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artiststarme · 1 year

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Eddie Saves Steve's Birthday

Part 2 of the "The Party Forgets Steve's Birthday" fic! I hope you guys like it and please leave your thoughts in the comments!

~*~*~*~

Eddie felt awful, in fact, he’d never felt worse. He would rather go back to the Upside Down and get torn into by bats again than have to hear Steve say that the Party only cared about him as the babysitter. He couldn’t think of anyone more deserving of a big birthday celebration than Steve and instead he was working a long shift at Family Video alone without any acknowledgement of his birthday from the kids. It wasn’t fair.

He used to think Steve had everything. He was the cool jock, rich kid with rich parents, huge house, and tons of friends. Eddie never could have imagined then that Steve was just another lonely kid with absent parents and friends that forgot about his birthday. Even now, they were both part of the same group that had literally risked their lives to save them from the creepy-crawlies in the Upside Down and no one paid enough attention to realize it was Steve’s birthday.

Just thinking about the defeated look on Steve’s face made Eddie’s heart stutter in grief. He didn’t care what it took, he was going to fix this. But to do that, he was going to need Wayne.

By the time Eddie got home from his talk with Steve and the minor freakout he had in the back of his van, Wayne was getting ready to leave for work. That just wouldn’t do. So Eddie did the one thing that always worked for him and threw his arms around his uncle in a restrictive embrace.

“Uncle Wayne, I need your help. It’s absolutely urgent, life-threatening, you could say. I need you and if you don’t help me, I will die.”

Wayne was far too used to his dramatics to fall for that. He patted Eddie’s back before trying to gently pry himself free. “Kid, my shift starts in an hour, I gotta get goin’.”

“No, I’m serious, I really need your help. Everyone forgot Steve’s birthday today! He’s devastated, I’m horrified, Robin is on a date, and the kids are unhelpful! I need you!” Eddie broke out his most potent puppy dog eyes and blinked up at his uncle.

Wayne sighed. “I’ll tell Craig I have a stomach bug. What do you need me to do?”

“Steve gets off work at ten tonight. I need you to distract him towards the end of his shift and get him to come back here. Kidnap him if you have to, that’s what the Chief does and it always seems to work.”

“Kidnap him? Eds-” Wayne started but Eddie cut him off.

“Please! I have to steal a camera from Jonathan, break into the Harrington house, and bribe the bakers into giving me a cake. I don’t have time to force Steve to come over too.”

“Now wait a minute, all of that sounds criminal. Eddie-” Wayne sounded the most alarmed that he ever has but Eddie took it in stride.

“Wayne. He said he hasn’t celebrated his birthday in years, literal years. And considering you have a birthday every year, that’s a lot of birthdays that he’s spent alone. So we have to get him here by any means necessary and show the pretty bastard that we love him. Okay?”

Wayne looked at him for a long time but eventually he gave a little nod. “What time should I head out?”

~*~*~*~

Steve wasn’t used to seeing Wayne around town and he had never once come into Family Video. So when the bell rang and swung open to reveal a stressed Wayne Munson, he didn’t really know what to think. Wayne looked around the store slightly before walking directly up to the counter.

Steve nodded at him and narrowed his eyes in confusion. “Um hey, Mr. Munson. Welcome to Family Video, how can I help you?”

Wayne scratched a hand through his beard before humming. “You, uh, you have any good recommendations?”

“You want to hear about my recommendations? Really?” Steve looked at him, flabbergasted. No one had ever cared to ask what he watched.

“‘Course, that’s why I asked. What do you like to watch? Anything good?”

“Have you seen Back to the Future? It was a little hard to understand because he actually goes back to the past and I think he wanted to bang his mom, it was really confusing. It’s a good one but I’m not sure if it’s really good or if I only liked it because I was super high.”

Wayne nodded at him, not even phased at his enthused rambling. “That does sound interestin’. Any other ones?”

“Oh my god, yes! Have you seen Clue? Tim Curry is in that one, he’s the guy from the Rocky Horror Picture Show that has the nice legs. He shows less leg in this one but oh, you should see Miss Scarlet. It’s truly the best of both worlds, Mr. Munson, let me tell you-”

If this was the best his night got on his birthday, Steve would be content. Wayne was listening to him rant about his current favorite movies with rapt attention and kept asking questions in the appropriate places to keep the conversation going. Steve couldn’t even remember the last time someone actually wanted to listen to him talk. The Munsons always managed to surprise him in the best way possible. What could get better than this?

~*~*~*~

With Wayne on Steve Duty, Eddie had more than enough time to coerce Jonathan into letting him borrow a camera, sneak through Loch Nora to collect some of Steve’s favorite tapes, and guilt-trip the bakery ladies into giving him a cake on short notice.

After assuring Jonathan that he wasn’t trying to record a sex tape with any of his equipment, he lent him a small Polaroid (he didn’t trust the odd request from Eddie so there was no way in hell he was letting him borrow a tape recorder). Eddie didn’t argue though. He just needed something to commemorate Steve’s first birthday in the family and a Polaroid would do just that.

The trip to the bakery though took longer than anticipated. Florence, the owner of Flo’s Baked Goods, was not in a generous mood at 4 PM on a Tuesday. Luckily, Eddie was known for being very persuasive which worked in his favor.

“Florence, come on. Do me a favor, please?” He asked with his most woeful puppy dog eyes.

“Edward, I told you already, you need to place an order ahead of time.”

“Florence, my dear, I didn’t anticipate my grandma to die! I didn’t have time to place an order and I need a cake for her funeral tonight. Please Flo? For me?” His lip wobbled slightly as if tears were close to follow. He needed to pull out all of his stops to get that cake.

She sighed in exasperation. “I can give you a small one, alright? And you’re not getting extras, I actually have orders to work on.”

“That’s okay! Thanks Flo, I appreciate it and so will St- my dead grandmother. May she rest in peace.”

That worked out great! Sure, Eddie had to make an extra stop at the grocery store for some red frosting to write Steve’s name on it but the smile on his face would be well worth it. Or rather a pitying grimace.

Unfortunately, Eddie was not a baker or a designer by any means. So the red lettering on the cake turned into a drippy mess that looked more like a crime scene than a birthday cake. He also didn’t have great space management. Instead of making the font smaller to fit on the cake, Eddie largely wrote “BIRTH STEVE” and couldn’t fit anything else. Eager to make the best of the situation, he threw some colorful sprinkles on there to liven things up. Ah, Steve would love it.

The situation only got more complicated when he went to pick up Steve’s favorite movies from his house. Eddie parked his van in the driveway and picked the lock to the front door. Steve was at work, his parents weren’t home (not that they would have let him in if they were), and the emergency key under the doormat wasn’t there so he had to take drastic measures.

He grabbed a few of the movies in Steve��s room that he knew were his favorite that he didn’t have at the trailer. Fast Times, Back to the Future, Clue, The Breakfast Club, Teen Wolf, basically everything that Eddie hated but he was willing to watch anything for Steve. He grabbed a few cassettes too in case they decided to listen to music instead. All of the tapes were disappointingly mediocre and Eddie made a mental note to introduce him to some real music. After that, Steve would never listen to fucking Tears for Fears ever again. Or Wham!, the bane of his existence.

What Eddie had neglected to consider was how the nosey neighbors would react to seeing a random van in the Harrington driveway and a random kid messing with the front door. He should’ve expected the cops to come. He opened the front door to the barrel of Hopper’s gun.

“Son of a bitch, Chief! What the hell are you waving that around for?!” Eddie exclaimed, dropping his small duffel bag and throwing his hands in the air.

“What the hell? Munson?” Admittedly, Hopper had shown up at a bad time. Eddie was lugging a duffel bag out of the Harrington house to his hastily parked van in a neighborhood he definitely didn’t belong in.

“It’s not what it looks like,” he told him quickly.

“It looks like you’re robbing the Harrington’s place,” Hopper said deadpan.

“Well, I’m not!”

“What are you doing then?” Hopper asked him sarcastically.

“I’m not robbing him! I’m trying to save Steve’s birthday. I was just getting some supplies.” Eddie explained hurriedly.

“It’s Steve’s birthday today?”

“Yep and he’s going to be pissed if he has to come bail me out of jail because you arrested me. Think about that,” Eddie said, pointing an accusing finger at him. Wayne and Steve would both be pissed if he got arrested again.

“That doesn’t explain why you’re stealing his stuff,” Hopper stated in confusion.

“I’m throwing him a little party back at my place, we’re having a movie night so I had to get his favorite movies. I don’t have this teen drama shit. But Steve does and I’m trying to give him a nice night.”

Hopper just looked at him blankly.

“So can I go? I know you don’t want to break Stevie’s heart by arresting me on his birthday and don’t you want to get home to your family this lovely Tuesday evening? Who needs the extra hassle of detaining little ole me?”

“Goddammit Munson, just get out of here. You’re making the neighbors antsy. And don’t do this again.” Hopper warned him before walking over to his cruiser.

“Copy that, Chief! Keep protecting the people or whatever the fuck your pledge is. Have a nice night!” And then he was off again.

~*~*~*~

Steve must’ve talked about his favorite movies for hours before he realized it was time to close and Wayne was still there. “Um, Mr. Munson? I’m sorry, you probably had things to do today and I wasted all your time ranting at you. I’m really sorry.”

“Don’t be, kid. It was nice hearing from you. Say, I’m sure Eddie would want to hear about some of those movies too. Could you come over tonight and tell us some more about ‘em?” Wayne offered.

Steve could tell a pity offer when he saw one though. “No, that’s okay. I can tell him another time. I have to start closing if you want me to check you out?”

Wayne sighed and made direct eye contact with him. “Listen kid, I know today’s your birthday and you aren’t spending it alone. So, you can either follow me back to the trailer or I’m gonna kidnap you and drag you there. You got me?”

Steve just looked at him in shock. What was up with older father figures trying to kidnap him? Was there something on his face that told them, ‘hey, I’m a good target for kidnapping, take me’? Was Wayne in kahoots with Hopper because this trend was getting a bit ridiculous.

“Wayne-”

“Nope, Eddie wants you there and I want you there. What are you going to do instead? If you have a good excuse, I’ll leave right now and break that boy’s heart.” Wayne looked at him expectantly. When it became apparent that Steve wasn’t going to say anything, he nodded. “Good, I’ll see you at the trailer. Drive safe.”

What the hell? Was that how age twenty was going to be? Confusing and full of ups and downs? Jesus Christ.

Steve finished closing the store quickly and made his way to Forest Hills. He wasn’t quite sure what was going on today but if they wanted to spend time with him, he wasn’t going to turn them down. The Munsons were some of his most favorite people and it’s not like there was a long list of people that wanted him around.

As soon as he opened the door to the trailer, everything made a little bit more sense. There were party streamers hanging from the walls, the most gruesome cake he had ever seen sitting on the table, and birthday hats on top of a beaming Eddie and an indifferent Wayne. Tears filled Steve’s eyes as he laughed. He couldn’t believe that they’d done all of that for him.

“Happy birthday, Stevie! I love you!” Eddie yelled, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips and pulling him into a bruising hug.

Wayne patted his shoulder a bit awkwardly and murmured, “I love you too kid but I ain’t kissin’ ya.”

Steve could hardly even speak through the rush of happiness he was feeling. Eddie had found a way to make his birthday special again. He’d cared enough to spend his day organizing a nice night for Steve to feel loved again, to feel happy on his special day. Sure, not everything was fixed and there was still a small amount of hurt that the kids and Robin hadn’t done anything. But he had Eddie and Wayne and they were all he really needed. He finally had a family and he couldn’t be any happier. Eddie was right, ‘86 truly was a great year.

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#The kids see a polaroid taped to Eddie’s fridge a few weeks later of them smiling in front of the cake #That's how they find out they missed Steve’s birthday.#Eddie holds a grudge against them and bars them from seeing Steve for awhile #He also murders all of their characters in DnD but that's neither here nor there #stranger things #steddie #steddie ish #fanfic #steve harrington #eddie munson #chief hopper #uncle wayne #wayne munson #jonathan byers

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after-witch · 3 years

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Sweet Escape [Yandere Overhaul x Reader]

Title: Sweet Escape [Yandere Overhaul x Reader]

Synopsis: Escape isn’t easy. Nor is it very long-lasting. When Overhaul’s men drag you back into captivity, you brace yourself and wait for what your captor will do with you.

Word Count: 7,592

Notes: yandere, kidnapped, humiliation, degradation, mentions of eating disorder behavior, improper use of household cleaning products, Overhaul is a mean man 90% of this fic is just Overhaul being an asshole to you

There are going to be bruises on your shoulders. Fingerprint shaped bruises from the men holding you steady, afraid that you'll try to sprint off--maybe afraid that you'll try to spring at their boss, disobedient, unruly possession that you are.

You know that Overhaul won't like it when he eventually sees those black-and-blue fingerprints marring your skin--he might kill them for it, or worse. They're digging in too hard, but you don't warn them to ease up lest they find themselves on the wrong end of Overhaul's hands; they brought you back to this place, after all, and they deserve nothing but your hot, raw contempt.

You could run. You could slip out of their grip, if you put your mind to it. Your clothes are wet and the medical table that you're sitting on is slippery from the rainwater that's dripped out from your soaked clothes. But Chisaki Kai--no, Overhaul, you remind yourself, for the energy he’s exuding now is very much that of a foreboding boss--is standing in front of you, and you'd never make it to the doorway.

"Leave us," Overhaul says, not bothering to move as the men gripping your shoulders release their painful hold and swiftly leave the room. He tears off a sanitizing wipe from the ever-present canister on his desk and wipes down the doorknobs that they touched, before locking the door. An unnecessary precaution, given your nerves, given your state, given your realization that your escape attempt was a massive fluke that would never be allowed to happen again.

You numbly watch as he gathers up supplies from around the makeshift clinic he'd created in the small suite of rooms he allowed you to exist in. The canister of disinfectant. Medical-grade soaps. Sponges. A bucket. Needles, needles, needles... you remember the feel of the syringe you'd stolen in your hand and distract yourself from the fear of what he's going to do to you by retracing the steps of the past day.

You got farther than you thought you would--really, you did. At every stage of your plan, you expected Chisaki to suddenly reveal that he knew every step you'd taken so far. That he'd catalogued every act of false obedience to lure him into relaxing the rules, that he saw you swipe the syringe of tranquilizer from the clinic when he'd left for a moment to grab a fresh pair of clothes for you, that he knew you asked to sit with him at his desk only to sneak a glance at his calendar, so you could sweetly plead for an afternoon in the garden when he would be busy, when he would surely ask a highly trusted subordinate to watch over you.

A highly trusted subordinate who knew all about your weeks of good, sweet behavior and who was none the wiser when you'd jabbed him with the syringe, plunging the medicine, the same kind your captor once used to 'calm you down' when you were having fits, right into the man’s thigh.

You didn't hesitate: you'd dipped your hands into the man's pockets, pulled out his wallet and ran. You barely remember anything until you were in the forest--you vaguely remember using the key card to open the gates surrounding the base, you remember the fear that at any moment you would hear an alarm sound; but from there, everything was a blur as you sped into the forest wearing only the soft day shoes you'd been given to go outside.

You made it through the forest, though not without bumps and cuts and sore feet and a dimly throbbing ankle that was thankfully only turned. You ran until you reached a small town, one you'd never been in before. You buried your first instinct deep, deep, deep: do not contact the authorities. Who knows what connections Overhaul had, especially in a town so close to where he operated? So instead you waltzed into a little corner shop and made a beeline for the bathroom--where you promptly vomited out your breakfast as all of the anxiety and fear and adrenaline caught up with you in an instant.

You remember staring into the bathroom mirror afterwards, your face cold with splashed water. It was then, staring into your pale and anxious face, a face you hadn’t been allowed to see in a mirror for ages, that you felt freedom slamming back into you. You could do what you wanted, now. You were going to get your life back. You could make your own schedule and have your own hobbies back and eat what you wanted and--your stomach had gurgled, as if on cue. You had to get something to eat. But how would you pay?

The wallet you'd pilfered felt heavy in your pocket, and you opened it without a second thought. No cash. But a credit card. It would do, until you were able to get some cash of your own. You wandered back into the shop and even now, you can still feel how struck you were by how cozy, how nice, how different it felt. Just a small general store with big open windows and soft music in the background, and an old woman behind the register who immediately asked you if you needed any help finding this or that.

You smiled--a real smile, how nice that felt--and shook your head and loaded up a basket. A first-aid kit, a large water bottle, a toothbrush and toothpaste... then came the snacks. Candy. Chips. Soda. Things you hadn't tasted in so long. You even grabbed a pointless fashion magazine. The old woman had glanced at the name on the card and you offered a sheepish smile, a fake one that made you feel a pang of guilt for lying to her: "My boyfriend sent me to do the shopping. He's no good at this stuff." She'd smiled and nodded, oh I understand dear, before packing up your order.

You stepped out into the sunshine--you can't pretend like you remember how it feels, right now, shivering from the damp rain on this table--and took a deep breath of fresh air. It smelled crisp and sweet and clean. Not the sterile cleanliness of your captor's clinic, but truly pure--real. There was a slight tinge to the air, and you spotted grey clouds on the horizon. Not an omen, no: just another sign that you were outside, you were in nature, you were free. The smell was the promise of thunder, of electricity, of cool rain.

It also smelled like... well, lunch. Or more precisely, you smelled the vague scents of the little pizza shop a few shops down.

And here is where you made, looking back, your biggest mistake. You should have headed to a bus station. Or called for a taxi. You should have gotten the hell out of there right that second. But your mind flashed back to Overhaul's little calendar, the words printed neatly in the little square for today: he would be away until the evening, which meant you (surely, surely) had a few more hours before he came back and discovered your escape.

He’d ordered no one to bother you and your now-unconscious guard in the garden, so if no one saw you run out, then an alarm certainly wouldn’t raised for a while. You had time, didn't you? Time to grab a meal? You could always get it to go, and you could even ask an employee inside about buses or taxes. Yes, it was fine--you would get a few slices to go and hop on a bus and leave forever. More than that, it was practical. You needed energy, and the junk in your bag--while undoubtedly delicious--wasn't going to be enough to sustain you for long.

The door to the pizza place dinged when you entered, and you almost teared up at the normality of it. It was a buffet style place, with rows of pizzas under yellow-cast lights and rows of red booths and people lifting slices onto their plates with shared tongs. Unusual for a small town, but maybe it was a remnant from a more bustling time, when American-style pizza places were all the rage. For a moment, your thoughts had turned back to your captivity: Overhaul would have never set foot into a place like this--nor would he have let you. Germs, germs, everywhere. And you loved it.

You paid with the card, but there was no need for excuses this time--the young man behind the register didn't even check for a name or signature, much less ask for identification. You asked about a to-go box and he'd shrugged, mumbled out an apology--they didn't do that here. You have to eat inside.

For a moment, the rational part of your mind screamed: get the hell out of here, then! But your stomach growled, and hunger beckoned, and damn if that row of glistening pizza slices didn't make you want to eat. And eat. And… eat. You shoved repressed thoughts deep down, your heart hammering all the while, and took a tentative step towards the buffet. Thunder rumbled as you debated. You could be out of here in... 30 minutes? Enough time to eat--to binge, your mind whispered, you can now--and maybe get it out after? Yes, it would be fine. (It would not. Future you, the one sitting on the table and watching in increasing anxiety as Overhaul finishes up his tasks, wishes she could tell you.)

You should have seen the start of the rain, sudden and relentless, as a bad sign. Instead you ignored it and filled up a large cup with diet soda that spilled a little when you forgot to let go of the button. You ate without thinking, not even really enjoying the taste of the first greasy pizza slices you’d had in ages.

You were on your fifth slice when the restaurant doors dinged, but the sense of small town charm was overrun by the immediate realization that you were caught. You were fucked. The air thickened--were you the only one to notice?--as two men in slim suits entered the restaurant with an air of immediacy. You were spotted in a second, if that. You thought about running.

But then you thought about the bored teenager behind the register and the old man cutting up his wife's pizza slices because she had trouble chewing and the little girl stacking up pepperonis while her mom chatted on the phone and you resigned yourself. You didn’t want anyone else to get hurt…even if it meant giving in. You didn't struggle, couldn't struggle, and let them lead you swiftly outside where the torrent of rain soaked you immediately as they pushed you down the block, where an unmarked car waited. You glanced up helplessly as the cloudy sky and rain streamed down your face before you were unceremoniously pushed into the backseat.

Overhaul was sitting inside, staring at you with an intensity you've never seen before.

Your backpack drops with a thump next to you and you flinch out of your memories.

"Let's see what you bought with that stolen card during your little adventure." His voice is deceptively calm. He must be furious with you, you think. And you can't believe you didn't think about credit fraud alerts before you used the damn card.

The noise of the zipper is thunderous and you scoot yourself back on the exam table, pressing against the wall to put a little more room--even if it's only inches--between you and your captor. He begins to pull everything out of the bag, one by one, and seeing it all lined up makes it clear what type of lecture is coming.

A few bags of chips, a bottle of soda, bars of chocolate, all junk, junk, junk. All food he would never permit you to eat, and certainly not in such quantities.

"Disgusting," he murmurs, before tossing each item into a trash bin kept against the wall, one by one. You cringe at the sound of each bag, each bottle, hitting the bottom of the trash. You didn't even get to taste them. He stares at the trash, eyes narrowed, as if the food itself was worthy of his venom. "Full of unnecessary sugars and fats and oils. Eating so much of this will make you sick. We've talked about this."

You say nothing. You press your lips together. You won't give him the satisfaction of argument. You won't let him pretend like he has any right to lecture you on what you eat, and certainly not what you eat after you've escaped (however briefly) from his clutches.

"At least you didn't have time to ingest them during your ill-planned escape, hm?" He replaces his previous gloves--tainted with the thought of germs on the junk food bags, no doubt--and your stomach flips at the sound of the medical gloves he's snapped on in their place. "Which is more than I can say for the pizza." You never knew someone could say pizza with such a ridiculously nasty tone, but you've learned a lot of things during your captivity.

"You weren't content with this junk hoard," he says, gesturing towards the trash while keeping his eyes firmly on you. "You had to gorge yourself on greasy pizza from a dirty buffet, too? We are going to clean your mouth out, by the way.”

You hate the way he says gorge--you hate the way he says greasy--you hate the anxiety that comes with wondering what he’ll do to ‘clean’ your mouth. You hate him, you hate him, you hate him. The hate makes you answer defensively, despite your earlier resolution to stay quiet. You can't help yourself, in a lot of ways.

"I was hungry," you say, still feeling defiant.

"No one working on their fifth slice of pizza is hungry," he answers, simply. You feel diminished, but not enough to shut you up.

"So? It's not your business what I eat anyway.” A familiar tightness is springing to your throat. You don't want to cry in front of him ever again, so you clip the words out, fighting to retain control.

He presses a fist to his forehead in a sudden, rather surprising show of frustration. "Not my business? Not my business? It's my business to take care of you. Do you have any idea what could have happened to you out there?"

The fullness in your stomach, the cold rain soaking you, the remembrance of the wind and branches lashing at you as you ran hours before, all these freedoms have made you feel bold. Or maybe you're succumbing to the effects of an adrenaline crash and you just can't control your mouth.

"I could have been free. You can’t--you can't just keep me here. You can't just kidnap someone and decide you know what's best for them."

There's a long, steady pause as he stares at you. His expression--what you can see from his eyes--is blank, and you almost wonder if perhaps you've stumped him.

"I can," he says, lightly. Easily.

Fucker.

He sighs, and you get the distinct impression that you’re a nuisance, something to deal with, something he’s having to deal with instead of doing far more important things. "You’re showing a severe lack of appreciation for all the work I do to take care of you."

You don't know how to respond to that. "You kidnapped me.” It’s all you can think of--the bare truth.

He doesn't speak at first. Then he lifts something from the supply tray he's set up--a blue hospital gown, thin and short, and tosses it towards you. You catch it instinctively, feeling the thin, feather-light material in your fingers. He tosses a towel, next, and you hold it against your damp chest. He turns around.

"Change."

You don't want to. You don't want to. But you've never pressed your luck on what would happen if you refused to get dressed before, afraid that he might do it himself, and that fear overrides any thoughts of outright rebellion. For now. You slide off your wet clothes and push them towards the end of the table, then use the towel to dry off your skin. There are scratches and bruises, including a nasty looking one that's already turning green on your ankle. Your feet are swollen from running on the hard forest floor with your thin day shoes.

When you're finished, you clear your throat, and he turns back around. He tosses your wet clothes right into the trash--damn, you liked that shirt--and wipes off the table with a separate towel. You sit, legs dangling off the table, and wish he'd just get the punishment or examination or whatever it is he has planned over with. You can feel the coldness of the table through the medical gown, and its thinness makes you feel even more helpless. Weak. You want to retain that feeling of freedom that you had earlier in the day. Even choosing to return without a fight, choosing to avoid hurting the innocent people in that town, made you feel bold.

He stands in front of you until you force yourself to look up, to get it over with. He's swapped out his mask for a medical one.

"Have I ever hurt you?"

You hate this.

"No," you admit, voice tight. "Not physically," you add spitefully, because fuck him for trying to make himself sound like a decent person because he kidnapped you but didn't happen to hit you.

"Do I take care of you?" His tone is firm, commanding. It leaves no room for silences. Instead, it makes your stomach feel light, makes your heart feel like it wants to race.

"I can do that on my own," you counter.

"Can you?" He says, voice dripping in condescension.

"Yes," you spite, bile rising into your throat. "I can take care of myself."

He reaches back and grabs the little stool he keeps in this room, rolling it up to rest in front of the table and in front of you. He sits down and cups his hands together, resting them on his thigh. He leans forward. An easy gesture. Like he wants to have a conversation. But something about his movements sends out warning signals. Big, glaring, flashing warning lights that scream DANGER.

“You can take care of yourself.” It’s a statement, yet the way he says it is brutally mocking.

“I can,” you insist, your voice cracking just the slightest bit under his gaze.

"So, where would you live?" He watches you intently and it takes a moment for you to realize what he just asked you. He isn't offering you freedom, no. But maybe you can win an argument, just this once, and forcibly stop his delusions that he's "taking care of you."

"Anywhere," you say, but he looks unimpressed. "An apartment," you correct. "Like my old one. Doesn't have to be big." Your heart pangs with nostalgia for your old place, for your independence, for your life.

"Ah." Overhaul brings a gloved finger up to his chin and rests is there, nodding, as if he's seriously considering your words. "And how will you pay for rent at this apartment?"

You can't resist the snarky tone. "A job."

He rests both hands on his thighs. "Tell me, how much did you make at your last job, again? No--tell me, how long did you hold your last job?" You cross your arms defensively around your waist as he continues. "If I recall correctly, you were fired rather quickly from that one... and the one before."

You squeeze your waist, hoping for the tiniest bit of comfort from the gesture. "I... it wasn’t my fault.” You feel like you’re under a magnifying glass. “The first time. And the second, well, I was looking for something better, anyway."

He raises his eyebrows, curious. "Looking where? At the bottom of a bottle?"

Your entire body tenses.

"After all," he continues, voice almost taking on a syrupy sweet tone. "Your fridge was so well-stocked with them. Hmm. Do you think it's responsible to spend so much money on alcohol when you're behind on rent payments?"

"No," you say, voice tighter, "But--"

He doesn't give you a chance to finish. He stands, and you immediately squeeze your arms again. "And how much were you spending on other luxuries? Those clothes you kept carelessly shoved in your closet... they were a name brand, weren't they?"

Your throat is dry and your mouth is dry and you lick your lips. "There were sales," you insist.

"Ohh," he says, his voice lifting in mockery. "And I bet there were sales on the jewelry, the trinkets, the--" his eyes drift upwards, an implication of his disdain, "--figurines."

You lift your chin in defiance. "I'm allowed to buy things that I like."

He begins to pace. Not aimlessly, no, nothing with him is ever aimless. He paces until he stops in front of you, turning to face you for effect.

"What happens if you're late on three rent payments? Remind me of the policy that decrepit building you called an apartment complex had."

You squirm on the table. "I was only behind on two--"

"What happens?" His voice is firm. You can't avoid it.

There's a pause before you murmur, unwillingly. "You get evicted."

"So." He takes another step, and turns back towards you. "Do you think it's responsible to spend money you don't have on luxuries, when you're behind on rent?"

You want to run. Maybe you should have run at him earlier. Getting tossed into a solitary room after attacking him might be better than this interrogation.

"No," you admit. You swallow, dry and thick and a bit painful. "Okay. I'm not great with money. I bought things to make me happy because I was stressed out about---life. It's not that big a deal. I--I didn't get kicked out, anyway."

He sits again, but keeps himself upright, the air of faux casualness replaced with an air of command. "How did you catch up on your rent? Tell me."

You hate him. You stare at him, hoping he'll end this, but he simply stares at you until you blurt out the words. "You paid my landlord. Anonymously." You stare down at the floor, at the drops of water still there from earlier. "I didn't ask you to. I would have figured something out."

"I'm sure."

He stands, and you stare at the wall until you hear him roll the tray of supplies towards the table. Your body trembles of its own accord when he grabs your arm firmly and wraps a blood pressure cuff around the top. You sit in silence as the cuff gets tighter then mercifully deflates.

He tsks at the number, and jots it down on the pad resting on the table. For once, you're not tempted to peek.

"I need to take some blood," he says, and you stick out your arm in automatic, habitual compliance before your brain even realizes it. He grips your wrist firmly while he swipes your arm with an anti-bacterial agent.

"How much do you weigh?" He asks suddenly, voice nonchalant.

You stare at him, incredulous. He's never brought up weight before. He’s always been careful to avoid details about weight, nutrition--calories. The most he would do is point out that you need a well-rounded diet with the right vitamins and nutrients, and ignore your questions about sauces and cooking oils and grams, all attempts to find out something that could give you an ounce of control over what’s going into your body.

"I--I don't know. You don't let me look at the scale when I step on it." He knows this. He knows that he's forbidden you from seeing the number, because he knows about your past, knows your tendency to get obsessive and strict and focus on food and weight and worth.

"Why don't I let you look at the scale?"

Your stomach feels like it's twisting.

"I don't know." The lie is bitter on your tongue.

The casual tone in his voice when he replies is far more biting than any cruel insult. "Yes, you do."

His words are punctuated by the harsh medicinal smell of the next wipe. But you're in no mood to appreciate that he's still choosing to numb your skin despite your earlier transgressions.

The tears you felt building earlier begin to prick at the corner of your eyes. You don't want to cry, you don't want to cry, you don't want to cry.

“Why don’t I let you look at the scale?” He repeats, firmer, more insisting. He winds a band around your arm and taps at your veins.

Your arm looks fatter, like this. You swear it does. You look away to avoid your arm and the needle and his gaze.

“Because, um, I sometimes have problems with food. Or weight. Or whatever.”

“You have an eating disorder,” he tells you, all business as he plunges the needle into your skin; there’s only the ghost of a sting as he begins to slowly draw your blood. But you barely feel it, you can only feel the impact of his words, blunt and hateful.

"You were going to throw up in that germ-infested hovel. Eat until your stomach was distended, then head into a bathroom--which I'm sure the staff hadn't cleaned in ages--and stick your unwashed, greasy fingers down your throat until it all came back up. Am I correct?"

You can't tell if you feel woozy because of the needle or the way that your heart is racing at his words. Throw up. Greasy. Disgusting. You're disgusting.

"Stop it," you say, voice muddled with humiliation and anger.

He pulls the needle out, and quickly presses a bandage to your skin. He keeps a finger there, firm and pressing. He looks up at you, now, as he continues his onslaught.

"And then what? Let me make an educated guess. You were going to get on some filthy bus and open up all the junk you bought earlier? Perhaps," he muses, as he rips off a piece of tape to keep the gauze in place, "you could have asked the bus driver to stop at a public bathroom for a vomit break. And you'd probably make sure that whatever flea-ridden hotel you found along the way had a scale in the bathroom so you could keep track. And another one of your delightful," he practically spits the word out, "cycles would have started, hm?"

"Stop it," you repeat, voice breaking. "I wasn't--I wouldn't have--"

"You were going to," he says simply, interrupting. "Thankfully, we got there in time. Although I'm sure now you will endure a stomach ache after your reckless indulgence. A lesson, perhaps, though not the exact one I would inflict myself."

As if on cue, your stomach rolls and clenches. You’re keenly aware that you’re going to have digestive problems tonight, and the thought of being at his mercy while you’re dealing with them threatens to send you over the edge. Could you get even more disgusting? The thought of how you look right now, stomach no doubt bulging, hair disheveled and damp, covered in ugly bruises and cuts--combined with the fear of spending the night on a toilet sends you over the edge.

You press your knuckles against your mouth and squeeze your eyes shut and try to force the sobs down. Your body begins to tremble, even more so as he lifts your leg. Without warning, he begins to unceremoniously scrub it down with a sponge dipped in disinfectant.

It stings and your eyes feel like they might pop at the sudden pain. You hiss at the feeling of the liquid on your cuts and try to pull away, to no avail. Your legs feel like jelly in his grip.

“That hurts,” you whine.

“It can’t be helped,” he tells you, holding your leg firmly as he scrubs the sore bottom of your feet. Any sensitivity you had there is overruled by the soreness and pain from running, from the stinging aches that remain in your cuts. “I have to clean every cut or you may get an infection.”

He sets your leg down and lifts up the other, and you cringe before he even begins to move. You can’t help but whimper as he scrubs your leg, and the helpless stings of pain only increase when he moves on to your arms.

“Please,” you say, feeling low, nearly flattened. “I can’t… I can’t take this.”

He pauses, and the seemingly genuine concern in his eyes (it’s not, you remind yourself, it’s not--you think of the shop and the pizza place and the old man cutting his wife’s food, that was concern, that was care) has you feeling sorry for yourself.

“The stinging will go away in a few minutes. You chose to run away, you can certainly deal with this minor consequence.” He retains his grip on your upper arm and he swipes the sponge across your shoulders, briefly pushing the fabric aside as he does so. He pauses when he sees the blooming fingerprints on your shoulders, but says nothing. You wonder if those men will survive the night.

There’s a a cut, thin and long, dragging from your collarbone down across your chest. He dips unceremoniously below the gown, touching you in a spot he normally avoids. The feeling of him so close, touching you--not quite on your chest, but close enough--only intensifies your humiliation. You whimper again and try to pull away, but his grip offers no room to move.

“I can’t--” You don’t finish. Your throat is so tight and you hate it, you hate that you can never talk about anything with him, never argue with him without clamming up with tears and a thick throat.

You bring your hands up to your hair, tugging on it until it prickles. Your breath starts to come in short bursts, your chest having as you pull on your hair and will yourself to be anywhere but here. For a flashing moment, you wish you’d never tried to escape. If you didn’t, you’d be getting ready for bed right now. Things would be--not okay. Never okay. But you wouldn’t be here, on this table, cold and stinging and in pain and utterly despondent from having your failures shoved in your face. But then you remember that if he’d never kidnapped you, you wouldn’t have had to try to escape in the first place, and the wish fades.

He remains silent, and instead simply keeps a steady, firm grip on your upper arm until your breath slows, until you can control yourself. Your skin feels at once numb and prickling in anxiety and adrenaline and emotions coursing through you.

Overhaul gives your arm a squeeze that is, perhaps, meant to be reassuring. “Are you suitably recovered?

You nod. Your stomach feels sour. You want to ask if you’re done, if you can just go sleep or get sent (you dread the idea) to solitary confinement or whatever it is he has planned in the wake of your escape. Anything would be better than this room and this soft, thin gown and his bright blue surgical gloves and your failure hanging in the air.

He extends his arm out and you pause for a moment before you grasp it, holding tight as you get off the table and stand on wobbly legs. You’re loathe to touch him, but you’re even more loathe to fall flat on your face on the hard floor.

He speaks before you get a chance to ask if you can change out of the medical gown.

“Now, we’ll go to the bathroom.”

Your knees suddenly feel like they might drop out from under you. “The bathroom?”

He nods, and pulls himself away from your weak grip as he begins walking towards the door. You follow without thinking, pausing when he stops to slide his medical gloves into the trash before slipping on another pair.

“We’re not finished here,” he tells you, and you swear his voice is almost giddy as he turns his head to meet your questioning face. “I told you earlier, we’re going to clean your mouth out.”

He can’t mean--

You take a step back, and your knee buckles. He’s quick--he catches you before you fall, but doesn’t let go. His pulls you upright and pulls you along. Your legs have no choice to walk--walk or be dragged--and you struggle for words as he leads you out of the clinic. Before you know it, you’re back in your room (familiar, warm, the same as it ways this morning) and led swiftly into the attached bathroom.

He pulls you in far enough that he’s able to shut the door behind him, trapping you inside. As if you wouldn’t be trapped by his mere presence. For a moment you wonder if he was bluffing, trying to scare you into submission, but by the time you take another breath he’s running the sink water and tearing into a new box of bar soap.

Your voice catches as you finally speak up. “You--you can’t be serious.”

“What makes you think I’m not serious?” He doesn’t even face you as he speaks. Instead, he turns on the tap and fills a paper cup with water before setting it on the sink’s edge. Next comes the bar of white soap, which grows slick underneath the water. He turns off the tap and lets the excess water drip off, before turning to you, soap bar in hand.

“Open your mouth.”

Your lips press together automatically, and you shake your head. No, no, and no. This isn’t happening.

He sighs, and again the feeling that you’re annoying him creeps under your skin. Why does it bother you that you’re annoying him? It shouldn’t bother you at all, but somehow you feel a pang of regret at how much has changed in less than 24 hours.

“If you don’t open your mouth willingly, I will open it for you.” He takes a step closer, but your legs feel heavy now, rooted to the spot. It isn’t like there’s anywhere you could run, anyway. “I don’t want to do that,” he continues, voice slightly softened. “Cooperate and open your mouth.”

What choice do you have? You could protest, you could argue, you could leap into the bathtub and make him fight for what he wants. You could keep your mouth shut tight and force him to find a solution. But he is stronger than you, in more ways than one, and he would get his way in the end.

So you make the only choice available to you. Your entire mouth shakes and seems to fight against you as you slowly open your lips in compliance. You feel stupid, standing here with your mouth hanging open.

You can’t reflect on the feeling for long, as he wastes no time in shoving the bar inside your open lips. You can’t help but whimper at the intrusion, but he doesn’t let up and begins methodically scrubbing at your tongue. At first, there’s no taste--then the built-up slick of clinical soap makes itself known, and you take advantage of the soap slipping out of your lips to press them together again, denying him entry.

“Open,” he orders, soft and firm.

And you do, heaving your shoulders in an unreleased whimper. What else can you do but listen? He continues to scrub, this time moving the bar into the side of your mouth to scrub at your teeth. The clammy, greasy feeling of soap coating your teeth makes you curl your wide open lips downward. You must look ridiculous, in all respects, lips gaping in an unpleasant frown as your captor mercilessly soaps the inside of your mouth.

“Do you not like the taste?” His eyes glance over at your frown, and the mockery in his tone is more than blatant.

“Uhh-uhh,” you mumble, open-mouthed, shaking your head. The position you’re in--Overhaul scrubbing into your mouth, your shaking body, the dim feeling of your bruises and cuts from earlier--makes you feel so painfully exposed. So painfully helpless.

He hums and rests the soap against your tongue. Before you can attempt to move your tongue, lessen the feeling of the taste of the soap against it, he gives you a command.

“Bite down.”

Your teeth sink into the soft bar, keeping it in place, and your whimpers grow stronger at the humiliating order you’ve just obeyed. Could you sink any lower?

You watch him through tear-brimmed eyes as he moves to stand in front of you. You know what’s coming before he even speaks and when he does, it’s no surprise.

“Have I ever hurt you?”

Back to this, again.

You shake your head, mumble around the soap: “No.”

“Are you capable of being on your own?”

You hesitate, and he merely jumps to another question, one far more pointed.

“Have you held a single job for longer than a year?”

You want to protest, but any attempt at complicated speech is marred by the soap--the weight of it, the taste, and your need to keep it steady in your mouth.

“No,” you admit, hating the feel of the bar as your lips press against it with the effort of speech.

“Would you have been evicted if I didn’t pay off your debts?”

“Yes.” Tears sting at your eyes. You want to wipe them away but you’re afraid you’ll get soap in them, somehow.

“Are you responsible enough with money to hold a job, maintain an apartment, and buy yourself the necessities for life without someone else stepping in?”

The soap somehow tastes even more bitter. “No, I can’t.” Your tongue pushes up against the soap at this, and you resolve to keep it to one-word answers only.

��If we didn’t intercept your little outing, would you have attempted to throw up at that restaurant today?”

You shake your head, but it’s a lie, and you know it’s a lie--and he knows it’s a lie. So you nod, weakly. “Mm-hmm.”

“Have I been feeding you healthy meals? Have I been ensuring that you don’t engage in disgusting self-destructive behaviors?”

He has, but that’s not--your mind wants to argue, but you’re so tired and sick and your stomach hurts and the taste of the soap is too much. So you nod, instead.

He nods in response, and you pray that he’ll take the soap out and end this. Instead, he lifts your chin with a single finger, making you keep eye contact as he speaks.

“Do I take care of you?”

“Yes,” you cry out, your words garbled around the wet soap bar. He releases your chin and it’s these words, this final question, that make you break entirely. Your shoulders ache from bruises as you cry, hunching over slightly and watching as some drool-laden soap droplets fall on the floor. “Yes, yes, yes,” you repeat, mechanically, crying around the bitter soap that’s digging into your front teeth.

Satisfied, he takes hold of the bar and waits for you to release it, then tosses it with ease into the trash. You blubber and spit, only succeeding in releasing a trail of soapy drool down your chin. Your tears are hot and stinging as they roll down your cheeks. You open your mouth, you try to say something, but all that comes out is soft cries punctuated by your attempts to spit out the soapy film.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, bringing a gloved hand up to your cheek and wiping at the tears. “My poor thing. You can’t even speak. You can’t even articulate yourself. How could you ever hope to make it on your own?” His words are soft and cruel and you merely cry harder, humiliated and helpless.

Your throat is sore. Your stomach hurts. You want your warm nightgown on. You want to be in bed. You wish your stomach didn’t hurt so much from eating junk. You wish you weren’t covered in cuts and bruises. You wish you’d just enjoyed the garden and went back inside. You wish you’d never done this at all. You’re so stupid. You’re so stupid.

And you finally say so, all of it, blubbering, bits of soapy drool dribbling out of your mouth as you cry and admit your faults out loud.

After your wrought-out apology dissolves into meaningless whimpers, Overhaul finally grabs the glass of water he set on the edge of the sink, and you gratefully swish the lukewarm liquid with earnest. You lean over the sink and spit, body trembling, then fill the cup again and repeat the gesture again and again to get rid of every bit of white soap stuck in your mouth. Even as you spit, you realize that the taste isn’t going to be completely gone anytime soon--it’s stuck in your mouth like a bad memory.

You jerk when his hands are suddenly on your back, rubber gloves sliding up and down the thin medical gown covering your cold, helpless body. But he merely keeps rubbing, gentle and soothing, while you swish and spit, and cry and cry.

His hands leave your back only to grab a washcloth from the built-in shelves across from the toilet. You watch as he wets the cloth and you stand silently, allowing him to wipe up the drool and soap from your chin, your neck, even a bit on your chest where it dribble-dropped downward.

When you’re all cleaned up, he fills up a cup with mouth wash and silently hands it to you. You gratefully swish it for as long as possible before spitting it into the sink. The soap taste is still there, but lessened somewhat by the overpowering mint of the mouthwash. He gestures to your toothbrush and you pick it up, and begin mechanically brushing your teeth, stopping when the 2-minute timer flashes on the bottom. You instinctively grab your floss without having to be told and make quick work of that, too.

He opens the door to the bathroom, but gestures for you to wait. You do, standing numbly, wishing that he let you have a mirror so you could see your own state. But he doesn’t, and you can’t, and so you wait until he returns with a bundle in his arms.

It’s your pajamas. A soft, pink nightgown--he didn’t pick the soft blue one, tonight, and you’re grateful to avoid any reminders of the medical gown you have on--with matching socks and underwear. You nod and accept the bundle meekly. He turns around and you make quick work of the medical gown, tossing it in the trash yourself before you get dressed for bed.

“M’done,” you mumble, though you quickly realize speaking makes the lingering soap taste stronger. You follow him silently out of the bathroom and into your bedroom, which is just as you left it that morning. The only thing different is you. Subdued, humiliated, helpless.

Overhaul pulls the cover on your bed and you sit down, numb and chastened. You pull your legs up and tuck them under the soft comforter. You’re forcing yourself into the routine you’ve been following for the past few weeks, but the secret thrill you once had of obeying with ulterior movies is no longer there. It’s been replaced by a heavy stillness, the knowledge that you failed in more ways than one. The occasional roll of your stomach reminds you that the night may not be over, bedtime routine be damned.

But you ignore it for now, and you lean your head back on your pillow as he pulls the comforter towards your shoulders, tucking you in. Rather than leave immediately, he sits next to you on the bed, looking down at you with an obsessive, possessive expression in his eyes.

You force down an instinctive flinch when he suddenly begins to stroke the top of your forehead, moving up to pet your hair softly. His gloves are gone. While not completely new, it’s rare--rare enough that the feeling of his bare fingers is still an unusual sensation.

You close your eyes. It usually makes him leave faster. Your heart begins to pound as you hear him stand, as you sense him leaning in, as you feel the ghost of his breath against your face.

“Sweet dreams. We’ll start fresh in the morning.”

What a silly thing to say, you think. Your dreams are never sweet anymore.

#yandere overhaul #yandere chisaki kai #yandere #yandere x reader #overhaul x reader #afterwitch writes #uhh I added 2000 words in between last night and now

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donutloverxo · 4 years

Text

Tainted

*gifs not mine*

Please note that my work is not to be reposted or published anywhere other than my Tumblr or AO3 account without my permission. Reblogs are most welcome though!

Note - this is inspired by a hc @sweater-daddiesdumbdork once wrote me and gave me a frigging murder kink. Life ruiner😡😡

Dividers by @whimsicalrogers

Summary - Steve saves you and plans on never letting you go again.

Warnings - 18+ only, smut(m/f), kidnappings, being held hostage, murder, blood, non descriptive violence, captain kink, slight murder kink.

Pairing - Steve Rogers x reader

Word count - 6.8k

Masterlist is linked in the bio!

One of the most amazing thing about living with you was that Steve never had to come home to an empty house. He was now responsible for you, he’d have to shoot you a text message, he had gotten pretty good at texting, thanks to your guidance, or call you, he definitely liked calling and hearing your voice better. He’ll always be old school.

You’d get that slight waver in your voice as you tried to pretend that you weren’t sad, he could see your cute little pout through the phone. And while he would never want to cause you any sort of pain, knowing that you’d be waiting for him, that you’re missing him when he’s away, made him feel wanted.

That even someone like him deserved love and happiness and a safe, boring life. That may be there was a reason he died only to wake up again in a strange new world.

That wasn’t to say you didn’t come with your own set of challenges. You were messy if anything, leaving clutter everywhere and putting off doing your dishes and laundry for days. Maybe not the most practical but definitely the cutest roommate in the world.

He’d learn to put up with it because it was worth it. Maybe, he could even learn to 'let loose' a little as people always recommended to him.

At first, he couldn’t wait to ask you to marry him. He had even impulsively bought a ring with your birthstone, he knew you were obsessed with them and astrology and maybe even dark magic. But then you surprised him with a date to an old diner and introduced him as your boyfriend to your friends.

He liked your friends quite a lot, he couldn’t really understand what they were talking about half the time. From what he could tell - by their fascination with his muscles and all the touching and squeezing to his biceps, them wanting to hear about his life before the ice - it seemed that they liked him too.

But hearing you call him that, your guy, your boyfriend, your beau, as your friend Stacey had put it, he decided that he wasn’t quite ready to let go of this blissful courting period. He was rushing things.

He needed to live in the moment and just enjoy being your boyfriend for now, he had all the time in the world to wife you up - preferably not to late though.

He was so unbelievably happy, ecstatic to see you, to surprise you, his mission ending a week early he got home as soon as he could. He thought of maybe taking you to Vermont for the weekend, he had never been but Nat told him it’d be a nice little getaway and that you’d love it.

His wide smile slowly fade away as he looked at the state of his door - the latch broken. Forced entry. Somebody broke his door in. He pushed the door wide open and made his way in.

He knew what was to come next but he willed that thought away. Maybe you kicked it in yourself, maybe you forgot your keys. He kept telling himself that because he was terrified of thinking the alternative.

He stepped in as soon as he was able to shake himself out of his haze. Looking at the state of his, and your, apartment. A broken vase, and the coffee table smashed in.

Crouching down to take a closer look he saw some blood on the ceramic. Whoever did this to your home, better hope that it’s wasn’t yours.

He got up, directing his simmering rage towards his new mission. He didn’t panic, not yet, he couldn’t give himself that kind of luxury. His mind coming up with ten different to find you and make the bastards who did this pay.

NOBody can hurt the people he loves, especially his girl, and get away with it.

***

Your eyes fluttered open before scrunching shut to adjust to the harsh fluorescent light. You blinked, looking around you while squinting.

Some sort of empty grey room... a window to the side but it was dark outside. You dress sticking to your skin as your whole body was covered in a sheen of sweat.

Three men in a corner, one for them shouting at the others in a foreign language.

You felt a yip of pain radiating in your arms and then realised they were tied up behind you - strapped to a creaky chair.

You tried to shake free of them, by wiggling your wrists but then winced at the burn it caused, capturing the attention of your kidnappers.

One of them smiled at you, walking towards you.

“Finally awake, are we?” he asked in an abnormally chirpy way. “You were out for quiet some time. Did you sleep well?”

He squatted before you, you could see his face, his cold grey eyes betraying the warm smile that graced his lips. Many white scars littered over his jaw...

And then you remembered.

How you rushed home when you felt someone was following you. Locking the door, you tried to call Steve but couldn’t get through to him.

And then your stalker broke into your home. You tried to smash his head in with a vase but couldn’t really do any real damage. Everything was hazy after that. Maybe he drugged you - you couldn’t recall.

You exhaled shakily when you realised he was watching you both from the corner. You could never forget his dark hoodie and hair. Or fresh cut on his forehead. You had never so much as hurt a fly or even slapped anyone. How you managed to smash his head in you’ll never know.

You looked at the man before you again when you heard him calling out your name, his smile haltered for a moment as he looked back to your stalker.

“I’m sorry about that, he’s a rookie. He’ll be reprimanded soon enough. This wasn’t exactly our plan but we’ve decided to improvise.”

You tried to speak but with your throat and mouth dry and your mind in shock the words wouldn’t come out.

“Oh, that’s alright, don’t struggle. We don’t want anything to do with you, you’re just a normal plain Jane going about your life, aren’t you?”

You could only give him a weak nod, still trying your best to shake yourself free of your bounds without him noticing.

“That’s right. You haven’t done anything wrong, you don’t deserve to have anything bad happen to you, do you?”

You nodded again. Your breath hitched when he got closer to you, in your face, his hands planted on your bare thighs with your skirt pooled just below your hips.

“But we don’t always get what we deserve. You’re close to the Captain, that’s right Michael’s told me all about how taken he is with you. I mean... I never would’ve imagined Captain America would pick someone like you but to each their own,” he cupped your cheek, the cracks in his palm harsh against your soft skin.

“What do you want?” you asked, not looking away from him.

“I want justice. For things to be in the right order. You’ll have to suffer for it, but know that it’s for a good cause.”

“You’re wrong,” you shook your head, “he’ll come for me.”

“We’re counting on that,” he snickered.

You’re not sure what came over you, all you knew was that you wanted his disgusting hands off of you, “He’ll come for me, and then you’ll regret ever touching me.”

“Uh, I don’t know about this,” you pulled on a thread from your skirt with your right hand, your other hand in Steve’s as he held onto your waist, pulling you into his side. “It’ll be inside me?” you shuddered.

“Yes, but,” Bruce scratched his head, he was adorable like that. You never would’ve imagined him to be the hulk, a 'rage monster’. “it’s not as bad as you think. You won’t even feel it. All shield agents and Avengers have one. Except Thor, because that wouldn’t be of any use. The radius is only on earths surface. You would’ve thought that would be enough,” he chuckled.

You pressed your lips in a thin line, looking at the chip, smaller than an acrylic nail, watching Bruce load it up.

“I know it’s not ideal, doll. But I’ll feel much better knowing I can find you, in case something goes wrong.” He kissed your temple, as you braced yourself.

“Will it hurt?” you gulped as Bruce lined the shooter or gun, by the looks of it, to your forearm.

“Just a little. You’ll barely feel it.” He gave you a sympathetic smile.

“Look at me, pup,” Steve gripped your chin, moving your head till you looked into his blue eyes, he pressed his lips to yours, massaging your tongue with his to distract you.

“Mm,” you winced and moaned into his mouth when you felt the piercing pain. It was like getting a flu shot but you had never having been a huge fan of needles either.

He released his hold on you as Bruce worked on cleaning your the blood seeping through your pierced skin. “You did good.” Steve said.

“Do I get a sucker?” You asked Bruce and he chuckled - as if you were joking, you do not joke about candy, “No I really want one.”

“Let’s keep this between us.” Steve told you both.

“Of course,” Bruce nodded, “I can keep tracker dormant till we need it but are you sure?”

“I’m not sure who I can trust.” But he knew he could trust his teammates.

You sniffled, keeping your tears at bay because really something so little shouldn’t make you cry, rubbing your hand over your wounded bicep as Bruce handed you some gummy bears.

“They’re Tony’s. He leaves snacks everywhere, it’s annoying.”

“Thank you.” You blinked up at him and offered some to Steve.

You never thought you’d need it. Until now, you were sure your friends or your mother would notice that you’ve been gone and Steve will find out and track you down. You knew he would. He had to.

He frowned, his nails digging into your cheekbones, pluckering your lips, “Where’s all that confidence coming from?” he quirked a curious brow up, “He’ll walk right in and pay for everything he’s done,” he snorted.

“You’re way underprepared to take someone like him on,” shut up, shut up, shut up, why the fuck are you egging him on? “He’s strong, he’s a survivor.” Even without the serum, he survived an abusive household, being bullied, being sick, and you knew how protective he could be. To the point where it was downright irritating.

“We’ve got all the time in the world to prepare, you should be worrying about yourself,” he spat.

You had always been bold, even in the most inappropriate of situations. Like when you lectured a boy for over an hour on respecting boundaries for throwing spitballs at you, in kindergarten. Steve even said that he fell for that ‘spunk' in you.

‘Well-behaved women rarely make history’ your mother had told you.

And really, you liked that about yourself as well. You liked that you found a man that would encourage that side of you instead of calling you ‘difficult’ or ‘bossy’.

However, you immediately regretted everything you had said. Not because it was untrue, but because your captor took out a sharp pocket knife, a dark glint in his eyes.

“We only need you alive,” he said as you gulped, “I suppose, it wouldn’t matter if you’re missing a finger or two.”

You frantically shook your head, choking on a sob. “No,” you pleaded, “you’ll... he will find me and you will - ”

“Go to prison at best. It’s a risk we’re all willing to take,” he put the blunt end of the knife against your cheek, “We have to do something to kill the time.”

You couldn’t breath, your heart hammering in your chest, what if he doesn’t come for you? You won’t be able to do anything about it. It wasn’t like you could protect yourself, at least in this situation, all you could do was wait for him.

You shut your eyes, and braced yourself for the pain. Except... it never came, you simply heard someone fall down, some sort of clattering sound.

Upon opening your eyes you saw one of his friends face down before your in the corner, the other guy, your lovely stalker, drawing out his gun, looking at the only window to your left. You swore you a saw a glimpse of a flying disk knocking your stalker out.

The man before you cursed under his breath, “Get. Up. Come on!” he ordered.

“Yeah, if I could do that I probably would’ve,” you snarked, still trying to get your aching wrists free.

You barely even registered - who could only be your Captain - sneaking up behind him, snapping his neck with his hands in a matter of seconds. He collapsed on the ground and you could finally see Steve.

His clenched jaw and cold eyes softened up on seeing you, you couldn’t help but let out a sob as you realised you were going to be free.

“You’re okay, sweetheart, it’s okay,” he soothed you, kissing your forehead before swiftly free your hands.

You stood up on wobbly legs, holding onto his arms for support, “Steve,” you breathed out, “you came for me.”

“Of course I did,” he sighed, gently pushing your face against his chest as he hugged you close to him. “As if I’d ever abandon you,” he smoothed a hand over your back and decided to not dwell on your comment. This wasn’t about him, you were in shock.

“I was so scared,” you sniffled, “he said, he - ” you couldn’t even finish your sentence as you broke down in a fit of sobs and hiccups.

“You’re safe now,” he promised.

“You - did you kill him?” you pushed away from him to look up at his face so you could take him in.

You had never seen him in his uniform. Only ever seeing him on the news but he had his cowl on and a suit that was much more on brand for ‘Captain America’ than the darker one he had on now. It made him look bigger - if that was even possible. Bigger than the shield now strapped to his back.

His usually clean shaven face had the faintest shadow to it while his hair was slicked back. He looked beautiful, so soft and innocent, definitely not someone who’s capable of hurting anyone.

“He hurt you,” he replied, bringing your hand up to his lips and kissing your bruised wrists, “and so many others, he got what was coming to him.”

“You knew him?”

“Yes. He got away the last time we tried to catch him - but we don’t have to talk about that right now. Are you hurt anywhere else?”

You shook your head, “No, I’m just thirsty and I really want to lay down,” you murmured, resting your head on the star in the middle of his chest.

He pressed a hand to his ear, letting his team know that he had found you. You vaguely saw agents clad in black gear storm the room.

“We did a sweep of the place. No one else is here,” Natasha said. “How you doing?” and then frowned when you didn’t respond.

“She’s tired. It’s okay, love,” he kissed your temple, snaking a hand under your knees and picking you up with ease.

You weakly nodded, wrapping your hands around his neck, glad to be babied by him because you didn’t have the strength to stand.

“They didn’t give you anything to eat?” Nat scoffed as you shook your head.

“How long have I been here?” you looked at Steve, struggling to stay awake.

“A day and a half. We’ll get you fixed up,” he swore, carrying you towards the quinget.

“Where are we?” you nuzzled your nose against the rough kevlar of his suit.

“Bermuda,” he said.

“Oo, I’ve always wanted to come here... just maybe not like this,” you chuckled but Steve didn’t find it all that amusing. You cupped his cheek in your palm, hoping to maybe calm him down a bit before falling asleep.

***

You vaguely heard a familiar voice calling out your name, you’d recognise it anywhere, it was one of your favorites, one you’d known your entire life.

“Mom?” you muttered, opening your eyes and looking around the room to look for her. You smiled when you saw her sitting on a chair just beside your bed, the faint, annoying beeping told you that you were probably in a hospital.

“Hey there, honey,” she smiled back at you, her eyes misty as she pressed her lips to your cheek. “Do you have any idea how much you scared me?”

“I’m sorry,” you tried to sit up as she fluffed your pillow up to support you. “I was... um... kidnapped.” Saying it out loud made it feel so ridiculous. Never in your wildest dreams would you have thought.

“Yes, Steve filled us in on everything. So, Captain America, huh?” she raised her brows.

“Yeah,” you chuckled nervously. Doing a once over to your large, mostly white room to look for him. He wouldn’t just up and leave you, would he?

“How long has it been going on?” she asked.

“Um, three or four months?” you winced when you realised just how much trouble you were in.

“And, you live with him. Linda filled us in on everything. You’re quitting your job too now.”

“It’s - it’s not as bad as it sounds...”

“Never mind that, you need to rest. Then you won’t have to worry about all this. I’m taking you home with me. And you’re never coming back here again.”

“What? No! I still have over two years of school left.”

“You can do it online! You can find just as a good a job in Queens.”

“No! I’m not coming,” you whined.

“Well, you’re not living with a man you barely know either.”

You were interrupted by a knock on the door. A doctor entering, apologising for disturbing you and Steve right behind her. He still hadn’t changed out of his suit.

He stood at the end of your bed, squeezing your foot to let you know he was there for you as your mother glared daggers at him.

“Looks like you’re doing good. Blood sugars back to normal as well...” the doctor said, “You’re free to go home.”

“Really?” you smiled. So done with everything. Sleeping in your own bed sounded like heaven.

“Yes, let us know if you need anything.” She looked over your chart again and then left.

“Good then, you can come home now.”

“No! I’m going to my apartment in Manhattan, the one I share with Steve.” You rolled your eyes. Pleading Steve to back you up with your eyes.

He cleared his throat, “Um, ma'am, you can come stay with us, if you like.”

He held your mothers gaze, to let her know that he was serious and earnest.

He knew he wasn’t perfect by any means. He had a million flaws and cuts that ran deeper than anybody would ever know but he always thought, or maybe arrogantly assumed, that if nothing else he was someone ‘you take home to mama’ as Clint had once put it. He thought that your parents, like most, would like him. That he’d easily get their blessing to be with their daughter. He was known to be America’s golden boy after all.

But your mother had ripped him a new one as soon as she saw him. Accusing him of abusing his power to woo you. That you were here because of him. That he’s not worthy of you.

And all he could do was stand there and take it because everything she had said was the truth. He didn’t deserve you, you were captured and possibly traumatised because of him.

At the same time, he couldn’t just let you go. Not till he gets to the bottom of who had hurt you and makes sure that you’re safe from now on.

“No, thank you.” She scoffed, looking back at you and shaking her head. “What are you doing with your life?”

“I’ve made a lot of mistakes but being with Steve definitely isn’t one,” you looked over to him, he looked just as tired as you, “I just want to go home. My home with Steve.”

“Fine, I’ve always let you make your own decisions.” she sighed, finally giving in.

“And I’ve never disappointed you.”

“That’s debatable,” she snorted, “I’ll come check on you tomorrow then. Maybe send me your address. You know? Something you should’ve done months ago.” She returned to glaring at Steve.

“I’ve only been living with him for a month!” you tried to defend yourself.

***

“I can take off my own clothes, Stevie,” you giggled, him kneeling before you to help you out of the sweets the med bay gave you. Your dress was dirty and ragged now. “I really liked that dress though. I don’t have many like it. You think we can get it back?”

“Maybe, I’ll see what I can do, doll,” he kissed your bare thigh before rolling your panties down your legs.

“You’re kinda dirty too,” you remarked, sniffing him. He didn’t smell bad, as if Steve would ever smell bad to you. Just a bit of gunpowder, like that of firecrackers, a bit pungent instead of his normal piney and woodsy scent.

“Thank you,” he deadpanned before cracking a smile, “I was just excited to see you. Or I would’ve showered before coming home and then I didn’t get a chance to.”

He worked on unbuttoning your shirt He insisted on you getting a button up instead of a t-shirt considering how sore your arms were from being toed up for so long. Tied up... like an animal.

“Hey,” you whispered softly, caressing his cheek, “come back to me.”

“Sorry, I’m just... I don’t know,” he shook his head. He couldn’t let you know the guilt and despair he felt, you’d end up comforting him instead of the other way around. “It’s just been a long day.”

“Yeah. Still can’t believe any of this was real.” Running your hands up and down his suit, the feel of the material almost soothing to touch. “You wanna shower with me?”

“Don’t know, doll. That showers pretty small.”

He did have a pretty generous salary but opted to live in a more modest apartment, he never took more than he needed anyway, with a small shower. Not too small, but definitely not big enough for you both.

“We’ll make do, come on. I’ll make you squeaky clean.”

He took over ten minutes to get rid of the suit. You watched intently as he removed more latches than you could count.

“Is it bulletproof?” you wanted to know.

“Yes. But probably not as good as a vest. I’ve never been shot so I wouldn’t know.” He answered, taking off his undershirt.

“It’s funny because I always thought y’all were naked under there,” you chuckled, and then your jaw dropped as he took off his briefs.

You had never seen his cock while it was soft before. He was always more than excited when you got to him. It was amazing how pretty he looked either way.

“You and so many other people,” he almost shuddered at the thought of having been asked the same question so many times.

After making sure the water was hot enough, you both stood under it.

You took some of the lavender wash you had bought from lush, squeezing it on your sponge. Steve, bless him, was amazing at so many things. Shopping - it seemed was not one of them. All he had in his bathroom was a bar of soap, one toothbrush and a vintage straight razor.

Which just won’t do for you, so you took it upon yourself to stock the whole place up with your favorite stuff. The lavender being Steve’s favorite, you remembered how flustered you got when he told you that you smelled good. And then tried to explain that you always smell good while turning redder than a tomato.

You did his front, asking him to bent his neck a bit so you could wash his hair because he was almost a foot taller than you. You were about to do his legs, you’d take any excuse to feel up his thick thighs but he told you he’d do the rest himself.

Taking the sponge from you, he ran it under some water, working on cleaning you thoroughly. Under your arms, your breasts, your stomach, between your legs and then your legs.

You were the most beautiful woman he had ever seen - he knew that since the moment he had met you. But something about washing you up like that felt so intimate even though there was nothing erotic about it.

After washing you thoroughly he wrapped you up in a towel, “My cute lil' burrito,” he booped your nose.

You puffed your cheeks out, you weren’t sure if you liked that nickname. Observing just how gentle he was with you, helping you into a cotton nightie, as opposed to drying himself off hastily and carelessly before pulling some sweats and briefs on.

“Don’t wear a shirt,” you pleaded, he looked amazing shirtless, but that wasn’t the only reason, you really liked feeling his skin on hours, pressing kissing on his perfect, smooth, golden skin, ”pretty please.” Right now, he’d give you anything you wanted and you intended on milking that as much as you can.

“Alright, doll,” he replied, pulling you up in his arms again as if you were his bride, as you giggled so sweetly, “now, what would you like to eat? No take out, it has to be healthy. And remember my culinary skills are limited,” he said, carrying you to the living room and putting you on the couch as he started working in the kitchen.

“Stevie, I’m not hungry. Well, that’s not true, I’d like some ice cream,” fluttering your lashes at him, “Mint chocolate chip? I’m pretty sure we have some.”

“Of course, puppy,” you smiled, at the prospect of getting a sweet treat and the nickname, “as soon as you eat something.” He added and you huffed in annoyance.

He whipped up a sandwich for you, two for him because he was starving, some peach iced tea so you wouldn’t eat his ear off while complaining.

You only picked at your food, giving more than half of it to him. You truly didn’t feel like eating, instead craving some cuddles with him.

You tried striking up a conversation with him multiple times. Not because you didn’t like silence. You did when it came to him, you could go hours without talking and it would feel so serene and perfect. You never had to talk just for the sake of it when you were with him.

But you had come to read Steve pretty well. He seemed distant and closed off. The air around you both thick with tension. You tried to ease it while telling him about how brave you were while quitting and didn’t cry at all, how Tony dropped by and was apparently stalking you - which was a bad idea because it seemed to make him angry, clench his jaw tight, his brows furrowed as he placed your plates in the sink.

Unsure if you had done something wrong or were mean to Tony, who was technically his boss, you twiddled with your fingers, “Um... I - I’m sorry,” you stuttered, trying to hold back tears. Spending the night at your mom’s house sounded like the better choice now.

“Hm?” he looked back at you, he could do the dishes tomorrow, “what for?”

“I shouldn’t have been snarky with Tony. I know he’s your boss and all that but he’s kinda cocky... And I got really mad when I found out he did like a ‘background check' on me. I mean I get why he would but still. I can apologize to him.”

“No no,” he shook his head, kneeling before you, taking your hands in his, “you misunderstood, love. I’m not mad at you, I could never REALLY be mad at you. It’s Tony I’m angry with, he went behind my back, ambushed you at work.”

“To be fair, you did the same when you asked me out,” you snickered as a blush crept up his neck.

“Right.” He finally cracked a genuine smile placing feather light kisses on your knuckles and the to the bandages on your hands.

“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” you asked, running your hands through his hair, scratching his scalp lightly with your nails.

“It’s probably better if we don’t talk about it,” he said, laying his head on your lap. Your slight scratching massaging his never-resting head.

“I think we should. My mom said I don’t know you. And to some extent, she is right. I don’t. Maybe I’m just imagining things but... sometimes it feels like you’re holding back.”

He gathered enough courage to look up at you, your almond shaped eyes looking down at his and he knew that he could talk to you about anything. He did. But there will always be that little voice that tells him that he shouldn’t. He would only trouble you.

“Don’t you pride yourself on being honest?” you caressed his scratchy cheek.

He snorted. He really was dense enough to think he was the perfect son-in-law package.

“I just, the way you looked at me, when I killed that man, I’m afraid that you’re scared of me now. That’s the last thing I want. It’s my worst nightmare really.” He leant into your touch.

“Steve, that wasn’t because I’m scare of you. It was because I’m fond of you. You were so strong and brave and you saved me. I liked being the damsel in distress more than I thought,” He chuckled at that, his doubts a bit relieved, “that’s... not all though.” You murmured.

“What is it?” he wanted to know.

“You, um, the fact that you would do that for me... it’s just. I never thought anyone would love me that much.”

“I only regret doing it in front of you. I’m sorry you had to see that or go through any of that.”

“I’m not a child, Steve,” you rolled your eyes.

“Of course not, but you’re you. You’re pure and an angel. I - I’m tainted - tainted by blood, tainted by war - ”

“Steve, that’s not true. You’re not, you’re the pure-est person I know. War and - that doesn’t define you.”

“You wouldn’t feel that way if you knew about all the things I have done, sweetheart.” The sweet nickname he had for you, which now he used in a patronising tone, “I let my best friend die. And I couldn’t do anything about it.”

“What’re you talking about?” you frowned. You heard about Bucky from him and your history textbooks but you don’t remember reading anything like that.

“It’s... something I’m not ready to get into.” He put his forehead on your knee. He knew you loved him but there was only so much baggage you would be willing to accept.

“Okay. You can take your time and tell me if and when you’re ready, baby.” You went back to idly playing with his, “But I need you to know that I love you. Nothing you could ever say will change that. To think that... for a second I thought that you wouldn’t come for me.”

He snapped his head back up, “What?”

“I thought, that you’d be busy with your mission. You wouldn’t even find out I was missing or... you just wouldn’t care enough to come yourself. I mean, I knew you would come, obviously. But you have other more important work...”

“No,” he shook his head, “How could you ever think anything's more important to me than you and your life?”

“Yeah, I was being stupid.”

“You can be a bit silly sometimes, doll.” He nuzzled your tummy, making you giggle. “I’m never letting you out of my sight again. I was so scared I’d never see you again,” he confessed against your nightgown.

“That’d be a bit hard to do. Keeping an eye on me like that. But if it means I get to spend more time with you then I’m down.”

You convinced Steve to let you have some ice cream. He only let you have half a scope, telling you that you’d have trouble sleeping otherwise.

“I’ve been sleeping for most of the last two days.” You tried to argue but it was hard to change his mind once he had it set on something.

You both brushed your teeth together and he stared at you as you went about your night-time skincare routine.

Cleanse, serum, moisturize, sleep mask.

All he did was wash his face and he still looked fucking perfect.

He stayed true to his word, sticking by your side to the point where you had to kick him outside to have some privacy to pee in peace. He was right there waiting for you when you opened the door.

Finally, you were in your cosy bed. Light’s off and cuddled tight with your boyfriend. Your stuffed unicorn and your Captain America plushie to your other side.

With your legs tangled together, you rubbed your feet up and down his legs. Which were unfortunately covered with his sweats.

“Steve,” you whined.

“Yes?”

“Take off these damn pants. They’re hurting my skin. So friggin' prickly.”

“Sorry, doll. I know how precious your skin is.” He sounded like he was mocking you but he followed, pushing his pants away.

“Good?” he asked holding you close to him again.

“Mm-hm,” you hummed against his naked chest. “Let’s sleep like this everyday, please.”

“Sure.” He replied. He liked being a ‘human furnace' for you.

He wasn’t going to fall asleep. Not after everything that happened. He hadn’t slept well in the past week but he was afraid that if he’d shut his eyes for a single moment and you’d be gone. This time, he wouldn’t be lucky enough to find you.

He hadn’t been to crunch or even prayed in a while. Losing his faith a long time ago after all the terrible things he had seen. But he had prayed when he came back found his home to be wreck. He prayed that you’d come back to him because there were some things he just could not control. Nobody could.

After a while he lowly whispered your name. “Are you awake?” he asked.

It was silly but he missed you. Even though you were laying right next to him in his arms - the safest place you could be.

“Yeah. I can’t sleep. Even though I’m so tired.” You yawned. “You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“You sure?” You snorted. “You’re not a good liar, Steven.”

“Can I ask you something? And you can say no if you want I won’t mind.”

“Sure, shoot.”

“Can I, um, have you? I just need to feel you, sweetheart. After everything – I need to know you’re really here.” he was cut off by your lips crashing on his.

You winced when your teeth clamped together but he soothed your upper lip by nipping at it with his tongue.

“Steve,” you panted as he broke awake, shifting under the sheets and pushing the helm of your gown up.

He placed quick open mouthed kisses all over your thighs, over your stretch marks, spreading your thighs further to accommodate his broad shoulders, he made sure to check in with you again.

All you did was push his head towards your heat, begging him to eat your pussy - as if he needed to be told twice.

Swirling and spreading your glistening juices of arousal around your weeping lips, he dove in for his prize. Drawing patterns on your bundle of nerves before sucking at it harshly, he plunged his tongue inside. Lacing his fingers with yours and pinning your hands down by your hips.

You kept desperately pushing your hips up, wanting more. Arching your back up and holding onto his hands tightly as he lightly grazed his teeth over your clit.

“Say my name, sweetheart,” he demanded against your heat, the vibrations sending jolts of pleasure up your spine.

Your orgasm washing over you in waves, electrifying every nerve in your body as you clamped your legs around his head, holding onto him.

He kept lapping you up through it, taking everything you’d give him.

He loved worshipping you - spending as much time as he could between your legs - because you were his goddess but right now, he just needed to feel you.

He climbed up the bed, hovering over you, he pushed two thick fingers inside you mouth till the second knuckle.

“Get them nice and wet, doll.” He instructed.

You moaned around him, making loud suckling noises, “Yesh, Captain,” it came out muffled, what with your mouth full.

“Captain?” he smirked. You had only ever called him that as a joke, he never knew being called that in a salacious way could stroke a fire inside him. Making him them painfully hard in the confines of his tight briefs. He pulled his fingers out of you, pushing his hand down till it was between your legs. Nudging your entrance with them.

“Sorry, it slipped out.” You were too unabashed to feel guilty.

He scoffed, “Say it again.”

Pushing his fingers inside you. Pumping them at a fast pace before you even had a second to think. It was desperate and fast so unlike how it is usually between you both. He needed to be inside you but your needs would always come before his.

“Captain,” you mewled, chewing on your lower lip and holding onto his face. You couldn’t see him clearly in the dark but you still need to look at him. “I told them my Captain would come for me. And you did...” he swallowed your screams with his mouth as you clenched around his fingers.

“That’s right,” he groaned, sucking your slick off of his fingers, “I’ll always protect you. I’ll do anything for you.”

Shaky fingers working on taking his cock out of the hard confines of his uncomfortable underwear. He didn’t waste a single second before sinking inside you, as deep as he could. He moaned into your neck, “So fucking tight, doll. Like you were made for me,” he bit your neck.

Drawing his hips back he thrusted inside you, brushing against your g-spot, making you keen.

He stopped immediately, propping himself up on his elbows he looked down at your hooded eyes. “You alright, sweetheart?”

You nodded, “Yes, it’s just so good,” as if to prove it you clenched around his length, to make him feel all of you just as he was doing to you.

He groaned at that, his balls already tightening, aching for release, “What’s the safe word?”

“Mm... buttercream.”

“That’s right, good girl,” he cooed as you whimpered at his praise as he withdrew his hips again, loving you in a slow soft way.

Pushing your gown up till it was above your breasts - he didn’t really have the patience to properly take it off. He sucked a spot just above your breast, so you’d remember his love every time you looked at it. Your nipples pebbled and goose bumps painted your skin, with your cunt tight around him he knew you were close.

Wrapping his mouth around one bud, He pulled and pinched at the other. He stopped his ministrations, he needed to look at you as you climaxed. To know that you needed him at least half as much as he needed you.

Your face scrunched up as you met your bliss, your nails drawing blood from shoulders - not that he cared in the slightest.

His hips retracting and thrusting as he lost all sense of rhythm and finesse chasing his end as you laid boneless beneath him. He kept fucking into you, filling you to the brim.

He heaved above you, making sure not to collapse on top of you. Reluctantly he pulled himself out of you.

Pulling you close to him, his lips pressed up against the crown of your head, he whispered sweet nothings to you. “My brave girl.” He kissed the tip of your nose. “You’re so strong, sweetheart.”

“Stronger than the hulk?”

“Yes, definitely,” he replied, tracing the bandages wrapped around your wrists. “Now try to get some sleep.”

“Oh, I’ll sleep alright. Thanks to you.” You giggled.

***

tags will be in the reblog.

this was my longest fic!i know it wasnt the best conclusion to something i drew outover 4 chapters but its the best i could do. sorry for weird format tumblrs mad i had too much fun lol. comments and reblogs are really appreciated!!

#the donut series #steve rogers x reader #chris evans x reader #steve x reader #captain america x reader #steve rogers x you #marvel x reader #avengers x reader #berry writes

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ghostbustermelanieking · 3 years

Note

Number 17 (kissing to hide from bad guys) for the fic prompts? Bonus points if it's from one of the earlier seasons (maybe when they're still actively researching statements?) but the choice is entirely yours

so this is set in s3, sometime after 102. (possibly an au... who's to say!!) as such, warning for references to jon's kidnapping in 101, and scenes of people think they might be taken/killed/etc.

17. Needing to kiss to hide from bad guys

" Here, " Jon whispers in a panic in Martin's ear, and pulls him abruptly towards a shadowy spot in an alley. Martin goes along immediately, pressing towards the wall while also trying to push himself in front of Jon. Jon's breathing is sharp and frantic, his hand tight where it's clutching at Martin's arm, and the footsteps of their pursuers are still echoing slowly down the street.

This was meant to be a work trip—or whatever passes for that these days. Another attempt to locate the ritual site for the Unknowing. Elias had suggested Jon go, and Martin hadn't wanted him to go alone. That's the last thing Jon needs, after everything, after being held captive for a month… Martin hadn't been willing to risk it, the possibility of Jon being taken again.

It wasn't supposed to be dangerous, Elias had said. Just a simple scouting, it probably wasn't the site in the first place, the Stranger might not even be there, surely the fact that Jon had escaped so easily meant they wouldn't come after him again…

This is clearly not true. They'd been spotted, inside the warehouse where they'd been searching. Martin can remember the moment with a shocking clarity: Jon's sharp intake of breath as he'd reached out to grab Martin's arm, his nails digging frantically into Martin's skin, the slow way Martin had looked up and seen it. Them. Things that looked wrong, inhuman, in a way that Martin can't even describe.

They've come after them. Followed them out of the warehouse, onto the street, and of course no one is around to see them, and Martin knows they should've gone for the rental car, should've immediately gone for the rental car, but they'd taken some wrong turns, frantic to get away from the blank-faced figures (the cheery voice calling for the Archivist and asking about his skin, and Martin is going to throw up). And now they're here, hiding in some alley while these things pretending to be human are searching for them, coming for Jon all over again.

Jon's breathing has gone shaky. He's pulling at Martin's arm like they can get any further into the wall. Martin's got an arm in front of Jon, like they're in a car about to crash, and he's staring out at the alley, waiting for those things to catch up, and he says the first thing he can think of, in a whisper: "I-I won't let them take you again."

Jon's breathing goes tighter somehow. "Martin, you can't… "

"I'm not going to let them take you, Jon!" Martin hisses, his voice pitching too high for a moment. Jon squeezes his arm frantically and he backtracks, quieter: " Sorry, sorry, it's just… I'm not letting that happen to you again!"

"They'd kill you," Jon whispers. "They wouldn't hesitate , Martin, and I am not… I am not losing anyone else!"

The footsteps echo closer; the echoing sing-song-y voice comes again, calling for Jon. Panic slices through Martin like a knife and he presses closer, as if physically shielding Jon will do a damn thing. (Maybe it will. You never know; maybe it will.) "W-we should run for the car," he says. (Although at the moment he has absolutely no idea where they parked it.)

"We'll never make it," Jon murmurs. Martin turns a little in time to see Jon, who's staring off into the distance with wide, haunted eyes. "We need to hide. "

Martin looks back towards the street, at the approaching shadows. "I'll distract them," he says—one last ditch effort to at least get Jon to safety. "A-and you run."

"What? No. Martin." Jon's voice is pressing now; his hand slips from Martin's arm down to Martin's hand, intertwining their fingers. Martin looks back, startled, and finds Jon staring at him nervously. "Martin, do you trust me?" he says, voice wavering.

Martin blinks a few rapid times. "Wh-what?" he says, caught off guard; he holds tighter to Jon's hand, suddenly worried that Jon is going to run out and distract them so Martin won't have to.

Jon exhales frustratedly. "It's just that… I have an idea of how we could hide, and i-it's a little unusual, and stupid, a-and so I wanted your… to make sure you are all right with it first…"

The voice is getting closer. Panic snaps through Martin, and he hisses frantically, "Yes, whatever, it's fine, j-just do it before…"

Jon lets go of Martin's hand and moves, in a flash, to cup the side of his face, both hands, and Martin only has a moment to wonder what the hell is going on before Jon rises on tiptoes, pulls Martin down a bit, and kisses him.

Martin's brain shorts out for a moment—stuck between the marvel of him kissing Jon, Jon kissing him—and the panic of the fact that they're being chased by mannequin-things that will probably skin them. He makes a muffled, startled sound into Jon's mouth. Jon's hands are trembling on his face.

Then the pieces start to slide together—Jon's doing that movie bit, where you kiss to hide from the bad guys. Quite possibly ridiculous, but it's something, something more than one of them being bait. (And to be entirely ridiculous for a moment… if they're both about to die, Martin's glad he's gotten to kiss Jon before he's done it.) So Martin plays along. He leans down and turns them a bit, so Jon's in the corner between the Dumpster and the wall, and his back is blocking the both of them from view; he'll look more inconspicuous than Jon will.

And then he kisses Jon back. Tentatively, at first (just because you kiss someone to hide from monsters or whatever doesn't mean you actually want to kiss them), and then a little deeper. The way he's wanted to kiss Jon this whole time, as long as he's ever thought about it. He brings a hand to Jon's face, too, thinking to hide it from the Stranger. Pushes a little bit of hair behind Jon's ear. Jon leans into the touch; his right thumb moves, slowly, over Martin's cheek, and Martin has to hold back something that might be a sob. He leans closer, their foreheads almost touching, trying to focus on the fact that there are things trying to kill them, and not just on the fast that he is kissing Jon…

Jon breaks away abruptly. Pulls back just far enough that their mouths aren't touching anymore—his hands still on Martin's face—and says, "I… Martin, I-I think they're gone now." He is breathing hard, his eyes darting over Martin's shoulder and then back.

Martin is probably breathing hard too. He is drawing a blank; his hand is still in Jon's hair. "They're… they're gone?" he says, still in a whisper. His voice is shaking, he thinks.

"Yes… yes, they're gone now." Jon looks right at him, his dark eyes huge in the dim light of the alley. "Martin… Martin, I am so… "

"Car," says Martin. It is the first word he comes up with—they need to go, there are still things trying to kill them, and they can't just stand around talking when… He grabs Jon's hand where it's lowering, somewhere around his neck, and squeezes urgently. "Jon, car, we need to go… "

" Christ, I forgot, I…" Jon shakes his head hard and moves with Martin towards the opposite end of the alley. He doesn't let go of Martin's hand, all the way to the car, where they've left it two blocks away. Martin climbs immediately in the driver's seat, and turns the key, and drives off without hesitation, too fast to even buckle his seatbelt.

There is silence in the car for a moment, as they drive away. Martin grips the wheel hard and stares straight out of the front window, unsure of what the hell to say. (Unsure whether to say Thank you for coming up with a plan to save our lives, or You just kissed me in an alley, maybe we should talk about this? or I've been in love with you for about a year now, and I guess you beat me to the punch, except I don't know if you actually MEANT it. ) But in the end, it's Jon who breaks the silence—to say, in a tight, rigid voice, "Martin, I am so sorry."

Martin's hands actually tighten around the wheel somehow. "Wh-what?" he says, uncertain. "What do you mean… Jon, you saved us."

"Th-that was entirely unprofessional, I… I shouldn't have kissed you like that, I just… I-I was afraid they'd find us, and it was all I could think of, and I just…" Jon's blushing. Martin can see it out of the corner of his eye. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that."

Martin takes a shaky breath. He must be blushing, too, he thinks; his face and neck feel like they're on fire. He says, "You don't have to be sorry," just as Jon says, "I-I didn't want to go back." Martin's mouth shuts like a trap as Jon keeps talking: "I… if I went back, I think they would have… and I didn't want… and I thought if they took you… th-they would've killed you, Martin, and I wouldn't… I didn't…"

"It's okay , Jon," Martin blurts, and as soon as he says it, he finds he means it. "It is. I… I was scared, too."

"I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have brought you, Martin, I should've left you at home…"

"Did you forget the part where I insisted on coming?" Martin laughs a little. "I… I'm glad you weren't here alone, Jon. I didn't want them to take you again. I…" He swallows hard, stares out at the road in front of him. One of his hands falls away from the wheel, towards the center console. "Please don't say you wish I hadn't been here. Please."

Jon's quiet for a moment. The only sound is the tires chewing up the road beneath them, before he finally says, "Still. I-I never should have kissed you, Martin. I am so… "

"Jon, you don't… y-you don't need to apologize, okay? You don't, " says Martin. "It's okay, it's fine, it was… I-I didn't mind, all right? You don't need to apologize."

"I… I should have clarified. I didn't really ask before I…"

" Jon. Please, it's okay. " Martin reaches for something else to say, and all he can come up with is: "I have had much worse kisses, okay? Much worse."

Jon laughs, a laugh sharp with surprise. After a moment, Martin laughs, too. This whole night has been so absurd. They were chased by some mannequins or whatever, they had to run for their lives, and Jon kissed him, and he kissed Jon, and they're alive. It's pretty hilarious, if you think about it for more than five minutes. It's about as absurd as anything else they've been through in the past year. He'd take this all over being trapped by worms.

"I… I have, too, actually," says Jon, finally, after they've stopped laughing. " Much worse. You're not…" He stops, makes a strangled noise like he's embarrassed or something, before going on. "Th-thank you, Martin. Really."

Martin chews at his lower lip. "Thank you, " he says. "For… for getting us out of there."

Jon takes a shaky breath. His fingers brush over Martin's free hand, where it's resting over the center console; Martin tenses all over, automatically, but Jon doesn't take it. Just brushes his fingers there. Martin thinks of Jon's expression before he leaned up to kiss him, Jon's fingers against his cheeks.

"I… I should've left you at home," Jon says, almost reluctantly. "But I'm… glad you came with me, Martin. I'm glad you're with me."

Martin swallows hard. Bites back a small smile. He'd meant it, when he kissed Jon back; he wishes he could tell Jon he meant it. (He could, he supposes. Nothing stopping him. He wonders what Jon would say back.)

But what he says is, "I am, too," because it's a sort of a confession, and he means it, too, as much as the kiss. Even with the almost dying, with all of it, he's glad, somehow, he was here.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Jon smile, just a little. Martin smiles, too.

#i sort of envisioned this taking place in the au where jon stays w martin in 102. but whos to say!!!#tma fic #jonmartin #the magnus archives #i wrote this

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five-rivers · 3 years

Text

Face Your Dreams

Almost forgot to post this here as well! @anthropwashere

Phic Phight 2021

Prompt from Anthrop: Any flavor of the Reverse AUs that strike your fancy. Who gets the ghost powers? Who becomes the ghost hunter? Who gets ghost magick'd into the villain of the week?

Danny’s phone was dead. Which was just typical, really. His parents were brilliant, wealthy inventors that played with the fabric of reality on a daily basis and had managed to turn, not one, but two of Danny’s best friends into half ghosts, but they couldn’t be bothered to get Danny a phone that was actually reliable. Although they hadn’t intended to do the half ghost thing and didn’t know about it.

Probably.

Maybe.

(Honestly, Danny didn’t know. His parents were weird. And Danny suspected they were keeping secrets.)

Back on topic. Phone. Not working. Which was a problem because Danny was something like ninety-percent sure a ghost had been following him for the last block or so and he couldn’t call for help.

Correction, he could call for help all he wanted, he just wouldn’t get any that would be any good against a ghost. If he got any at all. It was the middle of the night.

He should have taken up Sam’s offer of a flight home. Or Tucker’s. But, no, he had to be sulky about how both of them were developing yet more really, incredibly cool powers and Danny was still just…

Himself.

Faceless, boring Fenton. Only notable for the number of bullies he attracted and the people he was related to. No special skillset, no dreams he had any hope of achieving, no triumphs. Nothing to contribute. Not in and of himself. Only useful to enemies that wanted a hostage.

He was about to be murdered by a ghost and he was still sulking. God, he was pathetic.

(Not all ghosts were evil – Sam and Tucker��s stories had taught him that much, on an intellectual basis. Was it too much to hope that he could reach home without the ghost attacking? Too much to hope that it was just watching?)

White noise tugged at Danny’s ears. It reminded him of the sleep CD Jazz played when Mom and Dad were being loud.

… and, also, oddly, of a video he’d once watched about what stars might sound like, based on how they vibrated.

Danny shuddered, his heartbeat redoubling as he picked up speed, reaching a run. If he could get home, he could turn on the ghost shield and call Sam and Tucker from his home phone. They’d be annoyed that he was bothering about a ghost so long after a patrol, but he was freaked out enough to not really care about their teasing.

(He’d been freaked out enough for the past two blocks.)

His breath began to catch in his lungs, his side burning. He splashed through a puddle, dark, oily liquid sticking to his right sneaker and pant leg. It glittered in the light of the waning crescent moon.

Wait –

It hadn’t rained for weeks.

He slipped and fell, skinning hands, knees, and chin on the sidewalk. Something wet, sticky, and smooth as silk spread over the pavement beneath him. It bubbled like a tar pit, and captive stars shone from within.

Danny tried to push himself up, but the liquid held on to him, pulled him back down.

He was sinking.

He flailed for the sidewalk, reaching, trying to stay afloat. It didn’t work. His elbows were below the level of the sidewalk, and inky, glittery black dripped from his front. It seemed to be eating through his clothes.

Forget useful help. He’d take any help. He screamed.

And he fell.

“You have such lovely dreams,” said the masked man, his horns curling into galaxies. “Impossible dreams.”

Danny couldn’t breathe. He was in freefall. A vacuum. No ground in sight, only the cold, heartless stars, perfect in their beauty.

(And his eyes. Oh, god, was this really a ghost?)

It was his dream, to be an astronaut. With this little twist, it became a nightmare, and yet—

Yet.

“You feel faceless,” continued the masked man. “But there’s freedom in that, is there not?”

Danny shouldn’t be able to hear him. There shouldn’t be any sound in space, and there wasn’t. Not except for his voice.

“Freedom,” said the man, “to follow your wildest dreams, unshackled from responsibility, from reality, from reasonability. No longer dependent on those that call themselves your friends, who claim to be your family, who walk over your dreams for the sake of theirs.”

Suddenly, Danny hit the sidewalk, and he could breathe again. Something thick dripped from his nose, his mouth, his eyes. He pushed himself to his hands and knees. His clothing was gone. His limbs were painted with the night sky in all its glory. He froze, staring.

From Danny’s shadow, the masked man rose, towering over Danny until he felt like little more than a shadow. “Don’t you want to have the chance to see your dreams come true, child?”

Danny blinked. It was hard to force his eyes back open. They seemed to want to stick closed.

“Who are you?” Danny asked, words garbled by the dripping stars trying to force their way past his lips.

“I am Nocturne,” the ghost said, leaning closer.

“You’re like,” Danny choked, “like Desiree. I don’t want—”

Nocturne scoffed. “Desiree. A creature of wishes, of momentary things. I do not care for what you wish for. What matters is that you dream.”

There was something in Nocturne’s hand, round and white and moonlike. It looked small, held between two of his fingers, but it had to be the size of Danny’s face.

“Don’t you dream of flying?” purred Nocturne. “Of being among the stars? Don’t you dream of a peaceful world, where your friends are safe, and the accident never happened? Where you’re a friend, not a weapon supply, a sidekick, or a damsel in distress?”

Danny had been thinking something so close just minutes ago and he couldn’t—

“There, there, my child. No need to cry.” He brought the round thing closer.

Danny could see, now, that it was a mask. Just his size.

“Close your eyes,” said Nocturne, gently, cupping Danny’s trembling shoulders with his other hand. “Close your eyes and dream. Let your face go, for a little while.”

(Danny did as he was told.)

“Hi, Sam,” said Mrs. Fenton, her voice crackling slightly through the phone speaker. “Have you seen Danny today?”

“I haven’t seen him since last n—Since yesterday,” said Sam, correcting herself halfway though. Mrs. Fenton didn’t know about their nightly escapades, and for good reason. “Is something wrong?”

“I don’t know yet,” said Maddie. “He just… I haven’t seen him either. He usually says goodbye before he leaves.”

He didn’t, but Maddie didn’t need to know that.

“Have you checked with Tucker yet? Sometimes they hang out without me. Guy things.” This… was also not entirely true. Danny and Tucker hadn’t had a ‘guy thing’ for ages. They’d been smoothly replaced with ‘ghost things’ like most everything else in their lives.

Sam… might have felt a little bad about that. All of their normal friend activities being replaced by ghost things, that is. Often ghost things that Danny couldn’t really participate in, because Danny couldn’t fly or shoot lasers from his hands.

He did do a good job of setting up obstacle courses and covering for her and Tucker’s—

Wait, no, not the point.

“He hasn’t seen him, either. Jazz doesn’t know where he is. I don’t—” She broke off, sighing. “Call me if you see him. Or tell him to call me.”

“I will,” said Sam, opening the window and preparing to take off.

“Thank you,” said Maddie. She hung up.

Sam went ghost with a burst of green fire. She floated up and out of the window, fading out of visibility as she dialed Tucker’s number.

“Starboy’s missing,” she said.

“Yeah, I’m already searching for him,” said Tucker, the microphone crackling with static but otherwise clear. Tucker’s powers both did and didn’t mesh well with technology.

“Any luck?”

“No,” said Tucker. “This is one of those times when I wish he did have friends other than us. Then we could ask them about where he is.”

“Do you think he’s been taken by a ghost?” asked Sam.

“I mean, maybe? There was that whole thing with Desiree…”

“And the second thing with Desiree,” added Sam.

“And Skulker.”

“And the second thing with Skulker.”

“And Spectra.”

“And the second thing with Spectra.”

“Not to mention Vlad.”

“What a freak,” said Sam.

“Are you picking up a pattern here?”

“Yeah, maybe. Who’s only kidnapped Danny once?”

“I’m not sure… Maybe it’s a new guy? We do get new guys now and again.”

Sam sighed. “Never mind that,” she said. “Where have you looked so far?”

“Not too many places. Do you want to meet up, or…?”

“No, we’ll have more luck going separately. I’ll check in with you in a bit.”

A whole day passed without any sign of Danny. They did, however, find a lot of ghosts with stitched-shut eyes, which they decided was probably related and also incredibly creepy.

By that time, the police got involved. Danny was officially a missing person.

But they were distracted. Didn’t have the manpower to search for just one missing person.

Why?

The sudden surge in coma patients.

“I don’t get it,” said Tucker. “Is that more of a, you know,” he lowered his voice, “doctor thing? Like, if it’s a bunch of people, don’t you think it’s a disease or something?”

“The police think that someone poisoned ‘em,” said Sam.

“How do you know that?”

“How do you think I know that?”

“Dude. You have to stop eavesdropping on the police. I’m, like, ninety percent sure that’s illegal.”

“Not for ghosts, it isn’t.”

“Okay, I’m one hundred percent sure it is. You’ve read the anti-ecto acts, haven’t you? I’m not the only one who did that, right?”

“It was, like, fifty pages thick. And stupid. The only reason I’d read it would be if I wanted to break the laws more efficiently.”

“Seriously?”

An alien world spread out below Danny, a place to explore to his heart’s content, the sky twinkling above him. He couldn’t see it, but he knew it was there, in the nameless, infinite way you knew things when you were dreaming.

He was an astronaut. An adventurer. An explorer.

He was doing everything he had ever dreamed of.

The only thing missing were the people. His friends. His family.

But… He could bring them here. He knew that, too, in the same way.

He just had to reach out and touch them. Feel them. Take them.

(A bit of black and starlight in their eyes, a touch of the gift given to him.)

(Nocturne whispered in his ears. A song only for him.)

They found the ghost responsible for the comas. And maybe they should have realized a ghost was causing them, but Danny was the one who usually put the pieces together, and he wasn’t there. Which was the problem.

(What Sam wouldn’t give for some kind of reliable ghost-detecting power. Or even technology.)

(No, the Fenton Finder didn’t count.)

It was small, human proportions, human skin tone, where it wasn’t covered with some kind of ghostly paint that mimicked the night sky. Its hair was colored the same way, and a blank mask covered its face. Seemed to be directing the green stitched-eye ghosts somehow, despite not saying a word. So. All in all, typical ghost, if somewhat more annoying due to his lack of witty banter.

Then he shrugged off the thermos beam like it was nothing. Almost like he was human.

Then Tucker froze.

The ghost was carried away from the fight by its minions, faster than Sam or Tucker could go.

“Tucker! What was that?”

“Birthmark,” gasped Tucker.

“What?” asked Sam.

“That was Danny’s birthmark.”

“Oh my god,” said Sam. “Did he really get himself transformed into a ghost again?”

“This seems different than Desiree,” said Tucker. “I don’t… Were we really fighting him?”

Sam rolled her eyes. “Let’s go get the Ghost Catcher.”

The Ghost Catcher was not in evidence in the Fenton basement.

“What now?” asked Tucker.

“Beat it out of him?” suggested Sam.

“That is a terrible plan. No, I can’t even call it a plan. It’s just bad.”

“Do you have anything better?”

(Tucker did not have anything better.)

(And Danny still couldn’t find his friends, to show them this dream come true.)

When about one in ten people in Amity Park was in a coma, things managed to get even worse. The people who were asleep began to sleepwalk. And sleep attack people.

Sam and Tucker were used to fighting ghosts. Not humans. They didn’t want to hurt anyone.

Especially Danny who was especially vicious. And also seemed to be targeting them.

Danny was so close. So close he could almost touch them. He could feel them, electricity and green things and dreams of power and justice. He could feel them, feel them, feel them, and he was so, so close to inviting them into the dream and he needed it, needed them. Wanted them.

His dream, the dream, his dream, it just wouldn’t be complete without them at his side, wouldn’t be right.

He reached for them, reached for Sam, brushed her sleeve and—

A meteor shower threw them apart.

Tucker dragged Sam away from Danny’s hand and the sleep-inducing liquid it was coated in.

“We have to go,” he gasped, looking out at the veritable horde of ghosts and sleepwalking humans.

“Yeah,” said Sam. “Yeah, we have to – Have to regroup.”

They retreated to the Ghost Zone, and, predictably, were separated.

The ghost’s name was Undergrowth, and he was interested in Sam. Interested enough to offer to teach her.

His power was the same as hers. Nature. Plants.

His rage against humans was… much greater. Overwhelming. Too much, too far, to extreme. She was glad he didn’t see her as human, didn’t seem to know that she wanted to protect humans.

(That she wanted to save Danny.)

Tucker already knew Technus. Had met him, fought him, beat him. More than once, even.

So, he had to ask why Technus was suddenly helping him.

The ghost fixed Tucker with a look that managed to be both incredulous and flat.

“Ghost child,” warbled Technus, “I, Technus, Master of All Things Electronic and Beeping, know what being electrocuted feels like! By the very power we both now wield!”

“Oh,” said Tucker. “Yeah, that makes sense. You were saying?”

Sam and Tucker stood in front of the portal, side by side.

“Ready to be a wake-up call?” asked Tucker.

“You’d better believe it,” said Sam.

Danny was caught, trapped in Sam’s vines.

“This isn’t working,” said Tucker, lightly shocking Danny once again. The ectoblast didn’t help, either. “Usually, this’d zap the ghost out of him, but…”

“Maybe we could try to overshadow him?” asked Sam, dubiously.

“Ugh,” said Tucker. “My least favorite power.”

“It could be the only way to find the ghost actually responsible.”

“Let’s do this.”

Danny was thrilled! He’d finally found his friends. True, he couldn’t move, but—

The stars shuddered. Shifted. Blinked.

Nocturne was angry.

Sam was knocked out of the sky at full speed, making a crater in the dark ground. People were gathered nearby. Amity Park people.

This couldn’t just be the inside of Danny’s mind (overshadowing had never worked this way before, but, well, it wasn’t like they experimented with it a whole lot), it had to be some kind of shared dream. A special power of the ghost, perhaps?

Sam fired up her powers, reaching for the nearby plants. They didn’t respond.

Crud.

This was a dream. They just looked like plants.

Then Tucker lit up the sky like a dying star, electrocuting everyone in range.

Danny woke up, throwing Sam and Tucker out of his body, something metallic clanging against sidewalk pavement. Out of his mind, out of his dream. Out of that dream, the one Nocturne had made for him.

Oh, god. He’d just spent the last week—Had it been a week, or longer? —out of his mind, in that dream, reality at one remove, if that. He’d been blind and—

He reached up to his face, to that mask and he pulled. It stuck. He pulled harder, and felt the goo sticking it on give, the mask coming away while dripping thick strands of ooze. He gasped. And it felt like the first breath he’d taken in—

How long had it been?

He opened his eyes just in time to see Nocturne rise out of his shadow.

Both Sam and Tucker had more of an advantage out here in the real world, without having to worry about hurting people. Well, without having to worry about hurting people more than usual. Wrecking buildings and missing with ectoblasts were still concerns.

“Draw him towards the park?” called Tucker, once they got close enough to confer with each other.

“You grab Danny?”

“I don’t—” started Tucker. He dodged a swipe from the large, starry ghost. “He might be safer, if—”

A column of blue light strobed into the sky, and Nocturne was pulled into the Fenton Thermos. The Fenton Thermos held by Danny Fenton. He coughed, black liquid dripping down his chin.

“Hey,” said Danny. “Thanks.”

“I’ve got to stop losing that thing,” groaned Tucker.

“I think the more important thing here is getting Danny some clothes,” said Sam, shielding her eyes.

“Yes, please,” said Danny.

“Glad to have you back, man,” said Danny, landing next to Danny and transforming. “Honestly, without you, we kind of suck at the whole investigation angle.”

“What?” asked Danny, taking the sweater Tucker offered him.

“We missed you,” clarified Sam. “A lot. We kind of… don’t do to well at anything about ghost fighting. Or life.”

“Yeah, our social life sucked even more than usual.”

“Oh,” said Danny, wrapping the sweater around his waist. “That’s cool.” He spit some of the black liquid out onto the sidewalk. “I need a shower.”

“Yep. Hugs are going to be deferred until then.”

“I’m okay with that,” said Danny. “I kind of… don’t want to be touched, for a while.”

“Ah,” said Tucker. “Well. I’m depressed again.”

“Just. Until the shower,” said Danny.

Sam reached out as if to pat Danny on the shoulder, then drew back. “Do you want a flight back home? Or to, uh, Tucker’s house? To shower. And get some clothes.”

“How is that different from a hug? You’ll still have to carry me.”

“It just is,” said Sam.

“It really is,” said Tucker.

There was a long pause.

“I lied, I want a hug so bad,” said Danny.

His friends practically flung themselves at him.

#Danny Phantom #phic phight #danny fenton #sam manson #tucker foley #nocturne #reverse trio #void!danny

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fantasticfemmefatale · 3 years

Text

Cold- Spencer Reid

not my gif

SUMMARY: reader is kinda bad at dealing with cold weather lmao, Spencer is rlly sweet, and everyone is happy for once in their trauma-filled lives. i live for this man. there’s some slight emily x reader if you use a microscope, i guess.

WARNINGS: fluff, canon atypical happiness, there’s this one homophobe in it, they should burn

Cold.

It was cold.

Had you left a window open?

No, the window on your side of the bed was still firmly shut.

Why was it so cold?

You rolled over, on the couch, eyes screwed shut, half desperate for his warmth although you’d promised you’d give him space, after you were nearly on top of him when you two woke up last time.

Oh.

That’s why it was cold.

Sliding out of bed and grabbing your fuzzy robe off the floor, you somehow managed to make it out of the room while only tripping once. You wanted to laugh at him, tell him depressed elephant who? I am graceful after all, loser! However, gloating in his face required having his face nearby.

Where was he?

You thought back to those crappy stories you’d heard from Emily of sleazy guys in bars who’d scramble for a hook up then leave a girl high and dry before sunrise. But he couldn’t do that if you hadn’t hooked up, right? If he was just a friend who’d come knocking at your door at 8:43 for your biweekly movie night, then got stuck at your apartment because of the storm? Although, you wished he was more than a friend.

A sharp hiss resounded from the kitchen, followed by the faucet running, as you padded in.

“Spence?”

His head shot up fast, like a puppy caught dragging trash through the house. He shut off the faucet with his right hand, and reached for a towel to dry his left as he spoke.

“(Y/N). Hi. Hotch called me saying we had a case, and I told him you were here with me so he didn’t need to call you, and I just thought I’d make you coffee before I woke you up,” he explained with a small, tired smile and equally tired eyes.

“Did you burn yourself?” you questioned, remembering the commotion when you’d walked in.

“Uh, yeah.”

You laughed slightly, one of those sharp nose exhales accompanied by a half smile when you just can’t laugh at the moment. Frankly, you were far too exhausted. You took the mug he was holding outstretched towards you with a grateful smile, returning to your room to get dressed. The warm mug contrasted deliciously with the cold air of your apartment. You didn’t need to tell Spencer that he could change in the bathroom if he needed to; he already knew. After the first time you’d been called in to work while Spencer was staying over, you’d developed a system. He brought his go-bag over with him, leaving it next to the door along with his Converse that you always said made him look like he was still 12. He’d bring two extra pairs of clothes to leave at your apartment, one for when you left and another, comfier pair for your return. Then, he’d gather anything he’d left in your apartment and walk down to his own. It was funny, honestly, how his apartment was just three floors down from your own and yet he refused to leave his stuff there. He’d ramble on about how but leaving my stuff at your apartment saves 9 minutes and 27 seconds, and that’s time we could be spending saving lives, and-

You left your room, dressed in black skinny jeans, combat boots, and an army green long sleeve with the sleeves pushed up to your elbows at the same time Spencer exited the bathroom in Converse, brown pants, a vest, and a button-down shirt. No words were spoken as you two grabbed your duffels from where they were sitting near your door, and Spencer grabbed his messenger bag as well, slinging it over his shoulder in the most uncoordinated way possible while simultaneously trying to open your door, resulting in him on the floor with a loud grunt. You laughed, loud and clear, and you grabbed his wrist and helped him to his feet, opening the door and locking it securely behind you.

The bullpen was colder than your apartment had been, you thought with a shiver as you walked in, with Spencer falling into step behind you. Still slightly groggy and nursing the coffee from Spencer- which you’d transferred to an insulated water bottle prior to leaving- you stayed quiet through Penelope’s run-down of the case and Hotch’s typical wheels up in 30.

On the plane, you sat on the couch with Spencer, careful to leave an inch between you two. In the two years you’d known each other, he’d warmed up enough that you could touch him some, but you tried not to do anything more than the occasional hug or shoulder pat when the time called for it. Right now, nothing was calling except sleep. Just by looking outside the window, you swore you could practically feel the frigid night air of Wisconsin, the lovely location of today’s deranged criminal, a kidnapper. When you voiced your feelings about the cold to Spencer, he spewed facts from who-knows-where about different places the air could possibly get into the plane, meaning you weren’t just making up the feeling. You listened attentively, knowing how much it meant to him when he didn’t get cut off for once. After all, he just wanted to help.

The plane landed, and you were the first one out.

Cold.

It was cold.

And you forgot a jacket, idiot.

Morgan chuckled as he passed by you, clad in a t-shirt, no less, saying, “Cold, baby?”

“As if.”

You were in an interrogation room.

It was less cold than the rest of the precinct, but still chilly.

The woman in front of you, a blond, small thing, looked to be no less than 20. And yet, she was kidnapping the children she babysat for after their parents returned, then trying to pass them off as her own. She was kidnapping the children of same-sex couples, a religious fanatic who believed that being anything but straight was worse than murder. Wow.

Screw homophobes.

Honestly, the case had wrapped itself up fairly well, complete with a glittery red bow, once Penelope- thank god- had figured out that each family had used the same babysitter at least once. Rebecca Umbrige. To be fair, the team had spent a while focusing on the same-sex couples aspect of it, only to change paths after all that turned up from that was dead ends. Then Rebecca came into the picture and brought everything together nicely.

With that red bow, of course.

Still, one more thing was needed.

A confession.

Emily was in the interrogation room with you, watching as you took the lead. You were hoping to get something out of her through subtle hints at attraction between you two, and it worked, eventually.

All it took was holding Emily’s hand. Sad.

Emily laughed as Rebecca was dragged out of the room in handcuffs, earning her a stern look from Hotch when the two of you left as well.

Ugh, why did the rest of the precinct have to be so cold?

The plane ride home was uneventful, and so was leaving the bullpen after the last of the paperwork was finished, just before midnight three days after you’d left. Until, at least, Spencer jogged up to you, brown curls waving wildly in the D.C. wind, asking, “Wanna go out?”

“Like a date?” you asked, incredulous. If it was a date though, you wouldn’t be upset. You’d had a not-so-small and not-so-sneaky crush on him for almost the entire time you’d known him.

He stopped suddenly, speaking so fast it was a miracle he could get the words out at all.

“Slow down, Spence.”

“I just meant, maybe we could go get hot chocolate, or coffee, or whatever, and then just walk around D.C. or something? I don’t think I can sleep right now,” he blurted, brown doe eyes watching you expectantly in that way that made your heart flutter.

“I’m cold”, you said, almost pouting like a child.

He laughed for a second at that. “We can stop by your apartment first and change if you want.”

26 minutes later, according to Spencer, the two of you arrived at the doorstep of a slightly shady 24-hour coffee shop that Waze had been all too happy to lead you to. After getting some surprisingly good lattes, you two wandered aimlessly around D.C., occasionally bumping shoulders from how close you were. He’d tell you the history behind different buildings and monuments you passed, and you’d interrupt every few minutes because oH MY GOD SPENCE THAT HOUSE LOOKS LIKE A FACE!, or, LOOK THAT CLOUD LOOKS LIKE A BUTT!

Spencer laughed every time you got distracted, letting his eyes linger just a few seconds too long on your face when it lit up like a kid’s on Christmas, wanting to commit your face without stress, or fear, or anger to memory. Moments like these didn’t come often in your line of work.

When you realized it was starting to snow, Spencer swore he’d never seen you look this stunning, bundled up in one of his sweaters that you’d stolen months ago, with rosy cheeks and a red nose to match, eyes glimmering with excitement and lips spread wide in a smile and you spun around, eyes on the sparkling sky above.

Eventually, he said, “(Y/N)?” in a voice barely above a whisper.

Your head whipped around, and you stopped suddenly, all your attention focused on Spencer, something that never failed to make him feel cared for. “Yeah?”

He didn’t answer, instead slowly reaching out to hug you, the first physical contact between you he’d ever initiated. His arms around your waist were uncertain, and he haltingly rested his head on your shoulder, thankful you couldn’t see him grinning like an idiot. As soon as you hugged back, he pulled you in closer in a bone-crushing hug that you could’ve sworn made time stop.

“(Y/N)?” he mumbled against your skin.

“Yeah?”

“I know I said this wasn’t a date, but if you wanted it to be one, maybe it could be one?”

“I’d like that, Spencer.”

Cold.

It was cold.

But with Spencer holding onto you like there was no tomorrow, you were much, much warmer.

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swan-of-sunrise · 3 years

Text

The Winter Soldier (Chapter Five)

Summary: (Y/N) and Sam are visited by Steve Rogers and Natasha Romanoff, and the novelist makes a life-altering decision.

Pairing: Steve Rogers X Reader

Word Count: 2.1k

Warnings/Disclaimers: Brief discussion of PTSD

A/N: Hope you all enjoy!

Chapter Five (Previous Chapter)

Yawning loudly into her hand, (Y/N) poured some milk into her bowl of chocolate Cheerios, grabbed a spoon and sat on a stool at the kitchen counter. She turned on her laptop and began reading through the day’s top news headlines while she ate her breakfast; thankfully, it appeared that the manhunt for Captain America was still going on, which meant that S.H.I.E.L.D. hadn’t yet apprehended him.

The backdoor of the house opened and Sam entered, breathing heavily and covered in a layer of perspiration; a smile brightened his face once he noticed her presence. “’Morning, Booksmart!”

“Hey Sam, you have a good run today?”

“Yeah, it was okay.” Sam wiped his brow with his sleeve, his expression suddenly sheepish. “Um…thanks again for last night, (Y/N). It really meant a lot to me.”

The night before, Sam had another intense nightmare about the last Air Force mission he’d flown with his partner, Riley. (Y/N) was woken up by his loud moaning and thrashing from the room across the hall, so she quickly threw on her bathrobe and went to him. As she’d done countless times over the past year, she’d carefully wrapped her arms around him and spoke soothing words until his eyes had eventually fluttered open, and as his face filled with pain, Sam flung his arms around her and they fell asleep in each other’s embrace. It hadn’t been the first time she’d helped him through one of his nightmares, and she doubted that it would be the last.

“I’m your best friend, Birdbrain, it’s in my job description. That, and annoying you whenever I think you deserve some annoying.” Her soft smile turned into a frown as Sam opened the refrigerator and pulled out the carton of orange juice. “I swear to God, Sam, if you drink straight from that carton I’m gonna have to kill you. That’s disgusting!”

Sam’s loud laugh was cut short by a knock on the backdoor. They exchanged matching looks of confusion before Sam headed for the door, (Y/N) following closely behind. He raised the blinds and opened the door to reveal Steve Rogers and Black Widow standing on their back porch, both covered head-to-toe in grime and looking completely worn-out. “…Hey, man.”

Steve’s weary eyes glanced between the two of them. “I’m sorry about this. We need a place to lay low.”

Black Widow’s smile was apologetic as she elaborated, “Everyone we know is trying to kill us.”

(Y/N) and Sam exchanged a look before he opened the door wider and said, “Not everyone.” With looks of gratitude, the pair hurried into the house and Sam closed the door behind them, careful to close the blinds and lock the deadbolt.

“We haven’t been properly introduced; I’m Natasha Romanoff.”

(Y/N) smiled politely and shook Natasha’s outstretched hand. “(Y/N) (Y/L/N).” After Sam introduced himself to her, (Y/N) gestured to the hallway and continued. “You guys are welcome to use our shower if you wanted to clean up a little; I think I may even have some spare clothes somewhere…”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After showing Steve and Natasha the bathroom down the hall and letting them use Sam’s bedroom for some extra privacy, (Y/N) dug through her closet until she found the clothes that her brother and girlfriend had accidentally left when they’d visited last; she’d been meaning to send them back, but it would seem that the two fugitives they were harboring had more use for them. Pausing a moment in front of the closed bedroom door, she placed the box on the floor and hurried back to her room to get dressed before going back to the kitchen. When she got there, Sam was in the middle of scrambling eggs so she quietly began buttering some toast.

“They didn’t look too good, Sam. What do you think happened to them out there?”

“Not sure, but it must’ve been pretty serious for them to come here of all places for help. You mind finishing up the eggs while I go change out of these workout clothes and tell them the food’s ready?”

(Y/N) gave him a small smile and took the spatula from him. “’Course not.” Sam patted her shoulder and left the kitchen, and to distract herself from her worries, she began absentmindedly humming to herself while she finished scrambling the eggs.

“Hey, a tune I actually recognize.” (Y/N) glanced away from the stove to see Steve standing near the refrigerator. “You really enjoy music, don’t you?” When she tilted her head in confusion, he elaborated, “I took a wrong turn in the hall and caught a glimpse of your room. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many records and CD’s in my life.”

(Y/N) shrugged noncommittally. “Yeah, I guess I do. There’s something comforting about music to me…it makes me feel like no matter what happens in my life, good or bad, music will always be there for me.” She cringed at how cheesy her words sounded out loud and quickly added, “That probably doesn’t make much sense, though, just forget it…”

Steve’s mouth curved into a small smile. “I think I understand a little…thanks for the clothes, by the way.”

Switching off the burner, (Y/N) took the pan of scrambled eggs and began dishing the food onto two plates. “They fit all right? My brother and his girlfriend visited a while back and forgot some of their things here, they’re about your guys’ size…”

“Yeah, they fit great.” He adjusted the hem of his dark grey shirt before glancing back up at her. “So, were you humming ‘Pistol Packin’ Mama’ just now ‘cause something good’s happening or something bad?”

(Y/N) thought for a moment before answering. “Both, I guess. You guys are both safe, which is obviously good, but something’s going on. Something that must be pretty bad for you to come to the two of us for help.”

Steve stared at her with curious eyes for a few seconds before giving her a brief nod and accepting the plate of food she handed him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“So, Hydra’s been infiltrating S.H.I.E.L.D. this whole time…” Sam said, his eyes trained on his clasped hands. After they had eaten, Steve and Natasha had explained everything that had happened, from their mission on the Lemurian Star to the missile strike at Camp Lehigh where they discovered that the terrorist organization had been growing and thriving within S.H.I.E.L.D. for seventy years. “And they’ve been using this Winter Soldier guy to silence anyone unlucky enough to uncover their existence…”

“And they’re planning something big so they can try to take control of the world. Again.” (Y/N) finished, glancing away from Sam and across the table at Steve, who nodded mutely.

Natasha paced beside the table with her arms crossed over her chest. “So, the question is: who in S.H.I.E.L.D. could launch a domestic missile strike?”

“Pierce.”

“Who happens to be sitting on the top of the most secure building in the world,” (Y/N) pointed out, rubbing her forehead as a headache began to form and wishing that she could play some of her music to calm herself down.

Steve frowned, and she could practically see the wheels turning in his head. “But he’s not working alone, Zola’s algorithm was on the Lemurian Star.”

“So was Jasper Sitwell.”

Natasha’s comment made Steve sigh. “So, the real question is: how do the two most wanted people in Washington kidnap a S.H.I.E.L.D. officer in broad daylight?”

“The answer is: you don’t.” (Y/N) hadn’t noticed that Sam had stood until he dropped a familiar file onto the table in front of Steve. When the super-soldier picked up the file and shot him a questioning glance, Sam added, “Call it a resume.”

“Sam…” (Y/N) jumped to her feet and stood in front of her friend as Steve and Natasha glanced through the file. “Are you sure?”

Sam gave her a comforting smile and nod as Natasha spoke. “Is this Bakhmala? The Khandil Khandil mission, that was you?” She glanced at Steve with an impressed smile. “You didn’t say he was para-rescue.”

“Is this Riley?”

(Y/N) gently took Sam’s hand as he nodded, knowing how difficult his decision was for him. He wouldn’t be getting back into all this if he didn’t believe that it was the right thing to do, she thought grimly, his hand tightening slightly around hers as the others continued to read over the file.

Natasha flicked through the pages of the file, looking up at Sam with a furrowed brow. “I heard they couldn’t bring in the choppers because of the RPG’s. What did you use, a stealth chute?”

“I’d check the next page if I were you.” (Y/N) couldn’t help but smile, remembering when Sam had told her about his military service and shown her the pictures of the EXO-7 Falcon pack. That’s when she began calling him ‘Birdbrain’ in retaliation to his awful nickname for her, but her plan backfired when he ended up taking the insult as a term of endearment.

Steve and Natasha flipped the pages of the file and the super-soldier’s eyebrows raised in surprise as he looked up at them. “I thought you said you were a pilot.”

“I never said pilot.” Despite the serious situation, Sam couldn’t keep the smirk off his face as he spoke and (Y/N) rolled her eyes in amusement.

“I can’t ask you to do this, Sam. You got out for a good reason-”

Sam cut off Steve with a wave of his hand. “Dude, Captain America needs my help. There’s no better reason to get back in.”

“…Where can we get our hands on one of these things?”

“The last one’s at Fort Meade, behind three guard gates and a twelve-inch steel wall.”

Natasha shrugged when Steve glanced at her. “Shouldn’t be a problem.”

(Y/N) frowned as the three of them began collecting the files and standing, suddenly getting the feeling that they were preparing to leave without her. In that moment, she knew that she had a decision to make; if she stayed, then her life and career would continue normally as long as all three of them managed to stop Hydra, but she knew she’d feel guilt for not doing her part to help and if they couldn’t stop Hydra, then the organization would succeed in taking over the world and countless lives would be destroyed. But if she left with them, she would become a target; her life, her family, her career…it would all be at risk if Hydra put out a warrant for her arrest; if it meant helping save the world and everyone in it, though, then there was really only one right answer…

“I’m coming with you guys.”

“Um…” All three of them stopped and looked at her, and Natasha was the first to break the silence as she glanced over at Steve. “I thought you said she was a writer.”

“Yes, I am a writer, but I’m still coming with you.”

Steve shook his head, his jaw set with determination. “(Y/N), it’s bad enough that Sam’s being dragged into all this but at least he knows what we’re up against. You’d be putting your life at risk by coming, not to mention your career.”

“You’re right, Steve.” (Y/N) squared her shoulders and stared down the super-soldier, her back straight and her arms crossed. “I’m not a soldier, or a spy or even a goddamn Avenger, I’m just a civilian who wants to help save the world that I live in. You three are about to risk everything to stop Hydra, and I’ve got no right to do any less than you, no matter what my occupation is. It’s true that the price of freedom’s a high one, but it’s a price I’m willing to pay. Besides,” She couldn’t keep the smug tone out of her voice as she spoke. “I already know how to abduct Sitwell in broad daylight without alerting Hydra.”

Steve kept his eyes on hers for a moment before turning to Natasha, who had an impressed look on her face as she shrugged. “I like her, and we could always use another person on our side, Steve.”

“I’ve known (Y/N) for over a year now; if she says she can help, then she can help.” Sam gave her a small wink, and (Y/N) felt a rush of gratitude for her best friend. “I’ll keep an eye on her, make sure she doesn’t get into trouble.”

Steve sighed and turned back to her; she only raised her eyebrows in expectation as she waited for his response. After a moment, he finally gave her a nod, the corner of his mouth lifting into a small smile. “You’re in. Now, you said you had an idea about getting Sitwell…?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: Thank you so much for reading! I’ve created a Spotify playlist inspired by this series, and I’ll be updating it every time I upload a new chapter. Enjoy!

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4BenknAqQQnOWY8NmSa23V

Tagging: @mrs-obrien @lahoete @awkward117 @cminr @momc95 @awkwardnesshabitat @marinettepotterandplagg @khuang3 @supersouthy @benakenalove @brooke0297 @hufflepeople @becausewelie @outoftheregular @supreme-tantrum

Chapter Six

“The Winter Soldier” Masterlist

#steve rogers x reader #captain america x reader #steve rogers #sam wilson #falcon #natasha romanoff #black widow #captain america fic #captain america the winter soldier

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the-night-writer1 · 3 years

Note

Fic idea, Xaio and Red team up to kidnap their preferred Monkey Twins.

Xaio walked over to the meeting spot the Bull king's son had suggested. He had no idea how they were going to pull this off. It's the only reason he hadn't try alright, he lacked a layout of Shanyao's home but apparently Red had it.

The deal was he'd get them in and Xaio grabbed both of the twins. Then they'd go their separate ways with the twin they wanted. Xaio waited with his arms crossed. Soon Red son pulled up in a car.

"get in mutt" Red hissed as he gestured to the demon. Xaio rolled his eyes and got in the passenger side.

"what's the plan?" Xaio asked Red started towards the noodle shop.

"I've already ordered a large amount of noodles which should distract the pig. I'll throw you up to the loft. Then you grab them both" Red said as Xaio gave him a look. Red wasn't as fast as the wolf demon was so Red thought it be better he have Xaio fetch the twins. Not that he was going to admit that,"you could find them quicker with your nose mutt"

"got it" Xaio said as he cracked his knuckles. It should be easy enough. Hopefully they wouldn't get too mad being kidnapped.

----

Xaio jumped out the loft window with both twins in hand. Tang running after him. Fuck Red son forgot about Tang. Shanyao was struggling while MK was just shocked. Xaio shoved them in the back seats and got in the passenger side.

"Go man go Pigsy's about to be on our ass" Xaio yelled before Red son floored it. Tang had thrown a knife at Xaio luckily it had on grazed his shoulder.

"WHAT'S GOING ON HERE"Shanyao yelled from the backseat. Xaio turned to him about to answer his question when shanyao put his face in his hands,"tradition?"

"eup also kidnap someone you're interested in someone you kidnap them" Xaio said before clarifying,"I'm not interested in Mk his boyfriend just had me grab him while grabbing you"

#lego monkie kid #monkie kid #lego monkie kid au #lmk shanyao #lmk xaio #lmk red son #lmk mk #spicynoodleshipping #sickhowl

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delimeful · 4 years

Text

the end of being alone (1)

A WIBAR AU (that’s right, an AU of an AU) where the circumstances of Virgil’s introduction to the group-- or rather, Virgil himself-- are... a little different. A commission for @bumblebeekitten!

warnings: unknowingly referring to a person as ‘it’, panic, fear, child endangerment

---

Patton woke up to the distinctive clamor of his teammates bickering. It was a familiar sound.

“-- has been three days, are you certain we aren’t simply chasing a local legend with no basis in reality?” That would be Logan!

“Look, you two are the ones that decided to come with me, I would have been perfectly fine going alone!” And there was Roman, the swish of his tail betraying his agitation. “Besides, there’s something suspicious going on here, I’m sure of it.”

“Oh? And what evidence do you have to support your assertion?”

“... I’ve just got a feeling.”

Logan made a sound of disgust, and Patton sat up in time to see his friend throw all four hands out in an exasperated gesture. He sleepily rubbed at his eyes, shaking out his mussed-up feathers.

“Are you tired of camping already, Lo?”

The Ulgorian exhaled slowly, his ears twitching irritatedly. “No. I simply am uncertain that this venture will prove beneficial. We don’t have the budget to waste time on a vain attempt to soothe superstitious locals.”

“Don’t be so heartless, Professnore,” Roman snapped, quickly checking his pack for everything he would need while out traversing the woods. “They’re asking for help because they’re worried. Something out there has driven the Humlilts into hiding, for all we know, the livestock could be next!”

“They suspect the local fauna are being threatened, but that’s only one potential explanation--,” Logan started, and Patton swiftly tuned out the argument, remembering suddenly what he’d intended to check on. He hopped to his feet and checked on his ‘Humlilt bait’-- a small dish with sweet sliced fruit he’d set out.

Humlilts’s were relatively small, timid creatures, hoofed quadruped mammals that stood even shorter than Patton. They weren’t fond of being directly approached, and even initiating eye contact could scare them off, but if they took a liking to someone, they tended to be fiercely loyal. The fact that many had strayed from the nearby town was concerning, no matter the reason.

“Yes!” Patton chirped in glee when the plate proved empty, only a few spots of juice left behind. Behind him, the heated discussion faltered.

“Something you’d like to share with the team, Feathers?” Roman asked, one of his ridged eyebrows twitching up curiously. Logan frowned at the dish, and Patton quickly replied before he could be lectured on leaving ‘fauna attractants’ out by mistake.

“I’m one step closer to making a new friend!” he announced gleefully. “Good morning, little critter! Are you still around?”

There was no response from the forest, but he remained cheerful, his antennae barely flickering. “Aw, feeling shy? I’ll befriend you yet, little critter, just you wait…”

“Patton,” Logan started. “Do you mean to imply that last night, you intentionally placed food out to lure local creatures to our camp while we are in the middle of trying to track down an unknown, potentially dangerous beast?”

“Of course not!” Patton responded, picking up the plate to stow it away. Before Logan could relax too much, he continued. “I’ve been leaving snacks out since the first day we made camp!”

He scrunched his eyes closed to show his happiness, and not at all to avoid the incensed look Logan would be giving him right about now.

“Have you any idea how dangerous—“

“Woah, Lo, it’s a-okay!” Patton hurried to reassure him. “I know for sure that it’s a little hummer and not anything else. The last two sunrises, when I woke up and greeted the day, I would hear it call back, just like the noise Logan said they make! The little critter is following us around, and soon we’ll be best buds, I can feel it.”

Logan waved a spare hand dismissively, already well into his datalog, muttering as he scoured the articles he had saved for this journey for any mention of on-planet predator animals using mimicry. Roman shuddered his scales in fond exasperation, his tail thumping against Logan’s ankle.

“Relax, Specs, I’ll be sure to protect us from any malignant beasties.” He paused, and then cast a slightly admonishing glance down at Patton. “That is, so long as there aren’t any more secret surprises you’ve been keeping from us, Pattoncake?”

“No secrets here! The next time I try to adopt a new member into our little family, I’ll make sure to let you kiddos know in advance,” he chirped with his eyes crinkled. The gleeful expression didn’t fade a bit as his words prompted Roman and Logan to burst into brand new diatribes.

“Wait, is ‘lure them with sweet snacks’ your usual go-to? Did that work on me--?”

“Patton, we are not kidnapping local fauna--!”

Yup, familiar sounds indeed.

---

The rest of the morning was spent trekking through the woods and filling the air with companionable bickering, but by midday, Roman had found tracks. And then he found more tracks. And finally, he found The Tracks.

Unlike the first few instances, Logan was unable to confidently match the bipedal mammalian prints to any native creature in the area. After some triumphant crowing about his skills, Roman led the way with significantly less chatter, prompting the other two to follow suit as dusk slowly began to fall.

Patton kept his feathers sleek against him so they wouldn’t brush roughly against the foliage, and made sure his glow was as muted as possible as the sky darkened. He didn’t come on bounty trips often, but every proper Ampen knew how to be stealthy when need be. Some made a whole career out of it!

Between one heavy step and the next, Roman suddenly stilled, holding up a clawed hand to ensure they did the same. His ear cones shifted subtly, searching. The moment stretched, tension so thick it felt stifling, and then--

A slight sound to the left. Movement.

“There!” Roman shouted, and a dark shape flashed past Patton, silhouetted by the moonlight off the pale rock wall behind it. It was big. Definitely not a Humlilt. “Cut it off!”

Logan was already in motion, spines raised as he held out his staff and barred the creature's way. He flicked the glow light at the top of the staff on and illuminated the outline of the being, which seemed almost fibrous in nature. Patton knew of some planets with mostly chlorophyll-based lifeforms, and this almost seemed to match. The creature had a body erupting with brush and plant matter, and a face of flat wood.

“Drive it this way,” Roman called. “I’ve got the unit ready!”

It hissed furiously as Logan swung the light closer, and Patton saw the moment it turned its head slightly and realized it was being corralled. It lunged forward in a feint, and then ducked away from Logan’s swing and grabbed the staff, wrestling viciously with the smaller alien for it. The reflected light seemed to shine eerily in the back of its hole-like eyes.

Patton hurried forwards, but he wasn’t close enough to stop the creature from wrenching the staff out of Logan’s grip, knocking the Ulgorian over in the process. Roman shouted, too far away to intervene. Logan shot a few spines, but they weren’t laced and barely seemed to phase the creature. It screamed gutturally as it lifted the staff up, and Patton forgot every promise he’d made to stay out of the way of any quarry larger than him.

“Stop!” he screeched, throwing his arms out and letting his feathers flare up as bright as they could go.

The distraction worked; the creature twisted away from Logan to focus on the new element, jolting forward a few steps before distinctly pausing, its shining eyes fixated on Patton. It took another smaller step towards him, tilting what Patton assumed was its head.

“Little critter!”

“Wh-- what?” Patton replied, stunned.

“Little critter? ...Good morning, little critter?” the creature chirped again, uncertainly. Every syllable was a perfect imitation of the phrases Patton had called out the three mornings they’d been there, just a little muffled.

The creature dropped to a crouch, and the abruptness of the motion made Patton flinch, startled. As though repentant, it set the staff on the ground slowly, and then made the distinct musical tone of a Humlilt.

Patton gaped, the pieces clicking into place. Not a Humlit. The Humlit. The one he’d been working so hard to befriend, the one following them around, the one that apparently wasn’t a Humlit at all.

In the next moment, Roman’s charging footsteps arrived, and all traces of softness vanished from the creature’s demeanor as it rose to its feet with a snarl, turning to face off against Patton’s crewmate.

This isn’t right, Patton thought, and didn’t wait another moment before inserting himself between the two larger aliens, whistling shrilly. “Wait!”

At his back, Roman skidded to a halt, incredulous half-formed protests spilling from his mouth.

At his front, the creature held its aggressive position for a heartbeat longer, and then lowered its hands slightly, stumbling back a step and looking between Patton and Roman with uncertain antsiness.

“Little critter? Little critter good?” it chirped, and Patton could feel the way Roman and Logan stiffened behind him.

“Hey, little critter,” Patton said, slowly moving to sit down on the dirt. “I think we got off on the wrong claw. You don’t really want to fight, do you?”

The creature shuffled anxiously, and Patton tapped the ground behind him. “Roman, why don’t you join me?”

“Pat, come on,” Roman started, and then grumpily lowered himself to a seated position at Patton’s imploring look.

Across from them, the creature visibly relaxed, head cocking to the side inquisitively. After a moment, it lowered itself into a crouch like before.

Patton’s antennae fluttered, and his happy glow increased slightly. “Good job! We’re already halfway to being friends, huh?”

“Good,” the creature echoed, voice still uncertain and so small. “Hurt no?”

“We won’t hurt you,” Patton replied, and the creature’s head lifted up to look at Roman doubtfully.

After a moment, Patton heard the click of Roman’s scales flattening out in a show of nonaggression, and the Crav’on sighed.

“On my honor, I won’t hurt you if you remain peaceable,” he said, extending a hand palm up to symbolize his oath.

To their surprise, the creature reached out and touched him, grazing the dull talons and poking some of his smaller scales with cautious curiosity. It mumbled something to itself in a language Patton didn’t know, and folded Roman’s fingers into a loose fist before finally releasing him.

“He’s pretty cool, isn’t he?” Patton whispered conspiratorially, and the creature held a hand out to him in a mirroring of Roman’s earlier gesture. He reached out and put his little clawed fingers on their palm, marvelling at the size difference. “You’re no critter, huh?”

He turned to the side, the strange alien following his gaze. “Lo, I can hear you taking notes from here. You wanna come say hi?”

“Don’t patronize me,” Logan replied sourly, clasping his hands behind his back. “I simply didn’t wish to startle-- oh!”

Logan’s eyes went wide as the stranger stalked over, body still low in its crouch. The behavior read as classically predatory, but the curious mumbling of the stranger made it clear that they weren’t acting aggressively. He hesitantly offered one of his own thin-fingered hands, the stranger pressing their palms together as though to compare the shapes.

“Hello there,” he greeted belatedly. “Can you understand me? I am Logan, and those are Roman and Patton.”

“Little critter!” the stranger offered enthusiastically, and then dissolved into another string of that unfamiliar language before bounding off and returning with the glow staff in hand.

Patton could feel the way Roman went tense, but the stranger slowed down as they got closer and then set the staff on the ground a little bit in front of Logan, rolling it a few inches towards him.

Logan made no move to pick the staff, and it was easy to see why. The fluorescent lights installed in the head of the staff lit the stranger up from below, illuminating the details that they’d missed before.

Four thin, pale limbs were smudged with dirt and grit, the edges of tattered old textiles peeking out from under the carpet of greenery that cloaked them. They could now see that the foliage wasn’t part of them, but a dedicated attempt at camouflage, built up for so long that some of the plants were growing around their shoulders or tangling in their dark hair. Most striking of all, the wooden plate that had covered their face had been knocked slightly askew, revealing half of a round face with big eyes and tiny features.

“You’re just a fledgeling,” Patton said, something in his chest tightening at the way the child’s gaze flickered between them, nervous but hopeful. The curiosity, the nervousness, it all made sense knowing that this was a youngling.

“No, that’s not just a child,” Roman spoke up, shaken. “That’s… that’s a Human child.”

Patton and Logan turned to him, shocked, but the child reacted the quickest of all, shooting into a standing position. They clumsily darted back a step as all eyes fell on them, chest rising and falling rapidly. “No! No! No Human, go away!”

“Kiddo,” Patton tried, but before he could do more than reach out, the child turned on their heel and vanished back into the underbrush. The rustling of their movements quickly faded, leaving the three of them sitting in the clearing in silence.

“Are you certain?” Logan finally said, rising to his feet and approaching them. “Roman, you’re absolutely sure about this?”

“I… yeah.” The Crav’on flexed his hand, almost dazed. “I thought they would be more-- I mean, yeah, I’m sure. There’s no mistaking those eyes.”

“Very well,” Logan nodded, hands already dancing delicately around him as he committed the encounter to memory. “In that case, I suppose we’ll be staying on-planet for a little longer.”

“Wait, what?” Roman asked, both of them turning to look at the Ulgorian with surprise.

Logan glanced up at them with a raised brow, knowing and smug. “I don’t believe either of you are the type to leave a semi-feral Deathworlder child alone on a planet where the locals believe them to be a monster. Thus, we are staying to help rectify the situation. Am I incorrect?”

“It’s not that simple,” Roman cautioned, but faltered after a moment. “However… you’re right. We can’t just leave them here. They need help, Human or not.”

“That’s right!” Patton agreed enthusiastically, his feathers ruffling up in excitement. “Looks like we’re getting a new member of the family after all!”

#sanders sides #space au #ts virgil #ts patton #ts roman #ts logan #commissioned works #writing #my writing #wibar #wibar au kid virgil #i hope im not missing any tags i feel like im forgetting som #e #teoba #the end of being alone

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leahseclipse · 3 years

Text

It’s always colder on your own

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

Category: Angst/ comfort

Warnings: SPOILERS OF S2 EP15-18, mentions of addiction, murder, kidnapping, rape (just in a sentence), drugs, traumatic experience, usual cm stuff

Summary: Old memories haunt the BAU's genius when a case involving addiction is handled by the team.

Requested by @imagining-in-the-margins ; based on this request:

Hurt/Comfort where there is a case involving addiction and the following happens:

Reader: Are you alright?

Spencer: Hm? Oh. Yeah, I-I'm fine.

Reader: Okay.

Reader: You know it's okay if you're not, right?

Spencer: What?

Reader: It's okay if you're not okay.

A/N: Its aaaaaaa I'm writing another request for imagining-in-the-margins— that's wowie-

Oh and btw, for the mentions of the verse of the bible; I did some research about it based on the ones that Spencer recited, so I'm sorry if I accidentally made some mistakes, I unfortunately don't know much about it ^^

A/N (2); At some point of the story, when you’ll see text then [...] and text again, the “[...]” is the parts Spencer haven’t been listening to, he was distracted.

I hope you will like it, i tried lmaoo

Word count: 4.8k

__________________

It's just a little bit lonely in this home, it's always colder on your own, my darling I, I let the seasons change my mind. — Ricky Montgomery, This December

__________________

Spencer hasn’t felt that way for a long time, for way too long.

That feeling seemed weird, but strangely familiar.

Although it had been a while since it had happened, he never really forgot about it; it stayed; buried deep inside his thoughts.

He didn’t think that he’d have to deal with it again; well, he’s only dealing with his own problems, because it wasn’t about him this time; it was about the case, specifically, about the unsub.

Spencer had never thought the case would have turned out to be that way; it didn’t seem like it at all at first, he would have qualified it as normal- as the cases they had worked on before this one didn’t affect him personally in general- ,but none of the case the bureau works on are normal, you truly have to be mentally prepared for it because it never is normal, there always is a deeper meaning, and when the reason is discovered, it isn’t really pleasant most of the time, to the point everyone in the room had wished not to see it, but it isn’t very surprising anymore when you’ve been working there for more than ten years, you get used to it, eventually.

He wished that he could have said that he had moved on, but it never was the case, he didn’t forget these days, when he had thought that he wouldn’t make it out alive; and he almost didn’t. He had died there, probably for less than ten minutes as he didn’t suffer permanent brain damage from the lack of oxygen; but what had probably caused it was the dilaudid.

It had been injected into his veins, multiple times without his consent, for the only reason that it would make him feel better- which did not, considering what he had to go through after it happened.

He still regrets what he did after the incident; he snapped at Emily; thought of using dilaudid again: he clearly wasn’t himself, he didn’t even recognize himself whenever he was in front of a mirror.

Addiction stuff never goes away, and even though he didn’t forget, he didn’t think much about it daily, just when the subject would come up, or if he’d see or hear something that would remind him of it, but never the thought of the matter had been that important until now. It never triggered him a lot when he thought of it, not until a case bringing it up was taken in by the team.

It had been exactly five days, four hours, and nine minutes since they had begun working on it, but if he’d be counting the time he had been working on it, it’d be less than that. He hasn’t been focusing well since the discovery of the addiction concerning the unsub had been brought up.

Why is it impacting me like that? It had never been that way before, so why did it stay since? I never brought much attention to it to the point of thinking of it non-stop. I always managed to distract myself, try to control my emotions, so why didn’t it work today?

The only person who could- almost - make it go somehow go away was y/n. He’d look at her, and he’d be able to escape these thoughts for a moment as the only thing he thought about was her.

Spencer could describe her as his guardian angel, he can't lie about it, she saved him.

He doesn't know what he'd be doing if she wasn't here; and now that he thinks about what happened with Hankel, he can't imagine that if he hadn't made it out alive, he wouldn't have met her, she wouldn't have met him; and the only way she could have known him was through memories, and pictures.

Spencer would have been nothing but a frozen memory.

It sends chills to his spine whenever he thinks about it, the fact that he would have died at 25.

He can’t keep thinking about it, as it isn’t good to remain in the past; but now he’s just stuck in them, he can’t really describe what he’s feeling, but he can definitely say that it's clearly not doing any good to his mental health; it’s ruining him.

But clearly he doesn't want to tell the others and add more problems on top of the ones they already have with the case, and eventually in their lives.

Spencer doesn’t want to feel like a burden to the others, it’s been more than 10 years since it happened and to him, he’s supposed to have left some of the tension that was crushing him, it had been supposed to at least go away, a bit, to the point it didn’t ruin his health; he doesn’t know if he should talk about it, or if he even wants to.

He knows that they’ll understand, he knows that they never judged him, and will never do it; but what if they don’t understand? He doesn’t even know why it appeared now, he doesn’t know what triggered him that much to the point of being in this state of mind. He always figures out everything, and now he can’t even solve his own problems.

Everyone says that no one knows you better than you do, but I guess that this time the ‘theory’ hasn’t proven itself to be true apparently.

Something refrains him from talking; but he doesn’t know why.

If he talks about it with y/n, it may or may not solve it, but it could release some pressure, perhaps. It’s not confirmed, but it could.

Now that he thought about it, were the thoughts that distractive to the point that he may have forgotten why he felt like that in the first place?

He remembers that stress can affect how memories are formed. When stressed, people have a more difficult time creating short-term memories and turning those short-term memories into long-term memories, meaning that it is more difficult to learn when stressed.

It could have been that, but how? He doesn’t forget stuff.

He never does.

But, now that he thinks about it, is he looking at a reason when it is only right in front of his eyes? When it could only be his brain that reacted when the subject came up?

Spencer always figures out stuff, even what’s going on in his own mind;

So why does he feel like he can’t do anything?

Anything but watch himself sink down.

Is he trying to avoid it, doesn’t he want to solve it, or is he too afraid to face the truth?

Well, a part of him doesn't want to admit it, he could say that.

He doesn't want to face it, he doesn’t want to plunge the knife deeper than it already is. He doesn’t know, or can’t talk about it because he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to explain , make the person he’s talking to understand his feelings, or even manage to get the courage to talk about it, to not get stuck in a middle of sentence because he suddenly freaks out, or doesn’t know what to tell anymore.

He hoped that it’ll get better.

It could;

Or it couldn’t.

He’ll try to think about it later. It already was late enough, he wouldn’t get much sleep, so he’d better go now.

Spencer made his way to the entrance of the hotel room he shared with y/n, wondering if she still was awake; as she liked to go over the cases sometimes before going to sleep; but she wasn’t this time, she was laying on her side, the white blanket on top of her legs.

He made his way in the room, carefully closing the door not to wake her up; as she must have been drained of all the energy after the long day they’ve had;

He understands her, it really is exhausting, especially when the case goes nowhere. They didn’t manage to get much today, except...the addiction stuff.

Spencer would have normally felt relieved to have found a lead, even the smallest, but that lead wasn’t the one he would have wanted to find. He did want to find something else, but they weren’t appropriate thoughts, you can’t wish to find out he was a rapist or a murderer either.

Either it’s addiction, murder, kidnapping or rape stuff, neither is acceptable to wish for it to happen instead of what happened.

Neither.

He wishes he could erase it from his mind, at least, not remember it fully; but with that eidetic memory of his, that isn’t possible.

His eidetic memory is a blessing and a curse at the same time.

The curse part of it isn’t the best, it even describes itself by the definition of curse.

It always makes you remember the memories you certainly don't want to think about; and for Spencer, it’s literally his whole life, so he does want to not have it anymore most of the time because of that.

Unfortunately, that isn’t possible either.

If only it could, that’d allow him to rest better, especially now.

He made his way to the bed to the side next to the window; y/n had remembered that Spencer preferred to be on the side of the window.

Gosh, he loves her for that.

It’s a small detail, but still, he appreciated it that she thought of it.

Thinking about her, he wonders if she did notice or not; because even though they don’t profile each other, y/n always tries to make sure he’s okay without pressuring him.

So, if she did notice that time, she may not be talking about it because she possibly wasn’t sure whether he would react well or not; she knows that it’s a sensitive subject, and she didn’t want to trigger him or be in bad terms, but only if she knew that he wouldn’t ever do that.

He couldn’t yell at her, she’s the reason he’s here, the reason he stayed for. If he knew that five years after his arrival she’d enter the bureau, he would have fought every single day to survive and meet her, especially when he was with Hankel. He wouldn’t have given it up if it was for her.

He appreciated the team too, they were a second family to him; but he also would have liked to have the love of his life to fight for that day.

Spencer was relieved that she had arrived a year after it happened, he wouldn’t have wanted her to see him like that, he knew that she couldn’t have managed to think about anything, her mind would be fuzzy, she wouldn’t have managed to separate the right thoughts from the bad ones. He would have been relieved that it didn’t happen in front of her eyes, not the actual thing.

He wouldn’t have preferred that to happen at all, considering the problems that it caused after it, and still from that day. He still thinks that it was his fault, even if the team made him know it wasn’t at all; but he shouldn’t have split up.

Both JJ and him could have died; JJ could have been badly hurt because of the dogs, if they attacked her, and spencer could have died there if Tobias or whatever it was, didn’t chose to try to resuscitate him; if he would have made him go in his own grave he had dig, or if he has shot before he managed to get his gun to shoot him in the chest.

He still remembers the look on his face.

Even if he didn’t have an eidetic memory, he probably wouldn’t have forgotten it. It terrified him.

He had shot him before hankel managed to, and he fell to the floor, as Spencer kneeled beside him, looking at his terrified and disturbed eyes.

“You killed him."

“Tobias?” He asked, as he noticed the brightness of the flashlights from his peripheral view; and heard the distant voices, probably calling his name. He didn’t pay much attention, from the state and mindset, and his mind being...well, trying to focus on the man in front of him.

“Do you think I’ll get to see my mom again?” he slightly raised his voice, looking at Spencer.

“I’m sorry.” Spencer had admitted.

And that was the last words he had probably heard, before his eyes froze as life left his body; his chest rising a final time, as his last breath dissolved itself in the cold air.

It wasn’t until several people had gathered around the area, Hotch lowering himself to Reid’s level in order to pick him up.

A feeling of relief had washed itself over him, he hadn’t realised that his living nightmare had- now that he thought about it- somehow came to an end.

He didn’t think he’d do it once, but he had hugged hotch; as Hotch gave him a pat after he had wrapped his arms around his upper back.

He had understood what he had said when Hankel had asked him who he’d chose to kill, after he had chose Hotch,

"He’s a classic narcissist; he thinks he’s better than everyone else on the team.

Genesis 23:4; let him not deceive himself and trust in vanity, emptiness, falseness, and futility, for these shall be his recompense.

When he had said this; he had messed up on purpose; his memory didn't fail him; he had recited the verse 'job 15:31', not genesis 23:4. He had hoped for them to understand the "mistake" he had done, hoping that one of them would know the real verse.

I am a stranger and a sojourner with you. Give me property, forbear a place among you that I may bury my dead out of my sight “

Something had probably clicked in their minds, allowing them to discover the location Reid was at, or close to.

After that, he had gone to hug JJ, who had begun stepping towards him; before breaking the embrace as he reassured her that it wasn’t her fault after she had apologized.

That’s when he thinks that he messed up, what caused him to struggle even more.

He had asked for a moment, to be alone; and shortly stepped towards Tobias’s cold, lifeless body, reaching out for his pocket to take the two dilaudid vials; shoving them in his pocket in a single move- possibly to not draw attention by taking his time if they were watching him-, before standing up, crossing his arms, each in the crook of the other.

He won’t lie to himself, the next days weren’t the best he had; the wound was fresh, so obviously he wasn’t in his right mind; he kept-

Spencer.

Stop.

You’ve done enough damage to yourself.

He had put his hand on his forehead, before crashing on the bed, close to y/n to feel her warmth; hoping it could allow him to put his mind to rest.

Don’t think about it.

Just stop. It’ll be by constantly thinking about it that it’ll keep ruining you.

Spencer thought that it could- in a way- stop it, he didn’t really know what to do and think about at his point.

He closed his eyes, in an attempt to finish the rest of the night calmly.

-------

Spencer had woken up surprisingly early, way before the usual hour they'd go to work.

The night wasn't awesome, but okay...ish.

He had taken a lot of time trying to get his thoughts away from his head, but when you're alone, the task isn't easy.

It's you, and your thoughts.

Nothing else.

There wasn't anything to distract him as y/n was asleep; he wasn't going to wake her at 4am because he couldn't sleep, you certainly don't wake up someone for that.

He had woken up by exactly 5:45, not bothering to look at the window as he knew daylight wouldn't come at this time of the day, more around 7.

Obviously, he hadn't forgotten last night's subject, as much as he wished he could have.

But you know...eidetic memory stuff again.

As he looked as y/n lying next to him; Spencer had noticed that she hadn't apparently woken up yet; she was on her side, her face facing his.

He had wondered if she managed to get a good night of sleep; she'd often get stressed because of the case, and as the case had contained something she knew concerned Spencer -in a way-, she must have been stressing about it.

She always put others before herself, if one of her friends wasn't feeling well, she'd abandon the activity she was up to, and focus on the person; no matter what, even if it meant staying for two hours to listen and help the one she was talking to.

She was amazingly caring.

Too caring to the point that Spencer would ask himself if he ever deserved her: he wouldn’t have thought that he’ll ever meet a person like that, acting so nicely with him, plus interested in a relationship, that is now going on for two years; that was...unimaginable.

He liked being with her, a lot. She was a bit shorter than him, so he’d find it cute whenever she’d struggle reaching the top shelf; he didn’t know why he’d find it so cute: but it was like that. He’d go to help her, even if she wouldn’t ask, he’d do everything to make her happy, he’d never been in a relationship before her, so he didn’t really quite know what to do not to make her uncomfortable, not loved; he was so awkward and wouldn’t stop rambling or stuttering whenever he’d see y/n.

But she never saw him this way. She saw him as a normal person, talked to him as she would to the rest of the team; and would often come to talk, even if she didn’t have a reason to. She apparently wanted to hear Spencer rambling about facts, or answer some of the questions she had; and it never bothered him, she could have come for anything, even if it was just to say hello or ask him to take a paper she had faxed.

As long as he could see her, hear her voice, as long as she would be near him, it would be okay.

He had hoped for a while to be more than just friends, but the introverted side he had made him keep his feelings stuck inside, with no possibility to let them go out as he didn’t even have the courage to. That decision would have been something he would have regretted for a while if Ihedidn’t choose to say it that day at the bureau.

Well, It all was in the moment, it wasn’t intentional, not at all, it slipped out, and he regretted it at first, as his first thought was her rejection due to her non-shared feelings towards him.

“Hey Reid, you ready today? We don’t have any case for now, but we still have the paperwork from last day.”

“Oh- you’re talking to me? Sorry I- I thought of something. Could you repeat?”

“You? Distracted ? That isn’t surprising.”

“It’s rare, i’m paying attention most of the time.”

“Well you didn’t this time genius. Do you have a reason to defend yourself?” She said, in a playful tone.

“You.”

“...what?”

“I- I just, uh...it’s been a while since I wanted to tell uh…”

“...wanted to tell what?”

“That I- appreciate you; but not only in a…friendly way, it’s more than that. If you...get it. I...god, I’m probably making you feel uncomfortable right now.”

“Wait, you’re serious about this?”

“I’ve never been more serious than now.” Spencer said, not even stuttering, proving how serious he was in this moment.

“Then I feel the same, if that can answer your questions,.”

And that is how they began dating; with only eleven words; she had relieved him. He had been washed of all of his fears, now replaced with comforting thoughts.

He had never forgotten this sentence. If he didn't have an eidetic memory, he would have immediately grabbed a post-it not to forget it.

The tiniest things that had set their relationship had been the biggest ones that he cherishes the most.

Spencer likes her so much that he's always afraid to lose her whenever they're on a case; he always has to go with her.. Although she always was with the others, he couldn't let anything happen to her without being able to be here to protect her.

She doesn't want her to see him getting hurt either; even though she insists to be with him; it's funny; the fact that they want to protect each other all the time.

But now, he did want to protect her, he didn't want her to worry about problems she has yet to worry about.

We have enough problems.

I don't need to add more.

It won't do any good.

I'll solve it on my own.

Spencer crossed the door; as a group of officers and the team standing in the middle were. Hotch was walking through the room enunciating the profile of the unsub they were looking for, after managing to have enough information to form one.

Each word, each characteristic, would, or not, lead to the matter that had filled him for a week; he had tried for multiple times not to let the case reach him, it rarely did, and in that case, as it was mentioning a sensible matter, it wasn’t the most pleasant week at work, not really the kind of week he had imagine he’d had; especially not a one including a heavy mention of addiction with drugs that the victims had, and possibly the unsub as he knew specific types, and how to dose them enough to give a fatal dose. He either used them personally, or simply had knowledge of them: this fact couldn’t be confirmed yet.

“The unsub we’re looking for is most possibly a white male in his 30-40s, he [...] a stable situation, based on the frequency of the attacks, most of them being within working hours, and for a [...], killing people that don’t correspond to the type of victims he does his usual m.o; he’s perturbed, he knows people [...] ease in public, and probably may feel easily threatened and perturbed if someone [...], subjects that may trigger traumatism, causing him to become dangerous, and harm fatally other people if not controlled-”

Spencer hadn’t even listened to half of what he had just said, what he had been thinking about was taking more place in his mind than any other case would whenever he’d work to analyze it.

He had let himself get distracted, not daring to pay attention to his surroundings, to the point he hadn’t even seen y/n standing next to him, a worried expression plastered on her face.

Is it that obvious?

Is it obvious to the point she could notice it without profiling me? Or has she…?

“Spence, I think that we should head out for a moment.” She quietly said, grabbing the sleeve of his cardigan. “You don’t look okay. Are you alright?”

Am I?

“Uh...yeah, I-I’m doing fine, just a bit tired.”

“Everyone is, but I can clearly see it isn’t the same type.” She tightened her grip on his sleeve, pulling him out of the room.

After she had managed to find an empty room, y/n had opened it, pulling Spencer inside as she closed the door, before closing the blinds that could allow someone from the exterior to see the room. She had noticed the lock on the door, not hesitating to pull it towards the right to lock the room.

She looked at him, eyes tearing up. She placed a word before he had even gotten to.

“Spence, you know that...it’s okay if you’re...not okay, right?” She asked, hesitant.

“What...what do you mean?”

“You can tell me, it’s okay if you’re not okay. There is, no shame, to not be.” She said, as she sat on the seat next to her, Spencer following her action a second later. “..since when is it bothering you?” She placed a hand on his, rubbing circles with her thumb.

“When we...found out about the addiction matter, not long after we began working on the case. I don’t know why I stayed stuck on this.”

“Why didn’t you talk about it? If you had preferred to talk to someone else, I wouldn’t have been mad if you had gone to JJ, I know you guys have always been close.”

“I just thought that...I would bother everyone by adding my problems on top of the ones we already have. And I...didn’t know how to explain it.”

“And you didn’t want me to worry, right?” She asked, as he nodded. “I know that I worry about anything, but if it was about that, you know that I would have listened, and did my best to help, even though I wasn’t here when it had occurred. But I want you to know that I’m not mad about the fact you didn’t talk about it; I understand you.”

“I know you do. But, I was afraid you wouldn’t get it, or overstress because of it, because god knows that you stress about the tiniest thing,” He joked, earning a small chuckle from y/n. “But I just...kept thinking about it. The more I’d tell myself to stop thinking about it, the more it’d stay. I didn’t tell you everything about it, you just know about the livestream, and what the team had seen; and I...you know the next part, I had a problem with dilaudid; I had attempted to drug myself again, in the bathroom of an office, not long after. If Hotch hadn’t called me, I think that I would have done it.”

“But you didn’t, you managed to get the strength to stop. And you still have it now. We’re also here to give you the strength you need, support, whatever includes helping you. We’ve always been here, it won’t ever change. And even if we have a case, we’ll find a minute to talk with you. You never, but never, bothered us.”

“You sure…?”

“Absolutely. So here’s what we’re gonna do, we’re going to go back to the room; and go through the case. I would have wished that I could tell you to completely stop working, but we have to catch him before he does more damage. But after it’s done, we’ll get back home; talk about it, stay together, whatever could make you feel better. Because it’s okay to ask for help when you really think you need it, there’s no shame. I know that it’s complicated for you to talk about your problems in general, but if you feel like you need to talk to someone, we’ll be there, all of us.”

“Yeah, I know. But, I feel like how I felt a few days after it happened, when I was in the room with him, every single word, what he did to me, and...when I shot him. I still can’t erase the look he had on his face; I just…” He inhaled, wiping a stray tear from his eye. He wasn’t the type to get emotional in front of other people, but when he was with y/n, it didn’t matter. “I...still think that I shouldn’t have split up with JJ, she could have gotten killed by these dogs if she didn’t have ammo. I still think that it’s all my fault.”

“It’s not Spencer. I know you still feel guilty, she felt guilty as well too when you got abducted; and even though I know you can’t erase what happened, everything is over, both of you are safe. I’m not a good talker, I know, but, to resume, I’m gonna help you with what you’re going through, you’re not alone. You’ll even take a week off if you need one, your health comes first; okay?”

“Yeah. Okay.”

“Do you think you can go back, or do you need to go outside for a bit?”

“No, It’s ok, I can go back.”

“Okay, let’s go then.” She said, as she took his hand, their fingers interlocking: as Spencer felt the warmth of her hand against his skin.

He liked feeling her warmth, it really was comforting, and would- somehow - chase the nightmares away, for a bit.

He doesn’t believe that the pain will go away, his addiction problem never went away, even though he didn’t use any drugs anymore.

It won’t ever go fully, it’ll always stay, deep inside.

But hopefully, her presence can possibly make it go away, make him forget, at least for while,

So it won’t always be colder on his own.

__________________

Tags: @writing-in-april ;

#criminal minds s2 ep15 #criminal minds #criminal minds cbs #criminal minds fic #criminal minds angst #criminal minds fluff #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencersblog

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spartanguard · 3 years

Text

partners

summary: SVU detective Emma Swan's new partner is not what she expected. Thankfully, that's a good thing.

A/n: So I've been watching a LOT of Law & Order: SVU lately and when I got to the episodes where Stabler was partnered with Dani Beck, it just smacked with CS feels. This is just a bit of exploration of that, in honor of @optomisticgirl ‘s birthday!!

B—HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!! Thank you for being the most amazing friend, and the best person to bounce crazy fic ideas off of (like this). I hope you have the most amazing day and I love you!!!!

Note: While there isn't any actual sexual violence in this story, it is an SVU AU, so it's mentioned.

rated T | 2.3k words | AO3

She met him while he was trying to arrest a perp who’d just walked.

“Are you Detective Swan?” he’d asked, and she immediately noticed his accent—the way it wrapped around her last name in a way that sent a shiver down her spine, but it was hard to tell if it was in a good way or not.

“Yeah, that’s me,” she tossed back.

“I’m your new partner. Killian Jones.”

She shook his offered hand (only later noticing he only had the one) and wondered—just what the hell were they about to get into?

[He was her second new partner in as many weeks. Graham, who she’d worked with since she joined the unit, had enough with special victims—with Boston in general—and had taken up some smalltown sheriff gig in Maine. Emma knew he’d be happier there, but it kind of left her in the lurch. They’d sent someone new over the week before, but her style didn’t gel with Mulan’s quite well enough—the woman was a damn fine detective but just...too different.]

Jones was new to special victims, transferring in on the recommendation of the captain at his previous precinct, where he’d worked in homicide. The dead victims, he was used to; the live ones—not so much.

It was pretty obvious on their first case together, when they were interviewing the young girl in the hospital. Emma—she’d seen enough of the world’s shitty side that little phazed her any more; growing up in the foster system made her uniquely suited to this line of work.

But Killian? He was visibly upset; she had to physically restrain him from running out of the hospital to start tracking down the culprit, holding him back by the sleeve of his leather jacket. They hardly had a lead on this. Something could be said for enthusiasm, but that didn’t excuse jumping ahead of themselves. That’s how you got into trouble—that was how criminals got away with murder (literally); she’d done that enough for the both of them, and had a feeling he had, too.

She felt they had a lot in common, actually; there was an obvious affinity for leather coats, but past that, there was something familiar in his eyes. Not that she’d met him before, or anything—just something in the determined set of his gaze when interviewing a suspect, in the empathetic way he handled the victim.

She still wasn’t sure if that was good or not, especially when he almost forgot protocol—almost lost them evidence—by rushing in too soon.

And she was half ready to walk into Captain Mills’ office to request a new partner (again) when she found him asleep at his desk with what could only be described as a murderboard spread out behind him. He looked younger and softer in his sleep, impossibly gorgeous with the way his long lashes rested on his cheekbones and gentle breaths from his full lips—and none of that was really pertinent, because the man had just researched his way to a solved case.

“Just who are you, Killian Jones?” she asked when she later woke him up with coffee and a bear claw (biting back a comment on the rumpled state of his usually pristine waistcoat-and-dress shirt combo).

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he drawled, holding her gaze intently before taking a long pull from his cup.

She knew she shouldn’t, but damn, did she.

It wasn’t until a couple cases later that she began to put together the pieces of him. It had been a doozy of a kidnapping, and he’d been on edge the whole time—right until they finally tracked down the little boy who’d been abducted. Emma slapped the cuffs on the miserable excuse for a father who’d taken him and Killian pulled the boy into his arms, visibly deflating once he knew he was safe.

She dragged him to their unit’s favorite bar that night and slid a glass of rum in front of him, along with the directive to “Talk.”

He downed it in one shot, then worried his bottom lip (much to Emma’s distraction) before saying, “Have I mentioned I have a daughter?”

Her eyebrows rose in surprise, but she let him explain without interruption. Her name was Alice; she was 8. He had sole custody, and with good reason: her mother, his ex-girlfriend, had kidnapped her from his apartment when she was only a few years old. “It’s the most scared I’ve ever been,” he confessed. “And today...it’s like I was right back in that moment.”

“I don’t blame you,” she replied, then finished her own whiskey. This was probably where she should drop some of her own tragic backstory, right? Like the scumbag who left her pregnant at 17, and the baby boy she put up for adoption? “Props to you for doing it on your own. I obviously couldn't.”

“Don’t beat yourself up, love; you gave him his best chance.” He gently set his hand over hers on the bar and she froze; not because he was cold—quite the opposite, actually—but between that tiny gesture of support and the understanding in those too-blue eyes, she felt more seen than she had by anyone in ages, even Graham.

It was suddenly too much, too intimate, and she yanked her hand away and ordered another drink. “Is your ex the name on your tattoo?” she asked, trying to put some space in between them (physically and emotionally).

It worked. He sat back up and tugged his right sleeve down with his prosthesis, hiding the ink, and she could almost see the walls go back up between them. “No. That’s...another story. For another time.” He stood and tossed some cash on the counter. “Alice is with my neighbor; I better go get her. See you ‘round.” And he left hastily.

It was what she wanted to happen. He’d suddenly gotten too close. So why did she feel like such an ass about it?

She was going to apologize at their next shift, but they got thrown into another case. And then another after it. It was a different kind of intense—a different kind of intimate—than that moment in the bar; very quickly, she had to trust him, and vice versa. That was something neither were predisposed to, but were managing to do...honestly, better than she had with anyone.

After putting another rapist behind bars, Killian said with a smirk, “I don’t mean to upset you, Swan, but I think we make quite the team.” And he winked (well, tried to), and she just blushed back, like she was a teenager in love all over again. That fact that would normally send her running but, for the first time in years, she wasn’t opposed to it—except for, y’know, the fact that he was her partner and they were coworkers and HR generally looked down on that kind of thing.

She doubted he was interested, anyway. They hadn’t really done anything outside of work since that night; he was always quick to get home to Alice, and she didn’t fault him that—especially when she finally met the kid, who was clearly her father’s daughter in all the best ways.

They got a call for a case late one weeknight; Emma easily beat him to the scene, since he had to make sure his neighbor could watch Alice at such an ungodly hour. She handed him a coffee when he got there and they made their way to the ME, to get the rundown on the vic.

Emma had been paying attention, but it shifted from the examiner to Killian pretty quickly; he stiffened at the description of what had been done to the victim, then when white as the sheet covering her when it was pulled back.

“Eloise,” he whispered, like he’d seen a ghost.

“Wait—as in…?”

He nodded. “Aye. Alice’s mum.”

“Shit.”

They got what little information they could from the scene and then started to head for the precinct, but he was shaking so much, she insisted on driving.

“Are you gonna be alright?” she asked.

He let out a hollow chuckle. “No, probably not.” Then, one long breath later, “It was Gold.”

She nearly missed their turn at that. “Gold? As in, the mysterious Mr. Gold, owner of the pawn store chain?”

“One and the same,” Killian said, scrubbing a hand down his face. “It’s the same as with Milah.”

She would have asked who that was, but he was resting his prosthesis over the spot on his arm where she knew the tattoo was. And she got a sinking feeling in her stomach that this was going to be a rough case.

Once they got to the office (and she got some more coffee in him), Killian explained: Milah was his ex, his first love—but also Gold’s wife. And while Gold was well-known for being a shady individual, no one had ever been able to pin anything on him.

But Gold did find out about their affair, and Killian came home one day to find Milah—dead, attacked and killed in the same way Eloise had been hours ago. He wasn’t sure what their connection was—and he didn’t think Gold knew about his to Eloise, especially since she’d only been released from jail last week—“But I know it’s him. And I’m going to prove it this time.”

(Apparently, last time had ended with him getting into an altercation with one of Gold’s lackeys. He escaped with his life, but not with his left hand.)

Milah’s case had gone cold, but given the similarities, they were able to pull the files. It took a few weeks—several late nights, more than a few breakdowns, many tears (mostly Killian’s, but Emma’s and Alice’s as well) before they finally—finally—had the evidence to pin both murders on Gold.

Tracking him down was another thing altogether, but they finally caught up with him in his penthouse apartment. To no one’s surprise, he didn’t go willingly; a fistfight broke out between he and Killian.

She was scared she’d have to intervene, knowing how personal it was. By the end of it, Killian had a black eye and a bloody lip, but Gold was in handcuffs, tossed unceremoniously in the back of a squad car.

Killian watched the vehicle pull away, then turned to Emma, and wrapped his arms around her in a bruising hug.

In any other situation, she would have gone stiff with shock, but she didn’t hesitate to lean right into him. Her desire to comfort him after that was just as strong as his need for comfort.

But then he pulled back, cupped her cheek, and pressed his lips to hers.

That did take her by surprise.

But she was equally quick to reciprocate.

Just as fast, it was over and he was walking away, leaving her utterly confused. Logically, she knew it was probably just an emotional reaction—a one-time thing.

However: he kissed her like he meant it. She was familiar with empty kisses and single-night flings—and that...was a whole lot more.

And she couldn’t deny it any longer: she wanted that more.

She arrived at the precinct early the next morning, hoping to beat him there so they could talk about whatever that had been. She’d even gotten up an hour before she usually did so she could get them good coffee. But he was already there, filling out forms at his desk.

“Hey,” she said, suddenly feeling incredibly awkward as she put the cup on his desk. “You taking care of the reports?”

“Um, yeah,” he stammered, pointedly focusing on the paperwork and not her.

She glanced down at the desk, and that wasn’t a report—that was a transfer form. “You want to leave?” she whispered, the familiar pain of betrayal washing over her. He didn’t want to be her partner anymore?

“Emma, I can’t stay here,” he said, only somewhat apologetic. (Also, though she didn’t realize it at the moment, it was the first time he’d used her given name.) “After this last case...it just wouldn’t be good form.”

“Fuck your good form, Jones!” she cried. “How can you say that, after everything these past few months? After last night?”

Calmly, he stood up and moved into her space. “I can’t be your partner any more, Emma,” he said, reaching up to brush her hair behind her ear. “Because I want to be more than that. And last I checked, Captain Mills frowned upon inter-unit relations.”

That was true; she really did, more than most. But then the reality of what Killian was saying hit: “You...you’d give up your position for me?”

“Aye,” he answered, simply, like it wasn’t the heaviest thing anyone had ever told her.

What else was she supposed to do after a confession like that but kiss him? She rose up on her toes, gripped the lapels of his waistcoat, and found his lips with hers. He didn’t hesitate to pull her close and she was exceedingly glad no one else was in the squad room, because she’d never quite been kissed so closely to within an inch of her life as she’d been then.

(Also, it was a good thing no one was around when he pushed her onto his desk to deepen it further. If Captain Mills later noticed the forms were a bit crumpled, she didn’t say anything.)

Killian ended up transferring back to his old precinct, old job. It turned out they missed him. Emma knew exactly why; her next partner, David, was great, but no match.

Good thing she got to go home to Killian—and Alice—every night.

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

thanks for reading, and send B all the birthday love! tagging some others:

@kat2609 @thesschesthair @xpumpkindumplingx t @cocohook38 @annytecture @shireness-says @ohmightydevviepuu @profdanglaisstuff @wingedlioness @word-bug @thisonesatellite @distant-rose @wellhellotragic @welllpthisishappening @let-it-raines @pirateherokillian @its-imperator-furiosa @fergus80 @thejollyroger-writer @ineffablecolors @laschatzi @ive-always-been-a-pirate @stubblesandwich @phiralovesloki @athenascarlet @kmomof4 @ilovemesomekillianjones @whimsicallyenchantedrose @snowbellewells @idristardis @scientificapricot @searchingwardrobes @donteattheappleshook

#cs ff #cs modern au #cs detective au #happy birthday #optomisticgirl #my ff

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stillebesat · 4 years

Text

A Hero’s Rescue (part 2)

Sanders Sides: Roman, Virgil Blurb: After being defeated in battle, the last thing Roman expects is to have a soaking wet hero show up at his doorstep. Fic Type: Hurt/Comfort Superhero!AU Inspiration: This Post by @messythoughtsandscribbledplots Overall Fic Warnings: Blood, Injuries, Drugging (mentioned), Negative Self Talk, Threats of Violence, Death Talk Taglist in reblog.

Part 1

Roman had made his mother’s special soup over a thousand times. To the point where he could do it on pure muscle memory--a feat he discovered after a particularly unrememberable encounter with one of Brainiac’s mind ray beams that he didn’t want to experience ever again.

Still. Being able to feed himself with his mother’s soup even when his mind was completely blank of conscious thought was a good survival instinct to know he had...despite the circumstances.

And yet.

His master chefs had needed to take over the making of the soup halfway through after Roman had nearly sliced open his finger for the second time while dicing the onions because he wasn’t focused on the task at hand.

Now though, with the main preparation done, he’d sent them back to their slumber, leaving him alone to stir the soup on the stove while keeping an eye on the pot of hot chocolate simmering nearby. At least he hadn’t managed to burn either one...yet.

He supposed he could be granted a pass for being distracted though.

It wasn’t everyday he, a supervillain, had one of his nemesis’ over for a...well Roman had said kidnapping, but honestly, it was hardly that considering he’d left the kid alone to clean himself up without locking the door or even tying him up.

Roman exhaled, forcing his tense shoulders to relax as he reached up with one hand to check that his mask was still on.

Not that he’d let it or the crown he still wore to vanish. But he had to make sure.

Because he had a hero in his house.

He had a HERO in his House.

If any of the others ever discovered this--but no. He frowned. Someone had treated the young Thunderclap bad enough that he’d want to--that he’d come to Roman, no, to the Tyrant. To be--be---.

He let out another shaky breath, tilting his head to listen for the sounds of running water. For any indication that Whirlwind was still in the house.

For all he knew the young Rainspout had vanished as soon he was sure Roman had left the room.

Or...he could be sneaking around the place right now. Looking for the Tyrant’s Lair. It could all have been a trick. A trap--NO. Roman growled under his breath.

There had been no mistaking the despondency and then the disbelief in Sparky’s eyes at how he, as Tyrant, was willing to take him in and treat him like a decent person--which Roman honestly needed to figure out how that was gonna go down for the next couple of days having a guest--instead of well...killing him.

As Tyrant he was a lot of things…but an outright murderer? Hardly. Sure he could easily name a dozen other vile villains who wouldn’t have hesitated. To kill. To injure. To treat a hero, even a new one, like a punching bag. A dozen people Roman would need to check on to ensure they hadn’t mistreated Thunderclap in such a manner. Honestly, it really was a stroke of luck that the young hero had chosen to come to him first instead of--

Roman stiffened, hands going still on the pot as the hairs on the back of his neck rose.

Static Electricity.

Did Sparky realize he gave off that much energy? Probably not.

The soft coo of his dove confirmed that his new...guest? Yah. Guest was probably the best way to think about this. Had finally arrived.

“Fifteen minutes late, Whirlwind.” Roman said, fighting the urge to again check his mask to make sure it hadn’t slipped. “And here I thought heroes were supposed to be on ti--” He turned to the young hero standing awkwardly in the doorway with the dove on his shoulder, and promptly forgot to breathe as he caught sight of Sparky’s face.

His maskless face.

Roman jerked his eyes back to the soup, heart hammering in his chest as he gestured with a hand to conjure a simple silk mask, making it the same shade of purple as the pjs he’d created earlier that Sparky now wore.

He coughed awkwardly, desperately trying to forget all the little details, all the bruises, he’d seen just from the two second glance at the, oh Crofters, he’d known the hero was young, but not a freaking teenager! What was he fourteen?!

He’d better have not been fighting a child this entire time. No, Sparky had to be at least eighteen. Please let him be an adult and not a minor. Because if he wasn’t...Roman would have to rethink his fighting strategies against his favorite hero.

He clenched his jaw. And if...if the kid was actually freaking fourteen years old...then the perpetrator who’d hurt him like this would soon come to regret their actions because there was no way the Tyrant would let them get away with it.

Still looking away, he held out the mask to where he’d seen the hero standing, sending it with a flick of his fingers to hover near him in a crimson bubble. “You uh--forgot something, Thunderclap.”

Perhaps he should have taken Sparky to a hospital first if he was so addled in the head to forget something so simple as keeping his secret identity intact in front of his enemy.

There was a soft sigh and a faint tingle as static electricity brushed against Roman’s crimson glow, like a finger poking into the side of a balloon, before the mask was pulled free from his hold. “I didn’t forget.” Came the quiet response as the hero edged closer, pausing by the oak dinner table, using it as a feeble barrier between them. “Figured you wouldn’t let me keep it on long anyways if I’m your…prisoner.”

Prisoner? Roman scoffed, moving to pull cups and bowls out of the cupboard, setting them down on the counter. “Even if I intended you to be a prisoner, Whirlwind, which I don’t by the way even if you are technically kidnapped, because otherwise you’d be in a containment bubble where I wouldn’t be risking getting myself shocked senseless by one of your little lightning bolts. I still have standards. I wouldn’t unmask you like that.”

“....You wouldn’t?”

Roman glanced at him from the corner of his eye, noting the mask was definitely still in the kid’s hands as he dished up the soup. “Of course not!” It was hardly fair play. Especially for a new hero.

As the Tyrant, Roman may have enjoyed his battles with the Waterspout over the past six months, but they definitely weren’t ‘there’ yet when it came to him feeling any sort of victory from finally tearing away the hero’s mask to see the face of his enemy.

The moment he could corner that annoying army zapping Nerdy Wolverine though? Oh, that would be a sweet sweet victory he would savor for at least a year when he finally defeated Brainiac and rightfully discovered his true identity.

Roman turned, two bowls of soup held in his hands as he carefully kept his eyes directed at the kid’s bare feet, noting that even there the hero had cuts and bruises. He fought back the flare of anger, adding a couple more potential acquaintances he’d need to pay a visit to on his ever growing mental list. “If I wanted to find out who you were, Whirlwind, I would have taken your mask off outside when you were kneeling at my feet in the rain.”

He took two cautious steps closer to the young Hurricane, watching the feet as they shifted in place. He needed to tread carefully here. Go slow. His hero had been hurt and Roman needed to prove that Sparky was safe with him here.

He took a breath, holding out both bowls to give the kid the option of choosing one, conscious of how the hero had been concerned that they could be drugged. Right. Drugged. Mentally he crossed off six names and added one more. “Beyond the fact that I would very much prefer it to happen after a long hard fought battle where I soundly defeat you, at least that reveal outside would be far more dramatic and rewarding than doing so in my kitchen of all places.”

Wind whistled in his ears as Waterspout huffed a bitter sounding laugh as he tossed the mask onto the table. “Sorry to disappoint you then. But I’m done.” The lights flickered, the static electricity around them increasing. “Done with this...hero business. I can’t, Tyrant. It’s too much pressure. I’ll just fail.”

Roman shook his head, frowning as he set the bowls on the table, gesturing with his hand to float the two mugs of hot chocolate by the stove over to them. “You haven’t failed me.” He said lightly, setting them down.

Scare him? Yes. It wasn’t every day that a hero comes to your home out of the blue asking you to kill them.

Thunderclap snorted, resting his hands on the back of the chair closest to him, his fingers turning white. “Umm. Earlier today?”

“I know you can’t make every battle, Sparky. It’s not the end of the world if you don’t show.” Roman said with a shrug as he pulled out a chair at the table and sat, pushing the purple mask closer to the kid while fighting to not adjust his own or look at the hero’s face.

Sure he’d been disappointed. He always was when Thunderclap didn’t come to face him. Their battles were far more exciting, far more challenging compared to the other heroes he’d faced over the years. “You may not want to be a hero right now. But you’re injured. Exhausted. And hopefully hungry because I made you a ton of soup.” He twisted his hand, a soft red glow surrounding his fingers as two golden spoons appeared. He was careful to keep his eyes down away from the kid’s face as he twirled the spoons around his fingers. “After you eat your fill and get a good night's sleep in a big soft bed you might find you’ve changed your mind come morning.”

He could feel the static electricity continuing to build in the room until it felt like every hair on his body was standing on end. It made it difficult to not retaliate and send up a shield of defense against the lightning bolt that could be coming his way any second.

But the kid had no reason to zap him. At least he hoped he didn’t. He just had to stay calm. Stay relaxed.

Unexpectedly, the static energy vanished like an iceberg breaking apart leaving goosebumps racing up and down Roman’s arms as Sparky relaxed his grip on the chair. “You’re...not...acting how I expected you to.”

He smirked. Good. The Tyrant couldn’t be just your predictable regular run of the mill bad guy. “Oh?”

The chair scraped against the tile as Sparky cautiously sat down, his hand resting on the mask. “You...you care far too much about...” He shakily inhaled, the lights flickering above his head as he raised a hand, presumably to scrub at his eyes judging by the movement. “Me. No one ca--but you--and--and you don’t even know who--”

No one cares? If he wasn’t certain he’d be electrocuted on the spot Roman would have pulled the young hero into another hug then and there. It sure sounded like he desperately needed one.

“Kindness doesn’t need to be shown a face, Sparky.” Roman said softly, laying the spoons on the table with a quiet clink. “Just because I’m a bad guy...doesn’t mean I’m a bad guy.”

The kid huffed another shaky laugh. “Did...did you seriously just quote Wreck-it Ralph at me?”

Roman jerked his head up in surprise. “You know--”

The hero flinched back, causing the dove on his shoulder to take flight as his violet eyes half hidden by damp bangs flashed with panic while lightning crackled at his fingertips.

Wait! Face! Gah! Roman twisted in his seat, hissing under his breath, his body tensing with the expectation of getting electrocuted. Great. Of course his love of Disney would come back to bite him at a delicate moment.

This really would be much easier if the kid would just put on the mask already, so he wouldn’t have to worry--- but Roman wasn’t going to force him to do something he obviously was reluctant to do. Sparky was a guest…even if he was technically kidnapped.

“I didn’t see anything, Whirlwind” He said as evenly as he could as the dove landed on the counter nearby with a soft coo, his mind racing as he turned his head further to stare at the pot on the stove. “But...judging from your reaction...perhaps you don’t actually want me to know who you are?”

“I--I--” There was a thunk on the table as the crackling sound coming from the boy faded. “I don’t want to...be a hero right now, Tyrant.” He whispered. “I--I can’t--not now.”

But the kid couldn’t exactly use his civilian identity in front of the Tyrant either since they were enemies. A pretty pickle. Except Thunderclap seemed to be forgetting one thing. He didn’t have to be either identity.

Roman glanced towards the young hero to see his face buried in his arms, purple mask half hidden underneath them. “Last I checked, Hurricane.” He said quietly. “There’s no rule saying that because you wear purple and white as a hero...that you can only ever wear those colors.”

It would be a dead giveaway to the villains--for the smart ones at least--if the heroes did that.

Roman gestured, his hands again glowing crimson as he created a dozen more masks similar to the purple one the table, making each one a different color of the rainbow plus some boring shades like black and brown to give Raindrops a variety to choose from.

He turned away from the display as Sparky looked up. “If you don’t want to be a hero then pick a different color mask. You can be anyone you want to be under it. I can even conjure you a different set of pajamas so you can distance yourself further from your hero color scheme while you’re here. Just…” Don’t give up just yet. He shrugged. “Pick one.”

Waterspout reached out, hesitantly touching a blue mask, before shifting to hover over a green one. “...It can’t be that easy.” He whispered. “What’s the catch?”

Roman made a face. “No catch. Pick a mask and then tell me a name to go with it.” He said, watching him from the corner of his eye as the boy lowered his head, his bangs hiding his eyes. “Any name.” He coaxed. “And I’ll call you that instead while you’re here. You won’t have to be a hero. You can just...be my guest.”

“A guest. To the Tyrant.” Thunderclap said, putting an emphasis on the name.

That--the kid had a point. Roman exhaled. How could Sparky forget he was a Hero if his enemy, the Tyrant, was still around? Which meant...he would need to create his own alter identity as well.

For the seemingly simple task of taking in a young hero and giving him soup...this whole thing was becoming more and more...complicated.

“No. Not to him. To me. Your host.” He stated, raising a crimson hand to his golden mask, altering it so that it became the same size and shape as the ones on the table, his crown vanishing as Roman made minor alterations to his appearance to keep Whirlwind from guessing his own civilian identity.

He dropped his hand from the simple red mask he now wore, heart hammering in his chest at how...well naked he felt in the thing as he turned more fully to the kid, once more back in the clothes he’d been wearing while working on recreating his Knightmare Soldiers, careful to keep his attention on the masks on the table and not the hero’s bare face. No wonder Sparky was reluctant to wear this sort of thing. It hardly felt like a disguise at all.

“You can call me Pryce.” He said, spreading his hands, fighting not to fidget under the weight of Sparky’s eyes boring into him, taking in his changed appearance.

“Pryce?”

Roman nodded, watching Thunderclap’s hands twitching over his color options. “Yes.”

It was one name he knew he would answer to that couldn’t immediately be connected back to his own civilian life.

“You’re serious about this? No heroes...no villains...just…us?”

“So long as you’re here as my guest. Yes.” If Raindrops needed a break, then Roman would give him it. Anything to keep the kid from doing--from---from repeating--.

A soft sigh. “Okay.” Thunder rumbled in the distance as Sparky plucked up a plain black mask, placing it over his eyes.

Roman blinked. Wait. Black? “Sooo...what? You going all goth on me now, kid?” He asked, slowly turning more fully towards the hero--to his guest as the boy looked up, already visibly relaxing now that Roman could look at him without seeing his identity.

The corner of his lips twitching in a half smile as Sparky ran a hand through his darker hair, ensuring the bangs still half covered his eyes. “You have a problem with me wearing black?”

Roman rolled his eyes. He was a villain who wore gold for a reason. Of course he didn’t like black. “Beyond it being such a common, dull, and boring color?” He waved a hand dismissively, vanishing the other masks. “No. Not really.”

Thunderclap huffed, shaking his head. “Then...you can call me Andy.” He said, reaching for the closest bowl of soup, violet eyes flickering to him to check Roman’s reaction.

Andy.

Roman tilted his head. Not a name he would have picked for the hero. But he supposed that was kinda the point. “Andy.” He repeated. “Nice.” Not as nice or creative as Pryce, but he’d save his critiques for the boy’s lack of originality another day. “Is it short for the Mountain range?”

Spar--Andy choked on a laugh, shaking his head as he picked up a spoon. “No--not after--No.”

“Pity.” Roman said, a more natural smile appearing on his lips as he grabbed his own bowl of soup, purposely getting the spoon to his lips before his guest to prove that the soup was safe. “After the Mints then? I would be more understanding of your emolicious choice in black if that were the case.”

Andy flashed him a smile, eyes sparking. “Only if Pryce is short for Price Tag. How much you going for these days? Two bucks?” He asked, taking a cautious sip from his bowl, only to immediately go for another spoonful.

Roman nearly choked on his own soup. Price Tag? TWO BUCKS?! How dare he insult the Tyr-- Gah! Right. Not actively being the bad guy right now. But STILL. The audacity!

No wonder he loved bantering with this kid.

“You’ll come to find, Hot Topic, that I’m priceless. You can’t afford me.”

Andy hummed, nodding like a wise old sage as he picked up the bowl in both hands, tilting it to his lips. “So your name is Less now?”

Roman clicked his tongue, watching the kid gulp down his soup like there was no tomorrow. Okay...he’d walked into that one. “No.” He said, summoning the pot over from the stove, so that the kid could get more if he so desired.

“Pity.” Andy set the bowl down, glancing to the pot then to him. “Guess I can’t think of you any Less then.” He licked his lips, meeting Roman’s eyes before he could respond. “Not after--well...thanks--for letting me...crash here for a bit...Pryce.”

Roman blinked, caught off guard at the sudden change in direction. A pity. He’d had a great retort to that earlier remark too.

He took up the ladle, filling the kid’s bowl once more. “No problem, Peppermint.” He said as he also pushed the mug of hot chocolate closer to the hero, summoning a bag of marshmallows with a twitch of his fingers. He chuckled as the kid’s eyes once again lit up. “Stay as long as you need.”

#A Hero's Rescue #stillebesat #Sanders Sides #Roman #Virgil #Creativity #Anxiety #Superhero!AU #Villain!Roman #Hero!Virgil #injuries tw #drugging mention tw #negative self talk tw #threats of violence tw #death talk tw

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themadauthorshatter · 3 years

Text

I don't know about you guys, but I think it's time we check on Charles.

If you haven't read the previous parts, you can find them here:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4 and revision

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Recap time: the symptoms of withdrawl are beginning to kick in and leave Charles in less than favorable conditions, which Henry shows to the government in order to get the sapphire back.

Got that? My episode synopsis-ing is getting better😃. Anyway, ONWARD!!!

We begin with Charles sitting against the wall with his head in his arms and his knees to his chest. It's been a few days, withdrawal's in full blast, and he can't even pick up his head when he hears Henry walk in and kneel in front of him.

"Go away."

Henry simply holds out the pills again. "It must be hard without these, just sitting and counting the stars. Assuming you can do that," he adds with a shrug.

He reaches forward and practically picks up Charles's jaw, lifting it up so they meet eyes, which Charles doesn't do because the chain on his hat is shiny, there's a red hair on his coat, a papercut on his thumb, the scar on the bridge of his nose, and tons of small things that keep getting his attention.

"My offer still stands, Charles. All I need is you to tell me where it is, and you can have these back. Every last one."

Charles only stares off as his face contorts with sorrow and frustration, even when Henry snaps his fingers to get him to focus.

"Come on, Charles. We've been at this for a while, and I'm having a hard time seeing you like this now, so tell me. Where did you hide the sapphire?"

Tears fill Charles's eyes and his shoulders drop. "I don't know," he sobs. "I... I don't know."

Henry sighs and scowls, pocketing the pills. "Well, damn it for the both of us, then."

As he opens the door, Charles rushes at him, hard enough to knock them both to the ground and dent the cuffs.

Charles, not looking a gift horse in the mouth, books it, running down the hall and around every corner he can.

Henry, chuckling, stands up. "Alright. Let's do this, Charles."

Charles keeps running(really getting his cardio and steps in here), ducking behind and diving wherever he can to avoid being seen and found, eventually finding his way to a weapon vault.

In a rush and a panic, he bashes the cuffs off and repeatedly slams his hand against the panel to slip inside; don't worry, his ribs are better enough to be Bold Action Man again.

Inside, Charles catches his breath and tries to get his bearings, even when Sven announces over the intercom to keep an eye out for a runaway pilot.

Now knowing people are looking for him, Charles lets out a sob-groan and throws his hands over his eyes, losing it before taking a few deep breaths.

"Just breathe," he mutters to himself. "Just breathe, Charlie. You've managed before once. You can do it again." Charles takes another breath and arms himself with a handgun as someone begins to open the door.

He quickly draws and aims at Henry(are you surprised?), who raises an eyebrow and gives Charles a look of, 'bitch, really?' and leaning against the doorway, propped up on his arm.

Charles only stands his ground, taking deep breaths as he shakily speaks. "Take me home."

Henry only responds by snapping his fingers on one side and tapping his nails against the doorway, two sounds that heavily distract Charles.

It gets worse when, in between snaps and taps, Henry cracks and pops his knuckles, even clicking and clucking his tongue and tsking.

It doesn't help that Charles keeps noticing the weapons on the walls, especially the damage some have on them.

Henry snaps his fingers in front of Charles and removes his top hat, so Charles has a clear shot to his head.

Charles clenches his eyes shut and pulls the trigger, damning the consequences and the fact that he still has no idea how to get home.

Click!

Charles pales as his stomach drops with his hands and the gun, sliding to the ground as Henry kneels back in front of him.

"Do you REALLY think we'd keep our weapons loaded when we don't use them?"

Charles goes to hit Henry with the gun, as it's now a blunt weapon, but Henry grabs his wrist and pulls him close, so his back is against Henry's chest and Henry can slip an elbown around Charles's neck.

"By the way," Henry says before leaning into Charles's ear and growling, "You should've taken that shot, when you had the chance."

CUT TO EARTH(BECAUSE I'M A TROLL😈😈😈)

Rupert and Calvin are driving on that off road from Part 4 and looking for Charles's car, he's gonna need for when he gets back.

"I hope Charles is okay."

"You said that yesterday," Rupert replies sharply.

Calvin shrugs. "I'm just worried, that's all. He's been gone for a while, and Henry's got him."

"And he wants to know where we put the sapphire."

Rupert stops when they find Charles's car, but Calvin's not done.

"Where's the sapphire, anyway?"

"Shipped it off," Rupert explains as he leaves the car. "The General's having some friends of his make a replica, though, out of glass."

Calvin follows and they find a very relaxed Terrence, who's lying on Charles's car.

Calvin steps up and demands to know what Terrence is doing here.

"Nice to see you, too," Terrence sighs as he gets up. "What brings you to my neck of the woods?"

"We're bringing Charles home, and he's gonna need that," Rupert snarls.

"Not where he is, but knock yourselves out," Terrence dismisses as he tosses the keys to Calvin. "Told anyone that it needed gas. Kept it company."

Calvin eyes Terrence, but loads in and starts Charles's car.

"I'll follow you," Rupert calls as he hops back into his car; the plan is that they're going to rtyrn the car to Charles's house, grab the twins', and return to the base. Rupert's following Calvin, for safety reasons.

Calvin gives a thumbs up and they head out toward Charles's house, Terrence riding with a tense Rupert.

"So the pilot's up in the stars now? Shame."

"You left him that note," Rupert replies sharply. "Why?"

Terrence raises an eyebrow. "When people can't solve a problem, you either give them a hint or solve it for them, which won't help them at all."

Rupert's eyes go wide as he stares at Terrence. "'Help?' You call getting Charles kidnapped 'HELP?'"

"Help is like art; it can mean anything."

"That son of a bitch is forcing him into withdrawl!" Rupert snaps. "He's keeping him from taking his medicine and you're just going to sit back and say you 'helped!?'"

Terrence stares down at his boots as Rupert locks his eyes on the road.

"I swear, if Charles dies, it's on you."

Terrence only stares out the window and remains silent for a while until they drop off Charles's car and head back to the base.

"He won't die. Henry won't let him."

"How do you know?" Rupert asks.

"Because he's selfish and childish, and he hates sharing his toys."

"But he LEADS the Toppat Clan."

"Which used to belong to Reginald," Terrence explains. "Charles is the General's son, adopted or otherwise, and the General calls MOST of the shots."

Rupert tightens his grip on the steering wheel. "And with Charles on that station, we can't attack."

Terrence nods. "The General's already lost a lot of people. What d'you think he'll do if he accidentally gets Charles incinerated in space?"

They're silent for the rest of the drive, after that.

Now that I bring up Galeforce, we cut to him watching the live feed of Charles escaping before being dragged back to his cell, kicking, screaming, and crying. Right, who's pulling him, grabs his hands and re-restrains him, so Charles is back to hanging.

WITH CHARLES!

He's struggling against his cuffs again as Henry, Right, Reginald and Ellie watch, unimpressed, fed up, and just sick of his BS.

"You know, this would've been A LOT easier, if he'd just stayed like this the entire time," Ellie rematks with her arms folded.

Henry nods, but signs, 'We can't have him atrophied or with his arms stick like that, but at least it keeps him in one place.'

They watch him keep trying to break free, Charles not noticing them.

"We could tell 'im 'ow to get to an escape pod, and 'e wouldn't listen," Right says.

"We could literally say ANYTHING, and he wouldn't listen," Ellie adds.

Reginald only sighs/groans as he leans his head against Right's shoulder. "How long is he going to do that until he realizes it won't help?"

They watch Charles for a little bit longer before, Ellie, who gets the 'okay' nod from Henry, steps up and slams her fist into Charles's stomach.

Charles stops instantly and has a coughing fit.

Cut to Galeforce seeing this and clenching a fist before cutting back to Charles as he keeps coughing.

"You're not doing yourself any favors, so just tell us what we want to know and we'll send you on your merry way."

Charles weakly glares at them, though he looks eyes with Henry.

"What part of 'I don't know where the sapphire is,' do you not understand?" He snaps. "I fell unconscious, when I gave it to them, so HOW could I be able to tell where they hid it?"

Henry furrows his brow before Reginald speaks up, "If you didn't hide it, someone else must have, and you're the top pilot, if you don't know where it is, who would?"

Charles immediately thinks of the twins, but shakes his head, eyes on the floor to avoid looking at everyone. "I don't know."

"Careful, kid," Right says. "If y' keep lying, you'll get yourself killed."

Charles shakes his head again. "I really don't know."

Right, knowing Charles is lying, punches him in the cheek with his non-cybernetic hand.

It makes Charles's ear ring and makes him taste blood(because he bit his cheek), before Henry approaches him and signs to him.

'Don't think I forgot about those twins you care about. If they know, we'll drop you off and pick them up, easy. Unless you want to tell us yourself where ths sapphire is?'

Charles's face drops with horror before he glares and spits a mix of blood and saliva at Henry, hitting him on the cheek.

"Fuck you."

Henry, ever the gentleman, scowls and wipes himself off, nodding at Right and Ellie; 'He's yours.'

He and Reginald turn to leave, but Henry lightly holds Ellie's arm and leans into her ear.

"Don't break him."

"Why would I break your new favorite toy? Give me some credit."

The two smile at each other and Henry leaves, Reginald behind him; he did not want to be in that room when Right and Ellie were there.

The door closes and the two turn to Charles, Right letting Ellie go forst because she's a lady👸

Cut back to Galeforce, who cringes as Ellie punches Charles sone more, the pilot groaning and crying out with each strike.

Victoria and Konrad enter the room carefully, Konrad holding a rolled up piece of paper and Victoria there as his escort and emotional support.

"General, you asked for us?"

Galeforce turns away from the monitor as he it shows Ellie letting Right take a turn and Charles pick up his feet to kick him away.

"I did. How's the design coming along?"

Konrad passes the rolled up paper to Galeforce, who opens and insects it.

"We've already got a few prototypes being built, so we should be ready for testing soon."

Galeforce nods at them. "Good. When they're done, have them tested ASAP, got it?"

Both nod and Galeforce dismisses them, though. Victoria stays to long enough to see him set down the paper and maks himself keep watching the feed, on which Right throws a kick HARD into Charles's stomach and makes him cough worse than when Ellie punched him.

It makes Victoria flunch becofe she turns to the General.

"I don't know who's getting it worse, him or you."

Galeforce ignores her, only watching as Right lets Ellie have a turn again.

Victoria puts a hand on his shoulder, and she can FEEL how much he's shaking.

"We're going to bring him home soon, General. I promise."

Galeforce, without looking, rests his hand on Victoria's.

"Thank you."

CUT BACK TO CHARLES!!!

Right and Ellie are gone, and he's beat to all hell, his face and body bloodied and bruised, though his ribs aren't as significantly bruised as his face, because of obvious reasons.

Charles is breathing heavily and spitting out blood, because it taste makes him sick. He rests his head against his arm and gives his restraints another pull before sighing and letting out a sob.

He doesn't know if the others know he's on the station, but hopes that they're both alright and planning on getting him out, because he's trapped.

Then he thinks about how Henry knew Charles was protecting the twins, and breaks down.

Henry knows about the twins.

"I'm sorry," Charles says to no one in particular. "I'm so sorry."

#henry stickmin #henry stickmim collection #completing the mission #completing the mission au #charles calvin #toppat!henry #ellie rose #toppat henry #medication withdrawl tw #slight violence tw #swearing tw #stickvin #one sided stickvin #stickrose #ellry

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busterkeatonfanfic · 3 years

Text

Chapter 29, Part I

Buster had hoped that the picture would progress more smoothly back in Culver City. New York had been recreated on Lot Two in no time and was ready for filming by the time he returned to M-G-M on Monday the 30th. He was finding that even without the onerous script, however, he just couldn’t go back to the way he’d done things a few short months before.

When arrived on the set, he hadn’t wanted to get into the scenes of him and the girl right away. Instead, he pulled Bruckman aside and chewed over ways to lead the audience into the story, break the ice a little. Maybe a fussy grande dame carrying too much weight wanted a portrait of her little boy. Buster could see them in his head, the fat lady brushing the shoulders of the kid’s jacket, posing him just so. When she wasn’t looking, the scoundrel would stick out his tongue or thumb his nose. In the meantime, he—that is to say, the photographer—would be growing more and more frustrated with the boy. After being scolded by the lady, who wouldn’t hear that her perfect angel was monkeying around, he would finally take the portrait and show her the result. Upset, she’d blame the kid’s behavior on him. The conversation would get heated, drawing the attention of a drunk panhandler who would ask for his portrait to be done too. After all, his cup was full of pennies, wasn’t it? He could afford it. The lady would object. No, her boy was first in line. There’d be a yelling match between the two, the finely dressed fat woman and the ragged skinny drunk, followed by some shoving, in which Buster became collateral damage when the drunk ducked a punch. The hullabaloo would attract a crowd, and finally a policeman (giving Buster a suspicious look as though he was the cause of it all) would disperse the crowd. Buster would be left on the sidewalk, unpaid for his portrait of the kid and worse off than when he started.

This idea having occurred, he’d called to the crew to get him a fat lady, a kid, and someone who could play a drunk. They just looked at him like he had three heads.

“What’s the big idea?” he’d said.

“C’mere, I wanna word,” Sedgwick had said, frowning over the cigarette between his lips.

They’d gone around the corner until they were out of earshot, then the older man rounded on him. “What in the fuck was that?”

“What in the fuck was what?” said Buster, genuinely baffled.

“All the business of ‘Get me this, I want that.’ You made me look like a damned ass in front of my men.”

“How?” said Buster, astonished.

“By undermining my authority, that’s how. I’m the director. You barking orders makes me look like a spare prick.”

Buster had tried not to gape. He felt his own anger begin to rise. Wanting to keep the peace, though, he’d swallowed and said, “Well, I’m awful sorry. It’s nothing personal, honest, I just never worked another way. It won’t happen again, alright? You have my word.”

Sedgwick’s shoulders had relaxed somewhat and his expression softened. “Thanks. Look, I know it’s got to be tough to adjust, but we do things different. Just watch. You’ll see it’ll get taken care of.”

The scene didn’t get taken care of, despite Sedgwick’s assurances. Buster had stood back chain-smoking and watching calamity unfold. The kid was uncooperative, too green to be anything other than nervous in front of the camera. The fat lady couldn’t seem to understand that the camera couldn’t see the kid when she stood in front of him in all her overproportioned glory. The drunk couldn’t take direction at all, to the point that Buster suspected the drunkness wasn’t an act.

Finally, Sedgwick had thrown up his hands. “This is a disaster. Buster, line these god damn people up and get this fucking shot over with.”

Buster stubbed his cigarette out. “Me?”

Sedgwick had looked pained. “Yes, you. Who else?”

Feeling satisfied inside, Buster had taken over and soon had all parties in line and the scene rolling right along. In the days following, Sedgwick didn’t try to interfere with him and he didn’t try to interfere with Sedgwick, and they grew to like each other. A large man, he had a big appetite and liked to come over to Buster’s half of the bungalow to eat an elaborate lunch cooked up by Caruthers rather than patronize the studio cantine. Buster dubbed him Junior.

Even though Weingarten was up his ass about something every other day, shooting was going alright, too. Maybe it wasn’t the way he was used to working, but at least he’d gotten three-quarters of his control back and could dispense with things like jewel thieves and kidnappings.

As April gave way to May that week, he stayed overnight at the bungalow. On Wednesday he managed to sneak Nelly in. They had to forgo their usual activities beneath the sheets owing to her monthly visitor, but they had a nice dinner of roast lamb and potatoes and tried a few foxtrots in the front room, bumping into furniture because was hardly any room, then Nelly practiced her lines while he smoked and perused the latest pile of newspapers and magazines that Caruthers had left.

On Friday night, he drove back to the Villa. He arrived just in time for dinner, catching Natalie as she passed through the atrium.

“Hello, Nate,” he said. He’d just hung his coat and hat and kicked off his shoes.

“Oh, you’re back in time for dinner,” she said without a smile. He could tell by the way she said it that it was a question in disguise: Why haven’t you been home for dinner?

“Well sure, it’s Friday night. Ain’t filming tomorrow. I’m staying at the bungalow while we’re filming,” he added. “Toldja that.”

“You didn’t,” she said, unsmiling. “You didn’t say you were staying at the bungalow this week.”

He considered his wife’s unhappy countenance and tried to remember if he’d called her on Monday. He’d had dinner with Sedgwick, then there was a bridge game and drinks with some of the M-G-M brass. Sam Goldwyn had been there. Or had that been Tuesday night? He couldn’t remember, and couldn’t remember calling her. “I thought I did. Honest. I got caught up in stuff, I guess,” he said.

“Oh, your card games?” she said, hand on her hip. She looked beautiful, all polish, poise, and elegance. “Maybe with that girl from your picture? Marceline?”

His eyes widened. “Marceline? You mean Marceline Day?” He knew he ought to be used to Natalie’s jealousy by now, but sometimes it flew at him out of the blue and smacked him straight in the face like that baseball last July. He’d hardly filmed a single scene with his newest leading lady, let alone entertained thoughts of seducing her.

“I simply find it incredible you’d forget to call me over a card game.”

“Well, it’s true whether you believe it and I said I’m sorry.” He reached for her arm. “C’mon, let’s not fight about silly stuff.”

“Oh, I agree it’s silly alright,” she said, brushing off his hand. “I didn’t make it so, you did.”

“Nate,” he said. “The kids. C’mon, they’re in the other room for Christ’s sakes.” In an attempt to extinguish the argument, he grabbed her by the shoulders and kissed both her cheeks in quick succession. “Please? You’ve got me tomorrow and Sunday. I’ll spend all that time with you. I’m all yours.”

Natalie grimaced. “I’m leaving tomorrow afternoon for Lake Tahoe. With Norma. Don’t tell me you forgot that too.”

“Of course I didn’t,” he lied. He had no recollection of her telling him about Lake Tahoe, though supposed it had been discussed in New York when he was listening with half an ear. “Let’s make the most of tonight then, and tomorrow morning.”

“We’re having veal for dinner,” she said, ignoring his offer.

“Good. I’m hungry.”

It wasn’t much of a truce, but he treated it like one and put his arm through hers and walked her to the dining room.

Natalie went to bed early that night complaining of a headache and was too preoccupied the next day buying new outfits for her trip with Norma to trouble with him. “I’m sorry, but it’s supposed to be warm and we’ve got to have some lighter dresses for the trip,” she’d said just before departing.

He tried to distract himself golfing with Tom Mix, but kept getting stuck on thoughts of his wife like a skip in a record. There had been a time when Nate had loved him and they’d gotten along, he could almost swear by it. He’d once spent hours with her mother and sisters, not resenting them for taking up Natalie’s time and attention. Rather, he had been glad to be in their midst even though Peg had never made a secret of the fact that she didn’t think him good enough for her middle daughter. It had been easy then to love the people who loved Natalie.

There had also been a time when Nate and him had talked about more than the children, kissed in more than a perfunctory way, and shared more than just a house and money. To this day he couldn’t understand why it wasn’t that way between them anymore, couldn’t remember when they’d begun to drift apart. He was pretty sure she had still loved him when they’d moved into the Villa. When had she stopped? Why had she stopped?

Tom would bring him back to reality at intervals, reminding him that it was his turn to put. He’d forget about Natalie for a couple minutes, but the needle would return to the beginning of the groove and he’d start worrying all over again. If only if he just—maybe if he just …

That night, he got roaringly drunk at Marion Davies’ party, not bothering to see Natalie off at the train station when she left late in the afternoon.

The Villa was vacant the following day, his sons having been kidnapped by Constance and all the servants but Caruthers dismissed until Monday. Their benevolent mistress had decided they could do with a little holiday as a treat. Tired of fretting about Natalie, he drank some black coffee to tame his headache and called Nelly afterward.

Note: I know you’re all sick of waiting, so I decided to publish Chapter 29 into two parts. The second part will likely be longer. Sorry I’m so busy, but 🤷‍♀️

#buster keaton #fan fiction #actor rpf #golden age hollywood #silent film

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banditthewriter · 4 years

Text

Eye of the Hurricane - Charles Vane -5

Again, forgot to post this, but here we have it, the end. As I mentioned, I lost steam with this fic. There was gonna be smut and some introspection, but instead we have this. It’s a shorter part, but hopefully it’s worth it in the end.

Thanks for reading.

*gif not mine*

Enjoy!

------

Charles had given you the freedom to roam around the fortress and, the night before notwithstanding, you hadn’t had an issue. A lot of the rooms seemed unoccupied. You stayed away from anywhere you could see or hear the men. Mostly you just wandered a few halls that were connected to areas you already explored.

Finding your way back up to the part that overlooked the bay was easier than you had expected. No one was up there so you were blissfully alone and in the open.

There was a bit of a breeze that helped with the heat from the sun that bore down on the island. You closed your eyes to enjoy the sounds of nature mixed with the distant sounds of the people on the beach.

A chair sat near one of battlements, able to sit there and look down while still protected. A surge of something like confidence—most likely recklessness—rose inside of you as you stared at the stones.

The shoes you wore were ones that had been in your trunk. They were smoother on the bottom, less worn and therefore had less grip. You thought about toeing them off but you couldn’t afford to somehow lose another pair of shoes.

Carefully you stepped onto the chair. It supported your weight easily, but you’d rather not have an accident so you quickly stretched your leg out to step up on the opening of the battlement.

Next was your other foot until you stood completely on the stone of the fortress. There was a raised section on either side of you that you braced your hands on for balance.

It was a far drop. Much farther than you’d anticipated. The sight made you a little dizzy but you stayed where you were.

It wasn’t that you wanted to jump. It hadn’t even crossed your mind. This wasn’t about an escape. At least, not in the literal sense.

So long of being locked away—first on a ship and then in the fortress—you just longed for freedom. It was like taking a walk on the beach the night before your ship left Norfolk. You weren’t running away, you were just taking control of one small aspect, doing one thing that you wanted to do.

From here, you could see so far in all directions. It was scary and new and probably stupid, but it made you feel alive in a way you hadn’t felt in so long. Maybe ever.

“Try not to fall,” you heard from behind you, the appearance of someone else startling you but not making you jump too much.

You glanced over your shoulder at Charles as he stared up at you from a mere foot or so away. His hands were tucked into his belt, every inch of him looking calm and relaxed. Except for his eyes. Those were narrowed on your form as you hovered precariously on the edge of the battlement.

“I didn’t plan on falling,” you admitted as you looked back out at the water. “Would you try to catch me if I did?”

He was silent behind you so you turned to look over your shoulder again. When you met his eyes, you knew what his answer would be before he said it.

“Yes, I would,” he said easily.

You started to turn away, not wanting him to see the beginning of the smile that his words put on your face. As you turned your body, your never before worn shoe slipped on the stone.

There was nothing in front of you as you started to tilt forward. An arm went around your waist and quickly tugged you backwards. At first there was nothing behind you and then you felt your back land against a solid chest, the arm around your waist joined by a second to catch you. Your feet skidded against the stone floor of the overlook, those damn shoes coming off from the impact.

Your heart was thudding loudly in your chest, blood pounding in your ears as you realized how close that had been. A terrified laugh bubbled up in your throat as you turned around to meet Charles’s gaze.

The moment your eyes met his, the laugh melted away. He was staring at you with an intensity that made your mouth go dry and your hands get damp with sweat. He was so close, just a few inches away. And was it just your imagination or was he leaning in closer to you?

He was. You felt the briefest brush of his lips against yours, a tantalizing tease that made you start to lean in towards him as well.

Then you were reminded of the blonde from the night before. With a wince you pulled away, your hand going up to press against his chest.

He murmured your name but didn’t take what you’d been so close to offering. Instead he just stared at you, a question in his eyes.

Why had you pulled away? Why indeed.

“It’s bad enough that you’re the man who kidnapped me,” you began, your voice quivering as you spoke, “but that you would kiss me after what you did last night? With Eleanor.”

Those eyes were somehow both expressive and inscrutable. Or perhaps you just didn’t want to read the confusion in his eyes, because you could hear it in his voice.

“With Eleanor?”

You were able to put a little distance between the two of you although it didn’t escape your notice that his hands simply went from being around you to resting on your waist. It wasn’t enough for your head to be completely unfogged, but it was enough that you were able to put your thoughts to words.

“Yes, with Eleanor. After you had me dragged from your room like the prisoner I am, I know that you met with her. I saw the two of you afterwards,” you explained when it seemed like he wasn’t understanding what you were saying. “I saw that her clothes were… out of sorts.”

He raised an eyebrow at that. His hands didn’t leave your waist but you didn’t think you imagined that he seemed to squeeze you a bit once you had spoken.

“You think I fucked Eleanor last night and then kissed you today?”

Besides his rather crude term, that was exactly what you thought. You hadn’t been aware that it was up for debate. At your curt nod, you noticed the beginning of a grin on his lips.

“She did try to take her clothes off, but I told her not to bother. The reason she wanted to fuck wasn’t about interest or love or even just wanting to take the edge off. She wanted to distract me, to use me to get what she wanted. I wasn’t going to oblige.”

You thought about that for a moment. It was true that the two of them had seemed to be very angry with each other when they walked by your door. Was it possible that what he was saying was true?

The look in his eyes made your heart speed up a bit. You didn’t think he’d lie to you, for whatever that was worth. He’d been honest with you so far, hadn’t he?

The hand that you still had pressed against his chest eased up just a little, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt so that you could pull him slightly closer. You wished you could be more bold, but even that little move made your heart feel like it was going to beat out of your chest.

That’s alright though. Charles must have read the acceptance on your face before he used that grip on your waist to pull you closer, his grin the last thing you saw before his mouth was pressed to yours fully.

Kissing Charles Vane was a lot like standing on the edge of the battlements. Only this would be an even worse fall.

------

You traced your fingers around the brand on Charles’s chest gently, a caress more than anything. He peered down at you with one eye, the corner of his mouth quirking upwards as he did. His arm wrapped around your bare waist and tugged you a little closer to him.

“Don’t start something you can’t finish,” he playfully warned as he leaned in to nip at your bottom lip.

As much as you would love to roll over and let him have you again—and you would love it, very much so—you couldn’t help the questions that swam in your head. Questions you knew you needed to ask now before you lost the courage.

Or before you were successfully distracted by his seduction techniques.

“What happens next?” You looked up and caught the playful glint in Charles’s eye. You rolled your eyes before you clarified, “The men you sent to give the ransom note to my parents will be back soon. What happens if they agree to pay?”

His hand went up until he could cup your cheek, angling your face to look at him.

“You can go if you want. I won’t keep you prisoner here.”

You covered his hand with yours, propping yourself up onto your other elbow so that you could look down at him beneath you.

“And what if I don’t want to go?”

His hand tugged you forward a bit. When you gave in to him, all he did was pull you down for a kiss.

“Do you want to stay here in Nassau or,” he added in a low voice as his trailed his lips over your cheek and to your ear to whisper, “do you want to stay here with me?”

You gasped but the noise was stolen away from you as he surged up to kiss you once more, rolling the two of you until you were on your back and he was on top of you, fitting between your legs like he lived there.

“Both,” you finally admitted when he pulled back long enough to let you catch your breath.

“The sea is a dangerous place,” he said as he stared down at you, his face unreadable. It was a bit of a non-sequitur until he spoke again. “Perhaps the men never make it back to Nassau. Or perhaps the ship you’re to return on is lost at sea. There’s a lot that can happen in the distance between Nassau and Norfolk.”

That was it. As simple as that, you could disappear into a new life. Here on Nassau you wouldn’t have to worry about what your parents would consider proper or how your brother would do better than you. You wouldn’t have to worry about being forced to marry a man you didn’t know, didn’t love. You could have freedom here.

It was like everything else fell away. You ignored the heat from the fireplace that raged beside you. You ignored the sound of Nassau and the water that could barely be heard through the window. You ignored the ache between your legs from the last few hours with Charles.

Everything fell away besides the man above you. His eyes were heavy lidded as he stared down at you, but crystal clear. He knew what he was offering.

He had made a name for himself here in Nassau and out there in the world. Captain Charles Vane, infamous pirate.

And here he was offering you a part of that. A part of him. Maybe you would never sail the seas with him as a pirate, but you could be there for him to come home to. His woman, his safe harbor. If his goal was to make Nassau something new, something bigger than it was, you could be at his side.

With nothing to lose, you leaned up to capture his lips. It was a kiss meant to consume and by god it did. You let it consume you, let him engulf you with the heat and the strength of him. You wanted it as much as he did.

As the world returned to a roar in your ears, you ignored it in favor of focusing on the man on top of you. You had learned that you had the strength and fire to take on the world if it came to that. Charles would be your secret weapon if needed, but you had made the decision for yourself.

Your life, your real life, started now.

Thanks for reading! Sorry it’s not very long.

#charles vane #charles vane x reader #charles vane imagine #charles vane fanfic #black sails imagine #my writing #eye of the hurricane

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