This is my blog, a chaos to be honest, where I regularly post my works. I belong in so many fandoms I've lost count but writing for them is my way to escape a little from reality.
Everyone is welcomed here and my asks and dms are always open for you if you need anything but I would like to ask you to treat everyone with respect.
Feedback is always appreciated as well as likes, reblogs and comments.
My other blog is feyredarling92 and it's the account I respond to comments. I also reblog works I enjoyed.
You can also find me on Ao3 (feyre_darling92) where I post many of my works.
Mark my words : the day Shawn Hatosy tries his hand at audiobooks for fun, a new tier of madness will descend upon this earth and none of us will be normal again.
He could literally just read "I drank juice this morning" and it would activate the exact same brain regions that light up when Talk by Hozier starts. Thatâs the level of chaos weâre dealing with.
Damn curly silver fox with a raspy voice, It should be illegal to build you like this.
Guess who's alive, my wonderful, darling people. That's...me. It would be weird if I was referring to someone else. Anyways, how about a Bucky Barnes x reader after a year and a half?
(Hint: let's just say this one will be for the clichĂŠ spy movie lovers, with an element of enemies to lovers and a finish of fake marriage trope ;))
summary: You find him after the attack on the bridge, and you're left to figure out how to tread the fragile state of him.
tags: young silco, a few hours after vander tries to drown him, angst, established relationship, hurt silco, not betad
a/n: mid-lecture we were looking at photos of gash wounds and i couldn't help but think of young silco's face fresh after the drowning, so ofc i had to write a comfort fic for him. kinda comfort. it's mostly angst.
Vander couldnât look you in the eye, couldnât form a single word. And at first, worry was what overtook youâSilco hadnât survived, lost in the fight. But the more you looked at the larger man who had returned, the more you recognised something else: the aftereffect when heâd had too much to drink, had raised his voice, had felt guilty. Regret.
You find Silco in your bedroom, curled up on the worn mattress that had held you both some countless nights. It had overheard the visions for your new nation, the sloppy passion of drunken evenings, the quiet rise and fall of breaths during winter. Now itâs witnessing something new.
Youâve never heard Silco cry. Your bedroom shrinks at the sound of it, as if the corners darken and round themselves to hold and hush him. Itâs a sharp sting, an undeniably pained cry bleeding into his palm, cupped around his mouth.
When you approach, youâre silentâassessing, investigating, worrying if this isnât something you can fix. Heâs never been so evidently broken. Youâre not sure whether itâs about Vander or at the failure of their uprising, both of which had taken a large portion of his heart.
âSilco?â you whisper, taking another step forward.
âDonât,â he manages, his sobs becoming quieter, but affecting his breath, bubbling out of him in squeaks and chokes. âPlease,â
You shake your head, keeping your ground but keeping your eyes on him. Heâs refusing to remove his reddened hands from his face, his hair curtaining over his left side, black, wet strings.
âYouâre hurt,â you furrow, focusing on the blood down his hand. You rush forward, chest attempting to wrangle in a frenzied heart. âShow me, hey, Sââ
âStop!â he inches away from you, a childlike recoil that makes you freeze.
Itâs a foreign behaviour, a desperation heâs never worn, never come close to mimicking. As far as youâve known him heâs been the opposite. Even in pain, he stitched together a composure so convincing it made others doubt he could ever truly feel the hurt he was raised around.
You suppose that itâs something heâs worked on, refined throughout the years after taking on the responsibility of becoming Zaunâs face, alongside Vander. His ideologies had spilled straight from his heart into your ear. You understood why he worked so hard to maintain a strong face.
That man was gone; he hadn't entered the room this time.
Heâs hiding, you see, shielding his face from you. This, you understand, is something he thinks may spare you from even a fraction of the pain he must be feeling. Heâs always been so. To hoard the suffering and smile.
âYou donât want me to see you?â you ask, kneeling by the bed and retracting your hands.
Silco doesnât answer, the chokes of suppressed sobs the only sound from him.
âItâs alright,â with a shake of your head, you turn around, facing the other way and leaning against the bed. âI donât have to see you. Just⌠just talk to me,â
You wait a beat, then another, waiting for his voice, willing his voice to regard you again. Anything with a meaning that you could warp into a sign of hope.
âPlease,â you add. Itâs unintentionally desperate, pleading, giving him the power of controlling where the conversation goes. Something he needs, you suppose, something heâs certain is still predictable.
You hear a sharp breath behind you, then the shuffle of your bedsheets. Your eyes slide the farthest they can without turning your head, attempting to see any glimpse of him.
Then his hand enters your periphery, pale skin against scarlet, fingers twitching and shaking as his forearm rests on your shoulder.
You take gentle hold of his hand, turning it this way and that in search for wounds. But nothing. âWhoâŚâ your breath escapes, âIs this your blood?â
âYes,â he responds, a word that pricks at your lungs sharply.
You see the moment clearer now. A wound so deep that to reveal it is its own pain.
You recall Vanderâs face. The shame that distorted his features, how ugly it becomes as you try to piece together the fragmented pieces.Â
âVander did something,â you surmise. Your breath quickens, a sneer creating brackets around your flared nostrils. âDid Vander do something?â
You feel Silcoâs breath near the top of your head, but before youâre able to turn, a weight settles over you. Momentarily, you hold, letting the firmness of his muscles process on your body, around your shoulders, his other arm snaking over your bones and holding you backwards to him.
You hear his soft sniffs over your head and slightly to one side, the bone of his cheek pressing against your crown.
There it is again. Itâs a spear through your body, the sound of him. It strikes a fissure along your lungs, each sudden inhale a crack veining in your airways, each tremoring breath he takes an earthquake on your skull. Vander, what have you done?
You take his hand and hold it to your cheek, the cool back of his hand against the warm apple of your face. You interlace your fingers, a familiar practice, just as fluid as the locking of legs in the night, or the pressing of palms for a prayer.
Next was the chaste kiss on his index knuckle, for loyalty. Then on the middle knuckle, for liberty. Another on the ring knuckle, for luck. And lastly, a kiss on the pinky knuckle, for love.
It was a silent conversation he and you had made, meeting mouth to bone always easier than devoting a voice to each word.
His other hand wrapped around your wrist, bringing your arm upwards and over your head, your own knuckles meeting his familiar lips. But they tremble.
He breathes a kiss, gentle, on your index knuckle, starting, then failing. His breath falls jagged on your skin.
For a moment he restarts, the warmth of his air hovering over your knuckle. But again he fails.
Your frown deepens. Even more so when he moves your hand and skips to your pinky knuckle, the only promise fulfilled.
âHow bad is it?â your voice slightly muffles against his hand near your mouth.
He swallows, clearing his throat. âAt the⌠we were at the river, heââ he grips your hand slightly tighter.
âItâs still hurting?â
His clothes shuffle. âYeah,â
âLet me look?â
Silence.
You start to think heâll reject you again, not yet prepared to face you in whatever shape Vander had left him. But he loosens his arm around your shoulders and moves away, his presence at your back fading.
Your other hand remains in his, the anchor, as you shift on the floor and turn.
You look up and your eyes meet. No. One eye meets yours.
You sense his panic by how the one remaining blue jumps between your eyes, tips of his mouth downwards. He brushes aside his wet hair.
The left side of his face had been marred, a trench of exposed muscle, skin, and blood bared at you. The blackened sclera is haunting, a flame moving in tandem with the watery blue of his other eye.
Youâre more than certain thereâs nothing but indignation gushing through your veins. Yet, Silco remains beautiful. You realised a long time ago it was difficult for him to not be, no matter the state of him. And still now, left eye diseased with the molten of betrayal, mouth frowned by grief, fear in his good eye.
âItâs not over,â he whispers, leaning forward as you reach up and cup the unmarred side of him. âWeâll take back Zaun,â
There he is. No man, no river, could ever kill him. âYouâll show them,â you press a kiss to his index knuckle.
Just Another Writing Blog @feyre-darling92 - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
