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jangofctts · 4 years

Text

Are You in Or Out?

Rated: Explicit

Word count: 11.5K yall I am SORRY

Warnings: good lord y'all here we GO-- smut, explicit language, violence and mentions of blood and gore, injuries, unprotected sex (don't be a dick, wrap that stick!), oral (m&f receiving), blindfolding, vaginal and anal fingering, vaginal and anal sex, double penetration, spit is used as lube but for the love of GOD doNT DO THAT, there are some dom vibes on Paz’s end

Summary: The job you’re on takes a turn for the worst--Paz comes to your rescue and you're brought to the Covert. There you meet Din Djarin. though during a good natured sparring session, you’re suddenly stuck between an age old rivalry that spirals out of hand. Hopefully an agreement can be met.

a/n: hey...how y’all doin....SO lemme explain you smthn. I said helmets must be OfF--giv me them LIPS BABEY so this is a slight AU in which mandos can see other mandos’ faces. ya get me? I also tHot that it would be nice and fun to set the timeline 5-6 years BEFORE the plot of the Mandalorian so we gots a younger din here. anyway, as always enjoy and I hope you like!!

Mistakes, mistakes, mistakes—

Some as little as burning your finger on the nozzle of a smoking blaster or tripping over your own shoelaces. Simple things. Mindless things.

Nothing that could ever compare to the catastrophic decision of picking up bounty hunting as a reliable source of income.

The little ones were easy—tax evaders and deserters of the Empire—most who’d yield and gladly follow without complaint just at the sight of your blaster pointed between their eyes. And the gag of it is—most of the time you never bothered to load the damn thing.

Reckless.

An invitation for disaster.

But skirting that precarious edge, one little slip up away from plunging head first into inevitable trouble is better than Bracca. Stars—anything is better than Bracca. There’s no glory in bounty hunting but there’s even less in ship scrapping. Abysmal pay in exchange for risking your life on rain slicked metal with only the Ibdis Maw to break your fall.

The guild you work for is considerate—scratch that. Greef Karga is considerate. Sure the flirting is a touch unbearable but it saves your ass in the long run. All easy money bounties set aside for you in exchange for a cheap drink, hollow laughs and sugar sweet smiles.

It’s enough credits to get by—more than plenty to rent a room and charter a ship.

But there’s only so many bounties to capture within the limits of the guild and oh so many people the empty blaster trick works on. And so the credits begin to thin; it gets too expensive to buy off a pilot and the debate over buying food or being able to pay for your room becomes more frequent than the scraprats that skitter inside the walls.

It’s suicide to snag a higher paying bounty because....well—these bounties shoot back.

Whatever.

Might as well die trying. Who knows, maybe you could score big time if you manage to pull this off.

Maybe.

-=-=-=-

You’re not sure who’s more surprised—Karga when you asked for the bounty or yourself when he actually gave it to you.

“Are you sure, kid? This could—“

“End in a fiery shitshow? Yeah—I figured that,” you sigh, swirling your drink with a little complimentary toothpick. “But I need the money.”

“Hah! You’ve got guts, girl.” He flashes you a smile and smooths down his mustache with his thumb and forefinger. “Tell you what. The last assignment was just taken but I’m sure if you run you could catch him. Work somethin’ out.”

Jumping from your seat, you throw on your coat and toss a couple credits onto the table to cover the drink. “What’s he look like?”

“Big fellow—Mandalorian. You’ll know when you see him.”

You shout your thanks over your shoulder and hightail outta there. The landing docks aren’t far, you can see them from here. It’s finding the guy that could pose a problem.

If he hasn’t already left, you bitterly think.

However, it seems the universe is on your side today. Karga was right. He is big. Stands out like a sore thumb against his ship that glitters dully in the overcast sky. Kinda like an oversized blueberry. A yellow and blue blueberry….not important—

“Hey! Hey, you!” You’re so close, just a couple yards away. You swear and hurry up your pace as he steps onto the loading ramp. “Big guy! Large...blue man?”

You trip over your own feet as he turns his head. Fuck—

No way are you gonna be able to bargain with this guy. Built like a fucking AT-AT and probably just as stubborn. After all, no one would ever be dumb enough to come between a Mandalorian and their quarry. You grimace, and suck in a breath—

Before a word even leaves your mouth he interrupts with a steady, unwavering;

“No.”

Your brows furrow. “I didn’t even say anything!”

“I know what you were going to ask,” he huffs, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “I work alone.”

Ok, then. You didn’t want to resort to begging, but you’re kinda running out of options here. You take a steadying breath and plant yourself at the bottom of the ramp. “C’mon man. Look—I’ll let you take seventy percent of the cut and I can—“

“You’ll let me?” He repeats, the staticky tone of his voice dropping into an edge more cutting than broken transparisteel. The metal platting on the ramp vibrates from the weight of his step to move closer; Stars it takes every fucking inch of willpower to hold your ground. “You’re lucky if I let you leave with your life. Get lost.”

Fuckfuckfuck—you should listen. You wanna fucking run for the hills and never look back in case he comes looking to purge your name from the kriffing galaxy. You clench your jaw and steel your nerves. Too bad—you’ve dug your heels so far into this empire of dirt and false bravado that your only way out is continuing to poke the sleeping bear until he snaps your spine or caves.

You have to crane your neck to glare into that dark strip of his vizor, seeing as he’s invited himself into your personal space. “No.”

“No?” He mocks, now toe to toe with your scuffed up boots.

Your teeth clench, a scalding flush burning through your cheeks and all the way down to your chest. He’s toying with you—finding amusement in your stubbornness and apparent lack of braincells for challenging him. “You don’t scare me.”

The man hums, a deep purr that rumbles through his entire ribcage as he raises his gloved hand. You curse yourself for flinching because surely he’s about to crush your skull like a fucking grape, but no. All he does is fix your rumbled collar then pat your cheek.

“I don’t need the extra baggage.”

“I’m not baggage,” you sneer, slapping his hand away. “I can handle myself.”

“With an empty blaster?” He points out, tipping his head to the side. “Your parlor tricks won’t do you any good on this job.”

“I’m a good shot!” You sputter, placing your hands over you hips and mustering up your best glare. “W-when I have ammo…”

“Right.”

Meeting Paz Vizsla, could have gone far better, to put it into the most simplest of words. Jagged and hard to settle into a routine around each other for the journey to Nar Shaddaa in a tiny, old, and cramped freighter ship. Most cycles you have to wedge yourself beside a cargo crate to sleep. In addition to that, how it’s able to break through the atmosphere let alone fly is beyond you—an entire mystery on its own.

At least you’re able to sit in the spare seat inside the cockpit—one of the only places available to stretch your legs. The only problem is that it’s also where Paz Vizsla likes to lurk (well, not lurk—it’s his ship and it’s where he can comfortably fit but—to each their own).

There’s a net of tension still woven between you—each interaction like tiptoeing over eggshells. Though, like all things, it becomes simpler. There’s not exactly any ongoing conversations—you don’t want to pry into a life you know nothing about—it’s not your business despite the cumulation of questions that linger in the back of your mind. You know when to take a hint—not every person is willing to indulge you about their livelihood, and surely not something as secretive and well guarded as the Mandalore.

Familiarity is what you want to call it. Comfortable with each other’s presence with small talk speckled in throughout the never-ending vastness of hyperspace. Compared to the infinite turmoil in your life, slippery footholds and uncertainty—Paz Vizsla is steady. In a way— predictable and safe in the confines of this ship.

You’d even go as far as to label him kind, a friend maybe—if you look past the grumpiness and rather poor taste in corny jokes. You know it’s stupid, no doubt stemming from the deep ache of loneliness that comes hand in hand with staking it out on your own in the galaxy; but you can’t help but wish that this could be a new normal. Not some once in a lifetime thing where you both part ways, fade into the recesses of memory and leave it at that.

If things go well—and rarely do they on a job—maybe you’d pluck up enough courage to ask him if you could stay. There’s no harm in it…right?

-=-=-=-

Well—the cynical part of you was right.

It did end up in a fiery shit show.

Turns out the stupid quarry you’d been tracking excelled in long range weaponry. A former marksman for the Empire to be exact. Guess that tidbit of information wasn’t pertinent. A need to know sorta thing, if you will.

You feel the molten bolt of plasma connect with your side before your ears pick up the sound of a weapon firing, like a crack of lighting in the empty alleyway. And before your body even connects with the duracrete, Paz is returning fire. A brilliant neon red against the hazy blur of shadowy buildings.

Kinda weird how knocking the back of your head hurts worse than the literal blaster wound burned into your side. Shock maybe. Or the heat from the plasma cauterized each veins and artery it tore through and ate away at flesh and nerves. Hm…

You’re sprawled in a wet pool of something—either your own blood or a puddle of stagnant gutter water and damn—you’re wearing your favorite shirt.

It doesn’t matter at this point…

You’re choking on your own air from the big ass hole blasted into your diaphragm, so to say things are looking grim is an understatement.

Nar Shaddaa isn’t your first choice to kick the can on, but hey—not everyone gets the luxury of dying on Naboo. And just as you’re ready to slip away into that sweet, sweet abyss, it seems your fellow armored friend has other plans.

The beskar is freezing against your cheek after he deadlifts you off the duracrete—you remember that plain as day. That and the hushed rumble of Paz’s voice insisting you save your dwindling supply of air instead of apologizing to him—or ordering you to stay alive for kriff’s sake. It’s impossible to argue with Paz—like trying to bite through durasteel, and while those beckoning tendrils of eternal slumber are mighty tempting, you cling to your life with all the strength you have left. After all, inconveniencing someone with a corpse is such a party foul to the highest degree.

The rest is muddled—like dredging up silt and clay in a murky river that just leaves you with a pounding headache between your eyes. It’s a terrible mess of pain and bouts of temporary consciousness, mistaken with fever dreams and yup—more pain. The only consistent is Paz—hovering nearby or settled beside you—through thick and thin as you heal.

There’s no solid reason your brain can conjure as to why he brought you to the Covert—it’d have been easier to just dump you at the nearest hospital and be done with it. You’re not his responsibility and you’re too afraid to ask what it means. Too many possibilities—too many answers you aren’t in the mood to face or untwist.

And so you leave it be, set aside for another time—which brings you to the present day…

You’re splayed over your little makeshift cot, feet propped up on a spare pillow as you scour through a cheesy Coruscanti gossip magazine. It’s years old—the only piece of entertainment you could find other than a weapon in the Covert. And seeing as a massive hole had been blasted through your ribcage, picking up the clever art of throwing vibroblades or shooting targets to pass the time was out of the question.

Even if you’d rather fall into a Sarlaac pit than stare at the wall for hours on end yet again—it hasn’t been all that bad. It’d taken weeks before you regained enough strength to sit up on your own, let alone walk—and walking is putting it lightly. It was more of a stiff legged shuffle better suited on a two hundred year old woman seconds from disintegrating into dust at the mere hint of a breeze.

Not to mention—your right lung was all but shredded. Ripped apart from the plasma bolt and miraculously reconstructed by a more than questionable bacta tank, hopeful thoughts and well wishes. To this very day you still sound like a broken air filter.

Eh.

Could be worse.

At least you aren’t dead.

Just another setback that adds on the growing pile of reasons why never to leave the Covert. Free food, free board and mild entertainment to top it off. Paz had stayed at your bedside for the most part while you recovered—stuck with babysitting your sorry ass until you regained a bit of mobility. The times Paz hadn’t been at your side to stave off the boredom, it was up to you to find your own fun.

Snooping is what Paz had labeled it—but you saw it more as an adventure. You met Din Djarin exploring (lost is what you actually were) in the dimly lit underbelly of Nevarro, after all. Yes, you may have scared the ever loving shit out of the poor guy and yes, he may have singed off your brows with a five foot jet of fucking fire—but hey. No one got hurt.

And you made a new friend. Sorta…Din is difficult to read, subtler in his soft spoken words and quiet demeanor. A bit like a skittish loth-cat at the start, but nowadays it’s not uncommon to find him lounging in the same space as you or hovering over your shoulder, awfully curious in whatever it is you choose to do. Like Paz, Din isn’t overly fond of sharing much information about himself but he never complains after you regale tales of your own vastly fascinating past. He seems interested enough—tilts his head a tick to the right when you speak to indicate that yes, he’s listening despite the unforgiving dark line of his visor.

There are others in the Covert too—some so elusive you have a hard time believing they exist. Shadows of what they once were before the rise of the Empire. And so, you count yourself lucky that you’d been introduced to two others—Aeris Fenn, a young man nearly as tall as a Wookie, and a woman named Ives Arrey; her armor a flashy green—damn near florescent in the light.

They’re nice enough company. Aeris is a chatterbox, his wit sharper than a blade but lacking in any forethought before he speaks. Ives is the far opposite—rolls each sentence in her mouth before she voices it, but in no way is she angelic. Maker—you’d bet your entire left asscheek she’s behind each bad decision and silly shenanigans Aeris sticks his nose into. He never learns—not after a harsh chiding or cuff around the helmet from Paz or the Armorer could dampen is childlike enthusiasm or steer him away from repeating the same mistake over and over.

Though if you read one more kriffing sentence of this garbage magazine you’re about to invite chaos himself to entertain you. Good thing too because just as you sit up to find the red armored Mandalorian—Paz rounds the corner and steps into your little broom closet that hardly passes for a room.

“Paz!” You greet, tossing the magazine over your shoulder. “Please tell me we’ll be doing something interesting or else I might start ripping my hair out. Or maybe commit a heinous crime—haven't decided yet.”

Paz grunts and shakes his head. “You’ll be doing neither. But today we’ll be sparing—hopefully that will curve your boredom.”

You scrunch up your face. “Sparring? Er, no thanks—I choose life.”

“You breathe funny since your injury,” he says, jabbing a finger between your ribs. “And all you’ve been doing lately is laying around.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you sneer, tucking your arms over your chest. “Didn’t realize I was supposed to be running laps with half a lung.”

“It’s like stretching a muscle, you need to gain your strength back.” He retorts. “This will be good for you.”

You groan and flop back into bed. “I don’t wanna. I was pretty much dead like three cycles ago—cut me some slack, man.”

There’s a brief silence as if he’s mulling over your words, but he’s stubborn. You crane your head to look at him as he says your name with a deep sigh attached to it.

“Truthfully, I’m surprised you’ve survived this long.” He says it quietly, fragile even, like he’s still expecting you to tip over and die on the spot. You very well might.

You huff. “Wow. Thanks, Paz.”

You feel his heavy stare through the helmet. “What happened to you that night was a mistake. It wasn’t preventable but the least I can do is teach you basic selfdefense.”

You gripe out your complaints but you know you’ve been beat—and well, a bit of your agreement is based on guilt.

Damn it.

-=-=-=-

It’s weird to see Paz without his heavy duty gear—like seeing him naked or a crab without a shell. The only piece he continues to wear is his helmet and padded gloves and under clothes, but it’s still weird. Strange enough that it shocks you tongue into remaining still instead of bitching about this.

He leads you to a wing of the Covert you’ve yet to discover and ushers you through the doorway. The floor is padded, a bit smaller than you expected and already occupied by none other than Aeris Fenn.

It’s a whole other kriffing shock to the head seeing him without the plates and layers of fabric and beskar too. The armor makes him bulkier—fuller and much more intimidating. Now, with only his black underclothes on, Aeris could be the spitting image of a sentient tree. Willowy limbs that stick out like branches as he stretches on the padded mat. He lazily swings his head around as you greet him, his face still covered by the black beskar painted with streaks of red.

“So you choose sparring over knife throwing?” Aeris snorts. “And to think I thought of you as a friend.”

“You think I chose to be here?” You say, grumpy and still upset at the choice of activity. Really, a brisk walk around the Covert would’ve been fine.

Aeris shrugs. “Ah, and I see you’ve roped in my favorite vod. Tch, he uses his fists instead of his words to teach. I wish you luck—you’ll need it.”

You open your mouth to retort but Paz beats you to it.

“Leave.”

“I’ve just arrived, actually,” Aeris scoffs, folding his torso over his other leg to stretch. “Perhaps you could reschedule. After all—our guest is quite free most days.”

Welp—you’re perfectly fine with that. Problem solved.

You spin on your heel and make a break for it but Paz snatches your wrist and pulls you back to his side. “Aeris.”

“Paz,” Aeris mocks, tipping his helmet to the side.

Paz exhales, a long, tired sound and grovels out another plea in clipped Mando’a. Aeris languidly stands and brushes off imaginary dust from the front of his pants. “Sorry, what was that? I don’t understand your accent.”

“Boy—“

“No, no, it’s alright.” Aeris sighs, waving his hand in a mopey display as if he were told that his birthday party were canceled for the fifth year in a row. “I’d have trouble speaking too if my enormously thick head were cooped up in that little bucket of yours all day.”

You wince.

In the time you’ve known Paz Vizsla, he’s never been one to launch into rash decisions fueled by anger—he lets it simmer and build like an oncoming storm over the ocean. Devastating once it reaches land.

Aeris bobs his head and inspects his black leather glove, picking at a loose thread on the inseam over the thumb. He clicks his tongue. “Or'dinii—you’re going to kill her.”

Your offended scoff is ignored as Paz steps forward; jutting his chin up to even out the few inches Aeris holds over the man. “You still haven’t learned to shut your mouth, boy.”

The tension surges and crackles like a volt of electricity through the air—unresolved and ready to ignite with the sparking embers of Paz’s growing irritation. It’s not a fight Aeris Fenn will win. He’s volatile and hotheaded—but his expertise is in long range weaponry. Precise, deadly and swift—not whatever this little pissing match is heading towards.

Aeris clicks his tongue as Paz digs a fist into the black fabric of his shirt. Paz yanks him forward, the metallic clink of their helmets colliding an unpleasant scrape that pierces your eardrums. Aeris snarls out sharpened words in Mando’a as his willowy fingers shoot up to curl beneath the lip of Paz’s helmet.

In the blink of an eye, Paz lifts Aeris up by his collar and launches him across the room like he weighs nothing more than a couple of down pillows. His helmet meets the wall with a resounding clank, chipping some of the red paint outlining the visor. Ouch.

Like a kicked dog, Aeris clambers to his feet, still dazed and swaying and for a fearful second you think he’ll retaliate. But with whatever braincells he happens to possess today—he instead spits out a venomous curse that even yourself would hesitate to repeat. He leaves without another word, bristling with rage.

Your flash Paz a questioning stare. “The hell was that about?”

Paz waves it away with an irritated grunt. “His heart is in the right place but he is young. Aeris doesn’t understand his place in the Covert yet and I doubt he will for years to come.”

You frown. “Poor guy…”

Paz mutters something under his breath. “Enough distractions. We’ve wasted enough time already.”

“Y’know…I think that’s enough excitement for today. I think I’ll be going now—“ Your last ditch attempt at weaseling out of this is quickly thwarted the moment you turn your back.

You wheeze as the heel of Paz’s palm shoves into your shoulder blade, the force of it sending you stumbling to the ground. “Paz—“

“Go on. Hit me,” he orders. You squeak, narrowly avoiding the well aimed kick that skims the top of your scalp.

You scramble to your feet, skirting out of range of the oncoming right hook. “So you attack me instead?”

“How do you expect to catch quarries who are bigger than you?” He presses. You hiss as the points of his knuckles dig into the meat of your shoulder.

You dance out of reach and rub your arm, a dull throb flaring up in the muscle. “I dunno—electrocute them?”

“Not if they take you by surprise.”

You screech as his knuckles skim your cheek. Adrenaline pierces you veins and you wildly throw a flaky punch that wouldn’t even impress a toddler. He catches your fist with ease, his entire hand dwarfing your clenched fingers. “You can do better than that.”

You snarl and struggle to rip your hand back. “I’m a scrapper. I don’t fight.”

“No,” he retorts. You fall onto your ass as he abruptly lets go of your hand. “You’re a bounty hunter.”

You roll your eyes. “Hardly—why can’t I just stay here?”

Although there’s nothing to see with that swatch of black covering his eyes, you can certainly feel the look he’s giving you. A deep sigh hisses through the vocoder. “You can stay here—“

A triumphant smile splits across your face—

“—but not without contributing where it’s due.”

You puff up your cheeks and let out a dismayed stream of air. “Booo—lame.”

He sighs again and helps you off the floor. “Even if you leave the Guild, what I’m teaching you is helpful.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you say. “I’ll give you a call after I use your invaluable skills to beat up some thug.”

Paz ignores your comment and turns on his heel. “Let’s go through it again. This time use your front two knuckles instead of your whole fist.”

As your eyes land over the stretch of tight fighting fabric over his back an idea pops into your head. It’s a petty move but getting a punch in is fruitless—like trying to beat up a brick wall. You don’t fancy a broken hand and your knuckles are already bruised and swollen to the point where it’s hard to bend them.

And so, without any forethought and with a running head start, you launch yourself onto him, your arms coiling around his neck. It does the job—takes him by surprise and makes him tip to the right.

Aha! Yes!

Your reign of victory is short lived, however—

He latches onto your forearms strung around his neck and yanks. And much in the same way he threw Aeris like a sack of potatoes—you’re no different. For a short stretch of time that feels kriffing endless; you soar through the air, your directional whereabouts violently ripped out beneath you and equally nauseating in the same breath.

Why you ever agreed to this—you don’t know.

Your shoulder blade connects with the mat first, leaving behind a dull sting as you roll and tumble with uncontrollable momentum. Oh, yeah—you’ll feel that in the morning.

Groaning, you thank the Maker that your body eventually settles into a miserable little pile of limbs and pain. But, it seems whatever higher power that lingers in the edges of the galaxy hasn’t decided to put you out of your misery just yet.

A bulky shadow blocks out the dim lighting overhead, and for a brief anxiety ridden moment you’re afraid it’s Paz. You roll onto your back with a pathetic groan, a beg for mercy on the tip of your tongue—but as your eyes flutter open they’re met with an entirely different man.

Din Djarin looms over you, his head cocked to the side as you blink in dumbfounded bewilderment. Ah, hell—

You swallow, a furious heat bitting at your cheeks. “Uh…fine weather we’re having…”

“We’re inside,” he states with a brief glance up to the ceiling.

You purse your lips. “Huh.”

With a pensive hum he offers his hand, you sigh and roll over, accepting his gloved hand. He hoists you up easily and adjusts your rumpled collar. “You ok?”

“Pfft, yeah,” you groan, rubbing your throbbing shoulder. “Never better.”

The low grumble of your name is a cross between disbelief and irritation. Din jerks his head, his attention zeroing in on Paz. “Are you trying to kill her?”

“She isn’t made of glass.”

“She is still recovering—“

Normally you’d intervene, but their bickering is tiring and it gives you the excuse to lie down. By the time one of them caves you’ve counted exactly one hundred and twelve weird ceiling stains. They should get that checked out.

“Very well,” Paz snarls, cutting through your wandering thoughts. “You teach her.”

Din scoffs, his shoulders drawn tight as he stomps over to your splayed out self. “Get up.”

“Geez, fine,” you grumble, not in the mood to test his patience further. “Since you asked so nicely.”

Later he’ll no doubt apologize but right now? He has to prove a point. Din cuts right to it, moves in close to place your clenched fists in the right stance and nudges at your feet until they’re a bit wider than hip distance.

“You have to get in close with a bigger opponent,” he says, stepping into your space until your fists are close enough to touch his chest. “We don’t have much range here—easier to break our guard too.”

“Right. And how would you suggest I do that?”

“You’re always beating me at cards.” Din says, tipping his head to the side. “You have a clever mind. Use it.”

“But I always cheat.” You point out, dropping your guard to swat at a stray hair.

He catches your wrists and returns them to where they ought to be. “Quick enough to get away with it.”

You make a noise of uncertainty but do as you're told. Din takes a couple steps back and with a rough order you begin.

He’s faster than Paz—bats at your guard in quick bursts and steps away when you attempt to hit back. It’s a dance almost—somehow elegant in its brutality of bruises and flashes of pain as you move around one another. Compared to Din, Paz is almost clumsy but unpredictable. Din—despite the rapidness of his attacks and evasiveness, becomes predictable.

He steps to to left—you follow. He rocks onto his toes to jab his fist forward and that’s where you find a break. Punching Din’s helmet won’t do you any good but catching the juncture of his shoulder with your elbow is completely feasible. Too bad that you’re not the only one with a clever mind.

Din uses the momentum of your attack to catapult you to the ground—his own body rolling with you in order to capture you in a headlock of sorts. This sucks. After this you’ll never be setting foot in this Maker forsaken room again.

Din tightens his elbow that’s looped around your throat as you squirm and flail, trapped against his chest. He grunts as your elbow digs into his ribs but holds steady and snakes his free arm across your front, pinning your limbs to your body in an unbreakable vice. All mobility is cut off as his knee pushes between your thighs, locking your leg out into an uncomfortable and frankly quite awkward angle.

Inhaling a shaky breath, you arch as the crown of his helmet skims along the curve of your throat; the bite of beskar frigid and startling against your flushed skin. You can see his visor out of the corner of your eye; glittering and dark like the polished obsidian on Black Spire and endless like the greedy maw of a black hole.

Your breath hitches as he shifts and curls his head closer to your ear. His voice rumbles low and deep through his chest and vibrates against the delicate cartilage. “Yield.”

However much your pride wrestles with the sensible part of your brain, it’s all for naught as you jerk your head in defeat.

In retrospect you should’ve said something—used your voice or made some kinda sound because suddenly Din’s forearm digs alarmingly hard into your windpipe. He read the stuttered jerk of your head as another pitiful act of defiance but no. Nope.

Here you are—asphyxiating.

Not exactly what you had in mind, being strangled by a Mandalorian and all—but a chokehold where you could very well die was not it.

Fuzzy darkness begins to shade the corners of your vision, lightheadedness and a curious warmth that prickles down your spine settling low in your belly. A raspy gasp manages to slip through your blocked off airway, and stars why does this feel good?

“Din—”

Paz’s sharp bark is distant above the ringing in your ears and it all stops.

You gulp in air that burns your throat like refined fire whiskey—hunched over the mat as a large palm rubs soothing circles over your upper back. You cough and roll over, sounding like a dying animal run over by a speeder then hit with a spiked club to polish it off.

You’re quickly herded into Paz’s arms and pulled into his lap. Still wheezing and attempting to recover lost oxygen, whatever Din is trying to say translates into an indiscernible hum against the ringing in your ears.

“I’m fine,” you mutter, though neither of them care to listen. Like bristling wolves, snapping at each other’s heels.

“Apologize to her,” there’s not so much as a centimeter of room to argue. “Now.”

It’s nice of Paz you suppose—defending your honor and what not, but you’re not a vengeful person. It was an honest mistake and you want to explain that so Din quits looking like a kicked puppy, yet the sudden touch over your ankle stops you. All the times Din has initiated contact it’d been a friendly pat to your shoulder or ruffling you hair, and while touching your ankle isn’t exactly scandalous it’s certainly an odd place to put your hand on.

Your fingers clutch Paz’s shirt as you eye the man lingering at the bottom of your feet, his gloved thumb unconsciously rubbing patterns into the exposed skin between your boot and your pant leg. “Cyare—I’m sorry.”

You blink and lick your lips. Interesting. “I-I don’t know what that word means.”

His hand inches higher, resting on the swell of your calf. “Sweetheart…darling…loved one—“

There’s a shift—a dark undercurrent that none of you should be dipping your toes into. There’s a million and one things to say or do to sever this at the root, but are you going to? Nah.

Din’s thumb now rests over your knee, goosebumps following in his wake. “Should I keep going?”

It too hot—stuffy with both of their heavy stares locked on your flushed face. You squirm and glance up at Paz who only offers an impassive stare. Great.

“I can make it up to you,” Din continues, his hand stationary—a warm weight even through the fabric of your pants. “If you let me.”

Your mouth feels drier than the desert on Jakku. This…nothing good could come out of what Din is hinting at. This is uncharted territory—launching yourself into the great unknown without any idea of what’ll fester and grow if you agree.

It’s not like it hasn’t crossed your mind—it’s just…it’s never been both of them at the same time. These men are short-tempered, an open flame to jet fuel with deeply seated ire woven into the very fabric of their beings. You’ve barely scratched the surface on the inner workings of their mutual hostility, but you’re bright enough to question if this will make it worse. Tinder and brittle twigs feeding and enabling the hungry flames of rivalry to spiral and consume with chaotic brilliance of a dying star—

But, oh—

Isn’t it worth taking the risk?

You suck in a grounding breath and slowly extend your leg that Din touches, gingerly skimming the toe of your shoe along the inseam of his inner thigh. “H-how would you…make it up to me?”

Din preens at your answer and shuffles closer, lifting your legs so that they rest in his lap. Devotion drips off his words like a fine liquor as he toys with the laces on your boots. “Anything—say it and it’s yours.”

Sparks of molten heat race down your spine and metastasize in your lower belly, spreading through each vein and artery like a some sort of invasive ivy. You spare a look up at Paz as he shifts.

“Go ahead, girl,” Paz assures. “Answer him.”

It’s an unspoken, buzzing sort of thing like the static air before a storm, crackling and surging with pent up energy. You all know the implications of what’s to come—but it’s your words, quiet and steady that irons that nail into your coffin.

“Take me like you mean it.”

The next few moments pass in a dizzying blur, a mess of anticipation as your shoes are yanked off, your pants following soon after and tossed into some unknown corner of the room. Paz helps you out of your shirt, a shiver wracking through your body from the chill, leaving you bare save for your underthings. Yet the warmth that seeps through his shirt and his hands that linger over your ribcage do a lovely job at making up for the cold.

Din shuffles closer and brings his fingers up to cup the side of your face, lowering his head to rest the crown of his helmet on your forehead. “Wanna touch you.”

Your breath hitches as Paz’s hands sweep up your torso, cupping and kneading your breasts. “Y-you already are touching me, Din."

Paz snorts as the rough leather of his gloves scrape over your skin and unhook your bindings. You hardly hear Din over your own whine as Paz rolls your hardened nipples between a forefinger and thumb.

“I want to feel you—without the gloves,” Din clarifies, fighting to keep your attention on him. “Will you let me?”

Maker that shouldn’t even be a question. You moan out your approval, delighted that both of them decide to slip off the padded fabric. Din touches your bare thigh the same moment Paz returns his hands to your tits and it’s exhilarating. The rasp of their bare palms against your flesh is addicting—something so foreign and warm compared to their usual armor and thick layered clothing.

You arch into Paz’s hand as it curls around the base of your throat, a tentative pressure but still heavy. “You’d let us do anything, wouldn’t you? Needy little thing.”

“Yes,” you croak, already debauched and falling apart at the seams. “Anything.”

You’re all too happy to fade away in the embrace of the larger man but the other participant is far from letting that slide. Din grabs your hand, guiding it towards the front of his trousers, the drawstrings already loose and easy to pull aside. He groans and twitches as your fingertips flirt along his navel, then curl over the waistband, tugging his pants the rest of the way down to pool around his knees.

You reach for the already impressive outline of his cock pressing against his boxers, but Paz cupping your cunt through your underwear just before you touch Din is distracting. You gasp and arch as Paz digs the heel of his palm against your clit, electrifying ecstasy zipping down your spine with each touch.

There’s a twinge of guilt after Din huffs and drags your limp wrist back to his cock, this time encouraging you to palm him by guiding your actions with his own hand until you lazily oblige. Din’s quiet grunts, gravely against the vocoder do nothing but throw more jet fuel to the fire inside your belly. The growing urge to actually touch him gnaws and corrodes the forefront of your brain. With a firm yank his boxers are quick to join his trousers and Maker—

Fuck—

Will he even fit?

Din is thick, rosy brown and flushed at the tip and beginning to curl towards his bellybutton. A bead of liquid shines at the tip, dribbling down the underside as he wraps his fist around the base of his length. He gives himself a languid stroke before he, once again, reminds your hand of what it’s supposed to be doing. Din is searing in your palm, molten and stiffening to hardened steel in your grip.

“You look so fuckin’ pretty like this,” Din hisses as his head rolls back onto his shoulders. “S-so pretty holding my cock.”

Your desperation tears at your insides, insatiable and Maker— you wanna taste him. You want to hear every little stuttered moan and feel each twitch of his hips as he claims your mouth as his own.

But before you’re able to ask Din if he’d be willing to fuck your throat, Paz grips your knee and slings your leg over his thigh, murmuring praise as he peels off your underwear. Paz’s hand snakes down to your pussy and runs two thick fingers through your already slick cunt, then delicately parts your folds.

It’s like a fucking bomb going off as his thumb grazes over your swollen clit. His forearm locks tight around your waist, keeping you in place as you arch and tremble. Paz is feather light and teasing, as he strokes over the little bundle of nerves in a painstakingly slow rhythm.

“Paz—“

He nudges your cheek with his helmet and chuckles. “You’re so sensitive, vaar’ika. Such lovely noises too.”

Paz trades in his light touches for using his two fingers instead. They form a relaxed ‘v’ shape, trapping your clit in between the digits as he massages in a steady up and down motion. You cry out, every nerve shocked and flooded with saccharine pleasure, shoving you so treacherously close to that precarious edge of release.

You have no fucking chance as a different set of fingers, leaner in length but just as bulky, carefully prod at your entrance. Din’s pointer finger slides into your cunt, quickly adding a second as your core clenches and stretches for him. The dual sensations over your clit and Din’s fingers steadily pumping and curling inside you send you hurling into that dazzling white-hot pleasure.

Throwing your head back, you cry out—a jumbled mess of their names or just nonsense— pleasure crackling out from your core and all the way down your legs. Your cunt tightens like a vice around Din’s digits, your legs twitching as your high dips into prickly overstimulation. You whine, and swat at Paz’s hand, Din pulling out his own fingers a moment later and wiping your wetness on the inside of your thigh.

Your head rests in the crook of Paz’s shoulder as your breath fans across the side of his helmet, fogging up the metal where the blue paint is chipped and scraped away. The shirt he wears smells a bit like sweat but the underlying scent of him is comforting—worn leather and something crisp, like fresh laundry. You don’t mean for the words to slip out—

You know better than that, but everything feels muddled and silly and, and, and—

“I wish I could kiss you.”

It’s like dousing ice cold water on a pile of smoldering coals. A silence, petrifying and like the inhale before jumping off a cliff and into a rocky sea, ensues. Stupid, stupid, stupid—

Paz shatters the fragile suspense with a rich laugh that burns away all the icy worry making itself a home in your ribcage. He moves his arm up, his fingers gripping your jaw to fix your gaze onto the other Mandalorian. “You want his mouth on you too?”

You whimper and nod, but it isn’t enough.

“Use your voice vaar’ika,” Paz hums, pressing the crown of his helmet against your cheek. “Tell us want you want.”

“I-fuck—” Paz’s fingertips sneak up your torso, rough callous catching deliciously on your skin. “I wan’t your mouth on me. B-both of you.”

Paz chuckles and releases his hold on your chin. “You’ll have to be blindfolded, sweet girl.”

Din scoffs, a harsh crackle through the vocoder. “Like she’d want to see your face anyway.”

“Please,” you mewl, turning your head to curl into Paz’s neck. It’s not ideal, but it’s a sacrifice you’re willing to make. “I don’t care. I need—“

“Patience, little one,” Paz purrs, rubbing up and down your bare sides in a soothing manner. All it does is stoke the flames. “You’ll get what you want.”

Paz shifts, reaching for your abandoned shirt and stars—

You can feel his cock, firmer then tempered durasteel and poking into your lower back. Oh, hell—these men are going to ruin you.

You’re nudged forward, your vision going dark once your shirt is securely tied around your head. The knot traps a few hairs that pull sharp against your scalp but the measly pain is worth it. Oh so worth it.

“Is it too tight?” You hear Din ask, concern lacing his gravely vocals.

You wave your hand in dismissal. “S’fine.”

“Cant see anything either, right?”

You squirm, your patience spreading thin. “Din, please.”

“Fine.” There’s no bite to his tone and under different circumstances you’d have more composure. Acknowledge that they’re putting their religion, their whole being into your hands—a fragile trust that could so easily be shattered.

Your ears pick up their subtle movements, their helmets landing onto the thin mat with soft thunks. With bated breath you wait for them to jump into action, seize every spare moment to taste your skin and breathe the same air. But—

“You need a haircut, vod.”

“And you need to shave.” Retorts Din with bitter indignation.

“It’s hardly even stubble.” He chortles. You giggle and twist away as he scrapes his prickly cheek up and down your neck. “Besides—she likes it.”

There’s another lull, and with the blindfold everything is amplified—the quick and quiet breathing of Din on your right and the slide of fabric against skin as Paz shifts. Your attention is captured by Din’s bare palm, warm and calloused like weathered leather left out in the afternoon sun. He caresses the outside of your thigh in smooth, longing strokes, enraptured by the softness of your skin. You whimper and let your leg fall open, exposing more of your thigh for his curious exploration.

The sudden touch on your cheek is jarring. You know Paz is there—it’s not an easy thing to forget the solid chest you’re leaning against but it’s hard to focus. Difficult to settle on one thought before it slips away like grains of sand between a clenched fist. Paz’s touch is heavier than Din’s, ambitious and greedy but…mindful. Even as his fingers spread along your jaw and drag you into a deep, mouthwatering kiss. It’s…stars—

There’s nothing that can describe this. No word that could ever hold a candle up to the way his lips, plush and soft, move against yours. His nose brushes against your cheek as he tilts his head and deepens the kiss, his warm tongue sliding against the seam of your bottom lip.

You whine and bury your hand into his hair as Paz groans, a low rumble in his throat. You wonder what color it is, but carding your fingers through the curls atop his head suffices for now.

Your curiosity is abruptly ended as Din’s hand snakes around your forearm. You’re forcibly yanked away, only to be met with another pair of lips. Din murmurs an apology at the sting of his teeth bumping into your upper lip, but the pain is hardly the first thing on your mind.

Din’s kiss is devouring—

Scalding and bright—the galaxy, a thousand suns, all there ever will be and all that ever was. The way his lips move against yours is a devastatingly sharp contrast to the steady, syrupy sweet kiss Paz offers. Desperate and eager to surround you in his own arms—steal away any lingering thought and replace it with him. Din Djarin—

You gasp as Din’s teeth nibble and pull on your bottom lip, only a moment before he surges closer, wrapping his hand around your jaw to hold it open as he licks deep into your mouth. Breaking for air, Din tangles his fingers into your hair at the base of your neck and yanks, baring the column of your throat. His travels down, the tender kisses morphing into teasing nips and lingering sucks that’ll turn into tender bruises in the morning.

Din hovers over your breasts, his heated breath and cooling saliva the catalyst to the goosebumps that rush over your skin. He lightly tugs on your nipple using his teeth, then plants a sweet kiss over your sternum.

“Can I taste you?” Din murmurs, his lips ghosting over your flesh. “Maker—wanna put my mouth on you.”

“Din—“ A different set of lips latching onto the juncture of your neck and hijacks your train of thought. Wipes your mind clean until Paz is the sole thing you can consciously focus on.

Paz laves his tongue over the shell of your ear and urges you to lean back against him once more. Your nose scrapes against his stubble as you tuck your head into the crook of his neck, his hips lazily rolling his hardened cock into your backside.

“Or…” Paz rumbles, capturing your hand and interlacing your fingers with his. You marvel at the sheer size of his palm—astounded still when he leads his and your hands to palm his cock. “I could give you this. Fuck your pretty little cunt until you’re screaming for me.”

It’s a punch to the gut. Why the fuck do you have to choose? You squirm as Din points his tongue over your nipple then sucks it into his mouth.

Working through the fog in your head, the answer is clearer than fucking crystal. Because who in their right mind would turn down a Mandalorian’s request to eat you out? Not you, that’s for sure. “Din—want your mouth.”

Din huffs in triumph and slips between your legs that part to accommodate his broad shoulders, leaving no patch of bare skin untouched and worshiped. You shiver as his tongue circles around your bellybutton then retreats. Din settles his head beside your knee and mouths a kiss there.

You whine his name and buck your hips, heart beating wildly in your ears. The teasing is unbearable and, stars—if he doesn’t start now—

He nibbles on the inside of your thigh, laving his warm tongue over each mark he leaves behind, buffering the sting of his teeth. Din snake his hands under your ass, hooking your knees over his shoulders as he heaves your cunt closer to his mouth. Din’s thumbs part your soaking pussy, his breath hot fanning over your cunt. His tongue his scalding—like liquid velvet as he dips the tip of his tongue from the base of your slit all the way up to your clit.

Din sucks on the little bundle of nerves, rolling his tongue until you’re crying out, molten pleasure zipping through you. He grunts as your fingers tangle into his hair—fuck. Fuck, you need more.

Arching into his mouth, all thoughts are obliterated; nothing but the warmth of his tongue, and his lips, devouring you as if he were a man seconds from death and you’re his saving grace. That frenzied desperation lingers on the edges of his movements like he’s afraid you’ll fade into smoke—but you’re not going anywhere. Not even a million credits could convince you to push Din’s head away.

He sinks two fingers into your clenching hole and curls his fingers, stroking and curling his fingertips to make you sing. Zeros in on that little spot that causes the involuntary twitches of your leg and wrenches embarrassing, high pitched mewls that fill the room. You’re careening towards your high, the sensitivity of your last orgasm amping up the influx of pleasure.

“Shit—Din. Close—I’m so close,” you gasp, pulling his hair tight enough that you know it must hurt. He makes no sign that it does, just groans and buries his tongue into your dripping hole, licking alongside his fingers that shovel more of your wetness into his mouth.

Your release unfurls through your body like sticky molasses—smoldering embers that seep into each limb until they’re heavier than lead. Fuck—it’s so hard to think and at this rate your brain is as good as gone.

You pay only a fraction of attention to Din as he kisses his way back up your body and lands a final one over your lips. His thumb grazes over your chin, his gravelly words of praise cutting through some of that foggy haze, how good you were, how fucking delicious you tasted when you came on his tongue. You taste your own arousal on his mouth as he noses your cheek and captures your lips in another kiss.

“Are you done?” Paz asks dryly, much too barbed to be thrown your way. You groan when Paz jostles your limp body as he hoists you back into his lap.

“Just starting, actually,” Din quips. “Why don’t you hand her back over? I’ve got some more things I wanna try.”

Paz scoffs and secures a heavy arm around your middle. “Greed will get you nowhere.”

“Neither will your arrogance.”

“Shut up—both of you,” you interrupt. Your voice is raw and choppy but it does the job. “Just fuck me already.”

For now their little spat is sidelined—it’s not worth ripping off that bandage of a temporary truce. There’s a chaste moment of quiet, like they’re considering tearing into each other’s throats instead, but with a touch to Paz’s thigh the standoff fizzles out.

“We need to work on your manners,” Paz suggests, curling his large, calloused hand around your neck in a loose hold. “I believe it’s please fuck me.”

Maybe if you weren’t practically a pile of brainless goo, you’d argue. See how far you can push—though this time you fold. “Please fuck me. P-please—I need it.”

Seemingly satisfied with your answer; Paz wedges a hand between your bodies to grip his cock and run the tip through your folds, soaked from you own wetness and Din’s saliva. The head of his member nudges at your entrance, and wether it’s his size or the fact you can’t see anything—you panic.

Your hand shoots out, nails harpooning into the meat of his forearm. “W-wait—you’re too b-big.”

Paz freezes and moves you up his lap and presses a kiss over you hairline. “We can stop. Just say—“

“N-no, I’m fine,” you assure, planting an apologetic peck on his stubbled jaw. Stopping is the last thing you want to do—it was just…overwhelming. A sensory overload testing the very fringes of your being. “Go slow?”

You feel his head bob in compliance as he moves you back to where you’re hovering over his cock. You relax this time, not as many alarm bells clanging through your head as your cunt flutters around the fat tip and then that glorious, first thick inch. Paz’s thumb bumps over your throbbing clit, coaxing your pussy to take him further.

“Yeah, that’s it vaar’ika,” he grunts, his breath fanning over your neck in quick pants. “Taking my cock so fucking well. So nice and pretty.”

Your pussy flutters, fresh waves of arousal hot and burning.You nearly keel over when Paz starts shallowly rocking his hips, easing your body the rest of the way down his length until the back of your thighs touch his. Maker—how the hell is he all the way inside? You can feel him in your fucking guts—

“See?” Paz purrs. He sucks a bruise into the meat of your shoulder and pushes his palm against your lower stomach, making the fit even tighter. “Fits fucking perfect.”

The noise your cunt makes pulling out and the debauched moan that filters through his vocal chords is obscene. If anyone where to walk by, well—it’s certainly not training that’s going on, for the better lack of words.

Paz holds true to his word—keeps his pace limited to deep, languid thrusts that brush up against something that makes your whole body shake—like strumming a golden chord molded to a musician’s fingers. Fuck—he’s doing all the work too. Lifting you by the swell of your hips and pulling you down onto his cock with a rough buck of his hips.

Abruptly, he slows to a gentle rocking—quick to lock you in place as you thrash and roll your hips. “Paz—n-no. Keep going. You n-need to—“

Paz silences your please with a wet, open mouthed kiss. “Our friend looks lonely. Why don’t you use that pretty mouth and suck his cock?”

Din.

You hear the man curse in Mando’a, probably some stab at Paz—

But with a pat to your outer thigh, you don’t need any more prompting—you’d give up your left hand to get a chance to suck him off. With the help of Paz, you’re eased onto your hands and knees, shocks of white-hot pleasure zipping through your core at the change of angle. Like this Paz is seated deeper inside, stabbing into each spot that makes you sing.

Fuck—your arms are shaking—only able to hold yourself up for half a click and then you’re sinking face first into the floor, ass in the air as he fucks into you. Paz clicks his tongue and wraps his arm around your front, pulling you back up from your slumped position.

“I told you to suck his cock, girl. Not take a nap.” Paz accentuates his words with heavy, well measured thrusts—the kind of force you know will leave your whole lower half throbbing and sore in the aftermath.

You whine as Paz grabs a hold of your jaw, digging into the tender joints until your mouth falls open. “Good. Keep it like that.”

Paz’s hand falls away, replaced by a softer touch. The pads of Din’s fingers hook under your chin, guiding and tempting you nearer to what rests between his legs, hot and heavy and large.

You feel the tip of his cock, flushed and pulsing, rest on your bottom lip. You lap up the beads of sticky precum with kitten licks that morph into suckling the entire head. Din grunts out your name and tangles his hand into your hair as you tongue at the ridged frenulum. He never forces you to swallow down more of him—lets you cradle the first few inches in the wet warmth of your mouth and languidly roll the pad of your tongue around him.

You want to take him deeper, let Din fuck your throat raw, but your jaw already aches. Your lips are pulled tight around his shaft, drool dribbling down your chin and landing on the mat below. You’re not sure if you could take more of him without the danger of your teeth catching or dislocating your jaw. So you manage like this—hollowing out your cheeks and and using the momentum of Paz’s thrusts to pleasure Din.

It’s frustrating—it must be each time you let his cock slip out of your mouth to breathe or the fact Din isn’t able to fucking fit his cock into your mouth. Annoying that you aren’t able to think properly to help him out a bit ore when that said brain is being fucked straight outta you, put through the wringer and then body slammed onto duracrete.

Din cups your cheek, strokes over your skin with his thumb and maneuvers himself out of your mouth. You whine and lean into his palm, his touch addictive like smoldering coals in the dead of winter.

“You want me there instead of him?” Din purrs, using the tips of his index and middle fingers to tilt your chin and drag you into an open mouthed kiss. “Fuck you like you deserve.”

The profane imagery of Din between your legs instead makes you clench tight. It only takes a couple seconds and a few more feverish kisses before you’re nodding to his request. Paz mutters a swear, hesitates, and reluctantly pulls out, leaving your cunt empty and aching with need.

Din, however, is speedy—quick to hoard you to himself and yank your legs over his hips so that you’re draped on his lap. He jumps straight to the point, no fancy maneuver or drawn out teasing—just grabs the base of his cock, slides the flushed tip between your folds and sinks into your cunt. Even after your pussy had been stretched and molded around Paz’s length, you struggle to take Din’s entire cock into your aching center. It’s easier than Paz but, Maker—not by much.

You whine, harpooning your fingernails into his shoulder once he bottoms out. Din snarls a curse and latches his teeth onto the juncture between your neck and shoulder, prickly pain shooting directly to your belly. “Fucking tight. H-how—fuck.”

There’s no time to adjust before Din sets a pace, harsh and desperate—his hands digging into the flesh of your ass for better leverage. Each roll of his hips borders erratic, taking his pleasure without thought—intent on reaching his own end before it could be yanked out from under him. Din’s staggered exhales below your ear are interlaced with subdued moans that start low in his ribcage then dip into a higher, airy pitch. A delicate sound you’ll guard closer to your chest than any secret you possess for the rest of your life—precious and yours.

Din turns his head to steal a kiss. “You feel fuck—fucking good. Wanna feel you cum around me. S-squeezed so fucking hard around my fingers—“

You choke out a groan and feel your arousal begin to drip down your thighs—hear the thrusts of his cock into your cunt become shamefully wetter. Heat sizzles down each vertebrae in your spine, burning up each and every cell with the brilliance of a wildfire. Stars, this is gonna destroy you.

Din’s hand sneaks between your bodies and rubs tight, little circles over you swollen clit. There’s no build up to your orgasm—just a blinding surge of blistering warmth that knocks you off your feet and steals away all the air left in your lungs. Your nails dig into Din’s back as you shake and grapple for a foothold in your own consciousness—the steady warmth of his body a much needed anchor for the madness that threatens to drown you.

“Good girl,” Din praises, pace faltering from just how tight your pussy squeezes and flutters around his cock. “S-such a fucking good girl for me.”

Regaining some semblance of control, you realize he’s still fucking going—still rock solid and throbbing, fucking you through the aftershocks of your release. Your arousal turns sharp, like rough cotton over a fresh sunburn as it dips into overstimulation. It’s not unpleasant but Din has to slow his hips to a delicate roll for you to recover.

In the time it takes to inhale, a different calloused hand kneads into your lower back then smoothes up your spine. A second later you feel the scrape of Paz’s stubble prick along your exposed shoulder as his tongue drags along your sweat dampened skin—all the way up the curve of your neck and ending at the shell of your ear.

You’re not sure if it’s intentional, but as Paz crowds closer the tip of his cock pokes at your other hole. With a surprised mewl, you tense and shy away—but he follows, molds his chest against your back to sandwhich you in. The hand gripping your bicep jumps to your neck and pulls your head against his shoulder.

Two of Paz’s fingers dip down the curve of your ass and brush along the puckered skin—far less jarring this time. “Do you want to be fucked here too?”

Maker—

You’re gonna fucking explode.

Stuffed to the brim already, it’s hard to imagine Paz cramming himself in along with Din. A little red light blares in some corner of your mind but it’s quickly soothed as Paz plants soft kisses over your cheek and jaw. You trust him—there’s no reason to think he’ll hurt you or push you to the point of pain.

You catch his mouth with a kiss and rock your hips back. “Y-yeah, ok. I trust you.”

You feel his smile curl against your cheek. “Don’t worry vaar’ika—I’ll take care of you.”

Paz strokes your bottom lip with his thumb and kisses the crown of your hairline as you sink into him. With his ring and middle finger, he pushes past the seam of your lips. “Suck.”

You obey, sealing your lips around his two digits and coating them in your saliva. Paz pulls them out with a pop and moves them between your legs, and with the added wetness dripping from your cunt, the first finger is easy enough. The second and third have you gasping as he scissors them and stretches your tight hole wider. You claw your nails into Din’s shirt—and he’s no better—Din’s own hands are clamping around your hips, struggling to keep still and biting back moans each time your cunt constricts.

Your hips begins to meet the thrusts of Paz’s fingers as your body familiarizes the feel of him there. It’s a deep thrill that rushes up through your spinal cord—much different from anything you’ve felt before.

“You like this, don’t you?” Paz goads, chuckling when you whine as he extracts his fingers. “I think you’re ready to take my cock, yeah?”

You shudder and nod, your voice no more than a squeak as it pilfers out. Paz strokes the top of your head and tips you forward into Din’s eager arms as Paz slicks up his length in a mix of precum and your dripping arousal. He touches the swell of you ass in warning, lines himself up with your hole and wedges the tip of his cock inside of you.

Involuntary tears dampen your makeshift blindfold as Paz buries himself deeper, his rumbling tone urging you to relax—relax even though your mind is drowning in an ocean of arousal and swirling emotions you have no hope to pin down and analyze. It’s for the best—thankful as Paz bottoms out that it wrenches you back to a feasible reality you’re able to manage.

“Shit—I-I’m gonna die—“ You sob, writhing at just how full you are. But there’s nowhere to fucking go—

“Easy,” Din breathes, and you wonder if he’s said it to keep his own head on his shoulders. “Easy.”

Din’s gravelly rasp cuts through the fog in your head, and stars—you sound like you’re fucking dying. Your wheezy breaths and lightheadedness would certainly suggest that—but no…no, you’re fine. Better than fine.

A rush so acute and devastating launches up your spine as Din’s patience cracks. He experimentally rolls his hips and that’s the end of it. You’re swallowed up in that riptide you fought so hard to avoid—fuck. You won’t be the same after this. How can you?

You can feel them both, separated by a thin wall as they sprint towards their own highs. You’re never once left empty—Din reaches the end of you as Paz pulls out and while there’s not exactly any finesse involves it’s the best fucking thing you’ve felt in your entire life. There’s no bickering—no teasing and you’re struck with an idea that makes you clench tight around both of them. You wouldn’t mind if this was the way they decided to settle scores or finally see eye to eye.

This time you can’t discern your high—just a constant overflow of ecstasy and dazzling arousal like an imploding supernova. You cry their names—sob and shake in their hold with such fervor that Paz traps you tighter between them to keep you still.

“Fuck—you get so fucking tight,” Paz growls, blunt nails digging into your hips. “And so fucking wet.”

His fingers touch the inside of your thigh and stars—he’s right. “I get to fuck your cunt next time—see how much you’ll drip for me.”

Even if the blindfold were off—there’d be nothing to see but a white wash of nothing. Blinded by pleasure and bursting at the seems.

Jealous, Din steals your breath away with a kiss, licking and nipping at your swollen lips until you whine his name. His jagged pants fan across your chin—chapped lips and patchy facial hair tickling across your bottom lip as you breath the same air.

Din whispers your name like a prayer, his fingers clutching tight around your thighs as his pace starts to flounder to choppy jerks. “Shit. I-I’m close—“

Your fingers twist into his hair. “Yeah—ok baby. Let go.”

Din’s teeth sink into the base of your throat and cums. His seed coats your insides—hot and copious and fucking shit—if there’s a next time you want him to cum in your mouth.

You don’t get time to relish Din’s stuttered gasps of your name, laced with praise and a show of a tender and bleeding heart before Paz is gathering up your hair in a tight fist and jerking your head up. “You—you want me to cum too? Say it.”

Without a breath of hesitation you beg for it, cry and arch into him. It does the trick—

Paz is loud—shouts a thunderous roar and buries his cock deep into your hole. Din is still recovering from the aftershocks of his release when Paz pulls out after what seems like ages pumping you full. His cock no longer there to plug you up, his cum begins to dribble out and mix with the mess between your legs. Your legs shake and you wobble--crying out as Din slips out, your body dreadfully empty and aching.

You're lowered to the mat by Din and if you weren't still trying to formulate words, you'd thank them. Lips dart over your cheeks and hairline, and for once nothing needs to be said. It’s nice...the radiating warmth from their bodies and the simmering flush through you body is something you could get used to. But you’re no stranger to the shifting tides of the future.

You shrug it off.

Your eyes are heavy and with one of them stroking your hair and the other your thigh, you drift to sleep. Later—later all unspoken things and disastrous words can be dealt with tomorrow. You must be dreaming when it’s said--careless and bold, but the words nestle into your heart and sprouts with fear.

“You love her, don't you?”

translation:

vaar’ika--pipsqueak

or’dinni--dumbass idiot

vod--brother/comrade

tag list:

@bobafctts @djxrxn @teaofpeach @corrupt-fvcker @nelba @datmando @ben-is-a-hoe @dreams-like-clockwork @aerynwrites @auty-ren @huliabitch @anxiety-riddled-mando @phoenixhalliwell @trippedmetaldetector

#happy SINday :)#pls accept some mando schlong #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #paz vizla x reader #paz vizsla x reader #paz vizla #paz vizsla #din djarin #the mandalorian #the mandalorian x reader #star wars #sw #fanfic #my writing #reader insert

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libermachinae · 3 years

Text

Night Shift

Also on AO3! Summary: Prowl and Jetfire analyze leads on a Decepticon smuggling operation, working together late into the night trying to find the missing connections. A sleep deprived slip of the tongue leads Prowl to revisiting old choices. Word Count: 2146

---

Prowl didn’t keep track of his chronometer this late in the night. Morning was inevitable, and he knew he could rely on a burst of messages from Orion to let him know when it had arrived. As such, he had no idea what hour it was when Jetfire broke through the productive silence.

“How did you come up with these predictions?” Jetfire asked. Worst of all, he was speaking with his mouth full, apparently too incensed by Prowl’s logic train to be bothered with common decency. “Every gun you’ve pulled in has been running on fumes; I’ve had to scrape the insides of the barrels just to figure out what they’re fueled on.”

The impressive thing about Jetfire was that even as a voice over the comms, he sounded like the biggest bot in the room. It wasn’t just that his voice was deep; Orion, who wasn’t that much taller than Prowl, had a voice you could feel through the floor panels. It was something about the way Jetfire talked, deliberate and straightforward, rarely stuttering even when caught off-guard. It was refreshing.

“I’ve outlined the logic process in my report. I won’t be repeating it,” Prowl said, scrolling back through his files.

“What are they teaching in the enforcer academy that reports don’t need to communicate anything?” Jetfire grumbled

It would be a reasonable estimate to say they spent 50% of these near nightly calls complaining about their targets, their coworkers, and the administration, and another 40% about each other. Prowl sat through them strictly as a matter of convenience, being a faster mode of communication than the intermittent data bursts preferred by the sanctioned enforcer agencies.

Having someone at the other end of the line also assisted the rust sticks and nucleon microcubes in staving off recharge protocols.

“It’s as I explained to Tumbler: it communicates everything I intended it to.” Ideally, very little to anyone who couldn’t have worked it out themselves. That way, the important information stayed with those who could actually use it, and the rest—

“Who’s Tumbler?”

Prowl lost his train of thought as the rest of his processor caught up to what the .5% he reserved for conversation had said. He froze, rust stick halfway to his mouth.

“No one,” he said.

“Okay.” Jetfire drew out the word. “Did he buy that line?”

No, of course not. Tumbler was always relentless about that sort of thing. His curiosity and drive could have lent to the makings of a detective or captain if he’d dedicated them more often to investigations and less on critiquing Prowl.

“He was young and failed to grasp the necessity of efficiency in our line of work.” Prowl had tried to be patient, but he’d been young too, and Tumbler was the first partner he’d had who would listen to him. Even if it was just to argue that Prowl’s opaque writing was the cause of their inefficiency.

“Hmph.”

Jetfire liked to intersperse their conversations with meaningless noises, and although Prowl needed more samples before he was certain of his explanation, he believed they meant Jetfire didn’t agree with something he’d said but was ending the discussion prematurely. It was illogical, leaving a matter unsettled for which a solution existed, but normally Prowl’s priority queues were ordered such that work came before ideological disagreements.

“What?” he asked, finally setting down the rust stick.

“You’re normally terrible with names,” Jetfire said without hesitation. “I’m just trying to imagine what a bot would have to be like to leave that much of an impression on you.”

“He was talented,” Prowl admitted.

“Do you keep in touch?”

“No.” Prowl straightened his back and flared his sensory panels, ready to move on. “It was not a practical partnership. Being together diminished our respective abilities and prevented us from fulfilling our responsibilities. It was for the betterment—”

“Hey, hold on, Prowl,” Jetfire said, his rolling voice enough to draw Prowl up short. “I know that you—but, you know what that sounds like, right?”

Prowl frowned, immediately recognizing Jetfire’s social theory tone.

“Pragmatism,” he said. “We can’t have everything we want in an ordered society. I—we did what Cybertron needed of us.”

“By disposing of a part of yourself?”

Tumbler hadn’t liked that explanation either.

“We weren’t conjunx.” And for very good reason. There were more important things in life than feelings or fleeting commitments, and it was idealists like Jetfire who—

“Just because it didn’t have a name doesn’t mean it wasn’t important.”

Prowl’s thoughts stumbled. He hadn’t expected Jetfire to say that, not because it was out of character but because he was right. That was the exact sentiment Prowl had tried to put to words maybe half a dozen times and now it was being turned on him like a spotlight.

“There are things that should never be sacrificed,” Jetfire went on. Prowl felt his silhouette thrown into sharp relief. “Things we’re worse off for letting go of.” He paused. “A while ago, I was made an offer: instant entry to the academies. No exams, no fees. Everything I’d ever wanted. In return, though, I would’ve had to give up my wings. My… sponsor, I guess, knew I had the processor for science, just not the frame. They asked for me to give up one part of myself to let the rest go free.”

Prowl shook his helm, leaning away from the speaker. Jetfire’s tone was the same one he occasionally used with Bumblebee. With Prowl, he was hard edges and warning lights. They weren’t this for each other. They didn’t do this.

“You were nearly the victim of a scam,” he said, searching blindly for familiar ground.

“I’m sure it seems that way,” Jetfire said, unperturbed. “Do you get it, though? Giving up any one piece would’ve meant tacit agreement with the Functionists, that I wasn’t fit to do my work in any form but what they prescribed. Even if I’d told myself it was for Cybertron, it really would’ve been a sacrifice in their honor, and nothing would ever be worth that.”

Prowl wasn’t entirely obtuse. He understood what Jetfire was saying, but he couldn’t afford to hear it, not with everything he had already done and the plans he had yet to set in motion. Maybe Jetfire had found a way to live that allowed him to maintain his idealistic commitments, but most mechanisms weren’t so lucky. Everyone had to give up something.

“And now you’re here, working on behalf of the Senate,” Prowl said, just to prove that point.

Jetfire made his noise again.

“Right, I forgot,” he said. Annoyed or frustrated: the usual feelings they brought out in each other. “Waste of time. Forget I said anything.”

Prowl wouldn’t, but he also wasn’t going to give Jetfire an excuse to keep pontificating.

It would have been a waste of their time, anyhow, because however sincere Jetfire was in his admission, Prowl had never understood the hypocrisy of bots who would claim to reject Functionism while maintaining an almost fanatical devotion to their frames. In some intangible sense, maybe he did enjoy the opportunity to go for a long drive, but he couldn’t imagine himself grieving his tires for their own sake. He tried to compare it to what he had felt when Tumbler had said going to Kaon was a selfish, pretentious idea and immediately recoiled.

“Results are exactly what I told you,” Jetfire said. Prowl realized he hadn’t gotten any work done in the last several kliks. “Not nearly the concentration of materials to support your theory the Decepticons have contacts in Uraya, and a few that will probably trace back to Kaon, like everything else.”

“I’d like to see for myself,” Prowl said, standing. He didn’t often get this badly distracted, and it was easy to pin it on the state of his desk: used energon cubes and wrappers from the cheap snacks he kept fueled on littered the spaces he should have been using for case notes and displays. When was the last time he’d cleaned?

“Really?” Jetfire asked. “The data’s pretty clear.”

“Humor me.”

“What do you think I’ve been doing?”

Neither said goodbye before they hung up: another of their customs.

Prowl cleared the mess into the trash. Exhaustion was nibbling at his processor like a corrosive. Another couple shots would get him through his morning meetings, and then a regular midday fueling would carry him over until he could recharge properly in the evening. Before that, though, the day had to begin, an event he discovered was closer than he’d expected when he stepped outside and saw the horizon just tilting toward the pale blue of an oncoming dawn.

The air was gentle, the pleasant cool that foreshadowed a blistering day. Jetfire was a dot over the Rodion skyline. Prowl glanced up at the few stars that could punch through the light pollution and was reminded, suddenly, of the time he and Tumbler had discussed getting a little patch of metal out on the Tungsten Moors. The barren sparkfields had felt nonetheless fertile with possibilities, and they had gotten hung up on whether it would be more practical to live in a house with two stories or just one. It had been a fantasy, nothing more; even on their joint income, it would have taken millions of years to save up. But there had been something, if not fulfilling, thrilling about it, making plans that didn’t hinge on work or promotions.

He wondered if Tumbler remembered that conversation.

Jetfire’s slow approach gave Prowl time to dwell while keeping an idle optic on his teammate. There was nothing spectacular about Jetfire’s flying: Prowl had worked with and chased down fliers who were faster, more maneuverable, and flashier in every way. But there was something resolute and sure about the way Jetfire coasted, a steadiness that Prowl would have appreciated sooner if he’d noticed it, his thoughts of Tumbler and past mistakes and pointless sacrifice sliding away as he watched Jetfire’s flight.

Jetfire’s flying was beautiful, in its own way. Its understatement reminded Prowl of his own assembly line colors, but with an underlying confidence that left Prowl feeling inadequate. Though technically strong, his power was limited to what he could siphon off Orion and their other high-level contacts. He’d experienced a taste of the real thing under Sentinel, but that had been an especially tenuous connection, liable to snap had he ever tugged too hard. Jetfire’s power was all his own. Not overwhelming, not enough to make the changes Cybertron needed. Incomparable, really, to what Prowl had wielded. But it radiated from the tips of his wings to the burn of his thrusters, self-realized, without reservation or concession.

Prowl’s tac net pinged him with the results for a problem he hadn’t realized he’d plugged in: 50% Prowl should have been strong enough to find another way, 50% choosing Tumbler would have made him stronger.

A perfect 50-50 meant his systems were badly in need of defrag. He cleared the cache and set his tac net to reboot, shaking his helm to dispel the resulting vertigo as Jetfire landed on the steps below him. Prowl waited patiently for him to complete his mode switch, taking two steps back so they would be at optic level with each other.

“Pleasant flight?” he asked.

“Wouldn’t trade it for anything,” Jetfire said with a smugness that allowed Prowl to scoff as he motioned for the datapad.

Jetfire handed it over. Prowl knew he was being watched as he powered it on and reviewed its contents, but he took his time, using Jetfire’s results to run through a few warm up calculations as his tac net came back online.

“You didn’t check for copper fluoride,” he commented.

“No,” Jetfire said slowly, “because it wasn’t one of the compounds we were investigating.”

“Run the tests again.” Prowl tried to return the datapad, but Jetfire refused to take it. “The chances we would find evidence of materials native to the Urayan region were always slim to none. However, the old blackmarket pipeline between Kaon and Yuss ran directly underneath the city. Does that make more sense?”

Prowl saw the moment Jetfire finally saw the case as he did, a knotted web of deceptions meant to dissuade even the most seasoned detective from untangling its core. Jetfire took the datapad from Prowl and stowed it, though the hard look in his optics did not waver.

“Could’ve said that from the beginning,” Jetfire griped.

Prowl didn’t bother to respond. What was done was done. Talking so much about the past was a waste of time neither of them could afford, because for all that it might have mattered, nothing they said could change any of it. All they had was the future, and the possibility of starting each day stronger than they had the one before.

#finally remembered to upload!#maccadam #transformers #prowl #jetfire #my writing #oneshot

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yuulina-vre · 3 years

Text

The Walk

Fauna’s save heaven

Summary: Y/N wants to go for a walk, igrnoring the heavy rain outside.

Pairing: Steve x Bucky x Reader

Wordcount: 5.134 words

Warnings: none

Masterlist

Y/N sits on the couch in the living room, browsing through some magazines. She hums at some décor tips, thinking about adding some plants to her room and maybe some curtains to the common room, a new carpet would be nice too. The old one has some stains of indeterminable liquids that Y/N knows are the results of the many parties Tony had thrown. Despite this, it looks nice in these magazines. She turns the page only to cringe at the newest recommended diet for the perfect summer body, with pictures of women as thin as a stick. “Are people actually still falling for this shit?” She asks out loud, not concerned to talk to herself. Though, Natasha and Wanda look up from her own magazines to look at what she’s reading, then scoffing themselves and turning back to their own stuff that’s not really a better medium than hers. “What shit?” A deep voice startles her, not having heard someone approach her. She nearly jumps from the couch, the magazine falling into her lap as she clutches her chest over her racing heart and tries to keep the screech, that’s almost making its way out of her mouth, at bay. The urge to change and flee, or attack, rises in her gut but she pushes it down, knowing that nothing will ever happen to her here. The tall, muscular brunette that steps up behind her, apple in one hand and chewing on it, chuckles. “Jesus! Don’t scare a girl like that.” She scolds, taking a deep and calming breath. “Bucky is fine, but thanks.” He grins mischievously at her, even winks a little while wiping some of the apple juice from his mouth with the back of his hand. Y/N only scoffs, turns back, and picks up her magazine to show him. “I meant this diet shit in these magazines. That a woman has to be thin and fit to be able to wear bikinis at the beach. Only for men to attract. Who`s gonna fall for that? It’s not what’s important. Besides, most of these diets aren’t even helping or are backfiring as soon as you don’t follow it as strictly anymore.” Bucky looks over the page she who’s him, his eyes linger on the woman, then switch over to the recommended diet. “More woman than you think fall for it.” He chuckles again, takes another bite from his fruit before he rounds the couch to flop down beside her, eyeing her disgusted face. “Don’t worry doll, back in the day it was the same. My Ma always scolded Becca for falling for the magazines.” Y/N starts pouting at him and shoves the offending material of paper as far away from her as she can. “I don’t even know why people buy this? Is there no better thing than to read what some wannabe reporter thinks about celebrity relationships? They’re just people who want to live their lives in peace.”

“And because they’re celebrities everyone wants to know what’s going on.” Bucky reaches over and takes one of Y/N’s hands in his, squeezing lightly to reassure her. “You know you’re being followed as soon as you leave home. People want to know what you’re up to, too. It’s just natural.” He shrugs and presses a kiss to her temple but Y/N pout further. “Yeah, but I’m trained to slip by people unnoticed or lose them quickly. I know how to escape and only show what I want other people to see.” She crosses her arms for good measure. All she’s getting is Bucky’s chuckle and his chewing as he takes another big bite while he pulls her closer to his side. For a while, she just listens to Bucky eating and the girls silently turning page after page, sometimes scoffing and sometimes laughing at things they discover. It doesn’t take long for Y/N to get bored. If she had timed it, it probably took only about ten minutes or so. “Buckyyyy?” She whines, turning to him, puppy dog eyes already forming on her face, pout deepening a little. “Mhh?” He doesn’t look at her. She’s not sure if it because he knows what look she sends him or because he actually finds the page on the magazine, that she had pushed away, actually interests him. “Can we go for a walk?” The brunette nearly chokes on his apple, coughing wildly until Y/N quickly sits up to clap on his back hard, worry on her face. “N-now?” He chokes out, looking at her in disbelieve, face beet red from coughing. “I mean- yeah?” She shrugs a little, hand still on his back, rubbing absentmindedly. “Y/N! It’s raining cats and dogs!” Bucky motions to one of the windows with his hand still clutching the remains of his apple. She follows his hand with a sigh. It’s darker outside, the clouds hanging heavy on the sky, hiding the sun, emptying themselves at a rapid speed. The water runs down the glass and the splattering of raindrops against the window and ground sounds like small machine guns. “I know. But… Pretty please? You know I like running in the rain. And it’s not even cold outside!” She turns a little, pouting again and making big, pleading eyes at him that she knows he can’t resist. “Noo… Y/N. Don’t look at me like that. I don’t like you smelling like a wet dog. Can’t you ask Stevie? Or Sam?” Bucky actually whines himself but Y/N continues to look at him. “They are not here. Please Bucky. Pleaaaase!” Her pout and big eyes get bigger, she now turns fully to face him, hands reaching out to place on the forearm of his metal arm, shaking it lightly with desperation. “Y/N…” He whines again, looking to the window to avoid Y/N’s eyes, but she actually whines as a little puppy would. She knows she got him now. “B-but... only for half an hour or so.” He lets his head hang in defeat but Y/N’s already throwing her arms around him, pressing a kiss to his cheek ignoring the stickiness from him trying to eat an apple like a five-year-old. “Yes! Thank you!” She jumps up, happily clapping her hands in excitement before dashing out of the room, missing Bucky’s soft smile and Natasha’s eyes rolling in annoyance. They all tell him he is too soft when she asks for something but Bucky always tries to ignore it, claiming it's not true. He knows it’s true.

Y/N now dashes down the hall to the elevator, getting in and tapping her feet restlessly until the doors open a floor down again. Sam’s wandering down the hall, smiling as he sees her, “Hey /YN.”

“Can’t, Sam! Going for a walk!” She’s passed him with a grin before she’s finished shouting, rounding the corner, and sprinting for her door. She nearly pushes it out of its hinges as she shoves it open with some exciting force. She slitters to a halt at her bed, falls to her knees and gets the box with her supplies out from under it. The box isn’t a small one. It’s filled with collars and leashes, toys and treats, even some products like shampoo and conditioner or clothes, brushes, and accessories. Things she needs for her many animal changes. She digs around for a few seconds until she finds her favorite collar and leash. It’s a light brown one which is twisted at four different spots to look like it’s braided there. The buckle is silver just like the ring for the matching leash. Attached to the collar is a small round dog tag with her name and Bucky’s number on it. As Tony purchased the collar, they decided Bucky’s number would be best, since he’s the one to take her out as a dog the most, followed by Steve, though he doesn’t like for people to know his number. ‘They will spread it and I won’t have a calm minute to spend with my best guy and girl’.

Y/N makes quick work of getting out of her clothes putting them neatly on her bed. She won’t need them after changing but that doesn’t mean that she can’t put them on tomorrow. She probably won’t change back today, aiming for falling asleep on Bucky’s and Steve’s bed after dinner, cuddling up close to them.

She ties the collar around her neck, knowing pretty well how tight it needs to be so it won’t slip off. She has done it plenty of times by now that she thinks she could do it with closed eyes. She walks naked to the door, peeking outside to make sure no one’s actually in front of it or even in the hall before opening it just a tiny bit more to make getting out easier. She hates trying to open doors with her paws. It's frustrating at best. Then she closes her eyes and concentrates. While changing, she has to concentrate on the animal she wants to be, on how it looks, how the fur has to be, and how big she wants to be. Sometimes even on how the bones have to shift, especially if it’s a bigger or a really small animal like horses or hedgehogs. She feels herself shrink, her bones adjusting and her skin sporting soft brown and curly fur. The moment she opens her eyes again she knows she looks just like a beautiful soft brown Australian Labradoodle. She shakes herself happily to get the small ache out of her body before bouncing up and down, happily running through her room and then out of the door and down the hall once more. She barks at the doors of the elevator, dancing in front of it until FRIDAY finally opens them for her. Sometimes FRIDAY takes her time and Y/N swears that Tony programmed her to tease others. She’s impatient to finally move at a dizzying speed through the streets. When the doors finally open, she dashes inside, making sure the leash is all set in the cabin and not hanging out. She doesn’t want to choke and strangle herself. Then she nudges the button for one floor upstairs with her nose to meet with Bucky again.

Bolting through the doors of the living room once more, with a happy dance and lots of barking, she runs around, sniffing and jumping everyone. Nat, Wanda, and Bucky aren’t the only ones in the room anymore. Steve and Sam have joined them and somewhere off, probably in the attached kitchen, she can smell Tony. “Hey, girl. You really going for a walk in that rain?” Sam stands up only to crouch down again, clapping for Y/N’s attention. She runs up to him immediately, leaving Steve behind, and dances around him only jumping a little to lick his face. Steve always scolds her for jumping but she’s satisfied that he’s not saying anything right now, besides Sam’s laughing and all. She barks once as an answer just as Bucky starts grumbling again. Sam only laughs, scratching Y/N on all the right places and cooing at her, which will earn him some teasing when she changes back later. She likes teasing him for his soft spots. “How did you get Buck to go with you?” Steve raises an eyebrow, an amused smirk on his face as he watches Sam playing with her, nudging Bucky with his shoulder, too. “Puppy eyes.” Nat supplies amused scrolling through her phone. Bucky grumbles some more but soon has his lap full of a grown dog. Y/N has enough of getting patted, she wants to go outside and run in the rain! Torture Bucky too! Playfully, but carefully, she starts biting at his shirt and arm, trying to get the lazy mass of muscles to move his pretty butt off the couch and outside with her. As encouragement she whines a little, earning several rolled eyes and a laugh from Steve. Though he laughs more to tease Bucky. “Fine, fine. Stop pulling. Just gonna get my jacket.” Bucky sighs, runs his hand over his face through his hair. He throws a last teasing look to Steve but the blonde actually stretches out his tongue like a child and grins. Bucky pouts and flips him off while he stands up, and shuffles out of the room grumpily. Y/N can hear him curse himself but she’s not really paying attention, instead lying down next to Steve’s thigh. He cards his fingers over her back, still scrolling through his StarkPad. “You have to make it up to him later, Y/N.” Steve chuckles and pulls playfully on her ear, earning a growl back. “You know how much he hates the rain.” She huffs, knowing that Bucky really doesn’t like it. He hates being soaked the feeling of wet hair plaster to his skin and, most importantly, the wet metal arm that he has to clean up later on. She licks Steve’s wrist before settling again. She feels the calmness overweight the excitement again. She relaxes under Steve’s touch and starts licking his leg in pleasure, even if it’s making Steve squirm a little. “Y/N, come here.” She looks up from her spot, seeing Wanda pat the space on the floor beside her, the magazine still in hand. She smiles at her and Y/N thinks she sees something shining in her eyes, so she huffs out a breath, licking a last time over Steve’s thigh and wrist. Just as she had lied down! She gets up nonetheless. She loves Wanda. She’s always so careful, knows which spots are magical while patting and she’s never disgusted with what Y/N chooses to turn into. She jumps from the couch and walks to the young woman. Her tail waggles a little as she settles next to her, licking over her face to make her laugh. She settles with a goofy grin on her snout, head on her paws, and huffing in content. The woman runs her hand gently through her fur, paying special attention to the spot behind her right ear, which she knows is Y/N’s favorite spot. Her tail thumbs a rapid rhythm on the ground. She can hear Natasha and Sam chuckle, just as Tony leaves the kitchen and comes into the living room, smoothie in hand. He eyes Y/N for a second, then settles next to Steve who’s tapping away on his StarkPad.

From time to time Tony complains about all the hairs she’s leaving or her scratching the furniture and walls while climbing, sometimes leaving other… things… behind but today seems as if he’s alright with her being a dog. He even steals more glances at her than usual. Y/N suspects that he would like for her to come over so he can pat her. Too bad she’s actually comfortable on the ground right now. But she makes a mental note to come to him later.

Wanda loves animals. She always tries to find some room for Y/N to get the love she needs and takes care of the animals she’s turned into when Steve and Bucky aren’t around or are busy. It does help her to keep herself calm and Y/N knows Wanda would be lying if she wouldn’t pay close attention to each individual. When do you actually have the chance to see a tiger or chipmunk up close and can touch them?

Sam mostly likes to coddle her or take her running. He’s found a lot of times with her playing on the ground and stuffing her up with treats. When they both are gone then it’s clear that Sam took her for a post-mission run. It helps him and her to get pent-up energy loose, clear the head after bad missions. On rare occasions, he even takes her to the VA. She’s always excited.

When Tony doesn’t complain about her fur then he likes to ramble to her in his lab, just like Bruce. It doesn’t matter if she’s shifted or not, they’re just happy to talk, Tony more than Bruce, though. Bruce likes to stroke her fur when she’s a cat to calm himself down. More than once has Y/N shifted in the jet after a mission to help him calm down when she noticed that his music doesn’t work. Sometimes she keeps him company when he has to stay behind in the jet. Then they’re often found fooling around with some mind games. Y/N then has to keep her animal instinct in charge so Bruce can see how intelligent the animal itself probably is. Y/N likes it because it means she’s learning more about the animals she turns into. Tony builds her playgrounds in his lab, like small labyrinths or tube mazes.

Nat actually is a lot different. She usually doesn’t let anybody see her vulnerable side, besides Clint and sometimes Bruce. But Y/N once has shifted and sneaked around until she found her in one of the empty offices on the other side of the compound. Nat had sat curled up and shivering, breathing heavily because of a panic attack. A weasel, Y/N was small enough to come up to her. She had climbed in her lap and done everything she could to comfort the redhead. In the evening, while they all ate dinner, she hadn’t brought it up, just send Nat a knowing smile and nod. Natasha later caught her alone in the hall and had thanked her. Sometimes Y/N now experiences some mental breakdowns, fierce anger, and a lot of other things Nat normally wouldn’t have shown anybody and tries to help as best as she can. The most surprising for Y/N was that Nat likes to cuddle, though. Like Bucky she seems to be touch starved and, on some occasions, she can’t hide it pretty well.

Clint is… well Clint. He’s like an overgrown excited child, no matter which animal Y/N chooses to be he’s the one trying to play with her. More than once she had bitten him while he overdid it but Clint never held a grudge.

Under Wanda’s soothing touch Y/N nearly falls into a comfortable doze but the smell of Bucky’s returning scent lets her lift her head.

Bucky is one of her two favorite persons. She helps him just as much as he helps her. She knows he sleeps better when she and Steve are close to him, preferably in one bed, too. When Steve’s not there and Y/N is changed he can sleep almost just as good. Her animal form brings him an unknown comfort that her human form can’t while missing Steve. She suspects that, when Steve’s away and she’s not changed, that she reminds Bucky too much that Steve’s missing. So, changing it is then, it’s easier to pretend that Steve and she are away together and safe. Bucky never told her that it’s actually like that but Y/N guesses that it is. After the bad nightmares, he calms faster with a fluffy animal beside him, too. He doesn’t feel pressured to talk then. Also, Bucky is just as affectionate with her like an animal as a human. He presses kisses here and there, rubs all the right spots he knows, and just... is there. It helps that she’s in love with him and he with her. That’s why he can’t deny her anything.

Steve’s similar to Bucky and Wanda. He finds just as much peace in her changes, trying to draw her every chance he gets. That's when she stays still long enough, though. She is a really fidgety person and only stays in one spot long enough if she’s either comfortable, gets good scratches, is sleepy, or gets a lot of treats. Most of his art pieces about her animal forms are of her sleeping peacefully somewhere around the compound or on someone’s lap. But she loves those drawings. She made him copy some of them to hang up in her own room, which she only uses when she’s mad or feels overwhelmed and needs space for herself. Which actually happens a lot less in the last few months than it used to. Steve offered plenty of times to give her the originals but she always says that he should keep them for some sort of art portfolio. She stays with the copies. Steve actually enjoys the most of her changes, just as Bucky, in private. He sees more of them and Y/N isn’t opposed to change in front of both super-soldiers, with them being her boyfriends and all. Steve always tells her, that he likes to see her change. He finds it fascinating. Also, he can’t deny her anything but other than Bucky he never denies it.

Now her tongue lolls out, tail happily thumping against the floor as Bucky strolls in, scowl still on his face but clad in running gear and rain jacket. “Someone volunteering to accompany us?” He looks around but no one meets his eyes. A clear message. Y/N doesn’t take it, though. She stands up, nosing Wanda apologetically for leaving her but the woman only giggles and shoves her wet nose away. Then she walks up to Steve and sits down in front of him, right in his sight, head slightly angled with a whine and pleading look. She sees his eyes flicker to her and he pales a little, squirming. He can’t resist her, and she knows how to get him to confirm to go with them. “I… ehm…No?” Ohhh, his resolve is crumbling already. She doesn’t take his no. She whines again shuffles closer and places her head on his lap. The crease between his eyes deepens and his eyes flicker helplessly up, probably hoping someone’s saving him, but no one jumps in. Tony even smirks knowingly. “Okay, okay. Fine.” He groans, pushes his tablet in Tony’s hands, and stands up. He ruffles her fur before he walks past Bucky with a slight, but not real, glare. “I hate you.” His voice is muffled but Bucky laughs and Y/N starts jumping around again. She feels this itch to move growing, not being able to wait for a second longer. Bucky seems to catch it and whistles for her. “Ready beautiful?” She barks as confirmation, running up to him. Bucky grabs Y/N’s leash the moment she’s close enough and holds her back as she all but drags him to the elevator. He has his dear trouble to hold her still long enough for a grumpy Steve in rain clothes to join them in the entry hall before she starts dragging harder to get them outside, down the paths, and to the street by the forest. “Y/N! Stop dragging so much. You won’t get any air this way.” Y/N barks a little strangled but stops pulling. He’s right, breathing had turned out to be a bit of a struggle but she’s just so excited. The rain on her fur feels incredible. The air is warm and the rain is cooling, it smells fresh and the pitter-patter is a soothing sound in the background. She jumps happily through puddles, preferably the ones close to Bucky and Steve to try to get them as wet as possible. They both only scold her but she sees that they’re secretly smiling. And she caught Steve jumping in a big puddle that bucky just tried to not walk in, spraying him with muddy water. Bucky curses. “Dear God, Steve! Are you for real?!” The blonde only laughs. Steve looks relaxed and has Bucky’s hand in a loose grip, fingers interlaced. They walk for a little bit, chatting about everything and nothing while until the rain lets up a bit, though it’s still bad enough. At one point Steve takes the leash from Bucky with a distracting kiss and starts jogging slowly, leaving the brunette stunned, but for only a few seconds. He catches up pretty fast, even slapping Steve’s butt with a laugh. They continue jogging and Y/N happily follows. She likes running. The path guides them a little through the forest where the rain’s less heavy, due to the trees and leaves shielding them. Y/N takes some time to jump through puddles after Steve unleashes her and, to Bucky’s horror, rolls around in one particular muddy one. He’s in charge of cleaning her up this week and Steve gladly reminds him of that. Her light brown fur’s now a darker shade and she probably needs two baths to get everything out. Though, Y/N knows that that will lead to Bucky joining her in the tub, which then leads to soapy cuddles and doggy kisses while they relax. “Come on, doll. Please stop rolling in that. It’s cold and I’d like to go home now.” Y/N looks up from her happy puddle to see Bucky shivering. Both men are soaked through but Steve seems not to mind that much. She looks over to him and he only shrugs but nods. “We’re out for a while now.” She doesn’t feel the cold but Bucky’s wet from head to toe, his hair escaped his bun and hangs in his face, glued to his skin. Which he doesn’t like. She barks once and gets up, shaking herself and getting muddy water everywhere. She really doesn’t want him to get sick or freeze to death, so she lets him set his pace back after attaching the leash again. It’s not like she needs it but Bucky once said that he likes to have her on the leash. It brings a calm that he never really knew of. They nearly arrive at the entrance as Y/N suddenly stops. The pitter-patter is louder here. She looks around and finds a corner where the water flows from the roof in big fat streams. Excitement overcomes her, she barks, jumps happily from paw to paw, and looks at Steve, who’s still holding her leash, tugging a little. “What?” She tugs again, taking a step closer to the little waterfall. She sees the moment Steve realizes what she sees. An amused smile graces his lips. “Alright. You clean up a little while playing, yeah?” She barks loudly, performing a little dance after she gets the leash off, and then sprints over to the stream.

She runs under it a few times, watching the mud coming off of her and flowing on the ground to get spread by the rain. She even lies down for a second and turns in the puddle under the stream to get more mud out of her fur on every part that she can reach that way before standing back up. She jumps around a few times barking happily, then she tries to bite it. Snapping after it, as if it’s some sort of toy that gets pulled away at the last moment. She lifts her paws a few times to punch after the drops, getting water everywhere. The rain really is her favorite thing. The excitement doubles the longer she’s playing. Pawing at the water, biting, jumping back and biting again, then dancing around it only to repeat it. The feeling that she has is the one that she associates with being a little puppy. She feels happy and fidgety, the urge to hunt and play is overpowering everything else. She looks up to see Bucky and Steve grinning at her. Steve hugs Bucky close to warm him up a little, pressing soft kisses to his shoulder now and then while the brunette points his phone to her playground, probably filming her to show the others later on. She barks again and continues playing until a loud thunder blasts overhead, startling her. Y/N whimpers, having been scared to death, and rushes back to her men, pushing close between their legs to hide. Steve almost falls back with her force running into him but he catches himself quickly. “Holy, that was loud.”

“Hey, little one. Got scared, huh?” Bucky chuckles, passes his phone to Steve, and crouches down beside her, patting her head lovingly and tries to calm her. He presses a few kisses to her dirty head. “It’s alright, just the mean sound of a very angry nature phenomenon. It won’t be able to do something.” He knows she doesn’t like any sort of loud sounds, thunder being one of them. Past experiences in her childhood have led her to get startled easily when any sort of storm hits. Panic attacks have occurred more than usual in these times, and still do. Though, Bucky is always there to comfort and help her. In some way, she’s similar to his panic. Steve always supplies them with hot chocolate, food, and treats. She whimpers again as some lightning hits the darkened sky and presses herself into his side. “Alright, lovely. Let’s get you both inside.” Steve eyes the sky warily before he looks at her and Bucky, motioning for them to follow. “How about a warm, calming bath and maybe a movie? Steve can make the bed to a cozy hideout, hm?” Bucky looks her directly in the eyes while scratching carefully under her chin. Y/N licks over her nose, then over his wrist in agreement. It sounds like a plan and exactly like something she had thought of before going outside. The man smiles and opens the door to get her inside. “Alright, up we go. By the way. Tony says if you damage any furniture your banned from the compound for the next week.” He laughs loudly at her unimpressed face. They all know that Tony wouldn’t get it over himself to throw her out, not even for a minute. He would miss rambling to somebody too much.

Just as thought Y/N gets her bubbly cuddles with bucky in the tub before he gets her out again and passes Steve the towels to dry her off while he cleans the bathroom. Twenty minutes later Y/N lies snuggled up to Steve under the heavy blanket, her head resting on his chest while he watches the movie. She tries to doze, blend out the storm outside while the shower is running with Bucky in it. “You alright, beautiful?”

She whimpers a little and shuffles forward a little so her head lies nearly next to his. “Sleepy?” She huffs in his ear. Steve laughs but starts scratching her tummy affectionately. She closes her eyes, enjoying the touch and warmth. “Okay, then we take a nap.” One lick against his cheeks seems to be all the confirmation he needs. The TV sound gets lower and the blanket is drawn up a bit more. Steve’s arms come around her, hands burying in her fur, stroking lazily over her head now. “Sleep tight, beautiful.” She feels his hands on her until she slowly drifts off, thunder nearly forgotten. Only the dip of the mattress and Steve’s and Bucky’s silent voices get to her until she fully succumbs to her dreams.

#Steve Rogers #Bucky Barnes #Steve x Bucky #Bucky x Steve #Bucky x Reader #Steve x Reader #Yuulina writes #Steve x Bucky x Reader

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extremelyblackandwhite · 3 years

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heiress - 4

pairing: bucky barnes x oc!reader

a/n: based of today’s wandavision episode i’m bringing you the flashback part of this series. also i no longer know if this is gonna be a four part series or how many parts theres gonna be so we’ll see. hope you enjoy xx

“letters strewn across your bedroom floor. such beautiful words but you can’t remember who they’re for“

“if i had only felt the warmth within your touch. if i had only seen how you smile when you blush or how you curl your lip when you concentrate enough i would have known what i was living for all along”

previous chapter

The soldier held her hand as they rushed through the dark halls, trying to make the least silence as possible. A black duffle bag hanged from her shoulder, gun holstered to her thigh with one of his knives. The plan was simple enough; the soldier had discovered a plan from one of the girls in the Red Room to escape along with one of the protectors, Alexei, and instead of busting it, he bargained a deal to take her with them. She was good, too good and in no time they were gonna snatch her way from him and make her prove her worth, make her prove to them she is ready to leave the Red Room and become one of their operatives and he would not allow that. He wouldn’t allow them to force her to kill someone; no, she was too good and if there was any good he could do it would be to protect her own goodness. It was simple enough, simple enough had it not been ...

- Find her now. She can’t be far. - he could hear Madam B barking orders from further up the hallway, following my an inundation of steps. The soldier grabbed the girl by his side, pushing her against the wall.

- You have to go, Daisy. - he whispered. - Now.

- I’m not leaving you here. I promised you I wouldn’t. - she held his hand in hers, squeezing it tightly to calm down her own problems.

- Listen to me, doll ... - he cupped her face in his hands, appreciating every single detail of her face from the colour of her eyes, to the warmth of her skin. He wanted to look at her one last time before he forgot what she looked like, before he forgot she ever existed. - You have to go have a life, okay? A good one, do something else, not this. You can do so much more.

- I am living my life and I am definitely not gonna go and start a new one at your expense. We can do this.

- No, we can’t. The longer they take to find you the most likely they’ll find me and make me hurt you and I don’t want to hurt you. - he took his own gun from his holster handing it to her. - You gotta shot me. They can’t force me to go after you if I’m wounded.

- No. - she moved her head side to side, stepping away from him, gun lowered to the ground.

- GO GET THE ASSET. SHE’S NOT LEAVING THIS FACILITY. - one of the Red Room protectors shouted.

Y/N looked around her surroundings, she had been trained for this, she should be able to get out of situations like these but on one side was Alexei waiting for them to make a move and on the other side the Red Room operatives were on the move for her and the soldier. Bucky watched her internal struggle, that tinge of doing what’s right, the spark which ensured she would have a good life. He had no internal struggle, he knew what he had to do. He put the gun barrel against the limit between his skin and the metal of his arm before pulling her flush against him.

- I will find you, I promise.

- No ... we can go some other time. It’s fine. - she tried to reassure him, but her words seemed to reassure. her more than him. She could buy them more time, she could do something, she had to do something.

- I love you, Daisy. - he brushed her hair which had flown from her red hair tie away from her face, leaning down too kiss her one last time. Y/N made sure to make it last as soon as she could, maybe they could get caught, maybe they could have more time, maybe they could do something. He had a different idea and took her distraction to push her finger against the trigger, causing the bullet to go through his shoulder. She pushed back trying to hold him as his muscles relaxed and contracted due to the pain. - GO!

- No!

- We have to go. - Alexei looked over the hall but Y/N remained static, looking at the soldier pressed against the wall. - We’re running out of time.

- Go, Daisy. Right now.

- I’m not leaving you here, I’m not gonna let them hurt you. - the tears started forming on the corner of her eyes. - Please, we can figure something out.

- Go. It’s only for a bit, I’ll find you. I promise you, I’ll find you.

- Y/N. - she held his hand in hers for the last time. - That’s my name, okay? I’m gonna be waiting for you. You better show up.

She stared at him with lips half opened as her ears filled with static noise sound. It was as if the walls were closing in on her and she could no longer breathe. She had always known what to do since she left the Red Room, she had prepared for everything, she knew how to act in every situation but this? This she did not know how to act in.

- Y/N. - she looked over Bucky’s shoulder to see Wanda standing in the kitchen. - Calm down.

Y/N looked over at her hand glowing white mist. She relaxed her hands, the mist disappearing within her skin. Bucky stood there waiting for the answer, not having even noticed her powers, he just noticed her. Maybe he was too naive to expect an answer as once Wanda walked towards her and placed her hand on her shoulder, escorting her out the kitchen. She looked over her shoulder, looking at him as Wanda took her away. She didn’t know if to thank Wanda or not for saving her from that moment. What she knew was that whatever the soul stone had given her manifested when he asked that and the last thing she wanted to do was hurt him again. Wanda led her into one of the control rooms within the hex, closing the door behind her before leaning against it.

- Now, if Monica asks I never deleted anything but ... - she pressed one of the keyboard keys, the screens lighting up with footage from the recent Red Room mission. She watched as the old cameras recorded the moment, the white beam of light expanded from her and made every object that it touched disappear. - As someone whose powers get stronger when life decides to fuck me up, I thought you might need that hidden.

- He knows, Wanda. - she sat on one of the conference tables’s chairs. - He knows and he asked me if I loved him and I couldn’t even answer.

- I think Agatha got to him ... whenever I try to get into his mind it feels exactly like it did when I tried getting to hers. Y/N, she’s trying to see what you can do under pressure and as long as he’s here, the more uncontrollable it’s gonna become.

- What do you suggest? It’s not like element control is that great for world domination so whatever she wants is to use me to get to you most likely.

- I might not know as much as Agatha thinks she knows but there’s chaos, destruction and creation and both of us seem to fit nicely in the three categories. I don’t want you to make same mistakes I did, Y/N.

- What? Create a Bewitched-themed like reality where I’m married to him? Because you know, my father much like Endora would not like it. I don’t think I can do that.

- We don’t know what you can do. I think we should try and ... train you.

- Wanda, you barely know how you did this and I don’t even know how I did that or what it is inside of me for that matter. - Y/N sighed, looking at the paused video on the screen. - It has only happened one time before.

- It has happened before? - the Scarlet Witch cocked her brow, sitting in the chair close to her. - When? There’s no report of it and you know Hayward, he would’ve definitely used it to his advantage.

- Red Room. - she mumbled. - I don’t really wanna talk about it.

- Do you want to show me? - Wanda rose her palm up. She had been working on allowing other people to show her select memories. So far she had gotten Billy and Tommy to show her their first memory of her and had even gotten Yelena to show her some memories too. - You don’t have to.

Y/N rose her hand up to Wanda’s and reality melt away to show the dorm where she used to sleep. Things were so different from what she remembered, the room was smaller than she remembered and even she was different from what she remembered in her dark leggings and shirt issued to her by the supervisors. She was sat on her bed, hands on top of her mattress as her eyes looked to the door every second, waiting for the soldier to come fetch her. Back then, she didn’t know his name; his handler called him the asset but she hated that name so she called him soldier or Winter.

The clock kept ticking and ticking - one hour, two hours past the time he told her he had told her he’d come fetch her. As the third hour approached, she gave up her wait and grabbed her bag from under the bed. He was never late, he was as precise as time itself. If he wasn’t here it had to be because of something else and she did not like it one bit. The halls were dark with flickering fluorescent lights as a much younger version of herself passed down the hall, towards what she could still remember as his own quarters. It was nothing special, in all honesty it was even worse than the girls’ quarters; metal bed, thin mattress and old grey sheets. Peeking inside he wasn’t there, there was no sign of him, just the jacket he had left lingering on the floor. She grabbed it, searching for any indication he had gotten hurt. She would soon get her answer when she heard screaming coming from down the hall. She holstered the jacket over her shoulder before running down the hall to find those screams came from one of the medical bay.

They had him shackled to a chair like an animal, mouth guard stuck in his mouth which prevented which screaming from being louder as a head cage like structure shocked his head. Her hearing ceased as all she heard was static noise and the further voices of the doctors and guards were mere echoes.

- Get away from him! - she yelled out, her eyes glowing white as the guards. pointed their guns at her. - Please, you’re hurting him.

A white beam surrounded her and expanded throughout the whole room. The static sound returned but she ignored it, running over to the soldier whose shackles had disappeared. He looked at his own wrists, wondering if this was a case of his own hallucinations but no, she was there. Everything was gone, everything was gone but him and her, but it didn’t matter, she stood there in front of him, duffel bag over his shoulder.

- Y/N. - Wanda pulled her own hand towards her, removing both of them from the memory she had hidden from the front of her mind for so long. - What happened to those people?

- I don’t know. I tried tracking them using SWORDs data after I escaped but they have never showed up again. - she sighed. - Whatever I am, Agatha knows.

- You’re not suggesting dwindling with Agatha, are you?

- I don’t know, Wanda. What I do know is that right now I’m a danger for everyone and that Buck ... - she stopped herself before she could say anything she would regret sharing. - Agatha knows more about this than we do.

- Let me try and help you, Y/N. Let me try. I know what you’re going through but if you ask Agatha for a favour she will use your own pain against you, she will make you a means to an end.

- You’re the Scarlet Witch, Wanda ... - Y/N got up from her chair and walked to the door, stopping to collect her own thoughts. - I’m just my father’s project gone wrong.

It was late and she didn’t want to think anymore so she just left; after all, she was very good at leaving, leaving Bucky, leaving Wanda. Yet what could she do? It wasn’t like she had a magic mirror which she could ask what she could do or what she controlled or manipulated. She barely even knew who she was outside of who she had been so far. She knew her Red Room file, she knew her SWORD file, she knew her birth certificate but outside of that who was she? She wasn’t really anything outside of that and her bedroom was the picture perfect definition of that. No photos on the walls, no photographs, just a standard bedroom. Except for one thing ...

She knelled by her bed, pushing a large black box from under her bed with her initials monogramed on gold on top of it. Most of her memories were there; from the photo of her and Monica’s class at SWORD, the first Christmas with the twins outside of Westview, a group photo of everyone after a successful mission to the jacket she had kept from Bucky on the night she escaped. The leather was still almost as shiny as it was when she first saw him in it; however, his scent had long faded away from nightmare filled nights, his soldier number ripped from the tag. She watched herself in the mirror, caged by the ghosts of her own repressed memories and so she made a decision. She grabbed the jacket from the box and yanked his dog tags from her neck, exiting her room and walking towards the west wing. She knocked on his door, a sleepy Bucky opened the door followed by whining from Sam and she lost her courage.

- I just wanted to give you this. - she extended his jacket and dog tags towards him. Sure, that won’t make you look weird or anything. Bucky rubbed the sleep off his eyes, taking the jacket and his tags from her. - Huh, yeah. Uhm, if you want we have a laundry service so you can get that properly washed.

- Is that all?

- Yeah. - she scratched the back of her neck turning on her heels to return to her bedroom before she stopped dead in her tracks. - Sergeant Barnes ...

- Yes?

- About what you asked me later ... - she stared at the hall in front of her. Somehow, she could do this when she wasn’t staring at him. - She did love you. I don’t think she ever stopped.

Bucky’s mouth dropped open as he tried to find the words he so certainly had prepared to say the moment he asked her that question; yet now she had the upper hand. Yet again he shouldn’t have been surprised, Y/N had always had the upper hand even when he thought he did. She was a smart girl, too smart for her own good. Before he could even collect himself to say something other than mindless mumbling, she was already gone. He looked around like a crazy fool, wondering where she could’ve gone.

She, as per usual, had taken to go to the outside swing Vision had tried to set for the twins and ended up giving up on it leaving it for Wanda to try. The twins rather play with their own new found abilities rather than a swing; yet Y/N particularly enjoyed it. It stood near the limit of the hex, giving the outside world a blurry sort of glow. It was peaceful, at least it was peaceful enough for her. It meant while she was inside the hex, nothing could harm her. She couldn’t particularly blame Wanda for Westview, were she to be able to do that, she would’ve done it the minute she left the Red Room. Despite Agatha having put a version of Bucky she had never met in Westview, the emotions and the experience of having him at home with her as if they were a regular couple in suburbia.

- I’m starting to think I taught you too well. - she turned her head to the side to see Bucky sat on the swing next to her, jacket in his hand. - I thought to bring the jacket if you were cold.

- I’m fine. - she held onto the rope. - It never gets too cold inside the hex.

- So ... what is this thing we’re in?

- An alternate reality within our reality. Wanda can warp everything she wants into anything she wants. The only thing she can’t do is bring people back from the dead in our own reality.

- What can you do?

- Element control mostly and the rest I don’t know. Turns out HYDRA does not give you an instruction manual after they’ve experimented on you as a baby. - she chuckled dryly.

- I owe you an apology, Y/N. I prom...

- Please do not apologise to me about that. - she interrupted him. - You don’t even know the half of it.

taglist: @lookiamtrying

#sebastian stan #sebastian stan/you #sebastian stan x you #sebastian stan/reader #sebastian stan x reader #sebastian stan/y/n #sebastian stan x y/n #sebastian stan imagine #bucky imagine #bucky barnes #bucky #bucky x reader #bucky/reader #bucky/you #bucky x you #bucky x y/n #bucky/y/n #bucky au #wanda maximoff

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finitepeace · 3 years

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fics i read this week:

I read some bucky x natasha fics:

Head Is Not My Home by taralkariel

Summary: The Black Widow is a legend. Legends aren't made cheap.

Shaken by the events of Civil War, Natasha Romanoff goes back to familiar ground to hide. To hide and remember how she became the Black Widow. How Natalia Romanova would do anything to save her father-figure. How she was one of 28 ballerinas with the Bolshoi - no, one of 28 Black Widow agents with the Red Room. How the only thing that made her feel human was a man with a metal arm.

(A story to show what really happened in the comics Red Room and how it could fit into the MCU)

19k words in 12 chapters, not rated (maybe T&up?), bucky nat up to IW, i think. it’s not very dark themed <3,

tell me baby, do you recognize me? by xocean

Summary: "You're a liar." Natasha is shaking. "You're a heartless, lonely, lying murderer."

He doesn't even blink. "We both are."

The Winter Soldier's game is up, and Steve's not letting him go this time. Enter the only person who doesn't want a part in this shitfest: Natasha Romanov.

Or, as James Buchanan Barnes remembers her: Natalia Romanova.

63k words in 10 chapters (from 11), angst.

and an IronDad x SpiderSon fic:

This B.S. Better Be Worth It by losingmymindtonight 💙

Summary: Originally, Tony's plan had been to just surprise Peter with the fact that he would be on campus for a semester.

He’d never actually expected Peter to sign up for his class.

7k words in 4 chapters, tony acting like a dad (and awesome professor)

as usual, the rest are Stony fics:

American Dream by NobodysBloodyPrincess

Summary: Tony is trying, but try as he might he just can’t find the silver lining of this particular disaster.

After all, what happiness could possibly be derived from the knowledge that the perfect little girl in his arms is now motherless? What relief could be drawn, when his boyfriend of ten years, the love of his life really, is probably, currently, right at this moment in the arms of ‘Peggy’ his new fiancé?

13k words, no powers au, tony-centric, stevetony has broken up and tony adopts a kid, steve is depicted a bit insensitive (idk what the word, like unable to read the room?) here.

Where Our Restless Monsters Sleep by Mizzy 💙

Summary: Years after Tony Stark saved the universe, the Avengers realize there’s a major problem: his body has gone missing. And he isn’t the only one. Fallen heroes all over the galaxy have had their graves pillaged.

An old foe is stealing the bodies of fallen warriors, but for what nefarious reason? There’s only one solution. To find out why it’s happening, Steve’s gotta die.

He probably shouldn’t be so eager to do that.

233k words in 12 chapters, post endgame resurrections (?), gladiator trope, lots of action scenes, and THERE’S MORGAN x STEVE INTERACTIONS!!!!!

The Culling of the Stars by dirigibleplumbing

Summary: Tony dies saving Steve's life on the courthouse steps. Now Steve is left with the fallout of their Civil War, expected to take charge and preserve Tony's legacy. He doesn't know how he can do it alone—not when he can't stop thinking about Tony, or keep track of the days, or even feel.

9k words, comic book’s civil war not MCU’s, angst but gnidne yppah

Together, Always by Sapphic_Futurist 💙

Summary: He swallows hard, a prickle of tears in his eyes because this is his husband.

This is Tony Stark and Steve’s husband, and Steve gets to have this. He gets to have this for the rest of his goddamn life.

30k words in 3 chapters, embodiment of stony’s “together” T_T, read the tags if you want to be spoiled lol if not then enjoy! (and I don’t regret not reading the tags tbh)

And I'd Buy A Big House Where We Both Could Live by shinkonokokoro

Summary: Missing: Tony Stark, billionaire businessman, heir to Stark Industries, reward: none

Only Steve didn't know that when he picked up the waterlogged unconscious man from the bank of a river.

59k words in 29 chapters, non-power au, kid clint and peter as steve’s brothers

i stole the keys to this guy by kellifer_fic

Summary: Where it was Nick Fury's idea, but he didn't mean it like that

6k words, fake dating into real dating

Home Is Where the Time Machine Is by Wordsplat 💙

Summary:Steve and Tony's daughter accidentally falls back in time, and learns that impossible time travel phone calls can and will be made just to ground you, big brothers are awful snitches, and parents used to date other people. The past blows.

23k words in 5 chapters, domestic, stony being married

don't know why it took me so long to see by goodmorningbeloved (3799steps)

Summary: “Oh, watch this,” Natasha says, propping her chin against her knuckles and turning a sweet gaze on him. “Tony, what’s it like dating a superhero?”

Tony bristles in irritation. “We’re not dating,” he snaps. “Captain America probably thinks he can get into anyone’s pants just ‘cause he’s got a mask, costume, and reputation, but not me, buddy. That shield? Gotta be overcompensating for something.” He adds, a bit petulantly, “Oh, and all that blue? Definitely more Steve’s color than his.”

- In which Tony is a genius in all matters except recognizing his boyfriend past a mask.

11k words, tony being peacefully oblivious while the whole world isn’t.

I Started a Joke by Naferty

Summary "Tony?"

"Who the hell is Tony?"

102k words in 11 chapters, tony is the winter soldier

Take Two by Wordsplat 💙

Summary: Steve loses his memory but he gets the feeling he's lost a lot more. Who exactly is Tony Stark to him and why won't he come out of the basement?

24k words, i just love it.

Sunrise Over the End of the World by Sapphic_Futurist

Summary: When Dr. Strange arrives at an Accords Committee Meeting and warns of the coming of an alien megalomaniac set on destroying the world, the Rogues are pardoned and Tony finds himself exactly where he never wanted to be. Back at the Compound with Steve, who still can't take a hint and won't leave him alone.

In which Tony is broken and Steve finds redemption.

35k in 11 chapters, explicit, civil war fix-it up to infinity war

Far Away And Long Ago by Ragdoll (Keshka) 💙

Summary: Steve steps into the past and discovers that hope held on a pedestal is as insubstantial as smoke. Then he sees Tony. And that's when things get complicated.

Full summary contained within.

18k in 4 chapters, mature, seems like abandoned WIP :( endgame fix-it au when steve returns the stones...

Something More Than What They Are series by Sapphic_Futurist

An exploration of love, denial and propensity for change.

38k in 4 works, explicit, Steve and Tony are married during the civil war madness but seems like their love is not enough to stop it from happening or reconciling T_T

the marks you choose to leave behind by masterlokisev159

Summary: The Stane faction has been around for many years, long before Tony was bitten. And since he was forced, his life has been nothing short of misery and pain; a prison he will never escape. As a low member of the faction, his only hope at survival is to remain a loyal pet to Ezekiel. So when Ezekiel mentions the growing threat of the Avengers of the Undead, and the dreaded Captain, Tony is adamant to step up and do what he can. It’s also his last chance to see the outside world before he’s bonded to Whitney forever.

But what he finds instead is an unlikely companion with golden eyes. A strange werewolf by the name of Steve.

35k, general, vampire tony/werewolf steve, based on earth-666

La La Love by Wordsplat

Summary: "To be perfectly clear, Tony always knew that Stephanie Rogers was the best thing that would ever happen to him."

4k words, teen up and audiences, female Steve, highschool au, awkward tony

Meet Your Heroes by Wordsplat

Summary:Tony gets rescued by a highly concerned, very handsy Captain America. This is confusing for a number of reasons.

4k words, identity porn AU,

Hashtag Finally by Wordsplat 💙

Summary: Tony doesn't ever actually ask the Avengers to move into his house, steal his wifi, eat all his food, and become the best family he's ever known. They do it anyway.

15k, teen&up, domestic avengers a.k.a. tower life, hyperactive Clint lol, super cute, everyone are stony supporters

Thanks For the Memories by Wordsplat

Summary: When Tony is sent crashing-all too literally-into the 1940's by an alternate-universe Loki's spell, neither Tony nor Steve are prepared for the consequences.

9k words, time travel au, secret pining

#stony #stevetony #irondad #bucknat #fics read

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milkybonya · 3 years

Text

awkward confession

Warnings: food mentions

Pairing: college senior!Jinhwan x shy (gender neutral) reader

Summary: over reading week, you invite Jinhwan to your home and as he looks around your childhood room, he stumbles across a journal of yours.

Word count: idk but i think it’s over 1k? it’s a longer one :o

[a/n]: after playing superstar yg, i’ve been feeling soft for Jinhwan? i know, even i’m surprised by the correlation LOL but enjoy this~

- prologue

You first met Jinhwan in your freshman year at a party, dragged there by your newfound friends who claimed that it would be fun, but you just wanted to go home.

After an hour, you decided you couldn’t take it anymore. Saying goodbye to your friends, you grabbed your jacket and stepped outside, clueless about how to get back to campus and to your dorm.

Opening google maps on your phone, you tapped your foot impatiently, waiting for it to load. Your phone was at 1%, but maybe if you could just get a glimpse-

It died.

Throwing it into your pocket, you sighed and stared up at the black sky.

“Heading home?” someone asked you.

You turned your head to the side and saw Jinhwan standing next to you, with his hands in the pockets of his jean jacket.

“Yeah, but my phone just died,” you said, pressing your lips together to contain your anger.

“Want me to drive you?” he asked, waving his car keys around. “My car is new but I’ve had my license for a long time, so no need to worry.”

You laughed at his comment and decided to accept the offer, since you knew he was your senior and you could trust him. The week before classes started, you had been told about a few of the seniors in your program at orientation, and Jinhwan had been one of them. Apparently, he was very kind and laid-back.

Before you entered his car, he formally introduced himself and you did the same. When you were inside, he passed you the aux cord but then stopped.

“Right! Your phone is dead. Here, take mine! Just search through Spotify and play whatever you like.”

“I’m not sure if you’ll like it, though..” you said, hesitating. Sharing your music with someone else was always a bit embarrassing for you.

“As long as it’s not Kids Bop, then I’m sure I won’t mind,” he said, starting to drive.

“What if I play death metal?” you said.

“Fine by me,” he said.

You found an artist that you liked and started playing their songs. Jinhwan smiled and nodded his head along to the beat, making you feel more comfortable.

“Oh, you might as well save your number in there while you’re at it, or save my number. If you ever need help with anything, you can contact me!”

You added yourself to his contacts and sent yourself a message from his phone so you would also have his number. In his phone, you saved your name as ‘[y/n] :)’.

“Which dorm are you in?” he asked.

“The one behind the library,” you said.

“Ah, that’s the worst spot. Hey, we actually have a free spot in our student home if you ever want to join us. Although I don’t want to make you live with your scary seniors if it makes you uncomfortable,” Jinhwan said, jokingly.

“Thanks for the offer, but I don’t want to intrude.”

“It wouldn’t be intruding, don’t worry! But just do whatever is most comfortable for you. You can always crash at our place when you get tired of your dorm.”

As you passed an ice cream shop that was near campus, you found yourself sighing. Some late night ice cream would really hit the spot right now...

When Jinhwan asked why you were sighing, you confided your thoughts and without any hesitation, he turned the car around and stopped right in front of the ice cream place.

“I’ll get you whatever you like, my treat!” he said, hopping out.

When you chose the ice cream you wanted, Jinhwan also chose one for himself and paid for both of you. You grabbed a seat by the window right next to the glass door. There was arcade music echoing throughout the tiny place, since there were a few arcade machines behind you.

“This is so good!” you said, eating your ice cream.

“Have you never been here before?” Jinhwan asked you, smiling. This whole time he had not stopped smiling at you, and it made you feel warm inside.

“I’ve always wanted to, but this first month of classes has been super stressful.”

“I hear you, but it’s important to take breaks! If you’re ever stressed, you can let me know and we can come back here,” he said.

Jinhwan had been nothing but unusually nice to you, but you didn’t think much of it. A lot of the seniors were nice to the freshman and juniors anyway.

After you finished your ice cream, Jinhwan dropped you off at your dorm. Even though he watched you walk in, he still texted you right as you reached your room.

hello ‘[y/n] :)’ did you get in safely?

yes, thank u! you literally watched me walk in lol

that’s right, but who knows what can happen on your way to your room from the front doors of the dorm

i appreciate you :)

do you like smiley faces? u even saved ur name as ‘[y/n] :)’

ah, i guess i do like them ><

that’s cute~

Your heart fluttered seeing this message, and you had to take a few deep breaths to calm down. He’s just my senior, you told yourself. He’s just being nice.

A few days later, you saw Jinhwan in the library, studying. You thought that you should say hello out of courtesy, but you didn’t want to bother him, so you continued to walk along the shelves in search of the book you needed.

Getting distracted, you ended up with five big textbooks in your arms. You couldn’t help it, they were all so interesting...

Trying to reach for a book while your hands were still full, suddenly everything fell. The sound of the books falling to the ground echoed throughout the library, and you apologized under your breath as you struggled to pick everything up. You felt so embarrassed that you wanted to disappear.

Looking up amidst your struggle, you saw Jinhwan looking at you from his spot. When he recognized you, he immediately rushed over.

Did this happen to me because I didn’t say hi to him, you thought. Is this karma?

“[y/n], it’s you? Are you okay? Let me help you,” he said, taking some of the books from your arms.

“These are really heavy, you should get a cart for them.” Jinhwan moved his head around to search for one.

“No, it’s fine! I grabbed too many anyway! I’ll just put them back-” you said, not wanting to bother Jinhwan anymore. But he firmly held onto your books until he found a cart.

“I know where some better books on this topic are. Do you want me to show them to you?” Jinhwan asked you, placing the books on the cart.

“No, really, it’s fine! You’re busy studying-”

“I need a break anyway~” he quietly sang, walking towards the spot that he told you about. Forced to follow him, you trailed along. He had a skip in his step, and it made you smile.

“I’m really sorry, I know midterms must be starting for you-”

He stopped and turned around.

“[y/n], it’s really fine! I wouldn’t help you if I didn’t want to,” he said.

After he showed you the books that he was talking about, he invited you to join him at his spot to study.

“Ah, right! You treated me for ice cream last time. Do you want anything to drink? I can buy you something!” you said.

Jinhwan chuckled.

“There’s no need for that! I already have a coffee here,” he said, pointing to the coffee next to him.

“What about a muffin! A cookie?” you asked.

He laughed, again.

“Okay, you can get me something if you really want to. But the muffins here are terrible, so go for a cookie instead!” he told you.

When you returned with some chocolate chip cookies, he took them from you with a wink. He let you have some too, claiming that you needed fuel to study.

While you were deep into one of the books you were reading and taking notes on a sticky note, you finally looked down to write something and found a smiley face on the corner of your sticky note. Not remembering drawing that, you looked up at Jinhwan, but he was also busy studying. It had to be him, you thought.

You picked up your pen and finding a free spot in the margin of his notebook, doodled a fox carefully.

A few minutes after you returned to your own work, he asked, “well I wonder where this fox came from?”

“Well I wonder where this smiley face came from?” you asked him, pointing to the smiley face on your sticky note. The two of you laughed quietly.

Some time after that, your roommate declared that they wanted to start getting fit.

“You’re literally saying that as you’re finishing a whole tub of ice cream,” you said, laughing.

Your roommate dropped the tub and stood up with their fist raised.

“We are going to the gym, right now!”

With no escape, you followed your friend to the campus gym and signed up for a membership. As you were doing so, you heard a familiar voice.

“I don’t want to! Why do we all have to sign up? This is so annoying.”

Jinhwan?

As you turned around, your suspicions were confirmed. He was being pushed by his roommates, your other program seniors, towards the front desk which you were stood at, and he was whining loudly like a baby.

“Oh, it’s [y/n]!” one of the seniors, named Junhoe, who was pushing him said. Upon hearing your name, Jinhwan stood up straight and laughed awkwardly, waving hello.

“[y/n], we all promised we would sign up for the gym since our program’s marathon is coming up and this fool,” Hanbin, another senior, said while pointing to Jinhwan, “signed us up for it. But now he doesn’t want to work out with us!”

You laughed. How cute, you thought.

Jinhwan stood there, scratching the back of his head.

“Actually, my roommate is making me sign up, too. So I guess we’re in the same boat!”

“See, if [y/n] can do it then so can you!” Bobby, another senior, said.

With both of you being forced to sign up, you made your way into the gym. Your roommate dragged you aside for a second.

“Who’s Jinhwan and how do you know him and-”

“He’s my senior,” you said, cutting your roommate off before they asked too many questions.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

Your roommate analyzed your face.

“Are you sure?” they asked, narrowing their eyes.

“Yes!” you screamed. Jinhwan and his friends all looked at you and you pressed your lips together out of embarrassment.

“Look what you made me do!” you said to your roommate, who was walking ahead while laughing loudly.

When the marathon that only the upper years were supposed to participate in finally rolled around, you stood at the finish line, handing out water to everyone who finished. The marathon was to raise money for your program, since it was not funded so well.

You cheered all of your seniors on under the hot sun, fanning yourself to try to cool down. I could just... take one water bottle... no! It’s for the seniors and we don’t have enough!

As you struggled to decide between drinking one of the waters secretly or leaving them for your seniors, a sweaty Jinhwan finally crossed the finish line.

He looked extremely tired, so you grabbed a bottle of water and a towel before running up to him.

“You did it! Good job!” you said, handing him the supplies that you had grabbed.

He was bent over with his hands on his knees, but straightened up to take the water from your hands. But he hesitated before handing it back to you.

“It’s fine, you should drink it,” he panted. He reached for a hat that he had managed to tie to his waist, and handed that to you, too.

“You should wear a hat in this weather! Be careful,” he said, placing the cap on your head before walking away. Confused, you trailed back to the water station that you were stood at.

“Didn’t he give you the water? Drink it then! And give me some too!” your friend, who was also manning the water station with you, said.

You watched Jinhwan as he lay sprawled out in the grass.

This won’t do.

Handing the bottle to your friend, you ran towards the closest building in search of a vending machine. Finding one, you bought a water and ran back to hand it to Jinhwan, who was still sprawled out in the grass.

Panting, you crashed on the grass next to him and handed him the bottle. He sat up, eyeing it,

“But I just gave my water to you-”

“Drink it!” you said breathlessly before lying down in the grass next to him.

You heard him taking big gulps before he also laid down next to you and right then in that moment, you asked yourself why you ran for ten minutes just to buy bottled water for Jinhwan.

When you looked up at him and watched the sun light up his face, showing his skin sticky with sweat and his hair a mess, you felt like something was welling up inside you.

You liked Jinhwan.

During finals week, you vowed that you were going to sit in the same library cubicle for the entire week to study. No leaving. No getting distracted. You would only leave to use the washroom, wash your face, take a shower, eat or brush your teeth. Otherwise, you were sleeping in there.

Intense, but you needed to do what you had to do to study.

Your exams were later than everyone else’s, so while everyone else was enjoying their Winter break, you were still studying.

Thud.

You looked up after you had buried your head in your books to find your favourite vending machine drink sitting next to your laptop. Confused and wondering if this was a hallucination, you looked around for who might have left it there.

“Boo!” Jinhwan said from the cubicle next to you.

You jumped up in fright, yelling at him for scaring you.

Then you got scolded by a librarian and Jinhwan laughed.

“Seriously, I’m doing some major studying right now! No distractions!” you told Jinhwan.

“Is that your way of saying thanks?”

“Thank you,” you groaned.

“You’re really something. I’ve never studied this hard for my exams,” Jinhwan said.

“Well that’s your problem, not mine!” you said, sticking out your tongue at him.

Since your first encounter, you had been seeing Jinhwan more often around campus and felt a lot more comfortable around him.

“What? Is that how you treat your senior?” Jinhwan joked. “Anyway, I’m here to wish you good luck! And remind you to take breaks. Speaking of which, do you wanna go grab ice cream? Go for a walk?”

“Go for a walk? Am I your dog?” you scoffed.

Jinhwan sighed.

“You know what I mean!”

You ended up leaving your cubicle for an hour to walk through campus with Jinhwan. The night air was cold but refreshing, and there was something calming about the empty campus with the few streetlights lighting the way. You almost tripped and fell onto Jinhwan a few times because it was so dark, but each time he caught you and giggled softly in a way that made you want to squeal because he was so. damn. cute.

A year later

“IT’S READING WEEK!” your roommate yelled as they packed their suit case.

“Yay,” you said, quietly.

“Yay? We’re going home! What is this sad reaction?”

“Going home means a week without Jinhwan...”

Your roommate groaned.

“Are you kidding me? You went a whole summer break without him, what is this?

“Yeah, and it was terrible!” you said.

“You two need to stop beating around the bush and start dating already.”

“WHAT ARE YOU SAYING?” you yelled.

“WHAT ARE YOU SAYING? It’s been two years of you liking each other! Just kiss, jeez!”

“This is a sad unrequited love and you cannot convince me otherwise.”

“[y/n]... I’m not even gonna bother. I’m done. I’m not gonna say anything!” your roommate said, walking to the bathroom.

Two seconds later, they walked back in.

“DO YOU NOT SEE the way this man looks at you? He’s always so nice to you and for what? You’re not a freshman anymore!”

“We’re friends!”

“This is pathetic! I’m gonna have to get the ball rolling myself,” your friend said, grabbing your phone.

Their grip was too strong, so you only got a hold of your phone after they let go. Your messages app was open. Your chat with Jinhwan was open. Oh no.

Jinhwan! do u want to stay at my house for reading week? :)

“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!” you yelled, throwing a pillow at your roommate who laughed in response.

“I’m doing God’s work!”

Your phone vibrated and your heart raced.

really? i’d love to! my family wanted me to help out with home renovations T.T and i’d rather spend reading week with u~

“He agreed,” you said, surprised. “HE AGREED!”

“And this is my house,” you said, opening the door and letting Jinhwan enter first.

“Woah,” he said, looking around.

“There isn’t much, really...”

“I wanna see your room,” Jinhwan said, kicking off his shoes and immediately walking upstairs.

“Wait!” you said, running after him.

“I can really tell which one is yours,” he said, chuckling as he found your room.

As he looked around, you felt super embarrassed, so you told him that you would be downstairs unpacking.

A few minutes later, Jinhwan walked up to you downstairs, holding something in his hand. His face was red and there was a smile on his face.

“[y/n], please explain this,” he said, handing you what he was holding.

It was your journal.

And it was opened to a page where you had written about your feeling for Jinhwan.

You had forgotten all about this.

Oh no.

You had written all about your first encounter and the late night ice cream, the time he helped you find books at the library, the time you awkwardly met at the gym, the time you ran for 10 minutes just to buy water for him from a vending machine and how you realized your feelings for him then, and the time he came to visit while you were studying.

The last sentence was: He’s literally the most perfect human alive and honestly I’m so glad I’ve even met him; I like him a lot.

When you finished reading it, you closed it and walked away from where you had been standing in the living room to the kitchen, trying to process everything.

With your back turned, you said, “Jinhwan, just forget you ever read that, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. Let’s just be friends still, okay? Please just forget about that...”

You were close to crying with how embarrassed you felt. You didn’t want your friendship to be ruined because of this.

“Are you sure you want me to forget about it?” Jinhwan asked you.

“Yes, please.”

“Even when I feel the same way?”

Now there was something that you did not expect. You could not have predicted this.

“What?” you asked, turning around to face him out of shock.

“I like you too, [y/n]. Do you want to forget about it?” he said, smiling the same smile he did on that first day when you were eating ice cream together at midnight.

“No, I... need time to process this...”

“Am I allowed to hug you, though?” Jinhwan asked, opening his arms. When you nodded, he moved towards you and wrapped his arms around you, placing his head into your shoulder. It was a hug that was so full of love, you felt like you were melting on the spot.

“You know I did all of those things because I like you, right? Helping you at the library and checking on you when you studied.. I didn’t know at the time, but I found out later... that I like you.”

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honeytea8 · 4 years

Text

“Mister Fix-it” - Josuke/gn!Reader

A/N: Something I posted a while back on AO3 and now I’m dumping it here, I edited it to be gender neutral, pls let me know if I missed anything, enjoy!

Word Count: 2.7K

Summary: When your brand new air conditioning system doesn’t live up to the hype, you’re left with no other choice but to call Josuke Higashikata, the neighborhood handy-man and Morioh’s local heartthrob. (Post-canon; Josuke is 19/Reader is 23ish)

There is not a single ‘moderate’ thing about the summers in Morioh Cho and you come to this shocking discovery during your very first year back in this crazy, noisy town.

One early morning, a wave of heat sweeps in like a thief in the night, creeping over your body and making your nightshirt cling to you like second skin. A relentless force of nature that saps any residual moisture in the air. Everything is left high and dry—you lament over your dying succulent.

You can’t count how many cups of ice water you’ve guzzled or how many cold showers you’ve taken just to end up sweaty again, but something’s got to give. The day after Kai Harada announces the possibility of record-breaking temperatures in the following weeks, you delve into your emergency savings for a solution only money can buy.

Two days later, a portly electrician comes and installs a new air conditioning system for your home. He’s yammering on about how it’s supposed to be the best on the market. State of the art and all that jazz. You don’t really care for the details; you just want to be comfortable in your own house lest you end up a melted pile of goo. Who the hell would take care of your vegetable garden then?

You inspect the newly installed system with subdued interest. Truthfully, it doesn’t look like anything but an eyesore that’s completely thrown off the ambiance of the entire living room. It’s practically hanging out of your window. However, the only thing keeping you from complaining about its appearance is the dusty fan overhead that’s been circulating the same muggy, warm air for over an hour now. You prefer functionality over appearance, screw feng shui, you needed this AC.

“So, you’re positive it'll cool down the entire house?” you question one final time.

As if to prove his point, the electrician flicks a switch and the machine attached to the wall comes to life. The droning hum is annoying and would take some getting used to but it’s blowing the coldest air you’ve felt in a while. Both you and the electrician remain standing in front of it for a few seconds, basking in wonder.

Like magic, the heat-induced stress and tension leave your body all at once.

“Well then,” you say with a smile, “It’ll do.”

One week. Seven days. A hundred-and-sixty-eight hours of pure, absolute, uninterrupted bliss. You are in heaven! Your plants are flourishing as usual, and you aren’t sweating profusely like a pig for slaughter. Life is oh so good.

Until you wake up on the eighth day at four am with the worst case of cotton-mouth you’ve ever experienced.

You tumble out of bed, delirious from the sudden onslaught of heat that has transformed your bedroom into a sauna. Loose cotton sheets tangle with your ankles and you hit the ground, chin scuffing against the floor in your haste. The adrenaline pumping through your veins keeps you from wincing, or even feeling the pain. All you can hear is the sound of your own two feet pounding on the polished wooden staircase.

“Please, no, no, no, no—“

You sweep into the living room only to find the new air system is completely silent and no amount of switch-flicking or button-punching is going to change that. Mouth screwing into a scowl, you glare at the overpriced piece of junk with unbridled disdain.

This has become personal.

A hard smack from the palm of your hand to the surface of the machine echoes through the room—still nothing, not even a stirring.

Big fat tears well up in your eyes. Whatever hormones fueling your rage are now flooding you with sadness. Your hand and chin are throbbing from the pain. The money spent on this crap was gone and now you’d have to shell out another hefty amount just to get it fixed. You want to pull out your hair in frustration.

Glancing around the room, everything is so still and calm. It’s still quite early in the morning, a few hours before dawn and you are tired as hell. The heat is making you lethargic, so after drying your tears and chewing on some ice cubes, you curl up on your sofa and go back to a fitful sleep.

Later in the day, you’re hanging clothes out on the line when your neighbor comes out to greet you.

She’s a grandma who lives alone except for when her grand kids come to visit, and despite her penchant for being a nosy gossip, you kind of like her. She waves and meanders over to the edge of her fence.

“This is some heat, I tell you.”

“Right! I didn’t realize Morioh could even get this hot,” you pick up another sheet and toss it over the wire. “Would you believe that I spent two paychecks on an air conditioner that doesn’t even work.”

Your neighbor gives you a look of pity. “Oh dear, such a shame.” You watch as she adjusts the chairs and tables around her patio.

“You know, I have a teacher-friend with a son who has a knack for fixing things. Had him take a look at my plumbing a few weeks ago and he had it working right as rain. I can ask him to come by and take a look at it for you.”

You shuffle the empty bamboo basket in your arms. “I...guess that could work. Have him drop by sometime.”

What’s the worst that could happen?

Two days later, you’re tending to your many plants—because you’d be damned if another died because of this heat—when a Greek god falls from the sky and onto your doorstep.

“Hi! I’m Josuke Higashikata, your neighbor said you had a problem with your air conditioner.”

To say you’re surprised would be an understatement: the young man standing on your porch is a damn stunner. His pouty lips, broad shoulders, and slim waist are more than enough to fuel a wet dream or two. Your brain short-circuits for a solid minute. Is it hot in here or what?

(And for once, you aren’t talking about the actual weather.)

He shifts nervously from one foot to another when you don’t immediately respond, but all you can do is stare. You’re thirsty for more than just a drink of water right now.

“Um,” he looks down at the sticky note in his hand and mumbles to himself. “This is the address, right?”

That snaps you out of your stupor. You internally berate yourself for looking like a gaping idiot in front of this knockout.

“YES! Ahem—yeah, y-you’re at the right place.” you move aside and allow him in. And good Lord, he’s tall. You wouldn't mind climbing that beanstalk.

Josuke is dressed in a striped yellow tee and pair of boardshorts that fit just right, a real sight for sore eyes.

You try not to swoon and realize rather belatedly that your own attire isn’t hiding much from view. Since the air conditioner stopped working, you reverted back to wearing tank tops and shorts around the house. Josuke, for what it's worth, isn't ogling you but he’s obviously noticed if his reddened cheeks are anything to go by.

“Right over here.” You say breezily.

The sway in your hips is subtle enough that it doesn’t look intentional. You guide him over to where the AC is sitting in the wall like a heap of scrap metal. Josuke didn’t bring any tools with him, so you’re skeptical about how he plans on fixing it. Honestly, even if he can't, you plan on making the most out of this.

You enter the kitchen adjacent to the living room, allowing him to take a look at the thing without you hovering.

As you’re straightening out the dining table, you ask, “So, how old are you, Josuke? You look a little young to be a handy-man.”

There’s a pause in his movements. “I just turned nineteen!”

Your fantasy dies a swift death somewhere deep within the dredges of your subconscious. Of course he’s young, as if you hadn’t noticed. Dialing back on the flirtation, you hum out an ‘oh cool’. The last thing you want to be is a cradle robber!

You aren’t that much older than him...but it still feels a bit wrong? You’ve never been with a younger guy before.

A startling hum resounds throughout the house and you feel a gust of cool air coming from overhead. Josuke has managed to fix it! You rush back into the room just in time to catch him stuffing his hands into his pockets.

“All done!”

“That—That was really quick? What was wrong with it?”

Josuke only shrugged. “Not sure, but it seems to be working now.”

You stare uncomprehendingly.

“So...was there anything else you’d like me to fix?”

Blinking you look around for something but come up short. “No, not unless you can bring plants back to life.”

Now it’s Josuke’s turn to blink as he takes a look around with wide eyes. He hadn’t noticed all the plants in the various corners of your home, he had been too distracted by—

“Which ones?” He says before he can stop himself.

You point to the succulent perched on the coffee table, it’s dried up and brittle in some parts, but it’s not completely dead. He kneels down to its height, touches some of its chubby petals. Then he silently calls on Crazy Diamond and with a single touch, it’s restored back to its normal health.

A few years post-Yoshikage Kira, Josuke has gotten a lot better with his powers, utilizing his stand with ease. He turns and gives you a smile and has no idea he’s giving you heart palpitations just by looking like that.

“Woah! Josuke, what the hell was that?”

“Ahh, it’s hard to explain. Just know it’s something I’ve been able to do since I was a kid.”

“Wow, th-that’s some trick,” you glance at your plant in shock. It’s literally back to normal. You recall all the time spent nurturing it, along with your other plants. All the sweat doled out during back-breaking gardening. How could you ever repay him for making sure your hard work didn’t go down the drain?

Before you know it, you have his face in your hands and you don’t know what the hell you're doing but you're holding him and staring tearfully.

“Thank you times a million. Seriously.”

Josuke just gulps and nods. “Uh huh, not a problem.”

You really try to ignore the way he’s staring at your lips or the heavy blush on his cheeks because, again, you are not robbing the cradle. With more self-control than you knew you had, you let go of his face and step back.

“S-So would you like some tea, or lemonade or—“

“Lemonade,” he says as he stands to his full height. “Lemonade is fine.”

You nod with your bottom lip trapped between your teeth. He is so cute. You scamper off into the kitchen and pull out a full pitcher of homemade lemonade. Meanwhile, Josuke is left to take a look around your house.

There are plants everywhere, most are leafy, green, and healthy. The ones that aren’t, get a boost from his stand power.

Josuke wants to compare your home to a jungle or the Amazon, but that’s not quite an accurate comparison. Even though there’s clearly a lot going on, it’s not cluttered or disorganized at all. It’s just...really freaking amazing! There’s even a flourishing terrarium built in the walls near the staircase.

With your obvious love for nature, Josuke thinks you’d get along great with Mr. Jotaro, but for some reason he doesn’t feel too inclined to introduce you two.

When you finally return, you catch Josuke eyeing your little turtle tank with a weird look.

“That’s Kame, I just got him a month ago.”

Josuke laughs, “Kame, huh? That’s pretty clever.”

“I thought so too,” you hand him the cold drink and as he takes it, his fingers graze yours. “He doesn’t do much, so if you’re expecting him to do a trick, you’ll be waiting a while.”

“Oh nah, it wasn’t that. I’m just…kind of afraid of the little guy.”

Biting back the urge to say ‘awww’, you usher him over to the engawa overlooking your vegetable garden. “A fear of turtles is understandable. But would you believe that I used to be afraid of fish?”

“Fish? No, I can’t say I would. But I also wouldn’t judge.”

You smile at that because of course, he wouldn’t judge you. “Yup, had a bad experience when I was five. My father used to live in Morioh, near the coast. He was a fisherman,” you pause, momentarily distracted by the bob of his adam’s apple as he takes his first sip.

“H-He umm, took me fishing once... and it was the first time I’d ever laid eyes on a real fish. Needless to say, I screamed my head off.”

“No! Seriously?” Josuke chuckles and it’s so contagious and addicting. Soon you're laughing too.

“I swear, I cannot make this up!”

“So, what happened?”

“Okay, so I’m screaming like a mad person and running away. You know what my dad does? That asshole chases me with the thing still dangling from his fishing rod.” You shake your head at the memory. “I literally got sick and threw up that night, and boy did my mom chew him out for it.”

“That sounds so hilarious and yet so traumatic.” He laughs again. “That’s terrible!”

“Right! I could never look at a fish after that or even be around them. It took years before I finally got over it.” You sigh and shake your head again.

Silence ebbs between you for a moment before Josuke clears his throat.

“So, this might seem a bit forward, but would you like to go on a date with me?”

The question doesn’t register in your head all at once, leaving you to stumble over your words until you can finally think coherently. “Josuke I...I’m a bit older than you. Shouldn’t you go for someone more closer to your age?”

“No, and I’ve never believed age should stop two consenting adults from getting to know each other better.”

“Josuke, I’m old enough to be your big sibling though.”

He quirks his brow at that like you’ve just said something weird. “Well, Mr. Joestar, was like ancient when he met my mom so that really doesn’t bother me.”

For some reason, that comment breaks the tension. You barely hold back a grin. “This Mr. Joestar guy is your father then?”

“Biologically speaking, yeah. He’s pretty old now and I never really knew him, but my mom still loves him with everything she has.”

Okay. Now you are really having heart palpitations.

Josuke is exhibiting a surprising amount of maturity right now, making you eat your words about him being too young for you. Why did he have to be so convincing on top of being cute?

“Give me a chance,” he says. “I promise you won’t regret it.”

After mulling over it for a moment, you finally acquiesce.

“Alright, Josuke. One date, and we’ll see from there.” and just to catch him off guard, you peck his cheek. “Okay?”

“Y-Yeah! Of course, it’ll be perfect!”

Taking the empty lemonade glass from him, you both re-enter your home with smiles on your faces. Josuke stays a little longer and you both chat for a while then make plans for your date. You get to learn about how much of a hopeless romantic he is and how he’s a firm believer in love. He makes it very clear that he doesn’t want a fling and that he’s looking for long-term. All of these things surprise you, as they aren’t what you’d expect from someone as gorgeous as him.

By the time the sun is setting, you know it’s time for you two to part ways. Josuke stands at your foyer with pursed lips and a blush on his cheeks. “Can I...kiss you?”

To answer his question, you lean up and press a soft kiss on his mouth. Josuke’s strong arms snake around your hips, drawing you closer into his sturdy frame. His plush lips are gentle and pliant against your own.

When Josuke finally pulls back he is presented with the sight of your closed eyes and kiss-reddened lips and it’s the most enthralling two seconds ever. He thinks you're so freaking beautiful.

“Alright handy-man,” you say as you give him one last peck on the corner of his mouth. “I’ll see you around.”

“Yeah, sure thing!”

Ironically enough, you have this nightmare of a heatwave to thank for your date with Morioh Cho’s favorite dreamboat.

#josuke higashikata #josuke x reader #josuke higashikata x reader #jjba x reader #jojo’s bizarre adventure #diamond is unbreakable #jojo #jjba #my writing

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lucas-koh · 4 years

Text

Stitches - Bryce Lahela x MC XI

Parts 1-10 linked in bio!

Only somewhat canon compliant.

Song: sex (catching feelings) - EDEN

Rating: M; sexual content, swearing, mentions of death, drinking

Word Count: 4261

Taglist: @lahellacute @lahamseiroshoe @anotherbeingsworld @fuseboxmusebox @choicesficwriterscreations @bubblelaureno @bratzlahela @eleanorbloom @bryceslahela @thegreentwin @kelseaaa || please let me know if you would like to be added to or removed from this list

Chapter Eleven: Tequila Flavoured Sutures

And ring in the New Year they did, for hours and hours and hours. There was little concern about the noise they were making due to the fact that everyone was passed out from alcohol by that point.

—-

It took almost the entire month of January until Suki had a day off, in fact, two days off. She skipped over her birthday on the 18th, opting for takeout and a movie (and not telling anyone it was her birthday so they wouldn’t make a fuss). Yay to twenty-eight. Her plans for her days off initially involved those chips and candy she didn’t get to indulge in before; but then she thought about Bryce’s words the last time ‘…and you didn’t even think to invite me?’ And immediately caved. She did want to see him after such a long time. Especially after how he was in bed at New Years…

Santa Fe: 👃yours?

Scalpel Jockey: i finish in a couple hours?

Santa Fe: cool, i’ll be there

Scalpel Jockey: 😈

So after a couple of hours Suki arrived at Bryce’s place. Pretty much as soon as she stepped through the door she was rushing Bryce’s shirt off.

“Woah, someone’s eager.”

“It’s been a little while.”

—-

A chunk of time and a few rounds later, Bryce and Suki caught their breath on his bed. Suki wasn’t ready for the night to end, she was pretty horny still, and she had the day off tomorrow, too.

“Hey,” she grinned with mischief and sudden inspiration in her eyes, she had missed out on birthday fun after all, “wanna get drunk and do body shots?”

“Absolutely,” Bryce bit his lip and his eyelids sunk with desire. Suki already knew this would be an interesting night.

They partially dressed and headed into the kitchen to grab Bryce’s alcohol. He crouched down to a little cupboard in the corner of his kitchen.

“Oh.” He pulled a bottle of rum from the cupboard. There was barely anything left in it.

“Shit,” Suki laughed.

“I can grab something from the convenience store?”

“Eh, why not, I’ll come along.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Some fresh air might be nice after all that… exertion.”

So Bryce and Suki put on the rest of their clothes and headed out to walk to the store. The late January cold was biting but neither of them noticed much.

On the walk they talked about everything and nothing, like they were old friends catching up after too long away. Suki tried to ignore the fact that their hands brushed when they walked too close together. That the cold metal of his rings sent a jolt through the nerves in her fingers. She also tried to ignore the fact that made her think about holding that hand. Back on the first day, when they’d danced to The Stone Roses, when he’d asked if she wanted to be adored and made her scramble under his gaze. And then the many times she’d gripped his hand while he was fucking her into oblivion, letting it press her own into the mattress with pressure, his fingers fitting between her own desperately and needing like puzzle pieces. Her nails digging into the back of his hand and vice versa. She remembered how that first time and all the times since their hands had felt right, like an old key and lock with a very specific shape.

Once they reached the store, they picked up two bottles of tequila, and some fresh limes.

“I’ll pay,” Bryce rushed in front of her, “I’ll keep whatever’s left over.”

“Not if we drink it all,” she teased.

“That’s 70cl each, I think not,” Bryce chuckled as the cashier put the bottles in their over-used old plastic bag for them. Suki pulled the full bag from the counter once Bryce had paid.

“Can’t handle it?”

“Thanks man,” Bryce said to the cashier and they began to make their way outside. “As doctors I think we both know 70cl is like, death limits.”

“Long term, maybe,” she shrugged. When she saw the look Bryce was giving her, she added, “I’m joking, you dumbass! I’m not sure why you even bought two bottles.”

“Eh, saves coming down here again.”

“Lazy-ass.”

They pushed open the door to step into the cold outside. Bryce shook his head affectionately and laughed at Suki, despite the conversation being barely funny.

As he laughed, Bryce stumbled backwards off the step up to the shop and into a man drinking just outside the store.

“Oops, sorry man,” he grinned an apology. It was lighthearted and accidental and that should’ve been the end of it. But this dude did not look happy.

“Hey Buddy, are you looking for a fight?”

“No, not at all – just an accident, dude.”

“Are you fuckin’ sure?” The man signalled down to the ground where a vodka bottle was smashed into large pieces.

“I’m sorry, I’ll buy you another.”

Suki was beginning to feel very stressed. Confrontation was her least favourite thing ever. She pulled one of the tequila bottles from her bag.

“Here, sir. Have this. He really didn’t mean to break it.”

“Tell your boyfriend to be more careful,” he spat.

Suki didn’t want to provoke him any more by correcting him, but she also didn’t want him to keep talking smack. Hearing this guy get so worked up over Bryce’s mere mistake was enough to give Suki a major adrenaline and confidence boost.

“He tripped, and then apologised immediately. We offered to buy you another bottle, and even offered up our own. Maybe you need to calm down.” Her voice was slightly raised and she was starting to see red from anger.

“Suki-“ Bryce started, holding a hand out as though to shield her.

But this man was very intoxicated and clearly in the mood to be a dick, because he walked over to Suki and shoved her to the floor. It was like everything was moving in fast forward because it happened in just seconds. And then all of a sudden Suki was on the other side of the coin and in slow motion, stumbling down to the concrete. In the process the tequila in the dishevelled bag in her hand also smashed through the worn plastic and to the floor and Suki, in trying to break her fall, stumbled back on her hands. She winced as her hand dug right into one particularly sharp shard of glass.

“Shit.”

The man’s eyes widened as he noticed what he’d done and the absolute rage and contempt on Bryce’s face. Bryce was furious. Suki had never seen him so mad. Not even that day he’d lost the surgery. And it wasn’t cartoon smoke-out-the-ears fury either, it was scary. Pure. The drunkard was clearly terrified by Bryce’s expression and his tightly clenching fists and he scarpered.

“HEY! ASSHOLE!” Bryce shouted after him, running down the road after him a bit. Suki was surprised at how fast he was running. He got a little ways down the sidewalk when the other man crossed a traffic-filled road. Bryce looked back and saw Suki on the floor - he knew his priority was her.

He returned to where she was now sat on the floor, examining the glass shoved into her hand and crumbs of concrete around the area, too. The aroma of tequila mixed with blood was overwhelming. Suki was honestly feeling a mixture of shell-shock and dizzy headiness.

“Fuck,” Bryce said, crouching beside her and taking her hand in his like the very limb was made of glass. “I’ll fucking kill him. Does anywhere else hurt? Are you okay emotionally?”

His deep brown eyes searched hers, desperate concern clouding them. All traces of the absolute anger of before were gone, only solicitude and tunnelled focus on the woman before him.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Maybe a bruise on my butt but I’ve had worse. What a dick.”

Bryce held the underside of her hand in both of his, securing her wrist steady, and scrunched his face up as he inspected it. “We need to get the glass out of this.”

“Easy, it’s only the one piece.” Suki tried not to yelp as she pulled the shard from her palm.

“Suki!” Bryce chastised.

“It’s all good, see?”

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just do that after nine years of medical training.”

“It’s fine,” she assured him, hoping her eyes were telling him so too. Sure, it hurt, but it wasn’t enough to make a big deal out of.

“You should let me take you to the emergency room.”

“Bryce. It’s fine. It’s not a big deal.”

He winced as he looked at the blood still pouring from the gash in her hand. “I swear I’ll deck that guy if I ever see him again. It’ll heal much better if you go to the ER and get stitches. The last thing a doctor needs is nerve damage.”

“Bryce.”

“Fine, then you’re coming back to mine and letting me stitch it.”

“Bryce!” Suki was feeling like a broken record, but honestly at that moment, a combination of shock and the odd feeling Bryce’s eyes gave her was making it a little difficult to access her full word library.

“Don’t wear my name out,” he winked, keeping one hand on hers and placing the other round her waist as he helped pull her up from the ground. She was sure to grab the unaffected tequila bottle and limes with her functioning hand.

“I could’ve stood up by myself you know, my legs are fine.”

“I’m keeping this hand so you don’t do anything else to it,” he said, taking Suki’s wrist to hold her bleeding hand above her heart, and began to pull her along with him. She sighed but let him pull her along, anything to get him not to go after that guy. She didn’t need the further mortification.

The walk back had lost the vibe of the walk there; solemn and sober. Mostly filled with Bryce muttering things about the man and retained asking of Suki’s well-being.

Bryce held her wrist the entire way, catching most of the leftover dripping blood on his own hand.

They reached Bryce’s apartment and he unlocked the door for them, closed it behind him, and then led Suki over to the sofa.

“Stay there,” he instructed before disappearing into the kitchen. Seconds later he re-emerged with a sizeable first aid kit.

“That’s big,” Suki laughed, a little more colour in her cheeks now that they were inside, “I would say you’re compensating for something but...”

“But you know I’m not,” he grinned smugly as he perched beside her.

Bryce was ever so delicate as he held Suki’s hand and cleaned away the blood with an antiseptic wipe. She winced the first time the cool chemical wipe made contact with the gash which caused Bryce to immediately stop and look at her. She gave him a little nod to continue. He did his best to be careful as he moved the skin around a bit under his phone flashlight to see if any glass was lingering.

“I swear Suki if this heals and there’s still glass in there because you wouldn’t let me take you to the ER, you’ll never hear the end of this.”

“Fine, but I trust your 20/20 vision and steady scalpel hand.”

“As you should.”

Once the wound was clean and Bryce had checked multiple times for fragments of glass, he pulled his suture kit from the box.

Watching Bryce steady the curved needle end in some tweezers was artful. He was so practised, so sure. The way his pretty features furrowed together slightly in focus was magnetising. She was amazed at how steady his hands were, how such large appendages could look so fine and delicate. Each stitch pulled through was neat and even, Suki’s eyes flicking between the stitches and Bryce’s facial expression. It was piercing her skin but it was like she couldn’t feel it. His other hand remained beneath hers, holding it up and keeping it from shaking. Then Bryce secured the stitches and started to wrap some bandage around for extra protection.

Bryce finished off his bandaging by tucking it in at the back of her hand. He held her hand, still.

“It’s going to scar,” he sighed.

“What’s a doctor without a few scars?”

“Touché.”

“Thank you for doing this.”

“It was no question.”

Suki couldn’t help but notice the way Bryce’s thumb soothed the back of the hand it was holding. She looked up to the clock. It had only been an hour since they’d left for drinks. Eventful hour.

Eventually Bryce seemed to notice his hand and removed it from hers.

“What about those body shots then?” She smirked.

“You’re hurt.”

“It’s a cut on my hand, I was planning on doing these shots with my mouth…”

Bryce raised his eyebrows and licked his lips. “Well, we did manage to salvage one bottle.”

“Not to mention it has been secured by ‘the best surgical intern at Edenbrook’.”

“Oh you’re damn fucking right. Fine, you know how to convince a guy. We’re gonna take it careful though, okay?”

“Deal. On which I will not shake my hand.”

He laughed and got up to fetch the shot glasses from the kitchen, beckoning her over.

“The counter will be best.”

Suki laid down first, letting Bryce slip her top over her head (with which he was incredibly careful with her hand), and slide her pants down her legs until she was laying on his kitchen island in only her underwear.

“Now, this is a sight that could encourage me to be in the kitchen more,” Bryce laughed, trailing a finger up and down her arm and causing her to tremble.

“Still haven’t learned any recipes, huh?”

“No. But there’s no way in hell we’re talking about cooking right now.”

Bryce licked a finger and trailed it slowly between Suki’s breasts, then sprinkled some salt over that area. He rested the lime wedge on her stomach. Finally he filled a shot glass with the spirit and placed it in her mouth. She was trying not to laugh too hard so that she didn’t spill the tequila all over her face.

“Ready?” He smirked. She lifted her good hand in an ‘ok’ sign.

As Bryce leaned down towards Suki’s chest, his face was hungry, craving. That look was making Suki’s stomach flip all kinds of directions. He sensuously licked his tongue up between her breasts, catching each grain of salt. He laughed a little as he moved to collect the shot glass in his own mouth. Their lips touched briefly as he secured it in his mouth, then he threw his head back and downed the shot immediately. Then rather swiftly Bryce moved down to Suki’s stomach to suck all the juice from the lime and counter the sharp tequila flavour.

“Okay, that was a really good idea,” he exhaled in the way one does after a strong shot of alcohol. Bryce took another three shots from various parts of Suki’s body; for the last two she lay on her stomach and he used spots such as the nape of her neck, small of her back, and asscheek. The two of them were a messy mix of laughing the whole time, and really enjoying the whole thing.

“Right? My turn now.”

Bryce and Suki switched places, and he threw all his clothing bar underpants off towards the lounge.

Suki used her tongue to dampen the line in the middle of Bryce’s abs for the salt, balanced the shot glass precariously on the flat part of his chest, and placed the lime in his mouth.

She was slow and tantalising as she lapped up the salt, swift as she took the shot, and then there was the lime. She leant down to suck out the sour juice, but kept the lime in his mouth the entire time she drained it. It was an odd but exciting semi-kiss.

After a couple more shots Suki had a new idea.

“Wait, wait,” she laughed, a mischievous glint in her eye.

“What?”

“What if… I poured a bit on your stomach and licked it up…” she was laughing a lot, but it was obvious the idea appealed a lot to her.

“Do it.”

She placed a hand on his stomach to steady him before she planned to carefully pour the liquid over him.

“Hey, careful with that hand,” Bryce nudged, noticing it pressed flat on his body.

“Yes, yes, Dr. Lahela,” she teased.

Time seemed to fly by as the pair took shot after shot, broken up by messy intoxicated kisses, neither realising that Suki’s tolerance was far lower than Bryce’s. After losing count, they wordlessly abandoned the game, relocating to dance around stupidly in their underwear in the living room. Suki may or may not have been swigging tequila directly from the bottle at that point.

A number of songs played and then:

“I’m… pretty drunk,” Suki laughed, closing her eyes and letting herself sway a bit.

“Same!” Bryce enthused, before Suki began to topple over towards the sofa, “woah! Okay, you’re more drunk than me.” He giggled as he caught her fall. Now he was sitting on the floor with Suki’s jelly-like body in his arms. He kept a weary eye on her bandaged hand.

Yes, Bryce was drunk, but the moment he needed to be sensible or protective it was like a switch went off in his brain.

Her eyes were still shut and a blissful smile spread over her face. “Kiss me.”

Bryce leaned in and gave her a chaste peck to the lips.

“I know you can kiss better than that,” she echoed his words from their epic kiss.

“Not when you’re drunker than me I can’t.”

“Boohoo.”

“We should get you home. I’ll come with, I’m not sure I’m comfortable putting you in an Uber alone.”

“I don’t think I can walk very far, Bryyyceee.”

“Okay, you can have my bed then. I’ll take the sofa.”

“Nooooo,” she brought up her limp hands to grab either side of his face, visibly wincing a bit when the bandaged one made contact with his face. “Sleep with me.”

“Clothed? Sure.” Bryce took her damaged hand in his own and held it away from any pain risks.

“Nopeeee,” Suki’s remaining clumsy hand began to slide down Bryce’s chest and fiddle with the band of his boxers. He laughed and grabbed them both with his free hand to stop her.

“I’m not having sex with you again tonight.”

“Meanie.”

“Okay.” He chuckled again.

“But will you sleep with me? Like, to make sure I don’t throw up in the night or something.”

“Sure, miss tequila.”

Bryce stood and pulled Suki up with him, her eyes fluttering open at the movement, and supported her in the walk to his bedroom.

“Are you cold? I have some pyjamas if you’d like,” he offered when they got there, still holding her tightly to his side.

She shook her head, but didn’t seem sure. She looked up to Bryce with wide eyes and a startled expression like she was only just really seeing him.

“Bathroom,” she choked out, and Bryce rushed her towards his en-suite. He supported her all the way to her eventually emptying the contents of her stomach into his toilet bowl.

He held her hair back from her face as she very inelegantly upchucked into Bryce’s toilet a few times.

“I’m sorry,” she looked up at him, eyes wide and apologetic, “I didn’t mean to drink so much I’m just…” nervous around you. Stupidly feeling ways I shouldn’t for my fuck Buddy. Wanted you to see me as fun and free-spirited. Now I’m just embarrassing myself.

“You don’t need to explain yourself. It’s okay.”

Once it was clear nothing else was coming out, Bryce helped Suki drink from a glass of water, and briefly left the room for her to pee.

Bryce was gentle as he ran a spare (unused) toothbrush around her mouth and directed her head to the sink each time to spit.

Suki wasn’t coherent enough to ramble all her apologies and thanks’, but she was so grateful. Could this man stop being so amazing, please? I’m trying to stop being weird, here.

Eventually Bryce was able to help Suki into some of his pyjamas, somehow without looking at all. Seeing a very drunk naked girl is not the same, even if he had seen said girl naked many times prior. Then he helped her into bed and she collapsed against his pillow like a rag doll. He climbed into bed beside her, careful to keep his distance.

“Bryce…” she slurred, the sleep clear in her voice. “You’re a really great guy. I’m glad we’re…” Suki was going to say friends, but it felt wrong coming out of her mouth at that moment. “I’m glad I know you.”

“Yeah, I’m glad I know you too.” Bryce reached up a hand to stroke her cheek. She sighed into his hand, moving a bit cat-like.

“Since you wouldn’t fuck me, will you at least cuddle me?”

Bryce laughed. “Of course.”

“You are so great. So great. Great guy.” As she mumbled these words drunkenly it was clear the unconsciousness was taking over.

Bryce rolled towards her and cradled her into his chest, holding her tightly as though it had been a long time coming.

Bryce’s breaths came gently over Suki’s forehead. And after a few minutes, when he was sure she’d fallen asleep, he spoke ever so quietly.

“If only you knew what a screw up I was,” he muttered. Suki may have been drunk and spewing shit she wouldn’t sober, but her ears were working fine. And she would remember this in the morning. Despite the intoxication she knew such out of pocket words would be something she’d recall. She knew then to keep as still as she could, not alerting to him that she was awake or coherent.

—-

When Suki woke up, her pillow was hard. Her duvet was gripping her waist kind of tightly, too. As she nuzzled into the pillow her senses were invigorated with a sudden and familiar scent: suddenly most of the nights events clocked in her brain.

Sex with Bryce. Walk to convenience store. Accidental beef with drunk man. Damaged hand. Bryce stitching up said hand. Body shots. Lots of body shots. Random blank moment. Oh god - throwing up in Bryce’s toilet. Being dressed by a closed-eye Bryce. Finally falling into bed. Those words.

What the hell could he have meant by that last night? If only I knew what a screw up he was? As far as I’m concerned right now he’s an angel sent from above to deal with a problematically drunk Suki.

He was breathing gently beneath her, quiet noises at each exhale. She noticed as she listened to the rhythm of his heart, that her heart was beating in time with his.

Maybe she should’ve left. After all, she’d ended up causing a lot of trouble for Bryce. And, she’d stayed the night. Maybe if she left before he woke up it wouldn’t count that she’d broken the rule.

But before she could truly agonise over her decision, Bryce stirred, blinking awake and looking down at her.

“Hey,” he smiled. To Suki’s surprise his arm remained around her waist. Okay, I’m surprised he doesn’t hate me. Then again, he wouldn’t be the type to be open about hating someone.

“Hey,” she replied quietly, looking up at him from his chest. “So… I was pretty drunk last night.”

“Yeah. I thought I was too and then you fell over. The decline was pretty quick after that.”

“I’m so sorry. That you had to see me like that, look after me, and then I hijacked your bed too… it wasn’t appropriate of me and it was unfair on you.”

“It’s okay, Suki. You’d do the same for me. We’re friends and making sure you’re okay and looked after is important to me,” he nodded sincerely before grinning and adding, “plus, now I have plenty of blackmail material.”

“God I was awful wasn’t I?”

He chuckled.

Oh shit. “Did I say anything really bad? If I did please ignore it because I talk out of my ass when I’m drunk I’m sure it was utter nonsense.”

“If you did, I think I’ll keep it to myself.”

Ughhhhh. She groaned loudly and buried her face into his chest so that she didn’t have to see that stupid smirk. Now my mind will race about what I could’ve said for the rest of time.

Suki actually felt like hitting Bryce as his large hand slowly soothed her back.

He had to stop doing so much for her, being so exemplary, because it was adding to a problem that had been brewing in Suki for a while. He’d comforted her in the supply closet twice, he’d looked after Tommy, he’d held her hair back while she was sick and let her stay the night, and he’d stitched up her wound so carefully and precisely. He’d even nearly beat up that guy for her.

Shit. Shit shit shit shit.

She’d broken her promise, because it wasn’t just about sex anymore. Truthfully, maybe it never was.

There was absolutely no way she could swing it any longer. Suki Moore liked Bryce Lahela. As more than a friend, more than a body. She was enamoured by him, and had no clue what to do about it.

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five-hxrgreeves · 3 years

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I Won’t Back Down - Five Hargreeves x OC

Word Count: 1,982

You can stand me up at the gates of hell But I won't back down I'm gonna stand my ground Won't be turned around And I'll keep this world from dragging me down

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 |

Pt. 3- Monday, April 1, 2019

The morning of the first dawned with a bright blue sky and perfect spring temperatures, almost in mocking irony of the fate it would meet later on that same day. Suspecting nothing amiss, Lola began her usual morning routine of getting ready for school. After brushing her teeth, she went to her closet and decided on a pair of jeans, a white, long-sleeved v-necked shirt with black polka-dots and after brushing her hair, hesitated over a choice of hats that she owned. While there was no strict dress code at her school, she did like to make a good first impression on Mondays. The rest of the week was up for grabs.

Coming to a decision, she reached for a yellow hat with a navy-blue ribbon around the crown that was tied in a bow and placed it jauntily on her head. The brunette was somewhat known around school for her unique accessories so she’d only been indecisive over which style she’d wanted, not actually whether or not to wear a hat. She then pulled on a pair of riding-styled boots and picked up her backpack, sliding her deck of cards into the back pocket of her jeans. Lunchtime was usually a boring affair so it was often when she would practice her magic- sometimes with a crowd to entertain.

On her route to school, Lola passed the familiar Umbrella Academy house and wondered what transpired within the walls, remembering the strange man she’d met the previous week. She wondered how long it had been since all of the siblings had seen each other since from Vanya’s book, it hadn’t seemed like they’d lived under the same roof for a long, long time. A smile flickered across her face as she thought of grown-up superheroes attempting to act like real siblings and the interesting, chaotic bickering that might ensue.

(Of course, she had no idea that such arguments might result in the end of life on earth.)

After that, the day passed as it usually did, with millions and billions of people completely unaware of what the night would bring.

Once dinner was over, Lola scraped her plate clean and set it in the dishwasher before turning it on to run, blatantly unaware that this would be the last time she did such a mundane action for a long, long time. Then, she made her way into the family room where her mother, father and uncle were sitting on the couch about to watch TV. Both men had their traditional after-dinner drink of two fingers of whiskey while her mother sipped on spiked hot coffee.

“Mom?” Lola asked.

“Yes, dear?”

“I’m going to the basement now, all of the dinner dishes are cleaned up.”

Her mother’s blue eyes- the ones she’d inherited- flicked to the younger girl, “alright, but don’t stay up too late. It’s a school night, you know.”

Her uncle grinned, “yeah,” he said, breaking to take a sip from his glass, “wouldn’t want you to show up all grumpy for school tomorrow.”

Lola sighed and nodded in acceptance, “alright, I’ll do my best,” she said, knowing it was more than likely she’d lose track of time anyway.

Moving first towards her mother, then father and finally her uncle, she gave them each a goodnight hug and exchanged their daily I love yous.

(She would be grateful that these were the last words she’d ever said to her family. At least she wouldn’t have to live wondering if her family had known she’d loved them.)

Then, she went to the basement.

Not even a mile away, the beginnings of an altercation were occurring at the house the size of a single block where the seventh, disregarded member of the family of superheroes was receiving a hostile welcome at the introduction of her new boyfriend, Leonard Peabody.

Lola liked her basement. It wasn’t terribly large but it wasn’t terribly small, either. Half of it was unfinished and the other half was lived-in, creating a perfect balance. In the unfinished side, metal shelves that one might see in a hardware store stood floor-to-ceiling with various tools and stored holiday items. Paint cans, electric machinery, extension cords and other items one would normally find in a shed were scattered haphazardly along the shelves.

In the other half, a carpeted floor of some green color stretched from the back wall to right before Lola’s writing desk. On top of it sat an old, brown-leather couch, a black wooden coffee table from IKEA and a TV hung mounted on the wall. After the carpet ended, removable foam-padded tiles formed the floor. This was the area where Lola’s desk sat which was a large, white table. The desktop itself was almost empty except for her half-filled notebook, three different-sized candles, a pencil sharpener and a pencil holder. Her papers- both for school and other things- were stored in a hand-me-down brown file cabinet that stood to the left of her workspace.

Before sitting down to write, the brunette carried out her ritual warm-up: lighting the candles, flipping to the next available page, sharpening her pencil and placing her reference books on her desk- The Book Thief, of course, and her new book from Vanya Hargreeves. Then, she pulled her deck of cards from her back pocket and placed the rectangular box carefully on the lower-left corner of her desk, making sure to match up the corners of the box with the outlined shape created by the corner. She wasn’t sure why she did this, it just was something she absolutely had to do before she finally sat down.

Once finished, Lola made sure to flip the electric lights off and returned to her seat which was a rolly-chair with one broken wheel. She began to write surrounded by her small pool of glowing, flickering light.

Today’s memory is from when I was six. (Note to self: find a better opening.) It was my first time at the store for hours on end. Usually, a babysitter would come by and pick me up but I suppose she cancelled. (NtS: get more details. Just kidding, nobody cares about that.) Anyway, I was super bored and since I was little, I didn’t have any schoolwork to do. I wandered around the store for a bit, probably causing mischief. Anyway (you already said that, dummy) the funny part is that I sat down at a group of mannequins because there weren’t any other seats and I must’ve sat so still that everyone thought I was one because when I finally stood up, a woman screamed. I didn’t know why at the time but it happened again when I was older. Then I started doing it for my own amusement. It was funny to see people think that I was a fake, plastic doll only to realize I was actually real. Sometimes, I even went to the back and dressed in clothes that would soon be modeled by the mannequins- although I think the effect was ruined because I didn’t fit them.

A story up and a block over, the altercation had grown to a full-blown verbal assault, the main four members of the family heatedly questioning the new boyfriend’s insistence on them coming to their sister’s concert. The seventh member, feeling hurt and angry that her family wouldn’t, just once support her, felt the tension build up within her, her emotions unusually high from the lack of medication she’d consistently taken for years until this week.

The spot was also great for people-watching. While Gimbel Brothers has mostly ordinary clients, there are some cases that are more noteworthy (NtS: fix wording, sounds awkward). There are many people who bring children to the store as well. On Mondays, there is an average of twelve children, usually after school. The number varies throughout the week until Saturday where there are usually fifteen or twenty. One time, as an outlier during the holidays, there were twenty-five. I know this because I counted them. I don’t usually do it intentionally and I’m sure I miss some customers but for some reason, all the numbers stick in my head. The funny thing is, I’m terrible at math. I’m also really good at cards, though. I’ve never lost a game of War or Go Fish. My uncle says I’m a counter, which I suppose is true. I’ve also counted all the sequins on one of our formal dresses, just for fun. There were two-hundred and eighty-six.

As the sky grew dark outside, the argument in the large house had reached an all-time high with Leonard Peabody outwardly insulting his girlfriend’s largest brother, inciting his anger and riling him up purposefully, causing him to throw the first punch. The seventh member of the family desperately tried to pull her boyfriend away, to save him from an assault that he would surely not survive. She was right about that, but there was nothing she could do. There was only one person Number One listened to and it wasn’t her.

Anyway, back to people-watching. There was once a rich woman who came to our store. No one could figure out why; we’re not exactly the high-end type. She brought her daughter with her, a pretty, blonde girl with bright blue eyes. Almost like mine, I think, but they looked better on her. I heard her tell Brittany that she wanted to get her granddaughter ‘normal clothes,’ except she said it like an insult. I figure that when her granddaughter came to visit, all she provided were expensive outfits and the girl spilled on them, teaching her the lesson of buying cheaper clothes for little kids. She didn’t say all of that but I made up the story to go along with her request.

Standing over Leonard’s body, the seventh member of the Hargeeves turned on her brother, eyes shining white against her pale face. In his hand, he held a bloody, glass eyeball. Her siblings crowded together, trying to calm her, but she spent all of her life being calm and she was tired of it. Turning her gaze to the academy, the building shook under a ten-point-zero earthquake, the bricks and concrete falling down in rapid succession. Tearing her gaze away from the sight of her childhood hell, she let sound waves resonate through the street, knocking over buildings and causing them to collapse, burying her siblings in rubble. Carelessly, she walked away as anger, sadness and hatred fueled her steps to her apartment where she changed and gathered up her violin for the world’s last performance.

She was very posh too, with fur and everything. She stood still long enough that I could study her coat, which had thirty spots. I’m not sure if it was real fur (if it was, she’s a horrible person), but she certainly acted very high-class, even speaking a little nasally and tilting her head up to look down on Brittany. I think it might’ve been because of Brittany’s skin color. The woman didn’t seem to be very accepting of hard-working people that looked different from her.

At ten o’clock pm, the close of the concert, sound waves so large they felled the building and many blocks over swept through the city. A short, dark-haired woman with a glowing white light in the center of her chest rose above the destruction, sending out pulses of sound to the far-reaching corners of the world. With no one to stop her, no one to shoot a gun next to her ear, the bottled power exploded from her chest sharing with everyone the feelings of hurt and neglect that she’d been forced to endure throughout her childhood. One person alone survived in a basement not much deeper than the fictional character’s she admired, writing away and completely unaware that the world above had changed beyond recognition.

#The Umbrella Academy #Umbrella Academy #five #five hargreeves #five hargreeves x dolores #five hargreeves x oc #five hargreeves x reader #Five x oc #five x dolores #tua five #5 #human dolores #pre-tua #apocalypse #hargreeves #dolores isn't a mannequin #vanya hargreeves

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moonamite · 3 years

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Blinding Shadows: Chapter 22

“What’s wrong?” Goose asked, watching Marx’s reaction. He was feeling a bunch of things he didn’t understand and he HATED IT. His head was spinning and his stomach was doing backflips. ‘I appreciate you’. What was he supposed to say to that? HOW was he supposed to say anything to that? “Stars above... I know you don’t want me listening to your thoughts, but how can I ignore you when you’re such a flaming mess?” Goose mused, lying down on the grass in the sunlight, stretching. “Do you think I said too much for you?” He said jokingly. Marx joined him on the ground, letting himself fall face-first into the grass. He let out a muffled groan of frustration. “I don’t know! Everything was normal and then a bunch of strangers came from out of nowhere and then I met you and NOW-” He sighed. “Now I just- Goose... I have no idea what’s going on.” He rolled onto his back and stared miserably up at the tree branches above them. “Was it even really an accident that I found you in my hammock?” He questioned. Goose laughed, which sounded unusual to Marx, but not bad. “Yes... But that’s where the coincidences end. Well, that, and then you being told to help me with the tent. The rest was all me. I wandered into your hammock, thinking it was too unkempt to be owned by anyone, and needing to rest. Then you came along and started yelling.” Goose said. “It was NOT ‘unkempt’, whatever that means! And, anyways, it was TOTALLY justified for me to yell! You brought that little thhhing into my hammock!” Marx protested, earning a snicker from Goose. “Anywho, after that first encounter, I was hooked. You were something completely different from what i’m used to, and I don’t just mean physically. How you act, think and feel were unlike anything i’d ever experienced. I just... I don’t know,” Goose paused, looking timidly at Marx. “Just really wanted to know you.” Marx abruptly flipped over to look him in the eyes (his deep, green eyes- SHUT UP FEELINGS). “No way, you’re trying to convince me you DIDN’T want to turn around and run in the opposite direction the SECOND you heard me? I don’t buy it.” He said. “I considered it. But I thought about it some more, and decided that, for you, maybe it’d be better if I didn’t do that.” Goose replied, stretching out his wings, his curly fur fluffing up in the sun’s rays, and he had NO RIGHT to look so fluffy and soft! Suddenly, Goose grabbed Marx’s claw. But ‘grabbed’ didn’t feel like the right word... It sounded too rough to describe how Goose did it. Snatched? Gripped? No word fit right. Ugh, how DARE he make him mess up his words, on top of everything else he’s done to him! “Held. I think the word you’re looking for is held.” Goose interjected with a hint of amusement. “I know these aren’t your biological wings, but they’re nice. I’ve never seen anything like this... I’m not saying I don’t like it! It’s the opposite, actually.” Goose mumbled. Suddenly, Goose’s grip tightened, and then he threw Marx to his other side and into the sunlight, making him yelp in surprise. Goose laughed heartily, and it took Marx a second to recover and realize that he just got bamboozled! Nu-huh! I’M the one who does the bamboozling around here! That heart-stealing laugh wasn’t going to spare him of his wrath this time! Marx interrupted Goose’s almost-adorable giggling fit with a playful shove, which sent the unsuspecting orb back onto the ground, though it didn’t stop his laughs. As a final act of vengeance, he pounced on Goose, earning an ‘oof’ from the green fuzzball as he was knocked back down. After recovering, there was an awkward beat of silence as both of them realized the situation they were in, causing Marx to get off of him and not talk about it. “You know,” Goose started, calming down and brushing the grass off himself. “Maybe this place isn’t that bad.” He remarked. “What makes you say that all of the sudden?” Marx asked smugly. “Well, for starters, there’s plenty of food, drinkable water, and a mostly welcoming community. It’s a new, fresh start for all of us. This place just feels almost too peaceful.” He explained. Almost too peaceful. You know, ignoring the literal massive flaming threat that could literally come down at any time and destroy everything. If only there was just a way to... Get rid of her without having to take any risks. I mean, at least they’re already cremated? Goose wheezed behind him. Of course, there was always his friend’s magic, but... After what he told him about not wanting to use his magic, he really didn’t want to force him. Was there a way to kill Victory without any unnecessary injuries? He thought about this for a while. Maybe they could use already existing enchanted items instead of making new ones? Goose’s knife? It’s only for bringing him stuff, and it only works for him. I have a feeling Goose won’t be up for asking his knife to bring him the heart of one of his own, even if she’s completely evil and totally deserves it. Besides, wouldn’t Victory just be able to melt the metal thing just like every other metal thing she’s touched? So that wouldn’t work. The dream shell couldn’t do anything because, what were they gonna do, give her a nightmare so scary she’ll die of a heart attack? Probably not. Argh, why do all of his things have to be so NOT MURDERY? Then he remembered something else. The glass. It was basically just like Goose’s magic, right? It could make anything happen through enough willpower. And Marx could think of a few people who really wanted Victory dead. He turned to Goose to explain his genius plan, but judging by the look on his face, he already knew everything. “I know what you’re thinking, and i’m not sure it’s safe. Trusting the magic of a possibly evil entity? It may be sleeping, but...” He folded his wings, sighing. “I sincerely hate to say this, but it may be our only option. We need her dead as soon as possible, before she can kill anyone else.” He nodded. Marx puffed out his fur proudly with a grin. Of course i’m right! “We should bring it to the others first.” Goose added, making Marx deflate. “Should we? I mean, what if they want to do something else, or something more dangerous?” Marx asked. “I know you aren’t Eclipse’s favorite person, but I trust his judgement. He and the others all sound fairly reasonable. We can trust them. I think.” Goose replied. I hate it when you say ‘I think’ all the time and how you sound so unsure, because then you make ME feel unsure! Marx complained internally. “Shall we go, then?” Goose said, getting into position to take off. “Sure.” He answered hesitantly. Time to save the world, for real this time! ...Hopefully.

#Marx #Kirby Marx #Blinding Shadows #Kirby fic

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ragingbookdragon · 4 years

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To Challenge The Flow of Fate PT. 1

An Adrian Tepes (Alucard) x Reader Story

Warnings: Explicit Language, Mentions of Violence Author’s Note: So, after binge watching seasons 1 and 2, of course, I started a mental story, and I’ve finally put it down to word. Enjoy! Cause I have no idea where this is going tbh. -Thorne <3 Update: I changed the title from ‘To Challenge The Flow Of Immortality’ to what it is now, because I feel that it fits better with the story!

Her eyes snapped open the second after they hit the ground, and she shoved at the legs across her torso. “Trevor. Get the fuck off me before I amputate both your legs.” His chuckle quickly dissolved into a groan as he rolled off her, clutching at his stomach, and she leaned up, hands coming to her side to help push herself up. She muttered to herself as she dusted off her pants, slipping the sword back into its scabbard, “What type of genius lands on metal beams that have been under the goddamn ground for who knows how goddamn long?” Trevor rolled his eyes as he helped Sypha to her feet and retorted,

“Will you stop complaining (Y/N)? You’re alive, aren’t you?” She jerked around, narrowing her eyes into a glare.

“You won’t be in the next few minutes if we don’t find a way out of here.” When Sypha found her feet, he looked over at (Y/N), pulling a smug face.

“And what are you gonna do? Stab me?” Her hand went to her hilt and she spat,

“Don’t tempt me you arse.” Trevor stuck his tongue out at her, but stopped when the Speaker next to them groaned,

“Will you two please stop fighting? You’re acting like children.” The siblings glared at each other for a moment before they scoffed and began walking to the hallway. They entered the room, and (Y/N) immediately drew her eyes around the walls.

“Wow…look at this place…it’s amazing.” She drew her gaze to the center of the room, scanning the large coffin. “Is that what I think it is?” Trevor shrugged and muttered,

“Won’t know ‘til we find out.” No sooner did the words leave his mouth, did his foot sink into the ground. The sound of gears turning echoed through the room and he blurted, “I didn’t do that.” (Y/N) glowered at him from his right and quipped,

“Nice goin’ loser. You just woke up whatever’s in there.” Before he could retort, a cloud of gas released from the coffin and they stared at it as it rose, the top sliding off. She leaned over slightly, voice soft as she murmured, “Trevor…is that…” He nodded, lips pursed into a thin line, and (Y/N) gripped the hilt of her sword. The lid dropped against the marble with loud thunk, and she felt it resonate in her chest as the man rose from it, coming to levitate above it. He hunched over, voice low and gravely as he asked,

“Why are you here?” Sypha’s eyes grew wide as she exclaimed,

“The story…the Messiah sleeps under Gresit! The man who will save us from Dracula.” The man didn’t respond, simply turning his attention to (Y/N) and Trevor.

“And you two? Are you in search of a mythical savior as well?” (Y/N) opened her mouth to respond, but was cut off as her brother remarked,

“I fell down a hole.” She grunted, elbowing him in the side.

“Will you fucking shut the hell up before you say something even more stupid?” He eyed her from the corner of his eye, tempted to stick his tongue out again, and she turned to the man. “We need your help.” Sypha nodded, adding,

“Dracula is abroad in the land. He has an army of monsters and is determined to wipe out all human life wherever he finds it.” The man’s head simply tipped as he acknowledged her, but then asked,

“Is that what you believe?”

“That Dracula’s released his horde on Wallachia? That’s fact. There’s no belief involved.” (Y/N) watched carefully as her brother spoke, hand tightening around the hilt of her sword as his voice dropped and he questioned, “But that’s not what you’re asking.”

“No.” Trevor drew his gaze up and clarified,

“You’re asking if I believe you’re some sleeping Messiah who’ll save us and no, I don’t.” Even Sypha’s shocked call of his name didn’t stop him as he growled, “I know what you are.” (Y/N) knew a grin was on the man’s face as he challenged,

“And what am I?”

“You’re a vampire.” At this, the man finally looked up at them and with Sypha’s gasp in her ears, she caught sight of pointed fangs. “So, I have to ask myself, have we come down here to wake up the man who’ll kill Dracula…or did we come here to kill Dracula?” The man rose to his full height, but before he could speak, (Y/N) announced,

“He’s not Dracula.” Everyone’s eyes turned to her, and Trevor scoffed,

“He’s a vampire (Y/N). Under Gresit. That doesn’t leave a lot of room for misinterpretations.” She side eyed him before glancing at the vampire, eyes scanning his face.

“And Dracula’s forces are attacking Gresit in a war on humanity. No person, not even a vampire, would sleep as they waged war. You have to be awake and present.” She observed the man for a moment. “Trevor, he might be a vampire…but he isn’t Dracula.” The vampire lowered towards the ground, eyeing (Y/N) as she inconspicuously moved to Trevor’s blindside.

“One calls me Dracula…the other doesn’t.” Trevor grunted at him.

“I’ll call you whatever you like if you’re gonna show me your teeth.” The vampire gestured to Sypha.

“She called you Belmont…are you from the House of Belmont?” (Y/N) could feel the tension rising as Trevor affirmed,

“Trevor Belmont. Last son of the House of Belmont.” The man glanced at (Y/N).

“And you? The one who is standing at his back?” (Y/N) met his eyes, amazed at how they looked like pools of molten gold.

“(Y/N) Belmont. Last daughter of the House of Belmont.” The man’s eyebrows pulled together, and he explained,

“The Belmont’s fought creatures of the night, did they not? For generations.” Trevor barely spared the two women glances before he moved, ignoring (Y/N)’s hum of concern.

“Say what you mean.” He threatened, stepping to the sides, watching as the man’s eyes followed him.

“The Belmont’s killed vampires.” Trevor huffed.

“Until the good people decided they didn’t want us around.” The nonchalance made (Y/N)’s fingers twitch as she started moving the other direction, opposite of Trevor. The vampire’s eyes darted to her moving figure, letting her know he was aware as he said,

“And now Dracula is carrying out an execution order on the human race.” He paused, then raised a hand. “Do you care Belmont?” The question gave Trevor a pause, and he looked at the wall in front of him.

“Honestly, I didn’t, no.” He took a breath and continued. “But now…yes, it’s time to stop it.”

“Do you think you can?” Trevor turned, hand moving to his whip and declared,

“What I think…is I’m going to have to kill you.” Sypha grunted, taking a step forward.

“Belmont! No!” She argued. “He’s the one we’ve been waiting for.” Trevor moved back a bit, (Y/N) doing the same.

“No, he’s not. He’s a vampire. And he’s not been waiting here for hundreds of years, have you?” The man’s eyes narrowed into slits as he warned,

“I don’t like your tone, Belmont.”

“This place is old, but it’s not been abandoned. It’s alive and working. So, go on, vampire, tell her exactly how long you’ve been waiting down here.” The man’s attention turned to the Speaker.

“What is the year of your Lord?” Her voice was clear as she responded,

“1476.” He turned back to Trevor.

“Perhaps a year, then.” Trevor nodded.

“There. And on top of that, what kind of messiah creates mechanical death traps to buy himself an uninterrupted nap in a stone coffin?”

“My defenses we not for you.” Trevor huffed.

“You could’ve told your defenses that.”

“They are machines, nothing more. They were not intended to protect me from you.” The vampire’s tone was clipped, and (Y/N) quickly concluded,

“Defenses of that power would give even the best monster hunters trouble.” She regarded him with a look of suspicion. “You’re protecting yourself from something more dangerous than simple monster hunters.” He nodded at her, turning to look back at her brother.

“I asked you a question. Do you care?” Trevor leaned forward and announced,

“I care about doing my family’s work. I care about saving lives.” He turned his body. “Am I going to have to kill you?” At this, the man’s tone colored with anger and he sneered,

“Do you think you can? If you’re really a Belmont and not some runt running around with a family crest, you might be able to.” He flicked a finger, and (Y/N) heard a clinking sound before a silver sword spun through the air. He caught it and slung it back, the air cutting before it with a sharp slice. “Let’s find out.” Sypha leaned forward.

“Belmont you can’t do this!” She turned to (Y/N). “(Y/N)! Stop him, please!” Trevor cut her off before she could speak.

“Tell it to your floating vampire Jesus here.” The man’s face pinched and he countered,

“You’ve got nothing but insults, have you? A tired little-” The whip cracked the lower end of his torso, sending him flying. He skidded across the ground, and looked up, a hiss passing his lips, and (Y/N) warned,

“Trevor.” He didn’t look at her.

“Stay there (Y/N). I’m fine.” The two began to fight, and (Y/N) moved back near Sypha, knowing she couldn’t help her brother.

“(Y/N), please! Stop them!” She glanced at the woman and grunted with laughter as she watched Trevor knee the man in the groin. Her laughter quickly faded into shock as she watched her brother’s short sword snap, then get punched to the ground. The vampire dropped his sword, moving to Trevor, one hand gripping the hair at the crown of his head, the other shoving his shoulder down.

“Do you have a god to put a last prayer to, Belmont?” A grin played at Trevor’s lips and he quipped,

“Yeah. Dear God, please don’t let the vampire’s guts ruin my good tunic.” The man’s bled with confusion as he asked,

“What?” He let out a pained grunt as the dagger entered his chest. He leaned forward, hissing, “I can still rip your throat out.”

“You can, but it won’t stop me staking you.”

“But you will still die.”

“But I don’t care. Killing you was the point. Living through it was just a luxury.” The vampire let out a chuckle, but stopped as a hand tightened in his hair, pulling him back, and an edge of a blade rested against his throat. He made no movement as he felt breath next to his ear.

“I might be the only Belmont willing to talk my way out of fights, but make no mistake, I will cut your head off if you kill my brother, vampire.” A bright light appeared in the vampire’s gaze and he looked forward at Sypha, who stood in front of him.

“And I will incinerate you before your fangs touch that man’s throat.”

“I thought I was your legendary savior.” Sypha’s head lowered.

“So did I. But he saved my life.”

“You’re a Speaker-Magician.” She nodded.

“Yes, and his goal is mine…” Her eyes shone bright as she added, “To stand up for the people.” The vampire regarded her for a moment before looking down and muttering,

“Good. Very good. Two vampire hunters and a magician.” The cut began to heal on his torso, and he leaned up off Trevor’s dagger. “You’ll do.” He let go of Trevor’s hair, but made no more movement when (Y/N)’s blade didn’t move.

“You won’t kill us?” She queried. He nodded, as best he could and added,

“On my honor.” With his confirmation, she drew back her blade, and released her grip, smoothing the hair down from where she had it gripped. He stood up and turned to them. “I am Adrian Tepes. Known to the Wallachians as Alucard…son of Vlad Dracula Tepes.” Before he could continue, (Y/N) leaned around his body, pointing at Trevor.

“Fuckin’ told you dumbass.” Trevor’s blue eyes filled with annoyance and he gave her a sarcastic clap.

“Congratulations sister, shall I give you a pat on the back for your excellent deduces?” She scowled at him.

“How ‘bout you bend over and let me plant my foot up your ass.”

“Children, please!” The two went silent at Sypha’s exasperated call, and Adrian continued.

“I’ve been asleep here in my private keep under Gresit for a year,” He placed a hand over his chest, and (Y/N) caught sight of the angry red scar across his pale skin. “to heal the wounds dealt by my father when I attempted to stop him unleashing his demon armies.” Sypha’s hand lowered and she marveled,

“You are the sleeping soldier.” Adrian turned to her.

“I’m aware of the stories. I’m also aware that the Speakers consider the story to be information from the future. Do you know the whole story?” A dust of crimson touched the tips of Sypha’s cheeks, and she ignored (Y/N)’s snicker as she nodded.

“Yes.”

“The sleeping soldier will be met by a hunter and a scholar.” Trevor’s neck disappeared into his shoulders as he muttered,

“No one told me that.” (Y/N) waved him off and questioned,

“The hell am I then? Chopped liver?”

“You smell like it.” She flipped her middle finger at Trevor who snorted, and Adrian turned to her, golden eyes zeroing in on the onyx raven crest at her chest.

“A huntress from the Order of Shadows…I never expected to see one in person.” (Y/N) blinked in stunned silence. When she found her senses, she asked,

“You know the Order?” Adrian nodded.

“Only by the outstanding reputation for being protectors of the innocent and oppressed.” He eyed to silver sword in her hand. “And for being deadly in combat.” He looked back at Trevor. “I think I might’ve lost if she’d engaged me instead of you.” Trevor rolled his eyes, ignoring the barb, and Sypha took it as a chance to speak.

“Why do you think my grandfather tried everything to make you stay?” Trevor picked himself off the ground, groaning,

“I hate speakers.” The three waited for Adrian to dress, then Sypha inquired,

“So, what happens now?” Adrian shoved the scabbard into his belt.

�� “I need two hunters and a scholar. I need help to save Wallachia…” The sword lifted from the ground, sheathing itself. “Perhaps the world and defeat my father.” Trevor glanced at him, suspicion coloring his tone.

“Why?” Adrian’s feet stopped and he murmured,

“Because it is what my mother would have wanted…and we are all, in the end…slaves to our families wishes.” The words made (Y/N)’s heart heavy, but she ignored it, tightening the armor at her wrist.

“You’ll help us kill Dracula and save Wallachia?” The four met at the doorway, and Adrian nodded.

“My father has to die.” He glanced at them, eyes stopping to rest on (Y/N). “We four…we can destroy him.” For a moment, no one spoke, then (Y/N) pointed to the doorway, deadpanning,

“Not to break the dramatic silence here, but numbnuts broke the gears and shit coming down, so how the fuck do we get out of here?” Adrian passed her by, his eyes so focused on her, it almost made her sweat.

“Follow me.” The vampire walked ahead, Sypha following him, but the two siblings stood solemn. The two didn’t speak at first, then she whispered,

“Are you sure about this Trevor?” She looked aver at him, watching as he glared daggers into Adrian’s back.

“No…no I’m not.” (Y/N) took in a breath, then let it out.

“Well…nothing we can do about it now.” Trevor nodded, following her as she jogged to catch up with the other two. “So, Goldenrod…do you prefer Alucard or Adrian?”

#adrian tepes #adrian tepes imagines #adrian tepes x reader #adrian tepes x reader imagines #adrian tepes x reader imagine #adrian tepes fanfiction #castlevania #castlevania imagine #castlevania imagines #castlevania fanfiction #trevor belmont #sypha belnades #adrian tepes imagine

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itsclydebitches · 4 years

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Title: Mightier Than the Sword

Fandom: Witcher

Summary: A month after the events of "Rare Species," Geralt slinks his way into an inn and is faced with the question of how an emotionless man apologies. (TV!canon with some details drawn from the books and Wild Hunt.)

Pairing: Pre-slash Geralt and Jaskier

Word Count: 2,568

Where to read it: Below or on AO3

A/N: It’s a Christmas miracle! Look at me making an attempt at writing. I figured that if season one was going to leave us in that horrible place with Jaskier and Geralt’s relationship I’d just have to start fixing it myself 👍

The storm had raged for two days and looked as if it had enough life in it for a third. When Geralt shouldered his way into the inn he felt like there was a kikimore on the other side, so strong was the wind keeping slabs attached to frame. When he finally managed and let the door slam shut behind him, catching his heel and dimming the storm’s voice, he found a number of glares leveled his way, the patrons none too pleased at the cold interruption. Dropping his hood did not improve matters.

One man splendid in rotting clothes and stained teeth spat as soon as he saw Geralt’s hair. Another flinched away from his eyes. Still another pretended to keep attention on his food but Geralt caught the inquisitive looks he snuck, far worse than any hatred. The curious only thought they were kinder.

“Witcher,” said a fourth. That tone spread through the room. Apparently Jaskier’s ballads hadn’t reached this corner of the world yet.

Geralt found his seat and kept his back to the wall.

For all the poverty he’d passed through in this town the inn at least was holding its own. The horse hair plaster did little to warm the space, but the many bodies and roaring fire made up for the lack of insulation. The room was otherwise dark. Comforted in the soft chatter and the simple blessing that, though they might growl, no one was inclined to approach him. Geralt took a moment to merely sit, listening to the drip of water from his cloak and the clink of spoons against bowls. The latter made his stomach ache something fierce and with a sigh Geralt stood, approaching the bar.

The innkeep took one look at his threadbare clothes and went back to cleaning his nails. Geralt slid what little coin he had across the counter.

“Oats,” he said. “For the chestnut mare outside.”

“This look like a ploughing stable to you?”

“Does this metal look fake to you?”

Geralt spoke of the coin. Might have meant his sword. Either understanding worked just fine. The innkeep pocketed his meager offering in a flash.

“Doesn’t get your bitch much,” he said, but moved to the back regardless, presumably to make up a pail. Geralt traced his movements just long enough for reassurance before heading back to the fire. His knuckles creaked and when he grimaced the skin of his lips split.

As he sat that hole in his stomach grew wider, deeper, pulled him down stronger than gravity herself and Geralt had to plant his feet against the wave of dizziness that hit. Even witchers were susceptible to starvation. Obviously he would have preferred food for both himself and Roach, but work hadn’t been kind to him these last few weeks. Oh, there were plenty of monsters, just few people willing to pay for their demise. As he’d once told Jaskier, the two rarely went hand-in-hand.

...must be the hunger addling his brain. Geralt knew of no other reason why he should think so much on a bard who was no longer bound to him. He’d severed that tie himself, over a month past.

“Endings,” Geralt said. To Roach, really. The conversation had picked up enough to cover his voice and he knew his horse was just beyond the wall, sheltered beneath the hanging roof of the inn. “It was bound to happen eventually. Best to do it on my own terms.”

If pressed Geralt might have admitted to catching that snort. As if Roach had heard, understood, and had more than her fair share to say about that claim. But he held his ground. Jaskier would have left, and all the better for it. Over the last few weeks Geralt had pictured the man lying prone on Yennefer’s bed. Thought over the advice he’d given about heading to the coast. Become antsy during the long stretch of silences and could only admit now that he’d grown used to Jaskier’s singing. The memories of his songs had settled in the back of his mind, rooting there with a determination that fit their author. More than once Geralt had caught himself humming a tune when there was no one else to hear it.

Yes. There were things he... missed. But better to miss them now while they shown bright in his memory. There would have come a day when Jaskier would no longer ask to accompany him to far off places. Where his songs would warn of a witcher’s violence and treachery, rather than simply lying through his teeth. There may have even come a time when he fell and no sorceress, not even one of Yennerfer’s skill, could save him. Geralt knew this as surely as he knew the weight of his own sword.

Jaskeir would have grown to hate him whether he’d held his foolish tongue or not. That was a destiny Geralt could believe in.

He’d just resolved to meditate until the phrase ‘Toss a coin to your witcher’ finally left his head—its repetition had certainly not brought the command into reality—when a plate was dumped in front of him, steaming meat and crispy potatoes. A bit of relish dotted the top, specific to the region as Geralt didn’t recognize the spices. The smell was enough for him to draw a sharp breath though, swallowing it like that might fill the hole in his stomach. He forced himself to look up into the eyes of a plain woman and kept his hands away from the table's edge.

“I didn’t order this,” Geralt said.

The woman smiled. “I know.”

Hmm. “You misunderstand. I don’t have coin to pay for this.” A drink was set beside the plate. The smell of steamed milk had Geralt briefly closing his eyes.

The woman chuckled. At his longing or whatever game she played, he didn’t know. Perhaps both. Though Geralt had an inkling that he had misjudged her when she pushed the plate closer, a chipped nail tapping its edge.

“It’s you who’s not understandin’” she said. “Coin’s already in the pocket. Mine, not my lout of a brother over there.” Her head jerked towards the innkeep. “Pretty bard was in here just a mo’ ago. Went pale as milk when he saw ye. Thought the poor boy was gonna faint! But he recovered, sure as anything, and gave me a handful of silver before slippin’ out the back. Had stern instructions that I get you a hearty dinner so now here I am, doin’ jus’ that. You won’t catch Sinah goin’ back on her word, no sir. So go on. Eat your fill, witcher. More where that came from if you’ve a mind to have it,” and Sinah inched the plate ever closer.

Geralt’s gaze was on the hearth though. He stared at the flames and tried to ignore how the smell of meat had gone sour. “A bard?”

“Aye. As said, a pretty thing. More dolled up than we’re likely to get ‘round these parts. Sang a bit for his own meal before settlin’ in the back. Quiet. Fidgety. Like a mouse before the cat. Specially when he caught sight of that hair o’ yours. Thought he might be a monster himself—one of those dopple things, if you know my meaning—up until he asked me to serve ye. Odd that. I’ll not have my cookin’ go to waste though. I’ll take it back if—hey now!”

But Geralt was already up and on the move because he’d heard it. Muttering something about saving his plate, he was across the room with a dexterity only a witcher could manage, dodging legs, chairs, spilled drinks, all in near darkness. Throwing himself out into the gale that sound grew stronger. No one else would have heard it above the storm, but Geralt followed it like a clear, melodious bell.

Someone was speaking to Roach. Jaskier was speaking to Roach.

A little ways down the path to avoid a small river forming, around the corner of the inn. Geralt slipped into the shadows created by the overhang and blinked at the sudden assault on his vision. Jaskier was dressed entirely in purple and pink, a beacon amid the grays of the night. Geralt’s first thought upon spotting him was that his clothing was a monstrosity all its own and he would happily accept a contract to dispose of it.

Then, ears perking like a wolf’s, Geralt focused on the conversation.

“—hardly deserves it,” Jaskier was saying, using Roach’s neck to hide from a particularly sodden gust of wind. His mare put up with it, long familiar with the man’s proximity. “Though I suppose that you could technically make an argument for reciprocation. If I am owed a ten percent cut of whatever work he secures thanks to my genius ballads, then perhaps I owe him ten percent of whatever I earn thanks to his heroics. Yes, yes. I know I’m not supposed to be touching you, but I’m not see? I’m touching your saddlebags. Geralt can’t get mad about that, can he?”

He could, yet astoundingly Geralt found that he was not. How could he be when the light of the moon showed Jaskier slipping coin into the side pocket where Geralt was sure to find it? Shivering, drenched to the bone, Jaskier continued to give up his riches, smiling all the while. Geralt could see it even from the shadows. Noted the melancholy grip on its edge. He looked away—again—and this time told himself that it was so his shining eyes didn’t give him away. The excuse sounded weak even within his own head.

“Just a bit to tide him over,” Jaskier said, continuing to pour more than “a bit” into various pockets. “And you of course! No need to tell him I was here, but you should make sure he buys you plenty of carrots. You need more than these wet oats... oh by the gods those look disgusting. I’m sorry, girl. I’d sneak back in to get you something as well but... ah.... not sure ‘sneaking’ and ‘White Wolf’ go well together. Our King of Brooding would spot me for sure and then where would I be? Suffering another punch I’d wager. And given our last meeting I don’t think Geralt would settle for aiming at my gut. Sorry, girl, but this face is just too beautiful to risk.”

Another sliver coin glinting from the shadows. An endless wave of prattle just under the rain. Geralt listened as Jaskier told Roach all about his travels over the last month, how audiences were growing weary of the ballads he had, demanding new, exciting tales. Jaskier had nothing to give them. Though that was fine. Grand even! Challenge and limitation, the bread and butter of an artist. He would find a way and until then he’d help others find there’s. Even grumpy witchers.

“I’m his friend, after all,” Jaskier said. It came out quieter than all the rest. “That’s what the foolish man doesn’t realize. Hardly matters whether he’s my friend. Doesn’t stop me from being his. Really, all those mutated brains and he’s dumb as a goat half the time. He’s lucky he’s gorgeous.” Roach tossed her head, knocking into Jaskier’s and drawing a chuckle. “Knew you’d agree with that, girl. There now. All loaded up? Excellent. I’m going to go dry off now. I will not allow this storm to ruin my new outfit,” and he did a little twirl, showing off the decorative stitching. “Stunning? Why yes, I’m quite aware. Never hurts to hear it though. Thank you, darling.”

Jaskier planted a quick kiss on her muzzle, whispered not to tell, and with a wink slipped away. Geralt took note of the house he was renting a room from and then returned to the inn.

He found Sinah in the back removing a man’s hand from her waist. She followed him to his seat, the meat and potatoes now cold. Geralt shoveled forkfuls down regardless.

“You said the bard’s coin would get me more?”

Sinah inclined her head. “Aye. Wanting a second plate, do you?”

“No, but I’ll take paper and quill if you have it.”

If she found the request odd she didn’t show it. Sinah left and returned with the speed of a wraith, depositing pulpy parchment and a vile of ink heavily watered down. It was enough. Geralt inclined his head in turn, the most respectful gesture she’d seen all day, and the two parted with satisfaction on both sides. Geralt put aside a third of his meal for Roach before finishing the rest with a speed that would have choked a human man. Done, he set about composing a list.

He was no poet. Geralt hadn’t the words to describe his contracts with anything other than the blunt language spoken by all witchers. Still, he made an effort to include details. He wrote about the noonwraith he’d dispatched three towns over, only to find that the residents had but an eighth of the coin they’d originally promised. Geralt had looked at their own sunken cheeks, taken half of that eighth, and been on his way. After that had come the drowner colony, but no one cared to pay for what amounted to a pest—even a dangerous one. There were the men who’d succeeded in both putting a hole in his cloak as well as forfeiting their lives. The young woman who looked much like Sinah but had none of her honor, attempting to lure Geralt into a robbery through false tears. The ghoul whose liver he'd eaten when he couldn’t sell it. The curse he’d lifted for a roof over his head. The nekkers that had managed to drain the rest of his energy before he’d finally collapsed here. It was all common work. The witcher equivalent of doing one’s chores. It was only Jaskier’s voice in his head that told Geralt any of this might interest another.

The whole thing filled five pages and took the length of time required to dry his socks. There was no signature. The writing was splotchy and the paper now smelled of rain. Geralt folded it with all the care he’d give to cleaning his sword.

It wasn’t an apology because witchers didn’t do apologies. Geralt wasn’t even sure he’d know how to give one if required... though this was probably as close as he’d get. He would not think on what Jaskier had done to earn the attempt.

Instead, Geralt planned to sop up the remaining juice on his plate and lick his fingers clean. He would return the inkwell to Sinah and, when the rest of him was dry, he’d ruin it all by going back out into the storm, across the weeds, into the room where Jaskier slept with lute and clothes as flamboyant as a peacock. Geralt’s notes would look like a pauper’s trifle next to the rest of his belongings, but perhaps Jaskier could spin them into something grand.

Indeed, perhaps someday soon there would be another inn, a new ballad, and this time Jaskier would choose to stay. Geralt wouldn't deserve that, but he found himself thinking on it nonetheless. Treacherous thoughts that circumvented destiny and warmed him far better than the fire.

Until then, Geralt curled in on himself and let the music he already knew wash over him.

#witcher #the witcher #twn #geralt #jaskier #dandelion #geralt x dandelion #(pre-slash)#gerlion #witcherfic

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maidenxfmight · 4 years

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make ash and leave the dust behind (pt 2)

Tagging: @master-of-magnetism & Kara Zor-El When: August 1st, 2020 Where: Erik’s apartment What: This is the part where the villain says “we are not so different, you and I.” Warnings: Manipulation, xenophobia mention Word Count: 6,505

ERIK: He was distantly aware he should be worried, that he should have the familiar creep of anxiety cloying in his chest. Any time before a big move--lab raids, police station attacks, any of the sorts of things that tend to land him on the news--that feeling has been there. There were always so many things that could go wrong, and as a strategist, Erik knew what they were, how numerous, how dangerous.

What was coming tomorrow was the biggest mission he'd ever arranged, with far more moving parts--and far more lethal consequences should something go wrong. He knew that.

But the feeling wasn't there. Instead, he felt this other thing in him all but purring in excitement and reassurance.

One way or another, your people will be free in 72 hours' time.

Freedom. Novel.

He'd taken up in his Brooklyn apartment, tonight--he would return the the headquarters before sunrise to be there for final preparations, but he wanted the space tonight.

More importantly, he did not want anyone else seeing the uninvited but not unwelcome guest the Phoenix warned him would be coming. And it had yet to be wrong. He was at his window with a glass of scotch (what Jean didn't know wouldn't hurt her) when he felt the other presence, and Erik waved open the door before the woman could do anything with it--whether she would have knocked or knocked it down was up in the air, but he had a feeling it was the latter.

He also had a feeling that he could well die tonight, if he wasn't careful. But he knew her. They'd spoken before--even more than Erik had realized, until the confrontation at L-Corp. He could talk to her.

If he was going to talk an entire country into breaking one of their usual rules, he could talk down Supergirl. Even one with Kryptonite in her system.

"I knew you'd come," he said, glancing at her reflection in the window. He drained his glass and set it down in the windowsill before turning to face her, feeling a dangerous sort of calm.

(Dangerous for who?)

"I thought we might be able to help each other."

KARA: Something was wrong.

It scratched just beneath her skin, pressed against the back of her mind. Somewhere it registered, maybe she shouldn't feel like this, this was wrong wrong wrong and she should be clawing her way into figuring it out. But no matter where she dug in, her grip crumbled and faltered and she was falling again. Something was wrong.

But Rao it felt so right.

She'd woken up with her hand pressing through her phone and into the bedside table below, wood splintering beneath fingertips that hardly even felt it. It might've bothered her before (she was a reporter, Snapper hardly let her off her leash as it was, she had to eat she couldn't afford this), but her fingers curled and she found some kind of satisfaction in the way the glass crackled and ground together.

(She could just go take one. Who would tell her no?)

Everything felt off, from the way her clothes fit against her to the lazy Metro line she took to work each morning. The first time she put on her suit her crest felt gaudy. She'd never liked it plastered on coffee mugs, hugging billboards and printed on the front of T-Shirts anyone could buy from Wal-Mart. It was hers. It belonged to the Great House of El, and only those honored to share their last name should wear it.

The point was she felt different. Good different. Her fingers curled into fists, she could plough through the Earth without breaking a sweat and maybe, just maybe she should. The only good thing that had ever come of Earth was, was (crawl up, get out, this is wrong)–

Slip, stop, no. It wouldn't do to think of the people she called friends and family. There were more important things to address. Because Kara could pinpoint the change, and it looked like curling metal and fire roiling behind cool grey eyes. It felt like damp back alleys and the smell of blood and cigarette smoke. It was a sneer and anger that had hardened into something cold and dangerous.

It all came back to Erik, somehow, as it was wont to do of late. Whether they were on street corners in out-of-the-way suburbs, the late-night shadows of New York's rougher neighborhoods, or her supposed best friend's ivory tower, it all came back to Erik Lehnsherr. He'd always had an agenda, she'd known that from the moment she met him. When she got wrapped up in it, however, she wasn't sure. (She wondered, briefly, if she should be thanking him. A veil had been lifted, the air felt different. She hadn't replaced her phone since she'd crushed it and if Alex had called she didn't care).

He wanted something, he wouldn't have stolen the kryptonite if he hadn't. He had his cards in his hand, arranged just the way he wanted, and Kara fully intended to scatter them. She could rip the sleeves, unravel the threads, figure out just what he was hiding. It started with his apartment, lit a light yellow-orange against the starry New York skyline. The doors opened before she could crash through them, and she couldn't help but laugh. He'd been expecting her. Of course he'd been expecting her. The rush of wind caused by her sudden entrance scattered papers in every direction, but he seemed singularly focused.

(This is wrong, this is wrong, but really, honestly it isn't.)

"Oh, funny. You think I need you."

ERIK: The laugh bubbled out, unrestrained, because this was funny. (It's not, it's not.) The smile on his face didn't falter, didn't flinch at the way his papers scattered around the room. Hell hath no fury like a woman, and this woman could blast buildings to so much confetti if the desire struck on a good day, but he wasn't worried. There was too much power rolling through both of them. He and Jean had nearly taken this building apart once before as a conversation spiraled out of control, had stopped only by virtue of their mutual sentiment for each other. If he and Supergirl went the same route, there was no telling who, or what, would be left after.

It wasn't quite mutually assured destruction, but it was something like it, something that made the Phoenix sing.

"I think you needed the blinder taken off. Which I've done for you," he answered smoothly, taking a step toward her. Unafraid, perfectly steady, perfectly composed, because he was an Omega-class mutant with the force of life itself running through his veins and because he knew better than to show something dangerous anything but your own teeth unless you wanted to end up with theirs in your own throat. "Believe it or not, I was worried about you, Kara. You were so optimistic in our conversation in that alleyway. That sort of idealism gets people killed--even supers. Your little friend was manufacturing kryptonite behind your back. There are variants that kill you, as we all know, but I didn't want that. I just wanted to help you. And I have."

He stopped in front of her, eyes searching hers, his own silvery eyes flaring with the fire of the Phoenix. "Tell me it doesn't feel good, letting go, being able to stretch your powers without worrying about anyone else. Tell me it doesn't feel like the first taste of freedom you've had in ages, and if that's the case, do what you came here to do. But we both know that's not how it feels. It feels good."

KARA: Manufacturing. The word caught and tumbled, gathered the breath in her chest and stole it. Somewhere, there was a feeling, like maybe if she could think straight it would hurt. Because 'manufactured' was worlds away from 'storing.' Manufactured implied Lena had made it and she–

Maybe she would. It's not like it was the first time Lena Luthor had done something behind Supergirl's back. Oh, she claimed she did it for the greater good (she did, she didn't), to cure chronic illnesses or save a friend, that the Kryptonians had nothing to do with it. Humans died every day, right? They were at risk from cars, but no one banned cars. Lena's given reasons bounced around then fell right off a cliff, useless. Because cars weren't specifically designed to hurt one person. Designing a car to hurt one person without considering them would be irresponsible, wouldn't it?

And Lena wasn't irresponsible, she was smart. She was smart, and she was specifically manufacturing a car that could hurt Kara's family, and her family alone. Her breath came in short puffs, a muscle jumped in her jaw. Her fingers curled against her palm and she could feel the stiff set of her shoulders, relished in it. She wasn't suppose to feel like this, "you don't get to be a real person, you're a superhero." But she did, she had been for a long time. She'd been furious when Lena had first shown her the detection device prototype, when she learned Lena used kryptonite to restrain Reign, when Lena did both of those again.

And to find out she made it? Eriks windows looked tempting. She could shatter them on the way out (you did this to yourself Lehnsherr). She could crash through the rubble of L-Corp until there was nothing left, she could find the one thing that might hurt Lena Luthor and–

But Erik was stepping closer, his agenda went beyond Lena. He weaved honeyed words not unlike those he'd lain at her feet in the alley. Fire danced behind his eyes, and she could still clearly remember the way the pipes had groaned around them. She could be mad (it was so easy to be mad). He was laying his cards down one by one and it was shaping up to a straight flush. If she flew away on a whim, she'd never know how it ended. And he had done something for her, hadn't he? She'd spent months writing articles, meeting with friends in tucked away corners, just trying to make them look worthy.

They would never be worthy. Humans would only ever welcome that which was familiar to them. She could write pretty words about Warren Worthington all day and all anyone would see were his wings. She'd tried with Lena. She'd backed away, shaking, channeling her fear of a device she should never have had to be afraid of in the first place into a passionate article which had been scrapped anyway. Everything she did, everything she said went through a human filter, since the moment she'd landed on Earth.

Erik was right about one thing, he'd lifted the filter. Whatever he'd done, she didn't care anymore. For that, he at least deserved to be heard. She lifted her chin as he approached, eyes hard, breathing carefully measured. There was no trust, but there was something. Something forged between the lines of texts and in the soft curl of cigarette smoke, a tentative understanding she'd been fighting, but found her old logic just didn't hold anymore.

"You're right. I feel better than I ever have." She took a step closer to him, boots pressing into the floor with a crunch, hands lifting briefly at her side and lips ticking up in a smile. He had power she couldn't imagine, and somewhere she knew she should be afraid, but she wasn't. She had a feeling she was his last card, and a straight only worked with five in a row. "And I suppose I should thank you. But I'm waiting for the part where you tell me why I should stick around. I don't like people meddling in my life, and I have no reason to trust you won't do it again. What do I have to gain by working with you?"

ERIK: She did her best to hide it, but he knew what that look meant. He'd worn it himself too many times before: betrayal. His fellow engineers, Magda, Charles--there was no sting quite like broken trust. "You didn't know." It wasn't a question, only an observation, an understanding of things as they stood. He could see the anger coil in her shoulders, balling her hands as she cut her eyes through his windows to wear L-Corp stood out in the skyline across the water, and he felt it almost like it was his own. "You can't trust them, Kara. No matter how much they claim to care."

Come not within the measure of my wrath. Lena Luthor held the unenviable position of being subject to the wrath of two of the most powerful people alive--had created materials that held the potential to bring what there was of both their species to their knees and thought herself immune from consequences because she'd worked so hard on image. On painting herself as separate from her brother's insanity or her parents' corruption. She was a different sort of Luthor, she claimed, but she was human.

Erik let the woman advance, until they were standing within arms' reach of each other, and simply kept his eyes trained on her face as the wooden floor crunched under her feet. This space was too small, too delicate for the likes of them--hurricanes contained by glass. If they wouldn't break, the world would have to.

You're right. There was a part of him that wanted to say you'd be surprised how often that happens, but no. No need for that. They both knew he was right about far more than this. She was smart--he wouldn't get her help if she wasn't, wouldn't let her within a mile of his plans if he thought she would be stupid. He'd lifted the naive trust she'd been afflicted with, and so the wariness of his own motives was fair--welcome, even. It meant she was learning. "Because I did you a favor--etiquette suggests you ought to do the same for me. Of course, I wouldn't be asking for your help if that's all I had."

He stepped back and turned his back to her for a moment, trusting they had something of a ceasefire for the time being, and retrieved his glass, pacing over to where the decanter sat on his coffee table. He poured himself another drink. "If you'd like one, just let me know," he offered, turning his full attention back to the Super. "More importantly, our goals line up--at least for the time being. We both have information the other doesn't that could be useful, when shared--as you've just seen with regard to Miss Luthor. I have a plan in place already to enter this war, bring about that peaceful society we both want, set to commence tomorrow. I have an army at my disposal. I am happy to share what I have with you for our shared needs, and the only thing I want in return is that you do what you already want to do."

He didn't need to ask, didn't need to confirm--she was angry, had been angry for a very long time and hiding it under the mask, and now that she had the opportunity to burn it off? She would. She had to. "Humans have never been worthy of your protection or your trust. You see that now. There can be no peaceful coexistence alongside people who don't know peace. So help me give them the war they've been wanting so that we can build something new. Show them how afraid they should be."

KARA: The moment Erik turned his back, Kara's eyes were back on the distant 'L.' It was only the faint tinkling of ice in his tumbler that kept her in place, a reminder there was someone in the room who had yet to lie to her. As far as she knew. Erik's passion lent only to truth. Lies made someone small, the conviction behind them only as strong as the fear of possible repercussions.

Kara would know, she'd done her fair share of lying.

She'd acknowledged the passion behind his words even before she'd found the courage to believe in them. Experience brought credence to his cause. Of course, there was a contempt for humanity that leaked through his pretty words of revolution, but it was easy to see where it came from. Humanity had been unkind to him. Kara had molded herself into something humans could digest. There was a danger in being different, Jeremiah had said, as he handed her a pair of glasses and told her never to use her powers again. Jean had told her she wished she had the bravery to be as open even as Kara was.

Neither of them held a candle to Erik. He flaunted his powers in a way even Kara's crest couldn't capture. He was proud of them, and he was meant to suffer for it. People said 'mutant' much the same way they said 'roach.' He had every reason to rally against his oppressors, and she had no reason to doubt that he would. That he meant it, when he said he intended to help her level herself a new home. Who else would she trust?

Not Lena. Not Alex, who forgot her. Her sister's name caught, and somewhere in the back of her mind she clawed for purchase once more, a twitch of her fingers and a hitch of her breath, but the moment passed. . She pulled in a breath and turned back to Erik, a glass in his hands. He always looked so suave, even in damp alleys. She wondered if he was scared, if he'd even considered it when he turned his back on her. The implied trust would almost be refreshing, if it wasn't drown out by the residual sting of betrayal. She narrowed in on the steady thump of his heartbeat. "You have my attention, Erik." His name came out sharp, the distrust evident even as she gave. "But you have an agenda. I'm not here to a play a part in your game. I'm done playing the superhero, for anyone.

"So I'm listening, as long as I'm working with you, not for you."

ERIK: Her eyes were on the horizon through the window, when he turned back from pouring his glass--it was just a moment that he caught, but he knew without asking where her mind was. Ordinarily, he'd encourage it. He would smile and tell her to go and exact her revenge on the woman who'd put her life at risk, who had lied to her and taken her help for granted. Yet another characteristic of humans--abusing those who would give them aid and being stunned when they finally hit back. Kara's desire was normal, expected. But this was the first time she'd let out her anger on humans since she'd come, and Erik knew better than most the best ways to hurt people, had spent decades of his life with revenge consuming every day.

He would show her, because she was saying yes. Because she wasn't turning her powers on him, she was willing to help. Erik's mental chessboard reshuffled. Checkmate.

But when he began to compose his response, a pang lashed through him abruptly, covered with a sip of his glass that briefly felt clutched a little too tight. It hadn't been just like this, not really, but it was close enough that the deja vu stung for a moment. In the next, the Phoenix was soothing, smoothing, and Erik said the very same words he'd told Charles on that beach in Cuba all that time ago before everything went to pieces. It would work this time, though. He knew it.

"Of course. I want you by my side." And he did--someone like Supergirl was too powerful to be behind. (Demeaning to her power and dangerous, because someone behind your back can far more easily stab it.) He took a seat in one of his chairs, perfectly steady, perfectly calm. "You're welcome to sit, if you'd like. You’re right—of course we have an agenda; anyone who tells you they don't have one is either lying or suffers from a tragic lack of ambition." He was nothing if not meticulous in his words nearly always, and yet the plural pronoun went unnoticed. He waved a hand, and what had seemed to be a simple decorative panel of rippled steel on the wall slunk back, retreating towards the ceiling and revealing a wall covered with plans meticulously laid out with all the care of an engineer, a perfectionist, a master strategist. "Tomorrow, my people go to war. A two pronged attack to begin with, to gather attention and secure a space from which to negotiate in Stark Tower. I will be holding the citizens of New York hostage for three days, during which time the government will cede land to us to form our own society. One where we can finally have the peace humans don't understand." He leaned forwards, resting his elbows on his knees as he looked at Kara. "I could do this myself, but timing and distance would be difficult given the location of the UN building. The largest thing I would need your help with, should all go well, is tomorrow morning: at around eleven o'clock, I need the bridges and subways into Manhattan blocked or broken. I assume you could use the chance to burn off some steam. Outside of that, once Stark Tower is secured and the endgame is underway, I'm happy to assist you, should you want it, in satisfying desires of your own. Information, strategy, assets: I am at your disposal as much as you are at mine." So long as it could be kept from Jean.

KARA: By my side.

It still felt empty. It was half a promise, nothing more than a means to an end. He had his maps and his strategies, laid out in perfect detail. He had an image in his mind of a home, somewhere he could be safe with all of his people. And he had them: people. So many of them. Kara briefly thought of Jean – remember Jean? Maybe she could help, please help, this isn't right – and Scott and Charles who could be happy and themselves. He had a goal with a happy ending, a resolution to years of anger and revenge.

It was a goal so close to her own, and he knew it. Their thoughts aligned in a way that could be just beneficial enough for both of them. But he'd miscalculated. Kara didn't have anyone left. Her goal was a planet that was nothing more than dust orbiting a dying sun, a glint of green seen through the lens of a telescope. She couldn't carve a planet out of New York City. She'd tried. She'd been trying to make Earth her home since she'd first landed. She'd shaped and molded herself into the perfect human, then donned a cape and devoted her life to protecting them. And all she'd ever received in return was more pleas for help, a bounty on her head, and the word 'roach' spit across internet servers slowly gathering steam.

No. Erik wanted land; Kara wanted the whole damn planet. He wanted to ask and Kara wanted to take. She was done molding. She was done pretending. Pretending like she was less than what she was, pretending like it didn't hurt – she was too much too much too much, constantly making herself small so others wouldn't feel threatened.

It burned and she could feel it building in her chest. Why did she need strategies, if she could level the city and rule the rubble?

But there was something to be said for having a partner. He wanted her to cause a little chaos. He wanted her to burn some bridges, and he was willing to scratch her back in return? He'd get his land, Kara would help. Then she'd take the rest. "Look at you, everything perfectly in its place." She ran a finger along the boundary of New York City on his map, pausing over the Brooklyn Bridge. Something so iconic, it could be fun to watch it fall. "Me, too, right? Falling exactly where you need me to. How long have you been planning this? Years? What would you have done, if I'd decided to work against you?"

She lifted her finger, blowing out a breath, turning to face Erik once more. Leaned back against the wall, it almost felt like she could fit. This wasn't the product of a whim, her being here. There'd been a connection – not anymore, Kara, this isn't right, you have to – built on a mutual understanding. She'd given in just the right ways, and he sadder than she had ever expected (underneath all the anger, because if Kara understood anything, it was what hid behind rage). But she knew better than to believe she truly fit, not here. This would only last as long as it took them to achieve their respective goals. "Not that I will. I'd be happy to burn some bridges for you, Mr. Lehnsherr. Just...stipulations."

She stepped forward again, "I won't be directed. If there's anything you don't want me to do, you'd be smart to tell me now, and we'll talk about it. And...Lena Luthor–" Her voice ground over the name, low and dangerous. "Lena Luthor is mine to deal with from here on out."

Preferably now. How high was her building, forty stories?

ERIK: There was a new glint in her eyes, a dangerous chill to her voice that delighted the Phoenix but made something in Erik's stomach shift uncomfortably.

This part of the plan had been last to be put into place for a reason. He'd been reluctant to do this to someone who was becoming something of a friendly enemy (and oh, he knew far too much about those, how they were always a heartbeat away from one of the other), and most especially to someone like Kara. Countless visual abilities, flight, enhanced senses and strength and speed--she had so many gifts it was hard to keep track, would be nigh on impossible to account for all of them. Letting her loose was a risk, he knew, especially without knowing the effects the Kryptonite would have on a person rather than the mice Lena had been using.

So of course he had plans. You always had to have an extra card up your sleeve, a piece in reserve until you were ready to play it.

Erik wasn't certain he could beat Supergirl in a fight, if it came to that. Even with the Phoenix Force. Jean might be able to, if she had to, but she'd never let it go. No, the best way to fight a super was with Kryptonite or with another super. If it had been necessary--if it became necessary--someone could call for Superman to come handle her.

Or, if worst came to absolute worst, despite Erik's hatred of the man's human-first worldview, Lena's brother would no doubt be adequate, as much as Erik didn't want that man anywhere within miles of the operation about to unfold.

"A very long time." In varying degrees of depth, of course, and adjusting for current events. "But the version you see there now has been largely within the last few months." With some help (and helpful nudges) from the Phoenix. What would you have done?

"I prefer not to entertain ex post facto hypotheticals except as strategy evaluation. So often they only serve to make one upset." ( He could have killed Alex, he could have-- )

Erik set his glass down and regarded Kara, feeling a creep of uncertainty crawl it's way down his spine before being pushed out of mind by his current cohabitant. Destruction was in both their natures (no matter what Charles said), and she looked so very happy to indulge, and he should be happy for her except except except--

Train of thought derailed, just in time, as Erik took note of the red glow creeping through her veins around her eyes. Something, deep down, screamed danger. Erik stayed impassive, heart not missing a beat. "Certainly. I wouldn't dream of giving you orders, or getting between you and Miss Luthor." Not with Kara as she is, at any rate.

He leaned forward on his knees. "However, I do have some friendly advice and another request--related, as it turns out. Killing Lena Luthor would be... incredibly satisfying," he conceded. "However, I think doing so a bit later in the game would be even more satisfying. She claims that what she does, she does to help the world, that she's doing it out of the goodness of her heart. Let her see how very badly that's worked out, for a while. Let her see the city she calls home, the humans she works so hard to help, suffer as a result of the work she's done: the detection device, the Kryptonite, all of it. Let her watch it fall to pieces and then, when she's seen that, put her down." . The smile that came with that was the same shark-like smile that so many of the Nazis he'd hunted over the years had met their ends with as their last sight.

"On that note--I would prefer you somewhat limit the human casualties within the island of Manhattan, as holding people hostage works rather better when they're alive. I certainly wouldn't dream of asking you to refrain entirely--in fact, seeing that might put a bit of urgency on the negotiations, on their end of things, make them more eager to get in and get their people out. But I do need a fairly sizeable number of living hostages, at least within Manhattan. And amongst them need to be the UN diplomats. My mutants will be holding the building, so if you could kindly avoid bringing it down on their heads, I would be much obliged."

KARA: The requests gave her pause. Somewhere, it registered they shouldn't have to be requests at all. Somewhere, she was screaming and no one could hear it. Her hands stilled and the red glow faded and her breath caught–

And it passed. He didn't want her to kill anyone, and it wasn't an unreasonable request to make, though she imagined there were a few protestors on street corners with anti- signs she would happily leave under a building or two. "I don't want to kill everyone." Her voice had a softer tone, annoyed just around the edges. "I just want, I–"

A home. Her breath escaped in a huff, and she paced the room, too fast, hands moving restlessly as she spoke. "I've done everything for Earth. I've made myself so small, insignificant. Then I put on a cape and I've spent years protecting them, and yes there have been hiccups, but I've loved this planet. I just...why won't it love me, too?" The words felt heavy, somehow. Her pacing stopped as she pivoted to face Erik, her hands clenched at her sides. The truth was it was never going to love her. She was going to spend the rest of her life trying and failing, and Erik had shown her a path forward that might actually work. He'd gotten her this far, and she was willing to see how much farther they could get.

"I want a home. I want to make one." She pulled in a breath, and gave a small nod. "I'll keep your people safe, you don't have to worry about that. And Lena–" the name curdled whatever calm had taken over, "I'll wait, then. This is me trying to trust you, Erik."

ERIK: It was nothing he hadn't heard before, nothing he hadn't said himself, nothing he hadn't preached. And yet it stung more than he would admit—felt like being run over by a freight train, in fact—to hear the words come from someone like her.

Jean and Scott's conversion to his way of seeing things hadn't been entirely unexpected--Jeannie had his temper, beneath it all, and Scott had the same sharply strategic mind that had revealed to Erik that there was no path forward but by blood. Their swaying to his side had been inevitable, sooner or later. This was different. This was someone who saw the world far too much like Charles, with optimism and hope and absurd faith in humanity.

Someone like Erik used to be, a long time ago, when in the aftermath of the War humanity swore never again and seemed to mean it. Maybe he'd never been quite as hopeful as they had, but he'd hoped to be able to live. To be able to settle in the home he built himself with his wife and child, to go to work and go to community potlucks and share photos of his growing daughter with his coworkers and have a simple life where he didn't have to jump any time he heard someone outside the door. He'd been willing to pay the price of keeping his powers secret, had been willing to smother a part of himself to integrate, to make things easy. And he'd had that, for years. Had played human, had gone to neighbors' birthday parties and babysat children and been the very picture of a perfect citizen.

He'd tried so hard. And then. Her words put a lump in his throat, made his eyes sting, and he turned back to his glass so she wouldn't see, downed the rest of the whiskey in one swallow because that burn was more welcome than that knotted feeling. But that didn’t make it go away.

He pushed himself out of his seat, clearing his throat and pacing over to stand in front of her, eyes locking with hers. The fire of the Phoenix lingered, but the man looking at Kara was more Erik than he’d been in weeks. “I know,” he said, and hoped his voice didn’t sound as tight as it felt. “You deserve—we deserve to be loved.” ( At least one of those was true, but he really was less and less certain that he did--). “We did our best to be like them, to play by their rules, to help—we deserve a home, safety, love. And if they won’t give it, after so long, we’ve earned the right to make our own.”

This is me trying to trust you, Erik.

He couldn’t say whether he deserved that. She could trust him to the same extent that anyone at the Institute had ever been able to trust him—that he would never do anything to hurt the Cause, that he would do what it took to keep the people he considered his safe. And he was doing that. But there was deception here, already—there was a reason he wasn’t clarifying the reason she felt different, a reason he hadn’t told Jean what was going to happen, a reason he was only getting Kara involved in the most peripheral of ways. The very same reason that he hadn’t yet told Lorna that Charles had messed with her memory, because Lorna was like him and would demand a telepath free what had been locked away which would reveal a much older erasure, one Erik had paid to have performed himself. Because Erik hated lying outright to the people he cared for, but he was not above deception and manipulation for their own good.

This was for Kara’s own good. It was. It had to be.

“I want to help you, Kara. Don’t doubt that.”

Kara: For a moment, it almost seemed like he genuinely cared. He abandoned his drink, he stood in front of her and there was something different about the way he looked at her, then. It was in his eyes, she thought. They'd been burning. She'd noticed first in the alley, as the pipes groaned and his voice smoothed over talks of revolution.

There was something softer about them when he stood up. His voice wavered the smallest bit, choked in a way it hadn't been moments before, something she wouldn't notice if she wasn't paying considerable attention. The burning seemed to recede, and for a moment Kara thought he was going to step closer.

(A part of her wanted it, but not from him. Her eyes glassed over, and her mind couldn't pinpoint why. He'd put her here, she couldn't get out, she needed to yell, to cry, to– she wouldn't mind a hug, but then...)

She took a quick step back, feet barely touching the floor. Red pulsed along her veins before fading, itching just beneath her skin. There were bigger things at play. He wasn't someone to be believed, he was a chess master. He was moving his pieces, and he was about to put the king in check. Kara could only move as he intended, and hope she was still on the board when the king toppled. Trust enough to get her to the end, then see how far his trust would stretch.

"The bridges will fall tomorrow morning." She said in lieu of an acknowledgement, of any care that had worked its way into his voice. Her feet skated further back until she hovered, framed by his window. "You'll get your home, then we'll talk."

ERIK: She backed away, and the spell broke, the Phoenix pressing forward in turn and relegating the conflicting emotions to the box in his mind where they belonged.

He had a war to win. He couldn't afford second thoughts. She knew that. Get a grip.

He would need to be completely focused in the morning, completely in control, because his people were trusting their lives--their futures--into his hands and he could not, would not let them down. He'd waited years for this moment, for the shoe to drop and war to come knocking on his door in earnest. He was prepared.

How laughable that he'd once sworn to himself that he wasn't a soldier, now that he was about to lead a revolution and plunge his hands into more blood than Sh--

No.

The humans had started this war, and by G-d, he would finish it. No matter the cost. He had failed his children, but he refused to allow their children to live like this.

Never again.

Erik flicked his fingers, unlocking the window latches to let the air in. He wasn't sure if she'd have broken his windows, and he didn't care to find out. "Of course. Until next time, Kara. Have a good night."

This was the last night of the old world--one way or another, it would never be the same after tomorrow morning. Those moments had come countless times in Erik's life.

G-d willing, this would be one of the few for the better.

And if not, the world would pay with him.

#ff: master of magnetism #ff: make ash and leave the dust behind

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terapsina · 5 years

Text

5 Times The Doctor Talked About River Song With Graham (+1 Time The Fam Finally Met Her)

--- ao3 --- 1 ---

Graham finds it on the floor of the TARDIS control room.

Everyone else is asleep, emotionally wrung out from their latest trip, he thinks even the Doctor might have gone off for a nap and he’s never actually seen that happen before now.

But Graham can’t sleep. His mind is still painfully stuck on Grace. On having held her in his arms not even a few hours ago, on having lost her all over again. Logically he knows it wasn’t really Grace. Now that it’s over and he’s looking back he even realizes a part of him knew all along.

It doesn’t make the hurt of it lessen.

And it’s not because the illusion was flawed, if anything it’s because it was too perfect. She looked like Grace, sounded like her, fit in his arms like her. She even smelled like Grace, like Shea butter and vanilla, because all the products Grace liked to buy had those ingredients in them. Everything about her was as warm as he remembers, from her smile to the soft touch of her hand. Even her mischief twinkled like the fire from a candle in her eyes.

It was like a dream come alive, a dream he never would have been willing to wake from if not for Ryan.

He’s so angry at himself for almost having abandoned his grandson for an imitation of the woman who was the love of his life. However flawless of an imitation it was.

He’s pacing from one side of the console to the other, mind lost to self-recriminations, when he feels his foot step on something small, kicking it across the room with a light tinkle.

His eyes follow the small golden object as its slide down the floor stops in the middle of TARDIS, and finally focuses on the last thing he’d have ever expected to find here if he’d ever thought to consider it.

It’s a ring.

He walks toward it, bending to pick it up. It turns out to be a simple gold band, moving it to catch better light he notices a small inscription on the inside that he can’t read. The TARDIS isn’t translating it. It’s written in the same circular pattern that he’s seen all over the ship since the start of this strange adventure into time and space.

It’s also, unmistakably, a wedding ring.

Breath catches in Graham’s chest, because in a moment between one heartbeat and the next, he knows. And his heart breaks for his alien friend.

The Doctor was married.

He stands frozen, uncertain if he should go looking for the Doctor now or to wait until later. Picturing her face the last time he saw her, those tight and drawn eyebrows and the dropping shoulders, he comes to a decision. He pockets the ring and goes back to his room.

The Doctor deserves some sleep too, he’ll find her tomorrow morning and return it then.

Tomorrow morning turns into afternoon and then evening before Graham gets his chance. By the time he woke up, both Ryan and Yaz were awake too, and the Doctor was already busy with finding their next adventure.

And he knows if someone had found Grace’s ring he’d want them to return it in private.

He loves his grandson and Yaz. But they are so young, their curiosity would have gotten the best of them and Graham doesn’t want to put Doc on the spot like that.

So he waits until Yaz and Ryan have gone off exploring the dizzying number of rooms of Doc’s ship, or whatever else it is they like to do when they’re not running toward death defying adventures with grins on their faces, before he pulls the Doctor away from tinkering with the mechanisms of her time machine.

“You have a moment?”

She slides out from underneath the opening into the console, her sonic screwdriver between her teeth. The humming of the TARDIS engines grows softer as if in response.

“What’s up Graham?” She asks, after taking the screwdriver out of her mouth and as she’s pushing her goggles up to her hairline, making her hair go in all kinds of interesting directions. She looks like the mad scientist he might have found on the screen of one of Grace’s science fiction shows.

In a way he supposes that’s a pretty accurate picture of the Doctor, and any other time Graham might have smiled in amusement at his thought. Today he flinches at the smile she sends him, knowing he’d be taking it away with his next words.

“I found something yesterday. I think it’s yours, Doc.” He says, and pulls out the object that’s been burning in his pocket the whole day.

The Doctor’s eyes slide to his arm and once they narrow in on the ring laying in the palm of his hand, her face transforms from the carefree adventurer he’s gotten to know in the past few months, to something painful and lost and hurting. It’s a look that’s far too old for that face. And so very familiar Graham can’t help but look away.

“Where did you find it?” the Doctor asks, voice a breathless whisper, her hand hovering over the ring, seeming unable to cross that final little bit of air to touch it.

“It was here on the ground. I don’t know how it got there.” He says with a nervous shrug.

“I do.” The Doctor says, eyes momentarily glaring toward the center of the room. She doesn’t explain, instead finally taking the ring from him in one quick movement and pulling it to her chest, squeezing it in a fist against her.

“I’m very sorry Doc.” Graham says. The words are inadequate but sometimes they really are the only ones available.

“I know.” She says, eyes looking to a point in empty air behind him.

He nods and pats her lightly on her shoulder, before turning around to leave her to whatever memories have washed over her with the return of that wedding band.

“Her name was River Song.” She says once he’s already taken a few steps. He stops, turning around, giving her the opportunity to continue or not as she needs. “She was an archaeologist. And a professor. And a criminal. And she was brilliant and absolutely mad.”

“She must have been. Married you didn’t she?” Graham jokes before he can help himself.

But Doc just grins like she agrees and laughs to herself.

Something uncoils in Graham’s chest at seeing Doc’s face regaining its natural brightness, however tinged with grief. The grief isn’t new either, he’s seen shadows of it in her all along but this is the first moment she doesn’t seem to be trying to hide it. Or maybe the first time she’s not trying to hide from it.

“She did do that. Married me at every point in history happening all at the same time. And a few times after.” The Doctor tells him, leaning forward like she’s revealing a secret instead of saying something that makes no sense at all.

“Sounds like quite a woman.”

“She was.” The Doctor says, eyes now down on the hand hiding the precious metal band within its hold.

There’s an extended moment of silence and then; “Graham?”

“Yeah, Doc?”

“Thank you.” She says, a serious and infinitely grateful look overtaking her face.

He nods at her and turns around, knows the conversation has come to a close and he should leave his friend to a moment that’s something meant between her and the specter of her wife.

In the privacy of his own mind he wonders why the Solitract never took on the form of this River Song. Whatever the reason, he finds himself grateful, he wouldn’t wish that cruelty on his worst enemy. And he certainly wouldn’t wish it on Doc.

--- 2 ---

“She used to leave me coordinates and jump out of the most impossible places, waiting for me to catch her. I always did.” The Doctor says out of nowhere, both of them chained to the stone wall of the dungeons of the Victorian castle, waiting to get executed, or getting saved by Yaz and Ryan. Whichever comes first.

Personally, Graham’s hoping for the second one.

“What?” He asks, lost.

“River,” the Doctor explains. “She once defaced the oldest cliff-face in the universe. And before that she left me a recording inside a Home Box so I’d come catch her jumping out of a space ship into vacuum. It was the day her mother met her. Well, that face anyway.”

“That must have been frightening.” Graham says, uncertain. He’s not sure he wants to touch the bit about the mother. Sometimes he thinks she likes to confuse them on purpose.

"Oh no, she was absolutely fearless. Hell in high heels and it's the devils who ran." The Doctor says either misinterpreting his words or choosing to misunderstand on purpose, her voice full of spousal pride and a face painted with smitten adoration. It’s so unexpected, so unlike the Doctor’s usual disposition, that Graham needs to clear his throat to get past the sudden awkwardness of it.

"Sounds like she was made for you, Doc." He finally says, trying to picture this impossible woman who married the Doctor, and falling short. The only impression he can summon up is someone dangerous and larger than life.

He’s so busy with his mental portrait it takes him a moment to notice the Doctor has fallen silent, once he looks at her though his breath stutters. Her face is so pained it’s as if he’d landed a physical hit with his last words. She looks almost... ashamed.

He curses himself for whatever it was he said that put that expression there.

“You okay, Doc?” He asks, voice as gentle as he can make it, trying not to startle her into pulling back into herself.

The Doctor flinches and blinks rapidly like waking from a bad dream, then her face transforms into her usual bright but slightly removed facade, and she’s back to trying to reassure him.

“I’m always alright.” She lies and changes the subject. “I wonder what’s keeping Yaz and Ryan, they should really have gotten past the sleeping guards by now.”

He doesn’t call her on it and moves his mind back to the problem at hand. The problem at hand of course being; the part where they’re chained to a prison wall for trying to assassinate Queen Victoria. The fact Queen Victoria has been replaced by a homicidal alien copy asks for some worrying too and Graham is more than willing to oblige.

In the end it turns out there’s no need for either worry, Yaz and his grandson find them twenty minutes later and they’re away from 1882, London within an hour.

The real Queen back on her rightful throne, though still yelling threats to the Doctor’s back even as they’re being whisked away by the little blue box.

--- 3 ---

They’ve split into pairs again. Usually he prefers to watch his grandson’s back when that happens but today is March 18 - or would have been if they weren’t jumping all over time and space, - and Ryan had been snapping at him since morning.

He knows Ryan well enough to know that if he doesn’t give him some space before trying to talk to him about it, they won’t talk at all.

“Everything okay with Ryan?” The Doctor asks as they’re traveling through the apparently semi-sentient crystal tunnels of the newest planet she’s brought them to, trying to find and stop whoever it is that’s been attempting to mine it.

Grace would have loved it here. The sapphire-like stone itself is the familiar blue of what he’s pretty sure is Doc’s favorite color but it’s mixed with golden strands that run through the fault-lines and leave the strange impression of blood vessels, veins running through the body of the living crystal.

“It would have been Grace’s birthday today.” Graham says, heart clenching in his chest at saying it aloud. In a perfect universe he would be home right now, standing over her favorite cake - red velvet with cherry frosting, - and singing a ‘Happy Birthday’ with their grandson.

In a perfect universe she would be here beside him, just as in awe of their surroundings as he is.

“Oh.” The Doctor says and grows quiet.

“It’ll be alright tomorrow. It’s just… today is hard. For both of us.” He hopes he’s not lying. Hopes Ryan will let Graham find him once they’re back in the TARDIS so they can spend the evening talking and laughing and crying about Grace. So they can pick themselves up tomorrow and continue living in her honor like she’d have wanted them to.

They spend a few minutes just walking when the silence finally becomes too much for Graham.

“How long were you married?” It’s the first time he’s initiated the subject of the Doctor’s wife himself, the two previous times it was her who opened up first, so he’s not entirely sure how she’ll respond. But he’s ready to fall back into silence and not press if it looks like she doesn’t want to talk about it.

“I don’t know.” She says, still steps ahead and with her back to him.

“How can you not know?” Graham asks, mind heavy with confusion.

“If I count only all the days we were together; then two, maybe three centuries. If I count all my days from our first wedding to the last time I saw her, then almost half my life.” She says with a forcefully easy tone.

Graham stops in his tracks as the implication hits. “Centuries?”

She turns around and looks at him like she’s measuring the words she’s planning to say, or if she’ll say them at all. After a moment her face clears and she seems to come to some sort of decision.

“I’m more than two thousand years old, Graham. I’ve loved River Song through four of my faces and had more than twice as many before that, most of them male. I’m not human.”

Graham had known that, that the Doc wasn’t human, that she had two hearts and enough lives to make a cat jealous. In an abstract way that they were a man before they were a woman, because she’s dropped enough comments to that effect by now. But he hadn’t realized the differences between them were quite so vast as two millennia.

“Was she?” He asks and immediately thinks better. “Wait, no, you said three centuries, she couldn’t have been.”

“What?”

“Your wife.” He doesn’t know why he’s asking that, except maybe because he knows Grace would have, and so especially today of all days he has to in her place. Or maybe it’s just that pesky human curiosity.

“She wasn’t. And she was.” She says after a moment and turns back around to continue walking. “She was the daughter of my two best friends. And the daughter of TARDIS.”

She doesn’t explain further than that, so he’s left puzzling over the new contradiction on his own for the rest of the way through the alien tunnels with his strange alien friend as his company, a silent one now.

He turns his head back toward the faintly glowing walls and once he looks more carefully notices the slightly irregular pulsing of the golden veins. Fascinated he again thinks about how much Grace would have loved to see this.

‘Happy birthday!’ He thinks toward her, hoping she’s seeing this from wherever it is she’s watching over him and Ryan.

--- 4 ---

They’re back in Sheffield the next time the subject of River Song comes up.

Yaz is off spending some time with her family and Ryan is meeting his father for dinner. Graham is trying really hard not to stress himself into growing ulcers over that last one.

It’s not that he thinks he’s going to lose to Aaron the bond he’s finally building with his grandson. He understands Ryan’s wish to repair the relationship between him and his father. It’s just that despite Graham’s belief in Aaron’s genuine regret, he can’t help worry that Ryan will get his heart broken again.

He doesn’t think he could stand seeing Ryan disappointed like that again.

Which leaves him at home. Worrying. With the Doctor as company.

“He’ll be fine, Graham.” The Doctor says, not for the first time this hour.

“I know that.” Graham says back, eyes still on the door.

“Oh, do frowns and scrunched up foreheads not mean what they used to mean in you humans?” The Doctor’s voice sounds amused so he can’t help but glare at her a bit.

“Hilarious.” He mutters under his breath.

“I am, aren’t I?” She says.

He huffs loudly and goes back to staring at the door. Waiting for Ryan to come home.

“Do you want to talk about something else then?” She offers. “Might distract you.”

“Be my guest.”

“The first time River met me she shot the TARDIS, tried to kill Hitler and poisoned me with a kiss.” The Doctor drops, and to give credit where it’s due, distracts Graham absolutely.

“What?” He doesn’t even know which part to touch first.

“Poisoned lipstick. So glad she switched to hallucinogenic ones later.” She almost sounds dreamy. Graham feels his brain beginning to hurt.

“She poisoned you?” Honestly, he doesn’t even know why he’s shocked, it’s the Doc after all. But still, how do you marry someone who poisoned you in their first interaction?

“Only a little bit. And she saved me right after.”

“And that makes it okay?” Graham says, furious on her behalf.

“There were... reasons. She didn’t know me yet but she knew about me and- well, there were reasons.” The Doctor explains. Even though Graham doesn’t really think it explains all that much at all. Something about her expression though tells him to leave it alone, there’s that guilty, haunted look in her eyes again and Graham isn’t sure he wants to know what’s behind it.

So maybe it’s a good thing that before he has a chance to put his foot in his mouth there comes the sound of a key turning in the lock and the front door slamming open.

“Hey, gramps.” Ryan says walking in, a wide smile on his young face.

Graham exhales, the knot of worry loosening for now and smiles back, hiding the stress he’d been struggling with for the past few hours. “Hello, son. How did it go?”

“Good.” Ryan says, a slightly shy happiness dancing like starlight in his eyes.

--- 5 ---

It’s almost three months since Graham found the ring and gave it back to the Doctor before a moment comes where he feels like it might finally be the right time to touch on the one thing that’s been implied but never addressed in their conversations about the Doctor’s wife.

The day isn’t particularly different from any of the previous ones.

It’s late and Graham can’t sleep so he walks to the kitchen for a cup of tea when he finds the Doctor already there, eating custard cream biscuits.

He nods tiredly in her direction, grabbing two blue cups from a shelf and going through the motions of making both of them the peppermint tea he finds on the counter-top - he’s pretty sure it wasn’t there a moment ago but he’s also gotten used to not questioning things like that while aboard the TARDIS.

“Sugar?” He asks, because he’s noticed she never puts the same amount in any of her cups. He thinks it might depend on her mood.

“Two and a half teaspoons, please.” She tells him and he tries not to grimace as he follows her instructions.

“Here.” He says and passes her the cup once he’s done. Pulling his own cup - no sugar - with him to the other side of the table.

She gives him a few biscuits in exchange and for a few minutes they share their midnight snack in peace. And then the thought that has been ruminating unvoiced for a long time now surfaces in his mind again, and for the first time he doesn’t push it back down.

“How did you lose her?” He asks.

The biscuit halts halfway to her mouth and then lands heavily back on the plate. For a long time she just stares into her tea and Graham thinks she’ll choose not to answer.

But then she looks up into his eyes and breathes out very slowly.

“She died the day I met her.” She says.

“I thought you said you were the one who almost died when you met.” Graham says, confused again.

“When she met me. This was before that- well, from my point of view at least. We never met in the right order. She was a time traveler too, had a vortex manipulator, I think she might have stolen it from an old friend of mine actually, not that she ever actually admitted where she got it.” She says, growing more animate as she switches gears mid-tangent. “Our timelines went in opposite directions. Not entirely of course, there were loops and twists and exceptions but for the most part the older I got, the more often the River I ran into was a younger and younger version of her.”

“So the day you met her...” He says not finishing the thought, horrified as he realizes what she’s saying.

“She died saving four thousand and twenty-two people.” She finishes for him with a shrug that belies the pain he knows she must be feeling at saying it.

“That couldn’t have been easy, knowing the entire time what would happen to her.”

“I spent centuries running away from the last date we’d have before she went to the Library.” She snaps. “So, no, not easy.”

“Did you ever try to-”

“What? Change it? Save her? Go back and make sure she never died there? Take her place?” She glares at him and for a fraction of a moment she looks her age, millennia old and furious and terrifying beyond reason, and for that one moment Graham is almost scared of her. And then she blinks, her gaze losing it’s terrible intensity, and he’s not even sure that he didn’t imagine it. “She would never have forgiven me. And- and her timeline is complicated, even if I tried to- there’s a very good chance if I did it that I’d be erasing her from the universe entirely.”

He stares at her, heart full of grief for the pain she must have lived through. He tries to imagine having known the entire time about the day he’d lose Grace to that fall and almost breaks with it. He doesn’t think he could have survived that.

“You’re like a Greek tragedy, Doc.” He breathes past the knot in his throat.

“Always preferred the Romans.” She says and goes back to eating her biscuits, eyes skittering away from meeting his.

He knows the conversation is over and by the way she’s starting to fidget with that chain around her neck, - the one that wasn’t there three months ago but which she hasn’t taken off since, - and by the way she is decisively avoiding his gaze. He knows she wants to be left alone.

Respecting her wish for privacy he finishes the last of his tea and gets up to leave. “Goodnight, Doctor.”

She doesn’t answer but by the time he’s reached the door he does hear her say something. Something he’s pretty certain isn’t addressed at him. Both because he doesn’t understand it and because he’s pretty sure she’s already forgotten that he’s still in the room at all.

“Not those times, not one line. I promise.”

--- +1 ---

It ends the way it began. With Graham noticing something small in the control room of the TARDIS. Though this time it’s not the middle of the night and he’s not there all by himself.

It’s mid-afternoon and the Doctor is laying on her stomach, playing with the insides of the ship, sparks flying around her whenever she touches a wire with her sonic and once in a while being interrupted by what sounds like the irritated humming of the TARDIS itself. Yaz and Ryan are on either side of her trying to figure out exactly what she’s doing, though Graham is not at all sure even Doc knows what that is.

And then something catches his eye.

“There’s a blinking button, Doctor.” He says and goes over to it for a closer look.

“Red or green?” She asks, not moving from her place halfway into the console.

“Blue.”

“Oh, someone’s left a voicemail. Put it on speaker, will you?” She says louder, in answer to the sudden shudder that runs through the ship and makes Graham catch the console for balance.

“Sure. How do I do that?” He asks, eyes running over the large number of doodads in front of him.

“Flip the first switch to the right down, and then press the blinking button.”

He follows her instructions and as soon as he’s done so, a low female voice with a Southern British accent rings across the room, a playful lilt to her tone.

“Hello Sweetie, be a dear and come pick me up, please?” There’s the sound of an explosion from the other side of the call echoed by the unmistakable clang of someone hitting their head against metal from under the TARDIS console. Before Graham can do more than lean over to check that they’re all okay, the Doctor is already up and pushing him out of her way. “I’ve sent you the coordinates.”

“Who was that?” Yaz asks with obvious concern as soon as she and Ryan join them.

Graham has a feeling he already knows.

“River.” The Doctor exhales more than says, Graham notices her hands shaking as she pulls up the mentioned coordinates.

“Doctor?” Ryan asks, looking just as worried as Yaz.

“My wife.” The Doctor says and starts running around them, flicking switches all around the control table even quicker than Graham’s already used to seeing from her.

“Your what?” Yaz exclaims in tandem with Ryan’s: “What?”

The Doctor ignores them both, halting with her hand atop the lever that will make them take off and turns her head to face Graham. She’s paler than normal, eyes blown wide from terror and tears starting to visibly gather in the corners. Graham has never seen her scared, not truly, but right now she looks on the edge of breaking.

“I can’t go through this again. I’ve already lost her three times I can’t- not again.”

Graham stands frozen, for a moment absolutely uncertain about what he could possibly say to help her. And then the answer hits him and it is so very simple.

“It sounds like she’s in trouble, Doc.” He says, remembering one of the things she’d told him.”You said you always showed up to catch her.”

The Doctor lets out a shuddering breath and seems to steel herself. She pulls the lever and they all grab for the nearest steady surface to stay on their feet as TARDIS takes off with an almost exhilarated sounding wheeze.

“Is someone going to explain what is going on? Where are we going?” Yaz yells again, this time directing the question at Graham.

“It’s not my place to say.” He says, holding on to the table for dear life but upon noticing Yaz’s frustrated expression expands on his words. “But I’m pretty sure you’re about to find out.”

When they come to a halt a moment later the Doctor is already running toward the Police Box door, flinging it open with a snap of her fingers before she’s even halfway there and then crashing to the ground as a woman lands sprawling on top of her.

“Well hello there,” River Song purrs for all of them to hear. “That’s new.”

“River!” The Doctor says, like all the breath has been knocked out of her. To be fair, Graham’s pretty sure that’s literally the case.

“Yes, Sweetie?”

“What were you doing breaking onto the Museum Planet. They execute their thieves.” The Doctor says from underneath her wife, looking all too happy to stay where she is even as her voice turns chiding. “Also it’s boring down there.”

“Yes, well, it’s not my fault that I’m so infamous that when I’m presumed dead all my personal possessions suddenly turn into priceless artifacts they want to put on display. They were practically begging me to steal them back.” The Doctor’s wife says with a smirk Graham can hear even without seeing her face.

“Presumed dead?” The Doctor asks, voice turning small again.

“Oh, honestly, Doctor! Did you expect me to spend all of my eternity in that data core? It took me a while, I’ll give you that, but at the end of the day it was just another Stormcage.”

Graham is starting to feel like he might not have gotten anywhere near the entire story himself here. But he’s also beginning to get the feeling that the Doctor might be getting her wife back from the dead after all.

“You’ve been to the Library.” The Doctor says, starting to struggle to be let up and Graham finally catches a glimpse of her face. She looks overwhelmed, but where just minutes ago it was with fear of having to say goodbye again, right now there’s a dawning realization of something akin to bliss.

Graham feels his own heart tremble in his chest. It hurts. River Song is alive and Grace is still dead and no matter how happy he is for the Doctor, there’s sudden gnawing envy trying to swallow the heart that he’d only barely started to mend.

He has just enough time to see the Doctor pull River into her arms, crushing her mouth against her wife’s, before his eyes turn away and land on the shocked faces of Ryan and Yaz.

He walks over to the two of them and turns them around by their shoulders to steer them out of the control room and into the deeper hallways of the TARDIS.

“Come on son, Yasmin, we should give them some privacy to catch up. I think they haven’t seen each other for a very long time.”

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