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wkemeup · 3 years

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Vengeful Spirits┊By Any Other Name

summary: A year after the fire and the end of Hydra, Brock Rumlow's ghost is still haunting you. pairing: bucky x reader chapter word count: 10.7k warnings: PTSD symptoms, nightmares, canon level violence, angst angst angst!!, it's a revenge story babyyyy a/n: This is an alternative future that you can chose to include in your own version of BAON canon or consider as a 'what if' timeline. It was really fun to explore this side of the story and jump back into this world again so I hope you enjoy! ❤️

🌹 series masterlist <- catch up here first! 🌹

You couldn’t breathe beyond the stench of gasoline and cigar smoke. With wrists bound and tied to an old, wooden chair through frayed electrical wires, the exposed copper dug into your skin, leaving behind thin lines of ruined flesh in their wake. Blood dripped down your fingertips and onto the carpet at your feet. Tiny red dots marked into the pattern.

Along the walls, you could hardly make out the distorted image of near empty shelves, broken pots, and your books discarded amongst the soil and ruin. Pools of gasoline leaked into the hardwood floors, soaked into the pages of century old novels; ink bleeding through the paper.

“You are Hydra, baby!” Brock’s disembodied voice echoed throughout the room. You flinched at the sound as if it could cut through as sharp as the wires on your wrists. Your eyes scanned the room to find it empty, and still, his voice lingered down the aisles of your library, his presence haunting you.

“No,” you choked out, throat closing under the weight of the lump building there. Tears pressed against your cheeks. Gasoline burned in your nose.

A figure emerged from the shadows – a faint outline of the man you married, the man you despised, his face hidden by the darkness clouding around him. Still, you could smell the liquor on his breath – always on his breath.

“You are not worthy of redemption.”

You tugged at the bindings on your wrists, adrenaline thunderous in your heart. You wondered if it might push past your chest and spill out onto your lap. If your blood would meet the gasoline at your feet and blend into one.

“Stop it,” you warned, though the fear was evident in your voice.

Brock did not relent as he stepped forward, the shadows clinging so tight to his body you could not make out his face. “You are and always will be Hydra to those feds...”

A sob broke through you as he approached. You had no will to fight, no source of strength to draw upon. All you could feel was the blinding terror coursing deep into your veins with his every step; with each squeak of the floor boards, with every footprint coated in potted soil and gasoline. The cigar hung loosely at his fingertips, ready to set fire to the room around you.

Brock parted his lips, his voice slippery as a viper, “...and they will leave you to BURN!”

His hands slammed down on your wrists, his face only inches away. Your heart stopped beating; eyes blown wide. A single touch of moonlight broke through the shadows on Brock’s face and what remained was a glimpse of horror. Charred skin, ruined flesh. Raw and red and bubbling at the surface. Blistered and oozing.

The mutilated scars around his lips slithered into a sickening grin, his breath hot as flame against your skin. He dropped the cigar. The room went up in smoke. In flame and fire and fury.

A world away, you jolted forward, throat raw and aching, surrounded by the cold embrace of a dark room. It took a moment before you realized that terrible, agonizing sound was your own voice – screaming. You could only vaguely hear your name called, the gentle touch of a hand running lines over your spine. The same hands that guided yours to feel for the silky sheets covering you, to the cotton of your t-shirt, to the steady thump of a heartbeat over an exposed chest beside you.

“Breathe, sweetheart,” the voice eased again. The contrast of it – the kindness and the patience laced in the words – tugged you away from the nightmare you’d escaped from. You followed his request and slowly forced air into your lungs. “Good, honey. One more, okay?”

You nodded, doing as he asked.

Pushing past the haze over your vision, you looked around the room to find the familiar ripple of curtains over the window, the pile of laundry in the corner, your Columbia badge hanging over the doorknob, Bucky’s FBI jacket slung over the armchair.

You gasped. Bucky.

Sure enough, propped up on his elbow beside you, was Bucky Barnes. He wore that same glimpse of a smile you fell in love with but it held a heaviness in it, a sadness. The sheet sat bunched at his waist, exposing his bare chest and the scars littering his skin. Your eyes drew to the mark on his shoulder, the one you were responsible for. It raised pink against his tanned skin, healed over in the last year but still visible. Still a reminder.

“You alright?” Bucky asked slowly. His hand was cautious as he reached out for you. Slow in his movements under your gaze, so that you might have the chance to pull away if you wanted to. You held steady, relief washing through your body as his hand circled around yours.

You nodded, though you weren’t sure whether it was entirely true. Bucky didn’t press you on it as he gathered you in his arms and slowly pulled you down into his embrace. He tugged the covers back up around you, holding you as you stole a glance at the clock beyond his shoulder. You only had a few hours left before the alarm would wake you for work. You didn’t expect to get anymore sleep tonight, but it was a comfort at least to know you had time to lay soundly in Bucky’s arms before morning and responsibility took him away.

“It was Brock again,” you mumbled against his chest. “The library.”

Bucky tensed. This particular brand of nightmare had been plaguing you for weeks now. It had been almost a year now since the fire but the horrors of what you endured that night had yet to leave you. They started with vivid images of Bucky’s body bleeding out in the warehouse, the bullet you shot into his shoulder finding a new home between his eyes or buried into his chest. They centered around Brock hulling Peter into his warpath and leaving him tied and bound to the flames alongside you. But lately, your mind was particularly cruel.

Brock haunted you – taunted you. His ghost made you doubt whether you were ever really safe from him at all, if he was still lurking in the shadows, if his hand could slither out from the darkness and grip tight to your neck and drag you back to his hell. They never found a body within the flames and despite Bucky’s reassurances that he put enough bullets in the man to make sure he never took another breath, it didn’t sway your fears.

“I hate that I wasn’t there for you when you needed me,” Bucky sighed through his teeth, his grip on you holding a little tighter.

“You did everything you could. You still saved me,” you told him. Still, he carried his guilt. You could feel his fingertips run over the faded burn marks on your skin. Bumps and edges over what used to be smooth and soft. He saw them as reminders of his failings despite your pleas against it.

“I should have killed him long before then.” There was no waver in his voice. He shifted under the covers, his lips pressing sweetly to your forehead in contrast to the malice in his voice for the monster who used to share your bed.

“You were trying to do the right thing by bringing him in. Doing what you do, you don’t have a choice but to believe in the system. With all the monsters you’ve put away over the years, you should believe in it but... we both know Brock was never going to tolerate a cage.” You clung a little tighter to Bucky’s chest, settling against the steady beat of his heart.

Bucky’s response was only to curl his arm around you, holding you as close as he could manage. His lips did not leave the crown of your head. You stayed there with him, curled in his embrace, listening to his heartbeat, until the sun rose beyond the mood and light beckoned you to a new day.

***

You were standing in the kitchen washing the dishes when you saw him.

You were walking through the practice your therapist explained for dealing with your nightmares. You closed your eyes and pictured the library, the wires on your wrists, the very beginning and the start of it all. But instead of Brock emerging from the shadows, you conjured Bucky. You imagined Bucky rushing through the doors, freeing you from your chains, hulling you up into his arms and whisking you away from harm. You concentrated on every detail in his face, on the dried blood you remembered he wore along his cheek, on the open scars from Brock’s rings, on the look of relief upon his face because he found you. He found you and he saved you before the flames could take hold. He carried you away from the room that had once been your sanctuary, now only reserved for your nightmares. You held onto that version of the story with all you had.

Sometimes, it helped. Other nights, you still woke up screaming and drenched in sweat. But Bucky was there and he never showed an ounce of anything but the love and patience he swore to you. He’d hold you until your heart settled and you stopped fearing the image of Brock’s burned face when you closed your eyes. Encompassed with Bucky, it was hard to think of anyone else.

Peter was sweeping up the stray shredded cheese that had found its way to the floor in the midst of another taco night. Cheddar, your sweet orange tabby, had little interest in his namesake and was purring soundingly on the armrest of the couch. Bucky had slipped out to the corner store to pick up a few tubs of ice cream in preparation for the movie Peter had been dying to see for weeks now.

All it took was a single glance to the window for the ground to vanish under your feet.

You could only vaguely catch the sound of broken glass as it shattered, the dinner plate in shards near your bare feet. Peter rushed towards you but you couldn’t make out what he was saying. No – your focus was stolen by the figure standing beyond the darkness, hanging within the shadows.

You knew that outline. You knew that face. You’d seen it in your dreams – your nightmares – for almost a year. Disfigured and burned. But still, covered in shadows like a monster within a child’s closet. Not close enough to see details of his vicious smirk but real enough to set terror into your veins.

Peter was yanking on your arm, his voice louder now. You couldn’t move. You were stone.

“Y/n?” Bucky called the second the door swung open, the paper bag quickly discarded on the floor. The panic was etched into his voice, the same way it had been in the months after the fire when you lost yourself to brief moments of fear, when the memory of his cover you’d known as James was all that could bring you back.

He rushed in front of you, obstructing your view of the window and snapping you from your trance. His hands were on your cheeks, his eyes quickly glancing down at the shards of glass by your feet. You could feel him trying to delicately usher you away before you cut yourself, but you couldn’t let the monster escape a second time.

“It’s Brock,” you exhaled, trying to peer around Bucky’s shoulder for another look. “He’s here. I—I saw him! Outside!”

Bucky swung his attention to the window, still holding on tight to you. But when you looked again, the darkness was all that remained. No figures hidden in the shadows. No one lying in wait, taunting you. The monster had vanished in thin air.

“Sweetheart... he’s dead,” Bucky eased. “He can’t hurt you.”

You shook your head, tears brimming in your eyes. You tried to ignore the concerned look that flashed between Bucky and Peter, how their expressions of panic quickly turned to ones of pain, of aching sadness, of pity.

“N-No, I saw him! I swear I did, James,” you argued, pushing past him and rushing out towards the window in search of what you saw. Bucky hissed as you barely cleared the broken glass in your path, though he followed you without question. “I saw him. He was looking right at me!”

Bucky indulged you by taking another look out to the empty sidewalk behind the brownstone you shared together. It was quiet where you lived, away from the rush of the city and the tourists and late-night drinkers. All that remained was the faint buzz of the streetlamp at the end of the block and an elderly couple taking their usual evening stroll. They raised a hand in greeting as they spotted the two of you looking out the window. Bucky forced a smile and returned the gesture.

“There’s no one there, honey,” Bucky tried again, urging you to look for yourself. “Maybe your eyes were playing tricks on you. You know how hard nights have been lately...”

You shook your head. “I-- I know what I saw, James. I’m not—I'm not crazy.”

His face softened. Slowly his hand moved to cup at your cheek, brushing away the tears that had started to form. “I know. I know that, love.”

It hadn’t slipped your notice that it was the second time you called him James. A name that held enormous meaning to you, a name you had promised to leave in the past in favor of the man standing in front of you. Bucky – the undercover FBI agent who saved you from the prison you’d been living in. James – the enforcer to an evil organization who taught you how to love again. One in the same. And still, sometimes calling upon the version of the man who had provided the first sense of safety you’d felt in years, was all that kept you from falling apart.

You stole a glance back to the window as Bucky wrapped his arms around your shoulders, pulling you tight to his chest. It was the same sidewalk you were familiar with, no sinister creatures lingering in the shadows. It's possible you had imagined it. You were focused on rewriting your nightmares...

“Should I head home? Let you rest?” Peter’s voice nervously called from the kitchen. He set the broom back in the closet, already having cleaned up the glass from the broken plate.

You shook your head, wiping tears against Bucky’s shirt. “No, please stay. Let’s watch that movie, okay? I’m alright.”

You forced a smile though the redness in your eyes. You felt Bucky’s hand settle against your back, his fingertips soothing small circles into your spine. His scent calming you as you listened for the steady thump of his heartbeat.

“You sure?” Peter stepped forward, that sweet hopeful look on his face though a hesitancy remained in his eyes. He wasn’t convinced of your word.

“Yes.” You hugged Bucky’s waist, tugging him to the couch. “I think I must have... I don’t know... I was seeing things, I guess.”

Nightmares bleeding into the daytime. Natasha had warned you about that early on. Enduring the type of trauma you did, surviving a home with invisible bars and nearly losing your life to it... it was bound to follow you. Bucky understood how you carried it still and he didn’t shy away in fear of it. You tried to find strength in that, in his unending loyalty and patience. You trusted his word above everything else.

Brock was dead. Four shots to the chest. The fire took his body.

It had to be true.

No—It was true.

And yet, the doubt scratched its nails along the windowpane, begging to be let in.

***

“Hey, I’m not saying that I’m a better actor than Barnes, but I’m not not saying that.” Sam Wilson picked up an apple from the pile and tossed it into the air before take a huge bite out of the center. The juice of it dripped down the edges of grin.

Bucky rolled his eyes as he handed the vendor a dollar for Sam’s snack. You giggled against Bucky’s side as he slid his hand back into his pocket. He was trying to hide his laugh through a bite in his lip, but you could see past it enough to catch the slight lift in his cheeks.

“I’d say he was a pretty good actor,” you smirked. “Fooled me, didn’t he?”

Your arms were snaked around Bucky’s, holding him against your chest as you weaved in and around the busy famers’ market, so you felt it when his body tensed. That guilt complex of his couldn’t take a little teasing, though you tried.

“If he could make me fall in love with a,” you paused, lowering your voice, “Hydra hitman,” you grinned, swatting Bucky in the arm, “then I think he’s a damn good actor.”

“Alright, damn, I concede!” Sam threw his arms in the air, smiling so wide you wondered if it might touch his ears.

“You’re terrible, you know that?” Bucky snickered, leaning into your ear. His breath was warm against your skin, his lips grazing over your hair as you felt the soft brush of his laugh.

“Hush.” You snuck up and stole a kiss from his lips. It was a wonder to be able to kiss him in the open like this, surrounded by people who had little time or patience to care for the strangers standing in love at the center of a busy famers’ market. It was surreal at times, feeling like you were lost in a dream you never wanted to wake up from. But he was real and perfect and wonderful and so incredibly yours.

“Oh! Wait, I forgot the desserts for Peter!” you pulled back quickly, glancing into the busy crowd in search of the vendor with the fresh displays of apple tarts. You’d been meaning to pick one up for Peter after he got his first acceptance letter to college. They’ve been rolling in lately and piling high enough to cover Aunt May’s kitchen table, but you did promise him a new tart for every acceptance and you were about three behind.

“Go,” Bucky laughed, shaking you from his arm playfully. “I’ll babysit Sam until you get back.”

You grinned, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek you knew Sam would mock him for the second you disappeared into the crowd. The glossy imprint of your lips against his stubble was your favorite look on him, and he didn’t much mind it himself.

Shoulders bumped into yours as you squeezed through the rush of tourists and locals browsing the fresh fruits and vegetables displays along the tents. You turned the corner at the smell of cooked apples, cinnamon, and butter. Your stomach started to growl as you approached the vendor: a charming, older man with a twisted grey mustache and a flat cap.

“What can I get for you, hun?” he grinned, hands setting on his round stomach. Flour was still dusted along his apron, little bits of crumbs on his cheeks.

“Oh, I think I’d like—” You paused, catching a glimpse of something unsettling over the man's shoulder. Just a shadow, at first, blocked by the busy hustle of people walking by. You shook your head, tearing your eyes away and forcing your attention back to the vender. He offered you an uneasy smile. “The, um, the apple tart, please. And two of the—of the—”

You lost your trail of thought as the figure appeared again. Covered in darkness amongst a busy, sunny coated street. But he stood completely still, a baseball cap obstructing most of his face, though you could feel his eyes on you. You froze as he slowly lifted a hand, the flesh of it marred and blistered, and he tilted the lid of his cap.

“No. No, that’s not—He's not—” Your breathing was coming in too fast. The distorted image from your nightmares was standing mere feet away; a monster wearing a man’s skin and even that was ruined and burned.

Your dead husband stared back at you, that sickening grin curling up on his face. Your hands were shaking so violently you could hardly grasp the dollar bills as you fumbled with your wallet.

“Miss? Are you alright, deary?” the vendor called, extending a hand towards you but you had already backed out of his reach. You couldn’t tear your eyes away from Brock, from the burns on his skin or the murderous look in his stare; the gleeful expression of anticipated revenge. You were stone and marble and ice until—he stepped forward.

“James!” you screamed, leaving behind the money and the pastries as you sprinted in the opposite direction; shoving your way through the crowd, but it felt like you were swimming against the full force of a current. Your legs were shaking, your heart threatening to burst from your chest. You didn’t dare a glimpse over your shoulder to see how close Brock was behind you. “JAMES!”

You barely registered as you slammed into Bucky’s chest. Tears soaked quickly into his shirt, your sobs loud and breaking as he desperately tried to settle you. There was no space to pull you off to the side, no comfort from the busy crowd around you. You clawed at him, terrified you couldn’t get close enough, desperate to hide from your husband, from his vendetta, to protect Bucky from his wrath and—

“Y/n! Y/n, look at me!” Bucky begged, taking a tenser hold of you than he ever intended to use and forced you to meet his eye. The sting of his grip was all that punctured through the terror. You met the sharp blue of Bucky’s eyes, his brows furrowed in concern, worry lines along his forehead. “What happened?”

“It’s Brock! He’s here!” you sobbed, desperately clinging to Bucky as you gestured behind you, certain your ex-husband would emerge from the crowd at any second. “He found us. He found us! Oh God, James— he’s going to—”

“Stay with her,” Bucky ordered to Sam and he began prying your grip from around his waist.

“No! Don’t go!” You felt like a child; small and fearful and terrified beyond belief. But Bucky had that look in his eye, one that warned of danger in his path should anyone dare to cross him. You'd only seen it once – when he was on his knees in the warehouse, at the mercy of your ex-husband.

“Sam!” Bucky warned.

“I’ve got you, kid,” Sam eased the best he could. Bucky kissed your hairline before he rushed back into the crowd in search of Brock. You didn’t dare watch until he disappeared amongst the sea of people. Instead, you clung onto Sam as if he might be the only thing keeping you afloat. Maybe he was.

It was only when your breathing began to slow again with every count of Sam’s deep inhales that you started to notice the whispers around you, how the strangers eyed you and walked a little quicker as they passed by. You couldn’t make out what they were saying, but they were bold enough to hold your gaze as they whispered into the ears of their friends. Pity laced smiles at the crazy women sobbing at the center of the market.

Then, you heard footsteps come to a steady halt behind you. Sam released you from his hold and you turned to find Bucky waiting for you. He opened his arms and you rushed in.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured into your hair, apologies for tearing himself from you. It was not one he needed to make, but you nodded anyway.

“Did you find him?” you dared to ask.

When you were met with silence, your heart sank. As you glanced up you caught that same look of concern Bucky had given Peter the first time you saw Brock through the window of your apartment days earlier. Now, he shared it with Sam.

Bucky clenched his jaw, his blue eyes swimming in remorse. “Sweetheart, I—”

“Oh God... I’m going crazy. Aren’t I?” you gasped, tears filling your eyes to the point where you could no longer see the look of agony on Bucky’s face and, maybe, that was for the best. You could only vaguely hear Sam as he ushered the onlookers away, flashing his badge and grumbling angrily under his breath at the tourists who dared to sit in observation of your worst fears.

“It’s okay, honey,” Bucky eased with loving, tender kisses to your shoulder. “I’ve got you. You’re okay. You’re safe.”

He repeated it on an endless loop. Constant reassurances. Gentle reminders. You could hear the concern etched into his voice, the fear he shared with Sam, the doubt of whether his love was enough to save you from the horrors Rumlow left behind.

***

“You don’t have to stay the night, Sam,” you tried again for the third time that evening. “Please, I don’t want to inconvenience you just because I’m apparently losing my mind.”

“Are you kidding?” Sam smirked, shaking out the long, teal sheet before he laid it onto the couch. “I insist. Plus, it gives me an excuse to guilt Barnes into going easy on me at the annual field test.”

“You’re a good man, Sam,” you exhaled, arms folded tight over your chest. Your gaze drifted to the windows and the dark overcast hanging along the sidewalk. There was only a moment of relief in the emptiness you found in wait.

“Careful, sweetheart, you’ll inflate his ego.”

You turned to find Bucky leaning against the wall behind you, watching your interaction with Sam. He shook his head, a smiling brimming on his face as he approached. His arm swung casually around your shoulders, tugging you to his side before he pressed a short kiss to your hairline.

“Listen,” Bucky started, a more serious tone in his voice, “I appreciate you coming out here last minute. I didn’t feel right leaving her on her own after what happened at the market this morning.”

Sam softened, his teasing grin turning gentle into a thin line. “She’s family, right?” He winked at you, tugging a smile back to your face. “Go find out what Fury wants. I’ll hold down the fort until you get back.”

“And I’ll just be asleep anyway,” you added, though you wondered if Bucky could hear the uncertainty in your voice. You weren’t sure you’d be able to get much of any sleep at all while he was gone, but it helped to ease your mind knowing Sam wasn’t too far away. Even if your mind was playing games with you, the safety of having at least one federal agent in the apartment was a relief.

Still – Bucky’s jaw clenched as he nodded. He was better at reading you than you gave him credit for. He turned you gently in his arms to face him, a finger tilting at the bottom of your chin to hold your gaze.

“I promise I won’t be long. I’m sure Fury just has a new vision for recruit training he wants to run by me and that man’s schedule waits for no one,” Bucky chuckled, trying to sway your tension. It didn’t do much to etch the stone from your muscle, but you gave him a smile. It was enough. He sighed, pressing out one in return though it held a heaviness in it. “We’ll deal with everything else tomorrow, alright? Bruce is a good man, Y/n. He’ll know how to help you.”

You nodded, holding your breath at the mention of the doctor. He was a trained psychiatrist who specialized in PTSD and had worked with the Bureau for years. You figured most of his work was done with the men and women who worked alongside Bucky and Sam, but he knew his way around trauma and the dangerous monsters it carried. He could help, you told yourself. You weren’t crazy. You weren’t going to lose Bucky to this.

“I love you,” Bucky said quietly, though it held a certainty to it that pieced together the frayed edges in your stomach, the doubt and fears that lingered there. It was as if he could read the fears on your face and put them at ease before they could take root as he said, “we’ll get through this together, okay?”

“Okay,” you murmured, pressing your face to his chest. You took a final inhale of his scent, holding it as close as you could manage, before you let go. “I love you, too.”

You tried not to linger in the hallway after that. The apartment felt too big without Bucky around and though Sam did his best to draw out your smile, the exhaustion from the market had drained you. Your head was buzzing, your mind unfocused. Sam had noticed pretty quickly when you started to zone out, eyes fixated on the wall behind his shoulder, and he gently eased you to your room.

“I’ll be right out here you need anything, okay?” Sam reminded you with a soft tap on the edge of your door.

“Thank you, Sam.” You weren’t sure how to apologize for the events at the market, how you’d clung to him and sobbed, terrified that your dead husband was following you. You didn’t dare allow yourself to imagine what he must have thought of you in that moment. Still, the warm color of Sam’s eyes and the sincerity of his smile were enough to sway those thoughts a little while longer.

Then, you were alone.

You pulled the blankets up to your chin, curling against the side of the bed Bucky slept on. You could still smell the faint scent of his shampoo on the pillow. You tugged it against your chest, holding it as if it were an extension of him.

This helpless feeling was not one you were used to. Not anymore.

You couldn’t remember feeling this afraid even when you were living under Brock’s roof. Part of you wondered whether the risk of losing the security and safety and comfort you’d gained in his death was what fed into your fears and accelerated their momentum. When you were married to Brock and complicit to Hydra, you had little to lose, little to gain. You were able to go through the motions and survive.

But now?

Now you had something worth living for. Now, you had Bucky. You had your job back, your friends. You had Sam and Natasha and Steve. You had Peter and May. You had the light of day and freedom and love.

The very thought of it being stolen from you scared you far more than Brock ever could. And still, it was his face that haunted you. It was his face in your nightmares and following your shadows.

You kept your focus on the closed door to your bedroom, watching the flickering of the television light between the cracks and listening for Sam’s muffled laugh through the walls. You waited and waited and hoped that Bucky would return before the demons came for you, but sleep swept you away in luring embrace.

***

You woke suddenly to the sound of muffled gunfire. Jolting up in your bed, you clutched at the sheets, at your pajamas, at your hair, wiping the sweat from your skin. Your hand settled against your heart, trying to focus on the rhythm, but it was too fast. It wasn’t the steady, reassuring pace that Bucky carried. You groaned, pressing the heels of your palms into your eyes.

Just a dream, you told yourself. It was just a dream. It can't hurt you.

You turned to the door to find the light from the television still sliding through the edges. Sam must have forgotten to turn it off before he fell asleep. He was known for his love of old detective dramas. The gunshot from the show must have lingered into your dreams.

You slumped back into the bed, heart still pounding. Beyond the door, you could hear the creek of the floorboards under heavy steps. Maybe Sam was still awake. There were plenty of snacks in your pantry and he had teased Bucky mercilessly about eating all of his cheese puffs. The thought helped to ease the panic from your veins as you forced yourself to close your eyes.

Bucky will be home soon. Go to sleep. You’re fine.

But then the footsteps inched closer. They paused right outside the door, their silhouette blocking the stream of light from the television. You rubbed at your eyes.

“Sam?”

He didn’t respond. Instead, the knob began to turn. Slow. The hinges of the door crying as it crept open. The sudden influx of light was harsh against your eyes, forcing you to squeeze them shut. His face was shielded by the backdrop of light and the blur in your eyes. Whether it was from exhaustion or leftover tears from your dreams, you weren’t sure.

“Sam? What’s wrong?”

Again, nothing.

There was something wrong in his movements. He was too stiff, too quiet. He looked like something out of your nightmares – cold, sinister, calculating. The room shifted around you; the safety you’d known in its walls peeled back by the edges of sharp, unyielding claws. Whatever crept towards you in the shadows was not Sam Wilson.

You stared at the figure as it approached, suddenly terrified to take your eyes off of it. Your vision began to burn, unable to so much as blink in fear of what the creature would do. Beyond the door, you heard a faint groaning, nails scraping along the floorboards. Your name was called in a familiar voice, panicked but faded, weak.

The figure lowered his hood.

“It’s good to see you again, baby.”

“No.” You scrambled backwards on the bed, shifting as far away from the distorted figure as you could manage. Your hands were shaking as you brought them to your lips. “No-- This isn’t-- This isn’t real.”

But Brock Rumlow stepped forward into the light and began to laugh. When his hand gripped at your wrist, you felt the nails dig into your skin. You gagged against the harsh burn of liquor and raw flesh. The adrenaline that rushed into your veins was visceral and agonizing – it burned as deep as the flames in your dreams.

Something pinched at your neck as your movements began to slow, your vision doubling. A syringe was in Brock’s hand as he stepped back, watching as you struggled to maintain consciousness.

“It’s... it’s not real,” you murmured again, trying to convince yourself beyond what your mind already knew to be true as you stared down the figure of your ex-husband.

And still, he laughed. It was the last thing you heard before the darkness caved in.

***

Bucky paced along the hallway outside of Director Fury’s office. It had been over an hour since he arrived and Fury had yet to see him. His message had indicated that it was a time sensitive issue. It was the only reason he begrudgingly agreed to leave you alone for the night after what happened in the market. Sam was with you, Bucky reminded himself as he ran a hair through the roots of his hair. You weren’t alone.

Then, when Bucky was about ready to barge his way into Fury’s office, the door opened. Agent Hill walked out carrying a half dozen folders in her arms, her heels clicking against the hardwood floors as she passed by. She seemed surprised to see Bucky waiting, but still, she made a short gesture to let him know the director was free.

“Sir,” Bucky started, stepping into the office. “You asked to see me?”

Fury was standing with his back to the door, facing out to the open windows and the bright lights of the city. Slowly, he turned over his shoulder, eyeing Bucky suspiciously. He took a step forward; his unnerving silence proving a bit too much for Bucky’s present impatience.

“Sir, I don’t mean to press,” Bucky exhaled, “but it’s been a rough day and I’d like to get back home as soon as I--”

“What makes you think I want to see you, Barnes?” Fury scoffed, settling into his desk. He popped the lid off the bottle of bourbon he kept hidden in the bottom drawer. Bourbon poured into the crystalline glass.

“You paged me two hours ago, sir,” Bucky said, setting the small flip phone on the desk. It was the only device Fury had agreed to use to call in his agents when needed; even if Bucky’s latest missions were held behind a desk or on the training field with the new recruits.

Fury cast his single eye at the phone, narrowing on the last message received. He read it over twice before he tossed the phone back to Bucky. He shrugged.

“I didn’t send you that message.”

Bucky froze, the phone feeling heavy within his grasp. “Sir?”

“Our message system was hacked several hours ago,” Fury said. He leaned in over the desk, studying Bucky through a less than unsettling gaze. “That’s why I called Maria in. I don’t know who sent you that message, but it wasn’t us.”

Bucky read over the message again. It was in the same cadence Fury always used in his messages, the same phrasing. HQ meeting 1hr. Short. To the point.

“Why would someone want to lure you back to base, Agent Barnes?” Fury inquired, leaning back into his chair, but Bucky could only vaguely hear what he had said. He was too busy staring at the phone, his grip clenching so tight around the edges he might snap it in half. His heart was pounding so loud, it muffled in his own ears. He could hear the rush of his blood through his veins.

Because he realized in that moment the message had little to do with luring him back to base. No – the sender had a much more terrifying purpose in mind.

To get you alone.

***

“Y/n!”

By the time Bucky made it back to the apartment, he was drenched in sweat. It soaked through his white button down, leaving the material transparent and wet, clinging against his chest. His hands were shaking as he struggled to get the key into the lock, fumbling over it several times before he shouldered his way inside.

His stomach dropped at the first sight of blood.

“Sam!” Bucky sprinted across the room, dropping down hard on his knees and into the expanding pool of crimson red soaking into the cracks of the floorboards. Sam was laid on his stomach, hands outstretched as if he had been crawling. A streak of smeared blood was in his wake. He’d been trying to reach the bedroom before his body gave out.

With shaking hands, Bucky rolled his friend onto his back, desperately searching for damage.

It was then he found the bullet wound embedded in Sam’s stomach. Bucky tore a glance back to the bedroom as he pressed his hands to the wound, stopping the bleeding the best he could.

“Y/n!” Bucky shouted again, desperate for you to appear from behind a locked door, unharmed. But there was no response in his echo. You did not call his name or any other.

“I’m s-sorry, Buck,” Sam’s weakened voice jarred Bucky from his trance. He looked down to find Sam’s eyes on him, though they were heavy, barely focused. Sam’s hand curled around Bucky's wrist. “S-She’s gone. He took her. I... I tried to—”

“I know, buddy,” Bucky eased, his voice breaking in the effort. “I know. It's okay. Save your strength, alright?”

As quickly as he could, Bucky dialed Steve’s number. He didn’t have the energy or the willpower to explain what happened, but he managed to order for an ambulance – one that would ram its way through New York traffic if it had to. Steve confirmed he was on his way and Natasha would be shortly behind. No questions asked.

“Buck,” Sam choked out, blood dripping at his lips. “Tell Y/n I’m--”

“I’m not telling her shit, okay? You tell her when—” Bucky clenched his jaw, tears slipping down past his cheeks, “You tell her when I get her back.”

***

It felt like an eternity before Steve and the ambulance arrived. Sam had faded in and out of consciousness enough times to make Bucky question if he would ever hear his friend ruthlessly tease him again. Still, in every waking moment, Sam did his best describe the intruder. There were few jokes, little smiles; he nearly drowned in his own blood before he could finish.

Sam couldn’t offer any more details beyond the hooded figure that had taken him by surprise. Bucky couldn’t tell if it was Sam’s delirium, but the description he gave sounded like something constructed of nightmares. He described a monster.

He was passed out by the time Steve arrived.

Bucky fell back onto the floor as the paramedics took over. He could only vaguely register Steve’s hands grip tight around his biceps and hulling him up to his feet long after the sirens had faded away and all that remained on the floor before him was the faint outline of Sam’s body. He tried not to pay attention to the blood coating his hands and soaking into his shirt. Sam’s blood. Blood he spilled trying to protect you. A task Bucky had requested.

“I’ve got footprints,” Natasha’s voice called from the hallway. Steve ushered Bucky to follow, though he felt like he was still stuck in a trance. None of it felt real, even as Natasha kneeled to more closely examine the imprint of the shoe outlined in blood.

“What happened here, Buck?” Steve asked, though he knew there was no good answer.

Bucky shook his head. “I don’t know. I—I can’t do this again, Steve. I can’t lose her—I can’t—”

A flash of gold caught his eye. Bucky followed the reflection into the bedroom, almost in a trance. He stilled as he approached the bed, finding a small, gold ring sitting just on the edge of the mattress. Thick. Rusting. An emblem of a skull at its center, surrounded by six long tentacles.

Slowly, he picked up the ring, holding it in the palm of his hand. The tears had faded on his cheeks, replaced only by the cold burn of vengeance growing like fire through his veins. He shoved the ring into Steve’s hands as he approached, answering the question before he had a chance to ask.

Bucky moved on a warpath to the safe. He wasted little time in loading his handgun and slipping it to his waist. A second followed and he strapped it to his thigh. When he stood again, Natasha and Steve were watching silently.

“You going to stop me?” Bucky questioned, a cold determination icing his voice.

“I didn’t last time,” Steve confirmed, stepping back.

Bucky gave him a short nod as he passed by. He didn’t bother with a coat.

“Hey Barnes,” Natasha called just as he opened the front door. He paused for only a moment, a short glance over his shoulder as she approached, her expression as cold and calculating as his own. “Make sure he’s dead this time.”

***

When you woke, you tried to feel for the cool silk of your bedroom sheets. You searched for the comfort of the warm body beside you and the gentle thumping of an easy heart. You sought out the slight dip of the mattress and the brush of air from the fan overhead. Instead, you found your hands were restrained behind you, the skin burned under thick ropes.

You sat up slowly in effort to ease through the blinding headache dizzying your vision. Dirt was caked into your nails and brushed along your skin, grass below your exposed legs. Still in your pajamas, you felt the sting of a twig as it scratched your thigh.

It took a moment before you recognized your surroundings. Away from the comfort of Brooklyn, you realized you were immersed in acres of woods. To your right, just barely through a short clearing, your heart dropped at the sight of ruined remains of a home you had lived in for years. Most of it had been bulldozed away after the fire, but pieces still remained. Enough that you still recognized the proximity to your nightmares.

“Welcome back to the land of the living, baby.”

You flinched at the sound of his voice – Brock's voice – as he stepped out from the shadows. No longer shielded by the distorted visions in your dreams or the promise of safety under the guise of a twisted imagination, there was little doubt that the man who stood in front of you was anything other than the head of Hydra itself.

“Takes a while to get used to, doesn’t it?” he scoffed, gesturing to the burns coating his skin. He was almost unrecognizable; the darkly handsome features on his face obstructed in the fire. What remained instead was a glimpse of the evil he carried in his heart, a sickening display of karma unfolding upon his body and mocking his existence.

You couldn’t help the laugh as it escaped. Perhaps it was shock or maybe you really were losing your mind, but the falter in Brock’s expression was reward enough. He was expecting you to remain in your fear of him, to be able to hold it over you. Your laughter was not what he had been anticipating and it read clear as day upon his face.

“It’s what you deserve,” you spat, tugging at the ropes around your wrists as you rose to your knees. Tiny stones dug into your skin but you urged yourself to feel power in the sting of it. To let it ground you to your strength and remind you of what was real.

“Deserve?” Brock hissed, his upper lip twitching. Anger twisted and consumed the little parts of his expression he still had control over. “You want to talk about what is deserved?!”

You tried not to react when he pulled a handgun from his waist and cocked it. The barrel of it aimed at your head, his finger on the trigger. You tried to keep the cold, uncaring expression Bucky had worn that night in the factory – unafraid in the face of evil. He’d been on his knees then, too. But still—your jaw clenched and Brock grinned.

“How is it that my cheating, whore of a wife and the traitorous son of a bitch who destroyed everything I ever built get to live happily ever after?!” Brock sneered, crouching down to your eye line. He drew the edge of the barrel along your cheekbone, sliding it down your throat, though you tried to pull away. He grinned. “You want to talk about what is deserved? Huh? How about I take back what belongs to me?”

You clenched your jaw, unwilling to meet his eye. Instead, you kept your stare on the tree beyond his left shoulder, the one you could see from the window of the spare bedroom you moved into after you gained the courage to fall in love with James— with Bucky. Its trunk was charred in the fire but it still stood. It still remained. Worn, but still strong.

“Maybe, I keep my promise to our mutual friend? Barnes, isn’t it?” Brock taunted. He used the barrel of the gun to brush your hair behind your shoulder. This close you could see the divots and raised edges of his burns. They coated every inch of his skin. “I told him he’d find you in pieces one day. That his betrayal would follow him the rest of his life and I’d rip you apart just to spite him. But hell, I didn't forget about the part you played either, baby. Maybe I’d like to ruin you a little too... just for myself.”

The barrel traveled alone your collarbone, dipping down to your chest, drawing a line between your breasts and down to your navel. Even through the scarring, you could see the look upon his face – the grin as he licked his lips.

You gritted your teeth. “Fuck you.”

Brock laughed at that, deep and low. Sinister. He wiped away the spit that had landed against his cheek. “I like it when you're feisty.”

You felt for the ground behind you; wrists bound you brushed your fingertips along the grass until you came upon a small rock. A small ounce of relief nestled into your chest; the rest filled with a steady determination. You started to saw it against the ropes.

“How the hell are you even alive? You should be dead,” you said in an effort to keep Brock talking. You could only hope Bucky was on his way to you, if he even knew where you were.

Time was a commodity you didn’t have, but you could stall as long as you could. Maybe... Maybe you’d see him again. It was what kept you going, what gave you the courage to face your demon standing before you.

“Four bullets to the chest and a burning house later, here I am... rising like a fucking phoenix from the ashes!” Brock shouted up to the skies. He stretched his arms out to the side as if he were absorbing the cheers from a stadium worth of admirers. “I’m invincible, baby! You can’t kill me!”

“You're not special, Brock. You’ll die like any other man,” you spat, reveling in the slight shift in his smile. The rock broke through a single piece of twine; a small dent, but it was something. “James will find us and when he does, he’ll kill you.”

Brock’s face dropped to a cold frown. “Not if I kill him first.”

“Would that make you feel like a man?” you jeered, like poking a snarling bear with a short, pointed stick. “To kill the man I left you for? The man I fucked in your house? The man I traded a mansion and millions for just to escape you?”

“Shut your fucking mouth before I—”

“What?” you taunted, shouting out to the trees and the birds and whatever else could hear you amongst the woods. “What the fuck are you going to do to me, Brock!? What else can you possibly take? I am so fucking tired of being afraid of you! I am done walking on eggshells and screaming in the middle of the night and looking over my shoulder!”

“Is that so?” Brock was laughing now, as if your defiance was little more than a show, as if he might peer behind the curtain and find you shaking and crying in the corner. But he’d done more than cage you all these years. He taught you what it was to live with a demon, to know a monster by name, and you were tired of letting it take root in your home. You'd sooner burn it to the ground.

“You’re nothing to me,” you said coldly. “You are nothing but a weak, pathetic little man who didn’t deserve a damn thing from me, so you resorted to taking it. Blackmail and extortion and threats. You got off by making me feel small and alone in that house and I’m done. I won’t live the rest of my life in those fears.”

Brock rolled his eyes, pacing slowly in front of you as he stepped over broken twigs in his path. Snaps like bones under his feet. He ran a hand soothingly over the barrel of the gun, admiring it. “Barnes is a bad influence on you, baby. You think you’re so brave now, don’t you?”

You tightened your jaw, wiling your breaths even. “You can’t hurt me anymore.”

Brock lunged at you, nails digging into your jawline as he forced you up to your feet in his grasp. The rock sawed through half the width of the rope as his nails drew blood on your skin. His breath was hot a flame against your cheeks.

“I’m the one holding the gun, baby,” Brock sneered. “I can still do a whole hell of hurt to you before I end your miserable life.”

You met his eye as if you stared straight into the heart of the devil. You let the fires consume you. “I’d like to see you try.”

The ropes snapped at your wrists and you threw yourself on him, sending both of you crashing to the ground.

“Fucking bitch!” Brock cursed, trying to shove you off of him, but you’d taken enough lessons with Nat to know how to immobilize an attacker.

But then you spotted the gun laying only a few feet away and you realized escape was not your intention. Brock must have followed your line of sight because he jolted enough to sporadically crawl towards the weapon.

You both lunged for it.

***

“Nat, are you sure this is where he took her?” Bucky said as he pulled up to the drive of a home that was now in ruins. He looked around the perimeter and saw nothing save for the acres of woods beyond the property.

“It’s what the profile suggests,” Natasha replied through the car speaker. Bucky could vaguely hear the clicks of her keyboard on the other end of the phone. “Rumlow thrives on drama, Buck. He’s going to bring her back to where it all began. And well, where it ended, too. He wants revenge. Bringing her back to the house puts him on an advantage.”

Bucky slid the car into park. “Keep looking anyway. I’ll call if there’s news.”

He reached for the keys, only pausing when he heard Natasha sigh. “Bring her home.”

Bucky nodded, not sure what else he could say, and turned the car off. He thought you were already freed of your past, thought that you were safe from the demons and monsters in your nightmares. He’d convinced you they were little more than your imagination playing cruel tricks on you. If he’d only listened, if he just believed you... maybe you wouldn’t be at the mercy of Brock Rumlow. Again.

He stepped out onto the driveway, staring up at what remained of the home he fell in love with you in. He shook his head, pinching at the bridge between his eyes, and jogged towards the woods. He didn’t dare call out your name in fear of what Rumlow would do under the pressure. Instead, Bucky concentrated on holding his breath and the warm touch of metal in his hands. His weapon was his grounding point. The bullets inside would not miss their target this time.

Bucky felt like he was starting to run in circles when it happened. Loud enough to jolt his heart out of pace, for the trees to shake as birds flew up into the air.

BANG!

BANG BANG!

BANG!

Four gunshots. Bucky sprinted as fast as he could, following the echo. Leaping over stray roots in the ground and swiping aside branches as they cut his arms.

He emerged into a small clearing to find you standing at the center, a gun held tight between your hands as you stared down at an unmoving body at your feet. Rumlow laid amongst the dirt, on his back, blood pooling at his chest.

“Y/n?” Bucky called gently, though you didn’t look in his direction.

Rumlow’s hand flinched and before Bucky could release his safety, you fired off another two shots. He did not move again after that. His face bore the ghost of surprise, a faded grin turned to shock in the moment you first pulled the trigger.

Bucky took a cautious step forward, your name again on his lips, but before he could get it out, he stepped on a twig, the sharp snap of it startling you as you spun in his direction, weapon now aimed at his chest. Bucky threw his arms in the air.

“Easy, sweetheart,” Bucky said as calm as he could manage, his gaze flickering to your finger still held against the trigger. It was like you were seeing straight through him. “It’s just me. It’s just me, honey.”

It took a moment before the realization flashed behind your eyes.

“James?” You lowered the gun until it hung loosely at your side, your voice nearly breaking over his name. The relief in it was enough to overwhelm him. He nodded, stepping forward and gently easing the gun out of your hands. You released it gratefully.

“It’s over,” you said simply, leaning against Bucky’s chest as you stared down at Rumlow’s body. Six total shots. Five littered over his chest. One planted between his eyes. Bucky let a hand run against your hair, his lips pressing to your crown. Small comforts he could offer.

“Are you alright?” he asked, though his stomach was aching in dread. He knew there was no comforting answer to that question, not after the hell you’d been through tonight, but he hoped nonetheless.

“I am now,” was all you replied. You couldn’t seem to take your eyes away from Rumlow. It was like you were committing it to memory – an image to draw upon when the nightmares came – to remind yourself that he was dead and it had been at your hands.

“Thank you for coming,” you murmured against his shirt and Bucky started to wonder if you were still in shock. You said it as casually as one might after a dinner party.

“Hey, I’ll always come for you,” Bucky promised, an oath he’d never once doubted. Still, he sighed. “Looks like you didn’t need me though, huh?”

“I’ll always need you.” You stepped back out of his hold and this time, you looked more like yourself. You offered him a soft, tentative smile. “But it’s nice to know I can take care of myself, too.” Your gaze flickered to Rumlow. “He underestimated me again.”

“His last time,” Bucky confirmed, pride in his chest.

“I’ll have to thank Nat for all the defense classes,” you grinned. It was a strange kind of normal to be teasing as you stood over the dead body of your ex-husband, who was definitely very much dead this time.

“I’m sure she’ll be thrilled,” Bucky chuckled.

“And Sam! Sam always volunteered to stand in as—” You froze, eyes wide as your hand clapped over your mouth. “Oh my God, Sam. What happened? Is he okay? Is he alive?”

“He’s in surgery now,” Bucky replied quickly before the panic could completely set you over the edge. “Come on, I’ll bring you to the hospital. I want to get you checked out anyway.”

You nodded, leaning into Bucky’s side as he guided you back towards his car. “What about Brock?”

Bucky shrugged. “I’d rather leave him to the animals, but I’ll talk to Steve. We’ll take care of it. You’ve done enough, sweetheart.”

“Can you call Peter?” you asked as you spotted Bucky’s car in the distance. “I know it’s not rational, but I want to make sure Brock didn’t-- that he didn’t do anything to go after Peter, too.”

“Of course. You want him to meet us at the hospital?”

You smiled, a wash of relief in your eyes. You nodded.

Bucky opened the car door for you, helping to ease you gently into the seat despite the hiss of pain you released with the movement. He tried not to pay attention to the rope burns on your wrists. He’d ask the nurses to pay careful attention there. You still had scars underneath from the last time.

Bucky took an extra moment as he closed the door behind you, standing straight and taking in a breath of fresh air. The chill of the cold, starless night around him was almost a comfort as he tried to center himself. There would be time for the guilt complex nagging at the back of his head later. But right now, you needed him. He could be strong for you.

When Bucky slid into the driver’s seat, you set your hand on his right forearm almost immediately. He drove with a single hand on the wheel, his right resting against the clutch. The contact was warm and welcomed and it helped to drive out his own monsters as your thumb brushed along his skin.

“We’re okay, aren’t we?” you asked quietly as the remains of the mansion drifted out of focus in the rearview.

“That’s a loaded question, sweetheart,” Bucky replied. He shifted his arm to let your hand slide down into his. His fingers curled around your own and he brought your hand to his lips. He kissed each knuckle one by one as he kept his eyes on the road. “If by ‘okay’, you’re asking if I’m still here with you, if I still love you as much as I did this morning, or a year ago, or the day I met you? Then yes, honey, we’re okay.” He paused, taking a deep breath. “But if... if you’re asking because I didn’t believe you when you said Rumlow was alive, because I wrote off your fears as nightmares and let this happen to you and—”

“We’re okay,” you told him sternly, tugging your intertwined hands to your own lips. You pressed a kiss to the back of his hand. “This isn’t your fault, Bucky. We had every reason to believe he was dead. This shouldn’t have happened. But it’s not because of something you did wrong. This is on Brock. Only him.”

Bucky nodded. He felt for the slight squeeze of your hand against his; that beautiful, little reminder that you were there with him no matter where his head wandered.

“He’s certainly dead now,” Bucky exhaled. He smiled, catching your eye. “You’re incredible, you know that?”

You laughed and still he was the sweetest sound he’d ever heard. “I don’t know if incredible is the right word. Vengeful, maybe. Pissed off. Scorned.”

“Strong. Fearless. Determined,” Bucky countered sincerely. “I know what it took for you to do that. I’m... I’m just really proud of you. You fought with the devil and survived.”

You sat back in your seat, staring at the trees as they passed by with a content look on your face. Relaxed for the first time in months.

“I wouldn’t give Brock that kind of credit,” you shrugged. “He was just a man. He doesn’t get to be anything more. He doesn’t have that kind of power over me. Not anymore.”

Bucky clenched his jaw in an effort to hold in the light beaming from his chest. He stole a quick glance at you, watching as you sought out the stars through clouds. His brave, wonderful girl. He wasn’t sure ‘proud’ was even strong enough anymore.

“You know Sam will hold this over you for at least a decade, right?” you laughed, shooting Bucky a teasing smirk despite the dirt on your face and the leaves still caught in your hair. You’d been through hell and you were still smiling.

“Trust me, I know,” Bucky groaned with a short shake of his head. He couldn’t help but return your smile. “I’ll give him three years and then he’s capped.”

“Three? How generous of you.”

“He’ll survive with almost no serious damage and a new battle scar to show off,” Bucky rolled his eyes. “Three is pushing it.”

When he caught your eye again, his cheeks were hurting from how wide he was smiling. There were near tears in your eyes from laughter. He wasn’t sure what god to thank for you, for bringing you back home to him in one piece, for letting you smile and laugh and hold joy in your heart after all that had happened to you. But he would thank them all.

***

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#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x you

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pingutats · 3 years

Text

be this close, forever and ever

you and harry have been together for a while. your nights at home are quiet and comfortable, and, well, you’re both just so in love.

warnings: sexual content (soft giggly sex), mostly fluff

word count: 2.5k

. . . . .

Living with Harry, the two of you start to fall into the same rhythm. It’s not easy with his schedule as chaotic as it often is and your lives so profoundly different, but the nights when he’s home are the quiet sanctuary you need from all of those stresses. His little rituals seep into your own. The evenings are for being together, enjoying each other’s company without distraction or pressure. It’s just you and him, and the routine you’ve constructed so delicately together.

It starts with a face mask. Just because he’s so famous, he receives packages from different companies hoping for endorsements. He doesn’t really do those but he keeps the boxes anyway and most nights the two of you pick out one to try. He reads through the ingredients while you wait for the prescribed fifteen minutes to pass: pumpkin extract, baobab oil, a white flower extract.

“Which white flower?” Harry asks, looking up at you.

His mask is wrinkled between his brows where he’s frowning and you reach up to smooth it out again, your hands coming away sticky. You wipe them on his sweatpants, which just makes him frown again. “Dunno,” you say, “but it must be a pretty powerful flower if it—” you snatch the packet out of his hand “—de-puffs, hydrates, and brightens our skin.” You scan the printed text for a moment. “I think this one’s supposed to be used in the morning.”

“Oh, fuck. The moon’s out. Was this all for nothing?”

After peeling off the masks carefully in the bathroom, you coo over each other’s soft skin ridiculously and move back into the living room for the next unspoken event of your night. Harry is borderline religious about meditating, somehow possessing the discipline to do it for twenty minutes day and night. You aren’t like him, but sometimes you join in. It is good for you, after all.

The two of you sit on the carpet, legs crossed and backs straight, side by side and within arms reach. The itch to reach out and touch him or lean over to put your head on his shoulder is strong, but you know it annoys him when you do that. He is so serious about it — “It doesn’t work if you keep poking me, the point is to be completely focused” — and even if you’ve never reached his fanaticism about the practise, you respect it so you keep your distance. Two minutes in, though, you’re starting to get bored. He can meditate for ages: twenty minutes is his standard, and you simply don’t have it in you to sit still for that long. Quietly, so as not to disturb him, you uncross your legs and stand up, padding across the soft carpet into the kitchen to turn on the kettle.

When the soft alarm he’s set on his phone rings and brings him back to reality, he blinks open his eyes to see you in front of him, holding two steaming mugs. It’s the tea he buys especially to have before bed, something a friend recommended to relax him. You aren’t sure if it really does anything, but it tastes good so you always have a cup too. When you think about it, you do almost always have a good sleep the nights that you drink it. Those nights are the ones you’re sleeping with Harry, though, so maybe it isn’t the tea. You set the mugs on the table nearby.

“Thank you, love,” he says softly. He reaches to take hold of your hand and then suddenly drags you down to the floor, a tangle of limbs as you collapse on top of him.

You giggle and then shriek as his fingers find the ticklish spot along your ribs. “Harry! Get off!”

His attack ceases very quickly when you accidentally elbow him in the stomach in your attempts to escape.

“Sorry, H.”

“’S alright. Probably deserved it.”

“You did.”

But he’s mostly quiet in the evenings — doesn’t like to talk too much as he decompresses from the busy-ness of his days, so he shows his affection more through his actions. As the two of you sip your tea (still on the floor, because with the plushy carpet he has it’s just as comfortable down here as on the couch) he reaches out to drum his fingers over your knee while he tries to remember all the things he needs to do tomorrow. He’s always written himself to-do lists and he got you hooked on them too. You were sceptical at first, but they do make life easier. The little thrill of ticking off boxes in your black notebook with your initials monogrammed on the bottom right corner (Harry’s gift) is a bonus. He’s less driven by those superficial rewards, so he chooses to keep his on his laptop, which is rose gold. His hand leaves you only to type the next line of his to-do list, then he’s back to tracing patterns over the fabric of your borrowed sweatpants. He emails the list to himself when he’s finished. You’ve always found that funny, and you tease him for being grandpa-ish, but it’s just another one of his eccentricities that makes him more endearing.

You probably wear his clothes just as much as you wear your own. He loves seeing you in his stuff. He’s practically throwing t-shirts at you as soon as you walk into the house. He’ll take your stuff, too, sometimes. Dating Harry comes with an unspoken agreement to merge your wardrobes. There are a couple of pieces — a hoodie or two, sweatpants that are too big for either of you, a pair of extremely fluffy socks — that have been passed between you for so long that you can barely remember who owned them first. The sweatpants you’re wearing right now (paired with just a sports bra) are his. The old band tee he has on is yours.

He carries the empty mugs back to the kitchen and loads them into the dishwasher while you finish the last of your planning. There’s no discussion around it, just like no one asked you to make the tea in the first place. The two of you just now how to work together now, with all the times you’ve practised this routine. Sometimes it’s him who makes the tea, sometimes you finish your list first, but you never really have to talk. Harry usually picks out an album to play in the background over these moments, and that’s the only thing you need to listen to. It’s good. It makes you feel more connected to him, like you understand each other on a deeper level than just being able to talk. You know Harry like the back of your hand. He knows you almost as well as you know yourself. It’s a quiet kind of euphoria, to love and be loved back. You don’t need the fanfares and the grandiose displays. You just need each other.

Later, you pull faces at each other in the mirror while you brush your teeth, bumping hips as you giggle around your toothbrushes. He’s finished in the bathroom before you are, so he lies in bed in just his boxers and watches you through the open doorway while you do your last couple of skincare and hair rituals. Satisfied, you switch the bathroom light off and enter the bedroom that you share, decorated with framed artworks you both chose, a bedspread that you picked out together. You quickly change into just a long loose shirt, then collapse into bed with him and crawl under the covers, his greedy arms pulling you to nestle into his side while he presses a kiss to your forehead. He likes to read before he sleeps, but you aren’t in the mood for that. You shuffle down until your head is at his chest and you throw your arm and leg over him, letting him rest his paperback against your bare thigh while he reads with you wrapped around him.

After a couple of minutes of just the sound of pages turning and your soft breaths, you start to sponge kisses over his bare chest. He ignores you at first, but you hear his breathing stutter as you move up to his collarbone.

“Let me just finish this chapter,” he murmurs. “Just a couple pages left.” His eyes don’t leave the page, but he gropes around until he finds your hand and brings your fingers to his mouth, kissing them before he lets your intertwined hands drop.

You don’t reply. You pull your hand out of his loose grasp and run your fingertips up the subtly defined lines of his abs, softened by the way he’s sitting. You trace the wings of the butterfly tattooed over his stomach, then draw a constellation between his four nipples — he chuckles and pulls your hand away, holding it tighter this time.

“Baby,” he says, a little firmer this time.

You kiss his shoulder again.

He sighs, closing the book (he doesn’t tear his eyes away from the page until it’s fully closed and you almost feel bad for distracting him until —

He throws the book on the nightstand and reaches over your body to plant his hand on the mattress, pushing himself up so he’s hovering above you. “You’re a pest,” he says, leaning down to nudge his nose against yours.

You giggle and bite your lip, wrapping one leg around his hip and pulling him closer to you. “Kiss me?”

He obliges, pressing his lips against yours. “That all you wanted?” His tone is slightly teasing. He’s always liked to see you squirm.

You shake your head, wrapping your other leg around him. You can feel the bulge underneath his boxers against your crotch and it sets a fire in your core. You thread a hand into his hair and pull him down to kiss him again, less chastely this time. You roll your hips against him, just slightly, and smile against his kiss when you feel him twitch.

He breaks away from the kiss and smears his lips over your cheekbone to your ear. “Tell me, angel, tell me what you want you want and I’ll give it to you,” he whispers.

You barely contain a whimper at how deep his voice has gotten. “Fuck me,” you say, gasping as he starts to place hot openmouthed kisses down your neck. When you first slept together, you were too embarrassed to ask him so openly. You don’t get embarrassed around him anymore. “Harry, please fuck me.”

He pulls back suddenly, smiling down at you. “See? All you had to do was ask nicely.”

“Harry!”

He’s laughing as he pulls his boxers down to free his cock, but his giggles fade into a low moan as he takes hold of himself and strokes a couple times. “Ready for me, baby?”

“Yeah.”

He pushes into you with one fluid motion, making your eyes roll back. He fills you so perfectly. Every single time he’s in you is better than the last, it never gets old — there’s no feeling that’s as good as how he feels. Sometimes it’s explosive, sometimes he’s brutal in how he fucks you, or passionate and needy, or the both of you get caught up in the roles you make up to play, but you treasure the times like this. The times where he’s on top of you, face-to-face, alternating between kisses and whispers and little giggles — this is where you feel the most love for Harry.

He takes his time, in no hurry to end this moment. The pace he sets is slow but he reaches deep into you on each thrust, his breath coming out increasingly ragged every time he buries himself to the hilt. You have your hands in his hair and splayed across his back — he has one clutching the pillow beside your head to hold himself up, the other roaming over your chest. It’s like he can’t decide what he wants to do with his mouth: he’ll kiss your lips, then along your jaw, down your neck, then back up to your ear where he whispers all the sweet little nothings he can think of.

“So pretty, baby, love you so much, taking me so well, always my good girl, my best girl, my girl, always feel so good…” He chants it like a prayer, his words taking on a firmer tone each time he thrusts in, starting to pick up the pace a bit. “Touch yourself for me, darling, want to see you cum underneath me.”

You moan and reach down between your legs, rubbing little circles around your clit while he starts to fuck you at a faster pace. “Feels so good, Harry,” you say, your words choked slightly by the intensity of what you’re feeling right now.

“I know it does,” he replies, kissing you again, swallowing your moans. That edge of cockiness, the way he knows how to take care of you, when you just need his mouth on you and he can’t keep off you — you love all these little traits. You love him. And he loves you. That’s maybe the feeling to triumph over all the others.

“I’m close, I’m close,” you chant, the hand on his back digging fingernail marks into his skin as the warm feeling in your core rises, threatening to explode.

He thrusts into you faster, his rhythm growing slightly sloppy. “Yeah? Let go for me, baby, let go, I’m right behind you.”

You cum, legs shaking around him and brows pinched as you stare up at him, while he watches you cum undone with an intensity behind his gaze that wasn’t there before. You say his name, over and over, trying to put all you want to say into just that one word. You hope it’s enough. You think it is. He gets you.

“I’m gonna cum,” he says, words cut off by a pant, as you feel the aftershocks of your own orgasm and the growing over-sensitivity. “You feel so good, baby, gonna cum so hard…”

You feel him spill into you as he cries out, his body collapsing over yours so his entire body is pressed against yours. You thread your fingers through his hair until he starts to come down from his high and rolls off you, his cock slipping out and you hiss at the slight friction.

“God…” he murmurs into the air. “That was so good.”

You giggle, twisting around and propping your head up with your hand so you can look down at him. “You say that every time.”

“It’s good every fucking time,” he says, a smile spreading across his face.

You poke his dimple and he tries to catch your finger with his mouth, biting the air playfully, but you pull it away. “You’re such a weirdo.”

He pouts for a second, but then his features soften. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” You drop your head back down to the pillow, watching him stretch his arm out to turn off his bedside lamp. After a couple of swats at the switch, he finally manages it, and brings the same arm back over to drape over your body. It’s totally dark now. “Love you so much,” he tells you, kisses your forehead.

“Love you more. Goodnight, H. Sweet dreams.”

“Night, angel. Sleep well.”

. . . . .

hope you enjoyed -- let me know if u did, i like reading ur replies/tags !! i rlly loved writing this fic, it’s just so domestic and sweet and happy. the meditating and the to-do list (including the emailing !! ) is from the real harry.

btw !! my ask box is open for requests & general chatter, so come say hi :D

#harry styles smut #harry styles fluff #harry styles x reader #harry styles imagine #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles #fic

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ilovebeingcalledawhore · 3 years

Text

Content: fluff

Summary: When two teenagers meet at their highschool’s pool, they form a connection with the same love and longing for the sea and at some point they just find themselves falling in love, quite literally.

Pools, indoor swimming pools.

The moment I found out my highschool had indoor swimming pools at the back part of the gym, I was immediately won over. Swimmers trained early in the morning but the pools were left open but no student ever bothered to actually hang in there except for me.

After school, I get tutoring from teachers ‘till seven pm. Right before I go home I walk to the pools and just sit there. I watch the moonlight hitting the water.

Most of the time I stare at myself, maybe dip my fingers into the water.

It was the perfect place to rest. In there, I felt like nothing else mattered. I’d even call it a sanctuary. It was a safe place to run when all else breaks down.

Pausing the music playing through my earphones. I shove my phone into my bag and push the big grey gym door open.

Empty, as usual.

I walk through the dark and quiet basketball court - my eyes lighting up at the sight of the pool shown through its clear glass entrance door. Pushing it open, I sigh in satisfaction as the smell entered my nose.

I loved this place.

I was quietly walking when all of a sudden, “who are you?”

“Ahhh!” I scream, completely startled by the voice of whoever was in there. I start looking around and see a boy sitting by the pools edge. He had dark messy hair and the school uniform on. His pants were rolled up ending just above his knees so it wouldn’t get wet meanwhile his feet up to his shin were underwater.

“I’m gonna leave,” I mutter and I hear him chuckle as a response. “You’re already here, might as well stay.” He speaks softly and something about his voice attracted me. Though it took me a few seconds to finally agree, I sat at the other side of the pool. My legs crossed but my fingers dipped in the water

It was quiet but something about the silence was comforting, it didn’t feel awkward, it felt like being around an old friend. Clearing my throat to cut the silence, I start the converstaion with words that were on the tip of my tongue. “I’ve never seen you here before,” I speak, looking up to observe the way he replies. A half-hearted grin appears on his lips and he says, “I just found out about this yesterday and I needed it.”

My eyebrows furrow, how do you need a pool? I thought to myself - ‘till I remembered why I was here all along. “You needed it?” I asked and he nodded, finally looking up making your eyes meet. I felt my heart gradually start racing but I try to ignore it. “Yes, the beaches have been locked away and I needed water.” His reply made my heart swell because I felt the exact same way.

Beaches have been locked out ‘cause there was too much trash in them. The government finally took action and started a cleaning movement but volunteers weren’t allowed. They wanted the world to ignore it while they hid away the problems. I sighed in empathy, “I’m Y/n,” I say - our eyes connecting once more. “I’m Mark, Mark Lee.”

The very next day, I found myself walking back to the pools but this time with the slight hope of the mysterious boy to be there. Pushing the glass door open, I immediately look around but see no one. My heart drops in disappointment but I push the feeling away. I walked back to my spot, this time dipping my feet in. I didn’t have any problems ‘cause I was wearing the school’s skirt.

Taking out the small black speaker from my bag, I connect it to my phone and start playing my favourite song. I sigh in satisfaction, I felt good. Today wasn’t a stressful day, it was calm and went by smoothly - I was definitely in a great mood.

As I start to hum with the music mindlessly, I kept staring at the moonlight hitting the edges of the pool and little sparkle it made with the water, it was pretty. Everything was quiet and calm when all of a sudden I hear the same familiar voice from yesterday but this time, he was singing along to the song.

I yelped, completely startled by his sudden presence.

I turned around and saw him rolling the hem of his pants so he can dip his feet into the water. “You scared me!” I whisper and he smiled as a response. That was the first time I saw him give a genuine smile - and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t make me feel some type of way.

He finally dips his feet into the water and starts singing along to the music once more. I just sat there and admired him and his voice. He looked good under that moonlight but I was too shy to say it out loud, even admit to it. So I look away distracting myself, waiting for the song to end.

Then it did.

“You sing good,” I compliment him and he scratches the nape of his neck shyly.

A month has passed and the safe haven was now a habit. Even on nights when I’m told to come home early, I always find a way to come to the pools. Even for a minute, even for a few seconds, most of the time not for the water but for him.

In all honesty if I had to label him as anything, it’d be a human diary. He knows much more than my friends who I’ve been with for a year. I don’t know what it is about it but, telling your secrets to a stranger feels much more comforting.

At this point we know each others favourite colour, movie, song, artist. What we want to be when we grow up - what we don’t want to be when we grow up. What type of person we want to fall in love with - if were even in love with ourselves. Does he think aliens are real? How ‘bout mermaids? I know his dreams, goals, secrets, trauma, his biggest fear and his greatest regret and in equality, he knows mine.

Though I hate to admit to it, he makes my days. His presence, his voice, his thoughts - it came to the point where I don’t want to sleep anymore ‘cause for the first time reality was better.

Smiling to myself as I quietly walked through the gym to get to the pools. I push the door open but freeze, my hands still on the metal handle of the door. I heard sniffling and sobbing. At that very moment my heart dropped. If I were to expect anything it wasn’t this.

“Mark...” I whisper, but the whisper was enough to echo through the room in it’s silence. Finally walking in, I shut the door and quickly walking towards the pool. The image broke my heart. He sat there, his legs crossed together - not dipped in the water like I’m used to. “What’s wrong?” My brows furrow as I walked towards him.

He continued to sob into his hands, biting his lip to silence himself. But when he finally put his hands down, the tears running down his face made me sit next to him and hug him without hesitation. We’ve never been this close, only ever sitting across each other on different sides of the pool. He melts into me, his head going into the crook of my neck but this time, he started crying some more; not loudly but silently.

The tears just continued to roll down onto my shirt making me sigh in empathy.

Like I always do when my friends cry, I rub their heads in comfort. “It’ll get better,” I whisper and he nods into me. I look down to see if he’s calmed down but right when I do, our eyes meet. I give him a little smile, wiping the last tear that ran down his cheek.

We just sat there, our eyes connected somehow healing each other quietly. Taking in deep breaths, I continue to caress his face. When I cried, it was something my mom did to comfort me. “You feel better?” I ask and he looks away. “Yeah,” he whispers as he looks down and observes our other hand interlocked with each others. Something even I didn’t notice.

Mindlessly looking around, him still in your arms, you notice a small black bug atleast three meters away from you. “Oh my god,” you mutter, eyes getting wide and heartbeat racing as it crawled fast and closer towards you. “Ah!” You scream, frantically moving around but not making much progress ‘cause of the boy laying on you. “Mark there’s a bug!” You scream.

He turns around and sees the bug almost a meter away and he panics too. In all that movement you found yourselves with no other option but the pool. Panickly falling in you, you drag the boy with you.

“Ahhh!”

It was a split second underwater until you rose up again to take in air. As you did, you didn’t realise that the boy was so close to you, it was only until you calmed down that you felt his breath hit your lips. Smiling in amusement as you looked at each others state, you laugh in disbelief, observing your now extremely wet uniform.

“Mom’s gonna kill me,” you mutter to yourself but he chuckles to it. Slowly, you feel one of his arms wrapping around your waist and pulling you closer leaving no space in between your bodies. His other hands crawls up your arm, to your neck, to your chin making you face him.

Silence.

Hearts racing.

Hearts synching.

Seconds later his lips were on yours. His teeth bites into your lower lip drawing you closer. Your eyes widen in realisation, making you pull away gently. “What?” You ask, bewildered but not complaining. “No questions, just kiss me.” He replies and your breath hitches as he makes your legs wrap around his waist. “Kiss me,” he says again and without anymore hesitation, you do.

Bodies tangled.

Wet and messy hair.

Eyes shut.

Lips locked.

You fell in love, quite literally.

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siren-dragon · 3 years

Text

Cultural Studies -- The Cat Returns fanfic

Hello again, guess who wrote another one-shot! Anyway, this prompt came to me (along with several others, lol) so I decided to write something for it. Also, big thanks to everyone who enjoyed my first story. Also, Haru’s outfit is based on the yukata from the Love Nikki game and I may draw something for this story at a later date. Anyway, please enjoy!

AO3 story link Tagging: @mysticsoulgirl

Prompt: Summer Fireworks Festival

=======================================================

Though the Sanctuary, and by extension the Cat Bureau itself, experienced many a visitor wishing for assistance with one thing or another- it wasn’t exactly a stationary place. True, anyone could follow Muta from the Crossroads and through the twists and turns of Japan’s alleys to locate the entryway arch, but that wasn’t truly the Bureau’s physical location. Anyone who was in need could find the Sanctuary entrance, all they had to do was merely look for it. So, while Baron was not unaccustomed to a variety of clients (even if the quantity seemed to have diminish over the years), it was always a study in new cultures when a guest appeared. Even when the cat figurine made a point to be open and courteous to a visitor, there were often a few things he gained new knowledge of.

“A fireworks festival? I’m afraid I’ve not heard of such a thing before.” He spoke, handing Haru a now size-appropriate cup thanks to the Bureau’s magic.

The dark brunette offered a small word of thanks and a bright smile before continuing. “Really? Oh, they’re great fun. Originally it was started as a festival for the dead; to mourn the lost one while celebrating life. But nowadays it’s just a fun activity to watch while eating festival food with friends.”

“Did I hear someone mention food?” Muta spoke, closing the front door behind him. “Hey Chicky, you bring any snacks with you today?”

From the upstairs balcony came a snort of displeasure. “You ever think of anything aside from your stomach,” Toto drawled, rolling his eyes at the cat’s one-track mind.

“What was that birdbrain?!”

“Oh, come on, think of a new insult piggy-cat!”

Before the fight could escalate anymore Haru, now a more convenient size for Baron’s home, rose from her seat on the sofa and lifted a bag where the scent of sugar and fresh fruit wafted throughout the room. “If you two are going to fight, then Baron and I will eat this by ourselves- including the mulberries I got special for you Toto.”

Both cat and crow immediately silenced themselves before tossing a glare at the other, “You got lucky, big chicken.”

“Sure thing, marshmallow.”

Baron sighed, taking out the necessary cutlery before Muta decided to forego the use of utensils. “Muta, have you experienced such festivals in the Human Realm?”

“What festivals?”

“The fireworks festival coming up this weekend,” Haru clarified as she handed Toto the collection of mulberries she brought.

It was here that the ex-con feline grinned, “oh yeah. Gotta love summer festivals in Japan with all their fried food and sweets. Best time to be a cat.”

Toto snickered, “why am I not surprised; you only think from your stomach.”

“Shut up!”

“There’s also games where you can win prizes and some shops as well. And at the end there is large fireworks show everyone watches to celebrate the summer season.” It was here that Haru’s excited smile seemed to dim slightly, “I was going to go with Hiromi, but she has a family reunion to attend. And my Mom will be out of town during that weekend- so I’ll just be watching it from my house.”

As a figurine being made out of wood, anything associated with fire was typically something Baron tried to actively avoid. And while he would deny it fervently later onto a rather smug looking Muta and Toto, the slightly disheartened expression on Haru’s face sent a rather unpleasant sensation through his chest sent nearly all thoughts of self-preservation out the window. It reminded him of their previous adventure in the Cat Kingdom; with her clad in a fine, pale-yellow gown and wearing a look of absolute despair despite it having been her so called “wedding day”. And so, it was not 2 seconds later that he found the words tumbling from his lips without any kind of second thought.

“Perhaps we can accompany you to this festival instead, Haru.”

That certainly caused the brunette to stare at him in surprise, yet a spark of joy danced within her caramel eyes. “Really? You guys would want to go with me?”

“Hey, if there’s food then you can count me in.” Muta shrugged, finishing his slice of chiffon cake.

Toto nodded, “I’m sure it’d be a great experience; what with the lack of clients to the Bureau.”

Haru beamed brightly with sheer delight, “Thank you everyone, I’m sure you all will love it!”

When Haru had finally left for the day, a definite spring in her step, Muta couldn’t help but turn a sly grin to his fellow feline. “Well, that was rather generous of you to volunteer us for something you didn’t even know about till 30 minutes ago.”

“I’m not sure what you are inquiring Muta. It was quite clear that Miss Haru was looking forward to this festival and it would be unbecoming of a gentleman to allow her to merely remain home alone and miss the event entirely.”

Toto nodded, “I have to say, I agree with Baron on this one. But I don’t think it was that difficult to persuade you after that melancholic expression crossed her face.”

Baron gave a displeased frown to his colleague’s rambunctious laughter, which did nothing to hide the slight tint of pink beneath his cream-colored fur. Honestly, since when was chivalrous behavior become a source of mockery? And yet… the sight of Haru’s joyful smile was more than worth it.

“So, are you going to wear a yukata?”

“A what?”

That answer only made the hefty white cat laugh louder.

======================================================

“Muta… are you quite sure that this garment is placed on correctly.”

“If the picture is anything to go by, then yeah. Besides; you can’t wear a suit with tails to a summer festival- you’ll stick out too much.” The large cat answered, glancing down at the newspaper advertisement in his hands before looking back to his much shorter friend. “Hmm, I think that’s right.”

“You idiot, tie for the sash is supposed to be in the back.” Toto commented, taking the advertisement with his beak to compare the image to Baron’s new attire. “See, there isn’t a giant bow in the front.”

“Okay first, it’s called an obi and second, stop butting in birdbrain!”

“I wouldn’t have to if you knew what you were doing, fluff-ball!”

Baron was going to attempt to silence their bickering before the sash about his waist loosened slightly causing the robe to flutter open and expose part of his chest and collarbone before the ginger feline took hold of the garment’s sides and quickly held them closed. He briefly wondered if it would perhaps be better to merely wear his typical suit before a knock sounded on the door- halting Muta and Toto’s argument. The crow quickly flew toward the door and swiftly opened the door to reveal Haru. She too was clad in a traditional yukata of navy blue with ivory and cream-colored stars swirling around a crescent moon at the hem of the dress before continuing upward. The sash wrapped around her waist took on a pale blue color while the right sleeve of her dress shifted colors; with the stars now dark and the fabric white shade. Though her hair was cut short, it was still pinned back by a blue, yellow, and orange silk flower with the latter two colors matching the shade of his own fur. To be perfectly honest, she looked quite breath-taking.

“Baron are you wearing a yukata?” She grinned, noticing his change of attire immediately which only made the statuette cling to the folds of the loosened robe all the more tightly. “I didn’t even know you had one!”

“Well, Muta saw fit to inform me this is the traditional attire for a summer festival so it is a recent addition to my wardrobe. However, I seem to be having a bit of trouble actually dressing.” He answered, unable to prevent the sigh from leaving his lips at his current dishevelment.

Haru giggled, placing her small bag on the sofa before approaching him. “Don’t worry, it’s always challenging for a first-timer. Here, you just need a little bit of adjusting…”

Despite his attempt to remain calm at the innocent offer, Baron couldn’t help the heat rushing to his face as Haru approached and began shifting the obi about his waist he had attempted to tie on earlier. He still kept his hand clenched about the folds of the yukata as Haru expertly straightened the robe, to which he gave her a very grateful smile. Soon he was now properly clothed, even wearing the haori properly before Haru stepped back to admire her handy work (though Baron felt a slight twinge of disappointment at her shift away from him). “There we go, a perfect fit.”

“Thank you, Haru. And may I say, you look lovely as well.”

She beamed at his reply as she moved to retrieve her bag. “Thanks Baron. But if you wanted to wear a yukata, I could have helped you find one.”

Muta shook his head, “that would have ruined the surprise Chicky. Plus, nothing was more amusing than watching Baron try to put it on.”

“As always, your assistance is greatly appreciated Muta.” Baron replied dryly, remembering the past hour where both his friends tried to guide him in how to wear the clothes.

As they walked through the archway of the Sanctuary, Muta walked ahead of them now on all fours while Toto took to the skies. However, as soon as Baron exited alongside Haru, he grew till he was once more a head taller than the dark-haired young woman instead of a foot-tall figurine. But the fact that his feline appearance remained gave Haru pause- knowing most would not really take the appearance of a half-cat man kindly (even if people believed it to be a ridiculously realistic mask). But it seemed her thoughts were rather evident on her face, because Baron was quick to assuage her fears. “Do not worry Haru, there is a spell in place masking my real appearance. You are the only one who can see the truth.”

“I didn’t know you can use such spells, Baron.” She asked curiously.

He nodded, offering his arm to her which she gladly accepted. “Yes, though I am afraid they are only temporary. But I thought this would make our evening engagement far more enjoyable without any disturbances from bewildered onlookers.”

“It’s no trouble at all, actually I think it’s a good idea. It does make me curious as to how your disguise looks.”

Baron paused and gestured to the glass window of a shop they were walking past, “see for yourself.”

Turning to the window, Haru looked at Baron’s reflection nearly jumped in alarm upon not seeing the familiar feline characteristics she had come to cherish. Instead, the face of a young man who looked a few years older than herself gazed back at her from the reflection. His hair was a light tawny blonde the same shade as Baron’s fur, perfectly coiffed to suit the Creation’s usual debonair attire. Where once fur and whiskers existed was now fair skin and a rather amused smile taking in her slightly bewildered expression. Yet despite the disguise, Haru took comfort in the fact that Baron’s eyes were still the same shade of mint-green.

“That is rather impressive, if a bit shocking at first.” She laughed a little nervously.

Baron frowned, “does it bother you too much?”

“No, it’s not that,” she answered with a shake of her head before beaming up at him. “I just prefer you the way you are, that’s all.”

It was the second time in the past few days that Baron found his words failing him once again at her kind, yet honest words.

======================================================

Perhaps the first thing that caught Baron’s attention were the vibrant banners illuminated by dozens of lights and lanterns. The street was lined with colorful booths, each hosting a different attraction as friends and families traveled back and forth to every single one. It was a rather jarring change from the peace and quiet of the Cat Bureau, but as he glanced down at the excited grin on Haru’s face as she enthusiastically explained each booth’s function, Baron couldn’t help the pleased smile drifting across his face. “So then, what would you recommend we do first?”

“Food, I’m starving!” Muta cried from about their legs before he bolted down the street, causing several people to laugh at the rather large cat obviously following the scent of frying food. “Takoyaki, here I come!”

Haru laughed, “well, food always is a good choice. Though we’d best pace ourselves, festival food is great, but not exactly healthy.”

“Then I shall follow your lead, Haru.” Baron added, glancing around briefly with a bit of confusion drifting across his face, “I must admit, I thought a fireworks festival would have more of that particular attraction.”

“That happens at the end of the night, mainly because it’ll be darker and it’ll give us a chance to see most of the booths before we have to find seats to watch the fireworks. But we’d best find Muta before he manages to pilfer too many snacks.”

Baron chuckled, “I think it’s more of his charming attitude that wins him such favors.”

Haru couldn’t help but laugh at that, and judging from the faint cawing above their heads, Toto heard it as well. “Well, we’d best hurry before that charm gets a bit carried away.”

The couple soon found their way further into the festival and managed to find Muta, who looked rather smug at having charmed a piece of taiyaki from a group of teenage girls. True to her word, Haru managed to procure a few treats for them all to try, ranging from takoyaki to kakigori to some onigiri before they walked to where Toto waited upon a nearby but isolated tree. Muta had nearly claimed all of the takoyaki while Toto took a liking to the plain onigiri and the roasted chestnuts Baron was eating. Though Baron was not overly found of the deep-fried food, he couldn’t deny that the kakigori Haru offered was quite delicious.

As the sun soon sank below the horizon and the sky turned dark with the coming night, many people started moving away from the bright lights of the festival stalls to await the oncoming fireworks display. “We don’t really want to be too close to all the larger crowds, so we’ll stay on the outskirts instead.” Haru informed them, taking a seat beside the grass. “And I wanted to thank you guys again, for coming with me.”

“Nonsense Haru, this was most enjoyable and we were happy to accompany you.”

“Even though you had to forgo your suit?” She replied with a teasing grin.

Baron gave a slightly sheepish look, “I will admit that dressing did pose quite the challenge, but well worth the effort.”

“Even still, thank you for being such a good sport about it. And I’m glad you had a good time.” Haru chimed happily, turning to look at the ever-growing groups awaiting the final event of the festival. “Hopefully we’ll be able to see everything with so many people…”

“Well, we merely need a seat with a view; and I believe I may have a solution.”

“What do you mean by that?”

The ginger gentle-cat only offered her a hand with a secret smile, “Just trust me.”

At the familiar words, Haru rested her hand upon his and watched as the world around them seemed to stretch upward as her height plummeted to its usual size whenever she visited the Bureau. Toto then landed beside them, offering a place upon his back with Baron holding on tightly the Stone Creations black feathers and Haru wrapping her arms about his waist. Once they were situated on the now gigantic crow, Toto rose high into the air (though not before snatching Muta in his claws much to the large cat’s displeasure while muttering something that sounded like “always a showoff.”) before gliding through the evening sky.

They were only flying for a few minutes before a high-pitched whistle sounded only to be followed by a large explosion of white and gold lights as the fireworks show began. Haru watched in silent amazement as they soared the atmosphere as each of the colorful illuminations danced around them like falling stars. She a joyful laugh at sheer sight of the fireworks show from a literal bird’s eye perspective, “alright, now this is a view.”

“I must agree,” Baron added, though it was hard to hear over the sound of the fireworks.

Moving her head forward, Haru placed a gentle kiss upon Baron’s fur-covered cheek before leaning to rest her cheek against his back. “Just for the record, this is the best fireworks festival I’ve ever been to.”

And for the third time in Haru’s presence, Baron found himself at a loss for words as a pleasing warmth started to overcome his face. Yet as he turned to watch the brilliant lights display with the young woman beside him, he had to admit that it certainly was an enjoyable evening.

#the cat returns #neko no ongaeshi #baron humbert von gikkingen #haru yoshioka #renaldo moon #muta #toto (cat returns)#haru x baron #fanfiction #summer festival #fireworks #flustered baron gives me life #fluffy fic #one shot #my writing

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pacific-rimbaud · 3 years

Note

27 - panville (lets pretend its after their wedding) (lets also pretend this isnt me trying to extend bright objects epilogue in every way I can) (but just because you are the real queen of this ship)

Drabble #27: “I’m pregnant.”

by PacificRimbaud

Pairing: Pansy Parkinson x Neville Longbottom

Tags: WWII AU, unplanned pregnancy, hospital, brief mentions of war

Wiltshire, May 1944

“I’ve had a letter.”

Lavender’s voice dipped to a conspiratorial low, as though a letter was a secret Pansy both had an interest in and ought to be party to.

“From which one?”

Pansy shut off all attention to Lavender and inspected the label on a bottle of morphine tablets. Finding it sound, she filed it away in the back of the second shelf from the top in the medicine cabinet, and made a sharp graphite tick on the inventory form.

“Lieutenant McLaggen. The fellow from Dunfermline. Oh, thank you.” Lavender received a wrapped bundle from one of the laundry girls, and set it down on the center of the table on the opposite side of the room. “He’s going to be in London next month, and wants me to come over on the train.”

Ticking at her form, Pansy fitted away a third vial, made another tick, and then filed a fourth in a martial row moving forward in the cabinet.

“You need to be careful with all that,” she said.

“Oh, I am.” Lavender checked the tag on the laundry. “I might seem silly, but I’m not daft.”

Pansy scraped her pencil so hard against her form that it tore a small hole in the page.

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“You alright?” Lavender asked, hand paused at the task of untucking the edges of the bundle.

“I’m fine.”

Lavender laid out the edges of the cloth wrapping, removed a stack of cloth face masks, and set them on the shelf in front of her. “It’s only you look a bit flushed, Pans.”

Pansy tightened the aperture of her attention down to a ruthless diameter, wide enough for nothing beyond the minute detail of dates printed on pasted labels and the tick of her freshly sharpened pencil.

Once the old bottles were secured at the front of the shelf and the new ones filed behind them, Pansy closed the cabinet doors and brushed her hands against the cotton of her pinafore.

“I’m going to get some air,” she said, her shoulder nearly glancing against Lavender’s on her way out the door.

“Alright, love,” Lavender called after her. “I’ll tell you about the letter I’ve had from Second Lieutenant Creevey when you’ve come back.”

For a long while, Pansy had thought of the hospital as a cheap robe hung on the exalted bones of Thornwood Abbey. The war would end, and it would fall away as immaterial and disposable as the wrapping on a parcel.

No stain, no echo, no vibration of its requisition would be left behind.

It would be her sanctuary once again, and only hers, free to take her tea in solitary silence by the large window in the drawing room, watching the mallards dabble in the lake.

As it was, the drawing room was filled with men who sent up prayers to God if they woke with a headache from the anesthetic.

Day by day, Pansy felt the memory of her home drain away, replaced as it needed to be by the urgent and essential now.

She passed Daphne in the hall outside the room where her servants used to eat their dinner. She intended to keep up her pace and offer nothing beyond a tip of her head, but Daphne slipped her hand into the crook of Pansy’s elbow.

“Your captain is looking for you,” she said quietly. “I’ve tried to deflect him, but I think he’s gone to Pomfrey already and knows you’re here.”

A voltaic shimmer traveled down the surface of Pansy’s skin and back up again.

“Fucking hell.”

Pansy turned around and stalked off in the other direction, abandoning the idea of a turn around the rose garden.

She nearly escaped to the nurse’s dormitory that was once her own, solitary boudoir.

But naturally he recalled the narrow service stairs in the east wing, and opened the door to descend just as she arrived at the top.

“Pansy,” he said, almost breathless with a sort of half-panic. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

“Neville.”

He held his hat at his side, pinched between his spare, muscled fingers.

His hair was never fully tamed, and the impacts of having put his hat on his head and then removing it again made themselves clear.

Pansy flattened herself against the wall of the confining stairwell, grasping her own forearms in her palms behind her back.

“Well?” she asked. She pursed her lips and lifted her chin, fluidly performing the impatience and imperious nonchalance that constituted the entirety of her personality as far as most people were concerned.

“I’m leaving.” He breathed in, an intake of air meant to fortify and compose. “Today. Just now, actually.”

His dark eyes scanned her own, but her vision caught on the pink line of scar tissue running from below his left ear, over his cheekbone, through the outside third of his left eyebrow, then turning back to end in a jagged half circle at the hairline at his left temple.

The scar and a Victoria Cross he kept folded in a handkerchief at the back of his top bureau drawer were the only mementos he had been given for a wound that had done everything in its power to end his life.

The desire to trace it with her fingertips flooded her with so much force that she pinched the skin of both her arms hard enough with her fingernails that she sucked in a breath through her nose.

“I wish you all the luck, then, Captain,” she said, leaning hard into the clipped tones of her breeding to mask the quaver in her throat.

“Pansy, please.”

She might have persisted—would have persisted—had he been any other man, but his hand was at her hip, and then his elbow was crooked behind her nape, and she was in his arms, sighing against the mouth that had been mercifully spared of injury for her own selfish, covetous, unappeasable use.

“I’m going to write to you,” he muttered against her jaw.

“I told you. I won’t read them.”

“I don’t care.”

Pansy took his hand in hers, and folded it over her breast.

She might have known better. Should have known better.

He made her mindless with want.

His hand closed hard, in the way that she liked best, over her too-tender breast, and she gasped with the pain of it.

He pulled back instantly, skin flushed and lips heated for her, and stared at her with an expression of hurt and confusion that she hated, instantly and forever.

“Pans, I’m so sorry. I—”

She prayed, earnestly, fervently, for his stupidity.

But there was only one time she’d known him to be a fool.

His thinking was both careful and thorough, and after a moment his skin paled.

“You’ve been avoiding me for a week,” he said.

She wouldn’t tell him.

She refused.

He would go, and meet the enemy at the door with nothing to remind him of her except the knickers she’d folded into his pocket on the afternoon he’d first taken her, breathless, his scar still red, against the grass bordering the rushes at the edge of the lake.

He would go, and there he would be stupid, beating back disaster with the hard brick of his self-sacrificial love.

Maybe he would come back to find her Miss Parkinson of Thornwood Abbey, sitting in her drawing room with a cup of tea.

Maybe he would come back to find her another man’s wife.

Maybe he would come back with no desire to find her anywhere.

Maybe he wouldn’t come back at all.

“Pansy.”

She was hard as flint.

She was so soft.

She could have told him the hour of the disaster with devastating precision.

Lying on her back, a prohibited object in his bed, she’d been lost with him moving in her, bleary eyes half closed, muting her voice against the sweat at his shoulder, heels at the small of his back holding him tight to her as she gasped out that she loved him.

She had hoped he hadn’t heard, but outside the borders of her own unbearable arc of sensation, she was aware that he’d finished inside her.

If she’d moved immediately after, it might have been possible to have done something, but she couldn’t care about anything beyond how it felt to be held in his arms.

In the dreary dark of the stairs, he studied her with dogged and patient intelligence.

And then his fingertips stroked down her belly, and flexed over the secret below.

He moved quickly then, ducking down and tossing her over his shoulder, and marching with singular purpose up the stairs to the second floor.

Below her, the familiar carpet of her ancestral hall streaked away from the backs of his heels.

He finally stopped at the mahogany door to what was once the least-offered guest bedroom in the east wing, and pushed it open with startling force.

He set her down on her feet in the middle of the room, and tightened one of his long arms around her waist.

The chaplain sat at his desk ramrod straight, auburn hair slicked into an adamant wave over his forehead and spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose. He cradled a pen in his hand, poised over a sheet of paper.

“Captain Longbottom. Nurse Parkinson,” he said, mannerly and terse. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I’m going to need you to marry us, Father Weasley,” said Neville. “Straight away.”

Father Weasley laid his pen down in a strict perpendicular to his page, and folded his hands together at the edge of his desk.

“I’m afraid you’ll need to submit the proper paperwork. Then Major Weasley will have to approve. He’s on leave in Devonshire at the moment,” he said, shifting his pen a millimetre to the right, “and isn’t expected to return until Tuesday.”

“Get Brigadier General Moody to sign off on it. He’s downstairs in the wards.” Neville’s hand tightened on Pansy’s waist. “I’m...that is so say we’re—”

He turned to Pansy, pink-cheeked, eyes shining, and smiled with half his mouth like an absolute clot.

Pansy couldn’t bear to look at him. Instead she stared hard at Father Weasley until he puffed a beleaguered breath through his nostrils.

He looked at the face of his wristwatch, then drew open a drawer at the side of his desk, and pulled out a blank form.

“You’ll need a witness.”

Neville released Pansy’s waist, stalked to the door and stuck his head out.

“Malfoy,” he called out. “You’re needed.”

Half a minute later, Captain Malfoy strolled through the door entirely unbothered, half-eaten apple in hand.

“Hullo. What’s going on then?” he asked.

“Give me your ring,” said Neville.

Malfoy looked down at the emerald ring on his little finger.

“What do you want my ring for, Longbottom? Go and get one of your own.” He looked Pansy up and down. “Where’s your wee cap gone, Pans?” He took an enormous bite of his apple. “I shouldn’t think the priest has it.”

“Father Weasley’s marrying us just now,” said Neville. “You’re needed as witness.”

Malfoy laughed. “What? Right now? What’s the bloody great rush?”

“I’m pregnant, idiot,” said Pansy.

Malfoy’s eyes widened. “Well that’s extremely naughty of you.”

With an effort, he pulled the ring off his finger and tossed it to Neville.

“You’d better have something a fair sight better than that in your vaults, Longbottom. I hope you’re aware that our Pans has champagne taste.”

Pansy tucked her hair over her ear. “Fuck off, Draco.”

While Father Weasley scribed at the form, Pansy tucked her hand in Neville’s, and turned to face him.

“I’m going to write to you,” he said quietly, rolling Draco’s ring in his fingers. “Constantly. I don’t care whether you read them.”

For two weeks, Pansy had watched the mirror with mounting terror.

She’d seen her soft, glassy eyes. Her swelling breasts. The heat rising visibly at the surface of her skin.

Fatigued and faint, nauseated and utterly sick with love and longing, she shifted to fill the open geometry of Neville’s body.

“Normally we’d get two days, Pans, but we’re...I can’t—”

She pulled up on her toes, and his arms tightened around her, lifting her nearly off the floor and into the warm space he kept reserved for her at the side of his neck.

“Were you going to tell me?” he whispered hoarsely.

“You can’t worry,” she muttered against his pulse. “You’re not allowed.”

“I’m going to use every last piece of paper I’m given.” He pressed his face into her hair. “I don’t care if you read a single one.”

Pansy breathed him in, using every sense to press him hard into the soft wax of her memory. “I’m going to read them all.”

#Pansy Parkinson #Neville Longbottom #panville #paneville #slytherdornet #hp rarepair

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goldafterglow · 4 years

Text

embellished lungs

Summary: Ezra buys a pretty thing for a pretty thing.

Request: hc about what renders Ezra speechless 😶 - @lose-eels (this is not even what you asked for but fuckin here ig im sorry sgkfjdshg)

Pairing: Ezra x reader

Word Count: 2.6k+

Warnings: a big fat drabble?, very really soft, not beta read and tbh barely even normal read i read this maybe twice oops

Author’s Note: i almost put this just like under the ask but I’m not gonna sit here and act like this is a drabble bc i’m a clown. i don’t want to talk about it. and spitting this out bc I was soft for Ezra and @mrpascals made me

Gif Cred: my wife and my baby @pascalplease

masterlist | taglist modifications

He spies it in the open market while he’s stocking up on supplies.

The day is hot, the Sun bearing down on its disciples with a violent red fury, but it’s light is strong, bright. Everything is reflective, hot to the touch from boiling in the heat, and all of the creatures begin to melt together like dyed wax to form one big discernable blob, if you really squint. Ezra’s sweat escapes the barrier of his brows and leaks past his lashes, dragging across his eyes and stinging a little, blurring his vision and dripping onto his arms, but he doesn’t care. He’s far too exhilarated.

The market in itself is absolutely brilliant to him; he’s always been enthralled by this, by people and pretty things, and to be completely surrounded by both felt like something akin to sensory overload. His heart is racing at the sight of people traversing the dirt road, loitering and browsing through produce colored so vibrantly he wonders if the bright red apples and deep indigo berries have been dipped in the tinted glow of fairies that dance in the forest. And he’s utterly taken by the art and trinkets. He’s always had a little soft spot for art - a tender, exposed section of his beating flesh that is so sensitive, so delicate and so easy to provoke. And right now, he seems like he’s subject to a battering ram, pounding against his chest in the best way possible.

His eyes dart around quickly as he tries his best to take everything in. He finds himself cherishing every little interaction, every stranger whose shoulder he is forced to brush in an attempt to make his way through the market, every vendor that begs to him, calls to him to try “just one last berry sir. I’m sure your lover will be delighted by the raspberries from yesterday’s harvest.” He ended up buying a quaint six ounces just so that he could feed them to you. But that would be a treat for later.

And just like that, he is thinking of you. The prettiest, most beautiful thing. A sculpture with imperfections so perfect that he knows it must have taken eons to craft you out of gold and diamonds and the soft fluff of hummingbird feathers and butterfly wings. You are art, a walking, breathing, touchable piece that he gets to admire up close. It’s a privilege, really, to have been gifted with Kevva’s finest handiwork.

As his pupils peruse the stands, admiring his surroundings, they suddenly become frozen in place, permanently stuck on a little trinket that’s caught his attention: a necklace. The gem sitting in the center isn’t aurelac; it’s much more vibrant, much more dramatic and almost rainbow when he looks at it from different angles. The chain isn’t long, and knowing you the gem would fall right between your collarbones. He can already envision you wearing it, like a child flicking watercolors onto the Venus de Milo, but he wants to see his deep green paint draped around your shoulders. The way he sees it when you wear his clothing, when you’re adorned with bruises of his passion like stars adorn the sky, when you wear him. It’s intoxicating, seeing that he’s had any impact on your life and that you parade it around like a trophy. That you think about him without him prompting you to do so - not that he isn’t constantly in your presence. But he wants to buy it just so that he can see you wear it. Perhaps even only wear it.

He’s already thinking about how fucking gorgeous you would look in it. He is thinking about putting it on you, tugging on it ever so lightly in a way that signals to you - that is, rather than exerting any true force on you - that he wants a kiss. Perhaps pulling on it a little harder so that metal bites your skin and you can feel it, feel him digging into the soft flesh of your neck. Now he’s imagined a thousand scenarios in which he can have his way with you just by getting you to wear this piece, and he has to purchase it.

When the vendor finally hands it to him, packaged with care and placed deep into the hollow of a black velvet box, he finds that it barely fits in his pocket. He doesn’t care, though, because it’s too exquisite an accessory to be thrown in with the other supplies and it’s too precious for him to take it out of the box. He’s excited when he comes back to the pod, back home where you are.

Home is you.

He assumes you must’ve heard him come in, the pod door loud and rambunctious as he dumps the bags into the center of the pod space and then crawls in himself - it was hard enough with two arms, nonetheless one. He lets out a sight as if to let the excitement drain out his vessels and into the atmosphere of the cockpit, mingling with the peace and solitude to create a soft buzz that zings through his ears and vibrates his eyes. The exhilaration from being the market was utterly electric, but he is home now. He can crawl into you, let you absorb into him, and he likes how you can make his heart race a million miles and yet also pacify him, a cold compress to his aching soul to help reduce inflammation. He wants to maintain that semblance of the intricate pastel harmony, adorned in lilac and peach hues. So he stands in the middle of the cockpit and closes his eyes, lets himself sway to the rhythm of his lungs for a moment. Just a fraction of solitude, and he doesn’t mind because ever since he met you he has never felt lonely, not even when he’s alone. He always feels you with him.

Once his head has cleared, he palms at his pocket where the little black box still resides, as if to check that he hadn’t dreamt up some fantasy ornament that would look so perfect on you. It’s still there; of course it is, and he feels foolish for thinking that the pretty butterflies would have fluttered it out and flown it away, but sometimes he wonders if the same thing will ever happen to you. If one morning he will wake up and you will have migrated with the birdies, off to seek true warmth because you’re not real, because nothing so good as you could ever be caged by him.

He steps into your shared bedroom and spies you with your back to the entrance. The room is cool, but you’ve elected to wear his shirt, even foregoing pants. His favorite outfit of yours, and he knows you know it. You’re wearing headphones, something he’d picked up for you on your last supply run, and he can tell you’re playing one of those instrumental stations you so adore listening to when you were working. A mutely-colored map is stretched out onto the desk, and he’s not even sure you can focus the music because your mind is moving faster than your poor hand can keep up as you mark up a new dig site. He almost feels bad for interrupting you while you’re in such deep concentration, your forehead smashed into wrinkles without even noticing, but Ezra cannot resist his greed for your attention. Ever so gently, he places his hand on your shoulder from behind so as not to startle you.

You almost immediately register the delicate touch, turning the radio off and pulling your headphones off your ears so you can give this kind artist your undivided attention - Kevva herself knows he's earned it. You turn your head to face him, craning your neck back so you can take his softly smiling depiction like pressing a plush blanket into your face.

“Hey, pretty boy,” you coo, letting your pen fall tumultuously from your hand. The sound of it clanging against the table and then rolling around to a stop fills the room, but you can’t hear it; Ezra is talking now.

“Hey, sweet stardust,” he greets back, voice orange and warm like the heat that simmers under the stars during the summer at midnight.

Comfortable.

“Hey” was never his preferred salutation, and he’d tried to omit it from his vocabulary for so long, but he started to notice that he likes it when you say to him. Like a little pearl of your voice, so sweet like honey with the honeycomb still mixed in, a little grainy and so cheeky.

“Did you get everything we need?” you ask, beginning to stand to that you can press a hand to his chest, grounding him to the pod and to your sanctuary soul. Ezra grins wide, unable to hide his excitement at your words.

“I in fact exceeded our needs, sweet rose bud,” he says with a pride that fills up your chest and makes you want to hold him tight because you love when he gets giddy like this, with the childlike enthusiasm of showing your parents the shitty drawing you made or your ugly macaroni art. Ezra is light, his tone airy. “I happened to spot a gem that reminded me of your vision and I couldn’t resist the urge to get it.”

You brow furrows a little, not out of confusion but out of curiosity. Ezra’s taste has always inspired you, and you knew his never ending quest for art is always in an attempt to find beauty in everything. You don’t even have to look at it to know that it will be stunning because his stamp of “pretty” approval is your gold standard.

He pulls the box out and opens it facing you so that you can get a good look, really admire it, and you are already taken by the shimmering pendant.

“Oh Ezra, it's - it’s utterly magnificent,” you gush, and he can spot that little glimmer in your eyes that you get when you’re looking at something that you’re enamored with; they way you look when you’re gazing at him. You raise your chin to look at him, his cheeks rosy with delight and sweet eyes crinkled at the corners. “Put it on me.”

It’s not so much of a demand as it is a gentle instruction; you know he wants to, know he’s been thinking about it since he bought it, and you want to be open to him. You want to invite him into your heart, inside of the flower garden of your chest, with open arms because he deserves to feel wanted.

You help him pull the chain out of the bottom of the box, keeping one end in your right hand and letting him take the clasp in his left. He wills himself to move slowly, to savor every little stimulation you send through his skin as he steps behind you. His fingers press against your clavicle, tracing along the bone before traveling up over the valley of your shoulder, tips of his hands brushing against your throat. He is feeling you, mapping out your body because he’ll never get to see an angel in his life but he’s certain you must be the spitting image.

You can feel his breath against your skin, hot and intoxicating as a small film of dampness coats your exposed back and neck. Your right hand rests at the nape of your neck, waiting expectantly, but you don’t rush him. He takes his sweet, sugary time, because the surface of your skin feels like he’s running his fingers through a field of silicone needles, firm but harmless as they stimulate a sensation he never knew he could feel before he touched you for the first time. You’re addictive, the best high he’s ever gotten, and he almost lets his hand lose all abandon and travel so carefully down the front of your body, palming your breast along the way and pressing right into your diaphragm before he keeps going down, down, down…

Almost.

But he will save it for a later time, especially since he’d been fantasizing about you wearing the necklace like a carefully chiseled bust is adorned with sashes. So finally, after what feels like hours of roaming and teasing, you feel that calloused, worn sensation of your lover’s fingers seeking solace against yours. You pin your breath to your lungs, not daring to let it go as you wait for the heavy release of his hand indicating that the necklace is secure. But even once you feel it, even as you let your right hand fall down at your side, Ezra does not take his hand off of you. You don’t want him to.

Slowly, so that he never has to cease his touch, you turn to face him. You’re still looking down at the pendant, in awe of how the gem rests so perfectly between your collarbones. You can’t see Ezra’s adoring gaze, his completely awestruck fixation on how ethereal you are to him. Like you’re emitting a golden glow, too hot to touch and yet begging, inviting his fingers to feel and press and hold.

Celestial.

He feels his emotions expand in his stomach, diaphragm threatening to spasm. His hand trails up to your chin, palming your jaw as he tenderly lifts your line of sight so that he can see your pretty eyes.

“You’re divine,” he mumbles to you, not wanting to disrupt the tight silence, so tense he’s afraid of speaking too loud lest it break and snap against his cheek leaving an angry raised brand.

Overwhelmed with appreciation, you balance your hands on his shoulders and press a gentle kiss to his cheek, letting it linger so you can savor the honeysuckle dew on his skin. “I love it,” you whisper with a grin.

Ezra giggles.

When you pull back to face him proper, his face is utterly red. His smile reaches the lobes of his ears, bashful and boyish like his belly has just been tickled by the sweetest of baby chicks, and he can barely get a word out. He can’t speak. His mind is in overdrive, completely inundated with a blistering adoration for you and your approval because you said you loved it. His gift is not a splash of children’s watercolors; it is a clean swipe of gold running along your jaw, accenting your beauty and emphasizing just how exquisite you are to him.

“Yeah?” he managed, a soft giggle still passing his lips like the first cries of a baby deer, the first flutters of a newly hatched butterfly.

Adorable.

You can’t resist the urge to giggle back, placing a hand at the nape of his neck and pulling him in for a true kiss on his glittery lips. It only lasts seconds, however, because Ezra can’t stop smiling and you can’t stop giggling, so you both settle for the blissful solitude of pressing your foreheads against one another, breathing in each other's air and taking up the same space.

“It’s gorgeous, Ezra. Thank you,” you whisper lightly so that the wisps of air tickle his upper lip, and suddenly he is so inclined as to press his left arm into the small of your back so that you’re so much closer and kiss you the way you deserve; a dynamic series of long, deep, searing kisses that send you to the clouds and drop you into an endless pit of lavish fluff at the same time. You don’t know how he does this, makes you feel like you don’t exist and that there isn’t anything in the world but you and him, and you often wonder if it’s because Ezra is within you, or that your broken parts and his broken parts make some hauntingly majestic sculpture of its own; something better than the fucking Venus de Milo or Athena or Great Sphinx because it should be something so hideous and yet it feels to utterly priceless to you.

It’s precious.

ppl that asked to be tagged: @gustavos @catfishingmorales @keeper0fthestars @1zashreena1 @blancatobarxoxo @honeyedspace @chaotic-noceur @opheliaelysia @adikaofmandalore @din-damn-djarin @mrsparknuts @girlwithanewplan @mrschiltoncat @cryptkeepersoul @buckstaposition @the-feckless-wonder @cocoatales @agentpike @cryptkeepersoul

ppl that did not ask no ma’am no sir: @ergotautology @dindjarindiaries @pascalplease

again, you can join/leave my taglist here :)

#iris writes #ezra #ezra prospect x reader #ezra (prospect) x reader #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #ezra x you #ezra prospect x you #ezra x reader #pedro pascal x you #shgkdjfhgd #this one was #huh #idk how i feel abt this lol #hope you beautiful bitches like it though :)

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yandere-daydreams · 4 years

Note

I’d really love to see darling just teasing the hell out of deku and just toying with his feelings knowing he had a massive crush on her but would never try anything... or so she thought ;))) maybe bang it out in the detention room idk lol all g if this prompt doesn’t spark ur interest, have a good one! ❤️

While I try to avoid writing nsfw stuff for requests, I do like the idea of Izuku getting affectionate with his would-be Darling… hopefully, this’ll suffice.

TW: Non-Consensual Touching, Emotional Manipulation, and Threats of Violence.

Monoma had been the one to put you up to it.

He’d said it would be funny, and for weeks, it was. One of the top students in 3-A falling head-over-heels for a stain on the Support Course, All Might's personal golden boy tripping over himself to get the attention of someone who barely had a quirk at all, it was like fate fell to its knees in front of you and begged you to take advantage of the situation. You’d been skeptical, at first, but it was shy, adoring puppy-love, the kind of sappy romance that made a man shove love letters under your door when he could hardly manage to talk to you in-person. Turning him down entirely would’ve been heartless, and you couldn’t say you didn’t enjoy the attention, both from your classmates as you laughed over the newest ‘anonymous’ poem and Izuku himself.

You felt guilty, occasionally, but it was just a harmless joke. Your intentions weren’t pure, but you thought Izuku would look back on his stumbling attempts at romantic gestures and laugh with you. Monoma told you that these kinds of things always ended well.

It didn’t feel like a joke anymore, though.

Izuku’s hands were stronger than you realized, leaving indents when they moved from your waist to your thighs, his strength enough to hold you up regardless of what he decided to hold onto. His chest was too warm, broad and pushed against your own, radiating more heat whenever he attempted to close the nonexistent gap between the two of you. He’d gotten tired of your lips minutes ago, finding sanctuary in the crook of your neck, the sound of violent kisses and your meek whimpers echoing throughout the (mercifully) empty classroom. Shoving didn’t phase him, so you were left to tangle your fingers in dark curls and pray he noticed the way you were tugging at his scalp, or how tense you were, or anything about the person underneath him.

If he cared that you were uncomfortable, he didn’t make a point of showing it. You’d wonder if he cared about you at all, if you weren’t so afraid of finding out the answer.

You were lifted without warning, dragged away from the wall Izuku had pinned you to and dropped onto the teacher’s desk unceremoniously. The vantage point was high enough for Izuku to force your legs apart, quickly filling the available space. He braced himself on the wooden table-top as his attention returned to your jugular, his affection turning more intense than it had been. “M-Midoriya,” You called, your voice cracked as he bit into your skin, nothing cushioning the feeling of his teeth piercing your neck. There’d be a mark, tomorrow, if not a puncture wound. “Aizawa could come back--”

“He won’t. He never does.” There was no hesitation, no reluctance, only a firm affirmation and a blinding smile, Izuku perking up to better stare you down. He let out a nervous laugh before he continued, momentarily averting his eyes, his confidence wavering with a rub to the back of his neck. “I… I’ve been in trouble a few times, so I know how this works. Aizawa lectures us for a few minutes and says he’s going to be gone for a second, but he always falls asleep in the teacher’s lounge until the end of the hour.” He brightened, again, drawing you closer and squeezing your side playfully. “Which means we have tons of time together. Isn’t that great?”

Something inside your chest tightened, coiling around your lungs and going taunt. One burst by the time you spoke, you were sure. “I’m just not sure it’s a good idea. We’re still in public--”

“Why’s that?” The question was posed with an innocent chuckle, and you almost believed he didn’t know what he was doing. “Would it be so bad if someone saw us? I know they’ll spread rumors, but maybe they should. That way, everyone’ll know we’re together.” He paused, pecking your lips, the gesture as fleeting as it was giddy. “It’ll save time, when we finally make it official.”

You tugged at his hair again, subconsciously, and Izuku leaned into your palm, the action as reflexive as your own. “I’m not sure if I want that,” You admitted, preparing yourself for an apologetic response. But, if he’d heard you, you couldn’t tell, Izuku only humming as he began to tug your blazer down your arm. “I don’t know if I want this.”

He didn’t pay you any mind, starting to toy with the first button of your uniform’s shirt. “You want this, and so do I. There’s no reason to be nervous.”

“Still, I… I want to stop.” You tried to be more firm, more stern in your approach, your hands returning to his biceps. You pushed him away with as much strength as you could manage, forcing him to acknowledge your displeasure. Izuku whined as he was separated from you, no longer grinning. A light frown had taken its place, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to be discouraged. “I don’t want this at all. I know you like me, but I’m still not sure I like you. And I know I’m not going to like you any more if somebody catches us.” You sighed, shaking your head, more for yourself than for him. “Can’t we just talk for a while? Like we always do, ‘zuku.”

He blinked once, twice. “No.”

You couldn’t help but feel a little smaller. “No?”

“No.” His mouth was on yours in an instant, pushing against you furiously and refusing to budge when you attempted to get away. Arms snaked around your midriff as you tried to kick, pulling you closer, closer, too close, Izuku paying no regard to the nails now embedded in his cheek. It was primal and passionate and suffocating, your entire body constricting in an effort to escape him. Even as he pulled away, he refused to let go of you, his chin resting on your shoulder, erasing the thought of distance from your mind. “You accept my gifts. You let me in when I come to your room, and you don’t reject my confessions. You want this.” He stopped, abruptly, warm breath fanning over your neck. “That, or Monoma wasn’t lying. And if he wasn’t lying, then you must’ve been. You must not really like me.”

You curled into yourself, and Izuku’s hold on you tightened. “What if I don’t?”

He laughed, under his breath, his demeanor lightening as soon as the words were off your tongue. It was like someone flipped a switch, his touch nothing short of gentle as he took a step back, finally giving you space to breathe. A hand rose to cup your chin, rubbing over half-bruised hickeys tenderly, as if he was apologizing for being so rough. Luckily, the adoration in his eyes freed you of that delusion.

He smiled and kissed you one more time, barely making contact. You flinched. It must’ve been impossible for him to miss, but... he didn’t care.

He just didn’t care.

“I don’t know what I would do,” He said, cheerily. “But maiming the bastard seems like a good place to start.”

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witchnova221 · 4 years

Text

The Boy with the Sunshine Smile

'My son?'

It wasn't the greeting he should give. He would need both hands to count out the rules he had broken but the question was the first thing to leave his lips all the same.

'I'll bring him to you,' his brother replied, eyes moving swiftly over his form, concern marring the smooth line of his brow, 'Wangji?'

'My son,' he said again, the wards nothing to him as he continued his path into the sanctuary of Cloud Recesses.

He heard Lan Xichen hesitate behind him and he almost turned back to reassure him but the words tasted like ash on his tongue. What could he say of his journey? What could he say he achieved three years too late that others had not achieved in the days after the battle at Nightless City? He had not set out with hope but with determination, to find something, anything, just the slightest hint of a presence. Surely if anyone... He shook away the train of thought, it had served him no purpose, just added another weight he had been forced to carry on the relentless, heartbreaking journey.

Wei Ying was gone. Utterly and completely and Lan Wangji's heart was bereft, a hollow in his chest beneath the brand he had forced into his skin in the hope of somehow wearing some permanent reminder of his friend's pain.

'Wangji.' The name now said with more force, a hand taking hold of his arm with the same gentle firmness that had been a constant throughout his life. 'You need to change and rest. Yuan is in his classes and Uncle will not be happy if I remove him now. You look...tired.'

He spared his brother a glance, the concern in his voice chipping a little at the ice he had not shaken off since he had emerged from his punishment. 'The journey was long,' he said, 'An hour. My son.'

Lan Xichen nodded, releasing his hold on him though the worry did not leave his face. 'An hour then.'

The hour dragged itself along at a stubborn pace and even after bathing, changing into fresh robes and once more drawing the mantle of a well-bred Lan disciple around himself, Lan Wangji still found time to pace the floor. The walls around him had never been a sanctuary, even when his mother had been alive they had been closer to a cell than a home, a cage. It was stifling, weighing him down, memories of pain and fever and his brother's worried face flashing through his mind before once more he was on the jagged black cliff, holding on with all that was left in him to the man who had once called himself his soulmate, even as he pleaded to be released.

His nails were digging crescents into his palms when the quiet voice at the door broke him from the horror in his head, Wei Ying's frighteningly peaceful face as he fell slowly replaced by the familiar surrounds of his home.

'Wangji?'

He hastily swiped at his cheeks, removing any trace of the emotion of moments before. Breathing deeply, he drew himself tall and headed for the door, sliding it open to reveal his brother, a hand already held up to placate him as he spoke.

'He is with Uncle,' said Lan Xichen, 'He wants to speak with you.'

Lan Wangji nodded, closing the door behind him as he fell into step behind his brother, refusing to allow his mind to turn over the what ifs that threatened to overwhelm him. He had not taken his leave of his uncle when he had left Cloud Recesses the moment his punishment was over, knowing he would be swiftly waylaid by some task deemed useful and necessary if he had even hinted at his wishes to leave. Where he once would have awaited his punishment, accepted it, asked for it, he now bore it little thought.

He could see the occasional tightening in his brother's shoulders as he followed behind him but no words followed. The pair of them soon coming to a pause outside their uncle's door.

'One word of advice,' said Lan Xichen, his voice low, 'Listen.'

He gave the smallest nod, the gesture enough to satisfy it seemed as the door was slid open and they stepped inside.

Yuan had grown. It was the first thought in his head as his eyes fell upon the boy, knelt beside his uncle's table, robes neat and ordered but his face broke into a bright smile as he looked up at their entry.

'Hanguang-Jun!' he exclaimed, hands pressing on the table as he moved to stand but Lan Qiren's barked command stayed him.

'Sit!'

Lan Wangji watched as Yuan's lip trembled before he forced it away, kneeling neatly once more as he kept his eyes on his hands folded in his lap.

'Wangji. Xichen. Sit down,' said Lan Qiren, gesturing to the empty seats at the table.

Lan Wangji was grateful as his brother took his seat next to Lan Qiren, leaving the place next to Yuan free. The boy glanced up as he sat down beside him, a tiny smile once more gracing his lips and Lan Wangji ignored the annoyed huff from his uncle as he reached out a hand and laid it gently against the boy's head.

'It is good to see you, A-Yuan,' he said, before he folded his hands neatly in his lap and turned his attention to his uncle.

'Your journey?' said Lan Qiren, eyes hard as he regarded Lan Wangji across the table.

'Necessary,' replied Lan Wangji, 'And...done.'

Lan Qiren nodded, satisfied with the words unsaid. 'And now?'

'I am here.'

'We did not have a chance to speak before you left,' said Lan Qiren, 'But Xichen informed me of your intentions in regards to We...this child.'

'It is my intention to raise Yuan as my own, formally now that I may,' said Lan Wangji, 'I believe those who loved him before would have wanted it.'

Lan Qiren's face hardened. 'The wishes of those outside of our clan do not hold sway,' he said, 'It is my belief that, if we are to offer shelter, it will be to a foundling who should be kept humble.'

Lan Wangji felt the bite of his nails against his palms once more as he saw Yuan's confused face look between him and his uncle. 'Zewu-Jun,' he said, 'Perhaps Yuan would benefit from a walk.'

Lan Xichen took a breath, looking from Lan Wangji to his uncle, the moment paused as though seconds from crashing into turmoil before Lan Qiren nodded gruffly.

'Yuan, come take a walk with me,' he said, getting to his feet.

Yuan stood, eyes wide as he looked at Lan Wangji who nodded, hoping to comfort him even when he longed to rise and leave with him. The child seemed contented for the moment, remembering himself as he bowed to Lan Qiren, his balance failing him but he kept his feet and Lan Qiren waved him away with a tut.

'We will not go far,' said Lan Xichen, taking the child's hand and leading him back outside.

Silence reigned but Lan Wangji did not break it, instead he held his uncle's gaze until finally, Lan Qiren chose to speak.

'If you continue to insist upon saddling yourself with this Wen boy, you will be going against the direct wishes of your family.'

'I will be going against your wishes,' said Lan Wangji, 'Xichen has not given me any indication that he disapproves. I intend to raise Yuan as my son. It is my duty to do so.'

'Duty to whom?' said Lan Qiren, 'What do you owe the Wen who slaughtered our own?'

'Yuan was not part of that offence,' said Lan Wangji.

'That is beside the point. He is not suitable to be raised as your son. The rumour alone...'

'Rumour does not matter,' said Lan Wangji, 'Grand Master, Yuan is my responsibility and I intend to raise him. He will be my son. Whether he is my son here, or elsewhere, is your choice.'

'Have you learned nothing?' snapped Lan Qiren, 'You seem determined to bring shame upon us.'

'That is not my intent,' said Lan Wangji, 'My only wish is to raise my son.'

'It will endanger all if people find out what he is.'

'Then they will not find out,' said Lan Wangji, 'He will be raised as a Lan. He does not remember anything of before or who he was. Xichen and I have not told him and I do not plan to. I wish to keep him safe.'

'Raised as a Lan,' said Lan Qiren, though there was no question in his tone, 'With no influence from outside. I will not have our ways polluted and he is already behind.'

'I will teach him.'

'You have other duties.'

'I will make time.'

Lan Qiren sighed, 'You refuse to be moved on this.'

'I do,' said Lan Wangji, 'I am sorry to pain you but I have made my decision.'

'He will be raised as a Lan,' said his uncle, mimicking his words of moments before, 'He will not be given any special treatment.'

'I would not expect it.'

'His name then?'

Lan Wangji allowed himself a small smile, a courtesy name for his adopted son something he had thought of from the moment he had taken the split-second decision to raise the child as his own. It was a secret he had kept close to his heart, reminding him it was still within even as he sometimes failed to feel its beat. 'Sizhui,' he said, 'Lan Sizhui.'

Lan Qiren nodded. 'Acceptable,' he said, 'He will be expected in the morning. You may go.'

For his entire life he had been taught restraint, poise, calm but in that moment it took all his training and every ounce of discipline he had not to rush from the room. Instead he rose slowly, offering his uncle a bow before heading for the door.

'Wangji. Whilst I may permit this, there is one thing I will not allow. I will not hear the name of Wei Wuxian uttered anywhere within Cloud Recesses.'

Lan Wangji paused only briefly, fingers clenching tighter in the small of his before he continued to the door. He refused to let his uncle's final words sour his mood, not when he soon saw his brother crouched beside Yuan, the pair of them studying one of the few ornate trees that decorated the courtyard. He could almost envy Lan Xichen, so free with his smiles as he spoke quietly to the child, raising one from Yuan in return. He knew the moment Lan Xichen realised his presence, a soft word spoken to distract the child before he looked up with a question in his eyes. Lan Wangji nodded and his brother turned away once more, speaking again to Yuan before the boy looked up with a smile.

'Do not run,' said Lan Xichen gently, watching with a small smile as Yuan fell into the helpless, rushing waddle that all the young disciples were victim of when they were trying to cover as much ground as they could without breaking the rules.

'Hanguang-Jun,' said the boy his face trembling between a smile and tears as Lan Wangji crouched down to his height once more, 'I... Father?'

The shrivelled thing that lived beneath the Wen brand upon Lan Wangji's chest leapt into life, Yuan giving him only a moment to nod before his arms were filled with the child. It may have been his intent to raise the child as a Lan but in that moment he was never more glad that Yuan had been born into a world where such gestures were not something to be avoided and pushed aside. He allowed himself a moment merely to return the embrace before he raised his gaze to his brother, knowing he would see the question in his eyes as to how Yuan would come to call him father before either of them knew of Lan Qiren's decision.

'Uncle has his ways,' said Lan Xichen, crossing the short distance to join them, 'Just allow yourself to enjoy this moment. I have the rest of the day in hand. You will need this.'

Lan Wangji freed a hand to take the pouch his brother held out to him, feeling the softness within until his finger brushed over the small, hard jut of metal beneath the cloth. Before he had a moment to question, Lan Xichen had already walked away, his pace and poise making a lie of the shock he had given his younger brother.

'Father,' came the little voice at his ear, bringing a small smile to his lips, 'Can we see the bunnies?'

'Yes,' said Lan Wangji, releasing his hold and tucking the pouch into his sleeve. He felt the tug on his fingers before Yuan situated his small hand into his, their pace more sedate than Yuan's previous waddle as they headed towards the clearing the rabbits had adopted as their own. The journey was silent, the only change to any other journey made in a pair around Cloud Recesses in their joined hands.

Lan Wangji was glad for the peace, straightening his own thoughts as he waited for something to steal the moment he had. He looked down at the child beside him, the babyish features he had once worn melting away to reveal a fine looking little boy, sweet and sunny, though the roundness in his cheeks was stubborn. Lan Wangji was glad that time had yet to erase that part of his infancy, still clinging to the memory of a precious day in Yiling. He had been called father then, by the concerned villagers first and then teasingly by Wei Ying later. He could not deny that even then the thought had stayed with him, the beginning of a twist of longing though the picture would never truly be the one he had secretly wanted. If all dreams came true, Yuan's other hand would be similarly held, the boy's white robes thrown into contrast against a familiar dark. He would not be alone in the endeavour he had taken on.

Alone. With no experience. Only knowing that he did not want Yuan to feel as he had felt as a child and that, even if the name of Wei Wuxian was forbidden, Lan Wangji wanted somehow to keep as much of his spirit alive in the child that had first been his to raise. The how of the attempt though was beyond his understanding and he felt his feet hesitate on the well worn path.

'What's wrong, Father?' said Yuan, head cocked in question as he tugged on his hand once more.

'Father is afraid to stumble,' answered Lan Wangji.

'But I am holding your hand,' said Yuan, as though it were the simplest answer.

Perhaps it was. However alone Lan Wangji felt, he was not. His brother had already proven himself a competent and gentle guardian, caring for Yuan when Lan Wangji was forced into his solitude for three long years and even Lan Qiren, unmoving in his ways, but still offering Lan Wangji his blessing however gruffly given. Even if they left him though, he would still not be alone, the journey he was making not a solo one but as a pair, the other half looking to him for guidance but already so willing to guide him.

The rabbits gave no indication of concern as they approached, Yuan moving slowly amongst them and reaching down with gentle fingers to pet them as Lan Wangji watched from the side. He reached into his sleeve, retrieving the pouch and opening it. He tipped the contents into his palm, smiling at the sight of the ribbon set with the silver filigree centrepiece.

'A-Yuan,' he called, the little boy releasing the bunny he had been cradling and picking his way carefully through their throng to Lan Wangji's side, 'I have something for you.'

The boy smiled, 'Like you and Zewu-Jun.'

Lan Wangji nodded. 'You will learn the importance of this as you grow.'

'May I wear it?' said Yuan, fingers touching the ribbon as gently as they had the rabbit's fur.

'Turn around,' said Lan Wangji, glad that the boy did so quickly so as not to see the tears that fought for release.

He steadied his hands before he gently set the ribbon in place, the sensation alien when fastening it for another after growing so used to fastening his own. He turned the boy to face him, fingers hesitating for a moment before he reached out to straighten the ribbon. Yuan smiled, raising his own hand to touch the ribbon on his forehead before touching the same hand to the charm in the centre of Lan Wangji's without any hesitation.

'Like you,' he said, 'Can I play with the bunnies some more?'

'Yes,' he answered, a small smile tugging at his lips as Yuan scampered off into the sea of little white bodies once more.

He felt a soft bump against his boot, leaning down to scoop up the rabbit that had broken from the group and taken sanctuary beneath his robes. He cradled it gently in his palm, finger tracing a soft path between the long white ears. Even the smallest creatures in Cloud Recesses would need to learn what it was to have a child so close. They would learn as Lan Wangji learned. He would not be alone.

If you enjoyed the above, you can read more on AO3

https://archiveofourown.org/works/24529369/chapters/59224675

#wangxian #mo dao zu shi #lan wangji #wei wuxian #lan zhan #wei ying #lan sizhui #lan yuan #dadji #family #family feels #the untamed #chen qing ling

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hitbythunder · 3 years

Text

Chandrilan Moons -3

A Kylo Ren x Reader story with much angst, possessiveness and dark themes (warnings will be updated as the story progresses) –> Read also on AO3

Summary: Growing up under the loving care of your foster-mother, Leia Organa, there had been nothing for you and Rey to want for. Though not of kin, you loved Rey as your sister and spent a happy childhood with her on Chandrila. But when the boiling galactic politics demanded for Leia to take action, for the Resistance to rise and fight, the girls could no longer evade the cruelty of the world. Kylo Ren sought a map as a key to revenge, to freedom, and had no use for a force-unsensitive young girl like you. You were simply a means to an end. Until his darkness latched onto you, drawn in by your light as you were by the demon that is Kylo Ren - inevitably gravitating towards each other, bound to be one. Like the Chandrilan moons.

**** WARNING: description of violence, mentions of rape

____________________________xXx____________________________

3- A disturbance in the Force

+Takodana - neutral territory+

Flying through space was amazing and although two experienced and trusted Resistance pilots had accompanied us girls on our mission, the glistening stars as far as one could see was worth it all. While Rey remained slightly pouting for most of the flight, I was glued to one of the side-windows of the ship. It was a small but bulky transport ship, for a star-fighter couldn't hold that many people and would have attracted too much attention once we landed on Takodana. Albeit its neutrality in the war, one should never act foolishly, especially since neutrality itself depended heavily on the benefits of a foregone alliance. But with Maz Kanata, the owner of the famous castle that granted sanctuary to everyone for one night, and proved friend of the Resistance, nothing could go wrong today and the whole mission seemed as good as done.

Leia had sent us there to retrieve the Jedi texts Maz had bought from a smuggler who had passed through weeks ago, hoping that they might help Rey's training in the Force. Or so I assumed as I curiously scanned the texts before Rey put the few scrolls and loose pages in a safety-box inside her back-pack.

"There's one more thing." Maz rummaged in a small chest among the sheer endless heaps of stuff in the castle's vault, leaving me to wonder how she could possibly remain an overview of what was down here. But perhaps that was why it was such a good hiding-place for forbidden artifacts such as Jedi-texts - as well as the light-sabre Maz now held solemnly in her wrinkled hands.

"Oh my stars, Luke Skywalker's light-sabre!" Rey was beyond herself with joy, her hands trembling slightly as she took the legendary weapon and gingerly inspected it from all sides. Ever the technician, Rey simply had to understand how that thing worked exactly and probably would disassemble the sabre if it hadn't been Luke's.

While I shared my sister's excitement, I couldn't help but feel a pang of jealousy as I watched Rey posing with the sabre. As so often, I found myself lacking as compared to my sister and Maz's talk about destiny and great deeds to be done with that sabre didn't make it any better. So I zoned out, sulking quietly in the background, until the three of us left the stuffy vault via seemingly endless stairs. We reemerged back into the dining hall of the castle's ground-floor where the canteen was, without drawing attention of the guests there. In one corner of the hall, a band played jolly tunes, which echoed off the thick castle walls and arched ceiling in a cacophony with the chatter of people. Because of many nooks and columns, the canteen could house many guests without seeming stuffed and a social-introvert like me could feel quite overwhelmed by all the noises, smells and visuals. I had never seen such variety of alien races, humans and droids gathered peacefully in one place.

With our mission virtually accomplished, the Jedi texts secured, it was time for us to return to the base and thus I scanned the canteen for our two escorts. But fate had other plans, for suddenly three very familiar faces appeared at the entrance of the dingy dining hall.

"Han Solo!" Maz cried out, shifting everyone's attention to the smuggler and his companions Chewie, a startled guy in Poe's jacket and Poe himself, his loyal droid BB-8 at his heels.

What in the galaxy are they doing here? I wondered while they approached us, an uneasy tingling overcoming my nerves. In hindsight, to give in and investigate this strange feeling more closely would have spared me so much trouble. But instead I pushed it down and greeted the guys as friendly as ever and soon later we found ourselves seated at the last available table. After getting us some food and beverages, Maz joined us at the round table, listening intently to the quiet conversation. We informed Han about our mission before he could get any wrong ideas (e.g. that we stole a ship and went against Leia's orders) and it felt nice that he cared about our well-being.

"Kriff, that is amazing!" Rey nearly burst with excitement as Poe, with interruptions of Han and Fin (the new guy), told us about what had happened on his mission. To sum it up, Poe had been on Jakku to get a map leading to Luke Skywalker but had been caught by the First Order and tortured by Kylo Ren himself. I shuddered at that part, because everybody knew not to cross paths with this merciless demon. Ren's cruelty and thirst for blood-shed seemed endless, his hatred for the Resistance only fueling his powers, and I could not fathom to imagine what Ren had done to squeeze every ounce of information out of Poe.

Luckily, Poe had entrusted the map to BB-8, who had remained hidden on Jakku the whole time, until Poe had managed to escape by the help of Fin, a renegade stormtrooper. Well, and as if fate had decided to stir things up even more, they had bumped into Han and Chewie on the way - something concerning smugglers and gross aliens, I didn't listen too carefully then - and due to low fuel and necessary repairs they had to make a stop here on Takodana.

"Wow, what a ride..." I said with awe and respect for their courage and luck, which had at least Fin and Poe smile proudly.

"Yeah, didn't exactly go to plan-" Poe replied between sips of his beer, Han scoffing beside him and mumbling something to Chewie about the recklessness of youth. "-but here we are, map in hand."

"And as soon as the Falcon's refueled we're leavin'!" Han declared as soon as Poe finished, his tone harsh but one could tell he only meant well for all of us. "Gonna make sure y'all get back in one piece." Obviously, Leia would have Han's head should anything happen to her girls, her best pilot and the map under his watch. And although I sensed his reluctance to face Leia, I was looking forward to the resemblance of a family. Hopefully they wouldn't quarrel from the start on.

Somewhat lost in my fantasies of a happy family life, I hadn't registered the growing debate between Finn, Rey and Poe.

"... you don't know them as I do! There's no fighting the First Order because they'll slaughter us for even trying. I've seen enough of their horrors and I want nothing to do with them!" Finn declared heatedly and barely kept his voice low as Poe repeatedly urged him to, also keeping the renegade in his chair.

"But that's the point! You have so much detailed insider-information which we could use to fight them! Why would you waste that and cling to the illusion of outrunning them?" Rey retorted with unabashedly directness and not less heatedly, the spirit of the Resistance burning fiercely in her hazel eyes. "Fleeing like a coward."

Finn rose then, anger and shame written across his face, though he didn't come up with a response and after a few seconds gave in to Poe tucking at his sleeve, sat back down and glared into his cup. A tensed silence hung over the table, until Maz subtly changed the subject by engaging Han in a conversation about a mutual smuggler-friend of theirs. With a fuming Rey beside me, I shot Poe a questioning glance, but he looked as helpless beside Finn as I felt and began to talk some sense into Finn in a calm manner. That he should come with us to the base, at least for a little while.

Next to Han, Chewie was eager to get out of here, groaning impatiently beside his friend and rubbing his bandaged arm.

"All right, Chewie, go on and check on our baby." Han said between Maz's babbling and quickly grabbed his beer before Chewie would knock it over as the giant jumped to his feet.

"I'm coming with you." on impulse I rose too, dismissing everyone's questioning looks as I added: "I need some air anyways."

Let them cool their heads while I'm gone, I thought and jogged after Chewie.

Since Maz's castle was built on a cliff surrounded by the ocean on one side and dense forest on the other, the landing-places were spread to a few clearings nearby. So we had to walk a little and although Chewie wasn't particularly chatty, I didn't mind either and enjoyed the beautiful landscape. At the bottom of the weathered castle's stairs, we turned right and followed a lovely path between lush grassy hills at the border of the forest, the rush of the nearby sea accompanying our steps. Suddenly Chewie halted, his hairy arm on my shoulder stopping me too, and pointed towards the thicket. There, half-hidden by the greenery, two humans were carrying a seemingly shut-down BB-8 further away from the castle.

Hasn't BB-8 been with Poe and us the whole time? I wondered briefly. But then, BB-8 was a small droid and many people had squeezed themselves past our table in the brimming canteen. Perhaps we had all been too distracted by the heated conversation between Rey and Finn to notice BB-8's absence.

"I'll follow them and stop them from leaving. You go use that long legs of yours and get the others, Chewie! Rey'll find me through the Force!" I declared in a split-second-decision, already dashing away into the dense forest and leaving a groaning wookiee behind.

Deeper and deeper I ventured in my pursuit, steadily closing the distance between myself and the thieves without alerting them of my presence. As children, Rey and I had often played hide and seek in the forests of Chandrila and I had to develop some pretty decent sneaking-skills to diminish her advantage with the Force. Rey had only once admitted that she wouldn't have won all those times if she hadn't used the Force to sense my approach. Thus, even if my sneaking skills should fail me I trusted that Rey would be able to find me. I just had to stall some time, delay those thugs from leaving, until Rey and the others would arrive. At one point, the two thieves halted to catch their breaths and looked around. I quickly ducked behind a tree, easing my nerves. Suddenly I noticed a bright red stroke on the otherwise blue sky above, far away yet ominous to watch. Though I had no clue what it was, I instantly had a bad feeling about it. But more pressing matters were at hand, and after another deep breath I dared to peek around the trunk. There was only one thief beside BB-8 then.

Kriff, where did the other go?!

Maybe Chewie should have chased them, not me, I admitted to myself as I was hauled by a pair of large hands and thrown very harshly on the forest floor next to the motionless droid.

"Look what followed us, mate!" said the gruff guy to his companion, who looked terribly scrawny in comparison. Both reeked of ale and whatnot, their ugly visages distorted by sinister smiles.

"A pretty thing like that will make a good price, I wager. Not as high as for the droid though." the scrawny one snickered as he mustered me, while the bear-like guy's eyes roamed over my body with a different kind of greed.

"How 'bout a taste..."

"No!" I screamed as he grabbed me, trashing against his hold, and somehow I managed to draw my small combat-knife from its holster at my hips. I thrust without much consideration, nor proper aim, stabbing bear-guy right above the knee. The blade sunk hilt-deep into his thigh-muscle. He howled in pain and repaid me with a hearty slap across my face, sending me flying back against BB-8 and onto the mossy ground. The impact caused the droid to reawaken and a small safety compartment at its front jumped open, the object within landing a few feet ahead of me.

The map! my dizzy mind concluded with horror.

Ignoring the rising pain in my body, I crept on all fours and frantically scanned the forest floor with my hands in a panicked search for the map. Scrawny guy was still laughing at his companion. Knowing that the guys and Poe in particular, had risked their lives for this map and that finding Luke was vital for the future of the Resistance, I simply couldn't loose it nor let it be taken by those thugs. It was my chance to prove my value as part of the Resistance and failing wasn't an option.

What would Leia think if I screw this up? Or Poe?

Then, finally, my right palm touched a metallic longish object and instantly I closed my fingers tightly around it. The very moment I did so, a flash of energy shot through me, momentarily blinding all my senses in its immense light and suddenly the outline of a star-constellation appeared before my inner eye. Planets and stars twinkled in a blueish hue, in between a red dotted line that led to a particular oceanic planet. Though somehow familiar, I could not place this constellation and this strange vision lasted only a few seconds, before a sudden sharp pain in my hand brought me back to my present predicament.

+++

In front of Takodana castle, the fight between stormtroopers and Resistance had just begun by the time Kylo arrived there. His ship landed like a looming black bird among the First Order transports and agitation spread in his muscles upon the pending blood-shed, especially since he had sensed another force-user inside the castle. By far not as strong as him, but hopefully they would do for some entertainment compared to the other scum-bags that died like flies at his hand. Kylo was marching determinedly towards the building, when he felt it.

A disturbance in the Force within the forest to his right, faintly but clear as a lightning-bolt at distance and vanished just as quickly. Kylo paused, scanned the area with his powers and concluded that the other Force-user was up ahead at the bottom of the castle - not in the direction of the disturbance. Weighing his options, Kylo dismissed the distraction for being just that and walked on to find his opponent. The Force, however, tickled his senses again, rippling with distinct restlessly as if to tempt him and now it seemed foolish not to inquire further.

"Find that droid at all costs! And take no prisoners!" Kylo barked towards a nearby officer, before he stormed off into the forest.

The lightning-bolt had pinned down the exact location and the closer he got, the stronger the Force seemed to pull him there, becoming more insistent with each step. Faster, it seemed to whisper and spurned his steps beyond the capacity of men, neither rocks nor tree-stumps posing a real obstacle in his path. Kylo felt some human presence long before they came into view, two men beating and kicking a woman cowering at their feet. Judging by their appearance, they were either smugglers or Resistance-fighters and either was good enough reason to kill them.

Silent in his approach, Kylo descended upon them like a dark shadow from behind, the hiss of igniting his light-sabre the only foretelling sound of their demise. Effortlessly, the red crackling blade cut through cloth, flesh and bone, drenching the nearby greenery and earth with blood.

#kylo ren x reader #possessive!Kylo #star wars sequel fic #drama and angst #fanfic #kylo ren

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snowbellewells · 4 years

Text

Captain Swan Movie Marathon: “Carolina Moon”

Here is my second submission to the @captainswanmoviemarathon event!! This one is a modern au of the Nora Roberts tv movie (adapted from one of her novels) Carolina Moon. The main female character in the movie is psychic/clairvoyant (I’ll admit, I’m not too sure on the distinction between the two) and I thought her visions and what she goes through in connection to them made a nice real world parallel to Emma’s magic. (There’s also a scene in here where the male lead says something that I could so perfectly see Killian saying to Emma… I just cannot wait to get to that point!)

Anyway, I hope you will enjoy this romantic thriller with some murder mystery elements. There are some instances of abuse and violence in here though - which I feel like I should mention, since that’s a little darker than my typical style. Most of them are in flashbacks of Emma’s past, or in visions she has of victims, more than in the actual present day plot, still I wanted to make people aware before we got too far.

Please enjoy! (I’d love to hear what you think.)

Chapter One

July 1993

The water at their hideaway always feels so good. She could sink into it until her head slips below the surface and never, ever want to come up for air. It’s cooler, more luxurious than even the rich, satiny sheets on the trundle bed those rare nights she gets to sleep over at Rose’s. Emma Swan’s gangly, 13-year-old limbs slice through the murky water as if the constant humidity and sultry air of Storybrooke, South Carolina can’t penetrate here in their little haven. She knows, of course, logically, that the real world isn’t all that far away. The shaded pond she and Rose discovered two summers ago is just a short trek into the woods at the furthest edge of Rose’s family’s boundless acres. Still, it feels removed enough to bring Emma a sense of peace and contentment she gains nowhere else.

Looking over her shoulder to the large, smooth boulder jutting up out of the pond at the bank where they left their flip flops and cutoff denim shorts, she can see her best friend stretched out with her new book where they had spread their towels on the rock’s surface, just in the wash of warming sunlight that streams through the tree branches overhead. Her friend’s flawlessly creamy pale skin is prone to burning, but at the moment Rose seems willing to take the risk for the benefit of lazing cozily to read as she dries in the sun after taking a quick dip. Shaking her head, Emma plunges back under, happy to stay in the chilly water a bit longer herself. She knew as soon as they’d met outside Rose’s house that afternoon and Rose had held the newest entry in her favorite mystery series in her hand that she wouldn’t be able to resist burrowing into those pages for long.

It’s funny, Emma supposes, but that’s exactly what bonded she and Rose in the first place. They might seem different on the surface, but in the end, neither of them quite fit with everyone else, and so they gravitate to each other, and have ever since Emma first arrived in Storybrooke as an eight-year-old orphan. They’re willing to give each other at least one other person who takes them as they are and with whom they won’t have to pretend. Emma doesn’t care if Rose wants to read quietly and tell her about the stories she’s already finished instead of picking out dresses for the next cotillion class or preening in front of the mirror to practice batting her eyelashes to charm boys or bragging to Emma about which ones she intends to kiss. Her sister Ruby, who shares the same thickly shining, burnished mahogany hair and pretty pink lips but little of her fraternal twin’s calming, gentle personality, does enough of that for the both of them. Their mother, a former debutante and southern belle, delights in the one daughter’s traditional coquettishness, and despairs of the other’s shyness, a true throwback to another time who wants nothing more than to see both daughters marry well and retain their places atop the social ladder. In turn, Rose doesn’t mock Emma for her thick, dark-framed glasses or secondhand clothes, nor does she cringe away from the “fits” that sometimes take hold of her friend, making strange, disturbing scenes Emma can’t understand flash across her mind with such intensity they sometimes knock her off her feet. Emma knows Rose’s mother and sister find her an unsuitable and embarrassing companion for Rose, but she is eternally grateful her friend seems able to see the best in anyone - even a lost girl nobody else wants - and so blithely acts as though she has no idea of the rest of her family’s opinions.

Cringing even while still submerged in the pond’s depths and practically invisible, Emma tries not to think of her unwanted visions. Her strict, hypocritical, and more than a bit deranged foster father claims she’s possessed - and more than once has taken her episodes out on her hide. The man swears he’s beating the devil out of her and putting the fear of God in Satan’s place when he takes the thick leather strap to her shoulders, back and legs until she bleeds, but Emma has already lived long enough in a cruel and unfair world to know that his violence and “discipline” have less to do with parenting and concern for her soul, and more to show for his own twisted mind and overindulgence in the bottle. She wants to hide her spells from him, but when they come on her so abruptly and with such power, they are impossible to miss. She can’t fathom how a person like him was deemed fit to take in and care for a child, but it seems to be her lot, and so she simply grits her teeth and survives.

It’s different when the spells happen around Rose; the slight brunette merely rests a cool, steadying hand on Emma’s forehead or her arm until it passes, helps Emma stand until she feels in control again, listens as she attempts to make sense of whatever she’s seen, and most importantly… believes her. If only she could stay in the huge house Rose’s family calls home. She’d cook, clean, do chores, and stay in the servant’s quarters, Emma isn’t picky. It would still be a far sight safer than the situation she had in the rundown shack with the monster who’d been deemed her caretaker. Barring that, she would honestly rather live wild in these woods and survive off the land. She knew which plants and berries were safe to eat, Graham, her friend and a fellow orphan now happily adopted, had taught her how to fish; it wouldn’t be easy, but she’d get by, and at least no one would lay a hand on her again.

This afternoon, those eerie images she sometimes had seem far away as she splashes up out of the water, trying to arc playfully like a mermaid as she breaks the surface. Drawing in a big gulp of air after staying underwater so long, Emma startles at the sound of teasing laughter, and whirls to see three figures on the bank where she and Rose left their shoes and shorts.

“Well, look here,” calls out a taunting voice that never fails to set Emma’s nerves on edge. “It’s the baby beached librarian and her drowned rat friend!” none other than Emma’s nemesis Killian Jones crows from his vantage point on dry land.

Rose sits up ramrod straight, book still in hand and annoyed scowl on her face at the quiet of their sanctuary being interrupted. She isn’t genuinely angry, though; for all that she and her sister shared little in common, she and her two years older brother are affectionately close. “Shut up, Killy!” she shoots back, throwing in the childhood nickname they all know he hates. “Who asked you to come looking anyway?”

The boy standing next to Killian speaks up next, making Emma scowl just as playfully as Rose had moments before. Graham Hunter might as well be her big brother; he’s the closest thing she’d had to family since her parents were lost in a car crash and she was thrown into the foster care system. Be that as it may, he and Killian Jones are thick as thieves, and he’ll give her a hard time for all he’s worth in while in the presence of his buddy. “We just wanted to swim,” he calls across the water to the two girls, smirking at Emma, now standing in the water with one hip jutting out and hands planted on her waist. “How were we supposed to know you two were infesting it?”

“Ha!” Emma jeers back, the affront plain in her voice; despite the fact that the entire routine is like a practiced girls-versus-boys exchange they’ve all engaged in countless times. There isn’t much else to do for entertainment in their sleepy little one-horse town. “You idiots know this is Rose and I’s hideaway, fair and square!”

“Well, Rose’s anyway,” a third voice cuts in snidely.

The cruel jab reminds Emma once more that she is just a charity case, quite possibly only included in anything at all because of her friend’s kind heart, and causes her gaze to cut sharply to the third member of the boys’ little crew, hanging back slightly in the shadows behind Killian and Graham as he always does. Her green eyes narrow to slits in genuine dislike and suspicion. Where before her animosity was largely for show, when they land on Walsh Ozman it is all too real.

She has never understood why the other two boys - jokers and annoyances though they may be, but good guys when it comes right down to it - hang out with Walsh at all. Where Graham and Killian are much more cut from the same cloth - athletic, outgoing, well-liked and pleasant - Walsh is a splindy, sniveling character, complaining and whining whatever their little trio gets up to. He lives not far from Emma’s foster father’s cabin with his single mother - a bushy-haired redhead who seems strangely overprotective and attached to her only child. Most people give the property a wide berth, except when high schoolers teepee it the whole month of October, and the general town consensus is that Zelena Ozman might be a witch and to steer clear. Still, beyond all of that, Emma might have been able to look past the boy’s circumstances and see him for himself - she of all people knew the gift it was not to be judged by where a person came from - if Walsh hadn’t simply given her “the willies”. Even standing too close to him made the fine hairs at the nape of her neck stand on end - and not in the way that nearness to Killian sometimes did; an altogether much more pleasant tingle, even if she was just as unable to explain one as the other.

“We could just take their things,” Walsh suggests, holding up the threadbare, faded jeans Emma had left on the bank. “Make them walk back in their skivvies.” The wicked smile on his face makes Emma’s stomach turn over sickly.

Something sharp flashes in Jones’ eyes, his nostrils flaring slightly and his head giving a subtle shake of dissent that Emma can see even at the distance she stands away from him. Protectiveness, chivalry, or maybe the honor of a southern gentleman passed down to him through generations of his impressive family line, whatever it is, it sparks to life in his eyes at that moment as he quashes Walsh’s mean-spirited suggestion in no uncertain terms. “That’s my little sister you’re talking about Oz,” he growls, smacking the worn material from the smaller’s boy’s hands, even if the article of clothing isn’t Rose’s at all.

Emma feels her breath rush back into her lungs, though she continues to watch the guys warily for whatever they might do or say next. Before long, they grow bored of standing around and move on, hollering out age old taunts of “Bye, losers” and “Hey, smell ya later” to Emma’s derisive snort and Rose completely ignoring them to flip open her book again.

However, even with the intruders gone, it seems as if the perfect comfort of their retreat has been shattered by the unsettling interruption. Soon, Emma wades to the shore and Rose clambers down from her perch, to dress once more and return to the world outside. For a moment, as she refastens her jeans around her skinny waist, Emma feels a strange prickling along the fine hairs on her arms… like they’re being watched. She jerks around, searching the surrounding trees and brush, but can’t see or hear a thing.

Rose’s small hand takes hers, snapping Emma out of the moment. “What is it?” she whispers, only true caring in her voice. “Did you sense something?”

Emma nods, but can’t give her suspicions voice. Usually her vision are clearer than that - this had just been heavy breathing and like looking at herself and Rose through another person’s eyes, outside her own body.

Rose stooped to grab the little canvas bag she’d bought along with water bottles, towels, and a second book in it. “Hey, don’t worry, okay?” she offers, hopeful and kind as always. “You’ll figure it out. Wanna meet back out here tonight? Secret Sister bonfire?” she winks mischeivously. “I have to get to dinner now. You know how Mama hates it if I’m not washed up and properly attired for the evening meal - or a second late. But we can talk some more then, maybe you’ll remember more and it will be clearer.”

Emma nods gamely. “The stars’ll be beautiful by midnight,” she suggests. “And we’ll definitely have the place all to ourselves.”

“Since we were so rudely interrupted,” Rose chimes in with a giggle and roll of her eyes.

“Shake on it, pinkie swear,” they say together in practiced unison, executing a complex handshake that ends with their pinkies hooked together and wide, matching grins on both their faces.

“Thanks Rose,” Emma whispers sincerely, trying to speak around the lump in her throat as if it’s no big deal. “I’ll be out here as soon as I can sneak away.”

Rose, for her part, wraps her taller, golden-haired friend into a tight, momentary hug. “Hey, we’re Secret Sisters! You can count on me. I’ll see you then!”

They part ways at the edge of the forest, Emma heading to the rundown cabin that serves as her nightmarish version of a home and Rose to the pristine, Jones mansion standing tall over all the surrounding land. Rose looks back over her shoulder with a smile and wave that bolsters Emma, and the memory fades back into the haze of the past…

Eighteen years later….

September 2011

The blaring of the horn as a sports car whizzed by, barely missing the nose of Emma’s beat-up yellow VW where it had begun to edge out into the country intersection jarred her back to the present with a gasp and painful jolt to her chest. Panting for a moment as she gripped the steering wheel, Emma tried to clear her head and calm the pounding of her heart at the near-miss.

‘Get it together,’ she berated herself. It might have seemed like only yesterday as she remembered that sunny afternoon at the swimming hole, but that day had been nearly two decades ago. She was a grown woman, had made a way for herself, fighting tooth and nail for every step forward, and she answered to no one. She had learned to stand up for herself, to control her visions and use them for good, and was a special consultant for the NYPD. But, more than all of that, she had come back to this place to find peace, to lay to rest the ghosts that followed her everywhere else she’d gone in the years between, once and for all. If she expected other to leave the past in the past, she’d first have to manage it herself.

She’d had no way to know as she and Rose parted that afternoon with promises and plans for later that it would be the last time she would ever see her friend. Emma had harbored the pain and the guilt and the unanswered questions ever since. Finally, it was time to meet the gazes of all of those who’d stared at her in suspicion before she’d been packed up and moved away once more, and it was time she found answers. She wasn’t the scared, whipped, mistreated adolescent she had been at 13. What she had lived through then wasn’t her fault, nor was what had happened to Rose that muggy July midnight.

And if she had to return to Storybrooke, South Carolina to lay that burden down… well, it was long past time she did.

Tagging: @captainswanmoviemarathon @teamhook @revanmeetra87 @lassluna @kmomof4 @searchingwardrobes @jennjenn615 @hollyethecurious @stahlop @winterbaby89 @lfh1226-linda @therooksshiningknight @thejollyroger-writer @artistic-writer @resident-of-storybrooke @darkcolinodonorgasm @tiganasummertree @xsajax @spartanguard @laschatzi

#captain swan movie marathon #cs ff #cs au #carolina moon #chapter one #cs mc

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janekfan · 4 years

Text

Stipulations

https://archiveofourown.org/works/26366131/chapters/64217887

(Kind of heavy? Maybe? If you've experienced some of these themes? Or all of them? At once? I just love to project all over these characters soooo...sorry Jon. You must bear the brunt of my emotional ills :D

Basira is an interesting character to me. Like she's been kept in the dark, Jon has lied and been weird and is "eating" people's fears and I get it? But 177, oof. Take your victim blaming elsewhere! Especially considering she's used him for his powers before and is hypocritical when it comes to Daisy. So yeah. Got feels. Here they are all spilled over a page :D )

Weary, the avatar of the Beholding slipped between shadows in the Institute’s dark corridors, lingering at the door behind which were the key to relieving his acute suffering. He didn’t even notice that his trembling fingers were gripping the handle so tightly they ached, or that his face was pressed against the rough surface of the wood until a sharp sound from behind jolted him out of his ravenous longing.

“Jon.”

Basira. Judging from the livid expression on her face, she’d been repeating his name and was not well pleased with what she saw if the hand on her gun was any indication.

“Step. Away.” And the only reason he did, he could was the whisper of fear the Eye could sense, and he was drawn to it like a moth to a flame. “Stop.” Whatever was left of Jon obeyed, his own fear of her very real consequences overriding the desire to takefeedriptearsatiate hunger pangs so deep and ingrained that a part of him he couldn’t remember what it was anymore to not feel starved. Who was he without this need?

Who was he that Basira needed to be afraid of him?

“Ba--”

“Shut up.” He did, with the muted click of teeth and a dry swallow. Without the singular focus of what lay behind the door he felt shaky, weak. Like at any moment his legs would give way and he’d be left here on the floor. It happened sometimes. “What are you doing?” What was he doing? She turned from him. “Nevermind. Come with me.”

“Wh’where?” The fierce glare over her shoulder made him flinch and he followed her without any more questions into his office.

Oh.

“Sit down.” Gratefully. The last time she’d had him stand and, well.

“B’Basira.” He tried again, ashamed of the pleading note that crept into his voice. He wasn’t well. He. He didn’t want to do this but even so, her disgusted disappointment was cutting. He didn’t need to Know to know that she thought him pathetic, that she thought if only he was stronger they wouldn’t have this problem, this inconvenience. This was the only thing he was good for. If he could turn his powers into a tool for them then it proved there was still something human in him, right? Basira was helping him hold onto it, that’s why she asked this of him, because it was helping. From a folder under her arm she pulled a mugshot, sliding it across the desk. Jon didn’t look. He didn’t have to.

“Where is he?” He tried to resist, like she was the one who held the power of compulsion and not him, but he wanted to help. More than anything, he wanted to help fix what he’d done. The headache behind his eyes worsened when the Eye opened, demanding payment he didn’t have to give and dredging up what he needed to Know like drawing water from a depthless well. Static rose in a tide, angry, loud, greedy and he didn’t, there wasn’t enough left, like wringing blood from a stone.

Feed your god, or your god will feed on you.

Basira’s lead pooled on his tongue and fell from his lips and it tasted like ash and ink as the static finally overwhelmed him, rising in a wave, deafening, roaring, punishing him for daring to demand Knowledge for free.

Later. Minutes. Days. Weeks. Years later Jon woke to the rasp of a statement slipping under his door and he descended on it like a vulture, ugly and clawing, weeping with this taste of relief, no matter how small. He read it again and again, the metaphysical equivalent of licking his plate clean and when the static faded and the green was gone from his eyes, Jon jerked back to awareness with a sharp gasp, nauseated with dread realization. Curling up right where he was, Jon covered his face in both hands, stifling his noise and hiding his tears even though no one was left but him.

Hollow in his very bones, like a bird, Jon wished more than anything to fly away from this prison, to somewhere, anywhere, that did not hurt. He wandered familiar halls as an apparition of hunger, subsisting on sips of air and the dust of infinite statements and it felt like punishment. To be kept alive by the Beholding even as it killed him letter by word by sentence by paragraph by--

The tea kettle. Cold. Like him. Frozen and shivering and missing so badly his heart throbbed painfully in his narrow chest. Jon ended up here more often than he wanted to admit. It was a comfort. Security. The last remnant of someone who tolerated him, proof someone had once known him enough to care for him.

Someone else he’d thrown away.

Despite their strained relationship, he was so thankful he still had Basira, that she hadn’t left him in this place alone, even though he knew she couldn’t leave because of him. But he’d always been selfish; there was no reason would that change now. But he could make it up to her. If he was good, if he was helpful, she would reward him and that was more kindness than he deserved. Because he wasn’t supposed to have statements anymore. He was beating this “addiction” she called it. If he could be strong, she wouldn’t have to keep them under lock and key and she knew he wasn’t. He was lucky she was there to do this for him. To protect him when everyone else had gone.

On the days where he couldn’t make it to the tea kettle, Jon lay as still as possible in his office, the migraine caused by demands he didn’t have the resources to spend and spent anyway so bad it took up all the space he had left for worrying about other things. On those days, the hunger was almost quiet, body too full of aches for any one part of him to direct his attention.

Then he lost his ribs. No. Not lost. He had one. Gave the other away. For Daisy. For Basira and he walked into the earth with every intention of rescuing a very important person. The Buried, the Choke, took all the hungry away and replaced it with fear and when he found Daisy and hooked their fingers together in the damp filth of this place, this eternal coffin unending, he never let go.

And still he failed her.

Until he was saved by the familiar hum and hiss of the tape recorders burrowed into his ears and refused to be ignored and they walked out.

Mostly whole.

Daisy. His salvation. His chance to prove he could still be good, passed triumphantly into Basira’s waiting arms. Despite himself, Jon knew he was beaming as much as he still could, hoping for a morsel of praise, the yearning for it almost as debilitating as the emptiness inside him. There was nothing, as he knew there would be, as Basira whisked Daisy away for medical attention and assessment which of course, was a much higher priority than soothing the ego of a monster. The room reeked of the Lonely, made his skin itch and his blood burn because he recognized a familiarity, had laid unconscious claim to it as an assistant. He was the Archivist. It was his job to protect his assistants and though he’d done a piss poor job of it thus far, it didn’t stop him from wanting to unleash his latent power on such a brazen entity that dared touch what was his. He would very much enjoy taking it apart when the time came.

Shaking his head to clear it of these new and aggressive thoughts, Jon stumbled away to clean up, ready to retreat into his sanctuary and rest for a little while until he could be useful again.

It was no longer the kettle he visited. It was the door.

Locked.

Barred.

Basira had forgotten him in favor of Daisy. Of course, she needed her. And didn’t need him for leads and without that slim hope he might get a statement out of it, he found himself going a bit mad with hunger. He Knew where they were in the building, none of them could leave it for long, and the last ounces of his dwindling control were funneled into stopping himself begging for her help.

Basira didn’t, she wouldn’t like that.

Calm. Quiet. Useful. Out of the way. He could be those things. She liked those things.

Jon couldn’t leave the door. Not now when the proximity quelled the myriad whispers overlapping in his mind like a thousand trains of thought. If he listened hard enough, curled up close enough, he could hear them tucked away in their folders and envelopes nestled in boxes, rows of boxes, so many boxes he could eat and eat until, until maybe--

“What are you doing?” With sore, heavy eyes Jon looked up into Basira’s harsh and unforgiving stare and wished for a glimpse of understanding or kindness. “What have you done to your hands?” His hands? It wasn’t him examining his torn up fingers, skin slowly knitting back together, it wasn’t him feeling the twinges of splinters dug in under his broken nails or noticing the smears of red, ruby, rust blood adorning the door like an animal tried to claw their way out. But it was him. Wasn’t it? Trying to claw his way in.

And he didn’t remember doing it.

“I...I, I d’d’dunno.”

“You “dunno?”” She didn’t believe him. And why would she when all he’d done is lie. Like a cat, he was lifted by the bunched up collar at the back of his neck, pushed, stumbling, down the corridors and held at arm's length. Even so, the warmth from her hand, the electric shock her touch sent racing down his spine was heady and distracting. He hadn’t been touched in so long and far too soon it was over as she shoved him into his chair in his office in his wing in his cage of his own making before backing away and locking the door behind her.

Quiet, quiet, quiet.

If he was quiet she would let him out. He just needed to be patient. That’s all. He was selfish, taking time away from Daisy when she needed it most. Basira did the right thing, protected him from himself. He was lucky to have someone who cared like that, to make the hardest decisions for him and so sorry that he kept causing her problems.

He curled beneath his desk, the small space comforting and contained, keeping all his pieces together as he lost hold of them one by one. So tired, so sick, he tried to sleep and it just wouldn’t come where he was huddled around the aching empty abyss in his body. It was all he could think about, a statement, just one. Please. Anything, a taste. Pacing like a caged tiger when he had a rare burst of frenetic energy, laying on the floor of his office when he collapsed, tugging listlessly at the handle of the door. Crying, crying, crying in his hiding spot but always silent. It wouldn’t do to be heard. Unseen and not heard. That was the best way. And then she would let him out.

She always let him out.

#TMA #The magnus Archives #Jon sims #basira hussain #Daisy Tonner #Jon and Daisy are friends #Bad mental health #PTSD #mental instability #flashbacks #police brutally #starvation #self harm #scratching #manipulati

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signs-of-the-moon · 3 years

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Moon Rise: Chapter 50

"Look, they've come back!" Lightpaw exclaimed as Whitestar and the rest of her patrol made their way into Grassclan's camp. At the young apprentice's call, the rest of the clan had begun to gather around, eager to hear news of what came from the meeting with Treeclan.

"Well? What did Blazestar have to say for himself?" Chicorynose asked, tail wagging with anxiety.

"We are to settle this war the day after tomorrow," Whitestar responded, body tense. Swiftcloud flanked one of her sides and could feel the leader's dread through her fur. It was almost overwhelming. If her clanmates were not pressed so closely around them, Swiftcloud would have withdrawn to calm herself.

"Which means we only have a short time to prepare," Chicorynose murmured, eyes darkening.

Whitestar nodded, looking at each of her warriors as she spoke. "For the rest of the day, up until sundown tomorrow, I want every able bodied cat to train. We must ensure our skills are sharp so that we may claim our victory."

And so that we don't lose any more warriors, Swiftcloud added in her mind, figuring the same thought might be running through Whitestar's. She gave the leader a glance, able to tell her prediction to be true by the turmoil on the other molly's siamese face.

"I'll send everyone out, then." Chicorynose turned, already prepared to order partners and apprentices to team up and get to work.

Swiftcloud and the others on her patrol had been dismissed from training for the evening. They'd be on a long journey, and Whitestar knew all too well the dread it had caused them all. Swiftcloud was grateful for the break, although she didn't allow her time to be wasted. She wanted her skills as sharp as the rest of the clan's, especially after being unconscious for three days.

Across the camp, Swiftcloud spotted one of her mates laying beside the fresh-kill pile. Shadowfang looked to be at peace, having a rest after being out at The Dip battle training with Quailbelly and Thornpaw. Swiftcloud almost felt bad to disturb him. But a mischievous idea crossed through her mind. One that she knew she couldn't pass up.

"Hey, Shadowfang?" she meowed, drawing her mate's attention as she padded over to him.

Shadowfang glanced up at Swiftcloud, gnawing on the leftovers from his dinner. He gave his lips a satisfied smack, then sat up straight to acknowledge the white and black patched she-cat. "Yeah?"

Swiftcloud smiled innocently, wiggling her nubby tail. Before Shadowfang could comment on her odd behavior, she threw herself onto him, mouthing at his ear and tugging on it playfully. She pushed with all of her strength, trying to flatten the him to the ground. Shadowfang squirmed beneath her, swinging his head side to side in an attempt to throw her off his back.

"Hey, quit it!" Shadowfang hissed, laughter in his voice. He rolled over a little, batting at Swiftcloud's whiskers. Swiftcloud growled at him playfully, leading to her being squashed by the larger cat's flank. Swiftcloud squealed, wiggling from beneath the black tom. She jumped up momentarily, allowing Shadowfang to spring to his paws. He turned, pouncing onto his mate so her could nibble on her shoulder, giving her ear a cuff. "Take that!"

"Foolish Shadowclan cat, I'll make crowfood of you!" Swiftcloud yowled dramatically.

"Foolish, am I?" Shadowfang played along. "That is where you're wrong. You'll never defeat me, Swiftstar. For I, Shadowstar, am the most powerful clan leader in the world!"

"We'll see about that!" Swiftcloud retorted, rolling onto her back. She kicked up at Shadowfang's underbelly, with claws sheathed, trying hard to throw him off of her. Shadowfang continued to nibble on her shoulder and neck, earning thrill filled squeals from the patched molly. With one more effort filled kick, Swiftcloud managed to move Shadowfang from on top of her. She scrambled to get paws, darting away from the tom with a taunt. Shadowfang growled playfully, crouching to the floor. Her pelted after his mate a heartbeat later, gaining on her with ease. He pounced once more, tussling with her on the grassy floor. Squeaks and trills of laughter floated in the air between them as they rolled, their witty banter growing more and more dramatic. It felt good to play around with Shadowfang again like this. It reminded Swiftcloud of one of the reasons why she'd fallen in love with him. She enjoyed his playful spirit. Shadowfang never failed to make feel young and free. And though Swiftcloud was already both of these things, she knew that she'd truly felt this way whenever Shadowfang was around. To her, Shadowfang was joy; he was an adventure waiting to happen and a life full of experience. To Swiftcloud, Shadowfang was home.

"What in the name of the earth and stars are you two up to?" A voice called out to the playful mates, gaining both of their attention. Swiftcloud glanced at the cat who had spoken them, a bright smile blooming on her muzzle.

"Play fighting!" She chriped. "Care to join us, Misty?" She invited.

Mistyleaf shook her head, rolling her eyes playfully. "Silly furballs," she mewed as he booped Swiftcloud's nose, cuffing Shadowfang over the ear when he sat up. "How about we share tongues instead? Then you can tell Shadowfang and I all about your visit to Treeclan," Mistyleaf proposed.

Swiftcloud perked up the idea, agreeing without a second thought. The mates padded over to the edge of the clearing, entangling themselves with one another while they talked and groomed. During their chat, Swiftcloud's thoughts would wander. She realized while Shadowfang represented a life of freedom and fun, Mistyleaf stood for comfort. The silver molly was safety, trustworthiness, and softness. She was the calmness in the calamity. The voice of reason. To Swiftcloud, Mistyleaf was sanctuary. And together, both her and Shadowfang were the pure definition of love. Swiftcloud knew she could never adore any other cats more.

The moon soon climbed to its peak in the sky, summoning hard working warriors home, and putting them to sleep. Swiftcloud, Shadowfang and Mistyleaf rose from their resting place padding into the warriors' den. They settled back down together in their shared nest, passing on wishes of good rest and sweet dreams before closing their eyes until morning light.

When dawn graced the clearing the following day, Chicorynose and Tigerfang were all too eager to rouse everyone in the clan from their collective slumber.

"Up, up, up! Let's get out there and work our tails off. We only have a short time left before the great battle!" Chicorynose caterwauled, earning a collection of groans. "I've already taken the liberty of gathering the apprentices in the clearing. Go and grab your 'Paws and partners, let's head out."

"I'll see you two later," Shadowfang said to the mollies in his nest. He stood up, giving his shoulder a few licks. "I'm gonna take Thornpaw and Lightpaw out to the Mountainclan border today, with Frostfeather and Pansypaw. Actually-- Swiftcloud, do you wanna come along with your apprentice?"

"No thanks, I already have plans to bring Tulippaw and Tabitha to The Dip today," Swiftcloud replied, standing with a stretch. Shadowfang shrugged, muttering out a "fair enough" before he padding out of the den.

Swiftcloud bid him an extra farewell, turning to groom Mistyleaf.

Mistyleaf purred gratefully, nudging Swiftcloud with her muzzle. "You should go too. And I've got to help Goldensong prepare herbs."

Swiftcloud whined slightly but ultimately agreed. She gave Mistyleaf one last lick on the cheek before heading out of the warriors' den, ready to get the day started. A chilly wind ruffled her short fur as she emerged into the open. Her pawpads tingled from the cold ground beneath them, making her take careful steps as she made her way over to her apprentices.

Tulippaw trilled as Swiftcloud approached, rushing forward to tuck her head under her mentor's chin.

"I missed you!" She practically yowled, a wetness pooling at the edges of her eyes as she pulled away to look at Swiftcloud. Swiftcloud purred, licking the younger molly between the ears. She was well aware that Tulippaw had caught wind of the lie Snowfrost told. That Swiftcloud might not last the next quarter moon. Tulippaw had already lost one mentor. Though they were not close, Ambereye's death had still effected her. Starclan only knew how broken Tulippaw would become if anything ever happened to Swiftcloud. Luckily, Swiftcloud had no plans on dying any time soon. She was healthy again, and strong. She was determined to prove that to the brown and white she-cat. To give her the reassurance she needed.

"Alright, 'Paws, let's head out," Chicorynose meowed as she padded over to the apprentices. She turned, noticing the other she-cat besides the group. "Oh Swiftcloud! Are you tagging along?"

"I was actually planning on taking the apprentices myself today," she mewed in response. It has been a while since she had gotten to train Tulippaw. And she hadn't gotten the chance to assess Tabitha's skills just yet.

"Oh really? Where were you planning to go?"

"The Dip," Swiftcloud explained her idea for the day. She was willing to go into greater detail, if it meant she could convince Chicorynose to let her have the apprentices.

"What a coincidence! That's where I had planned to take them. How about we all go together then?" Chicorynose proposed. Swiftcloud thought about it for a heartbeat, agreeing to the plan rather quickly. It had been some moons since she'd been out training with her own mentor. And though she had graduated from her apprentice training, she still appreciated any lessons Chicorynose would still give. Tulippaw and Tabitha seemed excited by the plan, racing over to the bramble tunnel ahead of the warriors. Swiftcloud and Chicorynose chased after them, rushing to keep up as they made their way across the meadow. The wind grew more bitter as they hurried along, making Swiftcloud pray for the fresh warmth of Newleaf to grace the Land's Star sooner rather than later.

Eventually, the Dip came into their line of sight. It welcomed the Grassclan cats to its sandy center as they made their way down it's steep slopes. The walls of The Dip provided some shelter from the wind as the four mollies settled within the heart of it. Swiftcloud was grateful for the protection and knew she'd feel warmer just as soon as they would begin training.

"You're in charge today, Swiftcloud. Let's see what kind of training regimen you've got set up for these two hyperactive apprentices," Chicorynose commented.

Swiftcloud nodded, looking at each young cat in turn. She thought for a moment about the best course of action before speaking; "Tulippaw, you and Chicorynose will spar first. Afterwards, I'll be assessing Tabitha's skills. Then the two of you will practice some advanced techniques together, while Chicorynose and I train."

"Awesome!!" Tulippaw perked up at the chance to show off her skills. Tabitha and Swiftcloud shuffled off to the sidelines, keeping away from all the action that was about to unfold. Swiftcloud watched Chicorynose pad across the ditch, turning tail to face her opponent. Tulippaw stepped close to the center, eyes narrowed to focus on the other cat in front of her.

"Alright, Tulip, give me everything you've got." The deputy challenged.

Instantly Tulippaw dropped into a crouch, flexing her claws in excitement. Chicorynose mirrored her stance, stalking the apprentice around the base of The Dip, ready to pounce or defend at any given moment. Tulippaw watched her aunt carefully, eyeing her legs specifically. Chicorynose took notice and dropped down to protect herself, probably thinking she'd already bested the warrior in training.

Be careful of your line of sight; never give away your target with your glance, Swiftcloud was prepared to say, waiting for the apprentice to try and sweep her faux enemy's feet from under her.

But the attack never came. Instead, Tulippaw leaped without warning, springing onto Chicorynose's back. She scraped her paws against the older molly's flanks with sheathed claws, yowling out a battle cry. She'd managed to throw Chicorynose off her guard.

Well done.

Chicorynose fought to get Tulippaw off her back, gaining the upper paw for half a heartbeat when Tulippaw willing let her go. But as the brown and white molly's front paws touched the ground, she turned, kicking her back legs out. This pushed Chicorynose forward, knocking off her balance. She struggled to keep herself from toppling, widening her stance to catch herself. Tulippaw turned once more to smirk.

"Not bad," Chicorynose praised. Without another word she surged forward, swiping at Tulippaw's face. She changed paws every few heartbeats in an attempt to distract the apprentice. Tulippaw did her best to dodge the blows, getting hit once or twice. Though she managed to maneuver or block most of them. But Swiftcloud knew Chicorynose didn't really care whether Tulippaw took damage from her attack. What she was really after was backing her opponent into a corner. It was a technique Swiftcloud knew well, having been subjected to it often during her own apprentice training.

Tulippaw took a pace away each time Chicorynose swiped. Eventually, she ended up with her rear pinned again The Dip's wall. Chicorynose took this oppurtunity to pounce, slamming her body into Tulippaw's. Tulippaw hit the wall with a thud, sliding against it as she collapsed on the floor. She wasn't injured-Chicorynose would never have hit Tulippaw that hard-but the impact was enough to throw her off her paws. The deputy then set herself upon the younger she-cat, effectively pinning her. After struggling to get out of her aunt's grip, Tulippaw finally went limp in defeat.

"Great try," Swiftcloud purred as Chicorynose let Tulippaw sit up. She padded over to her apprentice, nubby tail held high. "Yknow you almost had her for a heartbeat. But you weren't paying much attention to your surroundings. A Grassclan warrior must always be aware of what's going on around them, from the ground to the sky. Many predators and cats will try to take advantage of you by attacking from unexpected directions. Or by tricking you into a spot you can't escape from. You have to always be guarded, and clever. Other than that, your blows hit hard, which is good, and your fighting stance is almost flawless. I'm very proud of your progress. You're going to be great tomorrow."

Tulippaw beamed, her glee as bright as the Greenleaf sun. She stood to shake some dust from her pelt, then gave a little bounce.

"Do you think I'll make a good warrior someday?" She asked hopefully.

"'Good?' No." Swiftcloud smirked. "I bet you're going to be one of the greatest warriors Grassclan's ever known. With enough training you'll end up being the best Fighter. If that's the job you choose to have. And you're already a very good hunter!"

Tulippaw giggled, giving her mentor a lick on the shoulder respectfully.

Swiftcloud turned. "Alright, Tabitha, it's your turn now. Let's see what Chicorynose has taught you recently."

"Really?" Tabitha seemed unsure. "But I thought I didn't have to fight in the battle tomorrow?"

"Of course you don't. But it's always good to test your skills. Even without your claws, you need to know how to defend yourself. If not for anyone else's sake, then for the kits and queens."

"For the kits and queens... Alright, I'll give it a try." Tabitha padded to the middle of The Dip, trading places with Tulippaw. She didn't seem nervous, despite previous hesitation. But she certainly seemed uncomfortable. Tulippaw wrapped her tail around Tabitha's briefly, giving it a reassuring shake before she moved to settle at the edge of The Dip besides Chicorynose.

Chicorynose lifted a forepaw to wrap around the apprentice's neck, pulling her close to her fluffy chest. With her free paw, she rubbed her niece's head playfully, earning yowls of protest as the young cat struggled to get away.

Swiftcloud chuckled seeing the two of them play, directing her attention back onto Tabitha soon after. She decided she would be taking it easy on the pregnant apprentice. But not enough to where she would be unable to learn. And certainly not to a point where Tulippaw may assume the queen was being coddled.

"Ready?" Swiftcloud checked as she watched the plump queen drop into a fighting stance.

Tabitha nodded curtly. "Whenever you are."

Swiftcloud dashed off from her spot immediately as the challenge began, running around Tabitha, trying to use her weight against her. Her growing belly made her slow, which granted Swiftcloud a bit of an advantage. Tabitha swung around to keep up, kicking out a back leg in order to defend herself. She managed to land a hit, shoving Swiftcloud away by a mouse-length. Then she turned like a snake, baring her fangs as if to warn her enemy of her sharp bite.

Swiftcloud rushed ahead without hesitation, throwing a front paw blow at the plump brown and white tabby. Tabitha caught Swiftcloud's paw in her mouth, biting down on it and pulling her second mentor closer to herself. Swiftcloud let out an astonished shriek, finding herself crushed beneath Tabitha's weight as she was pulled closer to her body. Swiftcloud swung wildly beneath the apprentice, hitting her with her paws in a mock scratch. Tabitha's heft pressed her opponent harder against the earth, her teeth fastening themselves into Swiftcloud's scruff. When the warrior had tired herself out, the training queen pulled her out from under herself, throwing the patched molly across The Dip with little effort. Swiftcloud narrowly avoided hitting the opposite wall, skidding to a half just a whisker-length in front of it. She smirked over at Tabitha, panting to catch her breath.

"You're a fast learner," she remarked, recalling how little time the apprentice queen had been part of the clan.

Tabitha lifted her head proudly. "With two of the clan's best warriors as my mentors, it's easy for me to learn."

"I think that's enough sparring for you two today," Chicorynose meowed, stepping forward. "Why don't you go practice some moves with Tulippaw now, Tabitha? I think my old apprentice may need a refresher course in the meantime."

Swiftcloud perked at the deputy's comment, an excited smile blooming on her muzzle. She did feel a little embarrassed, being beaten by a cat who'd only been training for a moon. She was more than happy to take on another lesson by her beloved mother figure. "Yeah!"

Tabitha and Chicorynose traded off, ready to face their new opponents without apprehension. Swiftcloud immediately dropped into a stance, bracing herself for whatever the deputy may throw at her.

The four mollies trained until the sun began to dip towards the horizon. Their bodies ached from a successful day of working by the time they climbed from the confines of the Dip. Swiftcloud was confident that the group was prepared for what tomorrow's battle may bring. But for the time being, all she would let herself focus on was getting home and resting. Worrying about the war's end could wait for her until sunrise.

#warrior cats #wcs #warrior cats ocs #Signs of the Moon #Signs of the Moon: Moon Rise #Moon Rise #chapter 50

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