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#I suspect they do this to guilt you into continuing the conversation
nereidprinc3ss · 23 days
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Ok so this might be an odd request but I’ve been really sad about the fact that the network vetoed bisexual Reid so I was wondering if you could write boyfriend Spencer coming out to reader and just having it be really sweet and fluffy??
this is the cutest. great minds are bisexual reid truthers. i am honored to do this for the tumblr community and the world at large
warnings/tags: potentially VERY slight internalized homophobia from spencer if u squintttt but he's just nervous that's all!! my boyfriend has never done anything wrong in his life!! fem reader
“My type is you,” you say sweetly, angling your head up to look at your boyfriend. The two of you have been laying on the couch for the better part of an evening, (more accurately, he’s on the couch, you’re on him) talking about nothing and everything. Somehow the conversation has meandered to this—him asking you what your type in men is, of all things. 
“What a convenient answer,” Spencer teases, pushing your hair away from your face. You laugh, leaning into the warmth of his touch. 
“I mean it! I don’t think I ever really got what all the excitement was about men until I met you.”
He hums, a satisfied little smile on his face. “That’s very flattering.”
“What about you?”
His brows dart up. 
“What’s my type in men?”
An inadvertent laugh bubbles from your throat—slowly going stale in the air while you watch as Spencer actually flushes. It dawns on you with a splash of anxiety and a generous helping of guilt that maybe it’s not exactly a joke to him. You attempt to play it off casually, keeping your tone even but receptive. 
“Well, I meant in women. But, if you have a type in men, by all means, tell me.”
Hazel eyes dart between yours as his hand continues carding through your hair—and then he’s looking away, studying the wall behind you like there’s more there than faded green paint. 
Silences stretches as you chew on the inside of your cheek, worried you’ve somehow said the wrong thing. You wriggle higher up his body and gently grab his wrist, interrupting what you suspect is a self-soothing motion. 
“Hey,” you murmur, pulling his hand to your lips and pressing them to his knuckles. “Come back.”
Finally he looks at you again, mildly surprised like you’d tugged him from the very depths of his thoughts. But his eyes are soft, grazing his his fingers over your lips. 
“I’m right here.”
“You know what I mean.” The words are gentle. His thumb catches on your bottom lip and you nip at it playfully, trying to lighten his suddenly heavy mood. It’s hard to tell if it works—he continues tracing your lips absentmindedly, biting his own. When he speaks, his voice is quiet and wavers ever so slightly, the way it does in the rare instance that he’s not 100% sure of himself or what he’s talking about. 
“I was thinking about your question.” You don’t dare speak for fear opening your mouth will somehow break whatever self-hypnosis is keeping him honest. “I don’t have a specific type. In women. Or… or men.”
His voice is so fragile that you have to run it back in your mind a few times to process what he’d said. Several layers of clothing do nothing to dull the rapid drumming of his heartbeat against your chest. And your poor boyfriend looks so scared during the moment of silence while you’re thinking that it breaks your heart. He needs a sign, something to reassure him that it’s okay, before he backtracks and dissociates entirely. Delicately your hand slides up the side of his neck and jaw. You crane your neck to press a long kiss to his flushed cheek. It’s okay, you’re okay. We’re okay. The world is still turning. His chest rises and falls slowly in a deep, silent sigh. 
“I love you,” you remind him once you pull away, wiping away the slight sheen of chapstick your kiss had left. He catches your hand, wrapping it in his larger one. The guarded look in his eye does a poor job of concealing how badly he wants to please you, and everyone, and how scared he is that maybe this was the wrong answer. That maybe this is just another way he is not quite right, and you’ll tell him so, just like everyone else always has. 
“You’re not—you don’t have anything to say?”
Gentle fingers brush away invisible tears under his eyes, sweeping over the skin with the utmost care. He’s not crying, but you imagine at one point or another he had, and since you weren’t there to wipe away the tears then, maybe you can make up for it by being here now. 
“Is it something you want to talk about?” you ask, fingers still skimming over the angular plane and valley of his cheek. The darting of his eyes between yours, the slight furrow of his brow, the pressed-together lips—he’s profiling you. Trying to extract your thoughts through osmosis. 
“I… I’ve never told anyone before.”
Your stomach twists. You hate that there’s any part of him he feels he has to hide—and that he’s done it for so long. 
“Well I’m glad you told me, angel.” 
His eyes are like warm honey as he looks up at you, dulling that sharp, defensive edge as the endearment slips past your lips. Usually it’s the other way around, and you hope it soothes him even half as much as it always does for you. 
A surprised laugh is expelled from your lungs when he pulls you down into a crushing hug. Immediately, gleefully, you reciprocate, pushing your arms under his waist and tangling your legs with his, holding on ferociously and for dear life. His face is buried in the hollow of your neck, so you have to assume that much like you, he’s picked this over oxygen. 
“You are the best thing that has ever happened to me,” he breathes, lips brushing your neck and hair. Muffled, because there’s no space between you. Your eyes sting and tear up almost immediately. A joke forms on the tip of your tongue; low bar? But you bite it back, unsure if you can manage persuasive sarcasm in this moment. “And, for the record, you are the most beautiful human being I have ever met in my life. Nobody else has or will ever come close.”
You laugh tearfully into his collar. “Spencer, I’m not worried about that.”
“I know you’re not,” he says, finally coming up for air. You do the same, laying on his shoulder contentedly and looking into his eyes. “But I’m telling you anyway because it’s true and I want you to hear it.”
A contemplative moment passes, and you wonder how it’s possible to be falling even more in love with him. You’d thought you already loved him as much as any human being had ever been capable of doing. You hope love has no end. You hope you keep falling deeper and deeper forever. 
“You should know something,” you say, looking down to toy with the collar of his shirt. He hums. 
“What should I know, angel girl?”
“You should know that I’m still going to fight anyone who tries to flirt with you. I don’t care if it’s a six five body builder or a seventy year old woman with a walker. You’re gonna have to hold me back.”
A bemused smile tugs at his lips. 
“You would physically fight an elderly woman?”
“Or a six five body builder,” you agree. Spencer faces the ceiling like he’s watching the scene play out. 
“Okay,” he snorts. “I don’t love that, but okay.”
“It’s what you signed up for,” you mumble, snuggling back into him. His hand finds the back of your head and tangles comfortably in your hair once more. 
“You’re right. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
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zepskies · 11 days
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Take Me Home - Part 3
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Pairing: Beau Arlen x F. Reader 
Summary: You are another lost soul at Sunny Day Excursions. You’re aiming to settle in Helena, Montana, where Beau Arlen is the new sheriff in town. But you’ve both got a past you’re running from. 
AN: I’m being continuously blown away by your lovely responses on this story. Thank you so much! I truly appreciate all the love for our cowboy sheriff and where TMH is going.
Word Count: 6.6K
Tags/Warnings: Angst, hurt/comfort, a heart-to-heart, flirtations, and invitations taken…
❤️ Series Masterlist
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Part 3: Welcome Home
In the next twenty-four hours after Mary was found, the police’s investigation led them to a man named Walter. He’d been living in the woods, and was suspected of stalking the camp for days. 
He was arrested as a prime suspect in Mary’s murder at Sunny Day Excursions, along with Paige’s; even though they’d yet to find her body, the police did confirm that she'd never made it home to New York.
They also found Luke later that night. His body was pierced to a tree by an archer’s arrow. 
The campers were sent home shortly after Walter was arrested. 
And three days later, your aunt Denise gingerly took a seat on the edge of the couch you’d been lying in all day (and all week so far). She swept her fingers over your greasy hair in both comfort and affection. 
Denise Brisbane was your mom’s sister. She was a private investigator here in Helena. And as you found out, she actually worked with Cassie Dewell, the woman you’d met at the camp, who was still in search of a missing backpacker.
“You’ve barely moved in days, honey,” Denise said.
Her face was sympathetic and sad, watching you. Though you felt the sting of guilt, feeling like a burden that had just been unloaded on your aunt, you didn’t want to leave your warm blankets. Your body felt heavy and useless.
“Good news though. The rest of your stuff ships in tomorrow,” she said, continuing to pet your hair. “I’ll help you move into your new apartment. How does that sound?”
You gave a weak nod. “Thanks.”
She sighed. “I’m not trying to kick you out, hun. I just think it’ll be good for you to start getting on your feet.”
You agreed, wordlessly. In your head, you knew she was right. You couldn’t sleep on her couch forever, and perhaps more importantly, you couldn’t let this beat you down forever.
“You sure you don’t want to talk about it?” Denise asked, squeezing your shoulder. “Your mom wanted to get the first flight out here, but I told her I’d take care of you until you go home for the funeral.”
You were grateful for that. As much as you loved your mother, you didn’t want to be smothered right now. Your mom’s version of comfort could only include a heavy dose of smothering. The one thing you had been able to do was call Mary’s parents.
That had been a long and painful conversation. After which, you slept like the dead for two days straight.
Denise broke you out of your wandering thoughts when she handed you a business card. It had a banyan tree emblazoned on it, along with the name of a grief counseling center.
“Cassie’s actually been going here, and she’s liked it so far,” she said.
At your furrowed look of confusion, she added, “Look, it’s okay if you don’t want to talk to me, but I think it would be good for you to talk to someone. Maybe someone who understands what you’re going through.”
You sighed and flipped the card through your fingers. You really, really didn’t want to go. You could already what your father would say if he knew you went to a grief counselor. His form of “therapy” was the growing collection of bourbon behind his desk.   
But if it meant you’d stop being a lump in your aunt’s living room, then maybe you could give it a shot.
“Okay,” you nodded. Your voice was a bit coarse with disuse. Denise gave you a smile, and a warm hug that felt like home. She even offered to make your appointment for you.
You were a little annoyed though. Now you’d have to actually get up and put on a bra.
“Maybe shower first, huh?” she advised, while she helped you get up.
“Yeah, yeah,” you replied.
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A hot shower, washing and styling your hair, putting real clothes on, and overall making yourself presentable actually made you feel human again. You even surprised yourself by putting on a bit of makeup.
Once you made it to the grief counseling center in your car, however, you sat in the parking lot for a minute. You had to take a moment to breathe. Because you knew you were going to be asked what happened. You were going to have to get into it all over again.
Even after you were able to leave your car and brave through the carpeted halls of the building, your hands were shaking. At the reception desk, an older woman directed you down another long hallway to the group session. It was the only one available on short notice, but she promised that if you found the session helpful, she could help you book another group session, or even a solo session.
You weren’t sure if you were ready for “solo,” but a group appealed to you. Maybe you could just sit in the back and let the others talk.
The counselor, Tom, greeted you when you walked into the right room. It was a small room with a bunch of chairs formed in a circle at the center. No room to hide, you thought with growing unease. You glanced over and saw that there were a few people already milling about, making small talk in a cluster near the circle.
“We’re gonna start here in a few minutes, but until then, you can take a seat,” said Tom. “There’s also coffee and cookies over there, if you like.”
Coffee. Coffee was warm, and it might settle your nerves and help you perk up a bit. You thanked him and went for the carafes on a small table in the back. You poured some coffee into a Styrofoam cup and poured a little sugar and creamer into it, but after you took an experimental sip, you immediately regretted it.
Tastes like damn soil water! You made a grossed out sound and spat it back into your cup.
“Yeah, wouldn’t recommend the joe,” drawled a familiar voice. 
You turned sharply to find Sheriff Beau Arlen. He gave you a sympathetic look as he reached for a cup of water. Seeing him took you by such surprise, you gasped with a slight flinch, accidentally spilling some scalding coffee on yourself in the process. 
You held the cup away from you fast, but a few drops still flecked on your jeans, and even his boots. 
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” you gasped again. Beau just smiled good-naturedly and grabbed a few napkins off the table.
“It’s all right,” he said. “I’m the one who snuck up on you. Accidentally, I might add.”
He handed you the napkins so you could soak up the coffee from your hand and arm. Meanwhile, he took your half-empty coffee cup and tossed it in the garbage. Your damp wad of napkins joined the cup.
And when you finally looked up at him again, you both found yourselves smiling, despite where you were. It was the first time you’d been able to smile in days.
“Sheriff Arlen,” you greeted. “I did not expect to see you here…”
His smile faltered at that, but his hand reached back to sort through his short hair at the back of his head. 
“Ah, call me Beau,” he said. “I have a feeling we’re about to get to know each other better.”
You agreed to that, just as you agreed to join him for a seat within the circle of chairs. He leaned back in his chair and swept a hand through his hair again, perhaps in a nervous gesture. You glanced over at him, saw the way he smoothed a hand down his jeans when his knee started bouncing…
Could he be as anxious as you? You had to wonder why he was here, for grief counseling of all things. The thought sobered you as more people filtered in and took their seats. Tom eventually got things started from his spot across from you in the circle.
“Okay, we’ve got a couple of first timers to this group session, so tell you what,” he said. “Let’s go around, introduce ourselves, and share something interesting. Whether it’s what you do for a living, a new hobby you picked up, or keeping it even more simple, something fun you did this week.”
You looked down at the folded hands in your lap. If binge watching entire seasons of Succession and sleeping until noon every day counted as something fun, then you were all set.
The introductions started to his left, so it took a while before it got around to you. There was that little flutter of nerves in your stomach, like you were a kid again, and it was the first day of school (but worse).
Luckily, Beau was before you. You were curious about what he would share as he let out a subtle clearing of his throat.
“Hi there, I’m Beau Arlen. Some of you know me as the new sheriff over at Helena PD.” He greeted everyone with a short wave, though he tossed you a smiling glance. “You might also be able to tell that I’m from Texas. Born and bred in Houston. I moved up here to stay close to my daughter, who’s living here with her mother…my ex-wife.”
He tacked on that last bit after a slight pause. But he recovered quicker than you could process and gestured to you next. You forced yourself to perk up, putting your “teacher’s hat” on as you tried to meet everyone’s eyes. First, you gave them your name.
“I’m also from out of town, from Chicago,” you said, glancing at Beau. His expression was encouraging. It gave you the small boost you didn’t know you needed. “I’m a college professor, formerly of the University of Chicago…but I start at Caroll College in the fall.”
Beau’s brows rose as his lips twitched upwards. You tried not to blush as you passed on the introductions to the next person.
The session itself was light overall. Tom talked about the stress that often came with the unknown—with moving past a challenging time, or tackling a new project, or even moving to a new and unfamiliar city. He didn’t force everyone to chime in about themselves, but the ones who were ready to share took the floor one by one. And by the end, you thought that you’d gleaned some useful tidbits just by listening.
Hell, maybe you’d even come back here.
When the session was over though, you were kind of relieved. You grabbed your purse and got up to leave.
“Well, that was relatively painless,” Beau said, also getting up from his seat.
“Yeah, wasn’t so bad,” you replied. Your name fell from his lips in the form of a question, earning your expectant gaze.
“Listen, uh, can I buy you a real cup of coffee?” he offered. “We might not have met under the best of circumstances, but I just heard recently that you’re Denise’s niece. Well, I’m friends with the gals over at Dewell & Hoyt, your aunt included, so I just thought it’d be good to get to know each other, being that we’re both kinda new in town, and—”
You set a light hand on his arm. That one touch was able to stop his rambling, along with the sight of your amused smile up at him.
“Coffee sounds great,” you said.
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You decided there was no real harm in meeting him at the nearest coffee shop, just a few minutes away.
It was hard not to associate the sheriff with that terrible night at the camp, but you knew that wasn’t fair to him. He seemed like a nice guy, and by the way he talked about his daughter, maybe even a good man.
In your experience, a good man was hard to find.
“So, what do you teach exactly?” Beau asked. He’d just finished telling you about Emily starting a summer internship with Cassie and Denise at the private investigation agency. Like father like daughter, you’d remarked. Beau’s soft, but proud smile had been telling.
“English literature,” you replied to his question, sipping at your cappuccino. He was drinking a hot French vanilla latte, which kind of amused you. You had expected him to order an Americano or something.   
“Oh, yeah? What sort of classes?” he said.  
“The greatest hits, basically,” you explained. “Composition, English grammar, Shakespeare…Twentieth Century British Literature.”
“Oh, is that all?” he chuckled. It charmed a smile out of you. 
“I don’t know why I asked. I didn’t even go to college,” Beau said. It finally succeeded in making you laugh.
“Straight to the police academy, then?” you asked.
“Like a cannonball, heels a blazin’,” he said, miming a gunshot with his hand. 
“Like a rhinestone cowboy,” you teased. And you felt brave enough to hum the riff of the Glen Campbell song. 
Beau shook his head with a grin. He’d seen you, all tightened up and anxious throughout the group session, even though it had been pretty lightweight. He could relate to your discomfort. He’d made a conscious effort to talk very little about himself and gave the others the room to tell their stories.
Beau liked seeing you more relaxed though. He liked your smile, the glimpses of your sense of humor shining through. He liked that he was somehow able to bring that out of you for a while. 
“I still can’t believe you're Denise’s niece,” he said, once again shaking his head. “What a small world.”
“Yeah. I’ve been crashing on her couch for the past week,” you admitted. “But I have the rest of summer to settle into my new apartment, starting tomorrow. I’ve got my whole life shipping in on a truck.”
Beau nodded at that. He contemplated whether it’d be appropriate for him to offer you some help with that. The question was on the tip of his tongue, until he saw the way your mood saddened. You sat contemplating your coffee mug.
“I asked her to come,” you confessed. When your eyes met his, they shone with the beginning of unshed tears. “The camping trip was Mary’s idea, but I asked her to come with me to Helena for the week. She wouldn’t have been there if it wasn’t for me.”
Beau let out a deep breath and met you with a more somber, understanding gaze. 
“It wasn’t your fault,” he said. He was reminded that they had Walter in custody. He wasn’t yet willing to break and confess to the murders at Sunny Day Excursions, but they had him.
“I promise, we’ll get justice for Mary,” Beau added. You sighed and wiped a tear from your cheek.
“Do you think you have the right man?” you asked, speaking of Walter.
“I do,” Beau replied. “He’s being stubborn, but all the evidence points to him.”
You nodded gratefully, but you had to try and breathe through your tumultuous emotions, the way your heart was cracking with pain. You didn’t want to break down in the middle of a damn coffee shop.
Again, Beau wrestled with the inclination to cover his hand over yours. He felt like he was toeing the line between his professional capacity as a sheriff, and the fact that you were his friend’s niece. He wanted to comfort you the best he could. But sometimes, words just weren’t enough.
You took a half-hearted sip of your coffee. By now, it was lukewarm, if still tasty and sweet. It was healthier than whiskey, you supposed.
“She was like…like my sister, you know?” you said. “I feel like I failed her.”
Beau shook his head, his dark brows furrowing. He didn’t know how many times he could say it wasn’t your fault, knowing you probably wouldn’t ever believe it.
That struck a familiar bell.
“Look, I uh…I understand what you’re going through,” he admitted. Your watery gaze found his again. Your head tilted in interest.
He sighed before answering your unspoken question. “I lost my partner on the job, now a couple years back.”
“I’m sorry,” you replied, and your sympathy was as genuine as his had been for you. “I’m guessing you two were close.”
Beau’s lips quirked at one corner. “He was like my brother. Matter of fact, I think it used to make my own brother jealous.”
You processed that with a sad frown, though your brows soon rose in curiosity.
“You have a brother?”
“Yep,” Beau nodded. The brief shadows in his eyes lifted at the merciful change of topic. “Good ole’ David. I still call him Davey, even though he hates it.”
A smile played on your lips. “Older or younger?”
“Younger, by a few years,” he replied. There was a more natural gleam to his smile then. “He’s a hotshot doctor back in Houston.”
He teased, but you could see there was pride behind his eyes. It reminded you of the way he got whenever he talked about Emily.
“So you know my story. What brought you to Montana?” he asked. He wanted to see if he could help you get your mind off Mary. He didn’t know that he’d just pulled the pin on a whole other grenade. 
You let out a wry chuckle. 
“Uh, oh,” Beau said warily. 
You nodded. He did tell you his story—ex-wife with a new husband, daughter, a new job in Montana—though you still didn’t know why he was going to grief counseling. If it was because of his partner, you could understand that…but you also didn’t want to pry.
You also knew it was only fair to answer his question.
“It’s not exactly like your situation but…I was engaged,” you said at last. 
Past tense, he noted. 
“Good guy?” he asked. 
“A firefighter,” you replied. Though you knew well the rivalry that sometimes existed between cops and firefighters. Beau’s growing bemusement told you he was thinking along the same lines. 
“Ah, a smoke eater, huh?” But his smile faded. “Did something happen to him on the job?”
“No,” you said, again with that weary chuckle. It was hard for you to get this out, but you’d been wrestling with it for over six months, damn near a year. It was enough. 
“Just a couple months before the wedding, I found out he’d been cheating on me with his college girlfriend…pretty much throughout our whole relationship,” you said. 
Though you promised yourself that you’d never cry over this again, today had already been incredibly difficult. The tears came, and you couldn’t stop them. 
Beau's brows had risen high in surprise. Then, a deeper sympathy settled in his eyes.
“Jesus. How long?” he asked.
“We were together three years, engaged for about another one,” you said. “Almost four years of my life, just…”
You mimed a puff of smoke blowing out of your hand. 
“Yeah. I know the feeling,” Beau said. His tone was wry as he dragged a hand over his beard. You gave him an apologetic look.
“I’m sorry. I know my story doesn’t compare with a marriage,” you said.
“That’s not what I was gettin’ at,” he replied. “But I get it. You start to think, what the hell was it all for? …Except for my daughter.”
“Yeah. Unfortunately, I don’t have an Emily,” you said. At the same time though, you were very glad you never had kids with that man.
Beau frowned when he saw the way your face fell further, becoming distant, and lost in old memories. 
“Afterwards, I…I checked out, you know? I could barely focus on my students, my family, my friends.” Your nails drummed on the countertop. You shook your head as it all filtered through your mind again. “But the last straw was that my dad tried to get me to work things out with him, and I just…I lost it. Beau, I absolutely lost my shit.”
Beau grimaced. “What made your dad think that would work?”
“He’s a retired firehouse chief,” you said, with a purse of your lips. “He’s always had a soft spot for Michael.”
“Michael, huh?” Beau quirked a brow. “That come with a last name?”
You shot him a look of amusement. 
“What, are you going to run his LUDS?” you joked, but you couldn’t prevent a sniffle as a new wave of emotion threatened an upswell.
You felt pathetic. This man was the whole-ass sheriff of this town. He probably had more important things to do than listen to you complain about your imploded relationship. But you were also Denise’s niece. Maybe he just felt sorry for you.
He offered you a napkin. “Sorry it’s not a tissue.”
In his eyes though, you didn’t see pity. Just kindness.
“It’s okay. I can brave a scratchy napkin,” you said, laughing a little. “But after that, I knew one of two things was going to happen. Either I was going to break open my dad’s gun safe and shoot the bastard in the ass, or I had to get the hell out of Chicago. My mom and Aunt Denise suggested I come here for a visit, just to clear my head. That turned into scoping out jobs, and then apartments… Now I’m here.”
That fell between you for a moment as your companion processed it all. In hindsight, you probably shouldn’t have mentioned that whole bit about possibly shooting your ex, but he took it in stride. 
“Well, for what it’s worth, I’m glad you are,” Beau said. “Here, that is.”
You couldn’t help but blush; at his words, the deep green of his eyes, and the sincerity of his smile.
“Likewise, Sheriff,” you said.
He smirked. “Also glad you didn’t go shootin’ people in the ass.” 
You covered your face and laughed. 
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Beau walked you to your car like the gentleman he was, even though it was only late afternoon. You opened the driver’s side door, but you lingered there. You turned back to him, curling a strand of hair behind your ear.
“Thanks for the coffee, and for letting me ramble, and vent, and soak up a few dozen napkins,” you said. You laughed a little in embarrassment, but he waved it off.
“It wasn’t as bad as all that, but good luck movin’ into your apartment tomorrow,” he said. Then it was his turn to hesitate. “If you need some help with that, just let me know.”
You blinked, mouth parting in soft surprise.
“Oh, thank you but…I don’t want to trouble you,” you said.
“You wouldn’t be. That’s why I offered,” he replied, smiling down at you in a way that had you melting a little bit more. “I’ve got an early shift tomorrow, but after, I could probably pull in Cassie. Maybe even Jenny, if she’s up for it. She’s one of our deputies at the PD.”
Beau recognized your hesitance.
“It wouldn’t be any trouble, I promise,” he said, holding a hand over his heart. “We’ve gotta welcome you to the neighborhood, don’t we?”
You were still a little unsure, but you agreed to it with a thank you, along with a more shy, sweet smile.
Beau liked that smile too.
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Later that day, Beau remembered it was his turn to host the ritual movie night Friday with Cassie and Jenny. His trailer was too small to have it inside, so they set up Cassie’s projector out in front, by the fire. According to his friends, he was going about the night with too much cheer.
“You’re entirely too smiley to have just come from an afternoon of therapy,” Jenny pointed out. She uncapped her second beer, then passed him the bucket. He waved her off; he was still nursing his first beer of the night. If he stuck to his plan, then it’d be his only beer of the night.
“Aw, it wasn’t so bad, actually,” he said. He explained that you had been there at the group session. The moment your name was mentioned, Cassie and Jenny both raised their brows.
“Really?” Cassie remarked.
“Yeah. Losing her friend really shook her up. Understandably,” Beau said. His gaze lowered when he played through his afternoon with you in his mind. Though your situations were different, both in your lost friends and lost relationships, he realized just how much he’d understood and connected with a near stranger.
That kind of thing didn’t happen to him often, if ever before.
“But, she’s actually moving into her new place tomorrow,” he added, breaking himself out of his own head. “Speakin’ of, would you two have the time to help her and Denise out? I already said I would come by after shift tomorrow.”
Cassie and Jenny shared a certain look—the kind these women donned when they were having a private conversation with just their eyes. This time, it seemed to be about him.
“What?” he asked, his hands spreading wide.
“Nothing,” Cassie said, smiling. “Sure, I can come.”
“Yeah,” Jenny agreed, “barring nothing too crazy happens on shift.”
Beau inclined his head. “Knock on wood there. Anyway, what’re we watching?”
“Crazy, Stupid Love,” Jenny grinned, holding up the DVD cover. “For Ryan Gosling, of course.”
Beau rolled his eyes.
A few months ago, he wouldn’t have expected that he’d make friends with exclusively women in this town, but he only complained about it in times like these.
Though as it turned out, he enjoyed the movie. There were as many hilarious scenes as there were poignant ones. By the end of the night though, he was beat.
Jenny helped with the cleanup, but she ended up taking off first. It left Beau to put away the fold-up chairs with Cassie.
“So, tell me,” she said, in a leading tone and with a teasing smile. “You crushing on Glamper Girl for real now?”
Beau shot her a wry look.
“She’s not a glamper anymore,” he pointed out. “And I’m not crushing like some teenager. I just want to help her out. She’s been through a lot…and she’s Denise’s family. It’s just the right thing to do.”
Cassie laughed. “That’s a lot of over-explaining you’re doing right there, but okay, Beau.” 
He rolled his eyes, but he had to smile. “Okay, that’s it. I’m gonna have to insist you get off my property.”
“Off what, your tin can?” she retorted.
“Hey! She can hear you.”
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Beau wiped the sweat from his brow strategically while he carried his end (the heavier end, he might add) of your couch. He and Jenny were trying to get it up the stairwell to your apartment on the second floor.
“Okay now, just pivot on this corner,” he instructed. “Pivot!”
 Jenny nearly dropped her end out of sheer aggravation. Her blue eyes cut down to his.
“If you say pivot one more time, I’m gonna shoot you,” she snapped.
Beau whistled in amusement. “Threatening to shoot the sheriff. Now that’s at least a misdemeanor.”
Right as he could almost see the fumes coming out of his deputy’s ears, you hustled up the stairs to help them. You picked up the middle to make it easier.
“Okay, we can do this! I think we can just tip it on its side to get it around the corner,” you said.
To everyone’s relief, your suggestion worked. Denise held the door open while the three of you got the couch up to the second floor, then into your apartment. Once the couch was successfully in the living room, you went to the kitchen and grabbed a few bottles of water out of the fridge. You handed one each to Beau and Jenny.
“Thank you guys again so much for doing this,” you said, still catching your breath. You surveyed all the boxes and furniture you all had brought in, and you realized you were crazy to think you and Denise could’ve done all of this by yourselves.
“It’s our pleasure,” Beau nodded. He gestured to his sweating face and neck. “But do you have a towel or a rag or something? You’re about to be mopping me off the floor in a minute.”
“Yeah, of course. Hold on,” you said. You went back into the kitchen and retrieved a clean hand towel. Beau used it to dry his face, neck, and the top of his chest.
You tried not to stare at the flash of tan skin near the collar of his plain gray shirt, or the wet spots clinging to his back. The sleeves were tight around his arms and across his chest, leading you to believe that despite being in his mid-forties, he kept himself in shape. 
Meanwhile, Jenny drank her water, and pretended not to notice you staring at her boss. Part of her was amused, but a good part of her felt an unfamiliar sting as well.
“Okay,” Beau clapped a hand on his jean-clad thigh after he drained his own water bottle. “What’s next?”
Your face warmed, because you knew what your aunt was about to say before she said it.
“Oh, I think it’s just your bed, right honey?” she asked you.
“All right, let’s do it. Frame, headboard, box spring, and mattress, I assume,” Beau said, rubbing his sweaty hands together. He stretched his arms in preparation.
Again, you had to admire the way his shirt pulled across his tall, broad frame. But you followed after him when he started heading out the door.
“Wait, you shouldn’t do it by yourself!” you called out, and quickly followed after him.
Denise shot Jenny and Cassie a highly amused look.
“That's what she saaaid,” Denise sing-songed. The other two women grimaced.
“Wow. That’s your niece!” Cassie exclaimed.
“And technically my boss, thanks,” Jenny added.
“What, they’re cute, aren’t they?” Denise said, gesturing at the way you and Beau left.
“This from the woman who’s been lusting after that man since the minute he got into town,” Cassie retorted.
“Well, I’m woman enough to bow out when I’ve been thwarted. By my own blood no less,” Denise replied, but her mischievous smile said it all as she breezed back into the kitchen to start unpacking the silverware for you.
She knew for a fact that you’d made dinner for later—and not just because she’d told you how much Beau liked lasagna.
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Beau accepted your help, along with Cassie and Jenny’s in bringing up all the parts of your bed. He just insisted on utilizing his own power tools to put it together.
That was how you found yourself holding the headboard up straight while Beau made sure the frame was aligned. It wasn’t as easy as it looked; the wood panels had to slide into the notch in the headboard just so, before he could start drilling the bolts back in.
“Damn it,” he muttered, when one panel of the frame nearly slipped out of his hand.
“Can you actually use that power drill?” Cassie asked. “Because you’re pretty hopeless with cars.”
Beau rolled his eyes, despite his smile. “Save the belittling for later. Tryin’ to concentrate.”
After a few more minutes of sweating, mild cursing, and internal praying, you, Beau, and Cassie managed to get the bedframe put together with the headboard. Then the box spring, and finally the mattress. It marked the official end of moving in.
While Beau, Cassie, and Jenny took a much-deserved rest sitting on the couch with a round of beers, you went to the kitchen where your aunt had already preheated the oven for you. Now you just needed to pull out the two massive pans of lasagna you’d prepared the night before—as a thank you for everyone who came to help you.
Denise sidled up to you and touched your arm to get your attention.
“Good job inviting our dear Beau to lift furniture for us,” she whispered, waggling her brows. You shot her a look and shushed her.
“Do you always flirt with him like this?” you asked incredulously.
“Well, I might have to do it less blatantly if he’s gonna keep playing Mr. White Knight for you,” she teased. 
“He is not. He’s just…nice,” you whispered back. “So are Cassie and Jenny.” 
Denise gave you an amused look. “Mhmm.”
You rolled your eyes and focused on getting dinner ready.
Within the hour, the five of you were sat at your new modest dining table between the kitchen and the living room, eating lasagna and drinking iced tea. Jenny and Beau had beers alongside them, and conversation drifted from how you intended to set up the apartment, to Cassie’s still open missing backpacker case.
The parents were even more worried now, saying it was out of character for him not to check in with a phone call, despite the email he’d apparently sent them a few days ago. Beau had agreed to give Cassie whatever help she needed on the periphery, especially if further evidence revealed itself on the backpacker’s whereabouts.
Beau was already on his second helping of lasagna when he raised his gaze to you, right across from him at the table.
“Clearly you get your cooking skills from your aunt, because this is fantastic,” he said.
Denise twittered. You blushed a little as you smiled.
“Thank you. I’m glad you like it.”
There was a short lull, filled by the tapping of silverware on plates, before Denise spoke up.
“By the way,” she said, looking to you and Beau. “Did you two have a productive time at grief counseling? What did you talk about?”
It was a well-meaning, but perhaps intrusive question. Both you and Beau tensed up. Cassie gave Denise a warning look. 
“Oh, I’m sorry. You guys don’t have to answer that,” Denise amended. 
“Um, it’s okay,” you replied. “It wasn’t too bad…I think I might go again.”
Beau had a warmer smile for you. “That’s good.”
You were able to return his smile. You turned to Cassie next.
“You went there for a while, right?” you asked. Cassie nodded. 
“It was helpful,” she said. “I’m glad you’re getting something out of it.”
You took that with a nod, and returned your gaze to Beau.
“Have you been going there long?” you asked him.
He tilted his head. “Actually, yesterday was my first time too.”
Your eyes widened. “Oh, really?”
Cassie was intrigued at the way this little scene was playing out. Thought she caught the look on Jenny’s face while she watched it too. Like Jenny was studying them, not sure what to make of it all.
Beau wore a self-deprecating smile.
“Yeah. Just…hadn’t gotten around to it,” he answered you.
There was a heaviness in his voice and in his eyes that you didn’t miss, but you didn’t want to make him uncomfortable in a room full of people, even if they were his friends. 
“Well, I’ll go again if you do,” you offered, a bit bolder than you felt. Beau met your eyes across the table, and his lips lifted at the corners. 
“All right,” he said. “You got yourself a deal, miss ma’am.”
You fought against a blush rising up your neck. You glanced down and took a sip of your iced tea. 
“Look at you. Pulling out your ‘sheriff’ voice,” Cassie teased. 
“Like a rhinestone cowboy…” you sang into your glass. Your smile peeked out around the corners of it.  
Most of the table laughed. Jenny smiled, but opted for drinking her beer.
Meanwhile, Beau gave you a mock look of betrayal. His true amusement shone through his eyes. 
“I see how this is. Gang up on the Texan time,” he remarked. 
That gave Cassie an opening to ask you something, and hopefully get to know you better. Already she had an instinct about you: she liked you. And clearly Beau seemed to as well. Cassie tended to be more cautious about people, even if you were Denise’s family.
“So how are you liking the Midwest so far?” Cassie asked you. 
“So far? It’s the fresh air I needed,” you replied. 
“Oh, you should check out that art studio you wanted to see,” Denise chimed in. 
“You’re an artist too?” Beau asked, raising a brow. You chuckled.
“No, just an amateur with a handful of brushes,” you replied.
You remembered the peace you’d gotten while painting in sight of the mountains. But when you got to Denise’s house, you’d hidden away those canvases, not wanting to be reminded of that week at Sunny Day Excursions. And of Mary. 
“Oh, but have you gone horseback riding yet?” Denise asked. “I know you were gonna try on your camping trip—”
You loved your aunt. You really did, but she also had a knack for putting her foot in her mouth. The others quieted as you dimmed at the actual mention of that God-forsaken place.
“I tried,” you said. “I never actually managed to make it on the horse.” 
“Aw, well if you ever want to go, there’s a stable in town. They give lessons too,” Denise said.
You nodded and forced a smile. You went back to picking at the remnants of lasagna and salad on your plate.
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When everyone began to filter out of your new apartment, each with their own set of well-wishing and a container of leftovers to take home, Beau ended up being last to leave. You had followed him to the door, where you handed him his tupperware of leftovers, and he thanked you in appreciation.
“Now I just need a microwave,” he said. “My toaster oven’s been on the fritz.”
Your brows rose in amusement. “You have a toaster oven, but not a microwave?”
“Well, let’s just say my trailer doesn’t exactly have a whole lot of space for appliances,” Beau replied, chuckling.
You smiled at that. You hesitated, but you eventually touched his hand that held the tupperware.
“Thank you again for coming here, for helping me…and for yesterday,” you said.
Beau almost didn’t realize it, but his face was getting warm. As warm as your pretty smile.
“Well, you’re very welcome,” he said. “And just puttin’ it out there, I may or may not have been riding a horse before I could walk. First memory I have is my dad putting me on Old Bess when I was four. She nearly kicked me off…not that that would happen to you. I’m just saying—” 
“I see.” Your giggle ended with a smirk. Beau tended to ramble. You weren’t sure if it was a nervous tick, or just a facet of his upbeat personality…but you found it endearing.
He leveled you with a grin. “Listen, what I mean to say is, if you’re serious about wanting to learn how to ride, I could teach you. It’s not that hard.”
You bit your lip, mentally beginning to weigh out the pros and cons. To be honest, you still had reservations, both on riding a horse, and on Beau being the one to teach you. Was he just being nice, your “friendly neighborhood sheriff,” or was your aunt onto something?
…You weren’t sure, but your instincts told you that at the very least, you could trust him with this. And trust had become hard for you to give any man.
“Okay, cowboy. Let’s ride,” you said. And you even surprised yourself with the flirtatious note in your voice. 
Beau’s grin kicked up a notch. You then exchanged numbers so you could hash out the details of when and where to meet sometime soon. Hopefully soon. 
Then you wished him a good night. 
“G’night, darlin’,” he said. He lingered in the hallway for a parting grin. “And welcome home.”
Your answering smile warmed him, long after he left your door.
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AN: *rubs hands together* We're really getting into it now. 😂 Finally we have the big reveal of why she left Chicago, and the start of her and Beau's bond. You'll see more of that, and of Emily, in the next chapter...
Next Time:
You gasped and gripped even tighter with your thighs. With almost everything you had.
You were still far too unsteady for comfort on this damn horse. The poor animal whinnied, tossing his head back with a huff. Unfortunately, that just made you tense up even more as you held onto his neck. 
Beau tried not to laugh. You looked like a cat clinging to the edge of a bath.
“Okay, you needa relax a little,” he said. “He ain’t gonna buck you, long as you don’t give him a reason to.”
You shot him a narrowed look.
▶️ Keep Reading: PART 4
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muzzlemouths · 4 months
Note
For prompt
“Whatever this is - it’s over”
Sun & Moon centered / 7,686 Words
You’ve been fired.
There’s no Ifs, Ands, or Buts about it, if your (former) boss’ tone is anything to go by. You got the phone call bright and early a number of days ago, only an hour before you were scheduled to go in, yet you were still expected to continue on with your shift as usual. This was just a personal heads-up; a courtesy, they said. You’ll finish out the week before they kick you to the curb for real.
You don’t tell anyone. Not on the first day, or the second, or any time soon. There are forty-eight hours remaining when you decide it may be best to keep your mouth shut all together. Would it be easier, that way? Would it hurt any less?
It’s hard to imagine your coworkers don’t suspect something. You’ve been suspiciously dispirited these last few days, jumping between pretending not to care, and outright hysteria when you believe yourself to be alone. You’ve been careful. Whatever emotion has spilled from your voice is only a drop in a turbulent ocean, its waves threatening to crash and pull and swallow you whole. You lack the energy to keep your head above water, and have just about stopped swimming all together. The thought of letting yourself drown is easier. It chips away at the guilt.
They don’t intend to let you lose the fight that easily.
“Is everything okay?” Sun asks fifteen minutes into your shift, a rearranging of the same question he’s asked every day for three days. You struggle to keep yourself from snapping at him.
“Everything’s fine,” is what you answer him with instead, “just like I told you yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that.” The blanket in your hands is folded with the ferocity of a cat wrangling prey, as though the very fibers wage a war against you. Evidently, everything is not fine. “Will you please just drop it?”
“Sorry, sorry,” he quickly raises himself from a slouch to avoid crowding you further, hands flying up in defense, “it’s just…you’ve been so quiet this week, sunshine, and you know how I worry–”
“Well don’t,” you snap – thinking better of it the moment you catch his flinch from the corner of your eye. Your hands slow against the fabric, then stop all together. You deflate with an exhausted sigh and do your best to regain some composure. “I’m just tired, Sun, that’s all,” you try to face him with a smile, “I didn’t mean to snap, I’m sorry,” it doesn’t reach your eyes, “can we just forget about it?”
He straightens further, stiffening in the joints (he gets the picture loud and clear), his hands wringing in circles, already. “Of course, star, all forgiven!” You don’t miss the choice of nickname. Moon will doubtlessly bring it upon himself to ask you the same damn question before the end of your shift if he’s already invading this conversation. “Forget about what?” Sun continues with a wink, “I can’t even remember what we were talking about!”
His effort softens your shoulders. You know he can’t help but worry, it’s in his nature, but it will only make these last two days all the more difficult. “Thanks, Sun. I promise to try and be a little less grumpy.” You produce a smile with genuine effort this time, and he appears to reciprocate by unwinding the joints that had been coiled tight.
“Any time, sunshine. Now then,” he gestures awkwardly toward the heap of blanket, “would you like some help with that? It appears to have gotten away from you. Nasty beasts, these things are. Always causing trouble!”
The fleeting relief of humor helps the waves recede, bit by bit. You let laughter wash over you instead of grief for as long as it’ll last and do your best to ignore the way an ocean of dread still laps at your ankles.
-
As expected, Moon is hot on your tail before you’re so much as halfway to the locker room when the lights go out. There’s ten minutes left to your shift and, if you’re lucky, you can spend them gathering your things and avoid him entirely. Unfortunately, your luck this week has apparently run dry.
“Leaving so soon?” He asks from the rafters, “What has you in such a hurry?”
If it wasn’t a hurry, it’d be a lingering. An insistence to stay for as long as your timecard would allow, regardless of task, dragging your feet like a child that wanted to stick around and play for only a few minutes longer. You’d look desperate – suspicious, if nothing else – and you couldn’t lead him on to what was happening.
“Got places to be, things to do,” you lie in perfect sing-song harmony, “I’ll be back tomorrow.” It’s one of the last days you can tell him so. “Don’t you have patrols to be doing?”
Your locker slams shut. Moon is behind it, his nails still dug into the cheap metal. He watches you like a shark circling its next meal. “Done for now,” he tells you. “Follow. I want to show you something.”
Do you really have a choice in the matter?
Moon leads you down a familiar path. Past the Daycare, into the theater, through the blue door. You know the route to their bedroom by the back of your hand. “Is this important?” You try not to sound impatient, but the longer you’re here, the harder it will be for you to leave. Moon doesn’t reply.
He holds the door open and ushers you inside with an expectant glare. Your hesitance to enter has his eyes narrowing further. If you didn’t know any better you would think he was angry with you, but you can’t think of what you might have done to piss him off this time.
You walk into the room if only through sheer force of will, each step a fight in and of itself, waged against the bile in your throat and the weight that’s made knots of your stomach. Just five minutes. If you can last that long, you’ll have a reasonable excuse to leave without him thinking any worse of you.
Moon continues to the wall and carefully frees a paper from its tape, pausing to stare at it between his hands if only for a moment before returning to your side. The fairy-lights you bought them are strewn along the ceiling corners and provide only enough light to see him offer you the paper. You still find yourself bringing it within an inch of your face and squinting to make out what it is he’s so intent on showing you.
“It’s from your first day here,” he supplies.
You look for answers in his voice. Motive, emotion, anything. Anything but the unreadable stare he serves you and the thin paper between your fingers. With no other options you draw your flashlight from its holster and bring it up to the page, careful to angle it away from him. Normally he would take a precautionary step back, but today, he remains where he’s at, eyes glued to you. The flashlight clicks in your hand.
“Oh,” a quick breath runs between your teeth, “this is…”
The three of you together. Sun on one side, Moon on the other, and you smack dab in the middle. Crudely drawn as all children’s art is.
You remember the day it was gifted; a regular at the daycare – black hair wrapped in a rainbow scrunchie, the first to arrive and the last to leave – she had come up to you in the moments before it was time for pick-up and tugged at your sleeve. You had spent the day stressed beyond belief and worried about your future at the company, and hardly even noticed her arrival until the art was shoved into your hand.
She disappeared up a slide before you could get a proper look at it, but her eyes found you through the bars of the playpen’s upper level only a minute after. You remember it melting away the stress in your shoulders upon finally turning it over, thinking to yourself that maybe things would work out after all.
Despair opens a hole beneath your feet as the ocean finally drags you under, starving your lungs of air and plunging you into an endless darkness. You fall, and fall, and fall—
“I know it can be…difficult,” Moon’s voice cuts through the pitch, “working here, I mean,” you force yourself to find his eyes, vibrant crimson in a sea of black, “but we can figure something out. Or– or change, maybe, if that’s the problem.”
“What?” Your body feels weightless suddenly, the plummet taking even the bile, even the knots, leaving you with nothing nothing nothing.
“You haven’t worn your daycare nametag all week,” he points out, voice straining as he nods toward the empty space on your chest, “I just – we just thought you would come to us first before transferring.”
The bottom of this great abyss arrives without warning and shatters you entirely. Here, you are no better than a whalefall, heavy bones on the ocean floor, what’s left of you will be picked apart and then swiftly abandoned.
Your knees hit the floor. Moon is quick to follow, eyes flashing wide in a fit of panic, he bends to reach your height and cups a hand over your shoulder. “Star?” The frequency in his voice-box is all wrong. It fizzles and pops with a merciful worry you’ve never been allowed to hear before. “Tell me what’s going on.”
If your world is an ocean then you are a tidal wave, crashing and breaking along the shore, and you risk taking him with you. The paper wrinkles between shaking fists as you finally collapse into a discordant sob, unable to hold it in any longer. The seafoam carries you far, far away, until his voice is nothing but wind in its current. But he’s owed an explanation, isn’t he?
“I’m not transferring to another position,” your every word is pulled like teeth and hurts twice as much, the effort it takes to continue plunging you ever deeper, buried within cold sand, “I was fired, Moon. I’m not coming back.”
His grip on your shoulder hardens until it’s almost painful, nails digging into flesh. You hardly feel it. Your mind sways on uneven waves, your body is numb, a distant part of you, heavy with grief. He releases you on realizing and hesitates only a moment before wrapping his hands around your own. His voice warbles with unspoken dread.
“Why?” He asks.
Why, indeed? You had asked the company a thousand times, and asked yourself a thousand more when their answer wasn’t enough to sate you. Maybe you weren’t working hard enough, fast enough, your efficiency lackluster in every way that counted. Maybe you spent too many hours shooting the breeze with Moon and not enough time sorting boxes of craft supplies or folding blankets. Maybe your coworkers had seen you bringing Sun flowers one too many times. Maybe the kids asked too many questions and you answered with too much, or not enough. Maybe it was a combination of these things, or none of them. Maybe it was as simple as management had made it out to be.
Budget cuts, is what they told you. Your presence was no longer a necessity. The daycare would manage fine on its own.
“I don’t know,” you end up telling him, “maybe I just wasn’t good enough.”
You don’t notice that one of his hands has untangled from yours until the back of his knuckles are brushing along your cheek. They catch a tear as it falls and let it bleed into a strand of hair, gently tucking it behind your ear. “No, no no no, Starlight, you’ve done nothing wrong,” his murmur keeps you from drifting further into the sea, a fragile tether around your waist, fraying at the seams, “I’m sure there’s a way to fix this. We can find a way.”
“I tried,” your sob rings through the empty space of their bedroom, causing him to freeze. “I did everything I could, offered what I could – I’d have worked less hours, accepted less pay, anything. It doesn’t matter!” The tether unravels fiber by fiber. “It’s too late, Moon.” This won’t last. “It’s over.”
“We can still–”
“No!” The tether snaps. You turn your cheek in the palm of his hand and flinch when it cups your jaw, angry tears pouring over his thumb. “I’m so tired of fighting this when it’s obvious that they’ve made up their minds,” you can’t look him in the eye, “Please don’t make this even harder than it already is.”
Your fingers pinch at the edges of the paper, then pull it taut, taking in the art for a final time as water-stains spill across its surface. Wordlessly, you return it to him.
He doesn’t immediately take it, staring back at you, instead, as if by some miracle you’ll change your mind. But you don’t. You get back to your feet when his hand leaves you to take it, a terrible, crackling whine spilling from his throat, the motion of your stand so abrupt his nail stings a thin line down your skin – but you don’t feel it. You don’t feel anything.
He catches you by the wrist as you turn to leave.
“Please,” he whispers, eyes wide, “let us try.”
The waves are cold and heartless. They brush against your skin with affections no less tender than this and numb you down to the marrow. “I’m sorry,” you shake him free of your wrist, “whatever this is, it’s over.”
The door shuts at your heel with a whisper, and Moon does not try to follow.
-
You don’t sleep that night. The look in his eyes haunts you like a ghost, there each time you close your eyes, you toss and turn restlessly from the time you get home to the time your alarm goes off the next morning. Though you expect the sound to be grating as always, today it is anything but. Sweet, like a lullaby. Familiar. You savor it for all of a minute before forcing your hand over the button. Tomorrow, you’ll hear it for the last time – until you can find yourself a new job somewhere else.
You go about your morning routine with a certain amount of listlessness. The waves aren’t turbulent, anymore. They’ve settled into a mindless current, the idle of driftwood on a calm ocean’s surface. You skip breakfast.
Key in the ignition, seatbelt on, you adjust your rearview mirror and swear that Sun smiles at you from the back seat. Here one minute and gone the next. You had often joked about breaking them out, one day. Showing them the world.
How foolish.
Your drive is interrupted by the lazy push of traffic, and you can’t help but feel like the universe itself is dragging its feet with you. The remnants of a nasty fender bender just ahead distracts you briefly. Your mind is drawn back to the many times Moon complained about you driving home each day in what they both considered a death machine. Bitter laughter chokes against your tongue as you pass it by, free hand rooting around for your phone so you can explain away any tardiness.
“It’s fine,” says your boss. Of course it is. You’re only here for a short while longer, anyway.
You’re half an hour past the beginning of your shift when you finally pull into the parking lot, the area busy with cars already. You do what you can to avoid your coworkers’ gaze upon entering and clock in with your head down, thoughts still distant.
There’s an abundance of noise coming from behind the daycare doors long before you reach them. Pushing forward, you find yourself between dozens of children playing in what can only be considered unmonitored chaos. Craft supplies have spilled from their drawers and made a river onto the play mats. Toys litter the walkway, forcing you to step over dolls and plastic rockets and stuffed animals alike just to get to the front desk. The chorus of unrestrained fun bleeds your eardrums.
And there stands Sun at the center of it all, covered head to toe in paint, glue, and stickers, hands shuffling with guilt behind him while your boss verbally chews him up and spits him out.
“What’s going on here?” You drop your bag behind the desk and sidestep through a sea of running toddlers before coming to a stop at your manager’s side. Sun’s head snaps upward with a vocal clickclick at the sound of your voice, the tiniest flicker of relief settling in his overheating frame.
“Finally,” answers your manager, “I don’t know what you’ve been teaching this thing, but it’s gotten far too lazy. These children need to be reigned in immediately,” he gestures wildly at the ensuing chaos, face so red and tight you think he might just pop. “Now that you’re here you better fix it. I expect everything to be taken care of when I return, or you can say goodbye to your last paycheck!”
“Oh, u-um,” you shoot a quizzical look in Sun’s direction, but his face is blank, save for the usual candid smile, “sure thing. They’ll be perfect little angels when you get back.”
Your answer is nothing more than a grunt, that of an angry and pouting dog. He nearly bodies a third grader on his way out.
Your neck cranes to shoot Sun a narrow-eyed look. “What was all that about?”
“I haven’t the slightest clue what you mean!” He chirps.
What happens next moves like clockwork. Sun turns on his heel and brings two fingers against his smile, and perfectly imitates the shrill of a whistle, seamlessly gathering the children’s attention with little more than that and a clap of his hands. “Anarchy time is over, children,” he sings, “time to clean up, up, up so we can watch our movie!”
He receives a divided wave of reactions, squeals of glee overshadowed by groans and whines of not being done with their games, just yet, but he’s quick to put a stop to that with the simple lift of a finger. “Remember, first one to clean up their area gets to help me pick out the movie,” his smile undeniably widens behind the mask, “and our snack!”
The resulting chaos is of a different variety. Children of all ages bustling around to do their part until every toy is in a pile and all the crafts have found their way back to the table. Not perfect, by any means, but it’s about as close to organization as the daycare gets until Sun has a proper crack at it himself.
He never needed your help. Not before your arrival, and certainly not now. Sure, having an extra pair of hands around makes his job exponentially easier, but he managed to uphold this business for years before you were hired. He knows just what to do.
And here, too, does he know exactly what he’s doing.
“You cheeky bastard–”
“Language!”
“–you did this on purpose.” You accusingly point a finger toward the smug expression he’s wearing, that plastered smile shining back at you like he is none-the-wiser to what you’re saying. He’s practically mocking the very implication of it. “What were you thinking!”
His head tilts thoughtfully to the side, pointer finger coming to sit atop the chin of his faceplate as if he’s actually thinking about it, “I’m not sure what you mean,” hums Sun. “Do you mean to say that I pulled every drawer from the shelves and placed every toy within reach first thing this morning? That I let the children run amuck, all willy-nilly? That I encouraged their ruckus? Is that what you’re trying to say?”
“Yes!”
He tuts, shaking his head in disbelief, “I would never do such a thing, sunshine! Why, I’ve just been doing my very best to keep these rowdy tots in line until you could get here. It was utter disarray without you here. Disarray, I tell you!”
You aren’t sure whether to be proud, or allow the feeling of your blood boiling to spill into something more tangible. “I know what you’re doing, Sun,” you decide on a halfhearted scold, instead, “this was risky. Too risky. What if you had been punished with more than a slap on the wrist?”
“I can hardly call that tantrum your manager pulls anything in the way of a slap,” he insists, “and besides, it all ended up just dandy. See?” He nods in the direction of a much cleaner daycare, the children already pouring over a basket of DVDs like vultures on old meat. His hand is heavy as it abruptly rests atop your head and rustles through your hair. “Everything went according to plan, petal. Stop your worrying.”
You slouch under the touch and gently bat his hand away, only half-smiling. “It’s not going to work, you know.”
“It might!”
“But—”
“I told you, didn’t I?” He turns fully now and cups your face between both of his hands, “Quit your worrying, little biter. You’re not allowed to stop trying until the rest of us have.”
You pout something fierce, a frustrated whine already building at the back of your throat. It eventually eases into the lows of a sigh. There’s no point in fighting either of them on this. Sun, especially, is aggravatingly stubborn when he’s set his mind on something. You can only imagine the plans they were making from the very second you left the night before.
Your eye catches on a subtle twitch in his fingers, and deeper still, in the depths of his chest, the whir of an overworked fan. The telltale signs of an anxiety attack that he’s barely restraining. He has every reason to be anxious, too. Sun can’t handle messes on a good day, so to go out of his way to intentionally create this much of it...
He really is trying.
“Thank you, Sun,” you take in a deep breath and hold it, relaxing with the exhale. “I’ll try and be a little less...grumpy, about all of this. Let you have a chance at trying at least.” You feel a pang of guilt at having to say it twice.
His right hand strays from your cheek while the other one stays. “Do you promise this time?” He asks, already knowing the answer.
When he taps his pointer finger against your bottom lip it tastes like sticky paint and glue. Your nose wrinkles, cheeks splitting with a smile even when all you want to do is cry. “I promise.”
-
It doesn’t work.
Why would it?
A single day of ruckus is nothing in the grand scheme of FazCo’s wallet. Sun is given a secondary scolding while being told to do better, and that’s that. There isn’t enough banking on your presence here to bother paying your checks any longer.
You still thank him for the attempt, knowing just how much he put himself through in the effort, and he remains convinced that something will change, even now. That a miracle will bring you back to them. When you say your goodbyes it’s with hope in his eyes, and acceptance in yours. You don’t notice how poorly he’s actually holding himself together.
Or the flicker of purple in his gaze as you leave the daycare behind.
-
That night is no better than the last. If this continues, you’re going to spend your final day with them sleep deprived out of your mind. It’s not like it can be helped, either way, seeing as each attempt at getting some rest violently reminds you of how little time is left. The memories you shared and the memories you had hoped to make, all taken from you in the time it will take for the sun to rise and set once more. It felt like a sick joke. Too cruel to be real.
It’s three in the morning when you receive a call.
You notice your phone vibrating on the bedside table within seconds of it, seeing as you’re still awake and watching old sit-com reruns to quell the anguish in your heart. You don’t hesitate to answer it the moment your eyes settle on the name.
It’s your manager. And he sounds – to put it lightly – like he’s going to piss himself.
“You better get your ass over here,” he half-quivers, half-snarls into the phone, “I mean it. Now.”
You’re already up and looking for your shoes when you hear a heavy thump from the receiver. “What was that?” You ask, eyes scanning the room for your other sneaker, “What’s going on?”
“I forgot something before closing and— does it matter? Just get over here!” Wood splinters around his voice. Behind that, the familiar sound of bells.
“I’ll be there as fast as I can,” you tell him, “try to find some place to hide.”
Forgetting your shoes entirely, you shove your feet into some slippers (it’ll match the rest of your attire, anyway), and throw yourself out the front door.
-
You really ought to have been pulled over sometime in the mad-dash between your house and the pizza-plex. Either the officers normally patrolling these streets are all at home sleeping like normal people, or your luck is finally turning around. Though, considering the circumstances bringing you to this point, you can’t say that’s entirely true.
The building is quiet as a ghost when you slip inside. “Moon?” Your voice spills over the empty halls and bounces back to meet you again, making the wide arching mouth of the pizzaplex feel that much more hollow. His voice does not answer you.
Instead what you hear is a rattling from the distance. The sound of metal on metal. You head for its direction in a full-body sprint while digging out the phone in your pocket, considering giving your manager another call, but ultimately thinking better of it. If he really was hiding (as he should be, if he cared whatsoever about your advice) the ring would only give his position away. You would just have to find them without it.
It doesn’t take long.
You round the corner to the sight of Moon making a meal out of your manager. Or trying to, at least. The metal bat your boss wields to ward off the normal type of intruder (already dented in to look grotesquely misshapen by now) is the one thing standing between him and a bed six feet under, and judging by the quivering in his arms, that method isn’t going to last much longer. His back presses against the floor with the entire weight of the animatronic atop him.
Moon spits and snarls, teeth gnashing behind the mask and nails carving slivers of metal from the bat that keeps his right hand from doing damage to anything else. The left hangs limply at his side with its elbow joint bent out of shape, wires exposed and barely keeping the limb pieces together. His chest is dented in a number of places, proving that the bat struck successfully more than once, though you can’t say your manager is looking any better.
Especially when you near them and get a proper look at the man who pays your checks; thick blood pools from his nose to chin, coating gritted teeth in red. The color stains his shirt and climbs the length of his body, thin gauges rivering down both arms. And his leg, fuck, the angle is all wrong–
His neck cranes to see you, face red with effort rather than anger for once. “Call your dog off!” He barks.
Ignoring the implications of that, you nod like your life depends on it (as it’s surely about to) and raise your hands into the air, daring a step closer. “Moon,” your chest feels tight, as though you aren’t getting in enough air, but you’ve done this song and dance plenty of times before. “Hey, it’s okay. You’re okay. Can you look at me?”
And he does. Against all odds, he does. The ever briefest flicker in your direction, a long enough distraction to give your manager a chance at escape but not enough to prevent Moon from immediately trying to follow.
“Hey,” you find his wrist to stop him in place, mirroring his own gesture from only a night before. An unspoken plead.
His head does a one-eighty to look directly at you, the expression he regards you with being that of a total stranger. Icy dread sinks into the lengths of your stomach and takes your heart with it.
"Moon, it’s me," you try again, "I'm here, I’m here, can you–"
His good hand raises, fingers winding above your elbow, and for an ever fleeting moment you think that maybe he's already found his way back to you. Then your feet leave the floor.
And your body ragdolls across the tile.
It’s a fickle thing, human life. It was stupid to think you could go into this situation guns blazing and still make it out okay. But it’s here, your back against the floor and body aching like a fire ablaze, when your eyes crack open to the sight of your manager limping toward the exits – leaving you behind like table scraps – that you realize just how much trouble you’re in.
Moon’s sharpened nails tickle against the back of your throat as his fingers encircle and squeeze, the choked breath he draws forth beating against your already battered ribs.
“Moon–” His name becomes lodged in your throat, rasping violently as you feel yourself raised in one smooth motion. Your back connects with the wall with merciless force and any hopes you may have had about this, too, all being an act disappear in an instant.
Tears brim at the corner of your eyes, your vision already starting to dwindle, they burn down your cheeks for what feels like the hundredth time that week. Still, you refuse to allow this to be how it ends. You’ll get your final day here, even if it takes everything you have left. Even if you’re forced to wield the same ocean that dragged you under.
“Please,” you whisper. His grip tightens. Your lungs sting with the effort of each breath, mind racing for the right words to say when it all becomes clear to you. “We can find a way to fix this,” your eyes search for any remaining piece of him, desperate and pleading as he’d been the night before, ”just let me try.“
One finger pries away, then another.
You collapse to the floor in an instant.
Moon stares upon you with a look you can’t quite read. He recognizes the words, he has to, or you wouldn’t be swallowing mouthfuls of air right now. Even so, his level of clarity is uncertain.
“Have to–” his good hand twitches, fingers contorting indecisively, “have to keep you here,” he says. “Late. It’s late.” His hand balls into a fist, then relaxes. The black swallowing his eyes begins to recede, giving way to familiar crimson if only in small, slow increments. “Time for bed.”
The song and dance continues, even if he’s forgotten which direction to put his feet and the lyrics are all wrong. You know the meaning behind them; what he wants to say, what he’s trying to say.
So you offer him a nod, slow at first but building with your confidence. You can still save yourself. Save him. “Yeah, I was just getting ready to lie down,” you tell him around a cough, “S-See?” You point with a wary smile towards yourself, thanking your lucky stars that you decided to wear an actual pajama set to bed for once instead of just an old T-shirt and pants. There’s only one slipper remaining on your foot – the other sits abandoned a few feet from where you currently sit, having been lost in the scuffle. Moon follows your gaze to its location.
He gives you a sideways, narrow eyed expression, red slits among a field of black which blends seamlessly into the dark hallway. Then he’s lowering himself into a crouch and half stepping, half scuttling towards your slipper. It would be endearing if you weren’t skating on thin ice right now.
Bending further to pick it up, he eyes the slipper for a moment before looking over his shoulder for confirmation. You nod, once more, and bring yourself to yawn with enough dramatics that it has his eyes dilating in that special way, more red blooming and overtaking the black. The action is only half forced. You really are exhausted.
Like tiptoeing across the thinnest layer of a frozen lake, you wait until he’s finished placing the slipper back on your foot before continuing with the next part of this dance. “Will you help me get to sleep?”
He stares, eyes calculating, as if he knows it’s all a game. You’re tricking his code in the only way that still works – and it doesn’t always work – but it has to, this time, because your whole life relies on him playing along.
And he does, lending you only a nod before bending at the knees and scooping you into his arms, bridal style, at a pace that denies any chance for argument. You don’t fight him, anyway, and you don’t miss the wince that crosses his face as his wounded arm wraps weakly around your shoulders, either, barely able to keep you there.
You also don’t miss the irony of having spent two days waging war against your insomnia only to be taken in for a nap by the very person you wanted so desperately to avoid. They weren’t meant to see you in this state. Likewise, you know how much he hates you to see him like this, too. A fair trade, you suppose. Life is funny like that. And by funny, you mean unfair and horrible.
When you breach the Daycare doors, Moon makes a beeline for the nap area and sets you down on a nest of blankets and pillows. It’s normally their job to fold and sort these into their respective cubbies, so you can only imagine their displacement here was a culmination of built up stress. The image of Moon refolding each blanket again and again without gaining any proper satisfaction from it plagues your mind, reinforcing the guilt that has already begun to creep its slow fingers around your throat again.
He wordlessly settles a pillow beneath your head before thinking better of it and tossing it across the room, though the blanket he had tucked you in with remains where it’s at. Then, changing his mind again, he slumps into a heavy sit just behind you and draws you near, your back against his chest, both arms surrounding you in a hug despite the effort it takes for him to raise his left below the elbow. His faceplate bonks gently against the top of your head.
And he’s silent like this for a long, long while. Leaving you feeling tense and defenseless, never truly knowing if you’re out of the woods just yet. If he’s come back to himself. You don’t allow yourself to look back until a quiet tremor spreads through the arms holding you tight, extending to his hands, trembling fingers curling into your shirt, eventually traveling throughout his entire casing until it feels like his very exoskeleton will vibrate straight out of its frame.
A noise stirs from his voicebox that you don’t immediately recognize. Practically a whisper, at first, it strains against his mechanics like a high pitched whistle through steel pipes before the frequency snaps, becoming the whitenoise heard between television channels, loud, discordant, ugly and raw.
A sob wracks through him.
“You can’t leave,” he chokes between the static in his throat, tucking you ever closer, “please, please, please don’t leave us.”
The agony his voice wields threatens to pull you back under. You fight the sensation, forcing yourself to relax in his hold, instead, even as you suffocate within it. Tears well into your eyes for the umpteenth time and fall soundlessly from your chin to land against his arms.
After a decisive moment, you make up your mind, answering him first with a stern shake of your head. “I won’t,” you promise, “they’ll have to drag me out of here kicking and screaming.”
Your chin lifts with an effort to meet his eyes, and you smile, wry and shaky as it is, hoping that he’ll reciprocate. He doesn’t. Looking down on you with a black, oily sheen smudging his cheeks, instead. You can’t bring yourself to blame him for it. In the end there’s only so much you can do. A promise is nothing in the eyes of the organization behind their very existence.
“I’ll stay the night,” you tell him, as if it’s any comfort. He answers with nothing more than a nod, then rests his chin atop your head, again, not willing to meet your eyes any longer. More noise spills from his voicebox, weak and distant, none of it words.
It isn’t long after that he begins to sway. A subtle rock from side to side, joined a moment later by the familiar tune of his music box, its winds and clicks singing against your cheek when you turn to face his chest.
For the first time since receiving that dreadful phone call, you find yourself drifting with ease. Darkness curls around you like a warm blanket to the gentle, albeit shaky hum in Moon’s throat, soothing you ever further, despite your struggle to stay awake with him for just a little longer. Just one moment more, safe in his arms.
Sleep drags you under.
-
It’s morning when you next wake. The day is only getting started, judging by the position of the sun as it glares through the daycare windows and directly into your eyes. You are greeted by your other Sun, who smiles at the sight of your eyes fluttering open and has you wrapped up in his arms much in the same position as you had fallen asleep, though you take note of an additional blanket wrapped around you.
“Morning, sunshine,” he croaks – an odd and unfamiliar lack of excitement in his quiet tone – though you know it would be cruel to expect happiness from him after last night. “Did you sleep well?”
“Mm...actually, yes,” you admit around a yawn, “but I’m sure it was only a few hours.”
“Three, to be exact,” Sun answers you. His arms unwind, careful of the damage to his left, to finally return your freedom. He is visibly reluctant to do so. “It’s around seven, now. How do you feel?”
You shimmy out of his remaining grip and take the opportunity to stretch and turn yourself around, careful not to go very far. Sun’s fingers twitch in your absence like he’s waiting for an excuse to pull you back into his lap. “Seven already?” You dodge his second question, not wanting to get into how sore you are after being chucked like a stuffed toy across the room only hours before. Moon is doubtlessly feeling guilty about that enough as it is. “Shouldn’t you be getting the daycare ready for open?”
He reaches for you, but thinks better of it, and tucks the hand back into his lap with the other. “I just–” his voice strains, going silent. Every ray has disappeared into his faceplate to leave only the points. It isn’t until your own hand outstretches and rests against his that he rediscovers his voice. “I just wanted to spend more time with you, whatever time we had left.”
Your smile wavers, tears threatening to spill across your cheeks again right then and there. There is a telling layer of black oil coating the underside of Sun’s eyes, too, that you elect to ignore. “I understand,” you tell him, “but you’re only going to get yourself in more trouble if the daycare isn’t open on time. My boss might not let me finish out the day if that happens.”
A whine rings from his throat at the mere possibility of it, that of a guilty dog staring at the floor, tail tucked between its legs. He goes to say something, but you beat him to it.
“Come on, I’ll help you get set up, and we can talk some more in the meantime.” You look down at your clothes, remembering your impatience to get out of the house the night before, and grimace a bit. “We can just say I thought it was pajama day, or something. I’m sure the kids will love that. Let me just get some caffeine in me first and then we can–”
Cool fingers wind around your wrist while your knees are still bent, not even fully to your feet yet. His hold on you isn’t painful, but it is dangerously close to becoming so, and you don’t have to look far to see the panic in his eyes.
“I’ll come right back,” you promise, “Just a quick hop down to the coffee booth, that’s all. I’ll even bring some fizzy faz back for you.”
His whine sharpens, reverberating against his chest. “You aren’t supposed to be here in the first place, remember? What if you’re caught?”
“What are they going to do, fire me?”
It is evident by the harsh squeeze he gives your wrist that he does not, in fact, find your joke funny. Nevertheless, he begrudgingly releases his hold on you and takes to rhythmically tapping all ten fingers against his knees, instead, the metallic tink tink tink echoing even through the fabric of his pants. “Be quick, please?” He begs.
You give him a quick nod and take off in the direction of the booth with as much skip in your step as you can muster. Which, admittedly, isn’t a whole lot. Three hours is still three hours, even if it was spent in the arms of your favorite people, and you’re still feeling downright miserable on the emotional front.
The staff bot greets you by name as you shuffle up to the counter and order your usual, taking care not to burn yourself on the cheap styrofoam cup that gets handed back to you. When you turn back around, lethargic and gripping the cup too tight, you come face to face with your manager.
He looks…well, he’s looked better. There are bandages wrapped around both arms, a collection of them scattered across his face and jaw, none of it professionally administered. You imagine that even the management around here does their best to avoid a lawsuit. Though, judging by the crutches he’s using, you have to assume he went to someone with medical training after patching up what he could himself.
You expect him to be upset. Pissed off, really. Instead, he looks at you as though he’s seen a ghost. That, if nothing else, gets a laugh out of you.
“Hey, boss,” you hum, trying to act nonchalant, “having a nice morning?”
“I–” he gawks for a while longer, wetting his chapped lips. You think he looks almost normal without all the angry red and popping veins. “I wasn’t expecting you to be–”
“Alive?” You supply, cocking an eyebrow. Your smirk is definitively smothered, trying not to get too cocky with the asshole who left you to die the night before, but its presence can be heard in your tone nonetheless.
“Back at work, already,” he corrects with a strong grimace, evidently knowing he’s been seen through already. “Didn’t Moon…”
“I got him under control,” you say with an easy shrug. It isn’t the first time. Were the circumstances different, you’re sure it wouldn’t be the last, either. “Can I still keep the coffee? I know I’m not on the clock yet, but…”
“It’s–” he stills, breaking awkwardly into silence for a moment before deflating with a long and tortured sigh. “It’s fine,” he grumbles. “Doesn’t matter.”
He is silent as you pay the bot, sipping sagely on his own coffee while avoiding your eye and wearing a painfully constipated expression. It isn’t until you’re preparing to head back that he calls your name again, causing you to pause, dread rising in your gut. You force yourself to turn around.
He looks sour in the face, like the staff bot traded out his coffee’s sugar for a handful of lemons. You are preparing yourself for the scolding of a lifetime when his eyes roll, casting to the side. “You’re being demoted to minimum wage,” he tells you.
It takes a few seconds too long for the words to catch up to your brain. When at last the implications sink in, it takes real, actual effort to not smile like a kid on Christmas and jump around right there in front of him.
You settle for a wide – normal – smile, instead, but still laugh a little too loudly, nodding with enough enthusiasm to make him groan. “Sure thing,” you tell him, “I’ll be here bright and early tomorrow. O-Or whenever. Same schedule?”
“Sure,” he grunts, “just keep your dogs under control.”
And then he’s gone. Simple as that. He walks past you and into his office, shutting the door with a soundless click, and you are left in an empty hall too early in the morning, coffee going cold in your hand, a hundred thoughts racing through your mind and all of them sending you into a run back towards the daycare.
The drawing comes to mind again. Sun on one side, Moon on the other, and you in the middle – and it’s here where you can no longer stop the smile that blossoms across your face, the heat that warms your chest and sooths away every cold and aching wave that had threatened to drown you and take your heart with it.
Yeah… maybe it would all work out after all.
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asongofmarvelanddc · 10 months
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Duty PT 5½
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PAIRING: Robb Stark X Reader
WORD COUNT: 2,475
WARNINGS: none!
SUMMARY: Robb's Queen falls ill and he is not quite sure how to handle it.
PART 1| PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4 | PART 4 ½ | PART 5 | PART 6
MASTERLIST | ROBB STARK MASTERLIST
A/N: This is kind of short drabble-type chapter setting up the next two! Please send a message, comment, send an ask so i can hear from you! and hope you enjoy 🥰🫶🏾 (Part 6 dropping tomorrow night –UK nighttime btw 🤭)
Robb has grown used to your company in recent weeks. He was surprised the first time you came to his study for no reason other than to talk, but he came away from that evening happy to have seen and spoken with you.
Eventually, those nightly visits became more of an expectation. Sometimes you’ll have a conversation over tea and cakes and other nights he’ll share a laugh with you over supper with a belly full of ale. Occasionally you watch him work while doing needlepoint or sewing up his trousers – because he always seems to rip the seams – providing a needed distraction whenever he gets too frustrated with the contents of his letters.
It is routine. One he quite enjoys, which is why when you don’t come to his study tonight, he’s not upset, he’s worried. He thinks to ignore it and continue on with his work, but he struggles to concentrate on any of it when his mind keeps wandering back to you.
He has enough after a few minutes and rises to his feet intending to find you and determine that everything is alright. As he walks around the Great Keep, not a single person he passes can tell him where you are. His casual stroll slowly morphs into a hurried walk as he begins heading towards your chambers. That is when he runs into someone.
Elyse.
He almost doesn’t realise it is her at first, so focused on where he is going that he brushes past her. It is only at the sound of her voice when she stops to curtsey that he recognises who it is. He spins back around as he already passed her a little, cocking his head to the side.
“Elyse,” he breathes as he approaches her slowly, “How are you?”
They have not spoken in some weeks now. It is awkward between them. It has never been awkward. He suspects that she has been avoiding him, but a part of him chooses to believe that only because he has in fact been avoiding her out of guilt.
She looks up at him, a thin yet soft smile on her lips. “I am well,” she says, though her pained eyes tell a different story.
Robb has the urge to pry her for more questions. The only reason he has stayed away from her is because things can never be as they were once. Not if he intends to honour his vows to you.
He doesn’t want her to feel as though he has simply cast her aside and forgotten her. But as soon as he’s about to raise a hand to take hers, he stops himself, remembering why he is here in this corridor in the first place. He is trying to find you.
“Have you seen…?” his voice trails off before he can say your name. He doesn’t know if that would be offensive or unnecessarily hurtful.
But it doesn’t need to be said because she knows who he refers to just by the look in his eyes.
“The Queen is in her chambers. With Maester Luwin.”
That means something is wrong, and though he wants to stay and ease Elyse’s hurt, he does not have the time for it.
“Thank you, Elyse,” he lingers for a moment, knowing there are still many things unsaid between them, before making his way to your chambers.
Just as he arrives at the door, Maester Luwin steps outside, jumping when he sees Robb.
“Your Grace,” he bows as best as he can while shutting the door, " Forgive me, I was not expecting you."
Robb frowns as he glances from the closed door to Maester Luwin, “Has something happened?”
The Maester shakes his head slowly, “Her Grace has fallen ill, but–”
“Why was I not made aware?"
"It was quite sudden," he explains, then places a hand on Robb's shoulder, "But it is nothing serious, you need not worry yourself."
Mester Luwin's voice is comforting, but Robb's heart remains unsettled. You are his responsibility now, and whatever pain befalls you – illness or injury – weighs on him. That is the only reason why he is concerned.
The only reason.
He looks at Maester Luwin and asks, "What ails her?"
Maester Luwin seems unsure of whether to answer at first, but then he lowers his voice and begins to speak, "You are aware that women pass bloods once every moon's turn?"
In fact Robb did not know that it happens every moon's turn. He thought it happened once when a girl becomes a woman. Nevertheless, he nods his head as if he did know before this very moment.
"Is that what this is?"
Maester Luwin nods, “It seems Her Grace passes her moonblood with great difficulty. But her pain and discomfort should fade in the coming days.”
Robb glances at the door yet again, debating whether or not he should go in.
“She is resting now,” Maester Luwin says, practically peering into Robb’s thoughts, “You should look in on her, put your mind at ease.”
His head snaps in the maester’s direction, “My mind is already at ease.” There is a hint of defensiveness in his tone.
“Of course, Your Grace,” Maester Luwin bows before taking his leave to return to the rookery.
Alone with his own thoughts, Robb considers returning to his solar to continue working. He knows now that no great harm has befallen you and you will be just fine, but his heart is still unsatisfied. With little hesitation, he twists the handle and pushes the door open.
One week after your wedding, Robb began to notice that his chambers smelled different. It almost annoyed him how quickly the room adopted your scent. It clung to everything, the sheets, the pillows – even Robb's own clothes. But over time, he came to appreciate that earthy, yet sweet smell. It gave him comfort.
That is why the first thing he notices upon entering the room is how different it smells. The aroma of medicine hangs in the air, no doubt from whatever treatment Maester Luwin has provided.
You're lying on the bed when he enters, curled up into a ball. As soon as Robb closes the door, your eyes flutter open, following him as he approaches you wordlessly.
"Your Grace," you begin in the softest voice he's ever heard from your lips, "I would curtsey or sit up, but as you can see, I am in no state for such."
"I wouldn’t ask you to," he smiles as he sits on the bed right beside you. He glances at the cup sitting on your bedside table, "What are you drinking?"
You tilt your head slightly to see what Robb is looking at before returning your gaze to him. "Maester Luwin gave me something for the pain," you say, "I don't remember what is in it."
"You are in pain?"
Robb's concern increases when you nod.
"Where is the pain?" he asks.
"Here."
Robb looks down at where your hand is cradling your stomach. His eyes snap back up to you when he hears you wince, clutching your stomach tighter. He hates to see you in such terrible pain, and it is worse knowing he can do nothing to ease it.
"Will it be like this for you after every moon's turn?"
You shake your head, "Not every time. It was not like this during the last one – that is why you did not know it was happening."
Even after seeing you and speaking with you, Robb's worry does not dissipate. There is still a pit in his stomach. It dawns on him that he is not only concerned because you are his responsibility. He wants you to recover quickly because…well, it is you.
He raises his hands to your face, stopping when he sees the startled look on your face.
"Do you mind?" he asks, hands still hovering over you. He proceeds when you nod.
Gently, he presses his palms against your cheeks. You remain completely still under his touch, your heart racing. After a moment, he moves his hand to your forehead.
"What are you doing?"
He looks down, meeting your eyes which are staring up at him, before pulling back from you, "I'm checking for a fever."
You chuckle lightly, an infectious sound, "I'm not sure fevers are common with my particular ailment."
"It is better to be sure."
You smile softly before closing your eyes, a comfortable silence settling between the two of you. Robb sits there, listening to your breathing and waiting for you to fall asleep.
After a few minutes, your eyes open again.
"Don't let me keep you, you ought to rest," you whisper, "Your mother has prepared the guest chamber for you."
Robb is taken aback, "The guest chamber? Why should I stay there and not here as always?"
"Because you work from dawn to dusk and I will not have you lacking sleep simply because I am ill. Besides, your mother insisted."
Robb looks up at the ceiling and shakes his head. Of course his mother would be the one to insist. But still, he does not want to bring you any further discomfort anyways, so he obliges yours and his mother's wishes.
"I will be sure to look in on you again tomorrow," he promises as he rises to his feet. His gaze lingers on you for a moment before he finally says, "Sleep well, Y/N."
***
The next night, Robb is not happy when he finds the tray from your supper untouched. It lies discarded on the floor beside your bed, not even a grain of rice has been moved.
You're asleep when he enters the room, and even when he sits on the bed, you remain still. There is no snoring however, which lets Robb know that you are not sleeping soundly. Your forehead is creased and even in your sleep you're clutching something to your stomach.
This illness seems to have gotten worse, which only serves to make Robb feel more guilty for not coming to see you during the day. He leans down and presses the back of his hand to your clammy forehead, then his palms to your cheeks. Just to be sure again that there is no fever.
You wake while he is in the middle of doing this, momentarily shocked to see him practically on top of you. Robb instantly draws his hands back when he hears your gasp.
"I apologise, I was only checking–"
"Robb," you sigh heavily and slowly pull yourself up into a sitting position, "There is no fever. I have told you, this will pass."
He nods even though his worry remains.
"I'm sorry that I did not come earlier."
You wave a hand and shake your head. "It is quite alright, I completely under–"
You're cut off by an intense and sharp pain in your lower stomach and back that makes you hold your breath and squeeze your eyes shut. Too distracted by the pain, you don't even realise when Robb takes your hand at first, but once his calloused fingers clasp around your hand, you give it a tight squeeze to help the pain pass.
"Are you alright?"
Your eyes open to meet Robb's staring back into them. His brows are drawn together and he is sitting close to you on the bed, both his hands now holding yours.
"Yes," you whisper as you pull your hand out of his grasp, licking your dry lips, "I'm fine."
He looks like he wants to say more, but instead he sits back, placing his hands back in his lap. You can see clearly that he is concerned about you, more than you expected him to be – likely because he does not understand what is happening.
In some way, it is comforting to know that he cares.
“Tell me what I can do to help you.”
Robb is not a man who enjoys feeling useless. Even more so in recent years, considering all the tragedy that has befallen his family. And seeing you this way, sickly and vulnerable – the complete opposite of how he’s always seen you – is deeply unsettling.
"Distract me from the pain," you say, offering him the smallest way to make you feel better, "Tell me about your day. What has kept you so occupied?"
He doesn’t know how talking about ledgers and reports would help you, but he does so anyway.
“I spent much of the day preparing for the arrival of some men from the front.”
“Who is coming?”
“Lord Umber is bringing back some of the men we captured,” he sighs, “Our cells down there are too crowded, and some of the men are workers whose surrenders I’ve accepted.”
You raise a skeptical brow, “You trust Lannister soldiers?”
Robb is surprised – and a little amused – that you’re questioning his decision. He’s not sure he minds, however. In fact, he appreciates your taking an interest.
“I don’t,” he chuckles, “But these are men from the Brotherhood Withou–“
He’s cut off when you grab his hand to squeeze as another cramp hits. Instantly he forgets what he was talking about and gently takes both your hands. When the pain passes, you reach over to the side table and take a sip from the cup sitting there.
You notice Robb's inquisitive stare and nod to the cup, "It's the same tea from last night," you mumble, your eyes feeling heavier, "Apparently, it is a weaker dosage of milk of the poppy."
"Milk of the poppy makes you drowsy, no?"
"That explains why I have slept most of the day," you smile weakly.
Robb chuckles and strokes the back of your hand as you lean back and shut your eyes, "I should not have woken you."
"Perhaps not."
"Shall I leave?" he asks.
"No," you answer in a light voice, barely above a whisper, "Stay."
And so he does. He watches over you even after you fall asleep. It is not until your light snores begin to fill the room, a sure sign that you are in a deep slumber, that he decides to leave. He gently places your hand over your stomach and pulls the blankets up to your chest to make sure that you stay warm through the night.
Before he leaves, he can't help but watch you for a moment, listening to your slow breathing. You appear so at peace, and the sight warms his heart. In that moment, he knows that he has let go of any residual resentment he may have had towards you.
"Do feel better soon, my Lady," he whispers, "I long for our evening chats."
*
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the-offside-rule · 2 months
Text
Max Verstappen (Red Bull Racing) - Champagne Problems pt.2
Champagne Problems: Part 1,
Farewell: Part 1
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Max and Y/n had found themselves at Melbourne, the first race back for the 2023 season with their last encounter still lingering in the air. Awkward glances and hasty greetings marked their initial interactions, both carefully avoiding the elephant in the room. They managed to avoid eachother for the whole of testing somehow, but now it was near impossible with Marketing wanting to do teammate challenges and interviews as well as having to be in the same space almost all the time.
Y/n tried to keep her focus on the race, avoiding eye contact with Max whenever possible. Max, on the other hand, couldn't shake the memories of the gala and the unspoken emotions hanging in the air. Pit lane conversations became stilted, and team briefings turned into silent exchanges. The unspoken words lingered between them like a fog on the racetrack. To make matters worse, the team started to speculate what was happening between them. Most believed that it was just a rivalry or argument, whereas the small few suspected an...incident, which would be right.
The Saturday had rolled around and tensions were high in Red Bull. Max walked as his PR manager filled him in on what was to be expected with the plans for today. He was fully engrossed in the conversation until he looked up towards the hospitality and spotted Y/n at the Red Bull station where fans would be coming to get things signed. She must have a sixth sense, because she had managed to feel his eyes on her. They stopped and simply stared at eachother. Max gave a small smile. "Y/n." He said. "Max." She replied.
"Have a nice winter?" He asked. "I mean, if you had caught up with me you would have heard by now." Max looked at her confused. "What?" She sat down. "I've been going on dates." She explained. "Any successful?" She didn't reply. "Oh. I mean, hopefully one of these days you'll find someone who will meet your requirements." He said, a glint of hope in his voice. "There is someone." She said. Max's smile drooped slightly. "That's nice. Who is the lucky guy?" He asked. "Just a guy." She said bluntly as the first fan had come forward to get a cap signed. "He's lucky." He whispered. Y/n sighed and nodded mindessly as the line moved on, trying to pay as little attention to Max as possible, but it didn't work as effectively as she would have liked.
As the tension grew, and the crowd had died down, Max had become fed up with making conversation and not getting a response. Finally, he broke the silence. "Look, about last time-" He began, eyes flickering nervously. Y/n interrupted the dutchman. "It was a mistake and we will ignore it. Just sign the stuff for the fans and we can I our separate ways." She continued on smiling and signing while Max signed, just less enthusiastically. "Listen, we can't exactly pretend it didn't happen, Max. But let's keep it professional, okay?" She smiled as the new fans approached. "I'm trying but I just can't stop remembering what happened-"
"Can you shut up?" Max looked at her. She had changed over the winter. She wasn't as bubbly as she once was an turned cold, towards him anyway. "Okay." He replied quietly. "Sorry." Y/n felt guilt wash over her.
Max looked deep into her eyes. "Y/n, I can't deny how I feel. I know I have a girlfriend, but being around you…it's different. I need to be honest with myself." Y/n tapped the marker off the desk trying to get her frustration out silently. "Max, this is a bad idea. We can't do that again. I won't be kept a secret." She said, signing a new sheet of paper. Max's determination flickered in his eyes. "I don't want to keep you a secret, but I need to figure things out. Please, just give me time." Y/n shook her head. "No, Max. I won't let you break up with Krlly because you've confused love and lust."
Max clenched his jaw, frustration evident. "Y/n, you can pretend all you want, but we both know you're just lying to yourself. We have something going on and we can'tpretend it doesn't exist." Max said sternly. Y/n's voice wavered. "Max, we can't do this. It's not fair to anyone involved." The stopped for a moment before the last fan had come and gone. Y/n got up and began to walk when Max followed her. "We have to talk about it, everyone else is. And besides, it's affecting our performance." He said closing the door behind him. "It's affecting your performance. Mine is fine. My lap times are on time, my set up is perfect. It's affecting your performance." She said as-a-matter-of-factly. "Oh what? Because this means something to me?" Y/n stopped right outside the Red Bull hospitality lounge. "If I mean something to you, you wouldn't still be with Kelly." She said. "And I am not being the factor of your breakup so do better."
"Y/n." He said helplessly. "I'll see you later Max." She said, walking in and making her way to her driver room, whilst Max had to be whisked away to his other driver duties.
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deadbranch · 9 months
Text
Hurdy Gurdy Man
Author: @deadbranch Pairing: König x fem!Reader Warnings:  18+ MDNI, suggestive language, references to protected p in v sex, fingering, references to comfort sex, limited descriptions of genitalia (m & f), kissing, size difference (but not as a kink), feeling emotionally overwhelmed post-orgasm, social anxiety, fluff, light angst, intense emotions, impolite language, use of pet name Liebchen. Summary:  Markus reveals what’s bothering him, more or less.  You comfort each other as you share vulnerabilities and come to an agreement you can both enjoy. Word Count:  1.1k A/N:  There are few things I enjoy writing more than a comfort scene…except a comfort sex scene.  Enjoy.
SERIES MASTERLIST
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CH 8:  HURDY GURDY MAN
“You’ve been worried about this for how long?”  You gaze at his mouth, and you feel a spark of guilt.  He’s opening up to you, exposing his vulnerabilities, his emotions…and you can’t stop thinking about his mouth.
Markus’s expression contracts slightly, as though anticipating a slap that will never come.  In the dim moonlight that illuminates you both, you can guess that his cheeks are flushed.  Your fingers find the little wrinkles next to his right eye, the ones that are only obvious when he smiles.  You want to believe he’s been a smiler all his life, but now you get the impression that was not always so.  Your thumb traces the lower part of the largest scar on his face.  Out of consideration for Markus, you resist kissing it but bookmark the idea in your mind for later.
Following his nonverbal response, you press your lips to his, hoping to coax him out of his inner monologue.  It works.
“Yes.  Since the moment I realized you…intentionally collided with me.”  His body relaxes against you, as though finally unburdening himself in front of you went beyond the figurative.
Markus draws you against him, the side of your face pressed gently against the warm skin of his chest.  You wouldn’t have described him as a furry man, but his chest hair delights you as you nuzzle into the shelter of his upper body.
“Your anxiety wouldn’t have turned me off, even if I’d known it early on.  I suspected you were apprehensive but…now I know.  Thank you.”  You put a few inches between you and get him to meet your gaze, thumb caressing his jawline.  “Should we…exchange names, ranks, backstories?”
As long as you have the door kicked open, why not have it all out in the open?  Take your medicine all at once, then decide if this weekend continues or agree to drive back to post in the morning.  The pit of your stomach feels hollow and achy at the thought.  This could end now.  You regret the offer, but knew it was necessary.  The conversation.
The feeling in the room, between you, shifts as it becomes Markus’s turn to console you with his lips, his fingertips.
Rather than reply, he rolls you from your side onto your back.  His cock is erect again and you feel it leaking against your thigh as he bends to kiss your lips, then your throat, his body looming over yours in the darkness.
As his lips move against your throat, he gives you an answer.  A suggestion.  The way forward.
“Let’s give each other our fears, our weaknesses, one at a time.  After each…orgasm.  If you come, you must reveal something.”  His hand slips down between you and touches your opening, your slickened core that’s weeping again for him to slide in, to give you the pleasure you so desperately crave.  You feel sore, but the idea of him filling you again is akin to eating breakfast.  You didn’t realize how hungry you were until you woke up from a long night without Markus in your life.  Now that you’re awake, all you want to do is feast.
“So…I owe you…a confession,” you admit as you attempt to roll your hips against his hand, recalling the intense white heat of the climax that tore through you not half an hour ago.  You wonder if this is normal for him, being able to get hard so soon after his own release.
“No confession…an angel is not capable of sin.  Giving pleasure is the highest calling, is it not?”  Markus kisses you deeply, the gentle suction applied to your bottom lip mirroring the pressure of two of his fingers being joined by a third as he presses them into your heat.
You moan plaintively into his mouth as he stretches you.  “Ahh...then I…will reveal something…Ahh, fuck…”
Markus smiles playfully as you struggle to speak.  “Angel with a naughty mouth…”
As much as it pains you to stop him, you place your hand over his between your legs and convince him to cease fingering you for now, your eyes communicating more to him than your words ever could.  You kiss his lips several times, admiring both the heat and vulnerability in his gaze as you try to decide if he’s comforting you, or the other way around.
“I’ve struggled with self-image most of my life.”  You say the words, but they don’t feel like yours.  It sounds like some unseen narrator, making some flat and easy observation.  You’ve never put it into words before, and the jagged edges of it hurt on the way out as you elaborate.  “All supposed patriotism aside, I joined up because I wanted to prove the bastards wrong.”
His brow furrows. “Bastards?”
“Yeah.  I come from a small town of small-minded men and women.  They told me I couldn’t do it.  So I did it.  Look at me now, assholes.”
“Couldn’t do what?”
“Long story.  They told me this was a man’s profession.  I guess it struck a nerve in me.  They told me being a tomboy wasn’t enough.  Whatever that means.  I wonder sometimes if I made the right choice.”
“To serve?”
“No, to cave into the anger I felt.  To let my indignance inform my choices.”  The lump in your throat hangs on for dear life as you swallow hard.
“Would you have served anyway if the…bastards…had not said these things?”  His voice was never harsh with you, but it softens all the more as he presses the syllables of the last three words into your flesh with his lips.
You take a deep breath.  “Yes.”
“Then what does it matter, Liebchen?  I am grateful you’re here with me.  Now.  Letting me pleasure you.  Let me give you more.  I want to give you everything.”  His mouth descends again on your throat, the tip of his cock pressing into the inside of your thigh again.
Your hand snakes out from between you and reaches frantically toward the place where you last saw the other two condom packets.  As your hand frantically searches to no avail, Markus smiles with a charmed, soft laugh.  His hand immediately finds the next condom.
As he pushes himself upward and leans back on his heels between your legs, you scream inside as you anticipate more confessions.  More vulnerability.
More of Markus.
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Next: Change (In the House of Flies)
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leighlew3 · 4 months
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Hi Leigh, hope you are doing well!
Maybe you have answered this question before: how would you have written the Supergirl reveal to Lena?
You still have the elements of it being so late in series and that Lena actually already knows.
I wonder how a good writer would approach this because in the show it was an actual train wreck- Lena wanting to expose Supergirl’s identity at the Pulitzer party before Kara actually said it?! So out of character. And all that stuff after? So stupid.
Anyway thanks for answering this question :)
Hi! Hangin' in there, thank you. 🤗
Well, it depends on what point the launch off was.
Let's say she learns via Lex, just like in the show (rather than rewrite the whole damn series in this post, haha).
Just thinking on the fly, here goes... I woulda just had her reeling, feeling betrayed, and isolating rather than putting on a front.
Kara doesn't understand what's happening, but wonders if maybe Lena is secretly angry with her for killing Lex (remember, Kara believed she took him down in that final fight at the end of S4). This is hammered in further after Alex plants the seed that, evil or not, Lex was still Lena's brother, and so some level of sadness is likely to still exist there. She advises Kara to give Lena time and space.
Kara, further worried by Lena's worsening isolation and mood, ignores her sister's advice and makes efforts to connect, but increasingly senses the distance and her guilt grows.
Meanwhile Lena -- between finding out the truth that Kara is Supergirl in such a terrible way, while also hiding that she killed Lex (to protect Kara, ironically) truly spirals and starts to think that Kara perhaps never was truly her friend at all, only using her to be able to eventually take down Lex. A means to an end. Feeling like that's all she's ever been to anybody, including her "best friend" who meant the world to her, Lena becomes darker and more cold, sure -- but never takes those ridiculous 'villainous' actions of any kind.
Alex pulls a typical Alex move and starts to suspect that Lena's isolation and darker vibes could mean trouble as "She is a Luthor." and she's worried she'll carry Lex's torch now that he's gone, and her isolation means she's up to something. Kara of course doesn't buy it -- much like in the show, defending Lena, rebelling against the notion.
After ramping the tension throughout Season 5A on these fronts, a dramatic series of events eventually leads Kara to go to Lena and try to have a much needed conversation. Lena thinks she's perhaps finally going to confess, and she allows herself to feel hopeful again -- alas that hope is dashed, when instead Kara simply apologizes for killing Lex (so she thinks she did), and not realizing how much doing so would cause Lena pain. Lena finds this ironic, Kara's concern for her pain, considering she's lied to her all this time and still won't be open with her. Lena then decides that if nothing else, she won't lie.
She tells Kara that Lex died at HER hand, not Kara's.
Kara is shocked. She's pulled away by an emergency before they can discuss this further. And thus, Kara now believes Lena's distance and darkness is driven by guilt over killing her own brother, and Kara now feels more guilty than ever that she went through that, and that she continues to keep Lena in the dark, even though Lena opened up to her. As we approach mid-season, the two have several 'almost' moments where it seems Kara might actually confess her identity. And we make it clear that she wants to. But the more she sees how hurt Lena is about having to kill Lex, to protect her no less, the worse she feels and the more she's terrified to tell Lena her secret, believing that Lena's done so much for her, meanwhile all she's done -- is lie. It wrecks Kara. And her anger issues start to rise up again, and that comes out a lot in Crisis crossover (in which our world's Lex is NOT yet present again btw), which is of increasing concern to everybody.
Post Crisis, in which Lena and Kara work together to save everybody even though they can barely even look at each other, we have these two idiots with their secrets, both struggling tremendously -- Kara with her anger and guilt, and Lena with her sadness and pain. And both with their regrets. And the rest of the group is noticing these tensions, between missions / various genre adventures.
It ramps up, until finally, shit hits the fan in a 100th episode. Lena is held hostage by someone threatening to kill her if Supergirl doesn't reveal her identity (similar to how it was in the show, but without the Mxy stuff, or at least using it better) -- Kara is fully willing to reveal herself to save Lena. She prepares to do just that, and even goes to the press conference, but just before she has to do it, her friends find a way to save Lena without the reveal needing to happen. But Kara is also nearly killed in the battle. The closest she's ever come to dying.
In the aftermath, Lena has now seen how far Kara would go to protect her -- both in terms of being willing to give up her life AND reveal her identity to the world. Lena of course forgives Kara (quietly, to herself) and decides to let Kara have her secret, even if it means they both pretend the other doesn't know, silly as it it. Alas, what she doesn't expect, at the end of the episode --
Kara reveals her identity to Lena (at Kara's place after everyone else goes home). Turns out almost losing her life made her realize she didn't want to die a coward and a liar on this front. And also, Lena not knowing put her at worse risk than knowing. And she deserves to know, so she can protect herself. So Kara can better protect her.
After/during her confession, Lena sheds a tear, and Kara starts to profusely apologize, thinking Lena is devastated by the revelation. But Lena confesses that it's tears of relief, because she's already known. She was just wondering if Kara would ever trust her enough to tell her the truth. Kara is shocked to know Lena knew, grateful she's kept the secret for her, and heartbroken to know she learned it from Lex, before killing him. She also makes it clear she didn't keep it from her because she didn't trust her, it was never about that. It was simply the belief that not telling her protected her somehow. But now she's seen that was foolish, in this case. Realizing now they've both been dumb and their secrets have done nothing but cause each other, and themselves, so much pain -- they agree: no more secrets.
And they hug it out -- because besties! Just gals being pals right?!
*eye roll*
Then the rest of 5B becomes all about Lex popping up alive, and being furious that Lena and Kara are closer than ever, and that his attempt to destroy their relatio- I mean "friendship" failed. And he comes at them harder than ever, with Lillian's help. And so on. And by the end of S5, in an epic battle, Lex is finally stopped and captured once and for all and hauled off to prison, but not before sending Kara to the phantom zone.
Lena is devastated, as she and Kara only recently had all cards on the table and were growing closer than ever, so S6A then becomes all about the super friends trying to find Kara in the Phantom Zone (with a LOT less cheesy stupidity, and a lot more focus on Kara's traumas and torture while in the PZ rather than any dumb filler crap with her dad being alive -- perhaps she sees him, but it's just a cruel illusion).
Meanwhile, Lena, at wits end, visits Lex in prison, hoping to get information out of him as to where and how they can find Kara in the PZ. But he taunts her, plays games with her, etc until finally, she tells him goodbye for good. He doesn't believe she'll be able to stay away forever, especially as long as he knows how to find Kara. But she finally sees through it all, basically tells him he's full of shit, that he has no idea how to reach Kara in the PZ, he's a liar, always has been, and his power over her is gone. She vows to find Kara on her own and to never be anything like him, as he's selfish and cruel and insane. And she finally walks away from him. And he can't believe it.
Now that she's found her inner strength, Lena is able to think more clearly, less out of anger and desperation, and thus she, Alex and the Superfriends eventually embark on an action-packed retrieval of Kara in the Phantom Zone, ultimately saving her in the mid-season finale.
The final half of the final season (6B) focuses on Kara's deep traumas experienced/re-lived in the phantom zone, as she struggles with doing her job as "perfect" Supergirl while mentally screwed up. No one really notices but Lena, because Kara hides it well. Alex is just happy her sister is back, busy planning a wedding, focusing on vigilante work, etc. And the Superfriends have lots of other issues to focus on as well. But Lena sees Kara's struggles because she knows a thing or two about trauma, and she's there for her. Especially after Alex and Kelly get married with a few episodes to go and Kara doesn't want to burden her sister, who is finally so happy.
The final episodes feature Kara facing her demons, internal and external (as villains from past seasons pop up to haunt her, as it turns out the events post Crisis brought them into this universe, and now they've come after her, and they've all got to take them down).
In the end, the show wraps up with Kara finding a level of peace she never had before, having faced the past and all she's gone through and lost, in great part thanks to having Lena by her side.
And the show ends focused on Kara, for an episode called KARA. Not focused on Lex, nor the supporting characters, not on shoe-horned cameos, nor other bs. But Kara herself, and her journey, her healing from a lifetime of loss and trauma, her relationships to her family and friends, and rediscovering that which is always going to rest deep within her soul, even if it gets a little lost sometimes...
Her unbreakable sense of HOPE.
The End.
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dracognition · 1 month
Note
48 + 63 please! (i love your writing!!)
48: fake dating + 63: everybody knows/mistaken for couple send me a trope mash-up!
"It might be, er," said Potter, "a bit weird having to tell everyone we aren't together after this, won't it?"
Draco stared at him blankly. "Yes," he said, slowly. "It might be a bit weird. I assumed you'd thought that through before agreeing to this, frankly, and it's a bit late to back out—"
"Will you stop acting like a maniac," Potter said, waving him away impatiently. "I did think it through; I was just making sure you did, too. It's not like we have another plan, anyway." And they didn't: they had to go to this function as a couple so that people would think Draco had horrible mushy feelings for Potter and so that their target, if all went well, would kidnap him instead of Granger or one of the Weasleys.
Draco may have been a little hasty to suggest this particular plan, but Potter seemed none the wiser. It was fine. It wasn't as if he was protesting.
"All right," Potter said. He wrapped his arm around Draco's waist, splaying his fingers possessively over his abdomen. His grip was steady and warm. "Ready?" Draco swallowed.
"Obviously," he said coolly, slinging his arm over Potter's shoulders in return, and they opened the doors together.
He was expecting a bit of an uproar: cameras flashing, their friends' faces transformed into matching expressions of shock and awe, probably at least one person fainting. What he got instead was: cameras flashing, sure, but no more than usual for Potter, and their friends barely glancing their way.
Half an hour spent socialising brought only the most banal conversation, even as Potter tucked his face into the crook of Draco's neck to laugh several times and Draco—well, mostly turned very pink and tried not to freeze at the contact. Finally, Granger came over, handing them both a glass of champagne, and said, in her brusque, businesslike way: "You're both finally done hiding it, then?"
"Sorry?" asked Potter, his smile fading. "Hiding—hiding what?"
Granger gestured at the two of them. "Surely you're not still trying to hide it," she said. "You're doing an even worse job than usual if you are."
"Sorry?" echoed Draco.
"Ron thought you'd take another few months to tell us," she said, like she wasn't completely upsetting the world's balance the more she spoke, "but Blaise said knowing you, you couldn't keep it to yourself for much longer."
"Right." Potter blinked once, then seemed to adjust: his back straightened; his hand relaxed against Draco's hip. "Yeah. He wanted to tell you right away; you know how he gets," he continued, and smoothly ignored Draco's elbow digging into his side. "How—how long have you guys suspected?"
"Oh, since the Christmas party, at least. Surely it hasn't been longer than that?"
Five months? Draco wanted to yelp, but instead he said: "Bang on, Granger. Should've known you knew already."
She smiled. "I'm happy for you. And I'm glad you're finally comfortable telling us."
"We were comfortable telling you before," said Potter, because he was completely terrible about these things and very easily done in by guilt. "We just—it was so new."
So new, Draco mouthed incredulously, and this time Potter elbowed him. After a few more minutes, she got dragged into a debate about charm theory with Astoria, leaving Potter and Draco alone and out of earshot of most of the party.
"Well," Potter said, awkwardly. "Looks like we might have to, um. Keep at it, then."
"Keep at it," Draco repeated, and then he laughed, the noise a bit choked and hysterical. "Yes. Fine. Let's keep at it. And just to get a little more convincing—"
"I thought the problem was we were too convincing—"
"Just shut up and let me kiss you," said Draco, and Potter, for once, obeyed.
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buck-yyyy · 2 years
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hey, mike?
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summary: will & mike lay awake under the stars. why’s mike been acting so weird?
pairing: will byers x mike wheeler
warnings: mild internalized homophobia
word count: 2,278 words
@wolfie-rayet you asked me to tag you once i finished writing it :)
“Hey, Mike?” Will laid awake in the back of the van, staring up at the ceiling. They were in some sandy field in New Mexico, taking the rest of the night to sleep before hopefully getting to El in the morning. Argyle and Jonathan were passed out in the front seats, with Argyle's cheek smushed up against the window and Jonathan tipping sideways onto his friend’s shoulder. Will and Mike had been delegated to the backseat, the two of them resting on a pile of blankets that Argyle had lent them that smelled of pot and pizza grease. The stars glowed faintly outside the van, shining a small amount of light in through the window. It would be peaceful, maybe even serene- that is, if Will hadn’t been wracked with guilt the whole night.
He'd always known he was different from the others. Lonnie’s habit for throwing slurs around forced him to think about who he was earlier than anyone around him, and Will had eventually come to the conclusion that maybe he liked boys. He’d finally realized it in fifth grade, when Troy and James had really started to turn up the bullying. He'd come to terms with it ages ago- he was fifteen now, and although he hadn’t told anybody, he was fairly sure that Jonathan suspected something. Jonathan could always read him like a book.
But this was different. This was Mike- his best friend, since they were kids. Although really, it had been Mike for a long time. It had always been Mike, if he was being honest to himself. It had been Mike since the day on the swing set, though he didn’t know at the time what that fluttering feeling was in his stomach.
Will absentmindedly brushed his fingers against the rolled up canvas next to him, thinking.
The full reason for his guilt wasn’t just the fact that it was Mike. Will had been able to swallow the feelings for years, pushing them down in order to protect himself. But recently, it felt.. Different. Stronger, maybe. He would overhear El’s conversations with Mike over the phone, and just slump against the wall, head tucked in his arms, filled with nothing but a resounding echo of what he knew had to be the truth- that Mike would never feel the same way. And though he used to be able to stomach that thought, Will could no longer stand to bear it. It hurt, constantly, like an old wound that would reopen upon the slightest movement.
Will shifted in the mess of blankets, sitting up and propping himself up against the wall of the van to look at Mike, who sat staring blankly at the seat in front of him.
“Mike? Are you okay?” He prodded him in the shoulder, causing Mike to jump.
“What? Oh- yeah, I’m, uh, I’m fine. Just been kinda thinking about stuff.” Mike tore his eyes away from the rip in the seat that he had been glowering at for the last 15 minutes, turning his body towards Will. He propped his head up on his knees, wrapping his arms around his legs.
“It’s just that you’ve seemed off, lately. Even before all this stuff with the Nina Project. You’ve been weird, distant.” Will took a deep breath, looking down, before continuing. “I mean, you couldn’t even give me a real hug at the airport. Have I- did I do something wrong?” He heard Mike's breath catch, and he looked back up.
“No- no of course you didn’t! It’s not your fault at all, it’s just. Um. Do you remember yesterday, when-“ Argyle snorted in his sleep, startling the two boys.
“Hey, maybe we should go sit outside. So we don’t wake them up, Will offered quietly, sliding open the van door and brushing off the piles of blankets. He hopped out, Mike following him silently.
Will privately thought that Mike had looked miserable the entire time he’d been in california. Nearly every interaction with El had seemed forced, and after conversations with her, he would often be spacing in and out for a long time afterwards, seemingly thinking.
The boys climbed up onto a big rock in the desert and laid their backs against the cool stone. Will looked up at the stars, waiting for Mike to continue his thoughts. If he thought they had a full sky back in Hawkins, it was nothing compared to New Mexico. You could see every constellation, pick out every individual star. It was beautiful.
“Will, you didn’t do anything wrong. Do you, uh. Do you remember what you were saying the other day, at the car junkyard, about it being scary to tell people how you really feel, because you don’t know how people will react?” Mike said slowly, not taking his eyes away from the sky for a second. Will inhaled sharply, as quietly as he could.
Will knew he shouldn’t have said it. It had come just a bit too close to the truth, that Will was different from everyone else he knew, and that it was because of Mike. But he hadn’t seemed to notice, so.. maybe it was okay?
“Yeah, I remember,” Will murmured, shifting himself onto his side to be able to look at Mike.
Mike stayed where he was, staring up at the sky with a blank expression on his face. Will waited a second, then two. Mike took one more before responding.
“I don't love her.” Will choked on his own breath.
“Wha- what?!” he spluttered, eyes wide. El and Mike had been inseparable since they met, practically casting Will to the side in order to ‘swap spit’, as he’d said so long ago. And now they were… were they broken up?
Mike turned to face Will, and now he could see the pained expression on his friend’s face. Mike’s eyes glinted in the moonlight, and his jaw was set back firm. He looked like he wanted to cry and scream at the same time. Will could feel his heart break into pieces just looking at the boy he loved. Even if he couldn’t have him, he wanted Mike to be happy. That’s what he deserved.
“I thought I did. For so long, I thought I did. But- that day, when you guys were leaving for California, the last day? She told me that she loved me, and kissed me, and it felt so, so wrong. All that time I spent over the summer, being with her, kissing her, everything- it was fine, I guess, but that moment where she told me that she loved me? I just, I don’t know. I guess I felt like I was betraying someone. But I don’t know who. I don’t know anything, really. I just know that it wasn’t right. I don’t think we’re right for each other. And- and I think, after our last fight, that El wants it to be over. I think it is over,” Mike faltered, lowering his eyes.
“I- wow.” Will exhaled slowly, not sure what to say. “Is there.. Is there someone else? Another girl? Is that what’s making it so difficult?”
Mike seemed to freeze. Will examined his face as Mike struggled to respond. His eyes were so brown, so dark, that Will thought they were maybe black. The moonlight glinted off of his scleras, giving his face a subtle ethereal effect
“If I tell you this, can you keep it between us?” Mike asked quietly, eyes cast down. Will nodded. Whatever it was, he could keep a secret, if it was for Mike. He could do anything for Mike.
Mike looked up at the sky and took a deep, long breath. Will waited.
“There’s.. Someone. That I like, I mean. And.. And I think I’ve felt like this for a long time, but I could never tell them. I’ve never told anyone. To be honest, I only just recently told myself, started to accept it. I’d kinda choked it down, buried it. It’s easier that way, you know?” He pulled himself into a sitting position, and Will followed suit, eyes roaming over every inch of Mike’s face.
“Would it maybe be easier if you just.. I don’t know, described them? That way, you wouldn’t have to say who it was,” Will offered, with a lump in his throat. He wanted so, so badly to believe that it was him- but he couldn’t get his hopes up. He refused to. He’d just end up getting hurt.
Mike hesitated, then nodded. “H- they have brown hair,” he began, picking at his fingernails. “It’s cut short, and it’s not. Uh. The best haircut, but it looks pretty on them. It’s the kind of thing that you have to be the right person to pull off, you know?”
Will nodded. Just focus on him. Don’t let your thoughts stray away.
“They have greenish-brown eyes- they’re just the right color to get lost in. I could spend all day picking out every individual fleck of color. They look golden in the sun, like a coin melted in their eyes. They’re beautiful.”
It’s a random girl. Focus on Mike. Don’t speculate. You’ll just get hurt, like always.
“They’re not short, but I’m taller than them. Just a bit, maybe an inch or two.”
Focus. On. Mike. Don’t let your feelings show. It’s the only way to protect yourself.
Mike abruptly paused, rubbing at his mouth with his hand. “Can we, uh- can we maybe change the topic?” he blurted out, eyes flicking back and forth between Will and his lap.
“Hey, of course. You don’t need to worry about it. We can talk about anything.” Will lightly brushed his fingers across Mike’s shoulder, and felt the muscles underneath clench. He pulled his hand away, immediately regretting his decision. Mike can’t ever know. If you touch him, he’ll figure it out. You need to be more careful.
He turned his attention up to the night sky, heart pounding in his chest. Mike followed his gaze, and Will thought he could feel Mike’s eyes pausing on his face- but he had to be making it up in his head. Right?
“Do you know anything about constellations?” Mike shook his head, prompting Will to continue. “See that one, where I’m pointing? That looks kinda like a construction digger? That’s the little dipper. And- right over there, that’s the big dipper. Same shape, different size.” Mike’s eyes followed every star Will pointed towards, sending chills up his spine.
“It’s kinda hard to see, but that one right there is my favorite. It’s Andromeda. She was a figure in Greek mythology. Her mother, Cassiopeia, claimed she was more beautiful than all of Poseidon’s daughters. He was the god of the sea, and sent a sea monster after Andromeda as punishment. Then, a man named Perseus- a great Greek hero- came flying by on his pegasus. He saw Andromeda running from the sea monster, and instantly fell in love with her. He made a deal with her parents, that if he killed the sea monster, he could take her hand in marriage. Problem is, she was already promised to another man- and he and Perseus fought, and Perseus won. He saved Andromeda, and they lived together, happy and in love.” Will paused, looking back at Mike to gauge his attention. Mike was watching Will intently, eyes wide, lips ever so slightly parted.
Will gulped and looked back up at the sky. He’s just listening to you tell the story. Don’t fool yourself.
“And so, Perseus is over there,“ he pointed up, marking out the cluster of stars. Mike’s eyes didn’t move an inch. When did they get so close? “-and Cassiopeia is over there, but she’s upside down as a punishment for her vanity. The three of them circle the North Star to-“ Will cut off as Mike cupped the sides of his face and pulled him forward into a kiss.
A million things burst inside of Will, and he leaned into the kiss. He felt like crying from happiness. All those years spent, longing, just longing for this boy. And it culminated in this- the best experience of his life. His lips were so soft, his hands so gentle on Will’s jaw.
The kiss only lasted a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity to Will. They pulled apart, and looked at each other in shock.
“Oh- oh fuck, was that.. was that okay?” Mike chewed his lip anxiously, glancing at Will, eyes glistening under the stars.
Will gazed softly at the boy he loved. He’d debated for months- could you call it love when it was unreciprocated? He spent so long convincing himself otherwise. But now, he knew, more surely of anything he’d ever known in his life. He loved this boy- he, Will Byers, was in love with the most beautiful boy in the world. And Mike Wheeler loved him back.
Will wrapped his hand in Mike’s and passed his fingers over Mike’s knuckles. He leaned forward, and placed a single kiss on the corner of Mike’s mouth, smiling softly.
“Mike, you have no idea just how okay it is.”
Bonus: 15 minutes later.
The boys laid on their backs on the warm rock, curled together. Will’s head was tucked into Mike’s shoulder, and their hands were gripped together, as though they could never let go. The van doors slid open, and Jonathan stepped out.
Mike and Will sprang apart, startled. Oh, shit. Jonathan- Jonathan knows. How much had he seen?
Jonathan cupped his hands around his mouth and looked directly at them. “Fucking finally,” he called out, settling his hands on his hips with a sly smile before stepping back into the van.
Mike and Will glanced at each other and burst out laughing, so hard they doubled over, clutching their sides.
They were together. Nothing else in the world mattered- tonight, it was just the two of them.
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observeowl · 1 year
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How am I going to trust? N.R
Natasha Romanoff x Reader
Summary: After a celebration and lots of drinking, Steve and Nat did something that they both regretted. Is R able to live with that fact if she continues to be Natasha's fiance?
After a successful mission that everyone has worked hard for, Tony reserved the entire restaurant for the team to celebrate. There wasn’t a need for that but he wouldn’t be Tony if he didn’t do that. 
The team drank a lot seeing how it was a celebration and they can finally relax after cracking a tough case that they’ve spent a lot of effort in. It meant a lot to Nat as she has put in a lot of effort in this investigation. 
The two of you have been together for years and the whole team was rooting for the both of you and were even considered to be the power couple around. Everyone was just waiting for you to be married but you brushed it off, not wanting to rush or force her into anything. 
Natasha understood how stressful it was for you and was going to try to wrap it up by the end of the year and promised that she was going to marry you once the case was over. You can’t lie, but your heart did flutter when she gave you that promise. 
The case was tough and Steve has been coming over to your guy’s apartment as they worked on the case together. He even has the key to the apartment since he was coming so frequently. You didn’t like that he has free access to your house but you didn’t say anything. You trusted Natasha. Your work in SHIELD also often ended late and by the time you came back, they would be in the computer room reviewing the case hoping to find a lead. 
One fine day, Nat happened to find her pictures in Steve’s phone and he confessed that he has feelings for Nat but he never wanted to separate the both of us. Things were a little awkward after but I still trusted Nat. Steve and you were fine, you still had conversations when you were around. 
Nat was grateful that you never complained about a single thing when she couldn’t pay much attention to you. In the few minutes you ladies spend together, she would be on her phone updating the team and going through updates. When she was there with you, she was never truly there. Sometimes she would only have a couple bites of her lunch before leaving saying her team has found a clue. You would always reassure her it was fine and she should leave and focus on solving the case. 
One day after bringing you out for dinner, Nat proposed to you using an origami paper ring. She recognised your efforts and promised that she was going to marry you whether or not she managed to solve the case. You happily kept the paper ring in a safe place. 
You prepared the wedding with some help from the team, after all you need ideas on what theme and design it was going to be. You tried to involve Natasha where possible such as trying on the wedding dress/suit but she had to leave halfway when her informer had information for her. 
So when the team managed to finally solve the case, everyone was so happy that they drank a few too many. 
You had further work to be done in SHIELD so you excused yourself early when you were still sober and returned to your office to work. Not knowing Nat and Steve had sex on the bed that night. Both were too drunk to recognise who they were doing it with. Nat kept calling your name in bed and Steve just pushed the guilt aside knowing this was probably the only time gets to do it with Natasha. 
The next morning, Nat couldn’t remember anything that happened last night but she saw the broken picture frame of the two of you on the floor and suspected something. She got up to leave but stepped on Steve’s army tag that he usually carries around everywhere and linked the two and two together.
Nat used the excuse of finally being able to spend time with you and queued up for the restaurant that you always wanted to try out. 
“The queue is so long. Let’s just go to another place and eat. You hate queueing up.” You tried to convince Nat to pick another place. 
“It’s alright. You always wanted to try this and since now I finally have the time, we should definitely try it.” Nat pulled you towards the back to join the queue. 
“Why the sudden change in behaviour?” 
“Umm… I just want to treat my wifey… is that a crime? Maybe you should just cuff me and lock me up baby…”
“Stop it… people are staring…” You slapped her biceps and whispered. 
“Let them stare. My wife is so beautiful.” You just sighed and rolled your eyes as the queue moved forward.
---
You were watching through the camera that your team has set up and confirmed that the audio was coming through. Timing was not confirmed so you had to sit through the entire day, waiting for your guy to show up.
You raised an eyebrow when you saw Steve coming in the club but relaxed when you saw Bucky walking in with him. The two of them always bring out the other hidden side of each other. They were rather serious in the beginning, especially Steve, not relaxing into the atmosphere as Bucky tried to overcome his wall. 
After a series of singing, drinks and talks, Bucky still noticed that Steve was not fully himself. “Hey Steve, I know you long enough to know something is bothering you. What is it?”
“It’s nothing. It’s your bad singing that’s making everything weird.” Steve tried to shake Bucky off. 
“It’s about Natasha isn’t it? It’s either you shoot your shot or you give up on her. She has a fiance god dammit.”
“I slept with her.”
“What?” Bucky felt for the man with honour, what he just announced was really damaging. 
The co-worker who was sitting next to you watching the same screen, shifted uncomfortably when the topic was brought up. She took a glance at you to check on you and she was shocked to see you this calm, there weren't any traces on your face to show any emotion but you got up from your seat abruptly.
You walked along the street of the busy city night until you reached the bridge where you asked to meet Natasha. 
“Why do you want to meet me here?” Natasha came and hugged you from behind. 
“You tell me truthfully, did you sleep with Steve?” You pulled away from her and looked her in the eye. When she didn’t reply, you got your answer. 
“I don’t understand how you’ve been walking around me and him like this hasn’t happened before.” 
“I didn’t mean to do it. I was drunk. I didn’t remember anything.” Nat tried to hold your arms and explained that it was all just a mistake. 
“If I didn’t find out, were you going to tell me?” You shrugged her hands off your arm and stepped back. She looked at you silently and you shook your head in disbelief. “Is that why you brought me to the restaurant the other day? Because you felt guilty?”
“Why don’t you just lie to me? I would have believed you. When you want to postpone the wedding, I’m okay with it. When Steve keeps coming in and out of our house to the point where he has the key, I’m also okay with it… I trusted you…” 
“Y/N…” Nat tried to hold you but you pushed her away. 
“Don’t touch me!” You seethed, turning around leaving Natasha alone on the bridge. Natasha tried calling for you but you didn’t answer your phone. She went back to the apartment but you weren’t there. It was the only place you had to stay so she wasn’t sure where you were. 
You trudged back to SHIELD and thankfully Maria was at her desk. You knocked at her door and she looked up at you with red eyes and tears streaming down your face. “I need a spare room here. Whatever works for me.” 
Maria wanted to ask what happened to you but when she saw your devastated state, she turned to her computer to check for any free room in SHIELD database. “Level 39, room 403.”
“Thanks.” You turned around to find your way to the room. It was already late so there weren't any agents around. You plopped on bed and started sobbing, releasing all the tears that you held back in front of Natasha. 
Steve went to the apartment with the intention of returning the keys since the case was over. He texted Natasha that he was going to leave the keys on the door frame but as he reached over, the door opened, showing Nat drunk on the couch. 
“Natasha, what’s going on? Y/N would not like to see you like this.” 
“She knows Steve… she knows we slept together.” Steve was shocked for words. “She’s been avoiding me. I tried calling her phone but she’s not answering. I’ll do anything to get her back. Whatever she wants me to do, I will do it. I can’t live without her. We were supposed to get married at the end of the year, how did it turn out like this?” 
“I’ll go find Y/N to explain to her, surely she will forgive you.” Steve couldn’t bear to see Natasha break down in front of him. He wanted her to be happy, even if it meant with you instead of him.
---
The next day, Steve stayed around SHIELD, hoping to catch a glimpse of you and explain the situation. “Y/N!” He shouted across the room when he saw you. You waited for him to approach you and he requested to speak in a more private spot. 
“You have to trust Natasha, Y/N. She didn't mean for any of this to happen. Give her another chance, forgive her.” Steve tried to persuade you not to break up with Natasha.
“How am I supposed to trust her, Steve? She lied to me. When we say our vows in the altar, in health or sickness, rich or poor, better or worse. How am I supposed to trust her?” You glared at him. You were angry at him as much as you were with Natasha. You saw him as a friend even though you knew he had feelings for Natasha. But you were a fool to trust him too. 
You avoided the both of them as much as possible, but you maintained professionalism when you had to have a team meeting with the both of them. Maria noticed the tension, for some who was supposed to get married at the end of the year, it was very apparent that the two of you weren’t getting along well. 
Natasha tried everything to win you back. But with you avoiding her there was only so much she could do. News travels around fast in SHIELD and the Avengers, soon people know the reason why you haven’t been seen around Natasha recently. Some, in fact, most people think that you would get back together seeing how you’ve been going strong for years. 
Wanda, on the other hand, thought differently. 
Natasha was at the canteen, getting ready to pay for her coffee when Wanda swooped in to make the payment and added another order of hot tea for herself. They brought their conversation to the table where she gave Natasha a harsh reality check. 
“Y/N is a woman with principle, white is white and black is black. It’s going to be really hard to win her back.” Wanda explained.
“I know, being with her for so long, I understood her values.”
“She’s a great person, a lot of people would be fighting over her.”
“Hey, are you here to cheer me up or bring me down?” 
“I’m just here to tell you the truth instead of giving you baseless lies and bring your hopes up.” Natasha was her senior and has helped her through a lot when she first joined the Avengers and now wants to help her senior a little, in any way she can. 
“But I do hope you get back together. You can find me if you need any help.” Wanda patted Natasha’s shoulder before walking off, leaving Nat alone in her thoughts. 
Life continues on without stopping even though the both of you haven’t been talking. There was absolutely no chance of speaking to you since the both of you were in different departments and you have been staying in SHIELD instead of the apartment you both shared. Each night, Nat waited for your return, hoping to be able to explain to you the situation but you just wouldn’t appear at the door. You were avoiding her, not returning her calls and texts.
While working, Nat received a text from you. Which was surprising since you have been avoiding her. 
I want to settle things. Meet me at (address). Tell Steve to come too. 
Reading your message, she wasted no time in bolting out of her office and texted Steve to meet her at the location as well. The team understood she needed to leave to get back her wife, it was no longer busy after cracking that huge case so no one really objected her in leaving. 
When Nat arrived at the location, it was unlike a meeting place you would set. It is like a factory with many rooms for office space. 
“Y/N! Y/N? Where are you?” Nat began opening each door but it was locked. A message came through on her phone again and it read. 
You want to see Y/N?The password is 1234.
It definitely came from Y/N but the sender appears to be a different person. Nat went to the only room which has a keypad lock and entered the password. The door opened successfully and she saw you bound and gagged to the chair. 
“Y/N!” Her eyes widened in terror. You shook your head trying to signal to Nat, not to enter but either she didn’t get it or she chose to ignore it. Nat got to your side instantly and untied the ropes around your wrist and took out the gag in your mouth. 
You took a deep breath before saying. “I told you not to enter, why didn’t you listen?” 
Claps could be heard in the room and Nat turned to the source of the sound. “You didn’t really think the password was 1234, did you?” It was the one of the masterminds of the case that the team had just solved but they were unable to convict him of his crime, only his partner because she confessed everything on her deathbed. 
“What are you doing? Let us go?” Nat said when he saw him shut the door. 
“Bank level security, without the password, none of us is going to leave the place.” He started laughing like a maniac as gas started filling up the space. “Carbon monoxide. We are all just going to die here.” 
Nat shot the door with her gun but it only made a dent, it wasn’t going to be enough to get you out of here. “Just let my wife out of here.” Nat said coughing and covering her mouth, hoping to breathe in less of the toxic gas.
“You should count yourself lucky. You get to die together with her. My wife left without me! You caused her death! She asked to take revenge for her.” He was getting delusional. His love for his wife was greater than anything in the world.
“Nat…” Your body was almost hitting the limit as you struggled to stay awake. 
Nat held your body close to her as she scanned for an exit. There were only vents that leaked the gas in and they were far too small for anyone to fit in. “I’m sorry…” Was all Natasha could say. The three of you in the room started to drift out of consciousness and the oxygen bonds with the carbon monoxide.
---
Steve saw Nat’s message and went to the location but no one was already. He was sure Nat had arrived earlier than he did but he couldn’t see anyone in sight. He did the same thing and called for yours and Natasha’s name but received no response. 
Using his enhanced hearing, he could hear the sound of the engine moving, releasing the gas that was stored. Steve pushed down on the handle of the door only to realise it was locked. Using all the strength he could muster, he couldn’t push the door open. He ran back to his car to grab his SHIELD and slammed it against the handle. 
“Nat! Y/N!” Steve tried to shake the both of you but you were passed out on each other. He carried both of you to his car before trying to drag the guy out of the room and calling the ambulance as he drove to the hospital. His top priority was to get the both of you safe instead of the other guy.
---
Days passed and the two of you have woken up. Nat woke up earlier because she has a stronger body compared to you. She wanted to visit and help you on the day you were going to be discharged but when she arrived, your bed was empty and the nurse was tidying up. “May I know where the patient has gone?”
“Oh, you’re talking about Ms Y/L/N? She has already been discharged in the morning.” Once again, the chance to meet you slipped by her fingers. 
You had just walked into your room when Maria came in. “You’re back so early? Let me guess. You wanted to avoid her.” You just glanced at her before starting to unpack your stuff. 
“Come on, Y/N. I know you still love her. And it’s just only once, I’m sure she’ll never do it again. Where are you going to find someone as good as Nat?” Maria tried to persuade you. 
You sighed and dropped your hands to your side. “If you’re not here to help me unpack can you please leave?” You were tired of everyone trying to patch you back together with Nat. 
---
Nat was in the compound talking to the team when Clint ran into the room panting. “Whoa, why are you in a rush?” Tony commented.
“Y/N… Y/N, she… she handed in her resignation.” Clint said as he was panting from his run. Everyone turned their attention to me when they heard the news. 
“This is not something to be joking about.” Wanda said seriously. 
“I’m not!” Clint defended. Nat's phone rang and she pulled it out and it was a text sent by you. 
Meet me outside SHIELD.
“Go get your girl Nat.” Tony gave Nat a slight push and she placed down whatever she had in her hand and drove there as fast as possible. She saw you standing outside waiting for her and she pulled up right in front of you. 
You went around and got in her car to have some privacy instead of standing in the open. “I take it you’ve heard the news.” You said once you sat in her car. Nat nodded.
She proceeded to talk. “I know I’m in the wrong. But if you just give me one chance, I’ll make it up to you all your life. Just give me one chance. That’s all I need. I really love you.” Nat pulled out a velvet box and presented it to you, containing two rings. One for you and one for her. 
“Give me a chance to make it up to you. I’ll pour my entire heart and devote it to you.” 
You held the box and your hands and took a look. “Once, my professor asked why I didn’t take the scholarship that presented me with a wonderful opportunity in Berlin and I said I can’t leave because I wanted to be with you.” Natasha listened as you spoke.
“All my life, all my plans for the future included you. Our joint apartment, you’re the beneficiary for my insurance, you’re my emergency contact number. I never wanted to be an agent, but I wanted to be close to you so I took the test. Seeing you complete a mission successfully puts a smile on my face more than my promotion… I really wanted to continue this down the road and grow old with you…” You closed the box and placed it back in her hands. 
Both of you have your hands on top of each other. “I’m really grateful to you for saving me the other day. But each day I wake up, I question myself, am I able to live with the fact that you slept with Steve even if we really get married?”
Nat's eyes were tearing up as you saw it turn red. You were also trying not to cry as you spoke slowly. “Even though I may not be right next to you, promise me you will live your life to the fullest.” 
You gave Nat one last kiss on the cheeks before leaving her car. 
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Outside the Know, Part 2
A/N - So, multiple people were asking for a continuation of Part 1 in the comments and reblogs. Thank you so much to those who expressed interest! I seriously wasn’t expecting that snippet to get the attention that it did
Though, going forward, if you’d like a continuation, could you please send me an ask? I find those are easier to keep track of than reblog tags
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Part 1
It only took a little bit of digging to find the rock the civilian had been living under.
Heroes were usually harder to track; they had both the motive and the resources to keep their identities hidden. But civilians never imagined that nefarious actors could ever be interested in them.
Thanks to the villain’s subordinates – a pair of talented young hackers they’d snatched up before law enforcement could – they soon had a stack of tax forms, medical records, and printed out social media posts sitting on their desk.
With context, it was clear why the civilian had been so out of the loop.
As the villain suspected, the civilian was outrageously underpaid, and they worked long hours to make ends meet. They also lived with their sister and her young kid. The villain didn’t have any children, but they’d met enough couples with kids to know that if the civilian was even marginally involved in raising the child, it would take up a substantial portion of their time and attention.
Plus, if the sister’s facebook photos were anything to go by, the TV was typically dominated by PAW Patrol and Sesame Street. The evening news probably wasn’t on very often.
This all explained why the civilian didn’t recognize them, but a more grating question remained.
The villain had a few supporters – mostly communist twitter-users with anime profile pics – but almost everyone thought they were too extreme. So, in a city full of people ready to lick the heroes’ boots, why had the civilian been more hesitant?
The villain was itching to know, and the answer wasn’t going to be found in any of these documents.
_ _ _
When the civilian stepped out of their local coffee shop, they collided face-first with another person. Hot coffee spilled all over their front. They sucked in air, probably to keep from cursing.
“Oh my god! I’m so sorry! Here, I have napkins in my . . . wait, [Civilian]?” The villain whipped off their sunglasses, their expression a perfect image of surprise.
“Radi– ” the civilian started, but the villain clapped a hand over their mouth before they could finish.
At the civilian’s look of hurt confusion, the villain pulled back their hand. “Sorry, sorry,” they said, replacing their sunglasses. “I’m kind of undercover at the moment. It’s my day off.”
“What a coincidence,” the civilian said with a smile. “It’s my day off too.”
The villain wore a look of astonished delight that, frankly, should have won them an Oscar. “What? No way! What are the chances?”
The villain had to practically beg the civilian to let them buy them another coffee. The civilian was irritatingly resistant, forcing them to lay it on thick.
“Please,” they said, already directing the civilian back into the shop. “I might actually die of guilt if you don’t let me make it up to you.”
“Wow,” the civilian said, raising their brows. “You’re such a nice person, you know that?”
Ten minutes later, the two of them were sitting on a secluded park bench with a coffee in each hand and a couple apple cider donuts – the civilian’s favorite, according to instagram – between them. The villain let their conversation dance over the pleasantries and surface-level catching up of a typical run-in, before they advanced with their agenda.
“So [Civilian], I’m curious. I know you don’t care as much about us heroes. But what do you think of villains?”
“Huh?”
“You know, villains. Like the one who robbed a museum last week.” They took a sip, remembering. Though the civilian wouldn’t appreciate it, that heist had been some of the villain’s best work.
“Oh. Well. I think they’re pretty cool.”
The villain spat out their coffee.
“Hey, you okay there?” the civilian said, patting the villain’s back as they coughed.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m good,” the villain said, waving them away. “But what do you mean by ‘pretty cool’?”
The civilian’s mouth hung open slightly, horror dawning on their face. “Oh no. That was a stupid thing to say, wasn’t it? They’re probably your arch enemy.”
“No, no, I’m not offended.”
“I’m sorry. It’s just . . . you’re so open and honest. You make me want to be as well.”
The villain wasn’t going to dwell on that. “Okay, but I’m still curious, what did you mean when you said that?”
The civilian paused, and the villain was afraid they were going to clam up. But then they shrugged and said, “It’s hard to explain. And, as we’ve established, I’m not the most well-informed. But, I don’t know, I just hear things. Like how they mainly target billionaires, and try to shine a light on corruption. It almost feels like they’re fighting for people like me.” They smiled, and the villain noticed they had dimples. “If someone stood up for you, wouldn’t you like them, just a little bit?”
“Yes.” The villain was staring directly at the civilian. “Yes, I think I would.”
_ _ _
It had been easy to find information on the civilian, and it was even easier to keep tabs on them. Which is why, when the civilian was in danger, the villain was notified that very same hour.
Part 3
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wild-karrde · 1 year
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Part 3: The Jester
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Series Master List | Previous Part | Next Part
A/N: Soooo uhhh... here's Part 3, featuring my favorite boy Chuckles. If you're new, Chuckles has his own fic, One Step at a Time, but I figured it was time he gets some *ahem* love. If you know what I mean. THANK YOU to @teletraan-meets-jarvis for beta-reading this for me and screaming with me about the boys. There is absolutely going to be a Part 4, and it will be longer.
Pairings: OC Crater x f!Reader, OC Chuckles x f!Reader, mentioned Gregor x f!Reader
Fic Rating: E (18+ MINORS SKEEDADDLE)
Warnings: language, fingering, PiV sex, anal play, mention of cum eating, marking, sex toy use, mention of foursome (in case you were wondering what Part 4 might entail)
Word Count: 6.5k words
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Weeks pass with you and Crater continuing to meet in secret. He already reads you so easily, knowing what you need and when you need it with a shared glance or a subtle touch. There are nights he practically peels you apart until you’re laid bare for him, shuddering in the aftermath of however many orgasms he deemed necessary, but there are also nights where you don’t have sex at all, just enjoying one another’s company like you always have. 
Tonight seems as though it’ll be the latter. It’s been a hard week with too many fighters going out and too few returning. Crater’s even lost a few brothers, and yet, somehow, he decided you were the one that needed consoling, showing up late in the evening with a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. Now, you sit perched on your desk with him in your rickety chair, the two of you a respectable distance apart as you sip the amber liquid in your glasses. Some of his men are still milling around in the hangar outside of your office, and you wonder if it’s to avoid going back to barracks that will be emptier than they were a week ago. You spy Strike, Chuckles, Guin, and even the medics Sticks and Stones speaking quietly to each other. Chuckles catches your eye for a moment before turning and speaking to one of the droids working on his fighter. His words don’t carry to you, but you can see how tired he looks. Grief is a part of the job, but it takes a toll regardless.
Crater’s quiet, his eyes more distant than usual. You suspect he’s doing the same thing as his brothers, biding his time until he’ll be too tired to count the empty bunks and think of their previous occupants. He’s lost fewer men than most, but you know each one weighs heavily on him. 
“Rough week,” you murmur, staring into your glass. Not a strong start to a conversation, but you hope it’ll open the door for your friend if he needs it. 
“Heard special ops might be back on Coruscant soon,” he notes, purposefully ignoring your statement as he swirls his whiskey. You take the hint, adjusting accordingly.
“Oh?”
“Gregor commed last night. Asking to meet up at 79s when he gets back. Couldn’t give an exact timeframe other than ‘soon’. Sounds like things haven’t gone great for him either the last little bit.” 
You hum under your breath. In the chaos of the last week, you’ve hardly thought of the commando. A small pang of guilt settles into your stomach. You still wouldn’t say you like him, but that doesn’t mean that you don’t worry about him. You’re glad to hear he’s safe. 
Crater’s studying you, and you meet his gaze. 
“What?”
“He asked how you were.”
Your entire body suddenly feels warmer, and you take a sip of your drink to try and hide it, even though you know that won’t work with Crater. 
“You gonna see him?” he asks.
You shrug. “Dunno.”
“I won’t be jealous.”
You smirk into your glass. “Wasn’t particularly worried about that.” 
Crater taps his fingers on the arm of the chair. “You given any thought to what I mentioned a while back? With him and Chuckles?” 
A jolt of electricity licks up your spine as the memory takes hold of you. You laying on your bed with Crater’s cock buried deep in your ass while he fucks you into your mattress, sweat slicking your skin as he whispers filth in your ear. 
“I bet you’d love to have Gregor’s cock in here too. Maybe he takes your sweet little cunt while I pound your ass. But that still leaves your mouth. Maybe I get Chuckles in here to fuck that smart little mouth while Gregor and I take you. Would you like that, pretty girl? To be ruined by three men at once?”
Yeah, you’ve given that plenty of thought. 
You shift as your cunt clenches around nothing, and Crater huffs before taking another drink. 
“You want me to talk to him and Chuck?”
You catch your lip between your teeth. “If you did, I’d want the rules to be the same as they are with us. And we’d need to be careful.”
“Of course.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and lowering his voice. “I’d already planned on making the ground rules clear if you wanted me to approach them. They’ll know the limits and boundaries. The big thing I need to know from you is what you are looking to get out of it. How you’d want it to go.” 
You allow your gaze to drift back out to where Chuckles is standing with his brothers. 
There’s always been something between you and Chuck, although neither of you have ever made a move to explore it more. You’ve often found yourself snuggling into his side at 79s, even sitting on his lap a few nights, his hand settling protectively on your lower back as the two of you cackle uproariously at whatever antics are taking place around you. But you’d never thought there was anything more to chase after. Especially not after some of the fights you’ve had. And he’s never approached you, not like Gregor or Crater have, so you’ve always assumed there isn’t much interest on his part. But still, you know you trust him. And if you’re honest, before Crater came along, when you were alone in your bunk at night with your fingers buried in your cunt, it was a different member of the 28th who you cried out to as you came undone. 
Crater’s staring at you, waiting for your response, and the corner of his mouth twitches, as if he can read your mind. You stutter out a response, hoping to distract him and derail your thoughts of Chuckles.
“I’d want… I’d want it to be something to blow off steam. I’m not really looking to be romanced or anything.”
“You never are.” 
You huff indignantly and toss a wadded up piece of flimsi at him. He catches it, eyes boring into you. You haven’t said exactly what you desire, and he knows it. His voice is a low rasp, and you feel your face heat even though you are certain no one outside of the office can hear him. 
“Ask for what you want, pretty girl.”
“I-I want it to be rough. I want the three of you to use me. I’d want to feel it the next day. I want to get out of my head, and help you all do that as well.”
Crater watches you for another moment before leaning back in the chair. “I think we can manage that. I’ll talk to them both when Gregor is planetside. If that’s what you want.”
It’s his last check for your confirmation, ensuring you’re really all in on this. 
Your tongue darts out to wet your lips. “It is.” 
He nods. “Good. Now, what do you need tonight?” 
You’re taken aback. You didn’t think he’d be up for anything right now, and you certainly weren’t about to ask, but his posture has shifted to something less rigid. His legs are splayed a little wider, and he seems more relaxed, and now you find yourself wondering if this isn’t just for your benefit. He’s relaxed with you, and maybe you can finally help him for once, taking him out of his head in the same way he does to you. You don’t want him thinking about empty bunks or burning fighters. 
You hop off the desk, standing over him until you have one of his thighs straddled between your knees. 
“I need you to take what you want from me, Crater. And then I need you to sleep here with me.” 
He knows what you’re doing, and you think he’s going to push back on the second half of your request for a moment. Instead, he tosses back the rest of his whiskey without breaking eye contact, letting one hand drift to your thigh, gripping you firmly and rubbing circles with his thumb against the fabric of your jumpsuit. 
“Alright. Close the door then.” 
You step away from him and head towards the entrance to your office. You can see the hangar has mostly emptied now, with the final few stragglers heading for the exit. Chuckles is among them, the last one out. As you go to shut your door, he turns back and meets your eyes. You can see his gaze flick to Crater, still in your office, before it moves back to meet your face. There’s something in those familiar brown irises that you can’t identify, and you briefly consider calling out to him. But before you can make up your mind, he puts on his helmet and leaves. 
Something in your stomach twinges, but you ignore it. 
You shut the door.
A few rotations later, you’re in your office when there’s a soft knock at the door. 
“Come in.”
Crater enters, helmet still on. 
“You busy?” 
“No more than usual,” you reply without looking up from the datapad you’re punching away on.
He doesn’t remove his helmet. “Color?” His voice is lower in the modulator, almost as if he’s whispering. 
You inhale sharply, finally looking up at him. His head is tilted to the side, evaluating you. He’s never come to you in the middle of the day before. And you suddenly realize why he’s probably here.
“Green,” you breathe.
He closes and locks the door, and without another word, he goes to your makeshift bedroom, returning a moment later with your plug. 
“Strip and bend over the desk.” 
You can’t shuck off the top of your jumpsuit fast enough, dragging your panties with it to your knees and bending over. You rest your elbows on the wooden surface as you have many times before with him, unleashing a shuddering exhale as he comes to stand behind you.
“Gregor’s back,” he rasps as he pulls your top desk drawer open, retrieving the bottle of lube you’ve hidden there for your more impromptu encounters in your office. You hear it click open, and you shudder with anticipation. “Chatted with him and Chuckles this morning. If you’re still alright with it, we’ll be by this evening after Gregor and I get out of our briefings.” 
“Lucky for you, my schedule is clear,” you tease. You and Crater both know you hardly ever have plans. 
He dips his helmet in a nod. His gloved hand comes to rest on your back, arching it slightly until your ass is presented to him. You feel some lube dribble onto your asshole, and you shudder at the chill as he presses the plug against you, working it in and out of you slowly until it’s fully nestled inside of you. 
“If I had time, I’d break you in myself right now, but that’ll have to wait until tonight. Leave that in,” he growls. “And wear something nice.” 
“Yes, sir,” you pant. You don’t know how you’re going to get through the next few hours like this. 
“And don’t you dare go back there and touch yourself,” he warns. 
You whine. 
“I’ll see you tonight, pretty girl.” And with that, he slips out of your office, leaving you stripped bare and bent over your desk, trying to catch your breath. You slam the button under your desk that locks the door again, bracing yourself on your palms as you try to get your legs to stop quivering at the feeling of the plug pressed inside you. 
Fuck. 
You stumble into your back room on wobbly legs, wanting desperately to climb into your bed and stuff your pussy full with your vibrator. But Crater always knows somehow when you disobey him. Last time, he tied you up with some silk rope and toyed with you until you cried and begged for release. The rope was still tucked in your bedside drawer, a silent threat.
Not what I’m looking for tonight. More hoping for instant gratification. So I’ll behave. This time.
You quickly dig through your crate of clothes, finally finding the parcel you’d purchased a while back. Ever since you and Crater started sleeping together, you’ve tried to find a few more pieces of lingerie to add to your sparse wardrobe. Nothing expensive since you’re on a budget and Crater has a penchant for tearing delicate fabrics, but this one you’ve been saving for a special occasion. It’s a dark grey bra and panty set that matches the grey accents on the 28th Combat Wing’s armor perfectly. The lace tickles your skin as you pull it on, and you glance at yourself in the mirror briefly, admiring the way your breasts are pushed together. A tiny fake gemstone sits embedded on a charm that dangles between your breasts. It’s a deep magenta, the main color of the 28th. It really had been too ideal to pass up.
Perfect. 
You pull your jumpsuit back on, trying not to think too hard about how full you feel as you recompose yourself and step back out into the garage. 
The hours drag on. For better or worse, no one really bothers you, and you are able to mostly remain in your office, leaving you squirming in private as you try to get through your paperwork while not thinking about how tonight's going to go. When you finally hear the main lighting systems begin to power off, signaling the end of the day, you can’t help but sigh in relief. Stretching your arms above your head, you stand, heading out in the garage to make sure everything got put away properly at the end of the day and that all of the droids made it back to their docks. 
It’s almost deafeningly silent in the darkness, and you keep to the path illuminated by the emergency lighting, taking your usual route through the hangar. Everything looks to be in order until a loud clanging sound makes you jump. 
You halt and hear another loud clatter followed by a few muttered curses and some indignant beeping, making you pause in the darkness. Under one of the emergency light beams, you spot movement. A mohawked head pokes up out of a cockpit of a Headhunter, and you watch as a tool is tossed out of the fighter, hitting the floor with a loud clang right next to a borderline belligerent droid. You sigh, heading over to see what the fuss is about. 
Chuckles is hunched over in his Z-95, muttering to himself as you quietly ascend the stepladder he’s pulled up next to the fighter. His armor is stacked on the ground next to the ladder, and as you reach the top step, you see he’s changed into a black tank top rather than his regulation undershirt with the Republic cog emblazoned across the chest. He’s leaning forward, giving you a view of some of the lines of the tattoo on his shoulder blade, flexing in the dim lighting as he grumbles unintelligibly. His arms and shoulders have several long, deep scars on them, more than Crater or any other pilot you’ve seen. Even his knuckles and fingers have a few light patches where the skin has had to heal. You wonder what caused them, and wonder if it’s tied to the large scar on his face. He’s burrowed under the flight controls, unaware of your presence, and you watch him for a few moments before leaning forward. 
“Can I help you with something?” you ask at a volume that’s slightly louder than necessary. 
Chuck jumps, smacking his head on the underside of the console with a loud curse. You giggle as he sits back in the seat, rubbing the back of his head and glaring at you. 
“What the kriff, Bolts?”
“I could ask you the same thing. What are you doing in here?” 
“My karking eject handle isn’t working.”
“You know you shouldn’t pull that in the garage, right?”
He glares at you again. “I’m well aware. But I can’t even get it primed. Something’s jammed.” 
You raise an eyebrow down at the droid, R0-G3, that’s parked just below, who beeps to inform you he was in the process of repairing it when Chuckles showed up. 
“Why can’t you let Rog do it? That’s his job.” 
Rog beeps angrily in agreement, and Chuckles glowers at him. “He said he wasn’t going to finish it until tomorrow, and I won’t have time to check it tomorrow before we head out the next day.” 
The droid beeps again, flashing his charge indicator, which is warning him it’s starting to get low. It seems he’s expended a good chunk of energy arguing with the pilot. You chew the inside of your cheek, something telling you there’s more to the story here. 
“Why do you need to check it? Don’t trust the quality of work around here?”
Chuckles freezes, unable to meet your eyes. “Of course I do. It’s not that, it’s just…” He sits back heavily in the seat, his eyes fluttering closed as he releases a long sigh, rubbing his hands over his face. You jerk your head at R0-G3, and he takes his leave, rolling off towards the far door that leads to the chargers. You lean on the edge of the cockpit, resting your chin on your forearms. 
“Alright. You wanna talk about it?” 
“Not especially,” he mumbles from beneath his fingers. 
You pick at some of the paint that’s peeling along one metal seam, changing tacks. “Crater talked to you about tonight, right?” 
One of his eyes appears between his fingers, locking with yours. “Yeah. He said you’re onboard with it. That you asked.” For a moment, his gaze is as piercing as his brother’s, and you fight the urge to squirm as he analyzes you.
“I did.” 
He hums, letting his hands drop to his lap and studying you. “I need to get this fixed tonight. Don’t really want to get into specifics. Just needs to be done. Even if I miss…all that.” 
You nod, noting the way his fingers brush the scar on his cheek that you’d always thought of as sort of his trademark. The damaged skin seems to pull his mouth into a perpetual smirk, but to you it has always been obvious that the event that caused it was anything but joyous. 
“If that’s the case, then we’d really better get this fixed,” you conclude, and before he can protest, you scale the rest of the ladder and climb into the cockpit with him, settling into his lap. He inhales sharply, and you wiggle your hips a little bit more than necessary as you duck under the console, pressing your ass against where his codpiece would normally be. It doesn’t take long before you feel something else that’s hard as plastoid pressing against you. 
“BOLTS! Maker almighty, what the kriff are you doing?”
“Helping you fix your ship. That’s my job.” 
You pull a penlight from your breast pocket and click it on, turning upside down to examine the eject mechanism under the seat. Everything looks normal. 
“Try to arm it for me.” 
Chuck sighs above you, but leans over you, one hand resting on your hip as the other flicks the eject switch on his console. You see the indicator light blink green, and you cautiously reach your hand out to the handle. 
“There should be a little give if it’s actually disengaged,” Chuckles says. “If there’s no give, then it’s not actually armed.” 
You gingerly tap the handle, and he’s right, the thing doesn’t budge a millimeter. 
“Hm.” You trace the connection along the floorboards, following it under the flight console to where you originally found Chuck. “Can you hand me the driver that’s in my right back pocket?” you ask. 
He huffs. 
“It’s right there, Chuckles. And if Crater actually talked to you, that’s going to be one of the more tame things you’re doing tonight.” 
You feel his cock jump where it’s pressed against your ass, and you playfully grind backwards a bit. The grip on your hips tightens, and Chuck huffs again before you feel a tug on your back pocket and the tool is thrust under the panel at you. 
“See, teamwork makes the dream work,” you snicker. You can practically feel his eyes roll at you, but he doesn’t say anything else. 
It only takes you a few moments to pry the panel loose and find the wiring. You can’t keep from wiggling and pressing back into Chuckles, and about the fifth time you do, you swear you feel him grind against you, but you ignore it, focused on your task. 
You finally find the source of the issue, a broken connection in the wiring, and you tap his thigh, reaching behind you again. “Soldering iron. Other back pocket.” He hands it to you without protest this time, and within a few moments, you’ve got the connection fixed and look back between your and Chuck’s boots at the indicator light for the eject. It’s still on, but this time, when you tap the handle, there’s give. You sit up, your hair flying in every direction, grinning triumphantly. “Think I got it, but double-check that’s what you’re looking for.” 
Chuckles leans over you, but without you climbing out of the cockpit, there’s not much room. He winds up practically doubled over you, his breath hot against the back of your neck as his fingers find the handle. You watch him give a slight tug, just enough to move it slightly. 
“That’s it,” he says directly into your ear. “Perfect.” There’s a pause before he leans a little more forward and kisses your cheek. “Thanks, Bolts.” 
Your face flushes with heat as he sits back, which feels ridiculous. This man is going to claim every part of you later if things go to plan, but here you are, giddy over a kiss on the cheek. “No problem,” you murmur, keeping your voice steady despite your fluttering stomach. “Now make sure it’s off so we don’t both get thrown out of here.” 
You hear him huff a laugh as he leans forward and disarms the eject while you clamber back under the console to replace the panel. Once that’s done, you sit back against him, propping one foot up and allowing your head to drift back against his shoulder. 
As much as you two bicker like drunken Jawas sometimes, Chuckles has always been your friend, another person you trust, even if you want to push him in front of a speeder at times. He takes your tools from you, carefully setting them on the top of the ladder before wrapping one arm around your waist, hesitantly letting the other hand rest on your thigh. 
A silence settles between you two as you sit pressed together. You allow your hand to drift over his, resting there, and he presses his cheek against your forehead. You can feel the day-old scruff against your skin. His chest rises and falls, pressing against you, and with every passing breath, the anticipation seems to grow, making the air around you feel charged with electricity. This isn’t the first time you’ve sat like this with him, but normally, it’s done out of necessity, squishing together in a booth as more brothers arrive at 79s. Chuck’s hand has often found a place on your thigh, resting comfortably there. It thrilled you in the past, even though you’d always figured it would go no further.
You both know tonight is different. 
Finally, he breaks the silence. 
“So why me?” he asks. “Gregor and you needed to fuck it out. Crater’s… well he’s Crater. But why involve me?” 
You reach up, letting your hand rest against his unmarred cheek. He doesn’t pull away, but watches you carefully. “Because I trust you, Chuckles. You’re right, Gregor started as a way to blow off steam. And so did Crater. But I wanted to… explore something, and Crater and I both agreed you and Gregor are the ones to explore with. I know whatever happens tonight will stay between us and won’t wind up scratched into a ‘fresher stall at 79s.” You swallow hard. “And… I care about you, more than I think you realize.” 
“What’s that supposed to mean?” 
You sigh. “Do you trust me?”
His brows knit together. “Of course.”
“With your life?”
“Where’s this going, Bolts?”
You interlace your fingers with his. “Did you know, I check every fighter that leaves this place myself? That is what’s going to happen tomorrow night before your squad leaves the following morning. I will be up all night if I have to, double-checking every millimeter of your fighter to make sure it’s up to snuff and will bring you back here.” You pause again, meeting his eyes. “Bring you back here to me.” 
Something shifts in his gaze, and his expression softens. He squeezes your hand, running his thumb over your knuckles. “The eject didn’t work right when I got this,” he says quietly, tapping his scarred cheek. “I was in an uncontrolled spin, losing altitude, and no matter how hard I pulled, the damn thing wouldn’t work. When it finally did work, it launched me into the canopy, and that’s when I got cut. Broke more bones than I can count. Punctured a lung. And then I hit the water. Thought I was going to drown because I was too hurt to swim, and water was just leaking into my mouth through my cheek. It… it was the most scared I’ve ever been. I don’t want that to ever happen again. If I go out, I want it to be quick. I-I don’t want to have time to think about it. So, I always check.” 
Your chest aches as you turn in his lap to straddle him, bringing your hands up to cradle his face, finally running your thumb along the raised skin on his cheek where the canopy’s transparisteel sliced him open. His eyes bore into you for a moment before he closes them, relaxing into your touch. Your heart twists at the thought of him, broken and bloodied in the seas of Kamino with his face flayed open, certain he’s going to die. 
You kiss him. 
It’s gentle and tender. There will be time for hunger and urgency later, but right now, you want to reassure him. You want him to know how much he means to you, that you care for him, and above all, you want him to know that he can trust you. 
And something sparks within you as he kisses you back. 
He’s careful and slow, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you closer to him. Warmth floods through you as he hesitantly traces his tongue along your lower lip, and you allow him entry, burying one hand in his short mohawk and cupping his jaw with the other. He probes your mouth gently, and you feel him melt into you, his grip loosening on you but still keeping you pressed against him. You’ve kissed Crater, hells, you’ve even kind of kissed Gregor, but nothing felt like this. Chuckles is consuming you, and you know you could easily get lost in him just like this. You want to, but after a few moments, you rest your forehead against his, stroking his cheek gently. “I will never let that happen to you again, Chuckles. Ever. You are too important to me.” 
He meets your gaze for a few moments, and something unspoken flickers in his eyes before his face breaks out into a grin. “You know, if I’d known all this, I might have tried to get you out of that jumpsuit sooner.” 
You understand what he’s doing; he’s not good with sentimentality. He’s always dealt with humor. He’s allowed his jester’s mask to drop more than he ever has before, and you will treasure the trust he put in you in that instant, but if he’d allowed the moment to linger, it wouldn’t be Chuckles. 
But you also can’t deny that you already want to kiss him again. 
Instead, you roll your eyes, turning around to face forward once more and resting your back against his chest. His hands slide down to your hips, and you feel him readjust. He’s still hard as durasteel, maybe more so now. You give a playful grind, and he gasps behind you. 
“You’re playing dirty, Bolts,” he growls in your ear.
“I thought you liked it dirty. Weren’t you the one just talking about getting me out of my clothes?” 
His fingers slide to your stomach, tracing the zipper of your jumpsuit upwards until he snags the tab up by your throat. “Indeed I was.” He playfully nips at your earlobe, pulling you closer with his other arm. “You got any cameras in here?” 
“I’m flattered you think I have that kind of budget.” 
He tugs the zipper down. “Good.” 
You lean into him, allowing your head to fall back against his shoulder as he fully unzips your jumpsuit. He rests his chin on your shoulder, watching hungrily as each new centimeter of your skin is exposed to him. When the zipper is all the way down, he slips his hands inside of the rough fabric, tracing his fingers from your collarbone to your breasts before he gently cups the lacey grey garment you’ve chosen for this evening. 
“This feels rather impractical and fancy,” he hums in your ear. He pinches the charm in the middle, huffing a laugh. “Pretty though. Especially on you. Fuck, you’re gorgeous.” 
You shrug out of the top half of your suit, trying to hide the way your lips quirk at his praise and the heat in your face. He trails kisses along your bare shoulders as he helps you push the rough material downwards. “Very impractical,” you agree. “But not expensive. Meant to be ripped off of me.” 
He laughs again, a low growl that rumbles through you, and his hands are on your skin again, rough and warm as you sit nearly bare in his lap. He slips one hand inside your bra, grazing your nipple and causing you to writhe in his grip. He squeezes your breast and you moan. “Lift your hips,” he grunts in your ear, and a thrill shoots through you. You comply, and he manages to push your suit down past your knees, helping you as you kick it the rest of the way off along with your boots. You go to pull your panties down too, but he stills your hand. “Leave them on.” 
You sit back, and Chuckles immediately groans. His fingers reverently trace over your abdomen before they find their way between your legs, parting your thighs, and he inhales sharply when he feels the warm dampness there. 
“Matching panties? And you’re soaked. Bolts, you’re filthy.” 
His fingers are thick and warm against the seam of your undergarments before he slips his fingers under the lace, running his digits through your slick and bringing it to his lips. He moans as he tastes you.
“Fuck, you taste good.” 
“You wanna taste more?” you ask, quivering as his fingers glide back between your legs. 
“Not yet. Right now, I want to fuck you in this cockpit. I wanna think about how your pretty pussy feels wrapped around my cock when I’m flying.”
“Sounds distracting,” you reply in a tone far breathier than you care for. 
“I hear I think better with my dick anyway,” he counters as he toys with your clit.
“Crater said to wait for them,” you gasp, desperately clinging to the last of your resolve. 
“Since when do you take orders from the captain?” he teases, grazing his teeth along the skin where your shoulder meets your neck. “I thought it was your garage, your rules.”
“Since he started leaving handprints on my ass for disobeying him.” 
He hums as he slips a finger inside you. “Seems like you want it right now though. I’d slide right in no problem with as wet as you are.” He nuzzles against your ear as he adds another digit and starts driving his fingers into you, rutting against your ass. You moan as he slips his fingers in and out of you, digging your nails into his arm. “Do you want my cock right now?” he rasps in your ear.
You hope Crater will appreciate how compromised you were later as you grind against Chuckles’s palm. 
It’s really his fault for not getting here sooner.
“I want it. I want you to fuck me,” you moan. 
“Lift your hips again for me then.”
You obey as Chuckles rolls down his pants enough to pull his cock out, pulling your panties to the side and notching himself at your entrance. You feel his knuckles graze you as he pumps himself. His other hand grips your waist. 
“Sit.” 
You sink down slowly on him, and you hear his head thunk against the headrest of the seat as you clench, gradually adjusting around him until you’re fully seated in his lap. 
“Can feel the plug in your ass,” he grits out. “Crater said you might let us all take you at once, but I didn’t think he meant there. Maker, I can’t wait to feel you.” 
You give him another squeeze, trying to pretend you have an ounce of composure as his fingers find their way back between your legs, playing with your clit. 
You’re glad the garage is empty as you and Chuckles give into your carnal desires in the seat of his cockpit. You start off grinding slowly against him, allowing your walls to adjust around his thick member before you begin carefully bouncing up and down on him, ensuring to keep the head of him inside you before you drop back down on his thighs. It doesn’t take long for the wet slaps of your cunt slamming against him and your moans to start echoing throughout the empty garage. 
He’s a talker. Of course he is. 
“Maker, Bolts. I never thought you’d let me fuck this sweet little cunt. I’ve fisted my cock so many times, thinking about what it’d feel like to have you wrapped around me like this, but you’re so much warmer and wetter than I ever could have imagined. You’re like a fucking vice. I’m gonna fill you tonight. Take you in every way I can. Fuck, how are you so soft?” He presses against the small of your back, tipping you further forward as he thrusts up into you. His fingers trace the bruises on your hips and ass. “Crater leave these?”
“Mhm,” you moan, catching your lip between your teeth as he presses gently against the marks. 
“You gonna let me leave some of my own tonight, sweetheart? Gonna let me brand you when I claim you?” 
“Fuck, yes, Chuckles.” 
He groans, gripping your hips harder. You brace yourself against the edges of the cockpit, ignoring the burning in your thighs and calves as they protest the awkward position. It’s nothing compared to the feeling of Chuckles inside of you, and right now, that’s all that matters to you as you chase your pleasure. You’ve been wound up all day, and Chuckles is finally giving you what you’d longed for, rubbing your thighs together at your desk for hours. 
His fingers dig into your hips as he helps guide you up and down. Sweat dribbles between your breasts as you ride him frantically, chasing your high. He adjusts, and suddenly he’s hitting the perfect spot inside of you. Your head tips back and your brows pinch together as you frantically roll your hips, trying to ensure the head of his cock strokes the same place again and again.
“‘M so close, Bolts. Gonna cum in this pussy right now and then gonna have you clean my cock off. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Fuck, I can’t wait to fuck your ass. You’re gonna be screaming my name all night, sweetheart. You close?”
You whine as he slips his hand back between your legs, circling your clit. “Yeah. Yeah I’m close.” 
“Gonna cum on my cock, Bolts?” 
“Not if she doesn’t want to get edged until she’s crying for the rest of the night,” a voice calls out from the darkness. 
You and Chuckles freeze in the cockpit as two figures step into the light: Crater, who’s glaring at you, and Gregor, wearing a cocky smirk. Both of them are stripped down to only their under suits and boots, and Gregor’s wearing a tank top of some burger joint you don’t recognize, but it shows off his arms nicely. Both of them have bedrolls slung over their shoulders. Chuckles’s thumb rubs against your hip, and you clench around him. 
“I thought I told you to behave yourself,” Crater reminds you, his tone the low and dangerous baritone you’re more than familiar with. 
“Technically, you told me not to touch myself in the backroom of my office. And I didn’t,” you reply sweetly.
“You’re right, she is a brat,” Gregor giggles. 
“Better a brat than an asshole,” you pant, ignoring how relieved you are to hear his ridiculous laugh again.
Gregor is completely unphased by your words, snickering as he climbs the ladder, leaning on the edge and looking over your body. “Good to see you too, Bolts,” he jeers, gripping your chin and kissing you. You dig your teeth into his lower lip defiantly, and he grunts. Chuckles gives an indignant huff, thrusting up into you slightly to remind you he’s still there. You squeeze him as hard as you can and he groans as you release Gregor.
“I still fucking hate you, but I’m glad you’re safe,” you mutter.
Gregor just winks at you.
“Out of the fighter, you two,” Crater growls. You playfully roll your eyes, but oblige. Chuckles gasps when his cock slips from you, still hard and now glistening from being inside of you. 
“Sorry,” you whisper teasingly. “More where that came from though. Promise.” You kiss him again before readjusting your lingerie and climbing down the ladder, coming to stand in front of Crater. His eyes are practically glowing. 
“Think you’re cute, don’t you?” he says quietly. 
You shrug. “Like I said, didn’t technically disobey.” 
His fingers reach out, toying with the charm between your breasts. “Well, we’ll see how long that technicality deprives you of an orgasm tonight.” 
You shiver but try to keep yourself composed. “Chuckles, can you hand me down my suit and boots?” 
The pilot goes to toss them to you, but Crater snatches them out of the air. “Oh no you don’t. You wanted to get out of your clothes so much, you can walk back to your office like that.” 
You open your mouth to retort, and Crater raises his eyebrow in warning. You’ve come to recognize that look and all that it entails if you keep pushing your luck, so instead, you tuck your tongue in your cheek haughtily. 
“Alright then.”
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A/N: Part 4 soon... and it's gonna be another one over 10k words.
Tag List: @seriowan @partoftheeternalsoul @rosmariner @misogirl828 @ellichonkasaurusrex @zoeykallus @the-sith-in-the-sky-with-diamond @staycalmandhugaclone @redheadgirl @fordo-kixed-rex @wizardofrozz @ariadnes-red-thread @extrahotpixels @justanothersadperson93 @leftealeaf @meekaielmyersh99 @kaminocasey @echos-girlfriend @lucyysthings @obihiddlenox @merkitty49 @littlemissmanga @clonecyaree @baba-fett @sleepingsun501 @rexxdjarin @samspenandsword @babygirlrex0504 @ladytano420 @fxlsealarm @runforrestr @rain-on-kamino @ladykatakuri @arctrooper69 @hidden-behind-the-fourth-wall
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mimisempai · 8 months
Text
Spread your wings, Angel
Summary
Guilt. 
The weapon that allows heaven to control its angels. 
While Aziraphale believes himself guilty of Crowley's downfall, Crowley will help him break the last chains that bind him to heaven.
Notes
This author doesn't know what she's doing, but she does it anyway.
On Ao3
Rating G -  1624 words
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“You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone for ever. I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own than when you almost broke it, eight years and a half ago… I have loved none but you.”
THE END
As the sun rose, Aziraphale closed the book he'd just finished and placed it on the small table next to the sofa, being careful not to move too much so as not to wake Crowley.
"Angel, can I stay with you tonight?"
He hadn't even considered refusing for a second.
Not after what they had just shared.
After all these thousands of years, they had finally realized that they were each other's happiness.
And most importantly, they had told each other so.
Aziraphale looked down at the red head on his lap.
He couldn't remember when Crowley had ended up on the sofa that evening, resting his head on Aziraphale's lap and falling asleep like that. 
Things had definitely changed, and Aziraphale couldn't deny that he was a little afraid. Just a little.
Nothing new
He had been afraid of hurting people.
He had been of upsetting them.
He had been of not being enough.
But now he had only one fear: to hurt the being that was sleeping next to him.
Once again.
Crowley, who thought he wasn't good enough, when it was Aziraphale who felt like an endless failure.
As an angel.
As a friend.
He'd done so much damage thinking he was doing good.
Since the beginning of time.
He raised his hand to touch the red hair, but stopped a few inches short. 
He clenched his fist.
Did he have the right to touch the one who had been the greatest victim of his blindness?
Did he have the right to lay a hand on the angel whose fall he had caused?
As the red-haired angel raved with infectious joy about what he had just created and explained to Aziraphale with enthusiasm, Aziraphale explained God's plans to him.
"The impression I get is that the stars and your um..." 
The red-haired angel helped him continue, "Err, call it a nebula."
Aziraphale continued, "Right. Well, they exist just so that the people can look up into the night sky and marvel at the illimitable vastness of The Almighty's creation." 
Looking at the other angel with a satisfied smile, he protested, "But that's idiocy!" and pointing to the infinite sky around them, he continued, "It's the universe, it's not just some fancy wallpaper! Millions of galaxies, trillions of stars, oodles of... everything! It's not just put here to twinkle!"
He turned to Aziraphale and added in the same disappointed tone,“Most of it won’t even be visible from Earth. Why don’t you put Earth in the middle of the universe so the view’s better?” 
Aziraphale replied in a wise manner,“It’s not our job to advise The Almighty on the details of creation.”
The red-haired angel protested again,“Well, then whose job is it? I mean, someone has to say, Look, boss, this is a really, really terrible idea." 
Aziraphale, though amused, replied seriously, “Well, I suspect that would be considered inappropriate.”
The other angel, still looking disappointed, replied stubbornly, “Well, I don’t suppose anyone could object to me putting a note into the suggestion box.”
Aziraphale answered him in the most serious, learned tone, “I don’t believe The Almighty has actually created a suggestion box. And furthermore, I don’t think it’s our place to start suggesting that there should be a suggestion box.”
The red-haired angel insisted, however, “Well, if I was the one running it all,  I’d like it if someone asked questions. Fresh point of view.”
Aziraphale, increasingly worried about the direction the conversation was taking, looked at him as he continued, "You can't just create a universe, run it for a few thousand years, and then stop.
Aziraphale tried to distract him by complimenting his creation with forced enthusiasm, "I like the pinky-blue bit in the corner of the, the nebula. Yes, it's very um, ah!"
Then a little more urgently, he turned to the red-haired angel again and added, wanting to convince him at all costs, "Um, but look, word to the wise, I'd hate to see you getting into any trouble."
And he meant it. 
The other angel looked very nice, was talented, had created such beauty, and Aziraphale didn't want anything bad to happen to him.
The red-haired angel looked at the nebula with a gentle smile, then turned to Aziraphale and said in a friendly tone, "Mm, thanks for your help. And thanks for your advice," before adding confidently, "I wouldn't worry, though. How much trouble can I get into just for asking a few questions?"
He turned back to the nebula and Aziraphale did the same. Together they watched the stars fall as the red-haired angel's wing unfolded over Aziraphale to protect him.
Metatron's words to Crowley came back to mind.
“Always did want to go his own way. Always asking damn fool questions, too.”
How much trouble can you get into just for asking a few questions?
Only one.
You fall.
Aziraphale gasped.
He had caused Crowley's downfall.
Aziraphale gasped again.
He had so much to repent for.
But this was perhaps his greatest sin.
"Angel? Are you all right?"
Lost in thought, he hadn't noticed that the demon had awakened and was now looking up at him from his lap, a worried look on his face.
Aziraphale, unable to meet the demon's gentle gaze, covered his face with his hands.
He felt the demon straighten up and his hands grab the angel's wrists, calling softly, "Angel, speak to me."
Crowley pulled the Angel's hands away from his face and repeated, ever so softly, "Aziraphale, tell me what's wrong, please."
Aziraphale tried to pull away, but Crowley held him tightly, his tone even more concerned as he insisted, "Angel! Talk to me!"
Aziraphale cried out, his voice breaking, "How? How can you stand to be here with me? How can you speak to me so kindly? How can you even look at me, knowing what I've done? It's my fault that you... it's... when..."
The Angel had to stop as the sobs threatened to suffocate him.
Crowley grabbed his shoulders, genuinely concerned, and asked, "I told you I forgave you last night, so explain, I don't understand."
Aziraphale swallowed several times before he could speak, "If... If I hadn't told you about God's plans that day, you... you wouldn't have questioned her and you wouldn't have fallen. It's all my fault. So how could you stand by my side all this time when it's because of me that..."
He stopped because Crowley had just put his finger over his mouth.
The demon said firmly, "Angel! Stop this at once! If I hadn't asked questions that day, I would have asked them later. You are not responsible for my downfall. No more than I am. The only ones who are responsible are those who tore me down because I dared to question God's plans. Not you. Not me. Just them. You haven't done anything wrong. Not for one tiny second of my entire existence did I blame you. I never did. I know that I said I was a demon. That it means I lie. But not to you. Not to you anymore. Tell me you believe me."
Aziraphale scanned Crowley's face for a few seconds, looking for the slightest trace of resentment, but seeing none on the demon's face, he nodded slowly.
The demon said softly, opening his arms, "Come here, angel.
Aziraphale snuggled up against him immediately as the demon wrapped his arms around him.
With his lips in the pale locks, Crowley said softly, "Good old-fashioned guilt. Your side's secret weapon. That's how they got you, up there. Don't eat that, don't drink that, don't ask questions, don't step out of line. You've heard it for so long, but it's all over. They don't have anything more to say to you. We're going to free you from this guilt, my angel. I want to see you open your wings, your real wings, and embrace life. I want to see you thrive. Even if it's just to see you borrow my Bentley or throw a ball for the neighborhood shopkeepers. I don't want to see you second-guessing yourself. Stop smiling because you think you shouldn't. I want to see you do what you think is right because you want to, without wondering if it's what Heaven intended. I want to see you reach out and take what you want."
Aziraphale nodded his head against Crowley's chest and whispered, "I want that, too."
Crowley grabbed the Angel's shoulders to pull him back a bit and said softly, "I know you want it. I saw it in your eyes the first time on the wall. When you felt guilty about giving away the flaming sword. I saw it when the flood took away the children. When you felt guilty although you had no responsibility. Whenever your own conscience overrode your angelic nature and made you thwart God's plans, I saw it."
The demon cupped Aziraphale's face in his hands and whispered against his lips, "You deserve to just live, angel. We both do, don't we?"
Aziraphale nodded and murmured, "Crowley."
"Yeah?"
Aziraphale said in a much clearer voice, "Kiss me."
The demon smiled softly and murmured, "Yes, angel, just like that. You just have to want and reach for it." 
Then he closed the distance between them and pressed his lips to the angel's, happy to see him finally breaking his chains. 
For good.
Quote - Persuasion - Jane Austen
_________
Still not beta'd
Still not my native language
Still hoping you'll enjoy this story  🥰
Still thanking you for bearing with me 😝
Ineffable Growing Love series : here (After season 2)
Ineffable Husbands masterlist : here (Before season 2)
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turtlesocksv2 · 2 months
Text
Liveblogging Dead Friend Forever Ep 8
Shit has hit the fan and is going to continue hitting the fan this episode. Let's go!
Tee didn't steal the cash Non gave him to pay off his mafia debts? I am, honestly, shocked. I am not, however, shocked that mafia uncle thinks that Non is a police spy. This is not going to end well for Non but at least mafia uncle ends up in jail.
creepy teacher keng is going to get his ass a pair of cement shoes and I am here for it. dude, you are a math tutor why are you trying to investigate the mafia. They really are not trying hard to hide the fact that this is a mafia front. "the bathrooms are off limits, order food and get the fuck out" indeed. The closeup on the water jug makes me suspect poison but instead we get the frankly hilarious getting hit by a car scene, i hope that's how he dies.
OOoof, this favoritism from Non's mom is painful. Like, we knew she probably loved New best but hearing it...yikes. Non's not a good kid, like New is! Non can't do anything right, like New can! Poor Non.
Non's breakdown is so sad. this kid is Going Through It on all fronts.
oh my god, those voices reading the tweets...the salacious tones. so gross. Be On Cloud is Making A Point. very well done.
Non writing out the kills exactly how they happen 3 years from now. Either Non is (one of) the Killers or the killers found the script. So like, YES this is a revenge story! That shouldn't be shocking or disappointing to you, it was telegraphed! The fun is in how we get there not in complicated twists for twists sake! ok, moving on.
Tee being ordered to kill Non...i see i see. Tee doesn't like Non at all but is still horrified at the thought of killing him or his uncle killing Non. because Tee IS still a highschool kid himself, no matter how long his uncle has been making him do mafia shit is probably wasn't that. Tee's still got some goodness/innocence in him, which is probably the side he shows White.
LMAO at the netizens causing problems. yeah that sounds about right!
i am dying to see the awkward conversation between Jin and Non about Non coming back to finish the movie.
Tee being suspiciously nice. he's either plotting to kill Non to prove himself to his uncle or feeling incredible guilt that he's going to take Non to his uncle to get silenced. Or a mix of both! if I was Non i would not trust that water lol.
Jin stares at Non but can't even meet his eyes when Non looks back at him. GOOD. I don't care if he was upset about his crush 'sleeping with someone else', you don't just record people like that! He is, in fact, old enough to know that, even if he has poor impulse control because he's a dumb teenager.
is the prop an ACTUAL AXE. lol. lmao even. how did none of you realize this was going to end badly?!
Anyway, the knife being Non's, actually, is so fun. Just another little detail that the killers wanted the boys to recognize the calling card that's why Por got cut up a bit after he got stabbed by the branch.
You tell them, Non!
Oh, Top getting stabbed and Fluke having to take care of him...part of what Fluke was talking about how it's always him taking care of those things. I'm glad Non got to stab Top a little.
Jin trying to apologize for everyone but let's play some One Republic ft Timbaland 🎵🎶Because It's Too Late! To Apologiiiiize! It's Too Late! 🎵🎶
LMAO I was right to be suspicious of the water!!!! man did that kick in at just the right moment.
LOL Jin lying to the cops is just painful. You can tell that he's lying from a mile away, especially when he says that Non and Mr Keng truly loved each other. I do think it's interesting that they plotted to have the story be that Non ran away with Mr Keng.
Jin winds up the Final Girl of the version Por wound up shooting, even though Non had changed the script to everyone dying...them going back to the valley mansion because of Jin leaving the country...it's all about Jin, just like i've been saying! everything is connecting!
lol they all know Non is probably fucking dead and not with Mr Keng.
Tee, don't ask questions you don't want the answers to.
i knew it! I knew those were going to be Phi's last words to Non and it was going to eat him up! It's going to drive him insane and he's gonna murder people about it!
using the actual footage of Non's murdery breakdown in the movie...evil. Phi going to the movie premier... Iconic.
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nine-of-words · 6 months
Text
(Naga + Four of Swords)
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M Naga x Demisexual M Elf Reader
Wordcount: 6004
Content Warnings: Old Injury/Chronic Pain, Scars, Religious Themes/Trauma, Cloacal Sex (Reader Tops); As a baseline, all Drakkith have both sets of reproductive organs and are typically bigender. Sometimes individuals choose to identify as solely one gender, as is the case with Salim in this story.
This one ran a little long, and personally I blame inherited catholic guilt.
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Rain again today.
A loathsome drizzle.
You watch it patter down from your post by the door to the grand hall, the water pooling on the autumn leaf litter you haven’t had a chance to rake in days. You rub out your aching, fussy shoulder.
"My, it's really coming down out there. No end in sight.” Mother Abbess appears at your side and clicks her tongue, as if chiding the weather might make it stop. “And the station broadcast said because of the magical nature of this cold front, that it’ll carry on like this for several weeks. Weeks! Can you believe it, Ser?”
"Hmmh." You grunt in acknowledgement, not really feeling the desire to socialize; the burning ache from your shoulder to the fingertips on your casting hand- your former casting hand- is more than enough to turn you off from pleasant conversation. The rain only makes the aching and the stiffness worse.
"Perhaps it'd be smart to prepare some of the extra beds, just to be safe?" She says thoughtfully,  in her usual cheery, warm tone. "Any travelers unfortunate enough to be caught on the road now will want to shelter here until this awful downpour finally stops."
You came to this temple to recover from the injury that took you out of service. Once a knight-sorcerer, you’re now, technically speaking, only a knight, and a very underworked one, at that.
You used to be able to help people. Now you are another glorified doorstop, guarding a sleepy temple that not a single beast nor bandit has dared to touch in the time you’ve been here. They seem to be repelled from the place, regardless of your presence.
The longer you’re here, the more you realize your recuperation time seems to not have an end. You come to suspect that you’ve been left here to rot.
You let out a long, withering sigh. You’re still far too young to have been politely yet forcibly retired in everything but name- shoved in a corner to collect dust. But while you crave the bloodrush of combat, you know that realistically, you would not be able to hold up the way you are now.
Evening meal time rolls around, the chattering of the young initiate priestesses carrying over even to the end of the long table where you solemnly eat.
“No, that’s impossible. You’re just making things up for attention-”
“I’m telling you, it’s haunted!”
Then Mother Abbess joins the table, interest sharply piqued. 
“What’s this silly business I hear about ghosts in the temple? You know, our good knight goes to great lengths to make sure the temple is safe for all of us.” The older woman turns her attention to you with a playful smile; what you now know is her way of trying to rope you into joining in on the conversation, like a mother trying to goad her shy child into speaking up. “Have you seen any ghouls or spectres on your patrols lately, Ser?”
“Not one.” You shake your head, then continue to chew in silence.
“See ladies, there’s nothing to worry about!”
“No Mother, not the temple- the crypt. It’s coming from inside the tomb! We heard it!!” 
“Hilde and I went to refresh the altar for the dead, like you asked, but- oh, the sounds! Banging, scraping, groaning like pain! It was far too terrifying. We ran back before we could even think of finishing.”
“Well, that’s no good. This certainly isn’t the time of year to slack on honoring the dead, either.” She taps her chin in thought with the hand not holding her spoon. “Ser, do you think you might be able to go check the crypt after supper? So we might have some peace of mind.”
Obedient as always, after you’ve eaten, you re-don your armor just in case, and slog out into the rain and water-logged mud, towards the temple for your obligatory ghost hunt. 
You’re not going to find any ghosts, you’re sure. At most, perhaps a weak, trapped lesser spirit that can’t even communicate properly- but even that seems unlikely. At least the younger residents of the temple will be able to sleep soundly at night; that is enough of a reason for you.
The main door hangs ajar, left to creak as the wind moves it back and forth.
You click your tongue. The young sisters must’ve fled in such a hurry they left the door open. Still, you steel yourself and sharpen your senses despite the lack of obvious threat, just as your training has taught you.
You light the lamp and kick the excess mud from your boots before you descend the stone stairs into the darkness. You’ll take a look around, then you’ll be back up to the dry warmth of your bed, trying to sleep through the dull pain in your arm.
Inside, the crypt is dark, damp, and smells of old incense and lamp oil. The only thing that lives here is spiders and mold, surely. But the echo of your footsteps and the haunted atmosphere makes you feel starkly like you’re not alone here.
But in your search, you find nothing amiss. You only find the silence of the dead. Whatever was here must be long gon-
A noise in the silence, like a pained voice.
Was that a groan?
The hairs on your neck stand on end, your pupils constrict, sweat beads on your forehead. Your heart starts racing, gripped by a cold fist of terror.
Your good hand flies to the hilt of your sword.
“REVEAL YOURSELF!” You boom into the supposedly empty crypt, projected voice reverberating off the stone walls.
You are an extensively trained, battle hardened knight. Few things can shake you.
But perhaps you were wrong to doubt the young priestesses, this time-
The cold-burning torches in the chamber seem to flicker all at once.
Stone grinds on stone. The lid of a nearby sarcophagus moves in front of your eyes.
Your hand clutches the gas lamp, feeling your knuckles go white under your gauntlet, watching the stone lid continue to move back. You expect to see some spectral or skeletal hand rise from the gap, someone long dead disturbed from their eternal slumber.
You half-pull your sword from its sheath, ready to deliver this revenant to its second death as soon as the rest of your body breaks out of your fear induced paralysis.
Instead of a translucent or rotting set of digits, though, a slender, intact and solid olive-skinned hand reaches out, grasping aimlessly, followed by the other one.
“What in the Lady’s name-” You sputter, trying to make sense of the seemingly living person currently inhabiting the tomb.
With a pained groan, the rest of their body rises out of the dusty sarcophagus. They’re wobbling fiercely, barely able to support their own weight, but you get a good look at them.
Smooth, cinderous dark brown hair. Sleepy, heavily lashed, almond shaped eyes. Expensive looking clothing far too thin and flimsy for proper insulation needed for the beginning of the wet, cold autumn in the Rowenian wilds. 
…And the bottom half of a serpent? Specifically, scales of a vibrant gradient of variated oranges and yellows, with splotchy black stripes running horizontally down, from trunk to tail.
You know people like this exist, but you’ve never interacted with one in person, even in your travels during active duty. A type of the dragon-people. Naga, if you recall correctly.
“What in the blazes are you doing in this crypt, serpent?” 
“Pleassssse-” Their voice trails off weakly, slurring and nearly incoherent, grabbing at you in desperation. “Heeeelp.”
Desire to help those in need wins out over your own hesitance and shock and perhaps small bias, and you reach out the arm that they seem to be gravitating towards, despite it being your bad one. Their skin is cold as ice where they hold onto your neck for balance, their thin clothing still damp and clinging to them.
They immediately collapse against your body, laying their face on your shoulder. You can’t help but think that the weight feels good against your plate. When was the last time you were touched like this…? 
You can’t remember.
You quickly shake the thought away. There are more pressing matters.
You help them back to the temple, through the soggy ground. Mother Abbess and the rest of the priestesses still milling about after supper are surprised to say the least, and you set the stranger to rest in front of the main fireplace in the dining hall, hopefully sufficiently fulfilling their request for heat.
After Mother Abbess has shooed away the rest of the prying eyes and only you, her and the new visitor remain, she addresses them.
“Let me fetch you some hot broth and some blankets, dear. That will help you warm up while we have a chat.”
You watch the naga closely, arms crossed and feet planted, while Mother Abbess goes to retrieve some broth from the kitchens. Given the naga’s incapacitated state, you doubt they could be a threat right now even if they tried, but you are trained to be ready for one, regardless.
After a few minutes, they shudder and stretch out their limbs, seeming to come back to life a bit. They turn their head to look at you, the sharp lines of their features backlit by the fire. 
“Here you are, dear.” She hands them the wooden bowl full of heated broth.
“Thaaaank youuuu.”
A long, slender black tongue creeps out from between their lips and dips into the liquid, sampling it with a gentle flutter.
Seemingly finding it to their liking, they retract their tongue and start to sip from the edge of the bowl like a civilized person.
Then they smile at you, as if to silently address the fact that you’re staring, making your face flush in uncharacteristic bashfulness. Prickly heat creeps up the back of your neck- from standing so close to the fireplace in plate armor and nothing else, you’re sure.
“My name issss… Sssssalim. I am a man… and a healer by trade.” He manages to speak slowly, his voice gradually losing the harsh hissing noise and settling into a more subtle, faint accent as he pulls himself together. “Thank you for the… assisssstance…”
Mother Abbess gives him a brief introduction to the temple, herself, and even you, much to your chagrin.
“However did you come to be inside our temple’s crypt, Salim?”
“I had paid a merchant to transssport me through the mountains, for a job placement from the order I have waiting in the city. But during a break for the oxen… I spotted some mushrooms that are an essential ingredient for a rare curative balm, so I went off to collect them… The merchant seemed to have left me behind during that time,” He recounts the story, surprisingly even-tempered while recalling it when he’s described essentially what amounts to paying someone to leave you to die in the woods. “I wandered for what must have been days, it started raining… it didn’t stop raining… then I saw the stone marker for the temple… it seems as if I took the wrong door in, but by then I was too dazzzed by the cold to find my way out… but I got here all the same.”
He lets out a hiss of a laugh at his own folly, a sound you can’t help but find downright charming.
…Charming? What’s gotten into you this evening?
“Oh, what an unfortunate experience you’ve had! Good thing we prepared those spare beds in the guest dormitory earlier.” Mother Abbess beams, placing a wrinkled hand on her sternum. “The good knight will show you where you can sleep, Salim. You’re free to stay here as long as you need.”
He thanks her profusely for the hospitality, and then they indulge in a bit of idle chatter which quite honestly, you could do without. Once he seems to have recovered enough to move around, you escort him to the guest dormitory.
“You will sleep here.” You say curtly as you direct him to one of the made-up bunks closest to the small hearth in the guest hall you stoked earlier. Then, before you can even second guess why you’re saying it, add; “Do not even consider sneaking into the sisters' dormitory, or I will not hesitate to cut you down.”
“Ah, that won’t be a problem- if you’re implying what I think you are.” They say in the most polite manner possible for such an unprompted accusation. Their black tongue flickers in consideration, seeming to taste the air like any other snake’s would. “Even if I had nefarious intentions… There’s nothing that suits my particular interests to be found there…”
“Right.” You say, then think to yourself; Perhaps he only finds others of his kind suitable as potential mates. 
…Good.
Over the next few days, Salim seems to begin to make himself right at home at the temple. He enjoys spending time in the library and chatting with the sisters in the dining hall, while you prefer to spend your time as far away as you can while still keeping a watchful, distrustful eye on him.
…Only for the sake of security, of course. 
Despite him claiming he has no interest in them, the young priestesses are all a bit too interested in him for your liking. Instead of their usual chatter when not doing their duties, they’ve started gathering to listen to stories about his travels with the rapt attention a child would give a shiny new toy, or a schoolgirl would dote on their first crush.
If you thought that Mother Abbess trying to force you to socialize was bad before, you now know the strife of having to endure conversations with Salim, as well. It’s nearly every time he lays eyes on you, it feels like, with the curious looks and the incessant questions.
His presence in the temple makes you feel… strange. 
Wrong, somehow. A benign sort of malaise.
You try to bury it, and just go about your normal routine.
Mother Abbess has the bright idea to enlist Salim into doing health check-ups while he’s here, which he readily agrees to do as gratitude for the aid he’s already received. Over the next few days, everyone has had their turn having a physical, while you have been conveniently busy every time that you might be called to have yours done.
But as the rain continues to pour without signs of relenting, and the surrounding wilderness grows saturated and flooded, the aches and pains are only getting worse and worse, harder to ignore by the day. It hadn’t interfered with your duties yet, but one day, you finally slip up. The Mother Abbess finds you struggling to collect the stack of dry firewood you’ve dropped across the stone floor of the main hall, then proceeds to tear into you in her characteristic, most loving of ways.
"-And don’t think I haven’t noticed you’re avoiding having your physical. But you need to have your injury looked at, at least! It has been causing you pain; I see you struggling with it, even if you hide it well, Ser." Mother Abbess scolds you after helping you to pick up the logs, complete with finger wagging. "We finally have a healer in the temple again after old Mother Alys passed, so stop being so stubborn and make use of his services while he's here! He may only be here until the rain lets up, as far as we know- and then you’ll have lost the opportunity completely. You will go, if I have to see you there myself!"
“Yes, Mother.” You grumble out your reluctant agreement. As much as you wish it wasn't true in this case, she rarely guides you wrong. “Escorting me will not be necessary. I will go of my own accord.”
"It would not hurt you to make a friend, either.” She adds, emotionally kicking you in the ribs while you’re down. “There is nothing in the scripture forbidding having a friend."
Obedient as you are, you force yourself to pay him a visit in the quiet, mostly unused infirmary. You part the privacy curtain, walls drawn up and ready to get through this experience- but instead you’re met with a precious sight.
Salim seems to have fallen asleep in the padded chair in the corner of the room near the hearth, serpentine lower body coiled up around himself, a book propped in the dip between layers of scaled tail.
He finally seems to wake. Warm toned eyes blink open, their pupils constricting into lines as they take you in.
“Oh, why hello. My last patient finally arrives…” Salim yawns and rubs at one eye. “It was so quiet and serene back here, and the fire so pleasant- It seems I couldn't help but doze off…”
He rises lithely and arches his back like a cat waking up from a good nap in a sunny spot. The book on his chest slides down his body, seemingly forgotten.
Reflexes sharp as ever, your hand snaps out to catch the book before it falls. You don’t need to read the title to recognize it, but you skim it anyway.
Lady Night’s Good Knight, and Other Courtly Tales
You’re very familiar with this book- it’s a collection of old knight’s tales, simple parables that are intended to be bedtime stories for children. What is he doing reading this, of all things? You would assume a healer as erudite as he’s shown himself to be would be reading one of the numerous dusty old historical manuscripts or books cataloging flora and fauna of the area.
“Oh! Have you read this book before?” He gestures to the tome you’re now pondering in your hands. “I found it in the library and was far too intrigued to pass it over.”
“Back when I was a boy and not once since.”
“The tales inside are quaint, but enjoyable. I had never given knighthood much thought before coming here, but I admit I’m quite intrigued by the idea now. …Back home, there are no knights. Or I suppose everyone who is physically able is a knight, in some regard- it depends on how strictly one considers the definition of chivalry.”
“A kingdom full of knights sounds like a blasted nightmare.” You find yourself speaking far too candidly before you can stop, remembering what your more active days in the order were like. “That’s a recipe for far too many pissing contests for my liking. Everyone wants to ride in and play hero, and not a soul can fill out a single page of paperwork.”
“Healers never want to do their paperwork either.” Salim’s face lights up in amusement, a soft hissing laugh escaping his lips. You experience a short moment of pride that you’ve made him laugh, followed by that strange feeling- some mix of joy and terror and confusion filling you once again. 
Suddenly a ball of nerves forms in your stomach, realizing you’re about to let him touch you.
“Let us get this over with quickly,” You gripe, setting the book on the end table and taking a seat in the chair across from him. “I still have duties to see to before night falls.”
“Of course.” He says politely, and efficiently prepares what he needs to get down to business.
It’s a needlessly vexing experience; being poked and prodded, performing tricks on command like a well-trained hound, with Salim uttering the occasional hum that may be a good hum or a bad hum, for all you know- And the invasive sensation of his hand on your chest to auscultate your heartbeat and breathing has your skin prickling under your collar.
“My, are you a wonderful specimen. Steady heartbeat, clear lungs, good color to your gums.” Salim praises you after he’s finished examining your general health with the medical kit still left over from the old healer. He now motions for you to undo your shirt. “You are an exceptionally healthy man. Barring this one glaring area, it would seem. Let us take a look…”
You hesitate, but you relent and untie your loose, simple linen shirt just enough to slip your arm out of the sleeve. One hand gently slinks up the back of your firm upper arm, the other holding your elbow.
It’s a dreadful, ugly thing, your bad arm. Discolored and shiny from the healed burn from your fingertips all the way to your clavicle. To make things somehow more ghastly, the veins on your arm are ruddy black and fully visible from where the overloaded mana scorched through your blood.
"And your magic is fire." He says, a statement, not a question, as he manipulates your arm to inspect the way your scarring behaves. "Mine, as well."
You can already tell his alignment is fire; if not clear from the familiar hum within you in acknowledgement, it is clear from the pleasant smell of recently extinguished candle that seems to always permeate his general vicinity.
"It was. Why does it matter?"
"The raw power still radiating from this…" The way he looks at your arm feels almost reverent, his eyes glimmering. "You would have been quite the sight to behold, were you not? Before all of this damage."
“Does this endless prattle have a meaning?” You say, your nerves forever raw when it comes to this subject. “What are you seeking?”
"I simply thought since we share the same mana alignment, that you'd enjoy speaking about it. And that we could perhaps come to know each other better…" He hopefully looks up his brow at you, still holding your arm aloft in his elegant hands as he inspects you like some piece of meat for slaughter.
You grit your teeth, pulling your scarred limb away.
“My magic was a gift from the Lady. Now, it is gone- Revoked. Of course I don’t want to dwell on that fact. What more is there for me to say about it?”
"...I apologize if I have caused any negative feelings to resurge. I only wished to propose… a mutually beneficial arrangement between us. We could be of great assistance to one another, even share some comfort-"
"I don't want or need your comfort," You snap, pulling your shirt sleeve back on, confusion at your own feelings bubbling up into anger. "Unless it's bloody healing. Can you help with this pain or not?"
"I am capable, and the solution is related. Being a sorcerer, your mana is continuing to generate internally- perhaps moreso than normal to overcompensate for the weather. However, the damage to your arm is preventing the natural release of that unused accumulation, also due to the weather. Due to the age of your injury, I'm sure you already are familiar with the treatment for this particular predicament; Siphoning.” Salim pauses, waiting until he sees your nod in understanding before continuing. “…While my own mana stores have not fully recovered from my jaunt through the woods, not in such damp conditions as these. So, I could take this excess from you, through touch… If that was a prospect you found appealing…"
“I do not.” You say, standing to depart so abruptly that the chair scrapes the stone loudly. “I will wait this out, just as I always do.”
“I do not think that is very wise...” Salim says grimly. You see concern etched in his features.. “But I would never force a patient to accept treatment.”
You don't want to think of it. Nor do you want to think about why your heart starts racing when you are close to him, or why your eyes always seem to catch on the sheen of his scales like they do on a well polished blade, or why the simple act of a gentle examination of your weakest part feels so good, so right, when he was the one doing it.
Giving up the chance to have a wife or a family never felt much like a loss when you were first training to be a knight. You had never felt much desire for one or the other, either way. But now… you finally feel this carnal sort of desire… and it’s for some monstrous serpentine abomination.
Another test of your virtue? Fine. You won’t give in.
Cold, wet days pass into cold, wet nights. Tonight you lie in your bed awake, overheating from the inside out, the blazing heat radiating from your arm. Your good hand clutches at your shoulder, knuckles white from the grip as your writhe, blankets fully kicked off and biting a spare scrap of leather to keep from waking the whole temple with your screams.
This is certainly the worst flare up you've ever had, the old scar burning nearly as terribly as it did the day the explosion happened, when a magical attack overloaded your system and destroyed the ability for your own mana to properly cycle through your body. A broken circuit.
Typically flare ups only happen around excess of the corresponding element. But in such oversaturated conditions of the opposing element- in your case, the water in all this blasted rain- what remains of your mana becomes volatile, trying to overcompensate for your surroundings with nowhere to naturally leech off to.
But you are strong. You can weather this pain, like you have time and time before…
It just needs to pass already.
So close to the brink of being driven to complete madness by the torment, you almost fail to notice the door to your chambers slowly creaking open. The only light filtering in is from the window, as you've left your hearth unlit to avoid making your pain worse. But even in the low light, you can recognize those undulating movements anywhere now. 
"...I can feel the energy cresting all the way from my bunk," Salim's soft, worried voice says from the shadows- as if it was ever going to be someone else, slithering into your private chambers in the dead of night. "Please… allow me to help you."
"Fine! Fine. Do what you will to me, serpent," You growl, barely snarling back tears as the leather strap falls from your gritted teeth. "Just make it stop."
You expect maybe for him to come to your bedside and lay his hands on your arm from there, but instead you feel the weight of Salim slithering into your bed beside you. 
He entangles your arm with his upper body, pulling your hand towards his face to gently cup his cheek, your forearm tight against his body in its bent position. Every part of his exposed skin that he can feasibly manipulate into touching yours finds its way there; arms, hands, chest. Even his long tail winds itself around one of your legs.
Normally being pinned by another person’s weight like this might cause you to want to escape from the claustrophobic feeling, but it doesn’t seem to appear this time, only a strange sense of security after all the thrashing in pain you’ve been doing this evening. You find a comfort in it that you didn’t know you could crave.
The heat in your arm continues to grow, but it flows with purpose now. The molten energy flees your body, in favor of migrating into the naga’s body instead.
Sweeping tingles run over the surface of your skin in waves, wherever it has contact with his. The sensation is so overwhelming, almost like the ground falling out from below you, despite laying securely on a bed, but with an added layer of temperature fluctuating wildly. 
Then… Relief. Finally, some modicum of relief.
This is what your sword must’ve felt when the blacksmith pulled it out of the forge, you hazily decide.
You're nearly euphoric in the simple absence of the white-hot needles jabbing into your flesh from the inside. It might as well be ecstasy, compared to what you’ve been enduring.
Thank the Lady- you think to yourself, before correcting yourself mentally. No, she gets sufficient enough praise the rest of the time. This time, it is 'thank Salim'.
You barely have the sense to care that that’s probably blasphemy, blinking the rims of your eyelids dry. Your heaving breaths finally start to even out into their normal, resting rate of rise and fall.
Finally in a calm, bearable state, you become acutely aware that you're now left in this close, pointedly intimate embrace with him. Shining starkly in the darkness, his irises have started to glow in a saturated vermillion hue, no doubt from the copious amount of magical energy he’s just taken in.
"This should suffice," Salim finally says, sounding sleep-drunk from all of the warmth of the mana he’s absorbed. He seems hesitant to actually let your arm go and depart, still holding your hand to his face, fingers weaved in yours. "I can leave now, if you wish."
"I do not wish for you to go." You admit, taking nearly all of your strength to keep your voice from shaking in fear of what that means.
"Oh?" He traces the fingers on his free hand down the inside of your forearm. How pleasing that simple pressure feels on the parts of your body usually used to the weight of heavy armor- which is most of it.
The feeling of the smooth, bare skin of his chest on your arm is just too enticing to let go, and your resolve crumbles.
The temptation is finally too much, and you're overtaken by the desire that's been gnawing at you despite your attempts to quash it.
You seize him at the back of the neck, pressing your mouth to his.
Salim seems shocked into stillness for a moment, before he relaxes in your grip, moaning his approval into your open, greedily searching mouth, and grasping the back of your own head with his hand. His fingers immediately catch in your hair, the sensation sending a flash of pleasure over your over-sensitive nerve endings. 
That long tongue you've thought about so much over the last several days glides across yours, winding around your own like his long serpentine tail is wound up between your legs, coiling around you.
Your free hand searches his side, grabbing anywhere you can find purchase. You want to take in everything; the sensation of soft skin that you know, though starved of, but also the new, enthralling sensation of hard reptilian plate underneath your fingers. It's smooth and rigid, yet still malleable as his dense muscles move underneath. 
You trace every crevice and crest you can reach where scale meets plate meets skin, investigating all the differences in texture. His body is positively drenched in warmth now- your warmth- and hot to the touch underneath your hands.
The solid feeling of Salim's tail between your legs feels dangerously good. You find yourself grinding against him to meet the rolling movements of his hips, already this close but desperately wanting to be closer, somehow.
You don't have to see it to know the thin linen sleeping trousers you wear to bed are not concealing anything at this point. The fabric is pulled taut against your arousal, barely even forming a barrier between the smooth plates of Salim's underbelly.
You barely feel any shame now, brazenly rubbing your hard cock against him. It simply feels too good to be embarrassed about at this point.
"This isn't a result of mana," Salim rasps in a moment taken to breathe, lips still hovering over yours. You can feel his dexterous fingers fiddle with the laces, and his tongue flicking at your neck. "But I can treat this heat as well…"
"Please," You growl.
Salim quickly loosens the laces just enough to push the fabric down as much as he'll need to, every minute trace of contact stoking your desperate need.
The darkness doesn't deter him all. His darkvision clearly must be better than yours- making lining up the wet, soft crevice between his belly scales with your waiting member trivially easy.
You can barely contain your excitement as your throbbing cock catches on the edge of his slick vent. The only thing you've felt before has been your own hand, in the times when you've needed release. You need to know how being squeezed inside him feels.
Salim doesn’t even extract himself from the coiled embrace he has you in, nor shift his weight. Once he is sure he's got the tip lined up where it needs to be, he simply starts pressing his hips flush to yours, taking you in.
A low, incomprehensible noise of approval escapes him as presses himself forward, all the way to the hilt. His fingertips grip at your chest while your own seek purchase in the dips of his hips.
Your jaw clenches involuntarily. He's hot, almost unbearably so. You knew he would be, but you weren't ready for the sensation of being enveloped by such sweltering, magically augmented heat. 
If the siphoning felt like your sword being pulled from the forge, this is being plunged back into it.
Your lack of experience doesn’t seem to matter anywhere near what you thought it would, not with Salim doing most of the hip movements. You thrust forward as much as being on your side and wound up by him allows, not content to be completely idle.
You're not going to last long like this, but you’ve got to try.
The writhing continues, locked in a slightly damp, molten knot of limbs and starved kisses, until you’re clenching every muscle just to let it continue a bit longer. The grip of Salim’s tail only gets tighter and tighter, until it culminates with a series of forceful contractions around every part he has you captive. That does you in, your own pelvic muscles violently tightening as Salim’s hole saps you of everything you have to give.
Afterwards, Salim doesn’t say anything, but the ragged breathing into your neck is just as good as any words he could say, anyway.
You lie there, skin still tingling all over with heat and a burn deep in your muscles- a pleasant kind in comparison. Eventually you drift off in the darkness, still holding a firm grip on the serpentine body entangled with you about the hips.
You sleep like the dead. 
When you wake in the morning you feel revitalized, like you're a new man.
It doesn’t take you long to notice your visitor from last night is nowhere to be seen. You briefly consider if it was all a lewd, feverish, hallucinatory dream…
Only it couldn't have been a dream- your arm is nearly devoid of pain as you clench a fist and flex your muscles, and you can still hear the rain pattering against your chambers' window.
Just as a small twinge of panic starts to set in, you hear someone slip into your chambers.
It’s exactly who you expect it to be, and he’s carrying what looks like two servings of warm breakfast on a tray. When your eyes meet, his mouth curls into an enigmatic smile.
“Good morning.”
“There was no need to coddle me like this.” You protest, sitting up in bed as he sets the tray down on your desk and takes a seat on the paired wooden stool. “I’m perfectly capable of making it to the dining hall.”
"You are sorely in need of time to recover… I've told the Mother that you are to do nothing but rest today."
"And I'm sure she found that terribly agreeable." You say, running your hand down your face in frustration. She's constantly chiding you to take more breaks as it is, and now she has reinforcements.
"Of course she did. Healer's orders," Salim says very seriously, though the glimmer in his eyes is clearly playful. "Though perhaps, depending on how you're feeling now… you may require additional treatment..."
Despite the exasperation, you can’t stop the twitch of a smile on your lips.
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ohheyjudesummers · 9 months
Text
Pride Aside - part 3 (Gojo Fanfic)
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The other part's are right here <3
I really messed up this time. 
As the party continues into the night, the possibility, the fact, becomes much clearer to Gojo.  He catches sight of you from way across the yard. You’re keeping your distance—your space—from him and easily gravitated towards a group of mutual friends.  
She’s finally single and I end up putting a huge wedge between us. Way to go, Genius, he thinks, his shoulders sagging slightly.
He observes you in real time as you interact with others, gradually easing the tense demeanor he'd unintentionally induced in you. Even with the lovely lady in front of him gushing about how good he was on the ice, he found himself drifting in and out of the conversation. More so when he noticed you tucking a thick strand of your kinky, curly hair behind your ear as you brought the rim of your cup to your lips to take a sip. He couldn't help but scan your face. 
Typical blush was not visible on your brown skin, but Gojo could tell you were at least slightly drunk at this point. You were a lot more smiley and giggly at whatever was being said to you, which was a telltale sign from previous events he had observed when you guys used to drink together more frequently. 
The corner of Gojo's mouth twitches in time with the fluttering in his chest, recalling those moments. Specifically, the ones where the two of you get drunk alone together.
He knew it probably didn't mean much to you, but it meant a lot to him.
Under the influence of liquor, he could be a little more vulnerable with you during those times—even if it was a lame and partial excuse. At the same time, he tried to push past the guilt because it got him the results he desired—your undivided attention and affection.  You two would crack jokes and talk about anything and everything. You'd allow him to hug you, or lay his head on your lap—his second favorite thing to do since you tended to run your fingers soothingly through the scalp of his snow-white hair.
 His all-time favorite had to be when you'd fall asleep on him, either on his shoulder or on his chest. Gojo was taken aback by the amount of heat that rushed from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. And he didn't miss the tingly sparks igniting in his groin. But he'd grown to find comfort in the feeling rather quickly. He started to crave it more. And you. 
But then Jason showed up. 
Gojo started seeing less and less of you after that, even when he and Drew weren't traveling for games and were in town. You always seemed too busy to either come to Drew's parties or weren't home when Gojo himself stopped by your place.  And when Gojo did get to see you, Jason was nearly attached to your hip. It was exceedingly annoying—to the point where he couldn't help but play agitator when you were around.  Making jokes to an almost bothersome limit was a go to for him, although he wasn't really picky in his methods of derailing your mood when you were with Jason.
Gojo knew no one would think twice about his joking around; it was a well-known personality trait of his. No one would suspect that he was acting on a much deeper and more complex feeling that he'd been harboring for years. Feelings that, despite his confidence, he was unsure how to express. 
Or if he even should express them. 
Be this as it may, Gojo knew it didn't properly excuse the way he went about things—how he stepped out of line. You deliberately avoided him and made him feel uncomfortable in his own skin.
  But how could he make it right at this point?
The question burned into Gojo's mind as the minutes passed at the party. Even as people spoke to him, it was all he could think about.
"Hey man, do you want another drink?"
Gojo's attention was drawn to one of his teammates' slightly slurred voice.
How long had it been since he walked over to speak with them? Gojo could have sworn he was much more sober at the time. How had he gotten drunk so quickly?
 Clearly, he'd been so preoccupied with you that he hadn't noticed the passage of time. 
Perhaps it wasn't so much that Gojo had lost track of time as it was that the potency of the drinks provided was elevating things. 
That's when Gojo took a good look around the backyard. Everyone was at least tipsy by now. Even he was beginning to feel a buzz. He still had a good amount of liquor left in his solo cup. A part of him thinks to drink what's left and go for a full refill. But then his eyes back over to where you were.
Even while you refilled your own drink at the table and nodded as someone spoke with you, you still exuded delight.
Yes, you were always like this when you decided to drink: carefree, giddy, open, and accessible. 
In that moment, an idea started to form in Gojo's mind.
"Actually, I'm alright." He gave his teammate a sluggish smile. "I think I may have had enough for the night."
"Seriously?? You don't want any more?" Drew, who'd been preoccupied with flirting with one of the girls at his side, turned his attention toward him.
Gojo observed that Drew was easy to get past the sobriety line, much like his sister, which tended to impair Drew's awareness and make him somewhat predictable. 
All of this, disgracefully, could work in Gojo's favor tonight.
No hard feelings, Drew. I was too slow before, but there's no way in Hell I can just sit and let Y/n slip away again. I don't have that in me. 
"What, you think I need another cup?" Gojo skillfully led on. 
"Uh, yeah. I mean, I know you can be a lightweight, Bro. But I swear to God, it feels like you've been nursing that same drink for a while now." He chuckles. "You distracted or something?"
Gojo's stomach dropped at that moment. That is, until Drew gave a seemingly knowing nod to the busty Drunk girl sitting by Gojo's side.
Oh, he thinks I'm interested in...
He felt relief wash over him.
In all honesty, Gojo didn't remember the girl's name, despite Drew telling him once as they were walking over to the girls and the girls introducing themselves a second time. 
The thought did pass to ask her for her name again. But with his mind wandering to thoughts of you and the girl herself knocking drinks back-to-back in between her talking, he didn't see the point. Plus, he didn't find her attractive.
But apparently Drew thought otherwise.
Gojo simply gave a chuckle in response before taking a long sip from his cup and standing. 
"I'm gonna take your advice and get another drink."
"Alright. But hey, could you check on Y/N while you’re over there? I love my sis but I don’t feel like babysitting right now; You know she’s a lightweight. “ Don’t I know it.
Gojo flashes a sheepish smile “I got it, man.” A part of Gojo felt bad when he spoke those four words just before turning to walk off.  He was aware that he wasn't completely considering his best friend's wishes with genuine intentions aside from what he wanted at this moment. Gojo made it his mission to never seem too eager when the chance came to be alone with you. He imagined he did a decent job of at least throwing Drew off the fact that he secretly had feelings for you. It wasn't that he thought his friend wasn't smart enough to figure it out. But, simply put, the task of pulling wool over his friend's eyes was easy because Gojo was aware that your brother didn't like to involve himself in your personal affairs. ‘As long as she's safe and no one hurts her, it's fine’ . But, unbeknownst to you, Gojo was aware of a few instances where Drew could become an overprotective little brother. Hence, he didn't want to be so reckless and risk alerting him.
So, yes, Gojo was aware that the way he was going about this was deceitful and maybe a bit manipulative. Yet still, that didn't stop his gaze from zeroing in on you as you seemingly excused yourself from your group. 
It didn't stop the little extra pep in his step as he followed in your pace; watching as you steadily bobbed and weaved through scattered people, towards Drews house alone.
Tonight, he’d make sure you knew without a doubt how serious he was about you.
©JUDESUMMERS. Please do not copy, Translate, Plagiarize, or repost (sharing via link is excluded) without permission. This story is only uploaded on Tumblr, Wattpad and AO3. Anywhere else under any other name besides JUDESUMMERS is prohibited
Author's note: Omg thanks for sticking it out with me! I've been swamped with work and got a little depressed about some personal affairs, so that put me off, but I'm slowly getting back into things and working on a consistent schedule for both my fic's and my stories on Amazon/Kindle Vella.  There are maybe one or two more chapters in this short story. The next part will be for ages18 and up because of explicit and dark themes and will come with warnings. 
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