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wileys-russo · 7 months

Note

can i request just a whole bunch of domestic fluff with lessi :')) i've been in a very bad mood recently and i need a bit of a writers hug

sending you a proper hug babes 🫶

time of day II a.russo

getting home from work in the evenings was always a time you cherished and craved, knowing what you were returning to or more so who you were returning to.

you'd trudge up the stairs to the flat you shared with your girlfriend, mumbling in annoyance to yourself about how the elevator was still broken, flashing a forced but polite smile to your neighbors as you passed by them, elbows brushing uncomfortably in the narrow staircase.

you don't even need to bother with fumbling around for your keys, alessia knows your schedule far too well. she's already waiting in the doorway, arms crossed and a welcoming smile on her face, a devilish glint of adoration in her bright blue eyes.

she waits till you reach the top of the stairs, urging you to hurry with a wordless gaze. once you're within her reach her fists ball your top and yank you inside, expertly slamming the door closed with her foot. her lips attach to yours hungrily, physically showing you how much she missed you, words are never needed.

warm air meets your skin as the material of your shirt effortlessly leaves your back, tossed over the blondes shoulder as you let out a laugh at her eagerness, mumbling a hello as you pepper her face with kisses.

her calloused but soft hands cup your cheeks as she pulls you even closer, communicating nothing but love, passion and adoration as she kisses you so hard it steals the breath from your lungs, thumb tracing the curve of your jaw.

the strikers teeth clamp down on your bottom lip as her eyes lock with yours, and she shoots you that ever alluring smile, tugging at your lip and letting it go with a gentle pop.

toned tanned arms locking around your neck she presses her mouth back to yours, pulling you towards the bedroom but never breaking the contact of her skin against you, the two of you mumbling tender i love you's as you fumble your way down the hall.

your left elbow always knocks the door frame as alessia pulls you into the bedroom you both share, often stumbling given her own clumsiness and pulling you down with her as she falls backwards onto the bed.

tugging off her own top it quickly leaves her body, your legs sitting either side of her hips as the two of you lay there, limbs intertwined and skin burning as you feverishly explore one another's bodies.

sometimes it leads to more, a sweaty boisterous clash of tongues and lips. sometimes it just stays simple, the two of you more then content to just press up against one another in bed. kisses becoming a little less hasty, quietly whispering about your days in between lovesick giggles, arguing over whose turn it was to cook dinner when you both knew you'd just end up ordering in.

for alessia, she adores the nights she gets home from training late, body aching from a grueling double session. as she tiredly pads inside you've already got dinner waiting, greeting her with a gentle kiss and running your hands through her hair.

the two of you eat in a comfortable silence exchanging mild pleasantries but really you know she's too tired to talk, never pressing her for much more than a few words. your legs press up beside one another as you sit side by side at the island bench, cutlery scraping against dishes as you slide the last of your food toward the striker, knowing how hard she's worked and she'll kiss your cheek gratefully as you stand to start clearing.

shooing her away she insists she can help you clean up afterward and you of course stubbornly refuse, playfully telling her she smells as she'll swat your bum for the comment, stealing another kiss and disappearing to shower.

afterward you'll both spend a half hour trying to find something to watch before just settling on something you've seen before, the comfort of knowing you won't be disappointed taking priority over exploring anything new.

as the movie begins you take up her usual position of the big spoon, knowing when she's tired she loves to be fussed over, sitting down sideways on the sofa as alessia lays her taller body between your legs, her head resting on your stomach as you card your fingers through her hair.

though soon enough she'll grow tired of the movie and your own attention wanders as her fingertips trail along your thighs. you'll warn you to stop and move her hand, but she never listens, why would she when she already knows what's to come?

turning to lay on her stomach she'll carefully hover herself over you, placing gentle kisses along your jawline and down the column of your throat, the two places on your body that alessia knows will make you melt like butter.

the movie forgotten a feverishly rushed kiss will always ensue, cold hands touch hot skin as your cheeks flush and butterflies build up in your stomach, the blonde knows your body like the back of her hand, and knew every little spot to touch or kiss to drive you mad.

but your girlfriend always leaves you wanting more, the two of you love to tease and despite her building exhaustion tonight is no exception.

she'll tangle her hands in your hair pulling you closer to her as her warm breathe haunts your lips. she'll whisper things in your ear knowing exactly what to say and how it makes you feel, recognizing each hitch of your breathe or slight jolt of your hips as victory after victory.

but then she'll just stop, climbing off of you and making her way to the kitchen, leaving you flushed with an ache deep in the pit of your stomach. but you've learnt this routine, and you know exactly how to get her back, how she wants you to respond and behave.

and so you follow her into the kitchen where she'll be staring out the window, watching the dwindling colours of the sunset as dusk fast approaches, sipping on either wine, coffee or tea depending on the season.

making your way over you'll take whatever it is out of her hand and give her a challenging look which she meets with a tilt of her head and a charming smile. your eyes will meet and stayed locked till someone breaks, you're not ashamed to say usually it's you.

the two of you dance around one another's needs, patiently awaiting someone else to give in first, feather light touches on one anothers bodys as your fingers intertwine, alessia often pressing soft kisses to the back of your hand as her eyes never leave yours.

unable to hold out any longer you'll smash your lips to hers, arms wrapping around her torso, pressing her against the counter.

she'll simply smile against your lips knowing she's gotten under your skin as her arms snake around your waist, fingers gripping your hips like you might disappear at a moments notice. your hands drop down her bum and squeeze, smirking happily as she moans.

but then you'll wordlessly walk away, taking the win for the moment and continuing the little game you two play, hearing her footsteps thunder behind you as she chases you toward the bedroom.

your most favorite time of day though are mornings with your blonde lover. you're usually the one to wake up first but you rarely wake alessia up at the same time, the girl was hardly a morning person and you knew she relished in any extra moments of sleep she was rewarded.

she always looks so at peace, eyes closed and not a single wrinkle or crease in her striking features. mouth turned down into a cute little frown, stress free and completely serene as her chest rises gently up and down, and some part of her is usually intertwined with you.

if its her arm draped over your torso, her hand tucked up your top, strong leg curled over your thigh, the italian can't sleep without some of her skin pressed against yours and you relish in the intimate touch.

once you were done staring at her like a lovesick puppy, you'd carefully untangle your body from hers, pausing as she seems to stir but immediately settles again with a sigh.

replacing yourself with a pillow you'd leave the bedroom and head for the kitchen. it was crucial for you to start your day off with at least one cup of coffee, the familiar dull buzz of caffeine key to starting you up and keeping you going.

if it was her day off and she had no commitments there wasn't a chance alessia would get up willingly before at least ten.

so you took this time to sit on the balcony of your flat, just you, your coffee and your thoughts. gingerly sipping the scalding hot drink you'd sit quietly, somewhat comforted by the white noise of the traffic below you.

a cup or two having warmed and woken you up, the sun now high in the sky meaning the day had begun to slip away you'd head back inside. making your girlfriend an iced coffee as you knew she preferred, you made your way quietly back into the bedroom.

placing the glass on her bedside table you smiled as her eyes slowly fluttered open and she let out a small yawn. mumbling something about bed and a cuddle she'd pull you back in with her, face burying in your neck as her lips gently kiss the sensitive skin and her tussled blonde hair tickles your chin.

smiling in contentment you'd wrap your arms around her usually bare torso, pulling her close as your body heat radiated against one another and you flourished in the familiar embrace.

slowly lifting her head from your shoulder she'd tell you good morning in her adorably raspy voice and kiss your lips softly, the problem of morning breathe no longer a prominent issue as you were so used to one another.

if neither of you had to be up for any reason, it was wrapped up in each other's arms you'd stay for as long as possible. sometimes talking and laughing, sometimes just enjoying one another in silence.

but no matter what you did lying in bed next to alessia was the place you felt safest.

weekend evenings were always an interesting part of your week. after usually being out all day either together and exploring, or watching her play from the stands cheering on proudly. there was nothing you enjoyed more than coming home and being able to just collapse into your bed together, politely batting away invitations of dinners or drinks with her teammates or friends.

you had your usual pre bedtime routine to attend to of course. but due to both your competitive natures, it wasn't just an ordinary routine.

having one of your phones set as a timer it was always a race to see who could get ready the fastest, and cut the least amount of corners. you'd always challenge one another to some sort of silly bet, tonight it was the loser having to give the winner a massage, so really either way you both were winners in the end.

due to your inability to undress quickly without tripping or falling over at least three times it was usually alessia who'd take the win. but the rare occasions you beat her, those were your favourite moments, even if sometimes she let them happen just to see the cute little smile of victory tug on your lips.

there was nothing wrong with giving your girlfriend a massage, you'd often help her out after training either with your hands or her massage gun, the blonde most times falling asleep as you kneaded at the tension in her back and shoulders.

but alessia's massages, well they could sometimes lead to a little something extra afterwards.

laying in bed knowing you'd won you'd watch on with a grin as your girlfriend would walk into the room, shaking her head with a smile knowing she'd lost.

stopping the timer she'd sigh playfully and gesture that you to roll over, straddling your bare back with toned tanned legs placed either side of your hips, pressing a few kisses to the back of your neck.

it would all start off innocently, her hands working wonders to relieve the knots and kinks deep within the tissue of your shoulders. but soon she'd grow bored, and boredom wasn't a word your girlfriend liked to use much in her vocabulary.

leaning down she'd press her chest into your back, and your eyes would close in bliss as her lips attached to your jawline.

moving your head to the side with her fingers she fixated her attention to your neck, knowing exactly where to kiss and what to do to make your body writhe and quiver underneath her.

eventually you couldn't take the teasing anymore, nudging her as you turned over onto your back and pulled her mouth to meet yours. you couldn't help but smile into the kiss as your body sang at the sensation, a bad habit you’d had since forever that admittedly drove alessia crazy.

some nights the kisses would lead to a more physical and passionate ending, but most times you both just savored the intimate relationship of trust you'd built together.

you'd stay up till sometimes as late as three in the morning talking about nothing but laughing at everything, hands tangled in hair as your smiles lit up the dark room around you.

alessia was your happiness and your home and you didn't plan on letting her go anytime soon, and you loved her endlessly at each and every time of day.

#alessia russo #alessia russo x reader #woso x reader #engwnt #woso blurbs #woso imagine #woso #woso fanfics

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anlian-aishang · 5 months

Note

Hello, could I please request a Captain Levi X reader fic where he comforts a sick and injured reader please? Canonverse of course. I love your writing btw :)

Thank you so much for the request! I hope you enjoy, dear anon <3

Tags: levi x reader, fluff, canonverse, mutual pining, caretaking, broken bones + blood mention, reader is physically supported, platonic undressing/nudity, fem!reader Word count: 5800

Levi could not shake the feeling: had he been there, you never would have wound up like this. With that train of thought came a crash of regret, his one vow being to live without it. He could not turn back time and prevent the accident from happening, but there was one thing he could do to alleviate its aftermath.

Fresh off the return from the expedition, he had not even changed out of his uniform yet, Levi made straight for Hange’s office. “Put me in the infirmary tonight.”

Hange rolled their eyes and teased, “How about a hello or a please first, huh?”

“Hi, and please.”

Hange grinned, internally laughing for having expected anything more. “You got any good reason? Hurt or something?”

They already knew the answer to that. His grey shirt was just as ironed as it was before setting off beyond the walls. Not one wrinkle in his canvas coat. No rips in his cape. Certainly not injured.

“Or did you just want an easy shift?”

They both knew: only one person had ended up in the infirmary. They both knew: that one person was you. In a wordless, imbalanced eye contact, Hange communicated their knowledge of the nature behind his rare request. Levi communicated that if they uttered one word about it, they too would end up on the list of casualties.

“Yeah,” Levi spoke flatly, “that’s it.”

The section commander dipped their quill pen fresh, crossed out Nanaba’s name and replaced the assignment with his. “Consider it done, but you owe me!”

Levi merely scowled and promptly turned on his heel. Stewing in irritation yet also simmering in thought of how to repay them. Maybe some assistance with a titan capture, maybe just saving their ass again as he had countless times before.

With the captain’s back turned, Hange hollered after him, “You would save yourself a lot of time and trouble if you just asked them out, you know, like a normal person!”

But Levi had already shut the door and started down your way. Gritting his teeth, by subduing a smacking, he considered the two of them even again.

// // //

Though he had sped down the hallway, Levi dampened his pace as he approached the infirmary. At your door, a deep breath as his fingers delicately inched along the handle, just enough leverage to let himself in as quietly as possible.

Golden hour seared the white walls and placed a spotlight on the lone patient bundled in bed. Your lips were trembling. Your breaths were uneven. Your body was tired, bogged down by stiff casts and bandages. Levi felt his throat instinctively tighten. Fists clenched at his sides, aching to do something - anything - for you. To brush the strand of hair from your face, to straighten you from the entanglement of your sheets, but he was woefully aware that any movement carried the potential to wake you, and with the look on your face - he determined that unconsciousness was not a bad place for you to be.

Levi shuffled his boots across the wooden floor, cautious of how creaky the panels could be. Slowly, he lowered himself to a seat on the bed across from yours, nothing but a nightstand and temptation between. With a sigh, he tilted his head back against the wall and closed his eyes, searching for ironic escape from the scene he had begged to be placed in, but instead - all he could picture was what must have happened to you out there. How had you ended up injured but no one else? Where were your comrades? Your squad leader? Where was he?

“Alone out there,” Levi pitied. The one who was always thinking of others - in their time of need - no one showed up for them. Again, Levi released an exasperated sigh. He was well familiar with how cruel the world could be. Every now and then, it still managed to surprise him. In your case, he supposed.

Come to think of it, the infirmary itself seemed in remarkably poor condition. Levi swiped his finger along the bedframe and scoffed at the dust that flew from his touch. At the allergen, he sniffed slightly, and through that noticed the musk in the air. Levi glared out the window and into the empty courtyard. A lovely spring evening you were both missing: budding trees, bloomed flowers… Flowers.

Levi surveyed your state, bargaining within himself for a handful of seconds. With no sign of your stir, he clutched the side of the mattress and hoisted himself to his feet. Despite the audible crunch of the comforter, you remained sound in sleep, silently granting your attendant permission to depart from your side - however temporarily.

At the door, he turned back once again: on one hand - anticipating that you would remain at rest so he could sneak out, on the other - hoping that you would call out to him, Levi, please don’t go. His knuckles turned white around the handle before swiftly departing, cutting himself off from overthinking any longer, at least for a little while.

// // //

It had only been ten minutes, but he swore he was going too slow. Picking all of the wildflowers he could find, he tucked them beneath his arm until he had assembled a makeshift bouquet. Just enough to flush out the hospital aura, but as his arm began to cramp, he realized there may never be enough when it came to you. Grateful to be outside, Levi waited out his blush before heading back inside.

This time, more hurried than when he first approached - the guilt of leaving you alone in there propelled his pace. Hastily, he flung the door open, causing your eyes to do the same.

“Shit…” Levi cursed himself as he watched your figure shift. Tiny groans echoed throughout the barren room as you came to. With a few harsh blinks, your vision adjusted to the scene. A stark but beautiful transition, dreamlessness to the stuff of dreams: Levi in the door frame, flowers in hand, overcast in the gradient of sunset.

“Am I … dreaming?” Your words made his heart halt, Levi clutched the stems a little tighter. Your angelic voice fresh out of sleep was suddenly seized by a sharp inhale, speech weakened, “My… my head…”

He may have said something, but you could not tell. Merciless ringing in your ears combined with the pounding at the back of your head, leaving you oblivious to everything external. You cupped your palm around your forehead and winced through clenched teeth. Atop your hand came his, fingers wedged in the spaces between yours. His contact was your answer: this was not a dream for not even in your most self-indulgent desires would you have come up with this.

His hand did not massage you, did not apply pressure, but reminded you of his diligent presence. Don’t worry. I’m here. I’ve got you. It was what he longed to say, what you longed to hear. As your inhales and exhales diluted, you both regained the composure to settle for less forthcoming words. Slowly, your eyes fluttered open and were met with those of solid steel, “Levi?”

Cracks in your voice, he swallowed for you, “You’re burning up.”

Your lips parted in confusion, hardly believing the scenario you were in. I thought… Nanaba… Why is he…? Levi read your questions and chose to ignore them.

He was conscious of it, but conscious not to mention it - the sweat that came off your skin and stuck his hand to yours. Instead, he paraphrased, “Don’t you feel hot?”

An autonomous response, you shivered, whether due to the temperature or a certain other factor. “N’No, I think I -” your speech was interrupted by a pair of violent sneezes - saying all he needed to hear.

Levi closed his eyes and frowned, silencing the germaphobe within him, “I see.”

Hiding behind your wrist, “Sorry.”

He reached into his chest pocket and lent you a handkerchief, “Don’t be.”

His gaze descended from your eye contact, granting an ounce of privacy. Now that you had sat up, he could see precisely the spot you had laid. A stiff indent on the pillow outlined your shoulders, nape, and head. Folds in the sheets likewise defined your stagnant sleeping pose. You hadn’t moved for hours. It prompted him to scan for more hints: your nightstand displayed no tissues, no tea. Levi stifled a disapproving sneer, substituting action for anger.

Levi’s fingertips grazed your comforter, “Your bandages…”

“Yeah…” a tinge of stuffiness in your voice, your movements staggered as you brought your limbs out from underneath your bedding.

Upon revelation, his eyes widened. Your right calf had been swallowed by a cast startlingly thick. Your right arm had been painted red by blood-soaked bandages. The sight made you lightheaded, nauseous, Levi caught it, “Hey, don’t look at it. Look at me.”

Your throat bobbed in nerves, anxious whimpers emitted. Over your frightened sobs, Levi ordered over them, “Look at me. Look at me.”

Past blurry eyes, you strained to follow his guidance. His steel gaze was dead set on your wounds. Lips remained their characteristic flat. Hands were gentle and stable in lifting your arm closer to him. Even as your blood soaked through to his skin, even as you cried in panic and pain, he showed no signs of rile. Observing his calm brought you closer to your own: infectious medicine.

“It hurts?”

“Y’Yeah.”

Slowly, Levi lowered his hold until your arm rested on the bed again. He stood and made his way to the cupboards. In your gaze, past the twitch of your eyelids, you caught the focus in his. Jaw set, near-silent rolls of pills as he picked up bottles and read them, knuckles white around the acetaminophen. A coughing fit snuck up on you, and by the time it was over, he was once again at your bedside. Effortlessly, he twisted the cap off, and poured two pills into his palm. With his left hand, Levi placed his thumb on the bulb of your chin and pushed down, tugging your lips apart. In his right hand, pointer finger and thumb pinched the capsule and perched it between your top and bottom teeth.

In his contact, you shuddered against him, yet his voice remained monotone, “Swallow.”

You raised your brows sharply, and at your sight, Levi realized how self-indulgent he was being. On the other hand, you were ignorant, too blinded by perplexion: the command of your captain and the tenderness of a husband. You sure this isn’t a dream?

Levi reached into his coat and pulled out his canteen, untouched from this morning’s expedition. Again, his eyes honed in on your lips as his reach began to approach you again. God, chills once again seized you, you weren’t sure you could take much more intimacy without - well, you weren’t sure what you would do. Squeal? Giggle? You didn’t want to find out, so instead, you stopped him. Hand cupped his container, fingertips grazing, you tried to ignore it and affirmed, “I’ll manage.”

Levi’s eyes briefly widened, the rest of him froze. “Right,” you idiot! He scowled and cursed himself. He thought your feelings had been mutual, but your refusal reminded him that he wasn’t so good at this sort of thing. With a heavy sigh, Levi left your side and strode to the other side of the room. A harsh, unpleasant drag of wood on wood echoed throughout the room - Levi pulled the chair out from under the desk and slumped on it. Arms crossed, gaze sank to his toes.

Now it was your turn to chastise yourself. Nice work, now he thinks you hate him. The opposite was true, but how were you supposed to convey that now? He could not have been further away, nerves in your shin reaffirmed: there was no chance your leg would walk you there.

Wordlessly, you both shared a simultaneous thought: Maybe Nanaba should’ve been here after all.

For some time, the two of you sat in silence. Levi thought about retreating to his room, but something kept him planted in that seat. Hange had already humiliated him enough today, they would have even more if he came back and asked to be relieved of the assignment he pled for. Then, there was the question of who would replace him. Some half-ass recruit? Even if he called on a fellow veteran, he was sure that the last-minute shift would impact their morale, and therefore, their performance. Even if his feelings were unrequited, it did not affect the fact that he cared about you - though it would have been easier if it did. Leaving you with someone other than him was unacceptable - in this context or others - Levi jut his heel against the ground.

Just a few meters apart from him, but you were in your own world. Your body ached, your muscles tired, but nothing was more painful than this silence. You thought about trying to sleep, but that attempt would be futile, for this quiet was too loud. Your heart longed to run to him, to throw your arms around him, to dip your lips to his ear and tell him you were sorry. Legs and fear damned that option. Powerless, you leaned back, crossed your hands at the wrists, and threw the X over your forehead. Resigned.

Inside and outside, “I feel gross.”

First, a side eye. Then, he turned his neck and shoulders. Even after you had shoved him away, Levi found it impossible to ignore you. Still, there was a lingering paralysis, a fear of letting himself go again. Invisible ropes reigned him in and kept him tied to humility.

You peeked out from under your hands, flickering eye contact made from across the way. Despite the distance, he could see the glaze of brimming tears, blurring your gaze. Lips quivering, both overwhelmed and let down, his name cracked in your throat. Levi could not hear it, but saw it in the weak motions of your mouth. His hands clutched the edge of the desk, fingers clenched, your call of his name released the last of his anchors. Swiftly, he crossed the room to stand at your side.

Blood caked to your skin. Sweat glossed over it. Gross was not what came to mind when he looked at you, but he could see why you felt that way. As for him, a shower was a necessity the second filth found him, but his lips stayed sealed. Something about recommending it to you made him feel even dirtier.

Levi kept his gaze averted, scanning the room. A metal bucket would keep the water hot. A stack of washcloths adjacent might feel nice. A thick roll of gauze, he glanced to the clock, it was probably about time to change your bandages anyways. He began to start towards them.

No, don’t leave me again.

Before you could think, your hand snapped to his wrist, drawing a startle and brow raise from your captain. A cough scratched its way up your throat, you snapped to the other side and leaned into the crook of your elbow, sparing him. With each cough, your hand twitched around his arm. Painfully pathetic. After the fit, your voice was left broken, throat sore, craving steam and humidity.

There was one way you could get that, sweetheart. One place.

“Wait, Levi…” your arm shook as it rose to point. Bathroom door on the other wall, “will you help me in there? I kinda,” you tried to speak past the impending tickle, “I think I want a - ah…” three rapid sneezes, you groaned in their wake, “ngh…”

Was it that each of your words was so obviously pained? Or was it his eagerness boiling over again? The interruption arrived before he could answer: “A bath?”

You sniffled away whatever irritant that was, and smiled sheepishly, “Sounds nice.”

Heart pounded in his chest, Levi swallowed his feelings down and replaced them with his reliable intuition. Grey gaze assessed your state. The injuries in your arm - you wouldn’t be able to hold onto him. The cast around your leg - he wouldn’t be able to hold you. Carrying you was not an option - not tonight at least - but otherwise, the venture should be possible. He just needed a little bit from you, he would shoulder your rest.

“Here,” Levi kneeled. Over the edge of the mattress, you looked down to see him awaiting. Inexplicable shivers were due to no cold. The solidity of his voice incinerated your wandering thoughts, “- alright if I?”

His arm gingered towards your back, and with it came a run back of that last interaction - the one you screwed up. You knew, you were lucky to get a retry. This time, you would make the choice you would regret the least, just like he’d want you to.

And he did.

Rather than cutting him off from you, you sewed yourselves together, leaning into his reach and leaning on him. Through bangs, Levi glanced up to you. Had you really just done that? Or was he again misreading things? You met his stare with a weak yet assured smile, cupping his shoulder. Understood, his hand curved to match your waist. Delectable.

“With me,” Levi ordered. As he began to rise, you did, too. Your left side put in overtime as your right side dragged without much use. His hand on your hip did most of the lifting - not only effortless for humanity’s strongest, but a hand he was happy to lend. Each time your balance threatened, you found that his grip cinched tighter. Buckling knees and selfish imagination longed to topple - the former for relief, the latter just to see.

You needed to get there. You needed to get there! You could have sworn that light was glowing from the outline of the door - a bath with Levi Ackerman - but it seemed the world had some stake in preventing your arrival. Pain shot through your side, you could not help but wince. Your high-pitched mewl fell upon his ear, making your shudders shared.

“C’mon,” Levi beckoned, the strength to your struggle, “you’re almost there.”

The edges of your vision turned blurry. The floor and the ceiling seemed to switch, or something? A painful ringing in your ears, his voice was the ice to soothe it, the sturdiness to silence it, “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

You blinked for long spells, it seemed to help the threatening headache. Cold ceramic on the backs of your thighs lured you out of that strategy. When your eyes blurred open, the harsh white of the infirmary’s bath had been softened by a handful of candlelit lanterns, a four-wall twilight. The sound of water flowing from faucet to tub, an indoor waterfall. Maybe it was the medicine speaking, but you could not have pictured a more romantic scene.

Levi shouldered off his tan coat, loosened his cravat, and rolled his sleeves to his elbows - you bit the inside of your lip, punishing the indulgence of your mind. Not romantic, you reminded yourself. Platonic, Levi settled.

The bath was filling. Water hot to the point of steaming: the mirror fogged, Levi’s cheeks tinged to red. You told yourself it was because of the room’s humidity. As he perched himself between your knees, Levi knew better.

Clothes off. “Alright if I -?”

One hand would be hard. “Will you help me?”

The two of you interrupted one another with shared sentiment. A slight twitch of his lip - a smile - and a nervous giggle from you communicated mutual consent. He started with the hem of your tee. Fingers curled beneath the bottom, and god, how he was going oh so slowly. So delicate, there were times you had to rely on your sight to tell if he was really moving. Eventually, the brisk air wafted upon your skin, providing goosebumps as evidence. Within your collar, Levi spread his fingers wide, allowing the elastic to slide over your head and face without too much friction. When it came to your wounded arm, he was especially focused. Surgical precision, the fabric did not even graze your skin.

However, now was the time. From the side of his hip, he unsheathed his pocketknife. A sharp shing! The blade razor thin, yet you were not the least bit scared. Even as he reached toward your fresh wound and slid the dagger between your bandage and forearm, somehow you knew he would not slip. After this long in the Regiment, he had learned some things about the psychology of first aid. Before you could think to panic, he had already sliced the wrap in two. Your gauze fell to the floor. Now, all that was left of your upper garments was your bra. Levi deliberately met your eye contact - this okay? You smiled and leaned forward, shortening the distance - I trust you.

There was something about the way he unhooked you, and there was something about the way you interpreted it. Not suspiciously swift - he must not’ve been with many girls before. Neither clumsy nor awkward - had he anticipated this moment for a while? The tension of your brassiere as well as the tension in the room diluted when he finally stripped you free. Your bare chest before him, you anticipated his stare, but it never came. Levi did not look, but at the same time, it did not seem that he was trying not to. The aversion of his gaze once again humbled your ego, maybe he just wasn’t into you like that. The truth was, sex just wasn’t on his mind. Life had thrown him enough cold stones, had sculpted him into a realist. Let down had tethered his reins, preventing him from lunging too far towards satisfaction.

Faced with your fragile state, your blood and bruises had his whole attention - more than the lips that longed to be kissed and the curves that yearned to be held again. Was it because he was a soldier that he could not care less about this opportunity? No, it was because his desires for you were far less shallow.

Levi wanted to see you smile, actually smile. He wanted to show you the world beyond the walls, but only once the titans had been eliminated. Eyes on you on every expedition, he resented the perpetual fear that snared you. So terrified of the near threats - even the potential of threats - that you could not see the beauty in distance. The horizon. Mirages. Mountains in haze and trees to the forests. They were out there, and he had brought you there, but as long as the world was a dangerous place, you would fail to enjoy them. An expression without worry, that was his desire, more than anything -

“Levi?”

Snapped from his daydream, your puppy-dog gaze brought him back down to earth. A bob in his throat, a silent swallow, “Right, sorry.”

Gently, he took your bra and flowered it on the bathroom countertop. Your starch white pants, now stained with blood and dirt. Fingertips sandwiched your button and its opposite flap, looping the metal circle out from within, his knuckles grazed your tummy on the way. Drag of your zipper, you twitched beneath his touch. Once again, he checked on you. To confirm your consent, you used your left leg to shift your lower half off the edge of the tub, granting him the space to remove your bottoms. Levi glanced up to you and gave a half-nod. Then, he gradually curled his grip beside your hips, beneath the fabric of both your canvas pants and cotton underwear. Unexpected, scratchy lace on its edges drew a shiver he nearly subdued. Likewise, his neatly trimmed nails slightly scraped your sides. With the two of you flinching at once, both of you were ignorant to the startle of the other.

Fabric bunched on his way down, he slid the loops off your ankles and over your feet. After dealing with the left side, he realized the problem of the right. Your cast so thick, there was no way it would fit through the sleeve of your pants. His thought process seemed to glimmer on the reflection of his blade. Its glare took hold of your peripheral vision.

“It’s okay. It’s fine.”

Levi held the blade in his trademark backwards way, “I’ll get you -” not we’ll get you - “a new pair.”

With one hand, he held the bundle of canvas. With the other, he gave a quick nick at its top, just an inch past the thickness of where your belt would go. A jut of his wrist snapped the switch back under its protective case, Levi shoved the knife back into his leg strap. Two free hands grabbed each side of the cut and tore apart. A satisfying tear! Not as satisfying as the way his forearms flexed. Somehow, the movement of his muscles contracted with the still in his face and the lack of audible exertion. Purposed and effortless.

Your pants had been destroyed, yet still, he folded them neatly over his forearms - a perfectly symmetrical square. Levi draped your panties over your bra. While he fixated on the potential for wrinkles, your teeth began to chatter, nose began to tickle. Though you were glad to be out of those filthy clothes, the loss of warmth was beginning to affect you. Bundling into yourself, you ducked your head down and sneezed again - immediately garnering his attention.

Levi chastised himself for moving too slow, but did not loom. In this context and others, he preferred to rely on action. After a quick cuff of his sleeves at the elbows, Levi gestured his arms out to you, you lifted your reach toward him. By an arm at your back and one beneath your knee, he helped maneuver you into the bath, all without getting your cast or cuts into the water. Although, Levi bit the inside of his cheek, those scratches would have to be cleaned eventually. But for now, he could not bring himself to sever your bliss, let alone replace it with pain.

Hot, but not too hot. Scented, but not overwhelming. You tipped your head back and sighed. Singsonged breaths, your toes curled around the porcelain rim. The sight and sound of your satisfaction made his heart stop, his middle blaze, “Ah, that feels good…”

Levi balled his fists in his clothes, good god help me. He could practically see Hange laughing and teasing: Look what you got yourself into, Levi! Lips pressed together, a grounding throat clear. Maybe, selfishly, he should get your arm under the water after all.

He did not have to say anything, for you could feel his gaze searing onto your arm. You were impressed with his composure. In your eyes, just thinking about your wound was enough to make your stomach flip. Levi, on the other hand, seemed relatively unbothered. Looking back on this moment would bring you immense sympathy: what had he seen already that made this okay? Indeed, he had witnessed enough injury to accurately survey: the scratch was actually not as bad as the amount of dried blood suggested. Until he cleaned it, you would continue to shriek at your own sight.

You knew what had to be done, so don’t make me beg.

Your voice was quiet, sagged by reluctance. Your lip started to quiver, your throat seemed to close. No one enjoyed this sort of thing - shots, the dentist - but some things just had to be done. As long as he was here, it wouldn’t be so bad. It was how you tried to convince yourself, but despite his presence, your eyes began to burn, sobs began to simmer. Stuttering turned to blubbering, “C’Can you… C’an you…” Tears brimmed, you tried to speak past them, “H’Help m’me…?” You could not even manage the thought of voluntarily sinking your arm into the water, let alone the speech.

Thankfully, he read between the lines. Levi knew what he had to do. Fingers intertwined, you squeezed his hand hard. “You’re okay,” Levi assured, “I’ve got you.”

He lead the way, you went along with it. On your descent, despite his solid contact, you could not stop trembling. Levi used his other hand to graze the bottom of your chin, beckoning your gaze to meet his. “Don’t look at it, just look at me.”

Brows flat, eyes plain, Levi’s calm was contagious. You didn’t believe in yourself, but he did: “I know you can do it.” Who were you to object to your captain?

You can do this. You can do this. You -

Steaming, soapy water finally consumed your arm. The spot of contact managed to demand each of your nerves and diminish any ounce of composure. One leg pushed against the end of the tub, the other squirmed and snapped. You threw your head back over the rim with a scream that hurt your own ears. Levi did not shush you, only fierced his grip. His grounding technique brought you back a bit, just enough to substitute your high-pitched mewls for between-teeth hisses.

Pathetic, it was a word he used towards plenty of people, but when it came to you, it meant something different. Helpless - not weakness - in a way that pled for his assistance. When others acted like this, it irked him. And it wasn’t that he enjoyed seeing you like this, but the hold you had on him was confusing: how did this bother him so intensely yet make his heart do somersaults?

Levi chose to distract himself from his emotions and instead fixated on the twitches of your body. Some here, some there, but now starting to die down. Deep breaths, your chest rattled on exhale. As soon as you regained coherence and speech, you apologized, embarrassed, “Sorry.”

Levi knit his brows, you had nothing to be sorry for. If anything, he did. Sorry that he wasn’t there when you needed him to be. With each tear you shed and each strain of overstimulated muscles, he was painfully reminded that this could have - should have - never happened. Maintaining his hold of your hand, Levi took a washcloth from his back pocket, dipped it in the lather, and began to scrub your skin clean. Sorry that - “I wasn’t there,” at that moment, he swabbed a little harder, “what happened?”

It was as if he was trying to wipe away your layers and get to the bottom of today. Gentle at times, deliberate at others, he worked to massage an answer out of you. Reaching all the spots on your back, over the shoulders, the sides of your neck, the divot at your middle. Fingers woven, he leveraged his grip to lift your hand from the water and clean your arm. Levi pressed the cotton against your skin from the insides of your thighs to the tips of your toes. His arm aligned with your spine, reclining you backwards so that your hair could soak. Not too deep, as he tipped you back, Levi whispered, “Trust me.”

Throughout the bath, you remained quiet, though Levi could tell that you were not dosing him the silent treatment. Rather, you were still searching for understanding yourself. You sunk your gaze to the water below, hands kneaded beneath the surface, “It was my fault.”

There was no change in his movements, but his gaze snapped to you through sullen bangs, inviting you to ramble on. Ramble. “I was looking at another wing. A six… no… seven-meter abnormal.”

His brows arced, eyes to yours, That was my encounter.

Caught red-handed, your own admission, I know.

“And… in the distance, I could see - could see someone was fighting it.”

Me.

Yes, you.

“I got nervous. Startled, panicked… cinched the reins too hard.” It had happened in a second and was still so raw. Memory foggy, you tried to fill in your own blanks. “She must’ve thrown me or something. Stepped on my leg, I think?” With your blood washed away, you could finally bear to glance at your cut. “I remember being dragged, this must’ve been from the ground.”

Levi’s lips parted, struck by your story and a thousand ensuing thoughts. It was his fault after all. It wasn’t that he was too far away from you, it was that he was too close. In your sights, but wait. Why were you looking?

It was the last time that your eye contact began with uncertainty, but the first time that the two of you overcame your doubts. Through your story, you had all but confessed. Through his actions, Levi had, too.

“Thanks for looking out for me.”

“You, too.”

When you were ready, you held out your hands. This time, far fewer check-ins were needed in the progression of your contact. Levi scooped your fingers in his palms, caressed and supported, he helped you out of the bathtub - your hands in his as he stood. Faced with his front, you noticed how his shirt had been soaked in the process, made more and more see-through as he bathed you. While he still refused to indulge himself in your appearance, you could not help but admire the symmetry of his abdomen and the new tightness of his top. Suddenly, your pain was flushed out and replaced with some other honey-like hormone. Was this the best medicine?

Levi kept one hand on you, there for balance, as he reached to the rack and unfurled your towel. Wrapped tight, he tucked the corner beneath your upper arm, allowing you to keep warm while he used a spare rag to dry the rest of your limbs - gentle and thorough.

You rolled your neck and shoulders, “I don’t have clothes here…”

Levi flicked his head to the side, “...and that bed’s filthy.”

“Hey,” you glued your pointer and middle finger together and pushed the middle of his chest, sighing, “I couldn’t help that.”

But he could now.

The next couple hours were another blur. In one arm, your dirty laundry. With the other, Levi supported your weight as you sneaked yet stumbled through new moonlit halls. You could not retrace the path to his room, but there were a few parts along the way that you could write novels about, could paint portraits of. The way his index finger crossed with the line of his lips, shushing your nervous laughs as you passed recruits’ barracks. The hush and haste in his voice. Bringing you to his bed and pulling the covers to your nose, why did he insist on taking the sofa? The answer to that question, you could not understand. The oceans in his eyes, you could not quite draw. The words that dwindled on the tip of his tongue, you could not quite pen.

But there were many more nights to get there.

// masterlist //

#levi x reader #levi ackerman x reader #levi x you #levi ackerman x you #levi #levi ackerman #oneshot #fluff #2023 #requests #anlian writes #my writing #alias's #If you ever want a long fic from me #the secret must be caretaking #cause I will never shut up about it 🥰

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dulcesiabits · 15 days

Text

where the stars fall.

summary: in the middle of the zombie apocalypse, you and your childhood friend, Childe, and his little brother try to survive amidst the wreckage of a broken world. things take a turn for the worse when you meet a stranger who shatters what you think you know of the world.

notes: 11k words, author's notes, descriptions of violence, murder (specifically through the use of a gun and of an unnamed stranger), unhealthy relationships, angst with no comfort

It’s the end of the world, and your childhood friend is the only person you have left.

Glass crunches underfoot as you and Childe slip in through the broken window of an abandoned grocery store. There’s not much left on the shelves: a stale loaf of black, furry bread, a forgotten wrapper, a dusty row of cracked children’s toys. Everything good has already been scavenged by other survivors.

Like most other grocery stores you’ve scavenged, the broken fridges buzz with flies swarming rotting meat. The remaining fruits are so moldy they’ve permanently stained the shelves with their decaying juice. The smell barely registers anymore; you’ve long since gotten used to the scent of the world dying.

Childe gestures at you and then the left side of the store, before pointing at himself and waving at the right side. His meaning is clear; you nod, and the two of you separate.

You pad noiselessly down the aisles, eyes wandering over the remains of a forgotten life. You’ve ended up in the beauty section: crusted lotions, murky shampoo, eyeshadow palette spilling their candy-colored guts all over the floor.

You stare longingly at the shampoo bottles, but you can’t take any. It’s an unaffordable luxury, even though you’ve forgotten when you took your last bath. The heating and electricity in most houses is failing, and the encroaching winter means the outside water sources are out of the question.

The dry goods section is desiccated. Most of the food is gone, but there is one stale sleeve of crackers left. You drop it in your backpack, grinning at the lucky find.

You straighten, before your eyes fall on a door labeled “employees only.” There might still be something worth scavenging there. You pull out the kitchen knife you keep sheathed in your pocket, the blade glinting dully as you crack open the door.

The room is dark, save for a cracked light that flickers off and on in aimless intervals. There’s a clock on the wall, frozen permanently at 2:13am, and a table in the corner where employees must have taken their breaks, alongside a microwave and– lucky for you– cardboard boxes still piled up on storage shelves. You hurry over, pulling one down. Nothing but dust, more dust– aha! A crinkled bar of chocolate. It’s still sealed, but it would be a perfect present for Teucer.

Something groans behind you, and the hair on your arms tingle. Your heart pounds as you tightly grip the handle of your kitchen knife, whipping it out as you spin– just in time to see a baseball crack through the zombie standing over you.

Blood and rotting flesh fall to the floor in wet chunks as Childe hits the zombie until it collapses to the floor. Then he hits it again. And again. Its arm twitches, and Childe smashes the limb until the bone cracks. He doesn’t stop, even when the zombie stops moving, not even when it’s just a pile of meat and pooling blood.

Childe isn’t even breathing hard when he drops his arm. His eyes are hard flecks of ice as he stares down at the zombie. For a second, he looks like a stranger.

“You okay?” Childe whispers, his gaze melting into something familiar and warm, and the familiar concern coloring his voice brings him back to you.

The two of you try to limit communication to wordless gestures and hand signals when you’re traveling outside; noise risks attracting zombies. “I’m fine,” you reply.

Childe nods, before looking over you up and down carefully, as if to confirm the veracity of your statement himself. He takes your hand without a word, lacing your fingers together. The blood on his hand smears over your combined fingers, rust and iron seeping into the folds of your skin.

But it’s Childe. You won’t pull away. You can’t, even if you hate the feeling of blood.

He doesn’t let go of your hand the whole time the two of you carefully make your way out of the grocery store, slinking down streets, sticking to the shadows and pausing to listen to the shuffle of undead feet. You keep a grip on your kitchen knife and Childe’s hand never strays far from his baseball bat, but it’s an uneventful trek back to the hotel where you’ve set up a temporary base.

The entire first floor is a wreck, the former grandeur blighted by blood and smashed furniture, wallpaper peeling off in strips, the patterns in the carpet hidden by layers of grime and dirt. The room you’ve chosen is up on the third floor; neither you and Childe have bothered to venture farther up the hotel stairs beyond that.

The electronic locks and elevators have long since broken, and the door of room 302 creaks open easily. Inside, Teucer is fiddling with a radio in his hands, a ratty blanket wrapped around his shoulders and a flashlight shining like a beacon next to him, huddled by the foot of the farthest of the two beds in the room. He looks up at the two of you, his eyes bright and expectant.

It’s not until Childe securely closes the door behind him that Teucer finally launches himself at his brother, arms clinging tightly. “You’re back!” Childe barely has time to ruffle his hair before Teucer tears himself off and falls into your arms instead.

You pat his back, and a crackled voice emanates from the radio in Teucer’s hands. You can just barely make out the broken words; it might as well be a broadcast from another planet.

“... Gov… Facilities… North… Repeat…. North… Nat… tate of… gency… Repeat… Govern… North…”

Nothing you haven’t heard already. The radio has been playing the same message, over and over, for the past few months. After all, it’s only the promise of potential safety and protection that drives you and Childe to travel so far north. That, and resources are dwindling with each new city and town the three of you encounter as you follow the voice promising safety.

“I have something for you,” you say, and fish the bar of chocolate out of your bag.

Teucer’s eyes light up as he unwraps the treat. “Oh, wow!” He pauses, staring at you and then Childe, and breaks the bar into three uneven pieces.

He offers a chunk to you. You hold up your hands. “Teucer, it’s okay. That was for you.”

Teucer pouts. “Well, you gave it to me, so it’s mine now, and I get to do what I want with it. And I want to share it with you.”

You hesitate, before accepting the chocolate with two fingers. It’s softening already, leaving soft smudges on your hand. When you pop it into your mouth, it melts like a dream, flooding a sweetness into your system you haven’t tasted in months. Maybe you’ll never taste this sweetness ever again.

“Anything happen while we were gone?” Childe asks casually. Teucer fiddles with his radio again, illegible voices warbling in and out of focus like ghosts from a distant plane of existence.

“Nope,” Teucer chirps. “Just a few zombies passing by when I peeked out the window, though.”

“Teucer, I told you not to do that. What if one of them sees you?”

“Why not? I was careful, and I wanted to see when the two of you were going to come home.”

“Well, we’re home now, and Teucer is safe. Everything’s fine, so no arguing. We need to head out tomorrow, anyways,” you interrupt gently. “I think we’ve stayed here long enough.”

The two brothers nod at your words, and when they do that, Teucer looks just like an echo of Childe. Same messy hair, same freckles, same mischievous gleam in their eyes. You head towards the bathroom. If you’re lucky, there might be a trickle of tap water left if you turn on the sink.

“Wait! Aren’t you going to play something today?” Teucer chirps.

“I’m not…”

“You always said a good violinist should practice everyday so their skills don’t rust,” Childe adds. “Come on, aren’t you a professional?”

“The noise might draw an entire hoard of zombies to our door,” you say.

“The walls are soundproof,” Childe says.

“Just one song,” Teucer says. “I’ll even let you choose which one!”

You let out a little sigh before moving towards your violin case, snugly hidden by the side of the bed. It’s an unforgivable vanity, you know, to carry this with you. An extra weight, when you should have a bag full of rations or cold weather supplies instead. But when you were fleeing your home, facing threats from the undead and other desperate survivors alike, it had been Childe who shoved your violin into your hands. The electricity was failing. The water was tainted. Food was running out. And yet, Childe had handed you your instrument.

“We can’t take this with us,” you tried to reason with him.

“Don’t leave it behind,” Childe said curtly. “You love it, don’t you?”

You had grasped the instrument in your hands, a lifeline in the rising tides.

It’s not as if the world has any rooms for violinists now, no matter how good you are at playing. Bach and Tchaikovsky can’t save you from dying, and all the concert halls have turned to ash.

But when you fling open the lid, the glossy wood gleaming in the low light, when you tighten the bow and reverently run the horsehair along your amber rosin, when you attach your shoulder rest and bring it to your chin, it doesn’t feel like a mistake at all. Your violin slots under your chin perfectly, right where it belongs.

You pluck at the strings, turning the little knobs, listening, adjusting the pitch, and then you raise your bow letting the first few sweet notes sing in the air, before you launch into a short, bouncy waltz.

It almost feels like it used to, in a way that it hasn’t in a long time, and you’ll never feel again: you, and Childe, in Childe’s own living room. You force him to listen to you practice, something you’ve always made him do, even if he can’t even name all the notes on a sheet of music. Teucer is on Childe’s lap, too young to really pay attention, blinking sleepily in the afternoon light, which shines on you like a spotlight. It’s a poor audience, but this audience of two has always been your favorite, even if you dream of sold out stages and prestigious awards.

The memory is painful, and you shove it back down, with everything else you can’t bear to think about. There is no past for you. There’s only here, and now. There’s Teucer, smiling, old enough to finally pay attention. And there’s your friend– the one who knows you best– Childe. He’s listened to you from the beginning, and he’ll listen to you until the very end.

Childe watches you, the same way he’s always done: face turned towards you, rapt. He’s listening to you play, but it feels like it’s you he’s paying the most attention to, not your music. As if in this dying world, you’re the only one who can save him.

The three of you steal out of the hotel in the blue light of dawn, the cold a bitter chill as you creep down the stairs and make your way to the highway again. You have a map, but following the local highway is the easiest way to proceed to your location, a manmade road marking your path to safety. Cars bead the roads in one long necklace of crushed metal and metal corpses.

The cars are the remains of panicked people who tried to leave town as fast as they could, but the sheer flood of people meant the roads had easily jammed and cars idled in place. The lucky ones, who got out quickly, rode their cars until they ran out of gas before abandoning them. The others discarded their trapped cars to idle and rust as they fled on foot. And the unlucky ones, like you, Childe and Teucer, have no choice but to run as far as your legs could carry you.

Teucer is sandwiched between you and Childe as the three of you walk in silence. The world is so quiet now, a silence that has its own weight and texture. Nothing works, and there’s no one to talk to. You can’t even speak to your companions unless you want to risk the attention of zombies or other survivors.

Teucer’s portable radio hangs limply in his hands, and he lets out a raspy little cough. Instantly, you turn to him, a hand on the top of his soft curls.

Teucer shakes his head, and gives you a thumbs up. You and Childe glance at each other, before Childe sweeps Teucer onto his back. Teucer digs his heels into Childe’s sides as a protest to be let down, but Childe continues resolutely forward.

You let out a little sigh. It’s a familiar sight; ever since Teucer was a baby, Childe was always reaching for his brother with his chubby hands, holding him close to him like a treasure. You like Teucer, but you’re an only child; you can’t imagine what it’s like to have a sibling you love so much.

The road is long, winding and endless in front of you, but even the monotony of your travel can’t stop you from pricking your ears, listening for the shuffle of feet, or a long, winding groan. It’s not safe out in the open, and unease prickles your skin.

You pass a car, and a zombie slams its hands against the window, rotting fingers leaving stains on the glass as it claws at you, eyes sunken. Your stomach shrivels, and you bite your lip to prevent your startled cry from escaping. You can guess what happened here: someone was bitten by a zombie, escaped in a panic, but had turned before they could get very far. Still, the eyeless face turns your stomach. That could be you, if you’re not careful enough.

In the next moment, Childe takes your hand, lacing your fingers together. You look at him questioningly, but he simply smiles in return. Maybe it’s a habit from the time you’ve spent together, but Childe is always reaching for your hand. To reassure you, to reassure himself, or just to comfort you.

Childe takes care of you. He knows your moods before you do, valiantly throws himself in front of any perceived threat to you, and wants to solve all of your problems. When you were little, when he sensed you were upset, Childe used to throw rocks at your bedroom window until you let him in. He reminds you a little of a dog, but if you tell him that, he would only grin.

You sigh, but before you can even signal your thanks, a low, broken shout pierces the air. Instantly, both you and Childe tense; you grab your knife and jerk out of his grasp as you run towards the voice.

There’s a young man lying against a car, a snarling zombie snapping its jaws at his face. The young man is holding it back with his gloved hands, but he’s quickly losing purchase. There’s a gun a few feet away from him; he must have been caught unawares.

Before you can think, you dart towards the zombie and angle your knife through its neck and into its brain. The zombie howls; the noise isn’t good. It could attract more of them– but then the zombie’s voice cuts off abruptly. It totters and slumps over, and then you see why: the young man has somehow shoved a knife within the zombie’s mouth.

“Fuck,” the young man mutters. He’s still slumped over on the ground.

You hold out your hand. “Are you okay?” you mumble.

The young man looks derisively at you, before slowly rising to his feet. “Yeah. I had it under control.”

“If you say so,” you say doubtfully.

“Hey, is everything okay?” By now, Childe has caught up with the two of you, his baseball clutched tightly in his hands. Teucer is trailing behind him.

“Yeah,” you say. “This guy was in some trouble, but it’s okay now.”

Childe kicks the body of the zombie, and you flinch at the weight of the sound. “Okay, great. Let's move on, then.”

“Wait.” You turn back to the young man. “Do you need any medical treatment? Did the zombie get to you in any way?”

“Are you asking me if I have a zombie bite?” the young man says contemptuously. “What would you do if I did? Going to stick your knife into my throat?”

“If they won’t, I will,” Childe says, his smile still pleasant. “They saved your life, so the least you can do is verify that you’re not a threat to us.”

“I just want to know if you’re okay,” you persist.

“I said I’m fine,” the young man says. “You know, do you want to draw the zombies to our location? Why don’t you both just shut up, and then we can all move on, hm?”

“We saved your life,” Childe says. “You don’t think you owe us for that?”

“They saved my life, not you,” the young man interjects. “And I don’t owe you anything for sticking your nose in my business.”

“Why don’t you come with us?” you suggest. Childe and the young man both look at you like you’ve sprouted a second head. “I did save your life, and there’s safety in numbers. You’re heading north, too, right? To the government shelter? We could help each other out.”

“Don’t just assume my plans,” the young man mutters. His mouth puckers, as if he’s swallowed something sour. “Fine. If you’re so desperate for my assistance, I suppose I can accompany you for a while. We can call it even that way. But don’t expect any favors from me after that.”

You nod. “Okay. What’s your name?”

The young man eyes you distrustfully. “I suppose… you can call me Scaramouche.”

After introducing yourselves to Scaramouche, who makes sure to collect his gun, the four of you set off. Scaramouche lingers a bit behind your group. Childe, for his part, keeps a tight grip on Teucer’s hand, who keeps trying to look back at the stranger. Neither men look particularly happy.

Maybe this is a bad idea. Still, even if Scaramouche does become a threat, he’s easily outnumbered; he can’t risk using his gun without drawing in zombies with the sound. Besides, if you just left him to wander by himself after a zombie attack, you’d worry over him. This is for your own peace of mind.

The next town descends into view before sunset, a place whose name was lost when all its inhabitants fled. A town without people isn’t really a town at all. Crumbling buildings, deserted cars, broken windows and overflowing trash on the streets: every place looks the same now. This might as well have been the place you left this morning.

A few zombies prowl the streets. The four of you avoid main roads and storefronts, and it’s at this point that Scaramouche leads your little group. He must be familiar with the area, because it’s not long before you reach a residential district, and Scaramouche nods his head at a nondescript house, with intact windows and a sturdy door, which you go up to open.

The lock is stuck, but you strike at it with your knife until it loosens. The three of you step into what looks like someone’s living room: leather couches, bookcases, widescreen television. The books are dusty with disuse, game consoles lying lifeless on the ground.

You, Scaramouche, and Childe sweep the premises, but there’s no zombies– or other survivors– in the place. It makes sense; most people fled as soon as they could, when the weather was still favorable. You, Childe and Teucer are part of the stragglers, the last few people still on the road. Other survivors aren’t common to encounter anymore, and those that are left are quick to look at each other with suspicion and hostility, if not aggression.

Scaramouche’s reaction is normal, all things considered. To him, you’re probably the odd one out. The world has turned to shit. It takes some measure of courage, tenacity, cunning, or even selfishness to survive. You can’t fault anyone for what they do to live.

But still. You can’t imagine completely turning your back on other people. After all, you and Childe have been supporting each other all this time. Neither of you could have made it this far without each other.

“I’m taking a bedroom upstairs,” Scaramouche says abruptly. “Don’t bother me unless you need me.”

“Get some rest,” you say. You set your violin case carefully down onto the floor, but Scaramouche pauses to watch you as you do.

“What the hell is that?”

“My violin,” you say simply.

“Really?” he says, scowling. “A violin? Do you think this is a school field trip? Are you going to subdue the zombies through music?”

“We could also subdue the zombies by tying you up and throwing you to them as bait,” Childe says pleasantly, stepping in front of you so you’re hidden from Scaramouche’s view.

You can still see him, though, and Scaramouche rolls his eyes at Childe’s words. He must not be in the mood for a fight, because he disappears up the stairs without another word.

“Gov… north… natio… state of… gency… repeat…” Teucer is fiddling with his radio again, cross-legged on the living room, and the sound echoes in the small space. He coughs as he adjusts the antenna, wiping his running nose with the back of his sleeve.

“Are you sure you want him with us?” Childe says quietly, so that Teucer can’t overhear.

You lightly grasp his hand, and Childe curls his fingers around yours. “He could be helpful. We can at least stick with him for a few days.”

“Got it. We’ll do what you want to do. But if he ever tries to hurt you or Teucer, then I’m going to take care of him.”

The way Childe says it leaves you no doubt that he’ll make good on his threat the second he perceives Scaramouche has turned his back on your group. Even when you were younger, you always thought Childe was like a pack animal: friendly and warm to anyone in his inner circle, but unrelentingly distant to anyone outside of it.

You remember the zombie that had almost attacked you at the convenience store yesterday, and the way Childe hadn’t stopped hitting it, not even when it stopped moving.

Childe relishes violence in a way you can’t understand. He was quick to pick up a weapon the second the zombies started showing up, and hasn’t put it down since.

He’ll make good on his threat. You can read it in his eyes alone. Hopefully bringing Scaramouche along isn’t a mistake.

Over the next few days, as the four of you continue to travel north, you’re still trying to make sense of Scaramouche.

He has a sharp tongue, and he’s not sociable whatsoever, but he never ignores your questions, even if there’s a scathing reply on his tongue more often than not. He pulls his weight, finding his share of supplies and sharing them with the three of you. And more than that, he dispatches zombies with ease. Scaramouche moves as fast and merciless as Childe, smashing brains into the pavement and aiming bullets directly at undead hearts and spines that cause the corpses to crumple to the floor, his silencer muffling all sound.

Maybe you’re the odd one, because you can’t stop thinking about how these zombies used to be people, with hopes and dreams dashed before they knew what happened to them. Still, there’s no time for regret; you have to do what you can to protect the people you love.

Overall, it’s nice to have another person around to hunt for resources, to watch your back when you’re out, or to have someone back at your makeshift bases to help look after Teucer.

And, surprisingly, it’s Teucer who Scaramouche seems to get along with the most. He’ll listen to Teucer ramble on, and spend more time with him than either you or Childe.

“He’s a nice guy,” Teucer tells you simply, when you ask him about Scaramouche. “I don’t think he’s really that mean. Sometimes he looks a little lonely, though.”

One night, Teucer’s radio breaks, the voices sputtering to a stubborn halt. Neither you nor Childe have any experience with machines, and not even Teucer’s crestfallen look can will the two of you to bring it back to life.

“Maybe I should just hit it a few times,” Childe mutters, turning the machine over and over in his hands.

“Are you an idiot? Give that to me,” Scaramouche snarls, snatching the radio out of Childe’s grasp.

The three of you watch as Scaramouche doctors the radio, unscrewing the back and checking the wires. A second later, sound crackles through the machine, a faint voice mumbling words you can’t hear.

“These things wear out easily,” Scaramouche barks at Teucer. “Try to keep it from overheating.”

“Thank you!” Teucer throws his arms around Scaramouche, who keeps his arms dangling awkwardly in the air before patting Teucer once, his hand gently curling around his head. He seems familiar with children, and it makes you wonder if he has– or had– a little brother before.

“That was sweet of you,” you say to Scaramouche, when he passes by you and Childe. Teucer is adjusting the radio’s buttons again, trying to find any sort of signal.

“I didn’t do it for you,” he says, scoffing. “I would hate to see that brat crying, that’s all. It would attract the undead.”

“Sure,” Childe breaks in easily, smiling. “You’re big brother material, you know.”

“Shut up,” Scaramouche snarls.

Scaramouche is an enigma, but he’s an asset. It’s only when Childe quietly murmurs that he hasn’t noticed any signs of zombie bites or symptoms of infection on Scaramouche that you can bring yourself to trust in him a little more.

“I still think he’s bad news,” Childe tells you in a quiet voice, when Scaramouche is busy entertaining Teucer in the room over. Teucer’s laughter drifts through the wall. “There’s something off about him. The sooner we ditch him, the better.”

“Teucer likes him,” you say.

“Teucer is young.”

“Are you sure you’re not jealous of him?” you tease, elbowing Childe in the side.

He shakes his head. His eyes are distant, staring at somewhere far away from you, some place you can’t join him in. Childe has that look often these days, and it’s the same one he has whenever he sees a zombie and his hands flex on his baseball bat.

Maybe it’s the apocalypse, or maybe it’s always been a part of him. But it’s frightening, because he’s never been unreachable to you. If you just whisper his name, he’ll usually come running straight to your side. But when he gets like this, you wonder if your voice will reach him at all. You take his hand instinctively, as if to ground him back to your reality, and Childe squeezes your hand in return.

He’s here. He’s here, even if the rest of the world falls to ruin, and he’ll always take your hand.

“I just have a bad feeling,” Childe says.

“We’ll be careful,” you promise.

Childe closes his eyes, rubbing his thumb over the back of your hand. “Okay.”

Maybe he’s trying to ground himself with your touch, too, so the two of you stay in that position for a long while longer, where you simply soak in each other’s presence, lost in your own thoughts.

As you travel over the next few days, the temperature turns frigid and the ground icy, and the four of you stick to camping out in empty buildings. If you’re lucky, the houses might have an indoor fireplace to huddle around. If not, then you make do with thick, lonely, faded blankets forgotten in closets. If you can’t make it to town, there’s always cars to break into and huddle in for the night. It’s been easy to avoid zombies with the cooling weather; frost gathers in their joints, and they move more slowly. On cold enough nights, you can’t see any at all.

It’s in one of the countless abandoned homes you pass that the four of you stop by for the night. You’re huddled by a fire pit, blankets curled over your shoulders, having pushed the couches closer to the hearth to trap the heat. There are framed pictures over the mantelpiece, of a blond family: two daughters, one with a ponytail and another with pigtails, a mom, a dad. You wonder if they’re alive. Then you turn your head back to the fire, flames flickering in a slow dance, and makes it hard to think of anything else.

Teucer is asleep, his head on Childe’s lap. You’re curled up on Childe’s other side, shoulders touching. Scaramouche sits farther apart, his shoulders hunched, legs folded under him.

“Okay, spit it out. Are the two of you dating?” Scaramouche says suddenly.

“What?” you hiss.

“Did you think I wouldn’t notice? All the touching? And he–” Scaramouche jerks a thumb at Childe– “Keeps acting like the two of you will die if you’re apart for a single moment.”

“We’re not dating. We’re just friends,” you say defensively, even as Scaramouche raises an eyebrow. “I’ve known him since I was born, okay? We grew up next to each other.”

Scaramouche rolls his eyes. “Oh, how sappy.”

“Are you interested in us?” you challenge, annoyed. “That’s a weird thing to bring up all of a sudden.”

Scaramouche lets out a short barking laugh. “Hardly! You two were just so annoying to watch. I needed to know for sure.”

“Well, now you know,” you say tersely. “We went to the same school all our lives. Our families were friends. But we’re not dating.”

Teucer lets out a series of coughs, stirring in his sleep. His coughing has gotten worse over the last few days. If it doesn’t get better, you’ll need to stop and look for medicine. All of you freeze, and Childe strokes Teucer’s head softly.

“You guys can talk, but try to keep it down,” Childe says. Under the shelter of your blanket, hidden from Scaramouche’s gaze, his pinky grazes yours. You link them together. There’s something intimate about the gesture. Maybe it’s because you’re doing it in secret, right under Scaramouche’s nose.

Scaramouche stares into the fire, unblinking, his gaze reflecting the flames. “So you’ve known him your whole life.” His voice is quieter now, and you try to match his low tone.

“We went to different colleges, though,” you say. “I was majoring in musical performance. Childe and Teucer were visiting me during spring break at my apartment when…” Your voice trails off. There’s no reason to look back to the past. It’ll kill you. It’ll kill you if you stop moving forward, if you think about the family you’ve lost, the stage you can never return to.

“Yeah, we were visiting them when the apocalypse broke loose,” Childe interrupts easily, continuing for you. “We waited a while before fleeing, and we’ve been traveling ever since we heard about government shelters in the north.”

“And what if those communications are lies?” Scaramouche says. “And there’s nothing up there? Or what if it’s a trap?”

“Then we’ll make do,” Childe says. “We’ll survive.”

“It’s easier if we’re together,” you add.

Scaramouche scoffs. “Sure.”

“What about you?” you ask. “Where did you come from?”

“Nowhere,” he says tersely.

“Sure. You just popped out of the ground,” Childe says. “No family? No friends?”

“No one worth talking about,” he says. “Everyone is dead or gone.”

You nudge Childe’s hand with your own, signaling him to drop the issue, and Childe falls silent. There’s no point in pushing Scaramouche about things he doesn’t want to talk about. No one has a happy story these days.

Scaramouche’s eyes drift to your violin case, positioned snugly on the couch. “I can’t believe you’re still carrying that thing with you. You might as well use it for scrap wood,” Scaramouche says.

“I am not doing that! It’s important to me. I know it’s inconvenient, but I can’t just leave it behind.”

“That’s just sentimental drivel,” Scaramouche snarks.

“Maybe it is, but it’s my decision to live with, not yours,” you reply evenly.

“It’s nice to have a little music sometimes,” Childe breaks in. “Not that I know if you understand what it’s like to do things that make you happy. Do you do anything other than glower and scowl?”

“Shut up. You act just like their dog. You’re both hopeless.” Scaramouche stands, still clutching the blanket tightly around him. “I’ve had enough for tonight. Don’t bother me.”

When he stalks off, you lean your head on Childe’s shoulder. “Thanks, Childe.”

“That’s what family and friends are for,” he says lightly. “We look out for each other, especially now. I’m always here for you.”

You really don’t know what you would do without him. Scaramouche’s words stung, not the least because you used to have a crush on Childe when you were younger. Everyone has always teased you about how the two of you were going to wind up dating, but those childish ideas have no place in this dying world. Romance is an embarrassing indulgence, worse than your violin, and love doesn’t seem like the right word to describe what the two of you mean to each other.

It’s like there’s a string, knotted somewhere in the hollow of your heart, tying you to Childe. And everytime his heart beats, you can feel the tug of that string, a reminder of someone who’s more of you than you yourself are. If either of your hearts were to stop, then the string would snap, and the searing pain of that loss would kill you.

No, love isn’t the right word at all.

“You can sleep. I’ll keep watch,” Childe whispers, and your eyes drift close. You can almost feel the ghost of lips brushing against your forehead, but you’re too sleepy to tell for sure.

The next day, Teucer wakes with a fever burning his skin and shortening his breath. You help Childe carry him to a spare bedroom and pile up the blankets against the chill, but it’s not enough. You melt ice and snow outside into water which Childe uses to dip rags into and cool Teucer’s forehead.

The two of you have been by his side for hours, trying to coax water and stale crackers into Teucer’s mouth, but he only turns away. At some point, Scaramouche has come to hover wordlessly by the door. There’s a tight, almost worried, expression on his face, but you don’t have time to pay attention to him and his shifting moods.

“The fever might still go down,” Childe mutters, but he’s talking more to himself than he is to you. “It’s not that bad yet.”

“We’ll need medicine,” you say. “I’ll go find some. You should stay here and look after him.”

“By yourself?” he says tersely.

“No, Scaramouche will come with me,” you say resolutely.

“I never agreed to do that,” Scaramouche says, the first words he’s said since he’s shown up.

Childe stands, grip tightening around the rag in his hands to the point his knuckles turn white. “I don’t have time for you right now. Teucer is sick, you asshole. You can either help us or keep your shitty opinions to yourself.” Scaramouche holds Childe’s gaze in one long, hard unblinking moment. You tense, wondering if you’re going to need to shove them apart.

Scaramouche is the first to duck his head. He glances at Teucer’s prone form, then glances away again, too fast for you to decipher the emotion in his eyes. “I’ll go. He needs the medicine. Besides, they–” he jerks a thumb at you– “Would probably die without someone to look after them.”

You bite back all your complaints at his tone. There’s no time for fighting, not when more important things are on the line. “Fine. Then we’re going to head out right now to look for supplies.”

The wait to grab your gear and trek outside is short and tense. The air is bitterly cold, causing your breath to cloud in the air as the two of you slink down sidewalks and alleyways, scanning for any sign of zombies. Snow and ice slick the ground, and the sky has a sickly gray pallor to it, like unhealthy skin.

The nearest grocery store is a half an hour walk away. In the silence, you’re acutely aware of Scaramouche next to you. This is the first time you’ve been alone with him since he started traveling with you. His steps are surprisingly elegant, his posture graceful. Something about him doesn’t strike you as a typical college student; maybe he was a dancer? It wouldn’t surprise you.

But Scaramouche’s past, which he clearly doesn’t want to share with you, isn’t important right now. What is important is Teucer.

The grocery store, once you arrive at it, is as dilapidated as all the others; they were some of the first places to be scavenged. This place reminds you a little of the one you had explored with Childe, almost two weeks before. You shrug off the thought and gesture to the left side of the store, pointing at yourself, and then the right side of the store, pointing at Scaramouche. He nods, and the two of you separate.

Your heart beats an anxious rhythm in your chest as you peer at the shelves, looking for the telltale glint of plastic bottles and wordy labels. You need basic fever medication, or, hell, you would even take an over the counter painkiller. Anything to relieve Teucer’s pain. Without a doctor or proper supplies, if anything were to happen to him… no. You don’t want to think about it.

You browse the shelves, stepping over fallen merchandise, dirty stuffed animals and books with their pages splayed open like ribs. Nothing. Maybe you would make your way to Scaramouche’s side of the story instead; you’re clearly in the entertainment section, and the medical supplies might be further off.

You round the corner, and run right into a man in a puffy winter coat. You stumble backwards, hands already reaching for your knife, when the man throws his hands up.

“Whoa, take it easy,” he murmurs.

Despite his words, you keep a hand firmly on the hilt of your knife. You’re close enough that if he makes any suspicious moves, you can easily threaten him or disarm him. The man must realize this, because he backs away a few short steps.

He has winter boots scruffy with snow, and days old stubble around his neck. His eyes are red and heavy with dark eyebags, his face drawn with exhaustion, and his hair is greasy. You probably don’t look any better.

“Who are you?” you ask.

“Just someone trying to survive,” he says lowly. “I could ask the same of you.”

“Well, it’s the same for me,” you murmur. You can’t sense any signs of aggression or hostility from him.

“I’m not a threat,” he says again. “Don’t be hasty, stranger. Please. There’s no need for violence. Look. I don’t have any weapons.” He waves his hands again, keeping them spread in front of him.

“How do I know that for sure?”

“Because I’m tired of fighting with every other person I’ve run into. I know the world is shit, but we don’t need to treat others so poorly,” he says, and there’s a creeping edge of genuinity to his voice.

You let out a little breath, then sheaf your knife. Still, it’s close enough that you can grab it if the man turns out to be dangerous.

“What are you doing here?” you ask.

“Looking for supplies. Same as you, I presume?”

“Yeah,” you say softly. You’d be a fool just to trust him based on appearance and kind words alone, as much as you want to believe in his good intentions. It’s probably better not to clue him in on the most vulnerable member of your team.

“Are you by yourself?” the man asks. “Hey, so am I. If you want, we could–”

A soft click of the gun echoes in the air. Both of you tense. “Too bad for you, but they aren’t alone.” Scaramouche digs his gun against the back of the man’s head. His posture is loose, casual, even, as if the man in front of him isn’t trembling like a rabbit.

“What are you doing?” you hiss.

“Something you’re too stupid to do,” Scaramouche says disdainfully. “Really, I can’t believe you would lower your guard when there’s a threat in front of you.”

“He isn’t a threat!”

“He just wants you to let your guard down,” Scaramouche reasons. “You have no idea what he’s planning to do.”

“I wasn’t planning anything! I just thought– if they were alone, we could just team up– I didn’t have any other intentions!” the man insists, voice shaking. “I won’t do anything to you two, okay? I’ll leave the two of you alone. I promise. Just let me go.”

“And why should I trust that?”

“I’m just trying to survive! Come on, man. You know how it is these days.”

“I know exactly how it is these days,” Scaramouche says, and pushes his gun against the man’s head again.

“Scaramouche,” you say tensely. “Leave him alone.”

“Why? So he can turn around and betray us?”

“I won’t do that. I promise I’ll just go,” the man pleads. “If we see each other again, I won’t even talk to the two of you. Promise. Come on. Just cut me some slack.”

No one breathes. The moment stretches out, distorting before your eyes, stretching into an agonizing infinity. You might have always stood here, watching Scaramouche and this stranger, rooted to the spot, as civilizations rose and fell with a roar in your ears.

“Scaramouche,” you whisper, trying to plead with him again.

Scaramouche momentarily links eyes with you, his gaze as hard as his gun, and the man slowly reaches his hand down– towards his pocket? You can’t tell– you don’t know what he’s doing– and then – before you can say or do anything at all– Scaramouche’s trigger finger flicks and, in the next instant, the man is falling, blood spraying from his head in a wine-red arc, and it’s sickening how graceful the spill is, how the calm the man looks as his eyelids flutter and his mouth slackens, and Scaramouche is quietly slipping his gun back into the holster on his belt.

You couldn’t hear the sound of a gunshot at all. His silencer must have been on. And that’s the worst part, really, how easy it is. How quickly death passes, in seconds, like a butterfly alighting on a branch before flying away again.

This is the way the world is, and you want to cry or laugh or scream, but nothing comes out of your throat at all.

There’s blood. Warm and wet. Spreading in a pool by your feet. The man has fallen down, face first, and his wounds gapes open at you. You don’t even know his name.

Scaramouche crouches down by the man, digging into his coat pockets, before pulling out a switchblade. He flicks the blade out, his smile ghostly in the silver reflection.

“Knew it,” he whispers. “This fucker was reaching for this.”

The moment breaks, and you grab Scaramouche by his jacket, slamming him against a metal shelf. Your breath is heavy and fast, and you can feel the pounding of your own blood through your veins, resounding in your head, louder than thought. You can see the reflection of your own wild animal eyes in Scaramouche’s.

His eyes are dark and reflect nothing, not even his own thoughts, like a sheet of black glass you can only pound your hands against, over and over.

“What the fuck,” you spit out. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with you?” he drawls. “You should thank me.”

“He was innocent,” you say quietly. “You don’t know if he was reaching for his knife or not. He was just lowering his hands.”

“Really? Be honest with yourself,” Scaramouche says. “What else could he be reaching for?”

“Maybe he wasn’t reaching for anything at all. You don’t know that he was going to grab his knife. You had a gun to his head!”

“People do desperate things in desperate situations. You’re naive,” he says, spitting out the word like a curse.

“And you’re a bitter asshole.”

You could tear his throat out right now. You could slam his head against the wall until it bleeds. You could do anything to Scaramouche right now, but it wouldn’t matter. A stranger is dead, and you will never know what he was really doing in his final moments.

For the first time, you understand what Childe feels when he raises his weapon against a zombie.

“Are you going to threaten me all day? Don’t you have more important things to worry about?” Scaramouche says.

Scaramouche is worse than any undead threat. Childe is right. Bringing him along is a mistake. But no matter how you feel, there’s more pressing matters at hand. You clamber off of him, and he dusts down his winter jacket, before throwing something at you.

You catch it with ease. It’s a bottle of fever medication for children, orange pills encased in thick plastic, happy fruit shaped mascots dancing in front of the packaging.

“I found that. So let’s go back. The noise might have drawn zombies near us,” Scaramouche says.

Before you leave, you manage to cover the corpse with a ratty white blanket that you found shoved in the corner of the grocery store. It’s not much, and you can’t give him a real burial, but the idea of leaving his open body to the air feels wrong.

The silence is suffocating on your way home. Neither you nor Scaramouche speak much to each other. There’s nothing to say.

Back in the house, Childe is still crouched over Teucer’s bedside, holding his brother’s hand and speaking soothingly to him. He probably hasn’t moved since you stepped out of the house. You don’t know where Scaramouche went when you both returned. You don’t want to know.

“You’re back. Are you okay?” Childe asks.

He knows something is wrong without you saying anything, like some sixth sense or an animal’s intuition. When you sit next to him on Teucer’s bed, he lifts a hand to cup your face. He scans you carefully, as if looking for any sign of visible wounds.

“Childe. If there was someone who we didn’t know was a threat or not, what would you do?” you whisper.

“Easy. I would do what you wanted to do,” Childe says cheerfully. “And you’d probably want to help them.”

“But what if I was wrong?” you press. “What if I trusted someone I shouldn’t have, and then you and Teucer got hurt because of it? Would it be wrong of me to have done that? Should I just have left them alone?”

“I don’t know,” Childe says. He’s stroking soothing patterns on your cheek now, his fingers dancing across your skin. “We wouldn’t know they’re dangerous until they betray us, right? And it would be their fault for betraying you, not yours for trusting them. Besides, if anyone hurt you, I would just kill them.”

“Is it really that easy?” you ask. Killing others, being killed. Trusting others, distrusting them.

Childe shrugs. “Why wouldn’t it be? We take care of each other, right? If you mess up, I’ll cover you. And if I mess up, you’ll do the same. Why? Did Scaramouche say something to you? Want me to punch him?”

You let out a shaky little laugh. “Sort of. Something happened, but I can’t… talk about it right now. I’ll tell you later.”

Childe lets go of your cheek, and before you can react, softly kisses your forehead. His lips are dry and cracked, but what surprises you most is how gentle that single touch is, how cognizant he is of every inch of you. He handles you like you’re more precious than gold, more rare than diamonds.

“I’ll watch over Teucer, so get some rest. Thanks for getting the medicine for me.”

“I’ll take over in a little bit,” you say.

Childe waves a hand in return, and you stumble down the halls. You touch your forehead, where the kiss burns, marking you forever in some intangible way.

Maybe Childe is your salvation, as much as you’re his. You believe in him more than any god out there, anyways, and if you are to pray, it would be to him. Childe is the only one who will answer your prayers.

By the next morning, the medicine has reduced Teucer’s fever somewhat, but there’s still no point in traveling when he’s too sick to move. For the next two days, all of you are stuck in that house. You and Childe take shifts watching over Teucer. You don’t know where Scaramouche is; he hasn’t shown his face in a while.

In fact, you’re starting to wonder if he’s left permanently. You’re absently polishing your violin in the living room on a slow afternoon, when Scaramouche walks right through the doorway. He’s wearing a backpack, his jacket buttoned tightly to his throat.

“Do you still plan on bringing that thing with you?” he says.

“Yes. There’s no reason not to. Besides,” you add, “It’s not your business what I decide to bring with me or not. It doesn’t affect you.”

“It’s going to weigh you down,” he says.

“No more than anything else I bring with me,” you say evenly. “It was my dream, you know? To play at a concert hall. To become a famous musician.”

“You’re foolish.”

“What’s your problem?” you ask. “If it bothers you that much, you don’t have to come with us. We can go our separate ways. There’s no reason for you to stick with us anymore.”

“You want to know why? It’s because I knew someone who was just like you. A foolish idiot, who was abandoned by his mother, and then fell into a group of people who he thought he could trust. He thought he could trust them because they saved him, because they were kind and believed in the goodness of others. There was a little kid with them, too, who that boy really cared about. But then they all ended up dying because they trusted the wrong person, and that idiot was left all alone. That’s why I can’t stand you. I can’t stand anyone like him,” he spits out.

“But it isn’t the boy’s fault for trusting the others,” you argue. “It’s terrible that all of that happened to him, but the one who betrayed him is really at fault.”

Scaramouche laughed. “Well, that’s just the way the world is, and it’s semantics to argue otherwise. The stupid boy shouldn’t have trusted anyone in the first place, and he wouldn’t have gotten hurt. It’ll be best if you learn that before long, instead of clinging to your stupid dreams. Everyone will leave you eventually, you know.”

Something about his phrasing prickles in your mind. Scaramouche, you notice, is wearing boots indoors. He usually takes off his shoes before entering rooms.

Something clicks in his hand. It’s his gun. The silencer is off. For a single moment, you hold your breath, wondering if Scaramouche is going to shoot you in cold blood, right here and right now, and you’ll end up like the stranger in the grocery store.

But no– he doesn’t even look at you. Instead, he heads towards the front door. You don’t even close your violin case as you follow him.

Unease weighs down every step. “What do you mean? Scaramouche? What are you doing with that?”

He doesn’t bother replying before he opens the door, a gust of cold winter air swirling around you. The night sky is bitterly black and cold, like the bottom of the ocean. “You know, I always hated your fucking attitude. Oh, the world is a good place! Oh, you can trust others! Oh, Childe is always going to help me out!” he says, but there’s something gentle about the cruelty in his voice. Like he’s really doing you a favor. “Someone has to put you in your place.”

“Scaramouche–” Your words are cut off as he raises his gun and fires it into the sky. Once. Twice. Three times. The sound richots off the houses around you and into the depths of the neighborhood, like the toll of a church bell.

And then– groaning. Faint groaning and shuffling, carrying over the wind. In the distance, darkened shapes lurch toward your door, lumpy shadows that are too numerous to count. Congregants, summoned by Scaramouche’s call.

Scaramouche has summoned a zombie hoard to your location. The knowledge hits you just as Scaramouche leaps out the door, giving you one last smile. There’s something bitter curling along his grin, but you don’t have time to interpret the meaning before he waves his gun in a single farwell.

“Good luck,” he says mockingly, and vanishes into the night.

You slam the door closed, heart pounding. Oh god. What are you going to do? The backyard– that’s your best option. You can escape out the back. But, shit. Teucer. Teucer is still recovering. You can’t move quickly with him still sick- and the cold weather could make him worse.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Someone pounds down the stairs. Childe is by your side in an instant, grabbing your shoulders.

“What happened? Are you hurt?” His eyes are wild, and his fingers cut into your shoulders. “Where’s Scaramouche?”

“He left,” you say numbly. “I’m fine. He didn’t hurt me. It’s just–” Something slams against the door, a wet thud that echoes into your bones. Multiple bodies are beating against the door, and Childe peeks through the peephole. He glances away, his hand around his mouth, and you look, too: it’s an endless sea of corpses. Scaramouche must have summoned the entire town to your door.

“Fuck. Did he do that?” he whispers. There’s an odd edge of elation to his tone, like a puzzle piece that doesn’t fit quite right in your current circumstances.

“Yes,” you say, and Childe takes your hand, pulling you along, up the stairs.

“Focus!” he hisses, grabbing onto your face, pulling your gaze up to him. In this moment, the only thing you can focus on is Childe’s eyes, pure and open, like the endless expanse of the sky. “I know he did something shitty, but focus! We have to survive. We have to make a way through this. Okay?”

“Okay,” you whisper.

“I’m here. I’m here for you.”

“You’re here,” you repeat, and Childe lets you go. You slap your cheeks, shaking your head. There’s no time to regret, to mourn, to scream. There’s no choice but to keep moving.

For the next few moments, you and Childe pack two backpacks, shoving them full of whatever supplies you can carry.

You head into Teucer’s bedroom next, where he stirs weakly. “What’s going on?” he mumbles.

“Emergency. We have to go now,” Childe says lightly. Teucer holds out his arms obediently as Childe helps him into his jacket, tenderly shoving a hat on his head, tucking it around his curls of hair.

“Can you walk?” you ask Teucer.

“A little.” His speech is still slurred with fatigue and illness. He’s in no condition to move, but you have no choice.

“I’ll carry you if you get tired,” you say. “Childe and I can take turns.”

He nods, and Childe picks him up. Teucer curls his head into Childe’s shoulder. You grab his radio off the bed stand, and Teucer grips it tightly, close to his chest like a heart.

“You need to put on your jacket, too,” you whisper to Childe. “What, are you going to run out like that?”

Childe smiles. “Not at all.” He guides the two of you to the backyard door. For now, the immediate vicinity is free of zombies: yellowed grass, a barren tree with skeletal arms piercing the sky, a wooden gate with a fragile latch at the very end. In the darkness, you can’t make out anything beyond the fence. It’s better that way, because you know all you see will be zombies piled everywhere.

Childe helps Teucer pull on his backpack, and you slip on your own.

“Not bringing your violin?” Childe asks quietly.

“There’s no room for it,” you say bitterly. Scaramouche is right about that, at least. It’ll just slow you down at this rate.

Childe sets Teucer down at your words, carefully pulling out a chair for Teucer to lean against. “Wait for us for a little bit, buddy. We’ll be right back.”

Teucer nods absently, and slumps on the chair. He’s playing with his radio again, the static crackling through the air.

Childe guides you to the living room, where your violin case is still open on the floor. He bends over and picks up the rosin, running one thumb over the closed plastic cap, before handing it to you. “I’ll bring you your violin later,” he says. “So just take this with you for now.”

“Childe. What do you mean? You’re coming with us, aren’t you?”

Ever since you were young, Childe has been unable to lie to you. You know him too well for that, and you grab his elbows at the look in his contemplative look in his eyes. He must know better than to try now, because he only smiles at you. His smile is– it’s excited, almost, as it has been since he first saw the zombies around the house. You want to throw your rosin at his fucking face.

“There are too many zombies around the house right now. Someone needs to be a distraction so the others can get away.”

“But it doesn’t have to be you!” you say desperately. “I can stay, too. I can help you. Isn’t this how we’ve always done this? You and me. We can do this together.”

“Someone has to take care of Teucer. I can’t risk him,” he says quietly.

“God damn it!” Tears are streaming down your face, and you can’t even wipe them away.

For a second, you imagine leaving Teucer behind. You’ll drag Childe with you, and just the two of you can leave. Childe has to survive. He has to. He’s the only one in this world you care about anymore.

But Childe would never forgive you if you do. And you would never forgive yourself. How can you think like that? Teucer is a child. You were there when he was born.

Childe presses his thumb to your face, catching your tears. “I’ll catch up to you guys. I won’t die.”

“You don’t know that! What’s wrong with you? You can’t just leave us like this!” You hold out your hand to him, hoping that he’ll take it, but Childe only looks at it quietly. He doesn’t move to take it. It’s a rejection, your first rejection from Childe.

“I’m not like Scaramouche. I’ll come back to you. I won’t betray you like that. Trust me,” he says. “I’m going to keep both of you safe.”

He kisses you. He kisses you, and all your bubbling complaints are swallowed by his lips. Your hands are trapped against his chest. He kisses you once, and twice, over and over, like he’ll die if he pulls away. Your kisses are salty with your tears. Childe licks your bottom lip, and you finally shove yourself away from him, because you’ll drown in his arms otherwise.

“You promised,” you whisper. “So you better keep it, or I’m going to come back and kill you myself.”

“I’ll always come back to you,” Childe says. “It’s you and me, right?”

You walk back to the dining room, where Teucer is sitting sleepily. Childe has his baseball bat in hand. He kisses his brother’s forehead once.

“Be good, Teuce,” Childe murmurs.

“Where are you going?”

“I have some business to take care of. But I’ll catch up to you soon.” And then, in a low whisper, tha only you can hear, “don’t look back,” he says.

You finger the rosin in your pocket. “I won’t.”

You head out in the backyard, Teucer’s hand in your own, the night air so cold it sears your lungs. You can hear the shuffle of zombies through the fence, too numerous to count.

You and Childe stare at each other through the glass door for one final time, and then he’s gone, running towards the front door. You head towards the gate, heart hammering in your ears as you listen to the shuffle of zombies. You’ll wait until the noise dies down enough to make a break for it, when he’s drawn most of the attention to himself.

A minute passes. Another. The zombies are slowly lurching past you. There’s noise from the front of the house, but you don’t want to think about what’s going on there.

When it’s finally silent enough, you burst out into the street, Teucer’s hand in your own. The two of you run, and run, and run.

You don’t know how long you run. At some point, Teucer falters, and you sling both your bags to your front, and pull him onto your back, and keep going, his arms tight around your neck. His forehead burns against your neck. His fever must be flaring up again.

“My brother…” Teucer whispers reedily in your ear.

“He’s right behind us,” you lie, tears burning your throat and choking your words. “I promise.”

You keep running. You keep running, even when your legs are screaming and your lungs are burning and your breathing is uneven. You keep running until you can’t feel anything anymore, not the ache of your arms or Teucer’s weight on your back. In the endless darkness, you keep going, because if you stop now, then you’ll turn right around and go back to Childe and render his sacrifice meaningless.

Is this your fault? Should you have never trusted Scaramouche and just left him there to fend for himself when you first saw on the highway? Maybe you should have stuck your knife in his ribs yourself the second he pressed his gun to a stranger’s head.

Childe might be dead already. He could be dying right now. But, no, Childe has promised to come after you. He never breaks his promises. He’s always there for you. And now you’ve left him behind, in a zombie swarm.

You remember his smile, too, the way he never hesitates to beat against zombies until they’re pulp on the ground. As much as he loves you and Teucer, he loves the violence of a dying world, too. Does he fight because he wants to protect you, or does protecting you give him an excuse to fight?

Resentment bubbles in your chest, trickling along with your tears. How can he ask you to leave him behind? How can he look excited at the thought of going single handedly against a swarm of zombies?

You can never ask him now.

The world is a cruel place. Your family is dead. Or worse, they’re alive but you’ve abandoned the aunt and uncle who raised you to their fate, without even heading back to your hometown to check if they were still alive. Childe, at least, had the decency to want to go home until it was too late to go anywhere but north. You just wanted to run.

You should have smashed your fucking violin into pieces when you had the chance, instead of carrying it with you all this way. There’s no concert halls left, no audience, no one who cares about your dead dreams.

Something crackles in your ear. Teucer’s radio, turned so low only you can hear. “Gov… north… repeat… state of emergency… shelter…”

Keep going.

But why are you going? What’s left for you?

Keep running.

But what if there’s nothing left? What if everyone is dead, and there’s no one up north to help you?

Keep moving forward.

It’s snowing. You don’t know when it started, but snow clings to your lashes like frozen tears. You stumble over something hard, and you crash into the ground, skidding along the icy dirt. You keep a tight grip on Teucer the whole time, and his radio goes silent as it shatters on the floor, into cold metal stars.

“Teucer?” you whisper, but all you can hear is his labored breathing. If he stays in the cold for any longer, he might really die.

Maybe you should just stay here and die with him. You’re too tired to move. The cold is numbing your joints, seeping into your body. You’ve run for so long. You can’t run any more.

“Look,” Teucer whispers in your ear, and you force your eyes up.

In the distance, a bright light glimmers, a firefly in the winter. A fire, or a flashlight. You can’t tell, but you do know what it means. Other people. You’ve found other people. But there’s no guarantee they’ll help you. Maybe they’ll rob you, leave you for dead in the snow. How can you trust anyone else now?

Scaramouche has betrayed you. Childe is… no, Childe isn’t dead. He’s promised you. He’ll come back for you. If you die here, then you can’t wait for him. If he comes to find you, and you’re not there, then you’ll have betrayed him in the worst way.

Childe can hurt and betray you all he wants, but you can’t hurt him.

And Teucer. Teucer is right here, on your back, still clinging with his fragile arms. Still believing in you to keep him safe.

Your rosin is in your pocket. You force a gloved hand into your jacket pocket to feel its worn edges. You’ve used the same one for years, to coat your bow so it can glide over your violin strings, wearing it down to almost a sliver.

You take a breath. Then another. And then you get up, and you head towards the light.

#liya writes #genshin impact #childe #childe x reader #tartaglia #tartaglia x reader #x reader #genshin impact x reader #childe genshin impact #tartaglia genshin impact

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brbsoulnomming · 2 months

Text

Static

Steve's never certain if he hates walking through the crowds after a match or not. Sometimes, when he walks back to his flat, all bloody and bruised and exhausted, the press of so many other people feels oppressive. Sometimes he wants nothing more than to pretend the rest of the world doesn't exist, that he's in a little bubble of his own space and nothing can touch him. But sometimes, even though there's an edge of pain in every step, the bustle of people reminds him of why he does this, reminds him of everyone he's trying to protect and everything he wants to be able to keep on going exactly as it is.

Today is not a hates day.

Today the crowds feel warm and full of energy, and he basks in it, lets the feel of so much life wash over him.

Today he buys sunflowers at his favorite florist, listening to the soft hum of bees he can hear in the back of their shop. Today he asks if they have any honey, tucks a bottle of it into his pocket and sucks on a piece of the soft, sticky candy that Mrs. Anderson makes from it. The augment he keeps for show chimes softly in his ear, alerting him that funds have been withdrawn from his arena account. He doesn't know how much, but it doesn't matter. He trusts Mrs. Anderson enough not to rip him off, and anyway, he makes more than enough from his fights to get anything he wants.

It'd be enough to get out of this place ten times over, if the credits Creel gave his gladiators were good anywhere else but the citydome he runs.

Mrs. Anderson wraps up his flowers for him, and Steve gives her a warm smile when she gives him an extra one for his girl.

He can't remember if she thinks his girl is Robin, or Nancy, or Max, or Erica, or El, but it doesn't really matter.

They're all his girls, and he'd do absolutely anything at all to give them the world.

He settles the bouquet under his arms, counts the flowers - there's enough to give each of them two, but he knows he won't see them in person any time soon.

It's been quiet enough that he might have suggested a meet up, but there's… something that stops him. Steve doesn't know what it is, can't put words to what he's picked up on, but it settles heavy in the pit of his stomach. He's learned the hard way to listen to it.

They can't risk it.

Static blares in his mind as he opens his communication link, feeling out for who's listening in and smiling to himself when he senses El.

El's favorites are sunflowers, same as him. They're Max's favorites, too, but only because he knows they remind her of El.

‘Sunflowers!’ El says immediately, delighted.

‘Fresh cut,’ he tells her. ‘Want to smell?’

Her presence is suddenly much stronger in his mind, and he dutifully leans in to pull in a deep breath, holds it for a few moments, then lets the honey candy in his mouth settle right over his tongue.

There's a pleased little sigh, a soft touch of gratitude, then she withdraws.

‘When's your next match?’ Lucas asks.

‘In two days,’ Steve replies.

There's no response, not even a wordless one, but Steve knows Lucas well enough to tell that he's disappointed. Two days isn't enough time for him to sneak out, let alone have a Creel sanctioned vacation.

‘It's not the same without you here.’ Dustin's voice is colored with disappointment, too, and Steve can feel the sharpness of what he isn't saying.

‘I know, buddy. I miss you guys, too.’

He wishes he could tell them that it wouldn't be much longer. Steve's got plenty on Henry Creel, more than enough to have made this mission a success already, but they're never going to get an opportunity like this again.

He needs to stay as long as possible.

‘I'll ask for a vacation after my next couple of matches. How did your collaboration with Suzie go?’

Steve listens to the Party over the comm links for a little while longer, just to keep his own longing for home at bay, until he gets out of the busy part of the citydome and has to say goodbye.

His head goes silent as he closes his comm link, and he's alone once more - aside from the ever present trace of Robin, all wrapped up in his neural pathways that are more circuits than synapses these days, but she doesn't count. She's as much a part of him as his own thoughts are.

Tension prickles at the back of his neck when he picks up on footsteps approaching, more purposeful than anyone else passing by. Sure enough, someone falls into step with him, and his head jerks over - then relaxes.

“My liege,” Munson greets, throwing a grin at him.

Steve rolls his eyes. “What do you want?”

He didn't think it was possible, but Munson's smile widens even more.

“To celebrate!” he announces, arms spread as though gesturing to the wide expanse of celebratory pleasures to be had around them.

Which are exactly none, considering Steve'd already passed the pleasure district. He raises one eyebrow to convey just that.

Munson is undeterred.

“Come on, your Majesty,” he cajoles. “Look at you! First time in weeks that a gladiator walked away from a match with barely a scratch on them! Surely such a transcendent performance from the King is worthy of deigning to mingle with the Freak?”

Steve's going to say yes, he already knows he is, but he makes him wait a little longer, making a big show of sighing and crossing his arms and looking him up and down.

It's then that he sees it.

If Steve was everything he was pretending to be and nothing more, he never would have picked up on anything. There's nothing in Munson's demeanor that is any different from the handful of other times they've caught up with each other for a drink after a match.

It's only because his scans pick up so much more that he detects the unsteady beat of Munson's heart, how he holds himself ready the same way he does in the arena.

And the gun tucked in the inside pocket of his leather jacket.

Right.

Looks like he's out of time here, then.

If Steve's honest, he's a little surprised that it's Munson. The rivalry between the Freak and the King is all for show in the arena - not like it is between him and Billy Hargrove or between Munson and Jason “the Prophet” Carver.

If Steve's even more honest, he's disappointed, in more ways than he can spend time sorting through right now.

“Fine,” he says, letting himself sound long suffering. “Where are we going? I'll swing by home to drop these off and meet you there.”

Something tense but otherwise unreadable flickers behind Munson's eyes, and Steve wonders if he's been ordered not to allow him to leave his sight. He doesn't have a choice, though - it's a reasonable request, exactly what Steve would have said if he hadn't caught on, and his only other option is -

“Allow me to accompany you,” Munson says, bowing low in a show of gallantry.

It's a risk.

Steve's never let another gladiator come to his flat before, and there's very little chance that he'd let Munson come now, even if he didn't realize what Munson's true intentions were. He wonders what the back up plan is if he says no, wonders if Munson will do it right here in the open.

“Why?” Steve asks, unable to stop himself from pushing, even though he knows it's a bad idea.

Munson peeks up from his bow, flutters his lashes, all playful exaggeration. “And risk you backing out and abandoning the likes of little ole me?”

“Never backed out before after I've said yes,” Steve points out, digging in. Pushing harder. “Unless you have a reason for inviting yourself over? Maybe a different kind of celebration in mind?”

Munson tips his head back down, but Steve's scanner can pick up the way he swallows, harsh and rough. “Yeah.” It's flat and hollow, and it immediately sounds wrong to Steve's ears. “Yeah, maybe I had something different in mind.”

That's -

Not what Steve was expecting.

Would he, Steve wonders? Would Munson play that card, even though he clearly doesn't want to, even though he kind of sounds like he hates himself a little for it?

“Hey,” Steve says, unbidden. “I'm just messing with you, man. It's fine, you can come with me to drop them off.”

Steve might be well aware that he's going to have to kill Munson, but he doesn't want to be cruel about it.

Munson straightens, his usual smile back on his face, and he checks his shoulder into Steve's hard enough that it stings a little. “Asshole,” he says.

“You're the one who hangs out with me,” Steve replies.

The crowd thins even more as they move into the residential blocks. They're not going in the direction of Steve's flat - but they are going in a direction that he could live in, and it's not like Munson knows where he actually stays. It's not like Munson knows that Steve's already activated his comm link and told the Party his cover's been blown, and that he has to get out of the citydome tonight.

“Hey, Munson?” Steve asks, slowing to a stop.

Munson hums, looking over at him with a brow raised in question.

Steve pulls the extra sunflower that Mrs. Anderson had given him free from the bouquet, tucks it into the front pocket of Munson's jacket.

“I really am sorry about before, I shouldn't have messed with you like that,” he says.

He's sorry about a lot more than that, but this is what he's got.

Munson's lips twist down, and he sighs as he pushes Steve's hands away - though he leaves the sunflower there.

“Steve,” he says, soft and filled with something like regret.

Nothing follows it.

There's a beat where they look at each other, and Steve thinks -

And then there's the sound of harsh laughter, boots dropping onto the ground as someone swings down from one of the platforms overhead.

“King Steve,” Hargrove drawls. “Sweet on the Freak. You're really making it easy to knock you off that throne, aren't you?”

Shit.

Steve's in worse trouble than he thought.

He steps back automatically, shooting a betrayed little look over at Munson - it's one thing for Munson to be planning on killing him, it's another for him to lead Hargrove to him.

But Munson looks surprised, and then furious, and Steve realizes -

Hargrove isn't here for Steve. Or at least, not just for Steve.

“I told Creel you couldn't do it,” Hargrove tells Munson, voice conversational. “You're all bark and no bite, aren't you?”

“Get the fuck out of here, Hargrove,” Munson says tersely, teeth gritted.

“No can do, Junior,” Hargrove replies. “I have to clean up your mess.”

“You set me up,” Munson bites out. “This was never going to be a fair chance, was it?”

Hargrove shrugs, unconcerned. “You want me to drag you back to Creel to explain yourself, or should I just put you out of your misery here?”

The thing is, Steve thinks Munson would have done it before Hargrove showed up. Steve and Munson are friends, maybe, but loyalty to other gladiators only goes so far, and Creel keeps them all under a heavy thumb. It wouldn't have been anything personal - it would have been just what Munson had to do to survive in this place.

The thing is, Steve knows he would have put a bullet in Munson's brain right here. It would have destroyed a piece of him to do it, he can acknowledge that now, but he would have done it without hesitation if it meant keeping the resistance in general - and the Party in specific - safe.

The thing is, even if Hargrove does kill Steve - even if Munson kills Steve, even if he manages to kill Hargrove before he can report back to Creel - Munson is finished, now. Unfair or not, he's failed the test. There's no going back, not if Creel doesn't trust him, and Steve knows Munson's smart enough to have realized that.

The thing is, if Creel suspected Munson enough to have Hargrove follow him to make sure he got the job done, there must be a reason why, and Steve wants to know it.

‘Change of plans,’ he tells Robin, even though he can already feel her at the back of his mind like fingertips ghosting through his hair, downloading his memories until she's caught up. She already knows exactly what he's going to do.

The piece of him that would have died with Eddie Munson finally settles into place, the circuitry that makes up more of him than he usually lets on humming softly in his veins as it adjusts to account for it.

Steve swings around to stand in front of Eddie, and plants his feet.

“If you want him,” he says, and he can hear the echo of it through the static of his communication link, calm and determined.

Steve's never felt more steady than he does when he's standing between a looming threat and one of the people who've become part of the very core of him.

“You'll have to go through me.”

Hargrove sneers at him. “You can barely hold your own against me in the arena.”

“The arena’s all show.” Steve laughs, a little mean. “You think I'm sitting here with prototype Harrington augments and all they've got is what you've seen?”

He's not sure why he's keeping up the pretense that he's nothing more than what he seems. If Creel is sending people to kill him, he has to know Steve's part of the Party. But it's ingrained in him, somehow, to protect them until his last breath, whether it's artificial or not.

The question makes Hargrove scoff, and Steve swings at him.

Hargrove lets it hit, laughs at him again with blood dripping from his mouth, and then -

They've fought in the arena, before. Not often, because they're brutal with each other, and because Creel knows their matches always draw a massive crowd and likes to drag out the tension, keep the audience wanting more.

This is nothing like that.

Despite their brutality, there's an element of safety in arena matches. The punishment for killing one of Creel's gladiators is harsh and swift, and so they're almost never in any real danger.

This is - Steve can see the hatred in Hargrove's eyes, same as he always does, but now there's intent, now Hargrove's own augments have been let loose, and there's more power behind every punch than Steve's ever felt before.

Steve's starting to think the only way he can beat Hargrove is to really let himself go, and it makes his heart quicken, makes the dread in his chest coil tighter and tighter - makes Robin even more present in his mind, makes her whisper ‘you have to, it's okay, I'm here, I won't let you lose yourself,’ -

Until a shot rings out, clipping Hargrove on the shoulder.

It's not that Steve forgot Eddie.

It's just that he kind of assumed that Eddie would run off after Steve took his first swing at Hargrove. It'd been part of the reason that he pulled Hargrove's attention onto himself in the first place.

The expression on Hargrove's face says that he'd assumed the same thing, and he shoots a venomous look over at Eddie.

“Who's cleaning up messes now?” Eddie asks.

Hargrove snarls, drawing his own gun on Eddie, and -

Steve's too close for Eddie to get a clear shot at Hargrove, and by now he's starting to think that Eddie won't take the shot if it means he'll have to shoot through Steve, but he knows damn well Hargrove won't have the same reservations.

‘Robin,’ Steve says, even though she's already there, flooding his mind until she's all he can feel.

He can't lose himself when he does this if he's so much her that they can't separate each other out.

Steve lets go.

Electricity flares under his skin, crackling and humming, and when he grabs Hargrove's hand it immediately shorts out his gun. It flows out - and out and out and out and out, overloading the circuitry of Hargrove’s augment and threatening to burn it through completely if it keeps going, and he needs to -

He needs to -

‘Stop.’

Steve can't tell if it's Robin's voice or his, but it doesn't matter.

It's enough to get him to pull himself back. He lets go of Hargrove, breathing heavily as he shuts himself down. Steve's expecting to have to fight with himself, with the way the power in him wants an outlet, but it simmers back down with little more than a whisper. It's easier than it's ever been before, and he can feel Robin's pride whispering through him.

Steve looks up, just in time to see Eddie pointing his gun at Hargrove.

“Don't,” Steve says, stepping between Eddie and Hargrove.

It isn't the same as when he stood between them last time.

For one, Billy Hargrove isn't exactly conscious. For another - Steve doesn't care about Hargrove himself, not the way every part of his being screamed at him to protect Eddie. The only reason Steve's standing here at all is for Max.

“He'll tell Creel,” Eddie says. “You know if he's still alive, if he gets back to him, we're finished.”

“We're finished here either way,” Steve points out. “And Billy Hargrove isn't our decision to make. It belongs to someone else.”

Eddie looks at him searchingly, for a long moment. “If not you, then who?”

It's a fair demand.

As far as the general public knows, as far as Henry Creel knows - the rivalry between Billy Hargrove and Steve Harrington is as intimate as it is intense. Steve would be lying if he pretended like he didn't know that there was a fan favorite theory that there was something more behind their fights.

But it's never been true. Steve's only ever hated Hargrove for what he did to Lucas and Max.

“Come with me,” Steve says. “And I'll introduce you to her.”

Eddie's eyes are dark, unreadable.

Except -

Except.

Except Steve can read into them, can read hesitancy, longing, hope.

He reaches out, snags Eddie's hand, links their fingers together.

“Come with me,” Steve says again. “And I'll protect you.”

“Okay,” Eddie says, soft and almost surprised. “Okay.”

#steve harrington #steddie #eddie munson #stranger things #steddie fic #robin buckley #stobin #dustin henderson #pre steddie #cyberpunk au #but also kind of a gladiator au and a dystopian resistance au?#yeah i have no idea what this is #meant to be a one-shot but i might do a few more

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maple-the-awesome · 3 months

Text

He's Becomes a Dad || Part 2/2

Part 1

Pairing: Twilight, Warrior, Sky, Wild x Reader

Overview: Congratulations, you're new parents 🎉 Some of the Links are prepared. Others...might need a moment to gather themselves. But rest assured! At the end of the day, they're all going to get a handle on this whole dad thing. Warning: Mentions of miscarriages for Sky's section. Nothing to detailed, but it's there so beware 🙅‍♀️

Zelda Masterlist 🤎Fandom Masterlist

It's never been a surprise to you that Twilight would want kids of his own. He never even had to say it aloud, you could just read that look in his eyes whenever playing with the village children. It was a wordless yet ever so contagious request: I want this. And how were you to deny him? Just look at him!

Simply put, children were a top priority of yours almost as soon as you married. It didn't take long for you to become pregnant either (not with Twilight's fierce passion and your shared disinterest towards 'waiting'). Regardless, there were still many tears shed when you found out - all happy, of course, as your husband spun you around in his arms while you both laughed giddily in between quick kisses.

Let's get this straight: Twilight is prepared-prepared. Ordon is that type of close-knit community where everyone helps raise each other's kids, so despite this being his first rodeo as a new dad himself, he has plenty of experience taking care of youngsters. As a ranch-hand, he's also perfectly accustomed to the whole birthing process, having hand-delivered more baby goats than he can count, so don’t worry, nothing about the ‘less glamorous’ sides of pregnancy scare him.

With that being said, Twilight doesn't stress too much aside from the normal concerns about your health, after all he recognizes that not every pregnancy is the same for every woman, but that's exactly why he makes it his personal mission to ensure your comfort.

Feeling particularly ill? He'll make you all the tasty pumpkin soup you could ask for which, believe it or not, works wonders for an upset stomach. Just having a bad day? He'll happily let you cuddle with Wolfie to help you relax. Restless? He'll take you on a horse ride no matter the hour and if you're too far along in your pregnancy to climb onto Epona, a simple walk to Ordon's spring will do since that's the perfect spot to soak your sore body. Twilight is no above carrying you there himself if you ask.

Trust that your every worry is always smoothed; Twilight is there to reassure you no matter how 'little' the problem. Have concerns he can't speak on as a man? He'll happily go ask one of the other village women for you if you're too embarrassed to do so yourself, in fact this guy's already been talking Rusl and Uli's ears off for advice since day one. He doesn't want to leave a single thing to chance regardless of how confident he already feels which is probably why there's a stack of parenting books on his nightstand. Did he clear the shelves in Castle Town? Probably.

You're pretty sure that Twilight already had a 'go-bag' put together before the end of your first trimester, although he’d add to it like a paranoid squirrel up until your due-date. Curious, you had gone through it one day just to get a hint of how overboard he might've gone. Diapers, snacks, blankets, comfortable clothes for you, more parenting books...He does realize you're doing a home birth, right? Most of this stuff he could just grab from the cabinet if needed, but it's sweet that he's trying to be organized.

It isn’t really news to anyone that Hyrule’s heroes tend to land on the quieter side and usually Twilight isn’t much different…There’s a key word in there because you’re quite certain he hasn’t actually shut up since the second you told him you’re pregnant. He can hardly keep his excitement to himself! Oh, but it’s adorable, especially on those nights when he’ll fall asleep mumbling about his joy all while using your swollen stomach as a pillow. It makes your heart swell every time.

When you eventually go into labor, Twilight doesn’t show much outward panic if he has any at all, however he does feel incredibly terrible to watch you go through it without any relief. He feels absolutely useless while unable to take away your suffering the way a good husband should, so to make up for it, he does his utmost best to be your rock during those long hours, talking you through each painful contraction and doing everything in his power to distract you. Back rubs, walks around the house, whispers of sweet nothings…He’s by your side well into the night, keeping it up until it finally comes time to start pushing.

He definitely was not going to say it while you were going through the motions because he’d like to keep his head, but human and goat births are pretty much the same thing minus the actual cursing. He’s in his element then, knowing exactly what to do to ensure a safe delivery for mama and baby. His movements are almost automatic, trained by years of practice as he cleans the little one off before taking the time to admire them fully.

Are you shocked that Twilight is teary eyed? Not at all. Are you upset that he almost forgets about you entirely for a second because he’s so entranced by the baby? Also no, since you need a moment to catch your breath anyway. Don’t worry, though, he does eventually pass you your son reluctantly before hovering at your side with possibly the widest grin you’ve ever seen on the man since your wedding day.

The rest of the night is calm from there on, filled with quiet whispers and cooing as you both take turns partaking in skin-to-skin contact with your baby. Will you be doing this again soon? You’re probably going to need a decent break to recover, but just know that your husband is absolutely ready whenever you are. In the meantime, expect to be showered in endless love and affection because you deserve it for the priceless gift you’ve given him.

Your relationship with Warrior has always been ‘slow moving’ if compared to most other couples’. For starters, while he may have a formidable reputation for being a supposed lady's man, all that 'skill' of his would go flying out the window whenever faced with your presence, so it took some time (and maybe a near-death experience) for any confessions to be made. In his defense, you're a very beautiful and strong woman who happened to be one of his superiors during most of the war, so please excuse him for usually being awed into silence whenever you showed even an ounce of interest in ‘lil ol’ him. His brain would literally become a windows error.

Even after Warrior did finally find the courage to ask you out, your respected jobs and heavy workloads have often forced your relationship to be put on the back-burner. Marry you? Hylia knows he’s been DYING to! You’re already wearing the ring and everything, but it's not like you're going anywhere anytime soon and he'd rather wait a few extra years to enjoy the perfect moment rather than rush the whole ‘happiest-day-of-our-lives’ thing during a bad time.

Luckily for him, you've never needed a formal certificate to know you own his heart. He proves it to you in other ways every day from cheesy love letters to overly romantic dates during your rare off time, and while you normally adore being the sole subject of his affection, that's exactly how you ended up in this very situation.

You're both adults and as such you won't pretend to be innocent: This wasn't planned in the slightest. Your jobs can be quite chaotic, as previously addressed, so you just wanted to help your husband-to-be relax and destress a bit - nothing new for either of you in itself, although that particular evening would end up weighing heavily on your mind a few weeks later.

To be honest, when you first entered Warrior's office and instructed him to sit down with a stern voice that could rival Commander Impa's, he thought you must've finally grown tired of being engaged for several years, having come to him then to demand that he marry you sooner. Agreement was right on the tip of his tongue when you delivered the bombshell that you were pregnant instead.

Your tone was serious and expression calm, but Warrior knows you well enough to spot the hidden worry in your eyes. It’s justified, of course. Had either of you even discussed having kids before? He doesn’t think so. It’s not like having a baby is a bad thing, though. The idea of creating a small family with you is a pleasant one, it’s just…happening a lot sooner than preferred. You both would’ve liked more time to plan and prepare…but oh well. What’s done is done.

The real concern is will your jobs allow you both time off to take care of a baby? It's not like a war is currently going on, so Hyrule won't suffer too much from having two of its best captains sidelined, however what happens if that doesn't remain the case? What if war breaks out tomorrow or the day after? Warrior can’t let his pregnant fiancée fight in battles! What kind of husband and father would that make him?! But at the same time, is he just supposed to ask that you sacrifice your career in order to spare his? THAT’S NO BETTER!

...All things considered, you'd say Warrior handles the news far better than some might've. Yes, he begins to ‘slightly’ overthink things, although that's exactly why you had him sit down first. Calmly, you take his hand and tell him how things will be (your own way of offering comfort not only to him, but yourself as well). The bottom line is that if you could successfully fight Ganondorf’s army together, you can raise a child together, too. Really, how much harder can it be? You already have some minor experience being unofficial parents to little Time and Wind during the war. Just don't give your own children any magic masks or wind controlling devices and you should be golden.

Thankfully, many of Warrior’s initial fears are proven to be irrational during the earliest stages of your pregnancy. Everyone else was positively thrilled to hear the news and even Impa gave her congratulations, explaining to your fiancé’s relief that she’ll simply assign you more deskwork until it’s fit for you to return back to your normal duties. All he has to worry about in the meantime is making sure you actually take it easy; only a slightly difficult task considering your headstrong nature and insistence on not being ‘coddled’, but hey, if anyone can handle it, it’s the guy who’s hellbent on marrying your stubborn butt one day.

Warrior will admit that there were still some nights when he would nearly pull his hair out while doubting if he’s actually ready to be a dad, however the moment you officially being showing is the same moment he forgets all about any possible regrets and replaces them entirely with daydreams filled with not only his lovely wife, but also a little one who will hopefully think the absolute world of him. He already knows he’ll think of it of them.

Although you may feel a bit nervous towards the prospect of suddenly being parents, that doesn’t change the fact that you wouldn’t choose anyone else to go through this journey with. One look to your side and you’re certain of it. The way Warrior holds his son for the first time, newborn wrapped comfortably in his scarf and dad, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion after hours of labor yet the proud smile evident on his face nevertheless…You were right before: so long as you do it together, you’ll excel in this whole ‘parenting-thing’.

You had married young - almost as soon as you were able after graduating from the Knight Academy. To everyone else on Skyloft, you have always been the picture image of an ideal couple; the hero and his beloved princess who somehow manage to be completely and utterly smitten with each other even years later. To call Sky your husband is a blessing in itself and you consider yourself lucky every single day. There’s only ever been one problem with your relationship - one single complaint you can think of where neither of you are truly responsible: your lack of children.

When you first married, there was lots of talk, after all everyone was simply dying to know when the first generation on the Surface would be born. Your parents were eager for grandchildren and Zelda, your best friend, had way too much fun teasing you over the matter by expressing her 'surprise' that Sky had yet to give you a baby despite how 'passionate' he’s always been towards you (she would make sure to use those exact words, too).

Initially, you never minded anyone’s curiosity. It’s only natural to expect children from a newly wed couple. It's when that same couple reaches their third then sixth year of marriage without any trace of tiny feet or squealing laughter that those curious and well-meant questions grow quiet with unbearable pity, your shared excitement becoming shuttered sorrow.

At the start there was nothing to worry about. You were both young and not putting that much effort into it, so certain it wouldn't take long for your family to grow. Then the years began to pass and you would try everything the doctor recommended, but every test would still leave you as disappointed as the last. The absolutely worst form of despair came those few times you'd actually get your hopes up only to have them cruelly dashed a few months in.

What were you doing wrong? Sky would always hush your anxieties and do his utmost best to reassure you, however you knew by his own tears that your infertility hurt him just as much, especially when on those quieter nights, you'd suggest that perhaps you simply weren't meant to be parents - that the gods were just trying to tell you both something you were too stubborn to accept.

It's for that reason that you had such mixed emotions once finally able to fall pregnant again. You were optimistic deep down, however after six years of attempts and losses, you were wary to embrace too much joy right away which was shown in the way Sky held onto you for what felt like hours after you told him or how he slept each night with a hand on your stomach even in those early days, internally praying to the goddesses this would be the one.

A month passed...Then two...And three, and four…For once, you didn't feel sick aside from what was considered normal. Maybe a bit of high blood pressure the doctor kept a close eye on, but other than that he’d always tell Sky and you the same thing: they're healthy.

Even then, you’d say you remained extra cautious, not daring to eat nor do anything the doctor so much as hesitated against, however Sky was by far the worst when it came to worrying. As your husband, he considers your physical and mental well-being his personal responsibility, but as the father of your child? His work has doubled!

All chores were to be his alone so that you could rest. Any bout of sickness was closely monitored and tended to. His hand would remain on your stomach from beginning to end, although overtime it would be done less out of fear and more for the sake of bounding, often accompanied by his voice or the melody of his harp which he would happily play for you both whenever you were having a particularly difficult time falling asleep at night.

Now, you didn't dare tell anyone about your pregnancy during the first half, not wanting to deliver anymore bad news should it come, however once the remilit was out of the bag, you became the center of attention much to Sky's conflicted feelings. On one hand, you deserved it for all of your hard work growing a baby, but on the other, that overprotective dad-side of him couldn't help fretting over the vast number of harmful germs your guests could possibly be passing onto you and your unborn child. Did he make everyone wash their hands for ten minutes before visiting? Yes, yes he did.

Beyond being protective, Sky was also very emotional throughout the entire pregnancy maybe even more than you sometimes. He got teary-eyed after every doctor's appointment that confirmed the baby's development, while picking out names together, and even when you were yelling at him for something stupid because as far as he was concerned, you still looked so beautiful standing there with crossed arms and a round belly carrying his child. Oh, but none of that compared in the slightest to the tears that were shed when he actually held his daughter for the first time; that amount of waterworks could put the flood of Faron to shame!

Six years of waiting made you both lose hope. You assumed you’d never be able to have children of your own and even began to look towards other options such as adoption or simply living your lives childless forever…but the day your daughter was born was the day all your anxieties and doubts were finally put to rest. Now, as you cry happily with your husband, you can’t think of a single complaint towards your relationship; it’s officially as perfect as the precious little bundle in your arms.

Wild and you were still practically newlyweds when you gave him the 'thrilling' news. You were so happy to do so, too, barely able to bite back your excitement while watching your husband lift a small pair of baby pajamas out of a gift box. You were absolutely glowing as you eagerly awaited his reaction and all he could do was simply stare into space as his whole world came crashing down on top of him. Did he look horrified on the outside? He must've, because he swears he could’ve pinpointed the exact moment that shine in your eyes died, a frown etching its way onto your lips. What else was he supposed to do aside from fake a smile and embrace you, keeping you close to his chest so that your delight wouldn't be spoiled by his internal nervous breakdown?

Wild has zero right to be shocked. You had both been intimate (as tends to happen when you're married) not to mention you had made it perfectly clear from the start of your relationship that you would want a family one day. Judging on your eagerness towards the topic, it was never up for debate either; no kids would be a dealbreaker for you, so Wild had no choice but to quietly agree, too afraid to dare utter the truth or voice any hesitation because Hylia forbid you get the wrong idea and leave him.

He thought it would be harmless. Some couples remain married for years before any children follow and you weren't in any big hurry, so he figured he'd have plenty of time to get his act together until the day of your dreams arrived; he didn't think it would happen during your first year of marriage! ...Now he's really dug himself into a hole it's too late to try escaping from…

He’s almost said something - a few times actually. He knows it’s only fair and that as your husband, he owes you proper communication, but each time he opens his mouth, his mind curses him with the image of your sadness. What if you think he doesn’t want this at all? What if you think he hates the baby and hates you for being pregnant? What if you concluded he must want to leave you so you decide to beat him to the punch?!

…Okay, so Wild knows you aren’t going to just walk away. You’ve always been good at listening to his inner demons and acting as his strongest pillar of support, but that doesn’t change his fear that you might be hurt by whatever he has to say and he will not allow himself to ruin your own excitement.

In the years that he’s known you, he can’t say he’s ever seen you quite as happy as when you found out about your baby. He knows he should match that joy, too. Most men do. Hell, Twilight practically sent a five-page essay bragging about his wife's first pregnancy. Truth be told, Wild actually does feel happy. On his better days, he feels that flicker of pride and a hint of eagerness because a family with you honestly sounds wonderful. The problem is, in his mind, it isn't a question as to what he wants, but rather what he deserves.

So much has gone wrong in his past. It doesn’t matter how much you or anyone else assures him otherwise, it’s hard to shake the feeling that he failed Hyrule. He still suffers from so many nightmares and waves of guilt that he can’t properly put into words. You’re still having to shake him out of dazes and smooth his following sobs…How is he going to be a good dad and be there for his child when he can barely stand upon his own two feet like this?

Initially, Wild thought these feelings would go away; that’s why he never spoke them to you. He wanted so desperately to believe they wouldn’t linger, especially after you both got married. He lives in a peaceful world, has a nice home in a quiet village, a beautiful wife who adores him…He should’ve been able to move on from the Calamity already, so why hasn’t he? On his worst nights, it makes him wonder if he’ll ever be okay or if he’s just screwed you and the baby over by tying you both down to him.

These two sides of him - the hopeful and the pitiful - continue to battle for dominance inside Wild’s head throughout each step. Sometimes he’s genuinely smiling with you as you pick out baby names. Other times he’s sitting outside alone trying his damn hardest to remember any piece of his past that might make him feel at least a little better about his luck towards being a dad, preferably a time when he was actually good with kids or even had a family before.

Wild’s internal dilemma comes to a head one fateful night when he’s awoken to the baby’s distressing cries. He had honestly already been awake after a mild case of anxiety, but you on the other hand are tired, worn from nine long months of pregnancy and the early days of active motherhood. The last thing he wants is for you to lose out on precious rest (a rare gift these days), so leaping out of bed, he’s quick to reach the baby’s crib.

Unfortunately, Wild’s natural instincts seem to basically stop right there at the crib’s side. Hands hovering above, he tries his best to calm his daughter through whispered assurances and attempts at cooing the same way he’s seen you do. When that doesn’t work, he awkwardly picks her up, cuddling her close to his chest while quietly pleading at this point. Is she hungry? Does she need a diaper change? Did she have a nightmare? Whatever it is, if you wake up, you’ll take over and he’ll be left to stand aside feeling like he can’t even do the basic task of comforting his own child and -

- To his astonishment, his efforts actually work. It really must’ve been as simple as a nightmare because slowly, the baby falls silent, seemingly forgetting all about her troubles as she finds solace gazing up at her daddy with the widest blue eyes and a stuck-out tongue that can’t seem to keep itself in her mouth. It looks rather goofy, so Wild can’t help but chuckle, although the sound is soft as his heart melts under the attention she holds towards him. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say it’s almost like she’s looking at her entire world…

Maybe some would say this moment isn’t necessarily anything special, but for Wild, it’s everything. As if suddenly a pro, he’s able to rock the little beauty gently back to sleep, his pleas turning into words of admiration as he tucks her into bed. There, he continues to keep watch over her until he feels tired himself, all the while thinking: he might be broken from years of trauma, and he might not be the best husband or parent out there because of it, but that's not going to stop him from doing everything in power to be there for his princesses.

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