the broken pieces—he valued it as much as she did. No matter how lonely she felt or where life took her, she knew she was never truly alone. Her brother would be there. Or brothers really, since Steve had shown no intention of leaving, and after more than 20 years, she didn’t think that would ever change.

Rebecca allowed herself a few moments to wallow in all the emotions that were coursing through her body. There was still so much to be grateful for—she knew that—but it was hard to ignore the pain this early in the morning. She was in a safe and comfortable place, if not exactly where she had hoped to be at 25. With a groan, she pulled one of the pillows tight over her face to muffle the scream that had been building in her throat. She was angry at her circumstances, but even more so with herself, and she was actually straining to keep herself from screaming repeatedly. However, she did not want to wake the wonderful, generous man that resided in the room down the hall.

Finally she got up from the bed and grabbed the warm sweater she had discarded last night, pulling it over the tank top she had slept in. Checking the time, she wondered briefly if Steve’s routine had remained the same since changing positions. He would often get up at ungodly hours to run laps in the nearby park. She reckoned he still did, and that meant that he would be back by now, so she braced herself to greet his concerned face. Life could not be ignored, and she figured she’d better face the music swiftly.

Steve was patient and kind; he would not press too much. However, he would eventually expect a better explanation than the “he fell out of love with me” shtick she’d pulled last night. She was not the kind of person to put things off, just because they were hard, though she had become a master at evading talking about her deepest emotions. She would much rather keep up a mask, pretend she was fine. Not that she had any qualms about Steve falling for it though; he always did see right through her. The perks of knowing one another for so long. She wondered how he would react to the story and wondered briefly if she could lie to him. It had never been her strong suit, but the truth seemed a little too much to share. Perhaps she could find a happy middle and hope he would not dig any deeper.

“Hey.” His deep voice greeted her as soon as she stepped into the living room. He stood by the counter, throwing his favourite cereal in a bowl before adding milk. He was still dressed for a work out, though he had discarded his shoes—they were likely dropped by the front door. He never wore shoes inside. The deep blue of his damp shirt brought out the brightness of his eyes and she admired it for a short moment. His skin was glistening and she realised he must have only returned moments before. She was surprised that he had not deviated from his routine after their late night chat. The clock had only just struck eight—he must have gotten very little sleep.

“Hi,” Rebecca replied, her voice still groggy with sleep.

She walked up behind him, reaching to grab a glass from the cupboard by his head. Steve dutifully stood stock still for her, an amused smile on his lips. She filled the glass with water and chugged it. Steve said nothing—he just grabbed a spoon from the drawer to his left and turned to lean against the counter. In silence, he observed Rebecca as she moved around the small space, careful to avoid stepping on his bare feet. She had never been known for her light steps. She downed a second glass of water and turned to the fridge to check it’s contents. She had never been big on breakfast, and after finding nothing to entice her, she opted for an apple. She knew better than to try Steve’s tasteless, though undoubtedly healthy, grains. She needed something a little easier on the taste buds. When she moved past him to make her way to the couch, she still had not said a word.

“Sleep well?” He finally asked as he followed her out of the kitchen.

Plopping down, she pulled her legs under herself and curled up in a corner as she munched on the apple. Steve chose a different approach. He stacked some pillows and, half sitting against them, stretched out on the long side of the couch. She chuckled. Knowing him, he had pushed his muscles to the limit—he would need to lie there for a minute.

“Sure.” She shrugged, choosing not to tell him of the uneasy hours filled with twisting and turning. It took a long time before she’d finally succumbed to a restless sleep, and even then it had been filled with unintelligible dreams. She’d woken up far too quickly.

Steve sighed, pushing out a humourless chuckle as he took in her evasive behaviour. She never outright lied, but he could tell when she wasn’t telling him the whole story. She’d always been a master of it, dancing around subjects and twisting truths. It had gotten them out of trouble quite a few times when they were younger. He knew better than to let her get away with it now, but he wasn’t as confrontational as her brother would have been, and he didn’t know if his approach would work best. Still, it was all they had until Bucky returned in a few months’ time, and he certainly wasn’t planning on waiting that long to get answers.

“Talk to me,” he said softly. “Please!”

With his breakfast done, he placed the bowl on the table and shifted to look directly at her. A sigh escaped her lips as she struggled to find the right words to tell him. She didn’t want to blurt it all out, fearing regret, worrying he might get angry. Finally, she opened her mouth, ready to spout a little white lie to hold him off until she was ready to dive deeper into the subject, but then they were interrupted.

Frantic knocking resounded through the hallway, drifting into the living room. They shared a confused look. Whoever was at the door was impatient. It was far too early to deal with that, she thought. Steve grumbled, annoyed with the interruption, and he stood to answer. Rebecca listened intently, trying to figure out who it was without having to go look. However, no words were spoken and seconds later, Rebecca had to jump up when someone burst into the room. An angry redhead pulled her into a bone-crushing hug, angrily telling her off for not calling her. Rebecca needed a moment to figure out why she was supposed to have called Natasha. That was until she realised that her friend had known where to find her. She must have been made aware of the break-up, which confused Rebecca—Steve would not have told her yet, and why on earth would Jack even try to get in touch with her in the first place?

She leaned into the hug, returning it as she tried to suppress an amused smile at Natasha’s apparent inability to decide between comforting and chastising. Rebecca caught Steve’s stare over Natasha’s shoulder and saw her amusement reflected in his eyes. He was struggling to keep from laughing.

Natasha was always a force of nature—intense, a tad unpredictable at times, strong willed, and fiery—but she also had a killer poker face. And she was one of the most loyal people in the world. Rebecca was incredibly lucky to have her as a best friend.

“How did you know where I was?” Rebecca asked when Natasha finally stopped grumbling. They stepped back from one another and Rebecca dropped back on the couch, resuming her previous position. Natasha sat beside her, and Steve moved to the kitchen and began brewing a pot of coffee for Natasha and himself, along with some tea for Rebecca.

“Jack called me,” Natasha offered, and Rebecca could see the anger brimming under the calm facade her friend showed. Foolishly, Rebecca momentarily wondered if Jack regretted his decision. Natasha’s next words put a stopper to that. “He wanted to tell you that you needed to pick up your things ASAP.”

“And he called you?” Steve asked, incredulous. He wasn’t aware that Rebecca had turned off her phone the moment she had left her house last night. His house really. Though she had called the apartment home for quite some time, her name had never been on the papers. A stupid decision, she realised now. It meant she had lost the roof over her head, while he lost nothing. And he deserved some inconvenience after his appalling behaviour.

“That’s what caught your attention?” Natasha countered, before turning to Rebecca. “He seemed in an awful hurry—seeing as you were still an item 24 hours ago. Care to tell me what happened?”

Steve went into high gear as he poured the drinks and handed them to the women before sitting down on the couch again. As he sat, he stared intensely at the beautiful brunette that had turned up so unexpectedly the night before. He was increasingly curious to know what had happened.

Knowing she would not be able to avoid answering the two people in front of her—they were a great interrogation team— Rebecca settled in, tea in hand. Memories instantly flashed through her mind as she tried to grasp the moment where everything had changed.

Jack was a good-looking guy; women turned their heads when he walked by, and Rebecca had been surprised that he even noticed her. She wasn’t insecure, merely realistic. She was pretty on a good day, not beautiful like him. All too soon, she’d noticed his arrogance, but she’d also noticed his boundless humour. He always managed to make her laugh, even on a bad day. When they had first started dating, sparks flew. They quickly fell in love and had a hard time keeping their hands off one another. The problem with sparks was that they either faded quickly or ignited a fire, and with the combination of their characters, it was mostly the latter. The fire had been so beautiful, all consuming, wild and entirely uncontrollable. Rebecca didn’t understand why it had taken them so long to combust, or why she had not gotten out sooner. She had allowed herself to get burned, and she would have to carry that with her.

In the years they had been together, their good times had been as bountiful as the bad. They’d been like cats and dogs—unparalleled shouting matches would resound in their home, followed by equally passionate make-up sessions. Those had been enough to make the most stoic person blush.

Jack had been jealous—he even had trouble accepting Steve in her life—and he was a little controlling at times, while Rebecca had a desire to feel free, and her sharp tongue had all too often aggravated him. Looking back, they really hadn’t been a good match. Hindsight. Their fights had never gotten physical, but they were still intense and draining. So it shouldn’t have been a surprise that he moved on, but it had been. Especially since he had forgotten to tell her. In fact he had forgotten to do so for months.

With his desire to rid his place of all things Rebecca, she realised that he was already thinking of letting another woman into it. That was a hard pill to swallow. She could not understand how his feelings had so easily changed. They had been together for years and until the very end, they had been…passionate. Damaging and wrong as well, yes, but the passion had not diminished—not even those last few months. She should be happy to be rid of him, she knew, but it would take some time for her feelings to catch up to that knowledge.

The first step would be to inform her friends of the information she had found out last night; Jack had been having an affair for the past four months. He hadn’t told her—she had found some receipts she couldn’t account for. He hadn’t even blinked when she confronted him, and he’d simply admitted that he was over her. There had been no emotion, no care, and that was what had truly broken her heart. She had invested so much of her heart into this relationship. Her relationship had not been perfect, she was well aware of that, but to have it end as it did—it was hard.

Rebecca didn’t spare herself as she recounted the gritty details, and tears were streaming down her face by the time she finished her tale. It had not been easy to do; she felt too much like a failure, and she had more pride than was good for her. The people sitting with her knew her so well, and she couldn’t hide her feelings from them. Which was why she had laid it all out for them, despite how tough that was. There was no putting on a brave face with Natasha and Steve—they would see right through it. They asked questions, prodded a little deeper, and broke down her walls.

Natasha pulled her close in a sideways hug, while Steve dropped to the floor in front of her and grasped onto her hands with a gentleness that only increased the flow of tears. They were so kind and understanding, but they didn’t understand the failure that seeped in her veins. Still, they would support and love her through this, and she knew this was the best place she could be right now. The only thing to make it better would have been her brother coming home. Alas, she would have to wait a few more months.

***

The days after her confession were spent in a whirlwind of emotions. Rebecca could not remember when she’d last cried this often. Nor had she ever before switched between emotions quite so easy. Anger, sadness, and bitterness swapped each other out in such quick procession that it took her by surprise.

Three days after leaving the place she had called home, Rebecca made plans to pack up her belongings. With the help of Steve, Natasha, and Natasha’s boyfriend Sam, this was all to be done in a single afternoon. Too fast to grasp it, but it was all she was willing to give it. Jack had promised to steer clear of the place, and she was happy for that much at least. She wouldn’t have felt certain that Steve would not attack him. The blond soldier was so angry with Jack. For her, he had been a saint though. Through her erratic behaviour, through her flailing emotions, he had remained the same protective, patient friend. Even then though, she cussed him out over the most ridiculous things—the other day she had gotten angry at him for cleaning the apartment. She had left papers strewn all over the place, and he had stacked them into a neat pile on the table next to her laptop. Rebecca had always been more messy than the two men, but she always told them that there was a system to the clutter, and when he had cleaned, Steve had paid no mind to her system.

She knew she had been wrong the moment she had opened her mouth, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. He didn’t deserve it, and she would have to find a way to make it up to him later on. But, Steve had just accepted her anger, almost taking it in stride. He pushed back the bare minimum and remained eerily calm—at the time, this had pissed her off even more. Now she just wanted to know how he had managed it—perhaps he had some tips on anger management he could share with her.

Steve found himself shocked by her behaviour; he had never seen her like this, and though he tried to be understanding, it was hard. He accepted her anger and her pain, going back and forth between consoling and pushing back gently. However, it was putting a strain on him, and he hoped it would get better soon. He didn’t know how he could best help her—he was a fixer and he couldn’t fix this for her. She wasn’t talking about her feelings, at least not to him, and his hands were tied. She would need to work through these phases of grief on her own, and it was hard to watch—even though he understood that this was what she needed.

He was incredibly happy when he finally noticed her return to her normal self, slowly but surely, over the course of weeks. Her emotions levelled out, and she started to find little things to laugh at again. The sadness came less and less and her teasing nature returned. She teased him mercilessly and Steve couldn’t have been happier to be embarrassed.

#Steve Rogers #Steve Rogers Fanfiction #Steve Rogers x OFC #MCU fanfiction #When she least expects it

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monsterlovinghours · 5 years

Note

Can we get more greaser beej or incubus beej smut? Wholesome getting more and more spicy, phobia of the dark or thunder accidentally turning beej on.

Greaser!Beej: Wholesome to Spicy

He had promised to help you with dinner, though it seemed like his version of helping consisted mainly of sitting on the counter with a fifth of whiskey dangling from his fingers, watching you move around the kitchen. Honestly, it was nice just to have the company, even if he wasn’t willing to do much besides carry on a conversation and eye your backside whenever you bent over. However, when you got too caught up in talking to him while chopping vegetables, you didn’t notice the knife slip until it caught the edge of your finger. You jumped, cursed, and flung the knife away from you, hissing as you immediately ran to the sink. Instantly, Beej was beside you, reaching down to pull your injured hand closer.

“Shit, babydoll, that looks wicked.”

You shook your head, sighing at your own carelessness. “It’s not so bad. Looks worse than it feels, I promise.” His hand was cool around yours, his lips slightly warmer as he kissed at the cut. Your eyes lifted, and you felt a tug at your heart as you noticed threads of white in the green of his hair. “Oh, lovebug, I’m okay. Cross my heart.”

Beetlejuice let out a breath, holding your hand to his cheek. “Yeah.” He kissed your cut again, and this time, you felt the press of his tongue against it. Your stomach clenched, and you let out an almost involuntary gasp. This, of course, did not go unnoticed, and his lips quirked in a knowing little smile. Once again, his tongue pressed to your skin, his lips closing around your fingertip, and you had to grip the edge of the sink as your knees gave a wobble. Laughing softly, he lifted you up and set you down on the counter where he himself had just been seated, your finger never leaving his mouth.

“Beej,” you began, glancing over at the stove, worried that dinner would burn, but he hushed you by dragging his tongue across the palm of your hand, drawing a moan from you.

“Don’t you worry, doll, I won’t let the house burn down.” His hands fell to your knees, his rings cool against your skin as he parted your legs and began to push your skirt up to your hips, kneeling to kiss your thighs as he went. You melted into his touches, his kisses, rewarded with a gasp and a growl when he saw exactly what you were wearing-or rather, not wearing-under your dress.

“Filthy little skirt,” he cooed, covering your sex with his hand, ringed fingers pressing against your clit as he rubbed. You whined, leaning back against the cabinet and biting your lip. At the same moment your hands slid into his hair, his tongue slid against your folds, and your moans were a perfect two octaves apart. His hands sunk into your thighs as they began to tremble, reflexively trying to close around his intruding tongue. He held you open, flicking your clit to hear you squeal, sliding it deep into your heat to feel you clench around him. You came in record time, bucking your hips into his devilish mouth as he devoured you, the pain of the cut all but forgotten, lost in the haze of pleasure.

Chuckling and looking quite pleased with himself, he got to his feet, licking his lips before kissing you, the sweet tang of your pleasure coating his tongue. With great care, he smoothed your dress back down over your shaking legs and helped you down from the counter, giving your backside a playful swat.

“Take your time with dinner, doll. I’m not particularly hungry.” His lips curled in a lascivious grin, winking at you as he took a swig from his whiskey bottle. “Just ate, after all.”

Incubus! Beej: Scared of Thunder

In the dark, your eyes slowly opened, blinking sleepily. Something had woken you, pulled you out of your sleep. But what?

From behind the closed curtains of your bedroom window, you saw it again. A flash of light in pale lavender. You went cold, your stomach dropping. There was no mistaking that color, that brightness.

Please, no.

A rumble that started in the distance, then came closer, like the running footsteps of some otherworldly giant shook your house, and you squeaked in pure fear, pulling the blankets up over your head. The storm broke loose outside your room, rain hammering at your window as the lightning flashed, and that dreaded thunder cracked and boomed and rattled at your home like it was trying to crash through the walls themselves. Whimpering, you curled into a tight ball, eyes screwed shut and your hands clamped over your face, and whispered his name as fast as you could.

The words were barely out of your mouth before you felt his fingers curl around your wrists, tugging your hands away from your face. “Babe? What is it?” His tone was gentler than normal, and you relaxed a fraction, only to squeal and tense up again as lightning and thunder crashed outside the window.

Two and two seemed to click, and Beetlejuice slipped under the covers beside you, tugging you close and pressing your face into his chest. “Is it the storm, snack cake? I can smell the fear coming off of you. You scared of a little thunder?”

Muffled against his chest, he hears your soft voice. “...more than a little thunder…” He laughed softly and held you tighter, wrapping his tail around you waist to keep you tight against him. A flick of his wrist, and the edges of your curtains sealed themselves to the walls, blocking out the lightning. Another flick, and all sounds seemed to dampen, as if they were being heard through several thick walls. You lifted your head, looking around in awe as you tried to wrap your head around the sudden, blessed silence.

“Better?”

He grinned up at you, eyes practically glowing in the dark, and you nodded, settling back down against him. “Much better.” You tightened your arms around him, breathing in the smell of cigarette smoke and earth. Slowly, he shifted, maneuvering you so that your back pressed against his chest, both arms joining his tail around your waist.

“Go back to sleep, little snack.”

You tried. You really did. But every so often you’d hear a roll of thunder, and even muffled, it was enough to make you jerk back. However, doing so pressed your backside against his hips, and it only took one or two instances for him to growl in your ear, hands dropping to grasp your hips as he ground against you.

“Do that one more time, babe, and you won’t be getting any sleep for the rest of the week.”

Heat shivered through you at the darkly threatening tone of his voice, as well as the memory of all the pleasurable things he could distract you with. Very deliberately, you arched your back, pressing yourself into the cradle of his hips, feeling a surge of satisfaction when he groaned, sharp fangs descending to nip at your earlobe.

“Here I was, trying to be a gentleman. But my little feeder doesn’t want a gentleman, it seems.” His tail grasps your thigh, pulling your legs apart as he carefully reaches beneath your pajamas to slip his hand between your thighs. Your eyes fluttered shut as he rubbed at you, the friction of his palm delicious, his mouth warm at your throat. Teeth flashed against your skin as he bit into you, savoring your gasp and the way you arched against him. “Mmmm...all the fear is gone,” he murmured, dragging his tongue across the fresh bite marks.

“You smell like lust, now.”

#beetlejuice #beetlejuice the musical #greaser!beej #incubus!beej #two for one special

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the-angst-witch · 5 years

Text

Hey There Sunshine

“How much longer till sunset?”

“Same as last time you asked.”

Kavi slumped down in his chair groaning dramatically.

Zell rolled her eyes from where she sat at the small desk chair the inn had thoughtfully provided. She was entertaining herself with a complicated braiding venture involving several loose threads pulled and pilfered from gods only knew where, a few strands of what Makky assumed was her own hair, and a dainty fraying ribbon. Her fingers twisted and turned the threads, lightning fast and hypnotizing. He’d spent many days cooped up with her staving off boredom watching the way her deft hands worked complicated braids and knots in the weeks since they’d gone on the run.

Kavi sighed dramatically as he righted himself in the squat armchair in the other corner of the small room.

A grin was pulling at the corner of Makky’s lips and he did his best to hide it as he re-shuffled the deck of cards in his hands. “Why don’t you read more?” he suggested instead.

Kavi rolled his dark eyes “I can’t,” he grumbled “I finished all the books I got last night.”

“Take a nap then.” Zell said not bothering to look up from her braiding.

He groaned “I’m not tired. I’m bored.”

Zell rolled her eyes dramatically “I’m bored.” She mimicked in a high-pitched parody “Entertain yourself then!”

Kavi opened his mouth, no doubt to entertain himself by starting yet another pointless argument with Zell. Makky jumped to intervene. “Do you want me to teach you a card trick?”

Kavi shook his head “After last time I think we can say that’s a lot cause.”

Zell snorted “butter fingers.”

Kavi stuck his tongue out at her childishly and she just shot him a cheeky grin. He pulled himself up from the chair and slouched over to the bed where Makky sat with his cards. He plopped down across from him, “Show me what you’ve been working on?” He asked instead. Dark eyes intent on Makky, a familiar grin curving his lips. Whenever he smiled like that his dark eyes would light up, and his whole face seemed to glow.

Makky turned back to his cards hoping to hide the faint blush he felt heating his cheeks. Whenever Kavi looked at him like that, with his full attention, and that bright smile, Makky couldn’t help but blush. He hated that, it was embarrassing and one of these days Kavi was going to notice and ask and that was not a conversation he wanted to have yet.

The bed jostled, and Makky nearly dropped the cards he was fiddling with. He looked up to see Zell had bounded over from her chair, abandoning her braiding. She grinned at him resting her chin on her hands “Go on!” she encouraged. He laughed and obliged, putting on a little show of card tricks for them. Once he was burned through all the tricks, he’d memorized he even managed to teach Zell one or two, and Kavi finally learned to shuffle without playing 72 card pick-up.

In that unerring way of hers Zell’s head whipped toward the window the second the sun was down. She zipped over so quickly, she was almost a blur. She ripped the blinds open to reveal the darkened sky. She grinned wide and sharp with all her teeth on display “Time to go hunting!” She declared with a ruby glint in her eye.

Kavi jumped up from his place on the bed “finally!”

Zell narrowed her eyes at him “You, make sure you actually drink something. Don’t spend the entire night in the library.”

He gave her a mock salute “promise.” She turned her gaze to Makky “And you. Actually, drink something.”

He nodded sheepishly. “I’ll try.” And the thing was, he swore, he did try. It’s just, the thing was—With how small the town was they were staying in. It was better to hunt separately instead of the three of them prowling like a pack. They’d learned that three vampires hunting together in a speck of a town wasn’t as subtle as they’d hoped. (They’d learned the hard way, getting run out of a microscopic town not much smaller than the one they were in presently.) Zell had been cursing the very name of the town ever since. Makky had shrugged “I mean…we were kinda eating people. It makes sense they’d want us to leave.”

Zell had whipped around scandalized “It’s not like we ate them all to death!”

Kavi had thrown his hands in the air in disbelief “Besides we only went after those thugs that tried to mug us that first night!”

At that point Makky knew a lost cause of an argument when he saw one brewing so he’d just laughed under his breath and suggested they do things differently next time around. So the point was, Makky did try to find something-someone to drink. He just…got distracted without Zell to remind him what he was supposed to be looking for. It was much more pleasant to help the old woman who ran the flower shop bring in the last of her deliveries, since the merchant had been running late and it was too dark out for her old eyes. Or help the teenager with the sprained ankle and a cat up a tree. She told him all about her recent interest in ancient poetry while he retrieved the feline and helped her hobble home. Then he’d gotten distracted by some of the old men sitting outside the tavern around a small contained fire, telling stories from their youth. They were all so excited at the prospect of having someone new to regale with their tales of adventure. Then there’d been an open gate, and a lost dog, and a very drunk couple of people that he just had to get home safely and it felt wrong to go and bite one of them. He could make it a while longer without feeding. He was only getting a little dizzy when he exerted too much strength or speed. He was fine.

Well, Makky was fine until he looked at the clock on the building he’d wandered over to look at on the very edge of town. He cursed under his breath realizing he needed to get back to the inn now if he wanted to avoid the sun. He quickly ducked around the corner of the building and he promptly crashed right into someone. It was moments like that, when Makky truly wondered if he had somehow offended one of the gods affiliated with Luck.

The man he’d crashed into and instinctively grasped the arms of to steady them both, was wearing a jacket with dozens of patches sewn all over. And the one he was staring directly at, sewn in on his left shoulder, was one for The League.

Shit. Makky thought looking up into the face of Sir Cray, one of the most arrogant bastards he’d had the displeasure of meeting during his hellacious tenure with The League. He barely had time to react past shock, and dismay before pain was exploding across the side of his face. He reflexively tightened his grip and felt some of the fabric tear under his hand as he stumbled away from the blow.

Makky caught his balance and wasted no time running as fast as he could away from Cray and his lackeys. He felt something hot and wet drip down his face and noted that Cray must have been wearing one of his stupid gaudy rings. He hoped the bastard broke his finger when he hit him.

After what felt like a small eternity running, he paused to steady himself leaning against the cool brick of the storage building he found himself outside of. Makky tried to steady himself as a wave of dizziness overtook him him. His breath caught in his throat as he overheard heavy pounding footsteps. He pushed himself off the wall to try and run, his vision blurred, his stomach lurched, and he found himself rapidly acquainted with the hard ground. Makky groaned at the way the gravel bit into his skin. It had been a warm night, so he’d worn shorts, and a T-shirt and at that moment he regretted it for the scrapes he was sure to have. The footsteps were getting closer, and a white-hot spike of panic shot through him. Makky heaved himself to his feet and staunchly ignored the way the world still seemed to sway like a ship at sea. He could practically hear Zell’s voice in his mind calling him a “stupid idiot, who doesn’t know how to take care of himself!”

One wall of the building was a large metal door, that at present had been retracted to its place on the ceiling. That would have to do, he wasn’t going to make it very far running in his condition. He passed a sign posted on the corner that proudly proclaimed in big block letters “Space for rent!”

He stumbled his way into the building searching for somewhere to hide amongst the scattered remains of whatever business had last made use of the space. His options consisted of a few scattered raggedy boxes. None of them were big enough to actually hide him entirely if he crouched down behind them. The footsteps were getting closer. His heart leapt its way into his throat, and he shook in frozen terror for a moment, casting his eyes wildly about the room for anything. His eyes landed on one of the raggedy crates. It was made of boards haphazardly nailed together and if he squeezed, he could probably fit himself inside of it. Only the boards had decent gaps between them, what if they see me anyway? He could hear voices now, they were getting too close.

He made a snap decision and shoved a few of the other crates hastily in front of the one he’d been eyeing. He ripped the lid open and threw himself inside closing the lid back over himself as quickly and quietly as he could. He had to wriggle and compress himself painfully to make sure he fit without the lit lifting because of a shoulder or stray limb. He bit back a cry as he kneed one of the poorly hammered in nails. He’d just managed to stop moving, when the pounding footsteps and the shouting voices entered the storage building. He held his breath as he listened to the sounds of their labored breaths, their beating hearts, the blood racing through their veins. The panic was making it hard to listen to what they were saying, turning the words to a mush of syllables and phonetic noise. He hurt already from cramping himself down into the box. His neck ached, his knee was sluggishly bleeding, his face felt swollen and tender from where he’d been hit.

Suddenly there was a loud crashing sound near his face, and he flinched hitting his head sharply on the edge of the crate. He didn’t dare breathe, for one horrifying second, he was sure they’d found him. Then he heard “Damn it! He’s not here!”. He watched Cray’s boots through the space between the boards and held in a sigh of relief, as he realized Cray had just kicked the boxes he’d pushed in front of his crate in frustration. He hasn’t seen me.

“Sir Cray, it’s almost dawn anyway” one of the men with him said exasperated “and the bloodsucker can’t have gotten very far. He’ll be toast soon anyway.”

“Come on, let’s see if we can find him. Maybe we’ll get to watch him burn.” The third said with a sickening level of glee.

Makky felt like he’d been doused in ice water. Sunrise. He listened carefully as they left the building, footsteps and voices growing fainter. Maybe he could still sneak back to the Inn? Maybe he had time? Maybe he could—

The first rays of dawn’s light shone through one of the gaps in the crate hitting the knuckles of his hands, which he’d pulled up to protect his head. White hot pain shot through him like no heat he’d ever felt before. This wasn’t like touching the soup pot at home without mitts, it wasn’t accidentally getting a hand too close to the torches at The League, it wasn’t like anything he’d ever felt before. He bit through his own lip trying to muffle a scream as the burning just kept going. As the sun rose, and rose, it found its way through more and more cracks in the crate. It cast itself across his shins and his ankles, scorching strips of his knees. It laid across his wrists and forearms like violent red ribbons. He writhed in the limited space he had trying to twist and hide as much of his vulnerable flesh as possible. But all that did was expose new pieces to the unrelenting agony that the sun brought. He bit through his lip so many times in the first thirty minutes he wondered if it would ever heal. The scent of his own blood and burning flesh filling his nose, adding to the nausea he already felt from the sheer agony coursing through his body. Lancing out from the burns like a lightning strike, that hit over and over and over.

He tried to keep quiet, he really did, the possibility of Cray coming back to look for him again very present on his mind. Or of someone else finding him and opening the box. Subjecting him to more sunlight was very present on his mind. Or at least it was for the first hour when he choked back sobs, and bit down on screams. Only small whimpers, and keening whines escaping his lips. Halfway through the second hour he couldn’t think past the desperate agony to remember why he needed to be quiet. Loud sobs ripped from his lungs like they’d been dragged out by hooks. The salt from his tears stinging sharply on his still burning wrists. By the fourth hour he’d nearly screamed himself hoarse. His throat felt almost as raw as the skin kissed by the sun. He couldn’t remember if the blood on his tongue was from screaming so much he’d made himself bleed or from biting through his cheek in an ill-fated attempt to keep quiet.

Somewhere in the fifth hour he started begging. Who he was begging he didn’t know, but he needed it to stop. “Please! Please, someone help me! please! Make it stop! Please! God’s please! Make it stop!” the begging devolved into unintelligible prayer somewhere nearing the mark of the sixth hour. Praying to the Gods, to any that would listen, to Ember the Goddess High Queen of Flame, and to Cosma the Goddess High Queen of the Cosmos. To their child Soleris the Keeper of Sunlight. For anyone, anything, to please please make it stop just for a second. He couldn’t take anymore, please.

He thought someone must have answered his prayers because, suddenly he had a moment of respite. He dared to peek through blistered fingers to find that a cloud had passed over the sun. He let out a broken sob of relief. Sweat and tears mingling to make the angry red burns sting, as he trembled in the cramped space, he’d managed to hide in. His screams fading to hitching whimpers as he tried to control his breathing.

Deliriously he couldn’t help but think of his little sister, Amatis. As children they’d always sang silly songs back and forth together. Ironically her favorite had always been the Sunshine Song. He hummed it quietly to himself as he tried to shift his position in the box to give him an ounce of relief on the cramped muscles and sensitive flesh. After he kicked another nail with a burn, and promptly whited out in agony he stopped trying to move and just focused on humming.

“Hey there sunshine

You brighten my day

Hey there sunshine

You make me smile

When skies are grey”

Amatis loved to follow him places and chatter his ear off, singing songs while he walked to his little job, he’d managed to scrounge up at the tailors shop before the kindly old man died. On the days she hadn’t been allowed to walk him to work she’d tackled him in a tight hug the moment he got home. They’d been the closest to each other out of everyone in their sprawling family.

“Hey there sunshine

Just don’t take

my stars away

They guide me home

When nights are long”

He remembered the last day he’d seen her vividly. She’d been only six, and he was only ten. A Temple of Ember had gone through town looking for recruits to train up into Devotee’s. He remembered one of the nice ladies in red robes from the temple talking to him while he was at the Tailors. The same woman was at his house when he got home that evening. He remembered the way his stomach had twisted into knots at the sight of her talking to his parents.

“Hey there Starlight

You make me smile

When I am far-away”

They’d wanted to take him for the temple. He remembered the calculated way his mother had looked at him then. But he’d been working for the tailor, they couldn’t afford to lose that money, pittance that it was. “Amatis is such a bright light.” His father had said to the nice lady in the red robe. It was settled so fast after that.

“Hey there starlight

Guide me home tonight”

He remembered how she’d cried. How many times he’d told her she’d love it at the temple, even as he failed to hold back tears himself. She’d insisted he braid her hair one last time for her and sing the Sunshine Song. And he had to give one last piggy ride, and promise she’d always be his favorite sibling even if she wouldn’t be around to remind him.

“Make the moon shine bright

It makes me smile,

when you are far away”

They’d managed to stay in contact for years even after she’d left. A kind merchant who delivered letters for the temple when they happened to be on his route of trade. He’d watched her grow up through shaky handed letters written in a childish scrawl, to pages and pages of elegant script. He kept his promise, she always was his favorite family member. Even if one day the letters stopped, the merchant vanished without a word, and news of the temple seemed to trickle and run dry no matter how he asked after it or tried to find someone to carry his letters.

“Hey there moonlight

Light my path tonight”

In his state, delirious with pain and hunger, he could have sworn he heard his sisters voice, high and clear, singing The Sunshine Song. There was a slight breeze, the clouds were shifting. Light was streaming through the cracks in his crate. He couldn’t think anymore, couldn’t do anything but scream.

“Hey there sunshine

Come and take me away”

#Makky #Kavi #Zell #Whump #Vampire Whump #Burning #Trapped in a crate #I tried guys

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imagine-darksiders · 5 years

Note

Imagine the Makers' reactions if one of the humans in Haven had a baby

Okay, sorry it’s a bit late. I started running with this idea and it kind of snowballed, so I’m gonna have to turn this ask into a two parter.

HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY!

—

Deep within the Maker tree, nestled inside anelevated alcove that Ulthane had carved by hand above a centralchamber, three of the five resident humans lay sound asleep in theircots, shattered after another hard day of scavenging through Havencity for what little food and water remained after the end of theworld.

Midnight had come and gone as it always does, rolling steadily on towards a new morning.

One of the humans who isn’t asleep;Jones - a strange but amicable man - is nowhere to be found, probablyhaving slipped past the giants to venture out into the city and lookfor more supplies. Alone.

His fellow humans still have no idea how oreven why he does that.

Regardless, Jones’ absence is only noticedtonight by the second person who has yet to succumbto the blissful embrace of sleep.

Ingrid sits on the edge of her lower bunk, suckingdown steady breaths and releasing them again in an attempt to soothethe nearly unbearable discomfort throbbing in her stomach. She’sbeen awake like this for hours.

No matter which way she twisted and rolled aroundon top of her scratchy green blanket, she just couldn’t find aposition that allowed her to nod off. “Boy, will I be gladwhen you’re out,” she softly chides her stomach, placing a hand on top of the swollen bump, “Can’t wait tosleep on my front again.”

It wouldn’t be long now, according to Oliver - a nurse who’d been pulled by one of themakers from the rubble of a collapsed doctors’ surgery near thecentre of town. He’d introduced himself to Ingrid as Nurse Bilssonwhen they first met and she’d almost collapsed against him, weepingwith relief.

Another sharp stab of pain has Ingrid pressing herlips together and curling inwards, fingers clawing at the thin cottonnightdress she’d been wearing when Ulthane found her.

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

She was about ready to pop when the brawny makerstumbled across her in the back of an Earthen automobile. The reardoor had been torn off its hinges and a white sycophant lay dead nextto the back wheel, several gaping bullet holes blown out of its rawboned skull.

Ulthane had been out since dawn, combing the surrounding vicinity for surviving humans and he wouldn’t have even spared the sinewycarcass a second glance if it hadn’t been for the series of wheezing gasps thatreached his sensitive ears.

Ducking down to peer through the door frame, themaker had locked gazes with a very frightened, very pregnant humanwoman.

Before he could even get a word in edgeways, she’draised her pistol and pulled the trigger.

Unfortunately - or rather, fortunately inthat instance - all of the chambers were empty, for she’d alreadyburied her only rounds in the sychophant’s head, though that didn’tmean Ulthane was out of the firing line.

Realising that her gun was dry, she’d elected topitch the whole thing at his face instead. The tiny, metalprojectile was swiftly followed by an impressive barrage consisting of ashoe, a road map that’d been stuffed into the back of the driver’sseat, a couple of CD cases and several copper coins she’d scoopedoff the floor.

It had taken all of these to be hurled at himbefore Ulthane managed to convince the woman that he wasn’t goingto hurt her, and even then she kept her tight grip on a can ofantifreeze, arm cocked back ready to launch.

The maker must have knelt beside that car andtalked her down for the better part of a full earth hour until atlast, she agreed to let him help her.

Starving, parched and dangerously sleepdeprived, she struggled out of that car and collapsed into hisimmense hands. Afterwards, they soon discovered that she was too weakto stand, let alone walk. So, with a little persuading,Ulthane coaxed the woman into letting him carry her back to the tree. The moment they arrived, it subsequently sent the other four humans he’d already rescuedinto an excitable frenzy, especially after she informed them that shewas due to have her baby about a week prior.

That had been three days ago, and her fellowhumans only grew increasingly anxious and protective with eachpassing hour. Ingrid was prepared for that. She was, after all, avery young mother to be, having only just turned nineteen in thespring.

She had not, however, been prepared for theoverbearing hyper-vigilance of the trio of makers that shared the Tree withthem.

———

The young woman’s fingers finally go slack onthe nightdress when, after several long, agonising moments, the achebegins to subside and she feels confident that she can move again.

Unfurling herself, Ingrid glares across the room,chewing pensively on her lower lip until at last, she huffs, “Sodit,” and shuffles forwards to slip her aching feet into a pair offlat pumps sitting on the floor next to her cot. Then, grabbing thenavy hoodie out from under her pillow, she awkwardly stuffs her arms inside it,pulls the zip up to her clavicle and heaves herself upright, paddingas softly as she can out of the alcove and off towards the first ropebridge.

Keeping a tight grip on the makeshift banister,Ingrid peers down into the main room, her eyes darting about to tryand spot the makers, preferably before they spot her andsend her straight back to bed.

It doesn’t take long before she finds Yoana.

The giant woman is sitting up against the far wall next to a lift platform with her face squashed into the wood and her mouth hanging openaround a series of rumbling snores. Halvor meanwhile, is currentlyresting his elbows over the oddly shaped mound of stone that standsat the far end of the chamber. Ulthane was very secretive about it,and refused to divulge any information beyond, ‘You’ll see,’or, ‘Don’t worry about it just yet.’

To the young woman’s relief, Halvor is facingthe back wall and the large rocks that have been lined up all the wayalong it. From this angle, he won’t see her unless he turns around, and she can’t quite make out what he’s doing, buthe definitely seems to be tinkering with something,grasping a tiny pritchel between his thumb and forefinger andknocking it carefully with a cross pein hammer.

Frowning, she drags her gaze off him and doesanother sweep of the room. So far, there’s no sign ofUlthane.

Holding her breath, Ingrid creeps down the trio ofbridges and onto the main floor, a difficult and lengthy task for a womanwho’s nine months pregnant and every so often, she throws a glanceover her shoulder to make sure that Halvor is still preoccupied andUlthane hasn’t suddenly appeared out of a shadowy corner of thetree.

Just as she reaches the arched entrance leadingoutside, a loud clang causes her to jump a mile and slap a hand overher mouth to capture the gasp that threatens to leap out. Whipping herhead around, she sees Halvor stooping to retrieve his dropped hammer,grumbling heatedly under his breath.

Heart still pounding, Ingrid lets out a softexhale and continues waddling down the sloping, wooden steps thatopen out onto an exterior plateau..

A cool gust of fresh wind brushes over her pastycheeks, offering her immediate respite from the stuffy warmth of themaker’s tree. From above, a full moon shines brightly down onto theruined city and leaves everything in sight cloaked in a silvery hue.Turning her face up to the sky, Ingrid sweeps a few strands of icyblonde hair off her sweaty forehead and sighs, allowing her eyes toslip shut.

“Lass?”

The squeak that leaves her throat would have beenmortifying if her hammering heart hadn’t given such a vicious buck anddistracted her from any embarrassment.

Snapping her gaze to the left, she finds herselfstaring up into the stern, rugged face of none other than Ulthane - the very maker she’d hoped to avoid.

He’s paused about twenty feet away, on thesloping incline which runs around the outside of the tree all the waydown to the ground in a series of twists, turns and dizzying spirals.One of his monstrous hands is wrapped around a burlap sack that looksas though it’s been stuffed with all manner of hard edged objects - most likely food - while the other appendage hangs at his side. Despite the darkness, Ingrid’seyes are instantly drawn to the unoccupied limb, to several, deep lacerations in the maker’sburly forearm. They glisten wetly and her mouth dries ever further.‘That’s blood!’

Just then, he moves, stomping closer andforcing her eyes off his wound as he clears his throat gruffly andfixes her with a steely glare. “An’ just what in stone’sname are you doin’ out here alone, missy? BelieveI told you to stay inside.”

To his dismay, the girl takes a nervous step backat his hard tone and he blinks, a hurt grimace flashing across hisfeatures. He can hardly blame her for a jittery reaction though. If he weretwelve feet shorter with skin a mere three millimetres thick, he’dprobably be wary too if a hammer-wielding giant appeared out of thedarkness of night and started admonishing him.

A puff of air blasts slowly out of his nostrilsand he wills his bushy eyebrows to unfurl. “Sorry,” herumbles, “S’just that you shouldn’t be out here byyerself.”

Having gotten over the brief shock of being caughtunawares, Ingrid gulps, clearing her throat to hesitantlystammer, “I-I just needed some fresh air!”

“Well, you got it.” The maker nods with aninarguable degree of finality and gestures towards the entrance with theback of his hand. “Now, on with you. Get back inside. Ain’tsafe out here for a wee’un.”

Gradually a defiant scowl darkens the human’seyes. This is why she’d been wanting to avoid him.

The other humans are perhaps overly watchful ofher, but they at least understand that too manyhelping hands can be frustrating, especially for someone who valuesher independence, and they know when to give herspace.

Yoana isn’t so much overbearing as she isinsatiably curious about Ingrid’s situation. She’s gentle but notin a way that makes the human feel as though she’s being treatedlike a porcelain doll. Halvor is guilty of that crime.

Ulthane however, is about ten times worse, andIngrid would be lying if she said there isn’t a part of her thatresents him for that.

Her father had been the same….

The young woman’s frustration only grows when another gutwrenching spike of pain lances across her stomach and she almostdoubles over, only managing to keep herself from doing so throughsheer force of will, instead sucking in a sharp breath through herteeth and grinding out, “I’ll go in….in a minute…Ijust want…to stretch my legs.” Once more, the pain slowly ebbsaway and her shoulders lose a majority of their tension.

The maker’s frown is back in place though itcarries a little more resignation than before. After a moment or two,he rolls his pale eyes up towards the moon and heaves out a petulantsigh, allowing her to catch sight of his daunting lower fangs. “F’youinsist.” And with that, he turns to the side and carefully drops hisburlap sack next to the wall by the entrance, then dusts off hishands and places them squarely on his hips. Ingrid draws her headback, surprised as he returns to stand next to her, looking down overthe city from the edge of the plateau. Realising that he won’t begoing back inside until she does, Ingrid’s jutting chin recedes andthe harsh curl of her lip softens into a gentle smirk.

“Huh. Overprotective much?” she snorts.

Surprise mingles with a slightly offended scoff asUlthane’s brows fly up his forehead. “Eh?” he nearly squawks, crossing his meaty arms, “M’not…overprotective!”

Ingrid’s narrow lips pull into a restrainedsmile. “Riiiight. And I’m not nine months pregnant.”

“Hmph!” The maker’s nostrils flare while hequickly tries to come up with a believable argument against her pointwhen, without warning, her face contorts into a look of pure agonyand a tortured cry erupts from her throat.

“Lass?” he barks urgently, unfolding his armsand turning to face her fully, “Ingrid!”

The tiny human begins to teeter backwards onunsteady legs.

For a being of his stature, Ulthane can moveshockingly fast when he needs to. In seconds, the maker lurchesforwards, dropping to one knee and darting a hand out just in time tocatch her before she takes a painful tumble onto the hard ground.

Her backside hits his rough palm and a quiet ‘off,’ rushes from her lips.

Trying not to let any trace of panic slip into histone, Ulthane brings his other hand up to hover uncertainly at herside. “Steady now, you alright there Lass?”

There’s a pang of abject horror when he realisesthat this could be….’it.’ But as he lifts his head to holler forthe others, Ingrid slaps her hand several times on the pad of hisforefinger, wheezing, “Down! Sit me…down!”

“Right, right. Hang on.”

Hand trembling slightly with the effort to be asslow and gentle as he can, the gruff maker lowers his palm to theground and begins to slide it out from underneath her frail body, hisfingers brushing up her spine so he can guide her down until she’slaying against the floor of the wooden plateau, propping herself up on shakyelbows.

It isn’t the most comfortable position in theworld, but it beats standing right now. “Argh! That one…took meby surprise!” she winces, snapping her teeth together and letting aslow hiss seep out from between them.

Meanwhile, Ulthane is still knelt over her, hismassive frame blotting out most of the stars. “Er…Is it - ….”He trails off and lets an apprehensive finger tap on the ground nextto her foot.

“No, no. I don’t think so,” she croaks, “but– uh – I think it might be soon.” In that moment, she looks sosmall and scared down there on the tree bark that Ulthane’s instinctstry to surge forth into a protective frenzy, yet he shoves themharshly away to the back of his mind. The last thing he wants is tofrighten the girl even more by getting agitated himself.

Muscles twitching, he tries to calm his ownfraught nerves by taking in a deep inhale through his broad, flatnose and then blowing it out again, ruffling the hem of Ingrid’sflimsy night gown. It works, somewhat, so he slouches forwards torest on the knuckles of his injured hand, planting them right beside her while theother arm drapes itself over his bent knee.

Licking her dry lips, Ingrid’s eyes trail over tothe giant’s wound. ’Within touching distance,’ she realises absently.Without really thinking too hard on it, she waits until the hurtbecomes a tad more bearable before shifting her weight onto one elbowand raising a hand towards the deep gouges.

Ulthane flinches when her fingers gently brushagainst his skin, just under the lowest wound. He soon relaxes though, holding back a contented sigh as the tiny digits stroke up and down his forearm. It’s the gentlest he’s been touched in a millennia.

“You…you got hurt,” she points outneedlessly, dragging her gaze up to the maker’s pale, blue eyes, “Are you okay?”

Surprised, he looks down at his arm and blinks atit, as though he’d only now remembered the cuts were even there at all. “Oh, would youlook at that,” he murmurs casually, “For all about it for asecond.”

“What happened?”

Pursing his lips, Ulthane tilts his head to watchas she scratches at a trail of dried blood that had oozed its waydown to the start of his second knuckle. “Ah, just me bein’ daft,”he explains, “Stuck my nose in a Stalker’s nest n’ the bloody thinghad me!”

Ingrid’s eyes grow wide as saucers and she asks, “Weren’t youscared?”

“Scared?!” Brusquely, he scoffs and jabs athumb into his chest. “Takes more than one o’ them overgrownpussy cats to rattle the Black Hammer.”

An awed hum from the human causes Ulthane’s chestto swell with pride, only to deflate again seconds later when herface falls, brows knitting hesitantly across her forehead and shepulls the hand from his own to place it over her belly instead.

“I wish I was half as brave as you,”

“You seem to be plenty brave enough to me,” hemutters softly.

She glances away from the sincere look he’s tryingto lock her into and instead, studies the long blades of grassswaying back and forth in the whistling breeze.

“Ulthane, I’m about to have a baby in a tree.I’ve got to feed it, raise it, take care of it and I haven’t even decided on a name yet! Plus, we’ve only gottwo packs of nappies, for chrissakes!”

She’s becoming frantic. Herchest rises and falls in a way that reminds him of a frightened birdor a tiny mouse. She digs her fingernails into the bark underneathher hands with such fervour, the maker clicks his tongue and shakeshis head, reaching down to pinch her wrist between thumb andforefinger and gently prying it up off the wood.

Ingrid’s gaze snaps back up to him and his chesttightens at the sight of a fresh bout of tears spilling out over therim of her eyelids.

Stonefather knows Ulthane hasn’t got the firstclue how to comfort. He can protect, advise, entertain – he canmake some of the humans laugh without even realising he’s being funny– but he’d never been much good at consoling people.

Now however, meeting the crestfallen and utterlydesolate stare of a young human in the most vulnerable position ofher life, any concerns he might have had about saying or doing thewrong thing are banished.

It’s an odd, though not unpleasantsensation to feel needed - something he’s used to but never to this scale.The makers he left behind in the Forge Lands had needed him, to anextent. They, however, could take care of themselves when he wasn’taround. The twins, Alya and Valus, relied upon him to teach them thebasics of smithing, but soon enough, they might surpass even him. Muriasometimes required his help in finding components for her talismansand potions, although if he wasn’t around, she’d simply askhis brother, Thane.

But these humans….Ulthane has never been reliedupon so completely before. Briefly, he wonders if this is how Halvorhad felt the first time he held his boy. His heart goes out to the other maker. Part of the reason he was guarding of Ingrid was because it was only a few centuries ago that he’d lost both his partner and his young one to a hideous monstrosity of stone and molten lava, a beast that called itself ‘Ghorn.’

Ulthane’s ears tilt down and with a tenderness to rivalthe soft-hearted Muria’s, he closes his fingers around the wholeof Ingrid’s forearm, engulfing the trembling limb in a warm, loosefist. “Easy now…” His thrumming bass sends soothing vibrationsthrough her chest and she swallows noisily.

The hand that had rested over his knee reachestowards the woman’s face and exerts a tremendous amount of care tobrush the very tip of a thumb across the delicate skin under her eye,sweeping away a glistening tear.

Mouth agape, the human watches him, her bottom lipquivering. In the three or so days she’d known him, she’d never seenthe usually rough and tumble maker behave so tenderly.

It was….striking.

“There now,” he hums, pulling away and liftingthe corner of his mouth in a hesitant grin, “None o’ that. You knowI can hardly stand seein’ another maker cry, never mind ahuman.”

“S-sorry,” she sniffs, following his lead andwiping a few fingers across her cheeks, “Sorry, I’m just-”Another few tears immediately replace the ones she’d just swept away.“-I’m just really, like really scared.”

“Stone’s blood, m'not surprised!” he exclaims,“I sure as hell couldn’t do what yer doin’.” Thinking for a second, he pauses toflash her a wink and smile. “Don’t got the workin’ parts fer onething.”

That at least pulled the tiniest laugh out of her.

‘Success!’

“If you’re trying to make me feelbetter…..It’s working,” she croaks, adding, “A little.”

“Little’s better than nothin’,” he tells hermatter-of-factly.

Her smile widens for a few moments before sheexpels a hot breath and it droops once again along with her head.

A relatively peaceful hush settles on the plateau,permeated only by the low, rumbling creaks and moans of the titanictree branches all around them.

Before too long, Ulthane absently starts to fidgetwith his injury, poking one of the lacerations and pulling a facewhen his finger comes away wet and sticky. Ideally, the cuts would need to be dressed, if only tostop the others from fussing.

However, the only bandages and gauze they had wasstrictly reserved for the humans, much to the little creatures’ chagrin.

Angels, demons and most other species had dubbedhumanity a selfish lot. However, so far, Ulthane hasn’t found muchevidence to support the claims.

He, Yoana and Halvor had been highly taken abackto discover that the humans would tirelessly try to share everythingthey had, not just among each other, but with the makers as well. Itdidn’t matter how little they had, whether one day there was onlyhalf a bottle of water between all five of them, or a single tin of baked beans, they seemed driven to share it with their giant guardians –even after learning that they had absolutely no desire nor any needto eat and drink.

It wasn’t just consumables either. Medicalequipment, ammunition and painkillers were also offered, only to bepromptly turned down.

Even Ingrid, who really ought to have been eatingfor two, will often decline extra food simply because she can’t bear theidea that she should get a little more than the others.

It took Halvor and Oliver to remind her thatif she didn’t eat more, then both she and the baby would be toomalnourished to survive for long in the dilapidated city. It worked and she listened for a time, though Ulthane would still catch her trying to convince Yoana to take a portion of her rations.

The other two makers are continuously humbled bythe unexpected generosity.

For Ulthane, it’s suffocating.

He can feel it now, that globular lump in histhroat that bobs every time he swallows, brought on because Ingrid isabout to have a baby, but she put her hand on his arm, peered up athim with nothing short of unequivocal worry and asked if he wasalright.

An ugly sensation, cold and dark as a winter skycurls itself around his rueful heart. It’s an ache that’s become as familiar to him now as his own voice. Guilt.

Eyes harder than stone, Ulthane glaresunblinkingly at a building across the way, spiralling further andfurther down into an ever-widening pit of self reproach.

All of a sudden, he’s broken from his thoughts bya small whisper, barely louder than the rustling of a million leavesoverhead. “I wish Adrian was here.”

Turning back to face her, the maker jolts to findthat she’s somehow shuffled on her rump over to the tree trunk and iscurrently attempting to use the jagged wood as leverage to pullherself upright.

Ulthane is on his feet within moments. He closesthe distance in two, heavy strides and bends down to wordlessly offerher his hand. Although she looks ready to shove it away, she musthave decided that arguing requires more energy than she has, so shemerely huffs and places a dainty digit on his upturned forefinger,allowing him to lift her easily off the ground.

“Adrian?” he grumbles, withdrawing andstepping back so she isn’t crowded against the bark.

“My boyfrie-…Well, actually, he’s noteven my boyfriend. Just a guy I went to university with.” Turningaround to lean her back against the tree, she pants and twists herface into a pained grimace. “We, uh, we shared a house in– hnng! - in thirdyear! We w-went out clubbing together one night and – Hoo!Let me tell you, I’m never having another jägermeisterfor as long as I live!”

It’s impossible for the maker to ignore her puffed breaths and tight voice. “Say, are you -?”

“Fine,I’m fine!” she tries to laugh but it comes out as more of a wheeze.

Ulthane’s forehead puckers into a deep frown andhe opens his mouth to relay his skepticism. However, before he canget a word out, the young woman suddenly gasps, her shaking legslocking beneath her for a moment. Even in the pale moonlight, henotices that her once ashen skin is flushing bright crimson. Shechanges colour so rapidly, it alarms the maker to no end but as hereaches down for her, she loops an arm around her belly and shiesaway from him, a look in her eye that’s equal parts terrified andhumiliated. “Uh..Ulthane?” she quakes, “I – I don’t want toworry you, but-”

Blood screams in the maker’s ears as they give thetiniest flick upwards, his steady heartbeat bucking wildly andspeeding up with every booming thump against his ribcage.

Ingrid’s tone is deceptively calm, a completecontrast to the voice of panic shrieking relentlessly in her head.Embarrassed that it had to happen in front of Ulthane, not oneher fellow humans, she sucks in a convulsing breath and hold’s hisstalwart gaze, bracing herself for what will undoubtedly be aseverely difficult few hours. “- but I think my water just broke.”

#darksiders #darksiders 3 #ulthane #pregnancy #fluff #overprotective #makers #humans #haven

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hardyimagines · 6 years

Text

NSFW Alphabet, Reggie Kray

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A/N: So I went through again and did my own words for each letter, but then I also did the original 26, so you get 52 again!!

Warnings!!: smut talk, sex, nsfw, don’t read if you’ll get uncomfortable!!

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A is for Aftercare: Reggie is the type of man to hold you after sex. He’s not exactly the most affectionate man in the world, but he doesn’t make it his mission to hide his feelings. He’s faithful. One of the most loyal men you’ll ever meet, so once he makes it known that you’re what he’s interested in, you’ll keep his interest. The moments after sex are spent allowing him to inspect you for any accidental marks. There never are any to find, but he looks anyways. His hair, usually slicked back in place, is now messy, hanging in front of his eyes. His voice is always croaky and low when he talks. After grunting for a while, his voice is bound to sound husky. “Fucking hell.” Is what he’d mutter if he ever found a simple scratch on your skin caused by him. He’s the type of man to run his fingers lazily along your arm, caressing every inch of your skin as he speaks lowly against your ear, reminding you that he cares deeply about you. Though he doesn’t put it bluntly.

B is for BDSM: Reggie actually isn’t too kinky. He has kinks, but it doesn’t involve objects. Nothing but your body and his body, tangled together, a sweaty pile of limbs, rocking as one. He doesn’t need a blindfold or restraints in order to please himself or you. He’s strong enough to pin your wrists against the pillows and hold you in place if need be.

C is for Consent: ( ignoring what happened in the movie!! ) CONSENT. Reggie Kray doesn’t need a ‘yes’ in order to know he’s doing a good job. He can tell as your eyes droop shut and your moans fill the air that you are, in fact, enjoying what he’s doing to you. The way you tug him closer and thrust your hips as desperately toward his own as he is tells him all he needs to know.

D is for Dom: He is more than dominant. He doesn’t have a submissive bone in his body. He would never give you the upper hand, not unless his body was no longer capable of functioning properly and you needed to be on top because you were the only one able to properly ride him. You wanted to do that often, straddle his hips and ride the shit out of him, but he didn’t let it happen often. He felt at a loss when he was on the bottom. It felt amazing and you definitely knew what you were doing. His forehead creased deeper than usual and the soft moans he let loose made you cum within seconds. He looked like he was in pain, but that was just his expression when he was blissed out. God, he was beautiful.

E is for Exhibitionism: Yes. Yes. Yes. And yes. Everyday, all day. He doesn’t care who’s watching.

F is for Face-fucking: He’s a mouthful, but the more you try, the better you do the next time. You love to lay down on the mattress and let him thrust himself into your ‘pretty little mouth’, as he referred to it. He grumbled every time about how beautiful you looked, his voice deep and lust-filled, as he sunk his hips forward, rocking so that each time his tip his the back of your throat. You loved a challenge and he loved giving you one. Most times he’d hunch over and trace your slit with two of his fingers while you pleasured him. You’d feel his thighs shake sometimes in enjoyment when he could no longer stand so you’d sit up and yank him down, taking over quickly so you could straddle him and finish him off. He always came in your mouth and you swallowed it down easily.

G is for Grunting and Grinding: Reggie likes to have you sit on his lap no matter what, but every time he pats his inner thigh and looks at you with a commanding look, he doesn’t think about the initiative it gives you. You sit directly on his crotch every time, ensuring that with every single movement, no matter how slight, you put pressure on his cock. You fidget until there’s a bulge situated beneath you and all he can do is grunt helplessly. Nobody ever picks up on it surprisingly, but because you’re not rocking steadily and instead you’re just shifting, it never fully grabs their attention. You, sometimes, would reach down between your legs and drag his cock out of his slacks just so you could stroke and tease him further. He hated it. He hated how much he enjoyed being left at your mercy. You’d traced his tip only, rubbing it soothingly and lazily and he’d been an angry mess at the end. When he climaxed, he disguised it with angry grunts and had moaned on unhappily about some business. He hadnt made much sense, but you knew he was just trying to avoid whimpering as you tucked his dick away.

H is for hickeys: Hickeys are like tattoos when it comes to Reggie Kray. Since seeing him, you haven’t gone a day without a purple love bite.

I is for instructions: He is very demanding but he’s pleading as well. He wants you to listen, to be submissive, but he wants you to speak your mind and tell him what you want as well. It’s never an issue. Sometimes you think he’s a mind-reader. He’s too good at what he does. He knows exactly where to touch you.

J is for Jack off: Reggie isn’t exactly the type to stand around in his bedroom and rub himself until he orgasms. He’s patient enough to distract himself with business and work that needs to be completed until he can see you. Now, when he’s in front of you and you’re feeling a little risky, you can ask him to touch himself, but rarely will he comply.

K is for Kiss: Reggie likes to take handfuls of your hair and hold you in place while he kisses you. His kisses are deep and passionate and you always feel light-headed when he’s done. His tongue is curious as it sweeps the inside of your mouth, searching curiously for things that make you moan. Reggie will shove you up against the wall and kiss you roughly when he misses you. Being deprived of you seems to bring out his more desperate and rough side.

L is for Libido: 24/7 he’s ready to have his dick ridden. Plop yourself down if he’s asleep and he will wake up cumming. He’s always ready for you. He doesn’t need the sex, but he likes and will take it.

M is for Make-up Sex: Every fight consists of shouting, tears, and savage comments. Reggie doesn’t think when he’s mad. Whatever he thinks, he says. He’s verbally abusive and he doesn’t mean to be, but god he knows how to make up for it. Every rude comment he made, he apologizes for with his thrusts. Every jab and insult he spewed is forgiven when his tongue moves against yours. The bed creaks so loudly beneath the joined weight, revealing just how quickly he’s hammering himself into you. You’re always so forgiving after he’s fucked you, but why shouldn’t you be.

N is for NO: Reggie doesn’t tolerate sharing. He’s very possessive, so if you ever thought about maybe having a threesome or something along those lines, I’d think again. Reggie is liable to murder anyone who even looks at you with a glint of attraction in their gaze.

O is for Oral: As selfish as it sounds, he is more of a giver than a receiver. He doesn’t mind eating you out, but it just happens that he ends up receiving head more often than not. You have no issues with it. You feel blushy and shy when he’s buried between your legs. He’s very good with his fingers and even better with his tongue, but you never ask him to do it. You let him offer. He tries to offer weekly, but sometimes he misses the chance. You somehow make it a priority to give him head. Either before or after a full round of penetrative sex. If you give him head, he doesn’t let himself touch you. He’s afraid he’ll accidentally rupture your esophagus or choke you to death, so he grips on to the bedding instead. Involuntary bucks are always a bit of a dilemma because they’re so unexpected you start coughing. You can hear the worry in his voice before he even has a chance to speak, so you resume with what you’re doing before he asks. You were always alright and even when you weren’t, you were.

P is for Pregnant: Reggie doesn’t want to be a dad. Growing up, he never wanted to be a dad. It would be his fault though if a child was created and he isn’t an asshole so he would take that responsibility. He’s very cautious though, so that’s at least five months without sex. He doesn’t want to take that risk. Having a baby with you means dedicating himself to you. It would bound him to you forever, permanently and he would have zero complaints. He loves you, he just isn’t sure how to say it. Not unless you say it first.

Q is for Questioning: Reggie has a difficult time speaking during sex. His brows are typically furrowed and his eyes are drooped shut. You can tell with the different sounds he lets out what they mean though. Short grunts are from his thrusts. Low, drawn out moans are when he’s close to orgasming. Loud, lengthy, hisses means something feels extremely good. When he opens his eyes and lets out little grunts with a raise of brows, you know he’s asking if he’s making you feel good. It’s obvious he is. You can never reply. Your body is always so squirmy beneath his own, desperate for that release that seems to be dancing around endlessly, waiting to be caught. Reggie speaks more with his expressions than he does with words and lucky for you, you understand each one.

R is for Road-sex: Passenger or Driver, Road sex is a yes. He doesn’t care if you want to suck him off or sit in his lap and ride him. There’s always a risk he could crash the car, especially because when he orgasms, he tilts his head black and shuts his eyes, but it’s a risk he’s willing to take. The streets in London are always crowded anyway, so he’s not moving that fast. That’s what he uses as an excuse when mates of his ask why he had you situated on his thighs. You could stare there forever, not even doing anything sexual. He’d let you too. He enjoys the feel of having you propped up on his lap proudly.

S is for Safety: He doesn’t usually use a condom, but it would be wise since he doesn’t pull out. A part of him stubbornly and naively thinks that getting you pregnant is a slim chance, but it’s a chance he’s willing to take so he will accept the outcome. If Ron told Reggie he wasn’t using condoms though, Reggie would call him fucking stupid and ask if he had his head on right.

T is for Teasing: 40% expect to be teased. Teasing you, teases him and he doesn’t function well under that sort of pressure.

U is for Undressing: He enjoys the assistance when undressing, but if you want to help out, make it snappy and quick. He doesn’t want to take his time and be slow about it. Only you can do that. He enjoys strip teases so he likes it when you take your time. He, on the other hand, doesn’t do strip teases. Never has and never will.

V is for Virginity: Reggie doesn’t feel pressured when told you’re a virgin. He feels trusted. He feels as if that alone proves your loyalty to him. You would let him, a seemingly violent criminal, be your first. He’s gentle. He takes his time. There’s no need to rush in the first place and he knew if he did, he’d hurt you. Reggie Kray is capable of being a softie, but that’s a severe rarity for most to see.

W is for Words: He’s vulgar. His brother is worse, but he is definitely vulgar. It’s heavenly. Dirty talk has never sounded so good. He could be absolute shit at it, but his voice and his accent make the words sound so sexy, you can’t help but be turned on by it, even if some of it’s nonsense. He gets really into it, telling you how hard he’s going to fuck you.

X is for X-Rated: Reggie isn’t necessarily X-Rated. He doesn’t do anything to you that isn’t considered normal. He’s experimental and would try anything you asked him too.. apart from sharing you. He would be classified 18+, but still tread with caution.

Y is for YES: Middle of the night sex. If the man ever wakes up and his shifting wakes you as well, then the two of you will end up having sex. Little kisses that start out innocent and limbs wounding around each other so you can sleep closer to one another eventually turns to a playful grind and then a teasing thrust from him. That’s enough for the both of you to simultaneously start tugging at one another, ready to screw until either the sun comes up or one of you tires out. Typically one round makes you both exhausted and you go back to sleep, so middle of the night sex is always a good thing.

Z is for ZZZ: Before climbing into bed, or getting comfortable in bed, Reggie always brings you down the hall so the pair of you can have a nice, hot bath. He always insists that you have one, after using the restroom to avoid infection, because that way you’ll feel much better and sleepier. You always insist that he join you and he never says no to you and if he ever did, he would never mean it. Hot bubble baths and quiet cuddles are the perfect way to relax before the pair of you, droopy-eyed and ready to give yourself over to oblivion, climb into bed and snuggle up. You would’ve never pegged Reggie Kray as a cuddler when you first met him, but he makes time for it. Work was meant to come first, but that was before he met you.

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List below was made by someone else!! But it’s the preferred and mostly used list so I did this one as well! I put a line through the ones that were the same up there ^^ as they were down below!

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PART2

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B is for Body Part: Reggie’s favorite body part is definitely your lips. The way they slant so perfectly against his own. His are full and occasionally chapped. When they’re not spewing curse words and insults at people, their locked in an eager battle against your own, tongues familiarizing themselves with the other in a very routine and practiced dance. Reggie loves kissing.

C is for Cum: He will always come inside you. There is no pulling out. He wants to feel the entirety of you, wrapped around him until his climax has ended and he’s completely drained of all energy. Even after he’s finished, and you have as well, he remains inside you, ignoring the lazy twitch of his cock and the clenching of your walls. He just wants to stay like that a while and relish in the closeness.

D is for Dirty Secret: The man’s weakness is the color red. Seeing you wear it means an instant hard-on. He doesn’t admit that to anyone but himself, but it’s the most breathtaking thing to him. Red lipstick. Red lingerie. Red heels. The lot of it sends him into a lusty, uncontrollable rampage. He thrives for sex during those times, but he, for the most part, can control himself.

E is for Experienced: Reggie is very experienced. He’s had his fair share of woman. Working in a club gave him that opportunity, but he doesnt base his attraction to someone on how experienced or good in bed they are. People can improve over time and he’s more than willing to teach. He’s very good in bed though and very faithful, so once your known as Reggie Kray’s girl, you’re his and he’s yours.

F is for Favorite Position: Reggie likes missionary. There’s nothing as sweet as feeling your breasts rub against his chest and your bellies pressed together as he fills you fully. It gives him access to kiss your neck and beautiful lips. He kisses you until your mouth is swollen and your neck is stained with hickeys. It also gives him the advantage of eye contact so when he groans out about how good it feels to be inside you, he can see the color in your cheeks appear.

G is for Goofy: Reggie is usually very serious, but he tries to ease up in the bedroom. Sex is meant to be enjoyable, so he tries his best to laugh or draw a laugh from you at least once. It usually works. But laughter always fades to heavy moans and please. That’s never a bad thing.

H is for Hair: Reggie doesn’t have a tendency to pull anyone’s hair. His favorite thing to grip is a woman’s thighs. He loves to bend their legs back above their head to give him a deeper angle, but if it hurts you then he just holds your hips. His thrusts are almost bruising and he always leaves your thighs aching and red from how quickly he was pounding into you. You don’t complain. It’s expected from both Kray’s. Your hair is left untouched unless he’s making love to you and merely brushed your strands away from your lips so he can kiss you.

I is for Intimacy: Reggie is very intimate. He is capable of making love for several rounds. He likes going hard and rough because being overpowering leaves him feeling like the Dom he wants to constantly be, but when he takes it slow and let’s himself be as gentle as he wants, he feels like a different man completely. He doesn’t seem like a gangster, he’s no longer a criminal. He’s just Reggie Kray, the man who owns a club. And apparently your heart. But since you gave him yours, he gave you his.

J is for Jack Off: Reggie isn’t exactly the type to stand around in his bedroom and rub himself until he orgasms. He’s patient enough to distract himself with business and work that needs to be completed until he can see you. Now, when he’s in front of you and you’re feeling a little risky, you can ask him to touch himself, but rarely will he comply.

K is for Kink: Reggie is very possessive. He doesn’t like inflicting pain, but he loves claiming and marking his lovers. He presses his fully lips against every inch of your skin so he can worship your body in the way it deserves to be worshipped. You may be stained with purple hickeys that are slightly sore, but the way you received them felt so good. You’re always begging for Reggie to remind you that you’re his and he is very very willing.

L is for Location: Reggie loves fucking in public. He loves especially when he’s having business meetings and you tag along because he will finger-fuck you under the table until you have no choice but to bury your face in your arms as you orgasm in front of all his business associates. Nobody ever says anything, whether they’re aware of what’s taking place or not. He’ll bang you in the backseat of the car or on an alcohol-smothered table in the club. He loves having sex in private, but being in public, knowing someone could walk in and catch the pair of you and see that you’re all his and only his, that excites him more than he cares to admit.

M is for Motivation: One thing Reggie enjoys most is when you grab ahold of his tie and drag him down and on top of you. He either can’t remove his clothes quickly enough so he ends up fucking you fully-clothed or he ends up ripping every button off of his shirt and the button on the front of his slacks in order to get naked quickly enough. Your sounds urge him on, but when you force him down and on top of you, that lets him know you need him.

P is for Pace: Reggie takes his time when he can. When making love, he treats it like he has all the time in the world and really, he does. When he’s going slow, his knelt between your thighs, holding your knees securely open as he fills you with a slow, but deep thrust. He typically is slow with you, but you can be slow and thrust hard which he tends to do. He’s caring, but he’s not asking 24/7 if he’s hurting you. He knows you’ll speak up if he accidentally were to.

Q is for Quickie: Quickies are okay. He doesn’t need them because he feels rushed, but he likes a good fuck, so he won’t say no to your hurriedness. Quickies usually take place in a bathroom for him, pinning you on the sink counter or against a locked stall. People come and go as they please, oblivious to the gangster fucking his girlfriend in the restroom directly beside their own.

R is for Risk: Reggie is a risk taker. He will press you up against the inside of the bar and fuck you while he serves drinks to thirsty customers. Nobody can tell what’s happening in the dim room, from what they can see, Reggie’s just standing very close to you. Little do they know he’s filling you completely, thrusting his hips each time he knows nobody is looking. If that’s not risky, what is?

S is for Stamina: The only time he gets tired out is after a long day of work. One round is enough for him, but on a weekend or a day of slow business, he can go for hours on end. It depends on how horny he is and how desperate.

T is for Toy: Reggie is your toy. He doesn’t need assistance from anything or anyone else.

U is for Unfair: The man doesn’t tease too much. But he does love to watch you squirm. He has a habit of playing with your clit. Maybe it’s because the nub is fun to touch or maybe it’s because listening to you whine about how you need more than just a poke and a rub is satisfying. He knows exactly where to touch you and for how long he can touch you until you cum. He never lets you and when you try to reach between your legs to finish yourself off, he pries your hands away, tutting in disapproval at your impatience.

V is for Volume: Reggie’s loud. As loud as Ron. Sometimes when Reggie is out late and Ron is the only one home, banging whoever he’d decided to bring home, you can’t tell the difference in his grunts and Reggie’s. Reggie is so breathy and harsh with his noises. They’re deep and low and they vibrate against your lips when the man kisses you. He also enjoys a vocal woman so when he tells you to cry out or to yell his name, you do it instantly.

W is for Wild Card: Reggie likes submissives. Reggie likes submissives. Reggie likes submissives. Talk out of turn to anyone else, be a brat, bitch, or asshole to anybody you want, but when you’re in the bedroom, sprawled out beneath him, he expects you to obey him, but also wants you to want to please him. And boy do you.

X is for X-ray: Reggie Kray has a nice, big cock. It’s a mouthful. Attempting to give him head will, nine times out of ten, result in gagging and moaning at the difficulty. Pleasing him is something you ache to do, but that’s a bit hard to do at times.

Y is for Yearning: Reggie’s only craving consists of kisses and power. He may need you at times, but it’s not always physical. There’s more to a relationship besides just the fucking, but he enjoys that part so he does let it be known he’d like a good fuck each week. You want it at least every two days, so it works out quite well for the both of you.

—————————————————————

I hope you enjoyed! I am working on Bronson now!!!

SORRY FOR TYPOS!! ILL PROOF READ IN THE MORNING.

Tagged: @thatsamegirl @peakyhoegh @ihclipse @callisen @hardygal69 @centerhabit @favouritereadings @goodiesintheclosetlove @buckypetal15 @kitcatimpala67 @captstefanbrandt @meer0rauschen @crldrr @jamierdr @emerald-bijou @lunavegasverse @jakechillenhaal

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determined-magi · 5 years

Text

Perhaps they might or might not have made a mistake.

The servants and messegers of the gods are quick to change focus on their enemies, taking priority upon the fiends that were quickly tearing their numbers. Weapons target and attack towards their beings to no avail, strike after strike proven futile as they deflect, and even bite at them as if they were at most like ice pieces to chew on. One by one they are quick to fall, diminishing all confidence and hope for survival of their enemies, who had taken to try pointlessly to appeal to what humanity these things had left.

They don’t have much time to do anything either.

The seven had managed to get their scent, and have pinpointed them, the drakes open their maws and a chilling hissing sound is being to be heard across the field, louder, harder than the one of their inhuman allies. Something begins to charge and sizzle in the air as the trio arches their head back, before letting at the same time three beams of light. The path done by them not only does break further into long rifts towards the same place, but they also burst with violent energy... the ones closest obliterated easily as they let yet another bellowing roar towards them.

The seven don’t take any delay into warping their distance, and the divinities soon find themselve having to dodge their sharp claws as they narrowly avoid the snap of their maws inches to their faces. Before opening once more to try and blast them away once more...

To their luck, their weapons stand still, althought they show a subtle yet visible sign of being scrapped appart... as if one had used sandpaper to scratch more than just the polished surface. They hiss, even if they had protected themselves the blast still sent them a good distance away, and the subsecuent explosion charred part of the clothing and leather works beneath the plating. The sire of fates shakes their head, no matter, they may have the power... but their minds are to stunted from it all, it will hardly be of much use. If they have to smite them unto submission like a bunch of unruly dogs then so be it, they will hit them as hard as needed and bring-...

They dodge another attack, this time however morph their sword into a hammer, rising and smashing the beast’s head hard unto the ground. The mage yelps, before almost instantly recovering and nearly bitting away weapon and hand. A secondary head molds into one of the males black vessel as it opens its maw, once again readying another blast... this time quicker. Hardly does the god have time to reach for their shield, but they manage enough in time to cover most of the damange. Their legs meet the brunt however, and the grunt in pain as searing pain takes to them. They try jump back the distance, but soon finds themselves grabbed by their armor and struck to the ground.

Dazed still, they kick the pinning mage up in the air, before warping their own code away to recover both posture and distance. But little time is given before they have to use their shield to defend themself...

This time the shield doesn’t last a single hit.

claws tear the surface as if the divine object was but fresh clay, almost cutting it into pieces. The god curses, before knocking them back by hitting the other and shattering it finally. They take a glance towards the other divinities present. The keeper of history herself seems to have issues too, as she finds herself trapped with a pair. She however seems to have landed a few more hits than him... as they can see both bleeding from gashes done to their chests and one to their face. However she seems to be losing ground even with the incoming reinforcements.

The weapon shifts again, and slashes upon shadow and flesh. Getting a satisfactory roar of pain from the mage as it recoils away. Much like the others, their blood had taken to a white glow, though upon contact with anything it turns black and hisses... staining whatever surface with a black far too dark to be made naturally. The mage’s shroud coughs some more from his mouth, clutching their glowing wound with a greed worthy of the most foul of drakes unwilling to part their hoard. Snarling as they circle around the god, the wound begins to... meld? No... shrink? How are they doing that, they shouldn’t know how to... fuck!-

The god uses their sword to deflect the claws, losing part of the tip as it is cut away, that was cheating! That had to be cheating! They ready a blast towards the mage, then shot at it, missing first, but quickly managing to shot one anew when the creature gets close enough to be unable to be dodged. And is sent back. The god smirks, they can see the shroud is losing its consistency again. they ready another, stronger. They may hold not more than they had thought, but they still were mages and humans weren’t they? Their body still had limits despite all that was offered by their bloodline. They shoot at it again.

And the mage catches it in his jaws.

the strenght has them dragged back, with nails clawing black tears to the world’s fabric as they slowly get back on their feel, still fighting the long divine onslaught as slowly they begin to walk towards him.

The god gets distracted, as another of their members tries to ambush, clever mut. Thankfully another divine member tackles them away. However the time is enough to have granted the horned drake to mage to close in, which with said horns is quick to attempt to impale them. They grasp at it, such a brute and rustic fiend these ones could be, what a waste of potential. Ah but this was usefull anyways, a smarter dog would try to and learn how to leave its bindings. the mage’s claw bury deep into the god’s arms, ignoring armor and enchanments. And it grunts once more, before forming a second pair of arms to do the same. The mage lets another roar as his arms are pulled away painfuly through gripped bones, but it continues to push foward, and so he begins to drag the god, who begins to loose its grip as the tips inch closer to his armor, then dent it... then push a hole...

Then follows the sting of them burrying into their flesh, and they nearly choke on the pain, a thing was a quick wound, but a slow growing one, pushing and damanging organs? That was unpleasant, and it was certainly a kind of damange they did not enjoy taking again. One they are quick to stop, as they pull to the sides his horns. Until a sickening organic sound gives way to their breaking point.

And the mage recoils a good distance, howling and screeching an ungodly noise, familiar, one the god somewhat heard a while ago. A disgraced divine trumpet that could signal the end times, satisfactory and truly enjoyable. The beastly shroud clutches at its bleeding head as it writhes side to side. Tail snapping towards all places and causing more cracks to form, as well as horns.

The one that would be cousing or brother comes quick to his aid, leaving its aid towards the Judge to help its equal in nature. As it should. The mage’s roar thunders the air with a disharmonious horn-like sound as he lunges towards the god of fate. Before backing to the other horned mage onces he’s pushed them back enough. Agarwaenor roars, instinctually on the defensive as the wounded beast he’s become in mind, before shaking its head and lowering it, a whistle like sound leaving his throat as the other growls and hisses in return. Pressing snout and head together as the prince tries to use magi to heal them, it seems to work somewhar, but the size only goes halfway the one it used to have. A curious thing... both int he display for the smallest of moments... one would think such weren’t to be anymore in their clouded minds... but then... their magic has begun to behave quite differently, perhaps... hm.

And what was it with such a reaction, one would think the loss of only horns would not bring such pain, specially since it was just the helm’s and shroud’s horns...

Unless the shroud was more than it let on.

Either way, the god curses. He had the luck so far of only fighting one at the time, and now he had the attention of the pair of Ending and Beginning...

He turns around, the others are not doing as well either, even if they grouped against them, the other five members were faring rather well now against the other gods. He could even see them starting to get more bold... reckless, even if it hurt them... and part of him was starting to notice they seemed to even start to ignore the pain, even if the wounds were deep...

They were getting a hang on this rather quickly, the god realises... that wasn’t good.

If they were doing so at this rate, with only minutes of experience, they might need to call back and retreat and call more aid from the others...

#|ic|#|carpe fatum|#|chrono-post|#[ I kind of feel sad for agar #that must hurt a lot]#[also the fight keeeps going]

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xxx-cat-xxx · 6 years

Text

Lights and Sounds

Happy 4th of July to all my US followers! I´ve read a bunch of great Tony vs. migraine stories recently and got inspired. Featuring Peter, Happy and Pepper. Tags for lots of pain, some emeto and a tiny bit anxiety.

“Kaboom!” Peter shouts after punching Tony hard into the ribs. “You didn´t see that coming, Mr Stark, did you?”

As a matter of fact, Tony didn´t, and that is part of the problem. The aura that has been obstructing his field of vision since the morning has spread to conceal most of what´s on his left in a white haze, and Peter´s fist has caught him completely off guard. Tony groans tiredly, resisting the urge to cover his aching eyes with a boxing glove.

“Could you stop accompanying each of your actions with graphic comic book expressions, that would be marvellous.” he spits into the kid´s direction.

Peter frowns at him. “Mr Stark, are you al-” but Tony silences him with an unexpected right hook that leaves both of them reeling.

He´d worked on his repulsor upgrades till three in the morning after sending the kid off to bed in the upstate Avengers facility where they are spending the weekend. Then he´d fallen asleep at his work bench just to wake up four hours later to a stiff neck and a pounding headache.

He´d skipped breakfast in favour of a hot shower and a bunch of painkillers that did nothing except making his stomach churn angrily. He knows exaclty that the only wise thing to do would be spending the day in bed, but he´d promised Peter a round of sparring before returning him to his aunt, and Tony Stark would not let something as petty as a migraine stop him from that.

Right now, however, he isn´t so sure how long he can keep up appearances before the kid will notice. Aura and a general feeling of lightheadedness are making his steps unstable and causing him to miss more punches than he lands.

The pain behind his eyes is already blinding, and he knows that the migraine is only in its beginning stages. He wishes that it will wait with kicking in full force until the kid is back at his aunt´s and he is back at his tower, but he doubts the universe will answer his prayers.

Another of Peter´s punches hits him in the stomach, making him bend reflexively, and for a frightening moment he is fighting to keep down the nausea that´s suddenly threatening to take over. God, he shouldn´t have taught the kid so well. When he straightens up, the world is spinning around him. Tony is stubborn, but not stupid. He knows when to make an exit.

“Happy, you take over”, he commands the bodyguard who had been watching their fight stoically, “I need a coffee.”

Tony is proud that he manages to climb out of the ring without toppling over, but the thought of getting to the kitchen is quickly dismissed when the gym starts swaying around him. He all but collapses onto the bench at the side of the room. Sparing a look at the Peter, he decides that the kid is too preoccupied with beating up Happy to notice, so he rests his head in his trembling hands, blocking out the burning lights.

A few hours, he tells himself, just a few hours and then he can shut himself off from the world in his bathroom and die alone. That is, until Pepper will expect him for their date night at six. He groans. Life was so easy back when all his personal commitments seemed to consist of training Dum-E and making a monthly donation to the boy scouts. But then again, whom is he kidding? He wouldn´t go back to that kind of life for anything in the world.

As if on clue, a hand lands on his shoulder. “Mr Stark, are you okay?”, Peter gasps, out of breath and grinning from ear to ear, apparently having won the recent episode with Happy. Tony squints up at him, the light from the artificial bulbs making his synapses protest in pain.

“I´m good, kid. Jeez, you smell like a soccer team´s been trapped in a sauna for a year.” He wrinkles his nose in feigned disgust. “Go, take a shower and make yourself presentable. I promised your super-hot aunt to drop you off by noon.”

“Hey, don´t talk about her like this!” Peter boxes him playfully into the shoulder, and Tony tries not to flinch. “And I beat you today, old man!” he shouts over his shoulder before running off to the changing area.

“I let you beat me”, Tony mumbles back. He takes a deep breath before straightening up and and grabbing the wall for support until the dizziness fades away. That´s gonna be a long day.

----

Tony gets into the driver´s seat before Happy even has a chance to. He hopes that driving will give him an excuse not to talk, and he also knows that he will make the way from upstate New York to Peter´s house twice as fast as Happy. And, deep inside, he is absolutely aware that the true reason is simply his never-ending ambition to prove himself that he is stronger than a little bit of pain. It's just a migraine, after all. He's had them before, he´s survived all fine, and worse things have happened to him anyways.

Tony is wearing sunglasses although the sky is clouded, but the light still hurts in his eyes, as does about everything in his body right now. Happy dozes off after a few minutes. In the backseat, Peter starts to watch videos on his phone, a comedian talking too loud and too fast. Tony might find it amusing on any other day, but right now the artificial laughter from the audience feels like a hammer being smashed on his head.

“Pete, can you switch off that nonsense?” he demands, trying not to let his voice tremble.

The boy just gives him a look and plugs in headphones. He is uncharacteristically quiet for some time, until he finally asks, “Mr Stark, are you angry at me because of the boxing?”

“What?” Tony is so caught by surprise that he nearly drifts to the other side of the road. “God, what are you thinking, kid?”, he huffs, “I get it I´m kinda a show-off, but I wouldn´t get angry at you just because you land a few hits on a day I got a killer migrai-”

Shit, he wasn´t supposed to say that.

“You´ve got a migraine?” Peter bends closer to the front seat, immediately lowering his voice. “That´s why you were so out of it all day! Is it really bad? Why didn´t you say anything?”

“It´s okay, kid, not a big deal. Happens sometimes.” Tony reassures, trying to smile while swallowing down nausea.

Peter stares at him intensively. “I´m - I´m so sorry, Mr Stark, I didn´t know. Is there anything I can do?”

“Na, I´m good. Just don´t be mad if I´m not up to fancy conversations today. And keep the volume down.”

Ten minutes later, Tony is sure that driving with a migraine was one of the worst ideas he´s ever had. He´s put the sunblinds down although it rains outside, but he still finds it hard to spot the outline of the road through the haze of pain and aura clouding his eyes. Every heartbeat reverberates like thunder in his ears. His whole body is oversensitive, the bumps in the pavement making him feel like he´s back in the boxing ring taking a beating and doing nothing to calm his rising nausea. God, he didn´t even know it was possible to get carsick while driving.

The stretch of road ahead of them is typically Sunday-morning quiet, until suddenly it isn´t anymore. The car seems to come out of nowhere, and all Tony can do is pull sharply to the emergency lane while the other vehicle´s side mirror rubs over their door with a screeching noise.

“What the hell was that?” Happy half-shouts at him, now wide-awake, “You nearly hit them!”

Tony doesn´t reply, he is busy bringing the car to a standstill with trembling hands. He can feel himself hyperventilating, pain from the migraine mixing with a surge of anxiety when he realizes that he barely avoided an accident. He nearly got Happy and the kid killed. Fuck. The nausea hits him full force, and he all but falls out of the door, bracing himself against the side of the car when he heaves. There´s not much to bring up, considering that he avoided breakfast today, but the stench of liquid and bile splashing on the ground assault his nerves and dials up the pain a few more degrees.

“Just let it out, okay?” The kid has jumped out behind him, hovering at his side. He tries to pat his shoulder, but Tony flinches away. Everything hurts. Holes are being drilled into his skull, but they do nothing to relieve the pressure. Instead it is just increasing with every retch, until he is sure that his head will burst open any moment. He can't see anymore, and he catches himself wishing he would pass out, just to make the pain stop.

When he is done he keeps on panting, not daring to move and cause the nausea to spike up again. For a moment he doesn´t know where he is, dark memories and panic pulling at him with luring fingers. He desperately tries to get himself under control. A hand tugs at his jacket, hesitantly. Someone comes from the other side and pulls him up. Tony´s overly sensible nose recognizes Happy´s aftershave and he nearly gags again.

When his vision clears, Peter and Happy have deposited him in the backseat. "I´m driving now”, the bodyguard states the obvious. Tony is miles from protesting.

----

The rest of the drive is agony. The nausea returns about two seconds after he's back in the car, but he vows to keep it down until the kid is gone. Tony leans his the head against his elbow in a crook of the window. He can feel Peter giving him worried looks from the side, but there's nothing he can do about it right now. Pain is tearing him apart from inside, eating his brain and spitting it out all upside down and scrambled up. He tries to distract himself with citing equations, but he can't remember a single one. For a moment, he´s irrationally afraid that he will never be able to.

It seems to take eternities until they reach Peter´s appartment building to drop him off. Tony gives him a tired thumbs-up and a very weak fake smile from under half-closed lids. “See you tomorrow”, he croaks, swallowing heavily and hoping that he is not overconfident of his abilitiy to recover until then.

Happy stops at the sidewalk as soon as they are out of Peter´s view, and Tony heaves up air and acid for what seems like years. He can´t muster the energy to stop his former bodyguard when he hears him calling Pepper from his mobile.

When they finally reach the tower, she is waiting downstairs. He hadn't wanted her to know, god, he'd planned on throwing down the heaviest painkillers he can find together with a good amount of booze, getting a few hours of sleep and then showing up halfway presentable to make it through their date night. He didn't want to ruin it, again. But when her blurred form gets bigger through his squinting eyes, he's just incredibly glad to see her.

“Oh, Tony”, she whispers when he stumbles out of the car and into her.

“Come on, I expected a little more enthusiastic reaction. I'm still a very handsome guy who's come all the way to meet you.” he musters, trying not to slur.

"You look terrible", she replies, cool fingers wrapping around is aching neck and pulling it forward till his head rests in the blessedly dark curve above her collarbone. "And you smell like a sewer."

Tony doesn´t care. Pepper smells like home, which is finally something that doesn't make him more nauseous, and he decides that he never wants to move again. He holds her as tight as he can without breaking her. After a while, Pepper carefully leads him inside, taking on more of his weight than he'd like to admit. He allows himself a small moan when she bends to hit the elevator button and his balance is screwed up.

“Sorry for this,” he manages when they reach the bedroom.

“It´s okay, Tony. I´d rather have you here than somewhere in outer space fighting aliens”, she grins, gently lowering him onto the mattress.

Tony is sure he´d prefer any amount of aliens to the agony he is currently in, but he doesn´t say it out aloud. Instead, he shakily removes his pants and jacket while Pepper fetches a glass of water and deposits a trash can next to the bed. He crawls under the sheets and pulls the blanket over his head before she quietly slips in next to him.

“Jus´a few hours,” he mumbles as he curls up against the familiar warmth of her body. “Date night´s still on, gotta movie planned, you can look forward to it.”

“Yeah, of course, Iron Man”, she smirks with a hint of sarcasm. But her voice is all soft when she adds, “I always do.”

#migraine #sickfic #fanfic #tony stark #peter parker #happy hogan #pepper potts #emeto #sick tony #tony!whump #emetophilia

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fallout4holmes · 6 years

Text

Journal 26

Dogmeat woke long before I did, I suspect with the first hint of food being prepared. I found him in the mess hall, begging from my two officers. Danse, sitting down and eating despite being in power armor, ignored the canine. Preston, sitting across from Danse, slipped something from his plate every third time Dogmeat nosed his knee.

“Preston, you’re spoiling him,” I said as I joined them.

“Morning, General. Can’t do too much harm, can it?” He turned to Dogmeat, “Not like you can get anything begging from him, can you?”

Dogmeat made a short sound between a whimper and an excited woof. Preston laughed, and scratched Dogmeat’s neck.

I smiled, “He doesn’t have to. The Minutemen recruiters and the Diamond City Guard all spoil him without my help. Not to mention Shaun. And I suspect Codsworth.” I frowned. “Valentine too, come to think of it, and I’m certain Piper does, if only just to spite me in good humor.”

Danse turned his laugh into a cough.

“Rebellion in the Holmes household,” Preston joked. “I’ll send over some troops right away.”

“I am perfectly capable of handling matters on my own, thank you,” I grinned.

A thrilled “Bonjour, Monsieur Holmes!” came from behind me, “And allô to Monsieur Dogmeat as well.” Dogmeat’s tail wagged as Curie scratched his head, and then went right back to focusing on Preston. “Colonel and Lt. Colonel, good morning!”

We all said our respective hellos, and Sturges appeared beside her with two plates of food. “Mornin’! Glad to see you, General. Mind if we join you?”

The answer was obvious, and soon Sturges was next to Danse, with Curie beside him. Even with Sturges between them, Danse seemed a bit ill at ease. My suspicion was confirmed when Preston leaned over to mutter softly, “Just found out about her… origins.”

“Ah.” A synth Danse could deal with, even one with such unique behavior as Curie. Finding out the mind inside the synth is actually that of a robot… that was a little too reminiscent of the technologies run amok he’d been trained to prevent.

Danse was watching Preston. He raised an eyebrow, and made a visible effort at relaxing. It didn’t quite work, but the effort was the important part.

Sturges and Curie wanted to know about Diamond City and the family, and I asked about improvements to the town and Curie’s continued studies. And then Mayor Hancock of Goodneighbor walked through the door.

All conversation in the mess hall went slightly quiet at the sight of a ghoul in eighteenth century red coat and tricorn hat, star-spangled-banner for a sash. Someone uttered a muted “holy shit the Mayor,” though I couldn’t tell who.

“Mayor Hancock!” I greeted him, “Help yourself and come join us.”

He grinned, devilish and preening, “Thanks, General. Don’t mind if I do.”

Discussion resumed. Preston frowned, doubtful. Danse scowled, and stood, “Excuse me, General, but I think it’s best if I return to duty.” He said, slightly louder, “If I reach the training grounds before my recruits, there’ll be hell to pay.”

Curie was puzzled. “Surely you will be hampered by the armor?”

“You ever seen him run in that armor?” Preston asked with a smile.

“No.”

“The recruits have.”

There was a sudden mass exodus from the mess hall. Danse looked pleased. “Gentlemen. Curie.” He followed his troops out.

Hancock sat down beside me, amused. “Crew-cut sure is the soldierly type.”

“More than you know,” I smirked.

We ate in silence a moment before Curie, unable to contain her curiosity, said, “You are a fascinating specimen, Monsieur Hancock.”

Hancock’s brow rose and opened his mouth, but before he could say anything Sturges said, “Honey, we talked about calling people specimens.”

Curie sighed, “I do not see why such a simple and general scientific term should be offensive.”

“Coming from you, it’s usually not, but some folks get touchy when you talk about them like they’re in a lab.”

“This is a struggle of mine,” Curie said to Hancock with an apologetic shrug, “adjusting centuries of programming for a precise vocabulary.”

Hancock blinked. “... Centuries?”

“Long story,” Sturges put out a hand, “Name’s Sturges.”

Hancock shook hands with an impressed, and bemused, smile, “Hancock.”

“Mayor Hancock. From Goodneighbor?”

Word of his fame, or infamy, never ceases to please him. “One and the same.”

“Huh. Ok. Well, I’m not sure how long the General’s staying, but if you want to lend a hand while you’re here, let me know. Always work that needs to be done.”

“And you’re the one that does it.”

“More often than not,” Sturges smiled. “I like working with my hands, and it’s not like everyone else doesn’t pull their weight. Everyone helps out.”

Hancock was skeptical. “Even the soldiers?”

“Especially the soldiers.” Sturges nodded toward Preston, whose frown hadn’t quite left his face yet. “Preston thinks it’s important the soldiers be as much a part of the settlement as everyone else that comes here, and the Lt. Col. agrees.”

“The guy in power armor,” Hancock clarified.

“That’s him. Curie here is the town medic, and if you need any supplies you'll want to see Al at the general store. He used to live in Goodneighbor, you might recognize his coat.”

Hancock was puzzled a moment before realization hit. “Wait. Yellow coat? That guy??”

“He sold my family our… room… in the Vault,” I said, “and then they wouldn't let him in. I understand he's set up some effective trade agreements for the settlement.”

Sturges nodded, “Nice guy. Well, I've got beds to build this morning. Young couple showed up a couple days ago, haven't said much, but they've got that look… I'm thinking Institute refugees. Past few months have been real hard for them. Dunno if they're synths or scientists, or maybe I'm way off, but that's the feeling I get from them.”

Hancock thought a moment, and then he shrugged and started rifling through his pockets. “Hell, Trouble here ain't gonna be much of it while he's playing General. Usually prefer a supervisory role myself, but I'm game if you want help.”

“Really? Well alright! Let's get to it, Mayor.”

Hancock found the canister of jet he’d been looking for, reconsidered, and stowed it away again. “Buildin’ shit, mentat’s better,” he muttered as he followed Sturges out the door.

Curie smiled, “I shall be in the medical facility - medbay. The Lt. Colonel calls it that, yes? Also clinic?”

“As it is your facility, you should decide what it’s called,” I said. “Danse will adjust.”

“Hm. I like this idea.” She smiled, and happily walked out of the mess hall.

I turned to Preston. His frown hadn’t lessesned. “You’ve heard of Hancock, I take it.”

He glanced away, and then attempted a nonchalant shrug. “I’ve never actually been to Goodneighbor before, but from what I hear it’s the sort of place you better watch your step.”

“That is accurate.”

Preston sighed. “Don’t let him talk you into anything you’ll regret later.”

“Honestly, Preston. Do you think that likely?”

He smiled, just a little. “Guess not. Still worth saying. If you’re finished, I’d like to go over some plans with you since you’re in town?”

“Of course.”

The rest of the day was spent “playing General,” as Hancock put it. The trade route north from Murkwater had to be re-routed around the Gunners headquarters, at least until a force could be mobilized to eliminate the threat. Stopping Gunners is always at the top of Preston’s list of things to accomplish, but he fortunately has enough sense to know Danse would be a more objective judge of Minutemen capabilities in taking on an entire Gunner stronghold. Our previously discussed plans for turning the nearby Red Rocket into an auxiliary settlement had come to fruition, with Sturges taking a special interest in the project. As Preston said, “The man built a teleporter. He wins all the arguments.”

It was later in the afternoon when Danse approached me. Sturges had somehow convinced Hancock to assist with further repairs. The Mayor of Goodneighbor was on a roof with a hammer, his coat hanging on the lone fencepost still standing in the yard beneath. I watched from across the street.

“A word, General?”

“Of course, Danse.”

“Permission to speak freely, sir.”

I was instantly a touch wary, though I suspected I knew what his concern was. “Granted.”

“I don’t think your decision to travel with a chem-addicted pseudo-anarchist dictator of a settlement of criminals and outcasts is wise.”

I blinked. “I’m proud of you, Danse, you didn’t mention the fact he’s a ghoul once.”

He frowned, “General.”

“Mayor Hancock takes great pains not to be dictatorial, actually. Though I’m not entirely clear what his day to day duties consist of beyond organizing the defenses against super mutant attacks.”

Danse scowled with a huff of frustration, “Holmes -”

“I’m taking you seriously, Danse. I know Hancock’s reputation does not inspire confidence, but do you honestly think I would travel with him if he was nothing more than what you have just described?”

He thought for a moment, “No, you wouldn’t. However I fail to see whatever redeeming quality you may have found.”

“He’s… how did he put it… ‘not out to hurt anyone that doesn’t deserve it.’”

“But he’ll stand by as people fall victim to crimes in his own town?”

“He doesn’t approve of cold-blooded murder. However, it doesn’t take much to justify violence, particularly against those who are oppressing others.”

“This is not reassuring. Who’s running Goodneighbor while he’s with you?”

“His second in command, a terrifying woman called Fahrenheit. He’s left town enough times they’re used to it. He says getting out keeps him honest, reminds him how the rest of the world lives.”

“You believe him?”

“I think it is both a sincere belief that no one in power should be comfortable for too long, and a desire for distraction.”

“Do you trust him?”

“I believe so. … you still aren’t satisfied.”

“I don’t think I’m ever going to be, but at least I am fairly certain my friend hasn’t gone insane.”

I scoffed. “That’s something.”

He sighed, “I hope you understand, you saved my life. I owe it to you to voice my concerns when I think you might be endangering yours. I know Garvey feels the same.”

“I understand, Danse,” I said, sincere. “Thank you.”

He nodded once. “You’re welcome.” We resumed watching the construction. Hancock was telling Sturges about a time Klio needed repair work done on her shop’s roof. Apparently the cause of the damage was a faulty weapon’s misfire… but he suspected it was actually the assaultron’s own laser, either fired in anger or frustration.

“An assaultron runs a weapons shop in Goodneighbor?” Danse’s question was mirrored by Sturges asking Hancock the same thing.

“Yes,” I said, and changed the subject. “I saw Nash and Crosby on their way to the Castle. They stopped in Diamond City.”

Danse was pleased - no, proud. “They performed admirably through training and I hope the Castle puts their talents to good use.”

“I hope they extend to all Minutemen the same loyalty they feel for you.”

Danse blinked. “For me?”

“There were Brotherhood soldiers in Diamond City’s marketplace the day they arrived. A Scribe insulted their training. They seemed to take it personally.”

Conflicting emotions fought across his face for a moment, “What happened?”

“Nothing, I stepped in when I saw the argument, set both parties aright and sent them on their way. They were reluctant, but they followed orders.”

“The Minutemen, or the Brotherhood?”

“Ha, both. You should be proud of the work you’ve done.”

“I am.” He hesitated, “Garvey worries I'm going stir-crazy. It's been a long time since I was in the field. Yet, he also says it's too much of a risk.”

“Hm. Is he worried about the truce, or is he worried about you?”

“He is more concerned with the possibility that I may be killed than he is with the idea of fighting the Brotherhood. In fact, he'd probably welcome the opportunity to test his precious artillery on the Prydwen.”

“This is a point of contention between you?”

Another hesitation. “Not exactly. I don't understand how someone so forgiving in general is able to hold such a grudge against an organization he's never had contact with, apart from me.” He scoffed, “Clearly I underestimated how distasteful the experience of meeting me was.”

I chuckled, “His opinion of you is not the same as his opinion of the Brotherhood. Not anymore, at least, and hasn't been for some time.”

Danse nodded, “I know. When you were last here, the night after you left he stood in my doorway and asked how I could think the Minutemen would let me die without a fight. I told him I wasn't worth anyone dying for, much less starting a war over.”

I cocked my head, studying Danse’s face, and thankful he dislikes wearing a helmet outside of combat. “Preston disagreed.”

“Strongly.” Danse remained expressionless for all of five seconds before a sort of embarrassment came over him. It was the same look I saw every time he told me something personal about himself back when he wore Brotherhood colors. “We've spoke a great deal since then. Neither of us quite understands the other, but at the same time there are some things we understand better than anyone else.”

I thought I understood, and the sight of Preston visiting Danse in the middle of the night gained new significance. “Nightmares.”

He watched me closely. “… yes. When did you arrive last night?”

“Just in time to see him go inside your quarters.” Danse blushed, which was not quite the reaction I expected. “And now my suspicion it might be more than talking about nightmares is confirmed?”

“It isn’t… not last night, most of the time not, but… ugh.” He clearly wished the conversation wasn’t happening.

I shrugged, “Honestly, it wouldn't matter to me at all if that were the case, as long as you are both happy and it doesn’t interfere with your work… though I suppose that is somewhat hypocritical of me. I'm hardly making regular patrols.”

Emotions vanished, the soldier gratefully declaring, “Neither are you commanding from behind a desk.”

“Kind of you to say so.”

His brow furrowed. “You answer when we call, no matter how trivial the matter. We value your advice, and will follow your command. Though,” he amended, “perhaps you should make an appearance at the Castle once in a while.”

I grinned, “You’re right, I should.” A thought occurred to me. “Have you ever been to the Castle, Lt. Colonel?”

“I have not.”

“A terrible oversight. It seems to me the man in charge of training my troops should at least be familiar with the facility he’s sending them to.”

The slight shift in his expression was almost mischievous. “I concur.”

“Could Col. Garvey continue training in your absence for, oh, a week or so?”

“Affirmative. However, he may be resistant to the idea.”

“I anticipate as much. Let’s go talk with him.”

Preston was indeed resistant, and understandably so. However, he also knew Danse needed some time outside Sanctuary, just for a bit, and he couldn’t argue that the third in command of the Minutemen, and the man in charge of training new recruits, needed to see the ‘official’ headquarters at least once in his life. It would take some arranging, so I planned to continue on my tour of settlements with Hancock and meet Danse in Diamond City before travelling on to the Castle together. He would escort the next traders passing that way, providing a convenient excuse for a man in full power armor to be on the road.

Sturges said he had an idea for making it clear Danse was ‘Minutemen’ and hopefully decreasing the chance of a hostile confrontation with the Brotherhood. I’m not sure what he has in mind, but I’ll find out the next time I’m in Diamond City.

#fallout 4 #sherlock holmes #crossover #fan fiction #danse #hancock #preston #sturges #curie #sanctuary #minutemen

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hiddenembers07 · 5 years

Text

Blood Moon - Chapter 3

Notes: Bucky and Tony just really need cuddles ... from each other ... and Steve ... these idiots need to get their acts together ...

Masterlist

Chapter 3 - Extremis

Bucky watches his alpha storm out of the room, already expecting the slamming of the door, not flinching when it happens. When he turns back around, he sees the smirk that’s crossed the vampire’s face, Stark back to leaning against the wall.

“You shouldn’t antagonize him like that,” he says, walking over to sit on the bed, leaning forward so his elbows are resting on his knees, hands gripping together loosely. Unlike the other two posturing idiots, he’s tired, and he knows that he can still take the vampire if he were to try anything. A faint scent of leather and oil reaches his nose, easing some of the exhaustion that has settled on him.

“You’re the ones who need me remember?”

“We’re also the ones who could tear your throat out,” Bucky growls back, not missing the harsh swallow that follows the words, staring at Stark’s long slender neck for a moment longer than he probably should.

He might not like vampires, but he wasn’t lying when he told Steve that Stark was pretty, and there’s something about the smooth skin at his neck that just calls to him to mark it, teeth aching a little as the wolf in him stirred at the sight.

Shaking his head, he pushes the thoughts to the back of his mind. Steve was right, they can’t afford any distractions, not at the moment, when everything they’ve built is in the balance.

“I am sorry about Howard,” Bucky continues. “From what we’ve heard he was actually a good man.”

Tony snorts, running a hand through his hair, before pushing off the wall and pacing to the other side.

“Howard was an asshole,” Stark replies. “A perfectionist, who never felt anything was good enough.”

He stops his pacing to look at himself in the mirror, and whilst Steve would’ve probably thought the vampire was just checking himself out, Bucky can tell that he’s not really seeing the person staring back, but rather lost in his own thoughts. He’s done it so many times that it’s obvious when others are doing it.

Given what he was just saying, Bucky doesn’t need to be a mind reader to know that Stark is clearly thinking of the strained relationship he had with his sire. It even more obvious that Stark felt he was never good enough for the king.

“But he was a fair King,” the vampire continues finally, turning away from the mirror. “And he didn’t want his people to suffer, to be at war.”

Bucky almost feels pinned to the spot when Stark’s eyes land back on him. He’s never seen anything like them before. One honey brown, the other crystal blue, both sparkling with an intelligence that the vampire fails to hide. Bucky could get lost in the changes in colour for hours if he had the time.

“Why am I here?” Stark asks again.

“What do you know about a virus called extremis?”

Bucky can feel the way Stark freezes, can see the horror crossing the man’s face as his mask slips. Something eases in Bucky at the sight. He hadn’t been sure, when Steve had first laid out his plan, that Stark was supposedly integral to, that the young Prince would even care. And the limited interaction they’d had so far had just made that concern grow. Seeing Stark’s reaction to the name made something ease in his chest.

“So you have heard of it?” he asks.

Stark looks away from him.

“Is that how Howard died?”

Bucky can hear the grief and sorrow in the question.

“We don’t know. All we know is that Stane claimed he was poisoned.”

Bucky doesn’t miss the way Stark’s jaw clenches at Stane’s name, nor the way his hands curl into fists, but there is no surprise on his face.

“You think Stane killed your sire?” Bucky can’t help but ask.

“Figured out he was planning to when he had me abducted and thrown into a cell to starve.”

“How?”

When he and Steve had been running through their plan to rescue the young vampire Prince, one of the major concerns had been that Stark would think that they had been responsible for his kidnapping, that he wouldn’t listen to them because of it. There had been rumours running rampant both before and after Stark was kidnapped that their Pack hated the Vampire Clans and was set on destroying them.

It seemed another one of their concerns had been for naught.

“Hammer was one of the assholes at the ambush,” Stark replies, starting his pacing again. “He’s one of Stane’s lackeys.”

“What do you know about extremis?” Bucky asks again, leaving the issue of Stane for another moment. He needs to know how much Stark knows. Pushing himself up off the bed, he moves to stand in front of the vampire, moving to block him as he tries to move around him. Stark stops and glares up at him, and Bucky can’t help but smirk back, not missing the flicker of the man’s eyes to it.

“Extremis,” he repeats.

“It would’ve been over a year ago,” Stark says, words coming slowly, like he’s not sure if he should be revealing the information. “A vampire by the name of Killian came to the castle. He was one of the Lords from one of the more distant clans, said he had something that would appeal to my father, make him unstoppable.”

“Extremis?”

Stark nods, his eyes getting a faraway look, pain crossing his face as he sees something.

“It was meant to help people. The being who created it, she just wanted to help. But Killian, and his group, they’d turned it into something cruel and-”

“They told you how deadly it was?”

“They showed us.”

Stark’s face is devoid of the mask now, the disgust and fear clear to see. Bucky almost reaches out to him, wants to pull him close and wipe the look away, hand reaching forward, only to freeze as he remembers who Stark is and that the action likely wouldn’t endear him to the other man.

“You’ve seen what it can do?”

“In horrifying, excruciating detail,” Stark replies, shaking his head. “I’ve never seen something so- so-“

“Evil?”

Stark nods, swallowing hard.

Bucky can’t help but reach out for him then, hand gently gripping his forearm and giving it a squeeze, hating the look on the other man’s face. He’d expected Stark to shake him off or to glare down at it, but the man relaxes, exhaustion seeming to emanate off him in waves now.

Bucky hasn’t forgotten what Bruce said, about how the blood they’d given him was likely only just keeping the vampire upright, what little strength he’d gained from it clearly fading away now.

“So why am I here?” Stark repeats again, almost seeming to lean into the grip that Bucky has on his arm. It’s just as Bucky is about to open his mouth to reply that he realises that the vampire is swaying slightly.

“We need to get you some food.”

That gets a snort out of Stark, who takes a step back, pulling his arm away.

“Or you could tell me why I’m here?”

Bucky stares at him for a moment longer, before nodding to himself.

“Once you’re fed.”

Stark raises an unimpressed eyebrow at him.

“You’re gonna be okay eating with a vampire?” he asks. “You know what we eat right?”

Bucky snorts.

“Daisies?” he replies sarcastically, making his way over to the door.

“Your Alpha’s not gonna be happy letting me out of here.”

“Who said anything about you leaving?” Bucky shoots back, reaching for the handle of the door, only to freeze when a hand grips his arm.

“Please,” Stark says, almost pleading, “just tell me why I’m here?”

There’s something almost lost in his gaze, and Bucky can’t believe that he’d let the bravado act fool him. The man had spent months being tortured, only to be rescued by people who he would consider enemies, then to be told that his sire is dead and one of his closest advisors probably did it.

He didn’t need any more delays, even if the delay consisted of blood which he clearly needed.

“Because Stane is waging a war on us, on everyone, using extremis,” Bucky answers. “Because none of the other vampire clans will listen to us when we say that we had nothing to do with Howard’s death and your kidnapping. Because we have tried over and over to get into the castle to get a cure, have had informants try to get it out, and all of them have failed. Because you’re the rightful heir to the throne, and we need someone who can get in there and get us the cure to this virus that’s killing us! Because we made a gamble that even if you hate us, you don’t want to see our world burn!”

Stark stares at him for a long moment, emotions rushing across his face so fast that Bucky can’t keep up with them, before a slow smirk crosses the man’s face.

“You practice that one a bit, solider?”

Bucky can’t help but let out a snort, even as his heart is racing, the fear that he’s been trying to push down and away just bubbling under the surface.

They’ve been fighting this war for months now, have been trying to find a cure to stop the virus from wiping them out for just as long, and nothing they’ve done has been successful. They’re running out of options, running out of plans, their people falling to the virus more and more every day, and just the thought makes his chest tight, the breaths hard to get in. Their only option now is to get into the vampire castle and get the cure out.

He should be annoyed by the vampire’s casual comment, but something about it just charms him.

“Maybe once,” he replies, smirk turning into a grin, not missing the small squeeze the vampire gives to his arm, before letting go.

“If I’m going to help you guys, I’m going to need two things.”

“Only two?”

“First, wouldn’t say no to that blood you were offering before,” he starts.

“Second?”

“I need you to help me get in contact with the Black Widow.”

#stuckony #winterironshield #tony stark #steve rogers #james 'bucky' barnes #vampire!tony #werewolf!steve #werewolf!bucky #wip #fanfic: blood moon

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