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witcher-and-his-bard-archive · 3 years

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Love (I Can’t Forget)

Pairing: geralt x jaskier Warning(s): minor jaskier x other Rating: mature

Summary: Jaskier is quite enjoying his morning with the innkeeper's daughter when he hears the cry of a golem. He knows a contract has been put out for a Witcher and that everything should be perfectly fine. Only the contract put out was for a rock troll.

There are few things in his life that Jaskier regrets as much as his extensive knowledge of all things monsters. And not even the majority of the time, just right now on this particular day at this particular time.

He's been stuck in Hamm for three days on his way to Cintra to check in on Ciri. But there's a rock troll that's been blocking the only safe route out, chucking rocks at travellers and being a general nuisance. Rock trolls aren't much trouble otherwise, but this one is affecting trade and travel, so the town has put out for a Witcher. Judging by the chatter in town, the witcher arrived this morning. So, unable to leave and unwilling to go out and get involved with the Witcher and his business like everyone else, Jaskier has holed up with the innkeeper's daughter Penelope and he's quite enjoying himself.

Or, he was, until he heard the cry.

Because right now, he's quite happily trapped beneath layers of lace and silk, pinned between soft thighs, and all he can think of is that the contract was put out for a rock troll and that sound? that was a golem. Which means that right now, there's a Witcher thinking he's going up again a calm and peaceful creature and is very much not prepared for what he's about to find. And Jaskier is torn.

Because on the one hand, he doesn't want anyone getting hurt, especially due to miscommunication - intentional or otherwise. But on the other hand, the likelihood of Geralt being the Witcher called to deal with the problem is very high. And Jaskier doesn't want to see him.

It's been months now, close to a year since he last saw Geralt, having received no apology or even acknowledgement since the dragon hunt. Which is fine; Geralt's an asshole and he can travel alone if he likes, but if that's the way it's going to be, Jaskier simply does not want to see him. Ever again, if he can help it. But he also doesn't want to see him die.

"Fuck," he mumbles and Penelope giggles as he drops his head, hair tickling her thighs.

"Mmhm, I hope so."

Jaskier crawls out from under her skirts, running his hands up her thighs and doing his best to look apologetic. Because he is; he'd rather spend the entire afternoon making her come than face Geralt for even a second, but he can't sit idly by when the man he, regrettably, still loves could be in danger.

"I have to go," he says softly and she frowns. "I'm sorry and believe me, I would much rather stay here with you, but an old friend is in danger, I can't leave him alone."

"The Witcher?" she asks and Jaskier nods. She must have heard the cry too. "Isn't it his job to fight monsters?"

"Yes, when he's given the correct information, but that's not a rock troll out there." Penelope sighs but pushes her skirts back into place, tidying them.

"You'd better go find him then."

Jaskier dips down, pressing a brief kiss to her lips before gathering his things quickly and hurrying off to find the Witcher. He prays under his breath that it isn't Geralt, but even as he does, he finds himself looking for traces of the man. He knows Geralt's habits, knows where he'll set up camp - the people here aren't friendly enough to welcome a Witcher into their homes or even host him at the inn - and so Jaskier heads for the woods.

It takes him a remarkably short time to come across the meagre camp. Roach is tethered to a tree just a few feet from the fire pit and Jaskier's heart aches to see her. She dances excitedly and he swallows back a lump in his throat.

"Hey, girl," he whispers. "I've missed you too, but I can't stay, okay? Geralt could be in trouble." He gives her a quick pat, regretting that this will likely be their only chance to see one another.

Jaskier drops to his knees next to Geralt's pack, rummaging through it. He finds the satchel of oils first, pulling them out until he recognizes the bluish hue of elemental oil. He sets it aside and continues looking for potions. Immediately, he finds swallow and thunderbolt sitting neatly in their sheaths and his heart clenches. He grabs them both and a third vial he hopes is white rafford's and tucks them all into his pockets, turning to hurry in the direction of the fight.

It's not hard to find them. The golem is loud and Jaskier follows the sound of its roars until he almost stumbles over a log in his urgency to get to him. Geralt rolls in his direction, dodging a blow from the beast, and when he sees Jaskier, his expression sours.

"What the fuck are you doing here, Jaskier?"

Jaskier stiffens, immediately defensive. He has to bite his tongue as he crouches down next to Geralt, still keeping one eye on the golem. It seems to have lost its target for now, but Jaskier knows that won't last long.

"Rude," he retorts, "considering I'm here to rescue you." He empties his pockets, listing off the supplies as he pushes them into Geralt's hands. "I thought you might need the assistance since a golem is a lot harder to talk down than a rock troll."

He's seething now, all the anger and hurt of the last year bubbling to the surface and it takes everything in him not to cry in front of Geralt. He's always been an angry crier and he hates it. But Geralt's head jerks up and a little bit of pride peeks through the anger. Because he does know what he's doing. He pointedly ignores it, eyeing a scrape on the side of Geralt's face that will need tending to later.

"Take the thunderbolt now," he says, "don't risk going at it again without it."

Geralt scoffs but he makes no attempt to take control of the situation, letting Jaskier continue. Jaskier focuses on the golem; there's no way Geralt can get the jump on it from here, so he'll have to distract it once he's ready.

"Oil your blade," he says and Geralt eyes him suspiciously, but he's already got the rag in hand.

Once he's finished, he keeps his eyes on Jaskier, no longer waiting for a command, but skeptical of what comes next. Jaskier knows he's realized something is up or else he would have just gone after the golem again, but he's waiting, he's letting Jaskier help.

"You're not going to like this," Jaskier says, rising to his feet, "but know that I'm only doing it for you."

He darts away through the trees and he can hear Geralt yelling after him, but it's too late. He ignores him, pushing on until he hears the golem turn its attention on him. This is closely followed by an angry fuck and Jaskier knows his plan is working.

Geralt still isn't at full strength, but with a distraction, he shouldn't have trouble taking the golem down. He just needs to keep it away from him without being killed until he has the chance. It's only then, that he realizes he didn't think his plan through all the way; once again, he was too concerned about Geralt's safety to consider his own and that's proved ill for him in the past.

He trips over a root - a root! - and fumbles backward to keep out of the way, but he's expecting this to be the end. He shuts his eyes and braces himself, but just as he can feel the golem's breath on his skin, it lets out a cry and whips around to turn its anger on Geralt.

Jaskier cracks an eye open to see it swinging at Geralt, now caught up and wielding his silver sword. Jaskier sighs in relief and scrambles to get up, ensuring he hasn't lost any of the supplies he brought with him. He doesn't stick around to watch the fight, heart still hammering in his chest, instead finding himself a safe spot to look out for Geralt until he takes the golem down.

And he does, shortly now that he has the right supplies, dodging its blow and pirouetting around behind it to deal a deadly blow. The golem collapses, shaking the ground beneath it and Jaskier holds his breath as he waits for Geralt to emerge from the pile of rubble.

But he doesn't and Jaskier can stand the wait any longer so he rushes out to him. Geralt's eyes are open when he reaches him, but his eyelids droop and his breath comes in hot heavy puffs. Jaskier drops down next to him, careless of the mud and blood that soaks into his trousers.

"'M fine," Geralt mumbles, but he doesn't sit up or make any attempt to move and in Jaskier's opinion, that's not fine.

He hauls Geralt up into his arms, propping him up against his chest and pulls out the remainder of the potions he brought with him. Geralt scowls and bats his hand away.

"I didn't come all the way out here to watch you die," Jaskier tuts, "I was having a very nice morning and I'd appreciate it if I wasn't interrupted for no reason. Take the potion."

Geralt rolls his eyes like a petulant child and takes the vial from Jaskier's hand, downing it like a shot of liquor.

"See," he says, "fine." Jaskier wants to smack him.

"Get up."

It's a struggle to get Geralt to his feet and Jaskier suspects his physical injuries are worse than the exhaustion, a prospect that has his heart racing, much to his chagrin. Geralt shouldn't mean anything to him anymore and yet he can't keep himself from feeling sick at the thought of anything happening to him.

Geralt uses him for support, leaning on Jaskier's shoulders as they make their way slowly back to the camp. Geralt complains about getting the necessary proof that he killed the golem and Jaskier does his very best not to call him a fucking idiot about it. He promises, with as little irritation as he can manage, that he can return for it in the morning.

He sits Geralt next to the fire and as he crosses back to Geralt's bag to collect spare linen and salve, Roach nibbles at Geralt's hair, nudging him with her nose. Jaskier smiles softly at her worry, he can understand it well; Geralt all but left him for dead, and here he is pulling him out of danger and bandaging his wounds like nothing has changed.

When he returns to him, Geralt has two of the clasps on his armour undone, but he can't reach the third and he's frowning at it. Jaskier sets the linen down with the rest of his supplies and sighs softly.

"Let me."

Geralt remains silent as Jaskier unstraps his armour and pulls his shirt up over his head. He's bruised mostly, but there are a few fresh wounds including one that spans nearly his entire stomach. There are a few scars he doesn't recognize, too, and Jaskier doesn't want to think about what caused those.

He cleans his wounds first, then wipes down the rest of his torso, relieved to find most of the gunk on him is not actually blood.

Once he's finished his work, he leaves Geralt to get dressed and gathers more wood for the fire. He lights it with bits of flint from Geralt's pack and while the smaller branches begin to crackle, Jaskier sets about finding something for them to eat. He's never been very good at hunting - that was always Geralt's job when they travelled together - but he knows his plants and with what he still has in his pack, he fixes something up for them. Not that he feels much like eating.

It's not until Jaskier is about to leave that Geralt finally speaks. Jaskier is just on the edge of sleep, exhausted from worry and the effort it takes to be so close to Geralt right now and he very nearly misses it.

"Why did you do that?"

"What part?" Jaskier asks.

"Risk your life. For me."

"I had to. I couldn't just let you die because someone was too stupid to know the difference between a rock troll and a golem."

"I'm impressed that you knew."

Jaskier's stomach does a little flip-flop and he curses himself for being so weak. "I learned from the best," he quips. "But you should sleep. I'll come back to check on you in the morning."

There's a long silence as he gathers his things and then, "Stay?" Geralt asks and Jaskier's heart clenches.

He wants to. Gods, he wants to. To lie down next to him and look up at the stars like he always has and to fall asleep to the crackling of the fire and the faint sounds of Geralt breathing next to him. But he shouldn't. That part of his life is behind him now and Geralt made it very clear that he doesn't want him around. This was just a means to an end; he couldn't with any good conscience, let a Witcher die on bad information. Even if that Witcher is the same one who broke his heart on a mountaintop so many months ago.

"I miss listening to you sing while I rest," he says and Jaskier's legs shake under him.

"You.. do?"

"Mm, I didn't realize how much I appreciated it until it was gone."

Jaskier stands still, unable to think through the rush of blood in his ears. He was angry and hurt and spiteful for a long time, but maybe it's time to let go of all that.

"Alright," he breathes.

He tries to remain calm as he can because he knows Geralt can tell when he's not. He can hear the sound of Jaskier's traitor heart and the way his breath comes just a little too fast. And he'll know what it means, the insufferable git. But in the end, it doesn't matter because Jaskier will always choose him over anyone.

He lays down in the dirt, folding his arms back to rest his head on - he's already covered in muck and Geralt's blood, what's a little more dirt? - and he sings. It's not an active choice, but he sings a love song. It's a lovely little tune, not one of his own, but one he's always been fond of, and as he sings, he closes his eyes and lets the warmth of the fire wash over him, remembering the nights when this was a common occurrence. Geralt is quiet, apparently genuine in his desire to hear him sing and Jaskier isn't quite sure what to make of that.

When he finishes, he thinks Geralt is asleep and he settles as well as he can against the rocky ground. He's tired enough that he could fall asleep anywhere, but then Geralt goes and opens his mouth again

"I looked for you," he says, "at first." Jaskier doesn't know how to respond, but Geralt doesn't seem to want a reply and he continues. "I knew what I said was wrong and I knew I'd hurt you so I tried to find you. You must have made it down the mountain before me. I was angry about what happened with Yen, I didn't mean it."

"I know," Jaskier whispers and he does. He realized a long time ago that he was not the intended target of Geralt's rage, but it didn't help to heal the wounds and it didn't bring him back. He's not sure what else to say and his heart beats too fast.

"Come here," Geralt says softly, shifting slightly to make space for him under the blanket.

Jaskier moves to lie next to him and Geralt pulls him close, wrapping an arm around him. Jaskier presses his nose into Geralt's shoulder, burying his face so Geralt can't see the emotion it betrays. He smells off, tangy, like blood and it makes Jaskier's chest tight.

"Are you alright?" he asks.

"I'll be fine."

It's not a good answer, but Geralt tips his head down, burying his nose in Jaskier's hair and it's good enough. Jaskier presses closer, allowing himself this small bit of comfort.

In the morning, he wakes with Geralt's cloak over him, but Geralt himself is gone. As he rises to his feet, Jaskier realizes that Roach is still there, grazing happily at the edge of their camp and that means Geralt couldn't have gone far. He doesn't know how welcome his company will be, so he waits for Geralt to come back, but when he doesn't Jaskier starts to worry and he goes after him. It doesn't take long to find him.

Geralt is sitting on the edge of the forest, looking out over the town though they're far enough away that no one looking would notice them. Jaskier drapes his cloak around his shoulder and sits down, just slightly behind him.

"I thought about you," Geralt admits, "just before you showed up."

"Oh."

"I didn't think I'd see you again. I didn't want to die knowing you hated me."

"I don't," Jaskier says a little too quickly, "hate you. I can't, I tried. I was angry at you for a very long time and I was hurt for even longer, but I could never hate you." I love you too much for that.

"I have a... habit of saying things to you that I regret. Twice now I've nearly lost you for good and our last words would have been unpleasant."

"Twice?" Jaskier asks.

"Mm. The djinn."

"Right." Jaskier doesn't remember much about the djinn incident - it was fairly traumatic for him - but he does remember Geralt wishing for peace and quiet and saying some awful things about his singing voice. He mentions it, a little of the bitterness bleeding through.

"I didn't mean that either," Geralt swallows, "you have a beautiful voice." That voice fails him now as his stomach twists into a knot.

"Why now?" he asks because that's all that will come out.

"I miss you. I miss your company and seeing you again," he sighs like it's the most difficult thing he's ever had to say. Jaskier forgives him for that because this is already more than Geralt has said to him in a long time. "It makes me realize I was wrong before." He pauses again and Jaskier waits, nearly breathless. "I didn't actually expect you to leave."

"Then what did you expect?" he snaps, "Geralt I've put up with so much of your shit and I've stuck by you despite it. But you told me you didn't want me, that I was a nuisance, that I-" he turns and Geralt is right there. His words stick on his tongue and his throat goes dry.

"You're not a nuisance," he says and Jaskier nods dumbly. He looks at him and he can see how hard this is for Geralt to even get out this much and it's better than he was expecting. Anything else they can work out later if Geralt was genuine about wanting him around. Jaskier opens his mouth to speak to offer a compromise, but Geralt interrupts him.

"I'm sorry I hurt you," he says, "I didn't want to, I wasn't thinking."

"Geralt-"

"You're important to me, Jaskier. And you saved my life yesterday," his lips quirk just so and Jaskier stares for a moment, trying to figure out if he's really seeing this.

"You never were very good at taking care of yourself," Jaskier shrugs. "You should have someone to look after you. Someone who knows something about these monsters you hunt."

Geralt huffs a soft laugh but says nothing, meeting Jaskier's eyes and holding his gaze. He tips his head to one side and Jaskier can feel the breath catch in his throat because Geralt is so close and it's been so long. He doesn't move, afraid to disturb the peace between them, but Geralt leans in, closing the space between them and cupping Jaskier's face in his palm. Their noses bump together, then Geralt's lips brush against his own so faintly he thinks he imagined it. But when he doesn't pull away, Geralt kisses him properly, leaning into it. Jaskier lets himself be drawn forward, lost in the press of Geralt's lips against his own. He hums softly as an arm winds around his waist, bringing him closer, and when Geralt breaks the kiss, he presses their forehead together.

"I know it's not fair," he breathes, "to ask you to come back after the things I said to you, but I want to make amends. Tell me how to fix this."

"Come back to the inn with me," Jaskier breathes, "I'll talk to the innkeeper, get you a room - or you could stay with me?" he's still a little hesitant, but this is Geralt. "We can talk about what comes next after a bath and some supper."

"Will you join me?"

"In the bath?" Jaskier stutters and he can see the flush that creeps across Geralt's cheeks.

"I didn't mean -" he starts, before glancing down at Jaskier's muddy trousers. "But if you want-?" Jaskier barely remembers to breathe, but he settles himself.

"Supper first," he says, "then we'll see about a bath." Jaskier smiles at him and Geralt smiles back, and for the first time in a long time, he finds himself looking forward to whatever comes after.

#geraskier #post-mountain #rex writes

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quindolyn · 3 years

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Midnight Walks Part 2 || James Potter

Pairing: James Potter x Reader

Word Count: 3020

Note: I finally finished part 2, this is horrible, just completely plotless and a lot of fluff but it was stuck in my head and I wanted to get it out before I started working on something else (what will that be? You know what that’s an excellent question). It’s a bit shorter than part 1 but also much longer than necessary. I hope you all enjoy it or at least don’t hate it, constructive criticism is always welcomed and appreciated.

Warnings: Nonsexual nudity, hair washing, fluff, comma abuse, the Addams Family (I watched it all the time with my dad when I was like 7), lots of fluff, barely proof read and done so at 11:36 pm my time so

Masterlist

Part 1

What you and James hadn’t counted on was for it to start pouring down on you as the two of you laid, splayed out along the playground structure, metal of the bars cutting into your backs. After the kiss in the rain James insisted on having the two of you had stumbled home, wrapped up in each other’s arms, smearing sloppy kisses on any exposed skin you could get your lips on. It probably took you guys a solid 20 minutes longer than it should’ve to get home, you must’ve looked ridiculous meandering down the residential street trying to swallow each other’s tongues, drenched in rain. Eventually you made it home, managing to fall through the front door without breaking anything in the house, yourselves included though there were admittedly a few close calls. “You want a bath doll?” James asked you, cupping your face in his rough, calloused hands, fingertips dripping with rain brushing small, soft circles on your cheekbones. Lifting one of his hands off your face you cradled it in both of yours, tracing a healing callus that sort of looked like a flower, with some very wonky petals, but a flower nonetheless, “Yeah, that sounds good. You’ll take it with me?” Pressing a kiss to your nose he spoke, “Of course, not gonna run a bath for my pretty girl and not take it with her. M’Not an idiot my love.” “Guess not,” You shrugged, a smirk playing at your lips, earning you a playful push against your shoulder. Lifting you into his arms bridal style he carried down the hall to your room where we placed you down on your bed, still being clad in his varsity jacket, you pulled it tightly around yourself to conserve any heat you may’ve had while trying not to shiver from the water that still soaked you. You could feel the comforter beneath you getting wet. “Damn you’re pretty in my clothes baby doll.” He simpered pulling your arms parallel to the floor so he could see how much longer the sleeves of the jacket were than your arms. “They just swallow you whole,” He commented, really more to himself than to you. “Be right back m’love.” He promised before he traipsed out of the room and across the hall to where your bathroom was. You leaned back on your bed as you listened as the water started running when James turned the faucet on, the thrumming sound quickly lulling you to sleep. You awoke in Jamie’s arms but 15 or so minutes later as he carried you into the bathroom once the giant claw foot tub had finally filled to his satisfaction. You smiled dreamily as the sweet scent of your favorite bubble bath flooded your nostrils, you blinked your bleary eyes to see the breathtakingly handsome face of your boyfriend. “Bath ready?” You mewled, your voice weaker than you would’ve thought after such an inconsequential amount of sleep. “Yeah, nice and hot (Y/N/N), just how you like it.” “Great,” Pushing the heel of your hand into your eyes you tried to wipe away the sleep that had so quickly overtaken you. James placed you on the bathroom counter with ridiculous care, as though you were the single most precious thing in the world, handling you with such gentleness you were almost afraid about getting used to it, knowing if you were ever treated with anything less you may just break. “Let’s get this off you.” As he pushed the jacket off your shoulders and down your arms, seeing an opportunity James took it, kissing the delicate skin of your shoulder. “That tickles Jamsie,” You scolded completely unconvincingly as his light, barely there stubble grazed your skin. “Sorry darling,” The shit eating grin on his face said otherwise, “Just couldn’t help myself.” As you reached around to undo your bra James pulled his shirt over his head, leaving it to rest on the closed lid of the toilet, once his pants were pooling on the floor along with his boxers he moved to you, still perched where he first set you in your shorts. You lifted your hips so he could pull down your shorts, still soaking from a mixture of fountain and rain water. Once he sliped them and your panties off your legs his hands were back on you, caressing the your sides as he stared into your eyes, a dazed look you usually equate with post sex washes over his face. “What are you thinking about J?” You asked, tangling your hands in the hair at the nape of his neck. “You,” He responded simply, leaning forward so that the two of your foreheads are melded together, his nose bumping yours, “And how much I adore you.” If you didn’t love him as much as you did you probably would’ve complained about how your face hurt from all the smiling you did around him, you knew smile lines were in your distant future but you couldn’t find it within yourself to care. Because everytime you looked in the mirror you would be reminded of him, almost as if you got to carry around a piece of him with you forever. “I love you too but I’m cold, can we get into the bath?” He nodded, pulling you to the edge of the counter, moving so your legs were linked together at the small of his back, hands clasping together at the back of his neck. “Let’s go, little koala,” He chuckled, one arm on your back, the other supporting your bum, a stray finger stroking your bare skin. You closed your eyes at the nickname, savoring the vibrations of his chest as he spoke and laughed. When the both of you were settled into the tub, him behind you, hands rubbing up and down your arms, his chin rested on your shoulder so that your faces were pressed together, cheek to cheek. “Did you like the walk bub?” “I did!” You smiled, turning to that your nose was prodding against the side of his face, “I don’t think I’ve thanked you-” “You don’t have to,” He shook his head, “You don’t have to thank me for spending time with you, I want to be here for you, you don’t need to pay me in ‘thank you’s’. I’m just glad I was able to help you.” “I still want to say thank you,” You murmured, reaching down into the soapy bubbles fishing around for his hand for a moment before he caught on to what you were doing and moved his hand to yours. You smiled gratefully when you felt his much larger fingers brush the back of your hand. His hum tickled your back forcing you to stop yourself from wiggling around so that the nearly overflowing water wouldn’t splash out the sides of the tub. “Can I wash your hair Jamsie?” You asked him, twisting around so that your chest was pressed to his, faces mere inches from each other. “You want to angel?” He let out a small chuckle when you enthusiastically nodded your head, your eyes going wide as you sucked your bottom lip between your teeth, excitedly gnawing at it. “Okay sure darling, how are we going to do this?

After you both had abandoned any pretense of keeping all of the bath water inside the bath, maneuvering was a lot easier. As you sidled up behind him you ran your hands down his muscled back, relishing in the feeling of his skin against your palms. “So pretty,” You murmured, leaning to gently kiss in between his shoulder blades. “Uh, Jamie?” You asked shyly. “Yeah?” “Could I wash your back once I’m done with your hair?” You asked nervously, as though he wasn’t already sitting in between your legs, the both of you stark naked. “I’d love that (Y/N),” He leaned back into your embrace, forgetting that he was much larger than you, but that didn’t stop you from wrapping your arms around his neck, drawing yours and his initials onto the skin of his stomach. Your eyes flitted over to the shelf next to the tub where rows of shampoos and conditioners, body washes and scrubs sat. You plucked a bottle from your collection and flipped off the lid, squeezing the eucalyptus scented shampoo into your hand. “Can you scooch down for me baby?” You asked, tapping his shoulder as he wordlessly complied sliding so that his body was submerged in the bubbles and water up to his nipples. Working the soap into his hair you massaged his scalp drinking up the soft whimpers and groans he let out as you cleaned his hair. “Feels so good baby.” He praised reaching a hand back to pet your wrist. “I’m glad you like it,” Your response came with a kiss to his temple. Once 10 or so minutes, give or take, had elapsed you figured his scalp was clean enough, “Alright baby, dunk for me,” You instructed, dipping your hands into water to clean them. “Don’t want to be done though bubs, felt so nice.” He whined like a petulant toddler, reaching back for your hands trying to get them back on his scalp. “I could conditioner it for you if you’d like.” You offered, feeling benevolent. “Yes please Princess.” As you pulled the conditioner bottle from its place on the shelf James rinsed his hair, quickly moving back between your legs. He hummed as you gently yanked at his tresses, fingering in the conditioner into his hair. “I could get used to this (Y/N),” He purred, closing his eyes as waves of pleasure crested over him. “Yeah?” “Yeah.” He confirmed. “When do you want to get married?” You wondered aloud to him as the thought swept over your consciousness as you continued to massage his scalp. “(Y/N) (L/N), are you proposing to me?” He quickly turned his head, craning his visage to try to meet your gaze. “Hey, stop it,” You scold, moving his head so he’s facing back forward, “Gonna get soap in your eye if you’re not careful.” “You’re avoiding my question (L/N),” James sang, relaxing back into you as you continued your ministrations on his scalp. “Shove it Potter.” “Calm down Mrs. Potter,” He teased you, “Of course I want to get married, one day. I haven’t thought about it too much though, we’re still so young.” “Oh,” You failed at masking your disappointment, “I guess.” “Baby,” He turned around to face you, hair still soapy with bubbles which ebbed at his hairline, “I am going to marry you one day, trust me, if I have any say in it I’m going to put a ring on your finger but I prefer to live in the moment with you, I need to savor every second we have together, can’t spend too much of my time looking to the future. Don’t want to miss what we have now.” HIs explanation brought a gentle smile to your face, “I get it.” You nodded. “But,” He began. “Yes?” “If I did think about us getting married…” He trailed off. You whined, removing your hands from his hair, “Come on just tell me.” “Don’t stop, why’d you stop?” James groaned going limp. “You’re a literal child, you know that Potter? Keep talking and I’ll keep massaging.” “Hmph,” After a minute he relented, “I wanna wait until we’re done with school, and not just high school, college, grad school, law school, I don’t know, whatever we want to do, wherever life takes us.” “You really want to wait that long?” “I want to wait until we’re stable, I don’t want to start our life together without a solid foundation.” “I understand that, it’s smart.” It was smart, James was a smart person and being captain of the football team and thinking through all of those pranks he and his friends were so partial to playing he had an amazing strategic mind, something you both admired and envied. Which is why you didn’t buy that he hadn’t thought about your wedding, even if he wanted to, you knew James, he couldn’t deny himself. “At our wedding I want a sit down dinner, buffet is too tacky.” You were right, he had thought about it. “Yeah?” “Yeah, and I’ve thought about your dress too.” A truly comically large grin spread across your face. “Obviously you should wear whatever you want but I think you’d look breathtaking in a ballgown. Lots of lace and bling.” “Bling?” “Yes, bling, you should look like a princess on our wedding day. But I’m torn,” “You are?” “Yes,” He exclaimed emphatically, as though he was being forced to make the most important decision in his life and both options were equally appealing. “Because you’d also look gorgeous in a simple dress, nothing too flashy, understated but still elegant, because at the same time I don’t want the dress distracting from your beauty. All eyes should be on you that day.” “You’re a sap James Potter, a sap.” Despite your words you felt a fluttering in your chest, James Potter was many things. An idiot, slightly arrogant, a pain in your ass, the sweetest man alive, and a genuinely good person, even if he was a sap. “I think I’m done darling,” He lifted his arm out of the bath, showing you his pruney fingers, “I’m turning into a raisin bub.” “But what about your back?” “Next time?” “Sure darling, next time.”

James’ shirt hung low around your knees, the soft, warm fabric tickling your damp skin, you laid on your back, your head resting against his chest which was steadily rising and falling, his toned arm wrapped around your waist, inching up the fabric of his shirt to get to your bare stomach. “You wanna watch a movie darling?” “Something stupid please.” After much debate the two of you settled on the Addams Family Values, James argued that it wasn’t stupid though you said it was pure “brain candy”, not anything too engaging or something you had to pay any attention to but still enjoyable. About 20 minutes into the movie neither of you had so much as uttered a single word, settling into the comfortable silence of merely being in each other’s embrace. That was until James spoke, abruptly breaking the silence, “Peonies,” Was all he said. “‘M sorry what?” You grumbled, your voice rough from being half asleep when he spoke. “Peonies, for our wedding, my mom has always grown them in her garden, she grows lots of flowers roses, tulips, carnations, aster, sunflowers too, but peonies have always been my favorite. Sirius and I, when we were little would sit in her garden and pick them, weaving them into little flower crowns for the other to wear, we were her Flower Princes.” “I’m a little offended you haven’t made me a flower crown J, You playfully griped, “Swear to God sometimes I think you’re more in love with Sirius than me.” “Never,” His voice was strong, certain, as he tightened his hold on your waist, pulling you closer to him as he flung one of his legs over both of yours, “Love you most (Y/N), for forever I love you most.” His words became slightly garbled as he babbled, sleep starting to over take him. “I know,” You soothed his wounded ego, stroking his arm, “I’m just playing with you Jamsie.” “Don’t want you to ever think I don’t love you.” “I’m not sure how I could,” You started, the events of the past 3 hours rushing through your brain, the phone call, the hug through the window, him tying your shoes for you, the fountain, his jacket, the bath, the Addams Family. You don’t show up for someone like James did for you unless you really love them, which evidently he did. “You, James Potter, are the most wonderful man and I love you beyond comparison.” “I love you too darling, forever and for always.” It didn’t take you long to fall asleep lying in his arms, he pulled up a blanket around both of your shoulders, both of you being too lazy to get under the actual covers. To the metronome of James’ heart beat, and the rhythm of him moving his leg over your you fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Sunday morning you woke up sorely missing the morning prior, waking up in James’ arms was unlike anything you could ever dream of. And instead of sleeping in until 10 like you had with him you were up at the crack of dawn to the sound of the construction going on next door at your neighbor’s house. After much resistance on your part you dragged yourself out of bed and downstairs to fix yourself some breakfast, wishing James was there to make it for the two of you as he had yesterday before going off to work at the local consignment store. Smearing jam over your toast you aimed it for your mouth missing by an inch or two as you were distracted, scrolling through your phone in your opposite hand. Apricot jam smeared across your face in a mess of orange-yellow glory when you jumped at the abrupt sound of the doorbell ringing. “Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit,” You murmured, dropping your toast onto your plate before rushing to get the door, not wanting a second ring to wake the other people in your house. “Hi,” You greeted opening the door to a middle aged woman with a worn face in a pair of khakis and a company shirt you didn’t bother taking too close a look at, “How can I help you?” “Are you (Y/N) (L/N)?” She asked, a pleasant smile gracing her lips. “Yes, I am.” You confirmed, puzzled as to why this woman was at your door so early in the morning.” “Someone ordered flowers to your house for you,” She explained patiently, detecting your befuddlement, “There should be a card in the arrangement.” She said as she handed you an extravagant bouquet of brilliant pink flowers. Peonies.

tagging: @randomoutsiders

#harry potter #harry potter fluff #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter fanfic #harry potter imagine #james potter #james potter x reader #james potter fluff #marauders #the marauders #marauders x reader #marauders x y/n #marauders x you #marauders era x reader

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mandalorewhore · 3 years

Text

Hunter (formerly Hunter and Prey)

Cis-Female Reader Insert/ Din Djarin

Gif by @themandaloriandaily

Thank u to @cptnbvcks, @whenimaunicorn, and of course @no-droids for the inspiration and your superior writing skills, whenever i was stuck on a portion i would reread all of u guy’s works and feel inspired again

Rating: Explicit Content Warnings: Exhibitionism, Oral Sex, Rough Oral Sex, Breath Play, Deep Throating, Masturbation, Pining, Depictions Of Violence, Canon-Typical Violence Words: 11k AO3 LINK

Summary: AU where Din Djarin stays with the mercenary group owned by Ranzar Malk. Takes place a few years before Din is contracted for Grogu's bounty. You're a merc trying to make a name for yourself in the group when circumstances end up having you run away with Din. You become his hunting partner in order to support yourself but you cant help falling in love with him, even as trained killers chase you across the galaxy.

FULL FIC:

As a mercenary, you wouldn’t consider yourself an overly sensitive person.

Maker knows you wouldn’t have lasted a week in the job if you couldn’t handle your emotions. Although you don’t consider yourself entirely void of empathy, having a sense of detachment is useful when your waking hours are spent committing crimes throughout the galaxy.

So why the fuck are you so jealous right now?

The obscene moans and harsh slapping that echoes throughout the hangar shouldn’t inspire a larger reaction than disgust as you dutifully continue to repair the blaster marks on one of the rogue-class starfighters. Luckily, it seems that most of your immediate associates have ran off into the deeper areas of the bay to toll your last mission.

Excluding three members, you guess.

Thank the fucking Maker Migs isn’t here You think bitterly, willing the sparks to fly higher and machine rumble louder as you carefully manipulate your buffing laser on the metal surface. His snarky attitude certainly wouldn’t lessen your misery as you try to drown out the sounds of sex. Raunchy words hiss, bouncing off the metal walls, before finding your feet and slithering up your limbs with a foulness that chokes you. Controlling the hot spinning laser seems to stoke your inner seething more than it distracts you.

“Mando! Stars, keep-fuck- keep doing that,” you hear Xi’an echoing. Fucking Xi’an. She knows what she’s doing to you. The cruel Twi’lek is far too observant to not know that she is practically comm-station broadcasting her sexual exploits to the entire crew, and with that sheer volume, might as well the entire galaxy. You truly wouldn’t care about her sex life if it wasn’t blatantly obvious that Xi’an was doing this to mock you. You know this is meant for your ears only, a repeat of every other time you’ve found yourself stuck with this chore.

Even if she wasn’t directly rubbing the fact that she was fucking the Mandalorian in your face, you don’t doubt that she would find a way to taunt your nonexistent sex life just for the fun of it. Another salacious moan echoes in the bay causing you to cringe and slightly jerk the repair tool in frustration.

Fuck, why did it have to be Mando? Aren’t there enough people on this kriffing space station to warm her bed? And how is he being so quiet right now? After a second you remember that’s a stupid question, considering he is probably the quietest person you’ve ever met.

His reservation serves to intimidate your targets, all the while unintentionally stoking that warmth in your belly when you are near him. His all-encompassing presence when he enters a room strikes fear in the hearts of the opposition, meanwhile, you are secretly pressing your thighs together in desire, enjoying the spectacle?.

You’ve found yourself reveling in the few jobs where Ran’s strategy has you in a decoy-role, weaponizing your feminine charm to lull your target into a false sense of power. The muscle composing of Burg and Mando make quick work of those men once they're thoroughly wrapped up in your wiles. Despite being placed together for jobs on several occasions you’ve never actually had a real conversation with him.

You’re too scared to talk to him, a near-silent man covered head to toe in Beskar, but you make money killing people and robbing gangs every week. It would be funnier if that purple freak wasn’t so vile. You don’t even know how to casually approach him.. Nice job killing those guys while I manipulated them into trying to fuck me! I’m pretty good with a gun, too. Maker, it’s so ridiculous that you don’t even bother with trying to figure it out. Other fantasies are easier to picture, such as the thought of him strolling across the room to slot himself in-between your spread legs, directing that intensity into your willing, aching body.

This infuriating crush is why you suppose that your envy wouldn’t be as biting if you caught some sort of noise from the man during these displays of exhibitionism. It would give you something to repeat in your mind while you stow away in the late hours of the night seeking your own release. You guess the inability to hear him is proof of how far Xi’an is pushing her volume. It’s all just to piss you off.

“Uhg, how miserable..” You mutter to yourself, allowing a little moment of self-indulgent angst. Typically, you wouldn’t allow yourself to wallow like a petulant teen seeing as you’re a literal fucking criminal.

I’m supposed to be a hardass, dammit you think, spirits low as repairs wrap up far too swiftly. You swear you’ll buff right through every layer in the ship if you keep procrastinating on finishing your job and wandering into the tucked away fresher for a shower. Wandering past….them.

Wherever they are choosing to fuck can’t be that far considering the slap of skin on skin is already fucking loud enough. The sounds seem to be emanating from a vent not too high up the wall, you deduce it connects to one of the bunk rooms not too far from the landing pad you’re working next to. It really is fucking loud with all these metal surfaces to echo off of. Making your way to your small bunk might cause you to go deaf and if the last thing you ever hear is Xi’an wailing as she rubs in the fact that you aren’t fucking Mando, well, you might just take this spinning laser to your head. Unfortunately, at this point, the exterior of the gunship couldn’t possibly get more pristine.

Sighing in defeat, you push up from your crouching position on the metal floor and start to assemble your tools for clean-up while the sounds of Twi’lek pleasure predictably pick up in volume.

“Fuck, fuck-Ah I’m close, I-I’m going to-“ A literal howl pierces the air as your gut twists with discomfort. Fuck, this is so awkward... and like, weird? Does he consent to this? Does he like that we can hear it? Maker.. Pushing that thought out of your mind you start to jog to your goal of the darkened hall that leads to the station fresher, still so wrapped up in jealousy that you almost miss the rough modulated growl accompanying the scream.

O-oh.

Oh shit. Was that Mando….Moaning?

The swirling jealousy is suddenly overtaken by a- stars- painful heat, so debilitating that you stumble and almost double over with an intensity that shoots through your groin. Okay well, now you feel like an actual pervert. This display of eroticism was engineered by Xi’an to make you uncomfortable, not so painfully turned on that it’s dizzying. You vaguely register a growing slickness between your legs as you hurry along the cold hallway, desperate to drench yourself in icy water and pretend to forget the sound of Mando moaning.

Shit, Maker, was he cumming? Was that what he sounds like when-- no stopstopnope. Don’t think about that. Your inner monologue is running amuck as you desperately try to block it out. This feels kinda gross, as if you’re a greasy peeping tom spying on Mando’s private endeavors even though this whole situation was shoved in your face to make you ache in countless, longing ways.

That deep growl repeats in your mind as you hum nonsensically under your breath, tapping your skull as if you can knock the sound out of your consciousness despite being well aware that you will go to your fucking grave with every detail. The top of your inner thighs is so embarrassingly slick that you have to resist waddling along the corridor to the showers. Just as you are about to round the first corner, one of the side bunker doors slides halfway opens with a whoosh. The smirking Twi’lek saunters out like the loth-cat who got the cream.

I suppose she did get the cream... Your split-second of sour mirth is further spoiled as Xi’an slides the rest of the door open revealing the gleam of silver beskar and red steel as the ever still Mandalorian adjusting his…thigh armor. You spy a large vent at the junction between wall and ceiling, confirming your earlier suspicions that she chose this location on purpose. Quickly glancing between Mando and Xi’an, your face uncontrollably floods with fire when her giggles pierce the air. You register his helmet tilting toward you right as Xi’an’s tongue slowly extends to liiiick her fingers, any curiosity at his gesture burning away in revulsion.

What does she get out of making everyone uncomfortable? You think to yourself, wanting to squirm away from the obscenity but resolving to hold your ground.

“Xi’an,” You greet the two shortly, hands linked behind your back. “Mando.” He nods.

“Sorry,” Xi’an offers in a voice devoid of guilt. “Were we being too loud? I would never want to distract you from your… projects.” Her taunting smile curls so widely that it is almost disturbing. “What would the team do without our junior mechanic!”

Her cackle rings through the suddenly freezing hall as you spin on your heel and try to not look like you’re fleeing. Red is tinting the edges of your vision from her insult while tears threaten to flood your eyes out of embarrassment.

You need to get to that shower quickly.

----------------

As the tepid shower rains down on your flushed body, you childishly wonder if you should run away. Or rather, if you could run away considering you technically don’t own any of the ships currently residing in the hangar bay. Although you technically have free reign to pilot most of the spaceships available, that freedom entirely applies to transportation between merc assignments . The thought of running away from your current acquaintances on a stolen ship is not appealing. In fact, the only crew member owning a personal vessel happens to be Mando, his Razer Crest gunship was often subject to your mechanic skills.

Mando, who always offered a genuine “Thank you.” after you’d spend hours touching up the vessel’s damage procured from the rare missions he lent its flight to. Mando, the person who you are presently trying to not think about while naked and still trembling with emotion.

Your sillier fantasies would sometimes involve stealing away in his gunship, hand pressed over his chest and leg thrown across his lower body like a romance novel while he skillfully pilots the ship away. Kriff, you felt like a soft girl whenever you run this scenario through your mind, so cliché and campy that you cringe at yourself. Thus, this particular dive into your consciousness was reserved for special moments such as lying in bed after a strenuous job, or after long days spent working through that junkyard of hangar bay trying to strong-arm your way into earning worth in the company. Private moments where you are finally comfortable letting your guard down to drift aimlessly throughout maladaptive daydreams.

Not so soft fantasies exist in your mind as well. Once again that modulated groan springs to the forefront of your mind causing your clit to throb softly. The conflicting feelings of embarrassment, rage, and painful arousal serves to create an energizing cocktail that goes straight to your pussy.

‘Fuck it,” You whisper breathily to yourself, “Nows as good a time as ever..” your fingers are trailing down your stomach as you say the words out loud. You adjust the water to be slightly warmer and sigh as the comfortable heat compliments your tickling fingers. If only you could replace your hands with the significantly larger leather-clad ones of a certain bounty hunter. The thought spikes your arousal as you lightly brush against your mound, choosing to tease yourself as images flash through your mind. The armor-clad Mandalorian gripping the back of your neck to you press facedown on the floor of his ship and take his cock. Or your legs spread wide across his hips, crushing your pussy on his groin while he’s seated in the pilot seat of his ship.

Your fingers dip slightly into your slick hole then drag up to your clit causing you to bite your free palm and hold back a moan. Eyelids heavy, you give in to the fantasies and begin to earnestly rub at your clit.

“Mmf Maker, f-fuck..”, you whine into your hand at the thought of him breaking your pussy open. You just know he fucks hard -- it’s a given that the crazy Twi’lek would be one for rougher sexual affairs. Someone who spends nearly every moment of life feeling nothing but the weight of fabric and beskar on their skin must be so fucking touch starved. You bet the opportunities he’s had to feel a tight cunt wrapped around his length would completely overwhelm his restraint. Muffled moans begin to fill the fresher as your fingers speed up between your legs, head hanging forward into the metal wall and water dripping off your brows.

Your eyes flutter shut as you pull your hand from your lips to tug at your hardened nipple, other hand still between your legs, imagining a dark visor being trained on your soaking wet, writhing body. The image sends a shooting pleasure up your spine as you spin around and press your back to the wall. Imagining his dark form watching you from the other side of the gathering steam, you open your thighs and spread your labia apart, sighing at the wet sound it makes. “Like what you see, hunter..?” you whisper into the empty room wishing he would find you in this shower.

Removing your fingers from your nipple you reach down to your crotch and greedily fill yourself with two fingers, pumping in and out as your other hand works at your swollen clit. The volume of your now unmuffled pleasure is likely overheard by anyone on this section of the station, but you can't find it in yourself to give a shit. If Xi’an can screech out her orgasms at any given opportunity to fuck with you then let them hear.

Let him hear.

Your imagination runs rampant at the notion that he could hunt down your gasps and take care of you himself, causing you to gasp louder. S-shit people can hear you, you just won't say his name out loud, it's fine, it's f-fine- The thought of him discovering you here is so hot that it's blinding, and suddenly your orgasm is rushing up to crush you entirely.

Your lower half is locked tight then suddenly your knees buckle and you’re cumming hard. Your choked gasps cutting through the steamy shower like blaster fire as you peak higher, uncontrollably calling out for the Mandalorian while white-hot pleasure wrings you dry. Let him hear you crying for him as you gush around your fingers, convulsing in bliss.

In the shuddering aftershocks, you don’t hear the uncharacteristically loud padding of leather boots retreating away from the fresher door.

------------------------------------------

You’re good at your job. You wouldn’t be doing it if you truly couldn’t handle the ordeal of being a mercenary. The whole point of the job is to take care of the dirty work, so those far disconnected wouldn’t have to dwell on their choices too hard. You’re used to not asking questions, motivated by credits and reputation alone. But in moments like these, a job going this awry… well, you just feel like pure shit. This hit was way too easy and far too filthy even for your career mostly consisting of professional filth. It was so glaringly obvious that even if your associate’s numbers were sliced in half, you would still sweep the ground with your winnings.

And what meager earnings they are.

The crew’s assignment this round was to hit a casino shipment just outside the outer rim planet of Cantonica. Due to the Razer Crest’s ability to fly under the radar of both Imperial and New republic records, Ran rudely allotted that Mando should allow his ship’s use for crew transport. You’re surprised he agreed at all, but perhaps the prospect of gain motivated him. His motivations are rarely clear to you. You’re guessing the price of a wealthy city’s supply sounded frankly too tempting for everyone involved; Ran was practically salivating over the drawing board for this particular errand. One would imagine a hull stacked to the top with credits and the finest luxuries for Canto Blight’s flashy tourists. It is Catonica’s main attraction after all.

But once the team’s resident crime droid, Zero, breached the cargo ship's record, the whole team is informed that the cargo-freighter ship only contains “organics”.

Slaves.

In the end, Migs remarked that there may still be something of worth to obtain from this job, and thus the plan morphed into an robbery on the surface once the cargo landed at its isolated dock. You reluctantly agreed to continue while Mando shortly nodded, both of you last to assent on this change in direction.

----------------

Some hours later you’re crouching in a derelict warehouse while the lessening blaster fire showers spark like fireworks across your corneas. The fighting between your crew and the dockyard guards has almost died down at this point and you take the moment to catch your breath behind a large stack of cargo boxes.

“Holy stars,” you gasp out, head falling between your knees as a wave of guilt consumes you momentarily. This job fucking blows. It’s so much easier robbing Imps and gangs because they are inherently bad fucking people. Robbing a group of slaves is the lowest point you think you have ever hit in your life. This is so wrong, this is so so wrong, they don’t even have ownership of their own lives and here your crew of fucking mercenaries swoops in with a vengeance over being cheated out of something that we didn’t own in the first place.

The last straw was when you witnessed a young bedraggled woman fearfully tossing the Twi’lek sibling, Qin, a small wooden necklace, the last possession from her life before slavery. You ended up turning tail and running deeper into the dock while Qin needlessly hissed at her just to enjoy her terror. You’re sure he’ll just toss the thing after the job is over.

“I never would’ve agreed to this…” You breathe out shakily to the empty air, hollowness swallowing your ability to compartmentalize your humanity from the nature of this work. You are still fighting the impulse to give in to that deep pit of sorrow when a large shadow makes you start and grip your blaster before relaxing in recognition at the chrome gleam.

“Oh, hey, Mando,” Smiling tightly in his presence as he approaches silently, his helmet tilted down at your crouched form. His gaze makes you straighten up quickly, realizing that you probably shouldn’t look so stricken in front of your crime associate. Gotta look tough, can’t let people think you’re too soft for this work. Man, didn’t he help start the company? That thought motivates you further to stand up and face him head-on.

“Not what we expected huh? Certainly no Canto luxury here..” you quietly murmur to his cheek groove.

If you looked directly where his eyes might be he would likely catch the sparkle of moisture threatening to pool at your bottom lashes.

“No,” he breathes shortly through the modulator. “Not this.” Something in his voice inspires the bravery to glance at his T-shaped visor. Compared to his usual tone of speech he almost sounds …stricken right now. Distraught by this display of debauchery your crewmates have shown the slaves and few people manning the dock. It's not noticeable unless you’ve been around him enough to read him on some level but deep down you know he feels the same way. You try to recall him taking part in the violent takeover and realize he was barely present for the ordeal. Aside from the initial violence that broke out during landing he hardly did anything and was noticeably absent once the slaves were targeted. In the back of your mind, you pray that he won't be reprimanded for the lack of effort. The thought is ridiculous but you’re scared anyway.

Stars, this is all too much, your head is swirling with grief and stress as your heart rate picks up and suddenly you are so desperate for humanity, for empathy that you lose your filter and-

“Couldn’t stomach it either?” You blurt out to him, desperately hoping he understands and will not judge your deep sorrow for the enslaved people affected by this brutal takedown. Your mind catches up in panic half a second later when Mando doesn’t immediately respond. Did you just seek sensitivity from the Mandalorian? Fuck. Wait. That sounded like an insult too. Fuck um-

“Ah, um I-I mean. I just mean I don’t remember you firing on anyone helpless and I um- I didn’t either, I didn’t fire my blaster at all to be honest I-Fuck- I hid. They’re just slaves not Imps, Mando. The guards were taken out in seconds and-” You hiccup and stutter as tears gather at the edges of your eyes and begin to fall. You feel so overwhelmed with anxiety and guilt that all of a sudden you forgot about his open show of emotion.

Pull it together, don't do this in front of the Mandalorian. He is the very picture of a stoic, hardened mercenary and now you’re kriffing crying in front of him? It briefly registers that this is the first time you’ve ever spoken one on one with him, the both of you were almost always alone or with members of Ran’s party during time off. You internally curse your existence for thinking you could tearfully word vomit in front of a fucking bounty hunter and get comforted by him. Your knowledge of Mandalorians is limited, despite knowing one, yet you think the point of his whole creed about giving up your identity and giving yourself to war. Why the fuck did you cry in front of a damn Manodlorian? You’re just starting to unfreeze from your panic-stricken muscles to dab at your cheeks when a gloved hand swiftly brushes just below your eye to catch a tear.

‘This wouldn’t have happened if that Droid could do his job,” You glance up at him in shock at his biting tone juxtaposed with the gentle gesture, but he’s already turning away, voice rotating with his visor. “The worst is over now that the shooting stopped. Let’s round up the others.”

He pauses with his back turned and you take that moment to compose yourself. You’ve only shed a few tears so your eyes can’t be that red.

“O-okay.. .” You reply, trying to inject your usual backbone into the tone of your response before moving to follow him around the piled boxes and regroup. Staring into your warped reflection in the back of his helmet you try to find the words to thank him but they get lost in the ghosts of today.

Your mind is still swirling but the clouds of despair have mostly cleared away. You know you don’t have time to dwell on your short interaction yet your mind is fully absorbed in his every move, both present and past. Coming from anyone else his reaction would seem shitty and dismissive but coming from Mando... well, you're honestly shocked. Those two sentences were fairly long for someone usually so silent. And what about his reaction to the way this job has gone? Him brushing away your tears?

You are gazing down at your feet deep in thought when you suddenly bonk into the back of Mandos broad back, wacking your forehead on the base of his helmet.

“Oww.” You groan lightly, rubbing your forehead and stepping to the right of his body, “Why’d you stop so sudde-'' It is then when you notice the muffled whimpering coming from the clearing in front of the both of you. A crimson pool of blood laps at the Mandalorian’s boots, its kiss staining the leather a deep black.

Now you are truly sickened, bile rising in your throat as a ragged gasp leaves your mouth.

“Why…? How can you..”

“Xi’an!”

Your choked whisper leaves your lips at the same moment the Mandalorian fucking barks the Twi’leks name.

A crumpled form adjacent to her body is the source of the whimpering and bloodshed, their contorted limbs looking less than human as muscles strain against metal binders. Xi’an’s triangular blades are dripping in her grip as she spins on her toes like a dancer and flounces childishly in the direction of your frozen form. Tearing your gaze away from the shell of a human you meet her eyes with open hostility. She stops several yards away from you.

‘Aha! So good to see you two. Isn’t this job sooo disappointing?” She calls out to the two of you casually. When no one responds her body deflates as she twists her knee inward and clutches one arm peevishly. Performative. “What? No hello? I could’ve died today!” She cackles at the notion.

Mando is a statue at your side. You can feel the rage radiate in waves off his body like a heater and you wonder what's going to happen if Xi’an pushes this further. Your heightened stress from moments before is vibrating throughout your nervous system, compelling you to step forward and speak up.

“Xi’an… this-this is completely unnecessary. The only thing required to complete our hit was taking out guards! What the fuc- and they were clearly incapacitated by you before you decided to take your blade to their skin!” Okay, that came out a little shakier than intended, but it feels like a disservice to hide your revulsion for her actions with the victim lying right there. “You could’ve just hit em’ in the skull with a blaster shot if you needed them out of your way!”

“Guards? Oh, I already took them out. This-” Xi’an punctuates the word a kick into the person’s stomach causing them to groan weakly, “Well, this is just an Organic as Zero would put it.” Organic? Fucking- You jump slightly and glance to your left when the Mandorlorian makes a shocked exclamation at her words. Maker, you’re so sickened you forgot he was with you.

“You mean a Slave? From the shipment?” He hisses the question through his teeth. You can’t see his face but you can hear the tension in his jaw, his body still a ridged form at your side. Xi’an pokes her tongue out and runs it lightly over the pointed edge of her teeth while she considers her response. She seems to be measuring her response to Mando with a little more care than she bothered with while speaking to you. You’re guessing that she cares far more about his perception of her than your personal attitude regarding the Twi’lek. Wouldn’t want to piss off her fuck buddy.

“Answer me!” He snaps when her response takes a millisecond too long. Your purple associate sighs, exasperated now.

“Yes a slave,” she hisses, drawing out the word in contempt, “Really I’m doing him a favor. From the looks of him, he was picked up on Tatooine. I doubt he even had a family to mourn him back on that shitty dustball of a planet-” Her eyes suddenly bulge as she clamps her mouth shut, gaze fixed on the armored man betraying a twinkle of... fear?

Slowly, you turn to him. The pit in your stomach is somehow weighing heavier than ever when you take in his body language. If you thought he was emanating white-hot rage before Xi’an’s response then you don’t even have words for how he holds himself now. You take a half step back in trepidation as the air around you seems to warp around the Mandalorian’s gravitational pull.

“A foundling?” His tone is unexpectedly quiet for someone who is manipulating the very atmosphere of this desert planet. Time seems to freeze. Shadows are ebbing at the edge of your vision and your head feels like it is going to pop in the pressure. You want to do something, anything, to relieve the pressing wall closing in on the three of you, to somehow end this interaction so that you can crawl in on yourself and bury the ghosts in the back of your mind. Fuck, your mouth is so dry, heart palpitating with a painful squeeze. Shit, fuck, what do you do? What did he mean by that question and why is Xi’an freaking out? You’re still fixated on the gleam of his helmet, rushing to find appropriate words when-

A flash of red explodes in your peripheral-vision, sparks seeming to fly 20 feet in the air. The words die in your throat in shock.

Did he? Did he shoot her? You barely saw him move yet as your mind races to catch up on this turn of events, you realize his blaster is drawn low on his hip, while the rest of him hasn't shifted an inch. The pressure cooker disappears in a sweeping wave of silence.

You swallow and turn awkwardly back to Xi’an. Oh.

He shot the slave.

Xi’an is just as stiff as you, her arms slightly raised as if she instinctively tried to ward off the blaster fire before realizing its trajectory. You are still processing his actions when a gloved hand wraps around your wrist and pulls you swiftly as he runs from the scene, tossing a flash bomb behind the both of you.

Without question, you run with him.

----------------

“Hey!” Within minutes your chest is burning from keeping up with Mando’s relentless pace. You’re fit from your job but he's twice as big as you and probably more than twice as fast. You get the feeling that he's moving slower than usual so you aren’t left behind. Struggling to control your breathing, you attempt to make sense of the jumbled thoughts by wheezing out, “M-Mando what are we doing?”

“Running.”

“Okay, fucking obviously!”

“To the Crest.” He clarifies just as shortly. Okay. Okay, once you reach his ship maybe you’ll get more answers. Right now, both of your priorities align with getting the fuck away from Xi’an before her vision returns and she comes after the both of you. But you can’t yet push some of the recent events to the side.

“You shot him.” You mean to phrase it like a question but it comes out more accusatory than intended with how breathless you are. “The slave you shot-“

“I ended his suffering.”

Oh. That makes sense, even if it makes your chest contract in duress you recognize his killing the slave came from a place of empathy. What exactly did he say right before drawing his blaster, something about… foundlings? You don’t know the term exactly but contextually you can guess it means orphan or alone. Fuck, this is so bad. Just what are you going to tell everyone? He may not have directed his shot at the Twi’lek but he temporarily blinded her. That still counts as an attack on a member of the team. Your chest is burning unbearably now so you slap at Mando’s vambrance to signal your need for a break. He drags you gasping around a corner into the shadowy edge of the warehouse.

“Listen, hey, look at me.” His large hand reaches out to gently grip the side of your face, warm against your skin and smelling sharply of blaster residue. Looking into his visor you realize your cheeks are damp again as hysterical hiccups threaten to make themselves known. “We are going to run. You don’t have to come with me of course but I unintentionally put you in the position of being complicit by attacking Xi’an. That-that wasn’t the plan… but I was leaving the company anyway”

His chest suddenly deflates as he rids it of air.

You realize you were holding your breath at the same time as him as you gasp out, before rubbing at your cheeks and asking dumbly, “Y-you were… leaving the company? Is Ran pissed?”

Stupid question. Of course, he’d be pissed at losing the one Mandalorian in the group. Mandos' presence gave him cred.

“Ran doesn’t know.”

“Ran doesn’t… what? When was this happening then?”

Mando’s visor turns away from your gaze and looks off into the middle distance. His gloved hand on your face is still gripping gently to lock you in place. “Today. That’s the only reason why I agreed to let him use the Crest for this job.”

He shakes his helmet slightly and turns back to your face, the metal covering his face becoming your main focal point while the room spins. You can't see his features, and never would, yet you feel as if you are looking directly into his eyes. Your body has impeccable timing when you feel your cheeks heat blushing.

However, your senses return in an instant when a familiar piercing howl echoes off the walls. The glove drops and he is gripping your shoulders,

“Can you run again?”

Adrenaline springs your limbs into action as you spin around, catching his wrist and pulling, roles reversed as you lead him in the direction of his ship.

Dust is billowing from below whenever your feet meet the ground. The steps sound like thunder in your ears as paranoia begins to worm its way into the forefront of your senses, every corner, every shadow, every blindspot could be hiding one of your former partners. Xi’an is an excellent assassin; time and time again her main skill has proven to be stealth, targets dropping dead expectedly. The Crest isn’t very far thankfully. It sits right on the back of the targeted freighter since Zero requires physical contact to hack the other ship systems for paths. Oooohh shit you forgot about the droid-

“Mando, Zero’s in there.” You puff out shortly in between breaths.

“Fuck that droid. I’ll take care of him, just back me up.” You both slide around a corner as he responds, bringing the two ships into your field of view. You are facing the rear end of the larger vessel, thankfully leaving the coast clear as far as you can tell. Mando’s helmet scans the area then nods, indicating the go-ahead with his fingers before running ahead of you. You follow him, casting fervent glances behind you for any signs of life. You reach the ship a millisecond after he does, his vambrance held high to lower the rear ramp. As the ramp begins to lower he grips your shoulders and spins you around dizzily.

“Stay right outside here. The second I enter the crest I’m dropping the Droid. I’ll call you once it’s safe.” You gulp quickly and nod in assent right before he leaps into the opening of the ship.

Seconds pass.

Your nerves are plucking way more than they normally would.. You never particularly liked Zero, but the sudden turn of taking out your ex-allies is making you high strung and nervous. Zero’s voice cuts through the silence, making you jump.

“Mandolarian, you are back early. Were the prospects plentiful despite being Organics?”

“No.” You twitch when a shot echoes in the hull followed by the clash of metal on metal.

The Mandalorian sharply calls your name springing you into action. You enter the ship immediately spying Zero’s body under the cockpit ladder, blaster wound still smoking with red-hot metal ringing the edges. Your eyes linger a little on the droid’s body, slightly leery at the death of someone who was your backup only hours ago, then you sigh and duck to get a handle on under his shoulders, dragging him to toss out the open entryway.

Grunting with effort you direct your voice at the cockpit, “Tossing the droid! Take off when read- Shit.”

One of the droid's hip joints gets stuck on a portion of the hull wall, preventing you from moving his corpse. Something wizzes above you at the exact moment you duck down to adjust the body, right where the back of your head was a second ago. One of Xi’an’s triangle blades ricochets off the wall and slides across the floor, stopping right under your nose. Oh f-

“Fuck! Fly, fly, she's here Mando!” You lurch to the floor as the thrusters kick in, twisting your head to try and get eyes on the clearing. Through the rapidly closing ramp, you see a flash of purple skin, but before you have time to react the Crest door snaps shut. Heart thudding at what feels like a million beats per second, you try to get your bearings on the floor. Twisting sideways you suddenly find yourself face to face with Zero’s corpse, revulsion whipping through you like lightning as you scramble backward on your hands and feet.

You can’t do this right now.

The last thing you want is to seem weak and needy in front of the man who just selflessly saved your life, for reasons still unknown, but you can’t do this right now. A creature of habit, you fold your neck between your legs, the same reaction you had to the violence on Cantonica. A minute, you just need a minute, a minute and then this horrible drone will go away, and you can deal with this, you’re a fucking mercenary… the blackness swarming at the edges of your sight overtakes you all at once and you slide limply to the floor.

------------------------------------------

You aren’t sure how much time has passed once you rouse. At your request, Mando tosses Zero's body before kicking into hyperdrive right about 120,000 feet in the air. You stare at its flight path until the speck disappears in the taupe shithole that is Cantonica. Feeling shaky as your adrenaline finally dips, you decide that the Crest could do with a once over before the long journey.

After performing a quick analysis on the Crests systems it’s determined that the two of you are lucky this hunk of metal can fly. Hyperdrive operating at 67% capacity, weak communication signal if it even works half the time, plus more damage than you can currently process. If there weren’t five million different stressors weighing on you, your mechanic brain would probably explode at the current state of Mando’s ship. He probably should’ve taken it to you, or anyone else handy with tools if he wanted it to be in proper form for departure, but it makes sense that he didn’t want to draw too much attention. Hopefully, his pilot skills will compensate for the Crest’s sorry state.

To be fair, the whole blow-up-your-coworker-and-run-for-your-life aspect didn’t seem to be in Mando’s original plan.

“So… where are we going?” You’re on the floor in the cockpit, back facing the passenger chair while the Mandalorian is seated pilot. After crawling under the console for a while you couldn’t bother to lift your aching muscles on the chair, resigning to scoot on your butt over to the closest object that could support you. As a result, you end up craning your neck to look up at him, his back straight in the chair.

“My original plan was to head to Nevarro to take on a few quarries. I’m still with the guild and Karga doesn’t give a shit whether I’m running with Ran or going in alone.” You bite your lip anxiously. Oh yeah, you kinda forgot your presence threw wrench in his plan. He notices and tilts the helmet sideways at you, “You’re not in the way. I’m not concerned about you joining me, someone of your skillset is helpful to have around. I’ll introduce you to Karga so you can get on your feet.”

The compliment lifts your spirits enough to make you playful, poking at his boot with your toe, “Gee, glad I’m useful enough to keep around. All I have is my blaster and the clothes on my back, so if you drop me, I’d be pretty fucked.”

You giggle quietly but you know it’s the truth. All of your possessions are back on the space station, but you didn’t own too many personal artifacts, aside from some clothes and weapons. The only thing of use would’ve been your credits. You worry again at the realization, dipping your head before continuing to speak,

“Shit Mando, I don’t have any money on me. It was all back in my bunk, I don’t know how I’ll help pay for things around here unless Karga decides I can take on a quarry right away. Even then I’ll have to bring it back before I ever have a lick to my name.”

“You can make it back. I’ll split the profit from jobs that you assist me on. Cut depends on how useful you are and once you prove yourself, Karga will give you the decent pucks.” He swivels the chair and faces you, knees slightly spread as he leans forward in the chair, “Deal?”

You swallow and nod your head, mind blanking at how your head is level with the bend in his hips. You don’t think he's trying to come across as suggestive but the effect, intentional or not, invites a flutter of desire in your tummy. The Mandalorian leans back on his leather backing and sighs, the sound gentle despite the modulator warping his natural tone,

“You aren’t in my way. I swear it. If I had more time before leaving I would’ve asked you to join me anyway, you're good with your hands and always had more… compassion? Than anyone else in the company. I admire that quality.” That makes you straighten back up to meet his visor. He sounds nearly shy.

“O-oh…” You never even thought he noticed you aside from when you touched up the Razor Crest. The compliment sends warmth throughout your body, as languid as sex pollen in the near feverish effect. You don’t know how to respond at all, you’re feeling disjointed, like you may reveal too much if you don't change the subject soon. You wish you could be snappier but you’re exhausted. Maybe try for a joke?

“I g-guess you value girls good with their hands, huh. H-haha?”

Silence. Hm.

That was the absolute worst thing you could’ve come up with.

It didn’t meet even a single one of your simple ass goals, which entail the following:

Thank him.

Change the subject.

Not reveal how much his words make you want him to rail you.

Wow, what the fuck- kill me. He hasn’t moved an inch, much less reacted to your shitty joke. The positioning of your bodies that you found so hot ten seconds prior is now a place you’d try anything to escape from. It’s almost comical how his height advantage serves to emphasize the disappointment in the small room. He hasn’t responded so you’re guessing he won’t bother to try. Heavy silence suffocates you to the point of desperation, you need to fill it with something right now or you swear you’ll die.

“I-I jus-t mean like- Well you had certain- ah- habits, you’d adhere to in your free time. Li-like um, I mean you didn’t hide much. Kinda obvious if you- listen, uh, I didn’t mean t-to say that I-I was joking around-”

“Get to the point.”

“I-” Your tummy fills with heat at his command. “Umm..” You wipe your hands on your thighs and glance down from his voice. The hours of on and off adrenaline must be majorly messing with your head. It’s kinda weird that you want him this badly after everything that went down today. Wasn’t your most recent concern something about avoiding death at the hands of a bitch you hate most in the galaxy? To be honest you can’t recall.

The proximity of his groin is suddenly at the forefront of your mind. Again.

He slowly tilts his helmet to look at you, arms bending to settle in a relaxed position on the armrests. You are extremely aware of how you’re blatantly staring at him but your mind is slow to come up with a valid response, blankness written in the reflection on his visor. His position on the chair is mountainous, looming over your body in a way that boxes you in between the passenger seat and the Crest console. You feel like a prey animal... In a sexy way? Maybe?

Although, when he leans back into his seat, helmet still trained on your face, you are unsure if you’re actually pissing him off or not.

“Say what you mean.”

Okay, the sexy is mixing a little with anxiety.

“Ah- Um well, I just mean like. It’s not like you hid it from me- everyone else too. In the company. Ran’s company? ‘Cause, I- We… always overheard you and Xi’a- Her…” Fuck, your mouth is so dry that last part came out like a squeak. “I’m sorry, I’m rambling again um, I kinda thought you were doing it on purpose. With Xi’an. Making me hear when you’d...fuck her.” Cheeks blazing, you duck your head back down, which doesn’t help at all since you’re just face to face with his crotch once more.

“You say ‘always’...” Mando’s inflection is lost somewhere between statement and question, his tone confusing enough that you end up lifting your head from its bowed position below him.

“Y-yes?”

“As in this was a common position you found yourself in? Did you overhear me multiple times?” Now he poses not one but two questions for you, neither of which you feel brave enough to answer steadily. You can’t deflect further at this point so you answer him with a sigh.

“No, I only heard you once. Xi’an always wanted me to hear her though. It was gross.” Mortified, you gather your legs under your body to stand up from the floor. You think the hyperdrive issue is fixed well enough to hold until Nevarro. When your hand reaches for the edge of the armrest to pull yourself up it is abruptly enveloped in warm leather. Half crouched, your arm jerks back a little in surprise at his touch.

“I wasn’t asking about myself specifically. And I wouldn’t force you to participate in her games, had I known.”

Maker strike my ass down. Can humans die from embarrassment? You wish it were possible if it got you out of this conversation. He’s correct, he didn’t specify whether you had heard his moaning. If you weren’t nursing these stupid feelings for Mando you never would’ve given away the fact that you memorized every tantalizing second of what you overheard. Not only is this embarrassing, but you don’t want him to think you’re a sicko who wanted to eavesdrop in the first place. The clarification about his awareness of Xi'an's timing is comforting but not enough to erase what you already admitted to him. You somehow feel sweaty and bone-dry at the same time, a flush spreading over your face.

“I’m so sorry.”

“I heard you too.”

You both speak at the same second, and a beat passes before either of you process what the other said. He- what? What is he talking about? Are we having two totally different conversations right now? When did you ever fuck someone on that space station anyway… unless he means… in the fresher…

This time he is the one who breaks the silence, “You’re sorry for… overhearing me?”

“Y-yes, I really, really, don’t want you to think I’m a creep or anything. Anything I heard was involuntary, I swear. Xi’an w-wanted to make me… Um…” You trail off shyly, sitting down again. His hand is still over yours.

“Get to the point.” His voice is filled with heat now, so low and compelling that you’d tell him anything just to keep it that way. You whisper your response, lifting your eyes to his dark visor wishing you could meet his gaze.

“She wanted to make me jealous. Over you.”

“Mm… You wanted me instead?”

“Maker, yes.”

The climate between you and the Mandalorian made a 180. Nerves dissolving like honey in tea, all at once being taken over by a hum of sexual tension while his fingers caress a warm pattern over your knuckles. Exhilaration builds within you, though in the back of your mind you are calculating the possible motives behind his advance.

You know sometimes, after a particularly rough day, people are compelled to relieve their pent-up stress through intimacy. There’s a reason why the market of sex work thrives under wartime, terror existing constantly in a fighter’s life must be paired with the softer, inner-most comforts of knowing another living being, or they’d go mad with sorrow. Brothels made a lot of money during the last stages of the Empire’s rule from both Imps, Rebels, and neutral parties alike.

It’s not out of the ordinary for you to seek each other out right now, yet can’t help but dream that this might mean more.

The Mandalorian’s hand currently encasing yours flips your wrist to trace the lines of your palm. Sighing you tilt your head to the side, a curtain of hair cascading across your features. His free hand reaches out to brush the strands away before he gently grips your jaw, hand large enough to press his thumb on the front of your chin while his fingers wrap lightly under your ear.

“I heard you too, pretty girl. You called out for me in the fresher… just what were you doing in there? Describe it- please.” He speaks with such allure that you break under his voice, pressing your cheek to his palm.

“I-I thought of you watching me while I touched my pussy. I was so wet thinking about how I want you to feel me after being under all your armor, Stars, even the wind can’t touch you Mando. I thought about how you must crave the feeling of something so soft… can I show you how soft I am?” Your free hand raises to rest gently on his knee, fingertips hesitating at the edge of his thigh piece. He is still fully suited for battle, explosives strapped to one boot and rifle across his shoulders.

You wish so badly to help him unwind, you would never disrespect him by trying to remove his armor, but you want to help him move past the experience that was Cantonica. Mando continues to stare at you for several tense seconds before melting into your touch.

“H-helmet stays on.” He breathes out shakily, a slight tremor running through his legs as your fingers lightly explore the fabric under the edge of the piece of metal. “But the rest… the rest can come off.”

He’s already moving to undo the magnetic connectors holding his cuirass in place so you scramble to follow his movements. The rust-colored armor on his body has complex enough attachments that you don’t really know where to begin. Your hands clamber around, mostly following his deft movements. Slowly a man of flesh and blood is revealed, and as his impenetrable exterior melts away you find the true shape of him.

The armor serves to add a few inches of bulk on his features, enhanced proportions making out a dramatic silhouette designed to be spotted from miles away. Without it his body is still so powerful, built hard as stone and broad, hard angles melding enticingly with a hidden softness. Not hidden- you realize -it compliments him completely. The pieces fall away and you’re left with the unexplored bareness of him. He is human and warm, evidence of this betrayed in rare moments where his hands travel lightly up your arms while you work at his pauldrons, brushing through your hair here and there before finally returning to your jaw to hover in front of your lips.

“Off.” He instructs shortly, brushing the seam of his thumb over your bottom lip. Your mouth falls open to explore him with your tongue, tasting salt, blaster residue, and a hint of the heat he holds in his body. Satisfied, you bite down gently on the glove ridge, watching as he pulls off the leather encasing his hand and drinking in the sight of golden skin as it is revealed to you inch by inch. All you’ve seen of him is one bare hand and somehow it is the sexiest thing you’ve ever laid your eyes on. Flames lick your body, spreading from your white-hot core, energy gathering with such impassioned motions that at any second now it will burst from your skin, a reaction so immense that you could birth another galaxy.

You want to taste his skin too.

“Fuck baby-” You take his middle finger down to the knuckle, emboldened by his slurred reaction, noises startling to babble out of the bounty hunter as his stoicism falls apart under your tongue. Humming around the digit, you start to bob your head gently, eyes locked on his impassive visor while filthy, filtered noises drift through the beskar. It’s like there is no barrier at all between you, the air thrumming with a longing so great that you feel one with the man crumbling before you. If you're not careful you will fall with him.

“Mando, Plea-se,” You stutter around him, voice shaking more than intended. “I want to f-feel more of you, let me touch you, please-” You squawk, mouth empty when he suddenly rips off the other glove, tossing it behind him before reaching down his torso to pull the hem of his trousers south. You gulp in trepidation, unable to tear your eyes away as enticing dark hair displays itself, leading to the base of his cock. He pauses, but you’re so caught up in discovering him that you don’t notice the tonal shift.

“Before I show you this-” dark words enunciated by palming his cock through the fabric, “I need to know where to put it.”

What kind of question is that? You’re honestly bewildered, mind blank before you realize that the options are overwhelming. In his own way, he is asking you to verbalize consent, which is very much appreciated. You want him in your pussy, to work his way deep in your body and in turn, discover just how human you are... yet… You feel oddly unprepared. It’s not that you don't think you can take him, in fact you can't recall ever being this wet in your life. It’s just… after today… you want to help him unwind but you’re still not fully there. You still want to please him, but you’re not ready to let him know you that way, not until you come back to yourself.

So in that case…

“I want you in my mouth, hunter.”

Mando growls then grabs your wrist, guiding it over the edge of fabric and onto his throbbing length. He shudders while you process the feeling of him. He is thick, the width of his cock so wide that your middle finger and thumb are straining to meet each other. You release him from his pants then try to pull at the hem to wiggle them down his thighs. He obliges and lifts his hips so that you can reveal more delicious olive skin, but he makes no move to assist you with his hands. You get the feeling that he is drinking in your efforts to touch him, the sensation of your jerky movements giving away how much you want him.

You kiss and nibble at every possible moment, one hand drifting lightly over the length of him, twirling at the base dusted with short, dark hairs, cupping his balls then moving back up, your mouth traveling to meet your fingers. Hissing, his hand flashes up to meet the back of your head, fingers tangling in strands to tug tightly on your scalp. With a light moan, you tongue along the side of him, teasing hot air more than actually licking him.

“Look at me- fuck - pretty thing, s-so fucking willing for me, I want to see you take my cock as far as you can, s-show me how much you can handle-” He pulls harder at your hair, dragging you roughly enough to control your neck, back up from where you were sucking at his hip to the head of his dick. “Are you going to show me yourself before or after I gag you on it?”

Fuck, you never realized how tantalizing submitting to another person could be, not until that came out of his mouth, rough enough to clip through the modulator. You elect to show him what you can handle. Leaning forward to meet the swollen tip, you part your plush lips and kiss at the drop of precum gathered there, before relaxing your jaw to take him halfway. He groans and nearly doubles over at the sudden sensation, holding you there for a second before you draw back up to spread your saliva more thoroughly. Lips rewet, you sink back down on him, gliding smoothly as you pull his cock deep within your mouth, drinking in his breathy groans.

“Maker, yes … that’s it, fuck-” You attempt to sink even further down on the Mandalorian’s impressive length, but stop short a few inches from his base, blunt head pressing in your throat. “-so good, s-so good for me baby, you look perfect like this.”

He’s so far back inside you that you can’t access your vocal cords to produce any noise at all, otherwise you’d be whining at his praise. Your hands are free to assist you at any time, you could circumvent his daunting length if you wanted help. But you want to impress him. Besides, your palms are warm on his torso, traveling under his shirt to feel the ropes of muscle there. You don’t want to remove them.

You surface to the tip, taking a deep breath in preparation before ducking to take him as deep as you can manage. He watches you, entranced at the sight of a face so lovingly strained to please him. Your gag reflex spasms but you will it away, determined to fully engulf his cock at least once even if you find you’re unable to handle more. The noises rising from your throat are brutal and raw as you choke around him, his helmet blurring when tears fill your eyes. You bob a little then almost give up when the urge to retreat floods your senses but then he starts talking again- so filthy that you can’t stop yet.

“You’re trying so fucking hard, fuck, I love seeing you wrapped around my cock, Maker, you feel so fucking good, I can’t imagine how your little pussy must feel, you’re so warm, so, fu-fuck, tight…” The stream of filth serves as your motivation to bob for as long as possible on his length, throat stretched obscenely around him. You realize hazily that there are tears streaming from your eyes, but the urge to pull off is lost in dizziness as the oxygen in your lungs depletes. You keep going and going, your high at its peak as you recognize that your body is starting to fade in black. You should pull off and breathe, one quick breath is all you need, but the way he’s filling you is more addicting than the purest Spice. He notices when you start to slump into his lap and pulls you up gasping for air.

Nearly fainting never felt so good.

“Shit, are you alright?” You nod and rest your cheek on his thigh, face turned on its side to meet his visor as he spins little circles in your vision. A soothing hand brushes against your cheekbone, tracing a gentle pattern on its height. “You were doing so good for me baby. No need to hurt yourself.” Mando’s voice is still breathless, offering you tenderness through a cloud of stimuli.

“I’m okay- I’m… I just need to catch m-my breath.” You’re still heaving unevenly but you want him so bad, you want him to finish for you, your wants translating into weak pawing at his dick trying to give him more sensation. He catches your wrist with an airy laugh and guides your uncoordinated movements to better stroke him. The sound fills you with light.

“Pretty thing, I know you want me. Try to not die on my dick before I’ve had the chance to feel your cunt.” His hand leaves yours on his length and reaches over your ass to cup the apex of your thighs through your pants. You jerk up and almost crack the crown of your head open on the chin of his beskar but his other palm is pressed between your shoulder blades, keeping you bent over in his lap. A garbled noise tears from you when his index and ring finger spread on either side of your outer lips, allowing his middle finger space to travel up and down your seam, so wet that you can feel the slickness gathering through two layers of fabric onto the tip of his finger.

“Ah, Fuck! Mando, I-I- wait please, please, wait-” He draws his hand up away from your wet center, reaching your asscheek before you yelp and snatch his forearm to stop him from retreating farther. “I s-still wanna, I wanna make you come. You first, before-before me.”

“Baby, you’re… fuck okay. Can I still touch you?” Mando caresses your hip at the fold where it meets your thigh.

“Later, let me d-do this, please.” He allows you to lift his arm from your spine and rest it on the crown of your head as you move forward and try to meet his cock again. Pulling his thighs to the edge of the chair, you settle back on your knees and stroking him one-handed while he hums low in his throat. You wrap your lips around the swollen head, sucking and swirling your tongue before taking him deeper, this time using a palm to stroke the last few inches instead of opening your throat. Starting up a rhythm of bopping and stroking his velvety length that pulls incredible noises out of the Mandalorian, each one going straight to your swollen clit.

Coming up for air you start to jerk him off faster with your slick hand, meeting the T of his visor with your heated gaze, hoping that you are finding his eyes. He must enjoy the sight of you jerking him off because his moans start to tighten, hips thrusting into your palm.

“K-keep fucking doing that, good girl, fuck I-I’m close, where-where do you want it, baby?” You respond by settling low near his thighs, putting his cock above you with your tongue sticking out, wetting the tip while your wrist moves faster. Somehow he’s harder than ever and-

Mando curses through his teeth as his cock convulses, warm spurts of cum painting your tongue, cheeks, and nose bridge, rivers of him flowing down your chin and dribbling on the swell of your chest. He grips the back of your head tight enough to hurt, then rips one hand down to stroke himself, smearing the mess across your features.

The fingers on your scalp loosen then graciously begin rubbing at the base of your neck to soothe the soreness on your head. One of your eyelids is sealed shut due to a rope of his cum crossing from nose to eyebrow, the other eye unfocused, hazy with pleasure as you listen to him come down from his peak. A low noise rises from your throat as he massages your scalp, feeling tingly all over as blood flows back to the area.

“T-Thank you… that was great, I-“ he breaks off when you start to gather his cum off your skin, licking it off your fingers while studying his visor through your lashes. “Hey, let me…”

He surprises you by wiping at your face with his cape, still hanging off the arm of the pilot chair from when you detached it. You giggle, “Is there a way to wash that on here? I can’t even tell if that hole in the wall includes a shower.”

“There’s enough to work with.”

You laugh louder at that, “That’s encouraging. I hope there’s ‘enough to work with’ so that I don’t meet Karga covered in cum.” Pausing to consider your current position, you add, “Actually, that might help my case.”

Face wiped mostly clean, you're able to open both eyes now, taking in his posture. A jolt shoots through you when you realize he’s holding himself differently for some reason, he looks almost predatory but maybe that’s just the effect of Beskar’s harsh angles... Nope, he’s leaning forward now, caging you in again.

“You want to look sexy for Karga?” Gulping, you try to figure out the best response but he continues before your slow-ass mind can catch up, “You’re right, that might help you get better pucks. But I don’t know if I want my hunting partner to be introduced that way. I still need to return the favor…”

He lifts your body with ease, pulling you sideways onto his lap. Mando’s warm hand slides along the bend in your knee, slow and sensual on your body. He caresses you aimlessly, relaxed in the afterglow of cumming so hard. You’re still tightly wound, energy balled in your body as his movements serve to wind you up even more. But he’s not moving any faster so you relax into his broad chest, enjoying the feeling of his bare skin.

Time blurs with your senses. His touch pulls you to a place right out of your daydreams, where everything is draped in velveteen and silk. You’ve honestly forgotten his original goal in the first place, and as his arm begins to drag on its path, it seems like he has too. The stroking on your arm has lowered your arousal to a simmer, leaving you content to stay laying across his lap, the glow of hyperspace streaking over your bodies. All at once, you realize he’s no longer moving over your body, his chest rising and falling deeply against your shoulder.

He’s asleep. Surprise registers sleepily somewhere in your exhausted mind, the realization behind layers of warm fuzz. Didn’t even think he slept.

There’s a full day of travel until you reach Nevarro. Snuggling closer into the warm crook of his neck to resolve to live in this dream for as long as possible. Who knows what tomorrow will bring.

#the mandalorian #din djarin #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x reader insert #mando x reader #reader insert #fanfic #star wars #mandalorian fanfic #din djarin x reader #smut #smut fic #mandalorian smut fanfic #the mandalorian x you #mando x you

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hopeamarsu · 4 years

Text

Hurt

Flip Zimmerman x female reader

Word count 1,538

Warnings: Mention of hospital, stitches, needles and bodily injury (nothing is really described in detail, but they are there). Slightly murderous and feral Flip.

A/N: So, I had to have some minor cosmetic surgery last week because of an irregular mole and currently have some annoying stitches on my body. I guess you could say that this piece is inspired by those four little buggers and the process of waiting for the day when they come out. When I started rolling this idea in my head, I could only picture Flip, so I’m dipping my toe into writing Flip, hopefully it’ll turn out alright.

“Colorado Springs Police Department, Zimmerman.”

“Flip... Please do not freak out, but...”

Flip Zimmerman sat up in rapt attention on his desk chair as he registered your timid voice. A voice that was laced with a hint of hurt and something else he couldn’t quite place. You normally didn’t call him during the day, both of you had busy jobs and he knew that as a school teacher you had even less time than him to take a break during the day. If you were calling him, something had to have gone wrong.

“Baby girl, what happened?”

“...I’m in the hospital.”

A million things went across his mind as he waited for you to speak, to explain more, to ease his mind. Had something happened at work? Were you hurt? Was someone else hurt? One of the kids you taught? Did someone touch you without permission? Who he had to hunt down if they had hurt you?

“It’s really not a big deal, just four stitches and that’s only because the doctor doesn’t want it to scar...”

All of his blood rushed in his ears as he reached behind him to grab his jacket from the backrest. You were hurt, bad enough that a doctor had decided to poke needles at you and you were saying it wasn’t a big thing? No, no way in hell.

“Y/N. What. Hospital.” Flip basically barked out, the receiver giving out a crackle, in danger of snapping in two, as he held it so tightly in his hand. He could feel Ron and Jimmy turning to watch him in surprise at his tone and words, but he couldn’t care less in the moment.

“St. Agnes, near the school. But, Flip, honey, it’s not a big...”

“Do not move. I’m coming to get you.”

The receiver went flying as large cowboy boots stormed across the room, taking the phone with it. Ron, sitting closest to Flip’s station, could hear the faint voice calling for Flip from the phone as he looked at the retreating flannel covered back, eyes wide.

You were sitting on one of the waiting room chairs as Flip walked inside. Well, walking was a kind term for the sound of thunderous stomping that you could hear before you saw him. You watched him make a sweep across the room before he settled on you. A few seconds later the mountain of a man dropped down on his knees before you and worried eyes found yours.

“Baby girl, what...” His voice broke and eyebrows pinched together as he kept sweeping his eyes across your features and hands trailed over your body. You smoothed his cheek and smiled, hoping to alleviate the worry on his handsome face. You buried another hand to his hair, scraching lightly at his scalp in a way that always soothed him.

“It’s nothing bad, Flip. I promise you.” You tried to input as much of calmness into your voice as you could, to make him understand that you were alright. Your Flip was a protective one, you didn’t need him going off the rails with what you were about to reveal. “Just a small accident that happened at the school. There is nothing to worry about, trust me.”

He took a couple of breaths through his nose, hoping silently that he could light a cigarette here. He really needed the nicotine right about now, his chain-smoking on the ride over a proof of that.

“Tell me. Please.” The words were still a little choked as they were whispered. As far as he could feel and see, you were in one piece, no blood or missing limbs. You looked pretty much the same as that morning when he had left you at the gates and kissed you goodbye, promising to pick you up after the school was over. But he knew that it was only an illusion. One that would shatter as soon as you spoke.

“Well... Joshua and Michael were fighting again during art class. They had their hands on some clay carving knifes and as I went to stop them, one of them accidentally stabbed me.”

Stabbed you? With a knife? And you claimed you were alright? How in the name of everything that was holy were those boys still breathing? He could feel his blood boiling again, a nervous tick on his knuckles. His nostrils flared in anger.

“Honey, I need you to calm down. I am fine, I promise. The nurse at the school looked me over, but told that it was better if I came here instead. The doctor decided that I would need some stitches, just to make sure that the area does not get infected and so that it doesn’t scar. At least not badly.”

There was a possibility that you would get a scar from all of this? That was it, Flip was going to kill the boys responsible for hurting you. Ron could help him dispose of the bodies and Jimmy could run interference. There was a nice stone quarry outside of the city they could use for the job, nobody would be the wiser.

“Where?” He ground out, your hands the only thing that kept him from bolting to his truck and going hunting for those responsible.

You gestured at your chest and Flips eyes widened. That bastard kid had stabbed your tits? Oh, they were going six feet under. He must have flashed murderous anger in his eyes one too many times as the next thing he realized was that you had placed both of your hands to his cheeks and forced him to look you into the eyes.

“Flip. It was an accident. You cannot plan to murder anyone. I am fine. I promise. This is only a precaution.”

“I’m not planning to murder anyone.” He didn’t care that he sounded like a petulant kid at that moment. He wanted to hurt them for hurting you, but if you didn’t allow him to kill, he could do other things to them to make sure nothing like this happened ever again. “Can I...”

“No, absolutely not. Flip, they are seven years old, I do not want you giving them nightmares either. They are scared enough as it is.”

Fine. He held out his hands as to surrender to your will. But then he turned his attention back to your body, wanting to rip the cardigan off you so that he could see your skin. Make sure that you had been given all the care you needed and he could sooth his worrying mind that all was going to be okay.

“Show me.”

If the doctor had done a sloppy job, Flip could settle for him as well. The idea of it all sickened him. That someone had poked a needle into your perfect skin, threaded it back together, leaving ugly black strings in there to tighten the skin for days to come. That had to have caused you discomfort, to make you even more uncomfortable and he wanted someone to pay for it. He would gladly burn the world at your feet to easy any pain you had, physical or otherwise.

“I’ll show you once we are home. I promise. But I need you here with me now.” You kissed him then, wanting to feel those velvet lips move against yours, make you forget the afternoon completely. Despite what you’d told Flip, you had been slightly shaken by the experience and the pain that was still ebbing from the needlework. And you knew that he would provide comfort for you, make all this go away.

Flip was a full-body kisser so it was no wonder that once your lips touched his, he wrapped his arms around you. He pulled you to his lap, right there on the hospital waiting room floor. Hands danced across your back, slipping lower to grip your bottom. Flip desperately wanted to slip his hands under you skirt, he needed to feel your skin on his skin.

There was almost a feral need coarsing through his veins. He wanted to run away with you on his arms, tuck you under him on a bed with silk sheets, where nothing could hurt you. To place kisses everywhere on your naked body, taste the salt of your skin with his tongue, bring you to the edge and to heaven, time and time again. Make it all go away, leaving nothing but pleasure behind.

But before he could act on those desires, before the kiss could get too heated (a reccuring thing with Flip and those sinful lips of his) you pulled away. You pressed small kisses to his lips as you grounded both of you back to reality. “There is one thing...” Another kiss “...I still need to tell you.”

Flip quirked an eyebrow at this. What more could there be?

“So, there are some rules we need to abide to while I’m healing. No heavy lifting and nothing can poke the wound. Also, I cannot go swimming in the next ten days and a day after they do come out. And... I can’t sweat heavily or jostle the wound. That means sex is out.”

“Fuck.”

His week just went from bad to worse.

Tagging as requested @aloneandsleepless 😉

#flip zimmerman #flip zimmerman x female reader #cw: bodily injury #cw: stitches #cw: needles #cw: hospital #my writing

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buckybarnabus · 3 years

Text

The Dance of These Things

Summary: Dawn and Bucky go to a gala.

Warnings: Some cursing. Moderate alcohol use. A broken wrist? Mostly fluff

Word Count: 5.4k oops

A/N: Next part of my Snapshots series involving Bucky Barnes and OFC Dawn. I can’t for the life of me write a whole multi-chaptered story, so this will be a series of one shots in no particular order that may or may not develop into something coherent over time. You can also read on AO3 if you want. Thank you!

“Tell me again why we’re here?” Bucky grumbled as they walked through the parking lot. Dawn shot him a look.

“Because Sam is our friend and he asked us to come,” she said, rolling her eyes.

“He’s your friend. Not mine,” he said, sounding much like a petulant child.

“He spent like two years of his life looking for you under every leaf and pebble he could find. ‘Not friends’ my ass. I actually think that might even qualify as bestie material,” she teased. Bucky tossed a scowl at her.

“As what material?” he asked. “You know what, no. I don’t care. He only went looking for me because Steve needed help. That doesn’t make us friends.”

“Right, because that makes sense. You’re only friends when he’s not asking you to go to a gala in commemoration of saving the universe,” Dawn drawled. Bucky huffed.

“Yeah, not exactly the place for someone like me,” he muttered. That made Dawn pause. She looked at him as they walked, and it hit her, way later than it should have. She should have known better. Bucky felt like he had no right to be there. All of the extra grumpiness made sense, suddenly, and she could see it then in the furrow of his brow, the clench of his jaw. He wasn’t mad, or pouting about having to go to some fancy party. He was nervous. Maybe a little scared.

“Hey,” she said, grabbing his wrist and planting her feet. She stumbled just a little in her heels as Bucky’s momentum kept him going for a couple steps. She felt him stiffen up at her touch, but she ignored it. He’d gotten better about contact, after that night she cut his hair, but it still wasn’t exactly easy for him. One step at a time.

He heaved a heavy sigh as she tugged him to a halt, and he looked over her head, exasperation in his face. “Look at me,” she said. He acquiesced after a stubborn moment.

“What?” he snipped. She stared at him. There were a million cliché things she wanted to wax poetic about, but she found herself at a loss. If she said any of it, she knew it would just work him up even more. Calling him a hero would probably send him into hysterics.

“I don’t know,” she said dumbly. She chewed at her lip briefly, forgetting for a moment that she was wearing lipstick. It claimed to be smudge proof. She was, apparently, going to test the claim whether she meant to or not. She sighed and fixed him with what she hoped was a meaningful look. “I get it, okay? My track record isn’t all that pretty either. It’s just one night. Just a few hours. People are here to celebrate being alive and throw obnoxious amounts of money at foundations. You know, if nothing else, we can just sit at the losers table together, and you can watch me get drunk,” she said, offering a sly little grin and a squeeze to his wrist.

Bucky looked at Dawn for a moment, didn’t say anything, his jaw still working overtime with his stress. But a certain softness worked its way into the edges of his eyes as he took her in, and it made a certain little shiver run up her spine. She felt almost exposed under his gaze. A tiny little grin made its way onto his face, and he gently slipped his wrist out of her grip to carry on walking.

“Well, don’t get too drunk. I’m not carrying you through the parking lot if you can’t walk straight,” he said over his shoulder.

He was tense as they walked up to the entrance of the building, people loitering outside, one or two of them staring from the sidelines. Dawn couldn’t be sure if Bucky noticed, but he paid it no mind regardless. She managed to weasel her way in front of him, giving the name to the bouncer at the door. They found Sam not five minutes after going in, and a wide smile spread over Sam’s face when he spotted them.

Dawn let out a low whistle as Sam flounced up to them, giving him an exaggerated once over. “Look at you, Wilson, Jesus,” she exclaimed. “You’re gonna piss a lot of married men off tonight, looking like you do.”

“Please,” he scoffed, giving her a hug and a light kiss on the cheek in greeting before holding her at arms length to get a good look at her. “Have you seen yourself? I think I just fell in love with you a little,” he said. Then, genuinely, “Dawn, you look beautiful.”

“If you two are just going to fawn over each other all night, I’m going home right now,” Bucky drawled. Sam smiled upon seeing Bucky.

“Look at you, man. A haircut, no tactical gear. If it wasn’t for the staring thing, I never would have thought it was you. Didn’t even think you owned a suit,” Sam said by way of greeting.

“I didn’t,” Bucky said flatly. Dawn tried to hide her smile. She had all but dragged Bucky, kicking and screaming, to the suit store a few days prior, when he was still adamantly refusing to to go the gala. Sam chuckled and smacked him on the shoulder.

“You look good, Buck. I’m glad to see you came,” Sam said.

“I can change your mind, real quick,” Bucky said. Despite the grouchiness, there was still a little lilt of jest in his voice, and Dawn was going to count that as a success. Not a minute later, someone else was calling for Sam’s attention, and they parted ways with promises to catch up later. Dawn spun on her heel to face Bucky.

“I think it’s time for a drink,” she chirped. Bucky gestured toward the bar.

“Agreed. Lead the way,” he said, a tight smile on his face.

To his credit, Bucky was doing just fine, making small talk with those who approached him, whether it be by Sam’s introduction, a familiar face, or the occasional stranger.

The pair had actually ended up getting separated after a little while, though Dawn made certain to keep him in her sights. A trio of old men had apparently decided to adopt Bucky while Dawn was just a little caught up letting some rich older lady talk her ear off about the donation she was making. Which was fine. The woman could flaunt her money all she wanted for all Dawn cared, so long as she was doing something useful with it.

But alas, that conversation came to an end when the woman suddenly saw someone she knew across the way and promptly forgot about Dawn, gliding across the room as she hollered and waved. Dawn blinked a few times before looking briefly over toward where Bucky sat, to find him already looking at her. She rose a brow at him in question. He gave a little grin and a nod, and she smiled brightly before wandering off back toward the bar for another drink.

She ordered one for herself, and another for Bucky with every intention of meeting back up with him and his old men soon, and leaned patiently against the bar top as she waited. There was a man standing near her- nondescript, a little sweaty- sipping on a beer. She didn’t pay him much mind as she waited, simply offering a polite grin when they briefly locked eyes.

“Hey,” the man said, giving her a weird grin as he pointed at her. “I think I know you.” Dawn immediately had a bad feeling about it.

“I think you don’t,” she responded, clipped, but trying to remain at least a little polite.

“No, I see it now. I definitely know you,” he said, scooting a tad closer. “Can you guess how?” Dawn took half a step away.

“I don’t really do guessing games,” she said, haunches quickly rising.

“You’re an assassin. You kill people,” the man said, and she caught the look in his eye. He was either very drunk, or way too excited to talk about things she didn’t want to talk about. Seemed like a little bit of both.

“That’s a bold accusation to put on someone who potentially kills people,” Dawn said, eyes flitting around for a possible escape.

“It’s true. You’re the Serval, I know it. I saw you in the S.H.I.E.L.D. files when they were leaked,” the man continued, Dawn’s attitude going right over his head. She gave him an incredulous smile.

“Oh, you’re one of those deep diving types, huh? Must’ve dug pretty far into those, the Serval wasn’t very high up in the ranks,” she said, giving the bartender a light thanks as she dropped the drinks off.

“I can prove it. The Serval’s got the brand of the Handler, right on the back of her neck,” the man said, eyes darting to the back of Dawn’s head. At the mention of the Handler, Dawn was suddenly in full fight or flight mode. She was just trying to have a nice night.

“You sound a little obsessed there, buddy,” she said, voice flat. “I wouldn’t test that theory if I were you. Excuse me,” she said, making to pick the drinks up and escape the situation. His hand was wrapped around her wrist, then, strikingly quick for a drunk man. It took every ounce of willpower Dawn had not to drop him right then and there.

“Let me go,” she said, surprising herself at how calm she sounded.

“Come on, just let me see it,” he said, other hand moving toward the back of her head. Dawn was a hairs breadth away from kicking the mans knee out when a familiar whir of metal was swiftly followed by the hand it belonged to. Bucky had the mans floating arm caught in his left fist, twisting the wrist sharply and painfully down and out of Dawn’s face. It happened so quickly, so subtly, no one around them even seemed to notice.

“This ain’t a game you want to play, man,” Bucky growled at the man who’s face was contorted in pain. “You’re gonna leave, and hope neither of us finds you later. You know, especially with her being a potential assassin and all.”

With that, Bucky released the mans arm, and the pair watched him crumple before stumbling off in a hurry, tail between his legs. Dawn didn’t bother questioning how he heard the exchange. They’d been through it before. He heard it all, so he said.

“Were you a drama major in your past life? Because that was pretty dramatic,” Dawn teased, hiding what definitely felt like a stiff smile behind her glass as she took a hefty swallow. Bucky looked her over quickly, assessing her body language for unease.

“A little theatrics can go a long way,” he said when he seemed satisfied that Dawn was mostly fine. “You think it scared him?”

“Maybe a little. That, or the broken wrist,” she shrugged, picking up the drink she’d gotten for him. “Got you a refill,” she said. He huffed a breath of laughter and took the glass.

“You went through all that trouble just for me? You’re a peach,” he teased.

“What can I say, I’m a hell of a date. I know how to treat ‘em,” she shrugged.

“I’m sure you do, Donnie,” he said. They fell into an amicable silence after that, but before either one could decide to start talking again, the crowds attention was drawn to the head of the hall, where the presenters of the gala were starting some big speech.

It really was a nice speech, all things considered. Well spoken, hopeful. Bittersweet, but overall optimistic about the world trying to get back on track. As galas went, full of rich, slightly sheltered people who didn’t really understand that things were still going to be rough for a long time, Dawn supposed it could have been a worse crowd. They had hope that things could be good, given the right resources. It made sense that Sam was so eager for them to go.

Sam had reappeared out of seemingly nowhere not long after the speech had ended, and the music had started back up.

“Dawn, you mind if I steal you from your date for a little while? I’m dying to dance with someone under sixty,” he requested, earning a giggle from Dawn.

“Is that what you’ve been doing this whole time? Wooing all the old ladies?” she asked.

“I’ve been drowning in Chanel Number Five for like an hour. Please, I need a break,” he whined, coaxing a proper laugh out of her. She turned to Bucky, then, the silent question on her face.

“Go ahead. I’ve got a conversation to get back to,” Bucky said, gesturing toward the table of old men he’d been talking to previously.

So Sam offered Dawn his arm and led her out onto the dance floor. They fell into form easily, and began moving with the music.

“So Bucky made some friends, huh?” Sam asked, raising a brow in amusement. Dawn smiled.

“Yeah. A bunch of old men, naturally. They’re probably just swapping war stories or something, I don’t know. Whatever old men talk about,” she said.

“Of course he’d fall in with them, cranky old bastard,” Sam said, rolling his eyes. “At least nobody’s giving him any trouble.” Dawn shrugged a shoulder.

“He’s already broken a wrist tonight, I think he’s filled his quota for the time being,” she said.

“He what?” Sam baulked. Dawn laughed lightly.

“Don’t worry, it was very subtle. We’re staying out of trouble, I swear.”

“No, no. You aren’t getting out of this so easily. Why the hell is Bucky stealth breaking people’s wrists?” Sam prodded.

“The guy had it coming, honestly. He grabbed me. Trust me, I would’ve made a bigger scene if Bucky hadn’t stepped in,” she said.

“You two are going to be the death of me, I swear to God. Can’t stay out of trouble for one damn night, can you?” he said, giving her a little spin.

“Gala’s can’t stop a couple of wild animals, Wilson,” Dawn winked.

“And yet here you are, schmoozing with the best of ‘em,” he said, shaking his head fondly.

“I mean, I look sort of nice tonight. Might as well play the part, you know?” she said, earning a chuckle. They bantered easily for a bit before falling into quiet and letting the music guide them.

“You know,” Sam started after a few stanzas. “I don’t think Bucky’s danced since the forties. Steve said he used to go dancing all the time,” he said, pointed. Dawn snorted.

“What, you think he’d go for that now? No way. It was enough work just to get him to come here,” she retorted.

“You should ask him to dance. Since, apparently, he can deny you nothing,” Sam said, still with the stupid pointed look. Dawn was willfully ignoring it.

“I think he’d sooner rip his other arm off. You know how he is about touching,” she said.

“I don’t know about that. I don’t think you’re seeing what I’m seeing, Donnie,” Sam said.

“Oh? And what’s that?” she prodded.

“Right now, I see Sir Grumpalot sitting over there looking like a kicked puppy because someone else is dancing with his girl. Seriously, the dude is straight up pouting.” Dawn shot him a glare.

“I’m not his- he always looks like a kicked puppy, that’s just his face.” Sam smiled at her, a soft, warm thing. She felt small under it.

“To you, maybe. That man is an immovable object when he wants to be. Unless it comes to you. Then, sad little puppy, always ready to please.” She huffed at him as the song ended, and reached up to pat his cheek.

“Alright, Samwise, keep telling yourself that. I’m not nearly drunk enough for this conversation. Thanks for the dance. Back to the cougars with you,” she said, removing herself from his grip.

“Dawn, baby, don’t do this to me!” he crowed. She shot him a wide smile as she backed away.

“Sorry, sweetheart. You know my heart burns for you. But I think I’ve got a puppy I need to get back to,” she called.

Bucky was scowling at her once she arrived back at the table he sat at with his three old men. “Was Sam calling me a puppy?” he asked, throwing a glare in Sam’s direction.

“You heard that?” she asked, taking a seat next to him. He slid a glass across the table toward her, a refill of her drink. She smiled in thanks.

“I heard you say it. Which means he said it,” Bucky said, clearly grumpy.

“Don’t worry, Buck, you’re not a puppy,” she said, poking her foot into his shin under the table. “You’re a big, bad wolf, huffing and puffing as much as you do,” she said.

“I hope you don’t ever get into comedy. It’s really not your calling,” Bucky grumbled, and Dawn let out a bright peal of laughter.

And then, apparently, Dawn was dancing with one of Bucky’s three old men, because her feet weren’t killing her enough already. She could run around all day and night on missions, but on those, she typically had boots. A few hours gallivanting around in high heels, though? That was definitely another story.

By the time Dawn had managed to slip away from the dance floor, Bucky was looking spacey, tired, and ready to leave. He’d been a good sport over the course of the evening, and broke a drunk guys wrist for her. He’d earned the relief of leaving the gala.

They slipped out into the refreshing night air, after Dawn’s insistence that they at least say goodbye to Sam, and Dawn felt the relief instantly. She’d been riled up all evening, trying to be social and gracious. It was nice to breathe and let the tension go. But with her relief, the pain in her feet and ankles became her main focus. Heels were a curse to womankind, she decided. And Bucky was already a good few yards away.

“You always walk that fast, or are you just that sick of me?” she called out, irrationally grumpy at the pain in her feet. Bucky stopped and turned, looking just a little surprised that she was so far behind. He watched her for a moment as she tried to pick up the pace, and she scowled when she saw the amusement written all over his face.

“You look like a baby deer,” he teased.

“Oh, I’m sorry. You try wearing heels for hours at a time, see how you do,” she said, embarrassed as she hobbled up to him.

“Hey, you’re the one who wanted to wear them,” he said, raising his hands in defense.

“I’ve got a knife under this dress, somewhere. Don’t make me use it,” she grumbled.

“You brought a knife?” he asked, surprised. She scoffed.

“Oh, like you don’t have at least ten stuffed in your slacks,” she retorted.

“That’s fair,” he said, then looked back down at her in consideration. “Alright. Come on,” he said, stepping into her space.

“What-“ Dawn was cut off by a yelp as she was suddenly airborne, and she found herself scrambling for a good grip around his neck. Bucky hiked her up higher and started walking, carrying her bridal style through the lot like it was nothing. Dawn took a moment to gather herself again before speaking.

“I thought you said you weren’t going to carry me through the parking lot,” she said quietly, amused. She was also trying not to think about how warm he was, and if she was talking, that helped to distract her.

“That was if you were drunk. Which I’m pretty sure you’re not,” he said, giving her a suspicious glance. She smiled.

“Nah. I can hold my liquor. Maybe even drink you under the table,” she said.

“Right. We are never testing that theory.”

“Don’t underestimate me.”

“I’m not. You’d die.”

She let Bucky drive her car, not trusting her feet to cooperate with the pedals. It was a long, quiet drive back to Bucky’s apartment. They’d spent the drive sort of winding down from the evening, and Dawn was about to bid him goodnight upon parking, but Bucky beat her to it.

“You’ve been drinking. I can’t, in good conscience, let you drive home,” he said flatly. She rose a brow at him, unable to help the grin.

“I thought you said I wasn’t drunk,” she said. He didn’t look at her as he pocketed her keys and started walking.

“Three drinks? Maybe four? Yeah, you’re not driving,” he tossed over his shoulder. “Don’t know where your keys went, anyway.” Dawn smiled softly at his back and followed. She liked when fragments of his boyish nature of years past shone through all the grey he surrounded himself with. It was nice.

He let her borrow some clothes, let her use his shower, and she eventually emerged, clean and warm and comfy. She dropped herself onto the couch and let out a relieved sigh, leaning her head back and shutting her eyes with a grin.

“Feel better?” Bucky asked from the kitchen around a mouthful of food. His stomach had growled angrily the entire drive home. Dawn had tried to get him to eat at the gala, but he just wouldn’t. He moved back into the front room and placed a plated sandwich in Dawn’s lap. She was, admittedly, also very hungry.

“You have no idea,” she said, tucking into the offered sandwich. She watched TV while Bucky took his own shower. It was a familiar routine after sharing many a hotel room. They existed pretty easily around each other, for the most part. It was comfortable. Something safe, easy.

“Did you have to use all the hot water?” he griped without venom upon exiting the bathroom and flopping onto the couch.

“You should have thought of that before you met me. Long, hot showers are kind of my favorite thing,” she said, shoving at his shoulder.

“Right, because I definitely could have predicted some ex assassin, hot water leech was going to prance her way into my apartment one day just for the amenities,” he shot back. She could practically hear him rolling his eyes at her.

“Constant vigilance, Sarge. You can never be too ready,” she said, curling into her corner of the couch as Bucky started flipping through the channels. Dawn’s mind wandered as she stared at the television. The air between them was easy, comfortable. Quiet and content. She found herself continuously looping back to Sam’s words at the gala, couldn’t quite seem to get them out of her head. Bucky liked to dance, once upon a time. She could imagine it, the bright smile on his face as he twirled a pretty girl around the room, the innocence of it all.

“Sam said you haven’t danced since the forties,” she blurted before she could stop herself. She could see him turn his head toward her in her peripheral vision, but he said nothing. “Well. I guess Steve said it, really. Steve told Sam, Sam told me,” she rambled, picking at the borrowed sweatpants.

“Well. It’s a little hard to get some dancing in between brainwashing, bouncing from fight to fight. Turning to dust,” Bucky said, slowly, clearly trying to figure out her reasoning.

“You could’ve tonight. At the gala,” she said, chancing a quick glance at him. He was giving her a look, something carefully neutral and just a little suspicious.

“Don’t be so sure about that,” he said.

“You could’ve,” she repeated. “I’m sure anyone would’ve danced with you.”

“Not really my scene these days, Donnie,” he said. She chewed on her lip, ignoring the feeling of her heart hammering in her chest.

“What about here?” she asked.

“What about it?”

Dawn gestured around them. “Is this more your scene?” He furrowed his brows at her. Her stomach dropped into her feet.

“This is my living room?” he said, clearly confused. She was going to fucking throw up.

“Dance with me, Bucky,” she said. Maybe she would just die, dissolve into the couch and cease to be.

“What?” he asked, almost a whisper. She squared her shoulders and turned to him.

“Dance with me,” she said. He just kind of sat there for a moment, looking bewildered and caught off guard. It took him a minute to find his words again.

“I haven’t danced since ‘43,” he said, sounding a little breathless. She nodded slowly.

“Yes. We’ve been over this. It’ll be fine,” she said, standing up and crossing the room toward his stereo.

“I’m not any good,“ he argued weakly.

“Who cares? No one’s watching and I won’t know any better,” she said, hooking up her phone and pulling up a proper playlist. She pressed the play button and put the phone down before drifting back to Bucky as the grainy, old music started playing. She quickly muted the television and outstretched her hands expectantly. She made a grabby motion when he still just stared up at her.

“Come on. Just a few songs. It’ll be fun,” she said. He pressed his lips together and sighed heavily, not being overly helpful as he took her hands and let her pull him up. She pulled him away from the couch and they stared at each other for a moment. Bucky’s brows were furrowed, but she couldn’t tell what he was feeling. She could barely hear the music over the blood rushing in her ears.

He still didn’t say anything. Just hesitantly tapped her arm up, looking resigned, a silent order to place her hand on his shoulder. His left hand fell lightly onto her waist, and his right gently scooped up her other hand to hold up in the air. She gave him an encouraging smile, and then they we’re moving.

She let him lead, and it was a shy thing at first, stiff. “See? It’s not so bad,” she said. He huffed a tense breath of laughter.

“This is stupid,” he said. She clicked her tongue.

“No, this is nice,” she argued, giving his shoulder a gentle pinch. She moved with him as easily as he would let her, but he was still uncertain, almost awkward. She found it endearing. It took some time for Bucky to warm up to the idea.

Dawn could almost pinpoint the moment he got comfortable. He tugged her hand, twisted her out for a little spin, and pulled her back into him. She giggled as he spun her, almost losing her footing on the return. His left hand landed on the small of her back when she bumped back into him, and they were suddenly much closer. She could feel the heat radiating off of him, the coolness of his metal hand against her spine. She looked back up at him, and she caught a glimpse of that boyish charm he once probably wore so easily.

“I guess it’s not so bad,” he muttered as they continued swaying to the music.

“And you think you’re not any good,” she tutted. They moved around in a little circle for a while. Then, Bucky got brave and started putting some foot work into it. Dawn’s heart was absolutely soaring, and she could tell Bucky was legitimately having a good time, if the softness in his features was anything to go by.

“You looked beautiful, tonight,” Bucky said out of the blue, quiet, like he didn’t want to break the little bubble they found themselves in. “I should have said it before.” Dawn bit her lip against the shy smile threatening to rise. She could only manage a whispered thanks as she felt her cheeks heat up.

“You know. Baby deer ankles and all,” he teased, earning a scandalized gasp out of Dawn. She went to smack him in the arm, but instead, he stopped the motion by gripping her hand tighter and pulling her even closer, flush against his body. Any and all fight Dawn had in her left in a rush. “I’m kidding, Doll,” he said, the words rumbling against her chest. Dawn couldn’t find any words to say, so she rested her head against his chest instead, opting to feel his warmth and let the music guide them.

They danced around the apartment for more than the promised few songs, swaying and spinning and stepping. Dawn only stepped on his toes a few times. And Bucky seemed happy. The tension he usually held in his shoulders was nonexistent, and everything about him just seemed soft and sweet, and Dawn was almost jealous of all the girls he must have taken dancing back in his day, jealous that they got to see that side of him so freely. And she was sad for Bucky, that he’d been through so much, had no choice but to shut himself down. But at that moment in time, the pair of them floating around his apartment, things were good. Everything was okay. There was no mission. No nightmare. No Handler. No greater goal. Just Dawn and Bucky. Just music. Just a little bit of peace.

The song was nearing its end. The crescendo came, the last big chorus, and Bucky spun Dawn around once more before catching her against his chest. He smoothly transferred his weight, held her snug as he got a steady hold of her and dipped her with all the grace in the world. She found herself giggling at the feeling, and then he pulled her back up. He pulled her back up, and she was proud of not messing it up for all of a second before her mind blanked entirely.

They were close. Very close. Both of his hands were pressed into her spine, one warm, one cold, steadying her frame. Her hands landed on either side of his neck. Their noses brushed. They were so close. Dawn felt his breath against her lips, a quick, surprised little puff, and she almost could have sworn her heart stopped beating, that she would die right then and there. Hair had landed in her face with the momentum, and she couldn’t see much of anything, but she felt it all.

Her breath hitched and she froze as Bucky’s nose just brushed her cheek, an almost mindless nuzzle against her skin. She could feel the heat of his lips so, so close to hers. She would barely have to move an inch to meet them. She was pretty sure she was dead.

But, almost as soon as it had happened, it was over. Bucky took a step back, releasing Dawn completely.

“It’s, um,” he cleared his throat, looked somewhere over her shoulder. “It’s late. I’m sure you’re tired. You should get some sleep,” he said. It took Dawn an embarrassingly long moment to collect herself.

“Oh. Right, um. Yeah. It was a long day, wasn’t it,” she said, hoping she didn’t sound as spaced out as she felt. She moved on stiff legs to grab her phone and shut the music off. Bucky was standing awkwardly off to the side, arms crossed tight over his chest.

“You can take the bed,” he said with a stiff gesture, voice rough. She nodded dumbly and pulled her lips between her teeth before shuffling down the short hallway. She was about to shut the door behind her, hand on the doorknob for a moment. She swung it back open a little.

“Bucky?” she called out hesitantly.

“Yeah?” his voice echoed, quick and a little shrill. Her words got stuck. She cleared her throat.

“Thank you. For coming. I had a nice night. I hope you did, too,” she called out, awkward, unable to keep the uncertainty out of her voice. She didn’t get a response for a minute, and she was about to shut the door.

“Yeah. I did. Goodnight, Donnie.”

Neither one of them knew it, but they both spent a long time staring at the ceiling that night, too wired, too deep in thoughts of What the hell is going on to fall asleep. And when they did, their sleep was as turbulent as whatever it was that they were trying not to feel.

#bucky barnes fic #buckybarnabus writes #bucky barnes #tfatws #avengers #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x ofc #james barnes #marvel #james bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #the winter soldier #ca:cw #catws #captain america #mcu #bucky barnes x original female character

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sanderssidesfanfiction · 3 years

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If There’s a Place I Could Be - Chapter Ninety Eight

If There’s a Place I Could Be Tag

October 29th, 2000

Emile smiled, looking over at Remy, who was more excited than he had ever seen his new friend before. They had gone down to a local arcade to fool around and play some games, and Remy was super invested in Pac-Man. Like, more invested than Emile was in cartoons. And that was definitely saying something.

Remy finished the level he was on and whooped. “All right! New personal best, baby, let’s go!”

Emile laughed. Remy was a little abrasive around the edges, but this was proof that he could soften with time, or at least, hold his tongue in check and not be hurtful if he really wanted to be. Not one bad word left Remy’s lips, not even for the ghosts when they almost ate him. Emile was...surprised. He was starting to realize that he was fond of Remy. Not even out of pure spite. He was just fond of him as a friend.

March 28th, 2004

Emile was sitting in the living room of his parents’ house, with his grandfather sitting next to him on the couch. Things had been really strained ever since Emile had delivered the news that he was going to marry Remy. But today, Emile could see just how much that strain had been affecting his grandfather. He looked older, withered, and Emile swallowed. If Emile and Remy hadn’t been able to get married, how likely was it that Emile would only hear about his grandfather when he had passed on?

No, stop it, that line of thinking wasn’t helpful. His grandfather definitely hadn’t been pleased that he was going to marry a man, no matter what they did behind closed doors, but he was still alive. “So...you wanted to talk to me?” Emile asked hesitantly. He cringed at how uncertain his own voice sounded.

His grandfather nodded. “I have been doing some thinking, ever since you said you were bisexual.”

Emile flinched minutely. “I don’t regret telling you back then. And I don’t regret telling you I got engaged, either. It would be wrong to just...not invite you to the wedding.”

“It’s all the way in Massachusetts,” his grandfather said, almost petulant.

“They’re the only state where gay marriage is legal, Grandpa. They may not recognize us as a legal couple here, but we wanted the ceremony as a symbolic thing. If and when gay marriage is legalized everywhere, or at least here, we’ll redo the papers and make it so that yes, we are legally married no matter what state we go to,” Emile said. “And until then, Remy and I can get papers to enter a civil union. Next best thing, although in our minds, it’s not enough.”

His grandfather put on a brave face, a fact which Emile appreciated. “And...you’re certain about this?”

“As sure as I have ever been about anything,” Emile said with a nod. “This is something both of us are positive we want. And we’ve both been tested, neither of us have any nasty surprises in the form of...you know...sexually transmitted diseases. No HIV, if you were worried about that.”

“I had...friends in the eighties, who never told me they were gay, until they got sick and couldn’t hide how they got it anymore,” his grandfather said. “I definitely don’t want that happening to you.”

“It won’t,” Emile said, putting a hand on his grandfather’s knee. He hoped he was being as reassuring as he was trying to be.

“And this makes you happy.”

Emile smiled. “Grandpa, Remy makes me feel like the happiest person alive. I love him with my whole heart.”

His grandfather nodded. “Then, there’s something I want you to have. Consider it an early wedding present of sorts.”

Emile’s eyebrows shot up as his grandfather passed him a nondescript brown package. He tore into it and he laughed when he recognized the shade of pink that had given him so much pride in the past. He stood, pulled it out and unfolded the bisexual pride flag... his bisexual pride flag. He thought he might cry.

Although, considering he had given Remy permission to bust in here should he start crying, that might not be the best idea.

“There’s another flag in there, for your fiancé,” his grandfather said.

Emile turned back to the package and pulled out a flag, folded up in a triangle like his was, sporting the red and orange stripes that Emile immediately recognized. “I...wow. Thank you, so much,” he managed, putting it back in the package.

His grandfather stood and hugged Emile tight. “I may not understand, but I don’t have to. It makes you happy, and that’s all that matters.”

Emile actually cried at that, Remy be damned, and hugged his grandfather tight. “Thank you, so much,” he repeated. “Thank you.”

“Just marry the man of your dreams, Emile. All I ever want for you is to be happy,” his grandfather said.

Emile grinned. “And Remy, too?”

His grandfather sighed and nodded with a weak smile. “And Remy too.”

Emile laughed and called, “Rem, get in here!”

Remy immediately burst into the room, wide-eyed and worried. “What?!”

“Grandpa has a gift for you,” Emile said, passing the opened package to Remy.

Remy looked inside and pulled out the flag in shock. “Wow,” he said, stunned. “I don’t know what to say.”

Emile’s grandfather shrugged. “Emile could do way worse,” he said.

Remy’s hackles were starting to rise and Emile stepped in. “Remy, Remy! Remy, he's joking,” Emile assured.

Emile’s grandfather had a sly grin on his face and his shoulders were shaking. “Emile and I don’t pull punches with each other, and we would tease each other to Hell and back when he was younger and going through a rebellious face. It’s a form of love, I assure you,” his grandfather explained to Remy.

“You’re on such thin ice,” Remy said, but lowered his guard just a fraction.

“Considering your history, I probably should have put more thought in before I said that joke,” Emile’s grandfather mused. “But my point still stands. Emile could do way worse than someone who makes him this happy, and who he trusts without a second thought.”

Remy turned a little red, and Emile laughed. “You might have broken him, Grandpa!” he teased. “And before we could even exchange vows!”

His grandfather laughed, but Emile didn’t miss the strain in it. “I’m gonna be honest, Grandpa. You don’t have to come to the wedding if this...makes you uncomfortable.”

“Emile, don’t be ridiculous,” his grandfather said. “Do you want me there?”

“...Yes,” Emile said softly.

“Then I’ll be there. I’ll get comfortable enough to throw rice on the newlyweds after you say your vows and make out at the altar,” his grandfather said. “Your wedding invitation showed me how committed you were to not only Remy, but to me. You gave me chance after chance to connect, and, well, I may have had my head in my ass for a while but I’m no fool. I’m growing old, Emile, and I want to be in touch with you whenever the Lord calls me home. I want you and your future husband and I to be in good standing when that day comes.”

“Hopefully it won’t come for a while yet,” Emile said, tears still falling as he hugged his grandfather tightly.

“Now that we have the...feelings all out of the way,” his grandfather laughed, “What do you say to some catch-up? How are your studies going?”

“Oh, Emile here has only gotten one ‘B’ his entire college career,” Remy laughed, clapping Emile on the shoulder. “And that was in gym. Apparently, his teacher was a bit less endeared by Emile’s giant puppy coordination than most.”

Emile’s grandfather laughed. “That sounds like my grandson,” he said, beaming at both Remy and Emile in turn. “So I take it you’re still on-track to graduate, then.”

“Yeah,” Emile said, scratching the back of his neck. “Like, there are kids with four-point-oh grades, so I’m not going to be the valedictorian speaker, but I’m still pretty proud of those grades. Especially considering that for a while, I was pulling night-shifts at Target, and I still work there to help fund everything.”

His grandfather nodded. “Things never seem to get cheaper as life goes on,” he said sagely. “The way inflation’s going, I don’t think it’ll ever get down to what it once was.”

The three of them got comfortable in the room, Emile and his grandfather on the couch, Remy sitting on the coffee table. Some time later, Mom and Dad walked in. “Everyone’s made nice, I take it?” Mom asked.

“I don’t think Remy would be sitting on the table if they hadn’t, honey,” Dad pointed out.

“Okay, you’ve got me there,” Remy laughed. “I don’t usually do this around people I’m uncomfortable with.”

“I hope that I can continue to make you more comfortable around me in the future,” Emile’s grandfather said. “The way I acted before was...immature, and uncalled for, and I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Remy said with a little smile. “You’re owning up to your mistake and learning from it, and that’s all anyone can really ask for. I learned that from Emile, here, over the years.”

“Stop,” Emile said, blushing.

“What? It’s true,” Remy argued. “I was a heartless bitch when I first entered college. You taught me that it was okay to feel. I owe a lot of my growth to you.”

“Not all of it,” Emile pointed out. “You’re the one who decided that you were going to grow. You made that choice, I just added the...stakes and the twine.”

“Still, stakes and twine are pretty important,” Remy insisted.

“Boys, boys, you’re both pretty, and pretty important to each other. No need to debate it,” Emile’s grandfather cut in.

Remy snorted at that, and Emile burst into giggles.

“You know, you’re not bad,” Remy said to Emile’s grandfather. “You had a bit of a moment, there, but I think you can get better. What’s more, you think you can get better, which is what really matters. And I, for one, am very relieved that you’re willing to put in that work. I know that you coming to the wedding has been a source of some of Emile’s anxiety for several months now.”

“Well, someone couldn’t see me until Spring Break, not that I exactly blame him for needing some time away from me,” Emile’s grandfather said. “And it wound up working out, because those pride flags I got you came in late, and if we had met up before February, I wouldn’t have had them in time.”

“I definitely appreciate the pride flags,” Remy said, laughing. “It makes things ten times easier at Pride Parades. People will seek out those specific colors like a code and once they see you with it, they’ll come up and talk to you a lot faster, because they know you’re one of them.”

“It’s a community thing,” Emile filled in at his grandfather’s confused look. “The parades bring people all over the city, or sometimes, the county or state or nation to be themselves at this one place at this one time in June. Remy and I try to make a point to go every year. It’s really nice.”

“Well, I might not join you in that, because Lord knows I’m not as young as I used to be, and I don’t handle summer heat well, but that sounds like fun for you two,” his grandfather said.

They chatted a while longer, before Mom pointed out it was getting late and everyone had a stretch of driving to go before they made it home. Emile and his grandfather hugged for a long time before they left the house.

Emile’s grandfather and Remy shook hands, exchanging friendly smiles as they stood at the edge of the house. “Good night, Remy. I’ll be pleased to see you at the wedding,” he said. “And...for what it’s worth, I’m sorry that whoever hurt you in the name of religion did so. I’m starting to learn that faith and traditions are much more fluid than rigid, and those who hold onto those beliefs will one day end up a byproduct of ages long past. They will be on the wrong side of history, and...I hope that they come to see things this way. Even if they don’t, you’ll always have a grandfather in me, and I think Emile’s grandmother, God bless her soul, would have taken an immediate shine to you.”

Remy stood there in shock at Emile’s grandfather's words, before he choked out a watery, “Thank you, sir. Really, that means a great deal more than you could imagine.”

They all exchanged one final goodbye before getting in their cars. And as Emile dozed in the passenger seat on the drive home, Remy looked at the pride flags, and excitedly chattered. Sometimes, people could indeed come around. Emile’s grandfather, and Remy himself, were proof of that concept. Emile smiled sleepily, closing his eyes. All was right with the world.

#if there's a place i could be #sanders sides fanfiction #remile #emile picani #ts sleep

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mfingenius · 5 years

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Roadtrip AU

“Damianos, this is the worst idea you’ve ever had.” Nikandros deadpans.

“You said that about Jokaste,” Damen observes mildly.

“Remind me how that turned out?” Nik asks, unimpressed, with a raised eyebrow.

Jokaste cheated on Damen with his brother.

Maybe he shouldn’t have used that example.

“Look, this is not a bad idea.” Damen says, lifting his suitcase to put in the trunk of his car. “I’m... helping someone.”

“You don’t know him from anything. All you know is that he said he needs to get to his brother’s house. You don’t even know if that’s true” Nik says. “He could be a murderer.”

Damen looks at him, disbelievingly. “Have you seen him? He’s tiny.”

“I’m not tiny.” The petulant, condescending voice says, and Damen looks back at his road trip companion. Laurent – or so he said his name was – is small, pretty, blonde, and exactly Damen’s type. He’s also anxious, and jumpy, and something about the way he’d asked made

Damen say yes when he’d asked him to get him to Delpha. “You’re just a giant animal.”

Nikandros thinks Damen is thinking with his cock and is hoping to fuck Laurent somewhere on their way to Delpha, but, for once, Damen has no interest in fucking a blonde; not because Laurent isn’t attractive – because he is, so fucking attractive that Damen wants to cry – but because he doesn’t think that Laurent – small, narrow, helpless Laurent – would ask him for help – a man easily three times as wide as him and several heads taller – if he had another choice available.

He’ll get him to Delpha, whatever it is that happens.

“Right,” Damen says. Nikandros shoots him a look like he wants to murder Laurent. He might. “Are you ready to go?”

“Yes.” Laurent says, shifting quietly.

That’s something else that makes Damen think that Laurent needs help; he has no luggage with him. He has no clothes, no money, no personal belongings. He’s dressed well – in fine, elegant clothes, covering most of his skin – which means that he’s most likely not poor, but Damen can’t figure out why he wouldn’t have anything with him if he weren’t.

“Alright,” Damen shuts the trunk. “Let’s go.”

“Text me when you get to Delpha,” Nikandros says, eyeing Laurent warily. “To let me know you’re not dead.”

Laurent flips him off, and Nikandros makes a crude gesture in response. Him and Damen both watch as Laurent’s shiny blonde hair disappears into the car.

Laurent isn’t exactly a friendly person, but Damen has never met anyone he can’t make friends with; he’s sociable in that way, generally optimistic and friendly in a way that always makes people like him. He’s sure it’ll be the same with Laurent.

“I’ll see you,” Damen says, hugging his best friend briefly. Nik claps his back and hugs back for a moment, before they part and Damen gets into the car.

The first twenty minutes of driving are spent in painful silence.

“Music?” he asks, finally, reaching to turn on the radio.

“No.” Laurent says.

Damen drops his hand, eyeing Laurent warily. Right, he thinks. This might be more difficult than expected.

“Why are you headed to Delpha?” Damen asks, during one of their food stops. He bought Laurent a chocolate bar because he doesn’t think the blond has money, and he’s thin enough that Damen’s mother would be shoving food into his face the second he stepped through the door.

“My brother is there,” Laurent says stiffly. He’s looking down at the chocolate bar warily, like it might bite him, and Damen doesn’t push him to eat it; they don’t know each other, and Laurent doesn’t trust him. “I told you.”

Damen nods. He's eating a cheeseburger – he offered to buy one for Laurent, but Laurent refused, and Damen didn’t want to appear too pushy – and fries, and he eats in silence for a while before he hears a wrapper being opened.

He smiles discreetly, watching out of the corner of his eye as Laurent takes a tiny bite of the chocolate. Damen doesn’t know how long it’s been since he’s eaten, but his entire face relaxes at the taste of food.

“And you?” Laurent asks. The question sounds awkward and forced, but at least he’s trying, so Damen pretends not to hear it.

“My brother is getting married.” Damen tells him.

“Are you best man?” Laurent asks, after a bit.

“No,” Damen says. “We don’t have the best relationship anymore.”

Laurent doesn’t ask why, and they spend the rest of the meal in silence.

After they’re back in the car, Laurent allows him to turn on the radio. Damen nearly sings in relief when a song begins playing. The silence was suffocating, and all attempts of conversation seemed to be useless.

In the morning, Damen wakes up with Laurent watching him; they’re staying in a hotel room Damen payed for. Damen had taken the couch, and though Laurent is usually awake before Damen is, Damen’s never found him just sitting there, staring at him.

“You haven’t asked me to have sex with you.” Laurent says bluntly.

Damen’s brain takes a minute to react.

“I don’t expect sex from you.” Damen says honestly, frowning.

Laurent watches him for two full minutes before he speaks.

“You’re telling the truth.” He seems bewildered.

“Laurent, I don’t know how old you are, but I don’t even think you’re eighteen.” Damen says. “And when I agreed to take you to Delpha, I agreed to get you there without anything happening to you.”

“I’m seventeen.” Laurent says. He seems surprised at himself that he’s said it. He continues carefully, as if tasting the words in his mouth before saying them. “You’re not much older than me though. And I told you I couldn’t pay you. Why else would you let me come along?”

He’s right, Damen’s not much older. He's only eighteen, and though it wouldn’t be immoral because of his age, it would be immoral because of multiple other reasons, included but not limited to the fact that Laurent doesn’t want to have sex with him; he only thinks he needs to do it so Damen won’t leave him stranded somewhere, and that’s not consent.

“I’m on my way to Ios.” Damen shrugs. He’d only been in Arles because Jokaste’s veil hadn’t been sent out, and Damen had been appointed to pick it up from the store in Arles. Nik, although not invited to the wedding, had accompanied him, since he’d been bored to death with their summer Vacation. “I have to pass by Delpha. It’s no trouble leaving you there.”

“You bought me food.” Laurent accuses. “You let me sleep in the bed.”

“You don’t have any money.” Damen says. “Arles to Delpha is a three day trip. You can’t go three days without eating.”

“I can.” Laurent says. He sounds certain of it, and Damen doesn’t want to know if that’s because he has.

“Well, you’re not going to.” He says resolutely. He stands and stretches. “Do you want the shower first, or can I?”

Laurent gestures for him to go ahead, and Damen walks to the bathroom.

“I am trying to get to my brother.” Laurent says. Damen is surprised by his voice, and by the fact that he just initiated conversation. He merely nods, in fear of saying something that will scare Laurent into permanent silence again. Laurent’s wringing his hands in his lap, and Damen looks at them for a moment before looking back at the road. They’re still on the second day of their trip, and it’s still early morning. He's getting hungry by now, mostly because he’s always hungry; he can stand it for a few more hours, though. “I’m - he’s studying medicine. In Delpha.”

“That’s impressive.” Damen says. Delpha’s Med School is one of the toughest programs to get into, he knows, and not just anyone accomplishes it.

Laurent nods slightly. “I - was living with my uncle. He’s - not nice. I couldn’t stay with him any longer.”

Damen’s sight zeroes in on the bruises at Laurent’s wrists, on his neck. His clothes are arranged differently than the day before, which makes the marks visible, and Damen doesn’t think it’s an accident. Laurent didn’t think he’d believe him, so he provided proof.

“And your brother left you there?” Damen asks, furious. He doesn’t get along with Kastor, but he likes to think that, were he in trouble, Kastor would behave like a proper older brother.

Laurent seems surprised at the emotion in his voice. “No. He doesn’t know. He – our parents died the summer before he began. He was eighteen, and I was six. He wasn’t going to go to college to take care of me but – Uncle and I convinced him to go, told him he’d take care of me and that Auguste could visit whenever he wanted. He’s still doing residency there, and we speak on the phone often, but I – never told him. Anything.”

Damen is quiet for a while, and Laurent seems to give himself a final push to finish his probably carefully-prepared monologue.

“I’m only telling you this because you’ve been very helpful.” He says. “And I don’t want you to think I'm not grateful.”

“I’m glad you’re getting away,” Damen says, honestly. “And if your uncle ever gives you trouble again, you can call me.”

Laurent gives him a rare, tense smile. “I don’t think you could do much. He's a very powerful man, with a lot of money.”

Damen smiles guiltily. “I rather doubt he’s more powerful than me.”

“What are you, then?” Laurent looks at him curiously. “A king?”

Damen snorts. “Just filthy rich. With a lot of political connections.”

“I think it’d be interesting to see how he’d react to you.” He says, seemingly deep in thought. “He doesn’t like people who aren’t easily intimidated or bought.”

“Well, I'm neither.” Damen says. “So you can count on me for help, anytime.”

Laurent hums.

“She was my fiancée.” Damen blurts, a long time later. He wants to show Laurent that he appreciated his honesty with honesty of his own.

“What?” Laurent asks.

“The woman my brother is marrying.” Damen says, realizing he wasn’t very clear. “She was my fiancée, and she cheated on me with him.”

Laurent looks at him with disgust clear on his face. “Why are you going to their wedding? That's a crappy fiancée, and a very crappy brother.”

“Yeah.” Damen says after a pause. “I don’t know. I guess I just – everyone expects me to be there. They think it doesn’t bother me anymore, and – well, it doesn’t. It’s still... weird, though. I don’t know.”

“I don’t think it could ever not be weird.” Laurent says. There's a moment of silence, and then, “Have either of them apologized?”

“No,” Damen says. “I didn’t talk to them for a while, and after that everyone sort of pretended nothing had happened.”

“Fuck, that’s shit.” Laurent says. The curse words sound odd in his mouth, out of place. Still, Damen has to agree with the sentiment. “I vote you ditch the wedding.”

“I’m supposed to get her veil there.” Damen tells him, and Laurent blinks at him disbelievingly.

“They asked you to get her veil?” He demands, and the irritation in his voice is both funny and somewhat touching.

“Yeah.” Damen says.

“Dump them both.” Laurent says.

Damen laughs.

It’s a lot easier to get closer to Laurent after that particular conversation. They spend a lot of time talking, and Damen finds himself thoroughly invested in everything Laurent says. He's enthralling.

Which is why, when they finally get to Delpha – and, more specifically, to Laurent’s brother’s apartment – he doesn’t know what to say.

“Here’s my phone number.” he says, extending a slip of paper with his number on it. “In case your uncle gives you trouble again. Or you can’t find your brother. Or anything really. Or – even if nothing happens, you could-”

Laurent kisses his cheek, effectively silencing him.

“Thank you, Damianos.” he says, fondly. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think your brother deserves you.”

“I don’t think anyone deserves you,” Damen says vehemently, a little too honest.

Laurent laughs and Damen falls a little bit in love with the way it makes his eyes sparkle.

“Auguste does.” Laurent assures him. He bites on his lower lip, and then says, “You could... stay, if you wanted.”

“What?” Damen asks.

“You don’t have to go to the wedding,” Laurent says. “And I – would like it - I would – you have done – a lot for me, and I could – you could stay here, for a while.”

Damen thinks that that’s the best idea he’s ever heard.

“I - Alright,” he says, nodding dumbly.

He texts Nikandros that he’s not going to the wedding, and spends the rest of the afternoon watching movies with Laurent and his brother – who seems confused as to why his little brother is there and why he is with an Akielon, though he doesn’t mention it – and ignoring Jokaste’s and Kastor’s calls. It's the best time he’s had in a long time.

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heksesang · 5 years

Text

Dolly pt. 2

Brahms knew what he had done in his excitement, he had watched the way you eyes fluttered and rolled back, body going rigid before limp; he didn’t mean for you to blackout but he got too far ahead of himself, mummy always used to tell him off for doing that. He remembers the night that he watched you and some nameless person fool around,you had gone out into the village and ended up meeting someone. He watched that night as you moaned while they brought you to edge but what caught his attention the most were the hands clamped around your neck, the way you seemed high off it. He wanted to try it. He did. It wasn’t the same. You didn’t seem to enjoy when he did it.

He wasn’t sure exactly how long he had before you would regain consciousness but he knew he needed to move fast,get everything he needed. He hauled you over his shoulder,making his to the bathroom.

Snapping your eyes open it felt like someone had drilled a hole in your skull. It took a few seconds to focus enough to see, or rather feel, what was going on. Your shirt was haphazardly being pulled off over your head and from the way the chilled tiles was hitting your legs it seemed as though your bottoms had already been removed. Screamrunhidehitbite said that little voice in the back of your head as you tried to gain your composure, you knew that you had to be level headed about this.

The shirt was finally pulled off and you could see, coming face to chest with Brahms. With the adrenaline fuelled hysteria now gone you could make out a lot more, he was wearing a vest top that looked dirty and well worn, some sort of cardigan that looked just as worn as the vest but it still looked soft. You could hear him mumbling to himself but with the mask it was hard to fully make out what he was saying under his breath. Looking around carefully you could tell you were on the floor in one of the bathrooms, items were haphazardly strewn about the bathroom. You finally caught his eye and the panic began to weasel its way back but you concentrated on staying collected, meeting his gaze “Brahms, you’ve had your fun, time to stop” You tried to make yourself sound firm and as if you weren’t ready to cry at any given second but it sounded more desperate, voice cracking with the soreness of your throat. He seemed taken aback,jumping a bit, as if he wasn’t expecting you to talk but his surprise was quickly replaced with something more mischievous as his hands made their way to your face, cupping your cheeks.

“ You’re not in charge here, you’re just a doll” He was mocking you.

It was a week ago when you had finally had enough of all the unexplainable things going on in the house, you may have over-reacted when you found your cup of tea in the pantry after you had set it down in the study. You had shouted, at nothing in particular, how sick you were of everything and then turned your attention to the ever present doll, letting a tirade of swears and anger out. Now here you were, being mocked with the very same words you had used against said doll.

“Fuck you!”

Brahms didn’t seem to like that. The way his shoulder hunched up and his whole posture seemed to tighten indicated that maybe letting your anger get the best of you wasn’t the smarter idea considering the situation you were in. “Brahms-“ You has to be cautious, Brahms was a large man, he could easily kill you with his bare hands. “- I’m sorry for swearing, but you just scared me Brahms. If you let me go now we can start over, I’ll make some dinner and we can talk about this; you can say whatever you want to and I’ll listen but this isn’t right!”

If Brahms was taking anything you were saying on board he didn’t show it, instead getting up and walking over to the small bathtub, pulling something out.

“I found this pretty dress for you, y/n, silly dolls like you have to wear pretty dresses”

Were this a different situation than the current one the dress would have been stunning. Sheer cream materiel accented by lace at the chest and sleeves,a peachy coloured ribbon tied loosely around the limp waist. Were this any other situation it would be sweet; romantic even, but this wasn’t a different situation.

Brahms layed the dress down on the counter top before pulling you up. You felt limp, allowing Brahms to clumsily pull the dress down over your head, excited hands shakily smoothing the skirt down over your thighs before tying the ribbon securely around your waist, hands lingering longer than you liked.

“There, all dressed up. Maybe when you aren’t acting like such an entitled harlot you will be allowed to dress yourself but until then I’ll make sure you’re dressed nicely”.

The words stung, you felt stupid, leaning on a counter in an ornate bathroom in a dress fit for a model all while you knew you must look a wreck,bird nest hair and what felt like a bruised throat; a grown man in a dolls porcelain mask and dirty clothes fawning over you. You let yourself be posed into a sitting position on top of the toilet lid, Brahms hands coming up to your face and holding it before you could move away.

“I found some of mummy’s old makeup, I thought we could play dress up”.His head nodded excitedly along with his words, as if he wasn’t actually speaking to you, rather speaking to himself about you.

One hand held your face still while the other rummaged around the items scattered on the floor before picking up what looked like mascara. The wand looked small in Brahms hand, you kept your eyes on it, you knew it was silly but it could still poke you in the eye if he messed up and you didn’t need your vision to be lacking right now. “Eyes closed” it was a barely a whisper. You knew closing your eyes would mean being even more vulnerable but on the other hand refusing Brahms could lead to violence, it seemed a lose-lose situation. You decided the obeying would be the best of the bad choices, closing your eyes and feeling the messy application of the mascara. You could hear the sound of the mascara tube hitting the bathroom tiles before thumbs were wiping under your eyes in what felt like an attempt to clean up the mess.

“Eyes open” You complied. Next was a tube of lipstick, his hand once again held the side your face still as he wiped the lipstick over your cheeks lightly before rubbing it in. Brahms hand slipped to grip your chin, angling it to swipe the lipstick onto your lips. “There we go, so pretty” His pointer and middle fingers rubbed along your lower lip, prodding lightly before dipping into your mouth and tracing along your lower teeth. You held your self back from biting down as a second finger joined and pressed down on your tongue before finally retreating, wiping the remnants of spit on your cheek.

You were swept up, carried like a bride down halls and staircases until you reached the day room, sat on a seat and pushed in as if you weren’t capable of it yourself.

It had to be some sort of fever dream, you felt, saw, smelt, tasted everything that was happening but you had decided that this wasn’t actually occurring. Maybe there was a gas leak and you were actually asleep in your bed, this was all a hallucination. What ever this was a sharp slap snapped you out of your thoughts, hard enough to make your head roll to the side. At some point of your zoning out Brahms had taken his mask off, you could see it discarded on the table in front of you. He was a handsome man no doubt, rugged scars littering the right side of his face, discolouring his eye.

“Are you listening? I’m talking to you and you don’t even have the manners to answer me” He was like a petulant child. “ I asked you if you wanted sugar and you just sit there, like an idiot, answer me!” You took a second to look at the table, there was a tea set that looks like it came straight from a period drama, sugar in a small bowl.

“Sorry Brahms I was just just thinking about how nice this dress is,yes please” It seemed to placate him, watching as he added a teaspoon of sugar into the dainty looking cup in front of you.

Survival, that’s what this was, going along with what he said so that you would still be alive by tomorrow morning. The police shows always told you to go along with what the captor said, keep them happy so that’s what you planned, keep him happy, keep yourself alive.

__________________________________________

I am so sorry this took so long to put out but I had to basically rewrite it and then I had so much coursework. I hope it’s okay though, I proof read it but if I’ve missed any spelling mistakes or anything just tell me.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN 👹🔪🕸🕷💉🎃

#brahms heelshire #the boy (2016)#slasher #brahms heelshire x reader

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youngster-monster · 5 years

Text

Day eleven // memories

As soon as Petra tells him Uldren is alive, Jolyon has no choice but to go see for himself. She knows it, too. That’s why she doesn’t say anything as she watches him leave, but her pitying look is heavy on his back, charged with meaning.

Why do this to yourself? Why bother? Why can’t you let it lie?

And Jolyon knows, alright? He knows he's only hurting himself with this. But he can't help it.

Uldren's madness had been an open wound, left to fester for as long as Uldren had been locked up in the Prison of Elders. His death had been an emptiness, a void, the hole left after digging out the dead flesh. It kept him awake at night, feverish with grief, regrets like a lump in his throat.

(Uldren has always been like a sickness in his blood, burning him from the inside out. He never learned to resent him for it.)

His resurrection is like an itch. A scab he can’t help but to pick at. It would be healthier to leave it alone, but it feels wrong after all the two of them have been through, like he owes it to Uldren to lay his memory to rest once and for all. Bury him himself. He can’t do that if someone’s walking around wearing Uldren’s body.

Pain is an integral part of the Sov experience, anyway. Uldren left scars like marks of ownership: once upon a time, Jolyon readily accepted them like proofs of affection, of battles won and quicksilver smiles in the privacy of a sniper’s stake-out. Mara was much the same if Sjur was to be believed, though more subtle than her brother — as was usually the case. She said I love you more often. This is their only real difference. He can't tell if it was a kindness.

At least Uldren was never cruel.

Petra stops him on the steps of his ship

“You know he won’t remember. He won’t be the same”

“I’m hoping for it,” he says, voice soft with a well-worn kind of grief. “I don’t know what I’d do if he were.”

With the help of Petra’s intel it doesn’t take Jolyon long to track his fireteam down to Nessus. And isn’t that an odd thought, Uldren so comfortable in his role as a Guardian he is part of a fireteam?

It’s easier than expected to catch Uldren alone. Jolyon calls out to him as he’s wandering off away from his fireteam, legs dangling off the branch of a giant tree.

Uldren looks up, his expression closed up, wary.

“You know me,” he states, like it’s a terrible hassle. “Are you here to kill me?”

“No.” Never could, never will. “Anyway, I think you’ve become remarkably harder to kill than the last time anyone attempted.”

He tilts his head, lips quirked in an amused smile. “Hasn’t stopped anyone from trying before.”

Familiarity is like a punch in the guts, leaving Jolyon briefly breathless. He shakes it off.

“I do want to talk, though.” He gestures to the branch he’s sitting on. “Join me?”

Uldren does. Now his reckless assurance has a basis in reality: easier to pull a stunt like storming the Black Garden when you’re basically unkillable.

If only they’d known. If only—

“Who are you?” He asks. That pulls him out of his thoughts with the effectiveness of a bullet in the heart. He seems to realize and looks away, awkward. He won’t say sorry, though. Prideful bastard. It’s not like he can help it, anyway. Guardians never remember anything. He does offer an explanation, a new but welcome development. “People keep coming up to me like they know me. At this point it’s quicker to ask outright.”

“I’m- Jolyon.”

There’s not way to summarize their entire relationship in a way that is both concise and not too weird to hear out of the blue, so he doesn’t bother to try.

Uldren takes it in and for a wonderful second Jolyon can almost believe he’ll remember… something. Then he shakes his head and sounds almost apologetic when he says, “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“Didn’t expect it to.”

“Were we… close?”

That takes him by surprise. He glances at Uldren, but the Prince— well. Not Prince anymore. He’s looking away, one knee brought up to his chest. He always tries to pass it up as a casual sitting position, a way to offer his arm a support, but in truth he only does it when he’s uncomfortable. Like putting something between himself and everyone else can protect him, somehow.

“We were,” he says with absolute certainty. At least he likes to think so. “I was your partner. Fought at your side more often than not. You were my look-out in the field.”

“Alright.” A simple acceptance, like it’s an objective fact that isn’t remotely connected to him. In a way, it isn’t. “What are you here for, then? Trying to rekindle an old flame?”

“It’s not- we weren’t… like that.”

“You look like you were.”

This time it’s Jolyon who looks away. “You- It didn’t work like that.”

“Yeah, I’m getting the feeling old me wasn’t big on interpersonal relationships.”

“No he wasn’t. We were friends, though.” He looks off into the distance and sees eyes dark with the revelations of the Black Garden, the words Uldren never meant to let slip out but didn’t care enough to stop. How can I care for something that never surprises me? “I just don’t think he knew how to love things that loved him back.”

“That’s fucked up.”

This shocks a laugh out of him. He watches Uldren’s outraged expression in the corner of his eye and his heart clenches at the familiarity of it. “Yeah. Yeah, it was. Living with Mara Sov has that effect on people.”

They die or they become… weird. Often both, in either order.

Silence stretches for a moment before Jolyon lets out the question burning his tongue.

“You really don’t remember- Anything? Anything at all?”

Uldren sounds genuinely sad when he replies, “No. Guardians are a blank slate when they’re brought back. We’re not even supposed to seek out our past. Guess I’m just lucky enough to have it seek me out, instead.”

He says lucky like a curse. Jolyon can relate.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You have a right for closure, I guess.” A shrug. “I’m just not the right person to ask for it.”

He jerks his hand up, seems unsure what to do with it, combs his fingers through his hair for something to do.

“I just… I hate it, you know? All those people coming to… kill me or talk to me or whatever. I don’t know them. I wish I did. Or that I was someone else. Though I guess I am, and isn’t that the whole problem? Can’t be tried for the other me’s crimes, can’t be seen as someone else because we share a face.” He chuckles, a harsh, tired sound. “Hey, maybe I’m more him than I thought. It’s awfully easy to talk to you, considering you’re a stranger.”

It’s a long time before he finds the right words to reply. He wants to joke, say I have that effect on people, but he doesn’t know how this Uldren would react. His Uldren — if he could ever be called his — would laugh with him, punch him in the shoulder. His Uldren never sounded like he wanted to cry.

Maybe that’s the point, though. This is a whole new person. He just has to learn everything about him again.

He settles for positive affirmation. “You are,” he says. “A different person, that is.”

“You look at me like I’m the same.”

“Yeah, because I was in love with the guy whose face you’re wearing. I can’t just ignore that.” He shrugs. “Worst thing I’ve happened. And in the end, I’m... glad. That you’re not him.”

Uldren frowns in surprise, turning to look fully at him. “You are?”

“He wasn’t easy to love. All… sharp edges. Him and his sisters were more walking piles of issues than people, some days. And in the end- It wasn’t even him anymore. I’m glad he got to rest, and you get to… do some good in his name.”

“But I don’t want to do things in his name!” He whines.

Another shrug. It feels good to fall back into their old dynamic, the impassive counterweight to the petulant prince. Some things never change.

“You don’t get a choice on that. People will always see you as him, whether you like it or not. All you can do is make up for his choices by being better than him. Give another sense to his name.”

Uldren grumbles but doesn’t say anything else. They sit together, the silence not quite companionable, until a voice calls for Uldren. His fireteam leader, probably. Jolyon stands up, goes to leave before she can find them.

“Wait!”

He stops.

“Do you want to- would you like to talk? Again?” His hand is outreached toward Jolyon. He frowns slightly when he notices it, lets it fall, tries to cover the gesture with words. “Maybe you can tell me some old stories, try to jog my memory some.”

“I thought you wanted to move on from him. And for your past to stop seeking you out.”

“Well, my past is going to seek me out whatever happens. A Guardian being resurrected so soon after their death is rare, the whole… don’t go looking for your past doesn’t really apply to me, I think. I did too much stuff before I died.” He rises to his feet, dusts himself for an excuse to look away from Jolyon. “Anyway, it’s like you said. I need to- be better, right? Might as well start with being a better friend. You’re nice. It wouldn’t be too much of a hassle.”

Jolyon sighs. It sounds like a bad idea. They usually do, with Uldren. Past or present. But he could never say no. He steps forward.

Uldren doesn’t waste a second to fish a pen out of his pocket, take his hand and scribble a series of numbers on the back of it. He feels warm, solid, alive, in a way that sends lightning coursing up Jolyon’s arm all the way to his heart, shocking it out of rhythm.

“Call me whenever.”

“Sure,” he says as he moves away.

Uldren calls out after him. “Don’t be a stranger!”

“I already am!”

He doesn’t turn around, no matter how much he wants to. The numbers burn against his skin. He moves to rub his hand, stops.

Wouldn’t want to smear them.

#writing #destiny 2 #LGBT Destiny Month #uldren sov #Jolyon Till #im love them #also this is the perfect prompt for GUARDIAN-RELATED ANGST

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guanin · 5 years

Text

Mrs. Hudson: Sherlock’s Chosen Mummy

An essay examining Sherlock's relationship to Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock has a mother, but isn’t close to her. He doesn’t seem to call or visit her often. He agrees with Mrs. Hudson in TSOT when she says that his mother “has a lot to answer” for (although she’s referring to Sherlock’s expectation of never having to bother about his own tea). He does his best to ignore his parents when they visit London in TEH. He doesn’t seem to want to spend time with his mother in general. Yet not only does he live one floor above Mrs. Hudson in her building, but he welcomes her taking care of him and is affectionate with her. Mrs. Hudson, in turn, makes him tea and food, and cleans up after him while fussing over his messy habits, just like a mother would. She has no chldren, and we aren’t given any indication on whether she ever wanted them, but she certainly enjoys treating Sherlock as if he were her own. Living Situation We know little of Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock’s relationship previous to ASIP. “A few years ago”, Sherlock ensured that her husband would be executed for drug crimes in Florida. So they’ve known each other for a good amount of time. Sherlock is in need of a flatmate to help cover the rent of his flat, implying that he’s a relatively new tenant there. However, not terribly new, since his flat is fully lived in, with no packing boxes in sight and his usual mess, which shows that he’s been there long enough to get comfortable. Adding to the list of things we don’t know is his living situation before this, as well as how long Mrs. Hudson has been living in the building. There is no telling when she could have bought it in the first place. It might have been part of the property she owned alongside her husband, or be a recent acquisition. She is giving Sherlock a special discount on his rent in a part of London that is particularly expensive. This, along with the way that she acts toward him, indicates that she’s fond of Sherlock. That’s a lot of money she’s saying “no” to by providing this discount. Of course, gratitude over his aid in getting rid of her criminal husband has a part to play, but living with Sherlock isn’t an easy endeavor, and there’s no need for this gratitude to extend to offering him a really nice flat in central London. This offer could have come upon Sherlock mentioning to her that he was looking for a flat. If she had been in the building for a while, the former tenants of 221B could have been moving out at the same time. Or, if she’s new to the building, she might have offered Sherlock the flat straightaway. Sherlock might have been in need of a flat at the time or he might have simply preferred to live in 221B. Reasons for the latter could be its location, the space, the rent even despite needing to find a flatmate to cover it, or the particular landlady he was renting from. Or all four. He certainly likes the space, and the central location, apart from being a nice neighborhood, is ideal for someone who is constantly running all over London. But it is apparent that he’s as fond of Mrs. Hudson as she is of him, and likes it when she takes care of him. We can only speculate as to what their relationship was like before this, but we know that they kept in touch for years and that Mrs. Hudson liked him enough to offer him a premium discounted flat. This suggests more than a passing acquaintance. Even with all these unknowns, we can deduce that these two like living together and wouldn’t have begun doing so without a genuine enjoyment of each other’s company. The two certainly spend enough time together to prove this. Mrs. Hudson is a frequent visitor to his flat, and Sherlock is comfortable enough in hers to casually grab food from her fridge in ASIB. Mrs. Hudson providing him with meals, as well as tiding up his flat, is another frequent occurrence. Sherlock also makes a point of celebrating Christmas with her. In ASIB, he and John hold a Christmas party at their flat with Mrs. Hudson in attendance, during which he plays a Christmas carol on his violin, to her delight. It is unknown who had the idea to have the party, but it is notable that there is no mention of Sherlock visiting his parents over the season. When he calls Mycroft, his brother protests, “We’re not going to have Christmas phone calls, now are we?”. Not only does the Holmes family not get together for Christmas. They don’t even call. But Sherlock does celebrate with Mrs.Hudson. Not only that, but it’s the one day when he endeavors to be on his best behavior towards her. Mrs. Hudson says, “It’s the one day of the year when the boys have to be nice to me.” Now, we do see John being nice to her very often, but Sherlock is his usual, brash, petulant self with her a lot, as with everyone else. We aren’t given any indication of him making an exception in this behavior for anyone except for this instance, with Mrs. Hudson, so it’s very indicative of his love for her, even if it’s only for one day a year. Caretaking While introducing John to the flat, Mrs. Hudson grabs a used teacup from a table in the sitting room and takes it to the kitchen. We learn in season 3 that she brings up Sherlock tea every morning, therefore this cup is from tea that she herself supplied him with. It is possible that this practice began after Sherlock’s return in season 3, but it is far likelier that they fell back into all their old patterns of behavior after the reunion, so it’s a fair assumption that this is already occurring at the beginning of the show. She fusses over the state of the kitchen, saying, “Sherlock, the mess you’ve made” in a chiding tone, very much like a mother disapproving of their child’s messy room. While Sherlock and John are talking, we hear the clinking of dishes in the background. It carries on for a bit, which can only mean that Mrs. Hudson is cleaning up. Hardly typical landlady behavior. She does it automatically and without comment, suggesting that this is a normal occurrence, like with the tea. Her protest a few moments later, “I’m your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper” when Sherlock asks her to prepare him food for later sounds a little worn, like she’s said it before, and she probably has. Quite a few times, even, not that he ever listens, and she’s used to him not listening. She doesn’t protest again after he says, “Something cold will do,” just looks resigned. The chances are high that she did have some food waiting for him when he got home. Everything about this interaction feels like a routine, both speaking familiar lines. The child is demanding food from their parent, who is exasperated at their child not being willing to get it for themselves. The parent also chastizes their child for their messy habits, which the child is unwilling to fix. Yet the parent continues to indulge their child’s bad habits. These behaviors, on both their parts, continue through the series. In ASIB, we see Mrs. Hudson tiding in the flat again. She picks up a discarded mug and bottle of milk and takes them into the kitchen, complaining to herself about the mess. Later on, she brings Sherlock breakfast. She tidies up again at another day in the same episode. In TRF, Sherlock questions her about what she has cleaned in the flat in the last week, indicating that her cleaning up goes beyond the kitchen. As Sherlock’s landlady and not his housekeeper, Mrs. Hudson is under no obligation to tidy up his flat or make him tea or food, yet she does these things. Why? Since it’s not a duty, the only option is that she likes it. Mrs. Hudson enjoys taking care of Sherlock. After John moves in, she extends this maternal care towards him, as well, which is reciprocated. Demonstrations of Affection Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock are very physically affectionate with each other. This is an activity that we rarely see Sherlock engaging in generally. The only people we see him hug are Mrs. Hudson, John, and Lestrade. In the case of Lestrade, when he comes back from the dead, he simply stands, arms at his sides, allowing Lestrade to hug him. John hugs him at the wedding. It is only with Mrs. Hudson that we see Sherlock hug someone multiple times, and this in an enthusiastic fashion. The first instance we see of the two of them hugging is when Sherlock introduces John to her and the flat on Baker Street. The second occurs just a bit later, as Sherlock is dashing off to the serial suicide case. When Mrs. Hudson notices that both Sherlock and John are going, Sherlock steps toward her, expressing his excitement over the case and grabs her by the shoulders and kisses her on the cheek with a loud “mwah” sound. Sherlock touches her again during and after she is held hostage in ASIB. While she is being held at gunpoint, he touches her wrist as he examines her injuries and torn clothes. After he headbutts her attacker, incapacitating him, he crouches in front of her to assure her that she’s alright now, and gently touches her cheek, only turning away once she reassures him that she's okay. Later on, in Mrs. Hudson's flat, he stands next to her and places his hand on her shoulder and tugs her to him. She leans against him, smiling while placing her hand on his, the gesture and her expression filled with affection. During this interaction, it is revealed that she snuck away the mobile phone that her attackers were seeking to take from Sherlock, as he has deduced, responding to John’s question about the phone’s whereabouts with, “Safest place I know.” He trusts Mrs. Hudson implicitly. In a further show of fondness and comfort, he balks at John’s insistence that she take a break from Baker Street, using her to ability hide the phone while being attacked as proof that she’s a most capable and resourceful person whose presence near him is imperative not only to his own well-being, but that of the nation’s. “Mrs. Hudson, leave Baker Street?” he says, appalled by the very notion. “England would fall.” It is then that he holds her to him, his actions and his words a reassurance and declaration of how much he values her and her place in his life. Protectiveness The entirety of this incident provides the strongest evidence of Sherlock’s affection towards Mrs. Hudson. As soon as Sherlock becomes aware that Mrs. Hudson has been attacked, his face twists with rage. He is quick to go to up to 221B, where she is being held hostage by three men, the ringleader holding a gun to her head. Sherlock persuades the ringleader to dismiss his two men so that they are alone. He notices that the ringleader struck Mrs. Hudson in the face earlier, which incites his anger even further. He is quick to gain the upper hand, headbutting and knocking out the ringleader, and rushes to Mrs. Hudson to make sure that she’s alright, filled with concern. He waits with her, holding the ringleader hostage until John arrives to tend to her downstairs. Then he throws her attacker out the window. The man is subdued and tied up, no threat anymore. Sherlock’s action is motivated purely by revenge. That man hurt and frightened Mrs. Hudson, and so he must pay dearly. His protectiveness isn’t one-sided. Earlier in the episode, she reprimands Mycroft for putting Sherlock at risk. “It’s a disgrace,” she says, “sending your little brother into danger like that. Family is all we have in the end, Mycroft Holmes.” This statement is swiftly followed by another protective action from Sherlock’s part. Mycroft tells Mrs. Hudson to shut up. Sherlock immediately shouts his name, a furious expression on his face, compelling him to apologize. Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson share a bond that goes far beyond a tenant-landlady relationship. They have both happily chosen to live with the other, and love and care for each other, expressing this through their easy domesticity and by engaging in typical parent-child behaviors. Sherlock may not call Mrs. Hudson “mummy” and Mrs. Hudson may not call him “son”, but it is so clear that this what they truly mean to each other.

#sherlock #sherlock meta #sherlock holmes #mrs. hudson

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scenes-in-between · 6 years

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Vienen (2/2)

Could be worse, Doggett thinks as he kicks hard to stay afloat. Could be wearing full combat gear.

Of course, he was also a good 20 years younger the last time he had to do that.

The chopper circles back around after skirting away to avoid the blast from the rig. Between the spray and the spotlight, Doggett can barely see anything, but he's pretty sure Mulder's still keeping his head above water. He hopes so, anyway. The last thing he wants is to have to tell Agent Scully that he lost Mulder in the damned Gulf of Mexico.

He wonders how exactly they’re planning on trying to do this. That’s a charter helicopter up there, same one that brought him out here this morning. Evacuating from the rig itself would have been one thing, but there’s no way it’s equipped for an open water rescue.

The pilot’s saying something over the loudspeaker again, but hell if he can make out what it is. A shadow cuts through the spotlight, and then he feels more than hears the whump of something landing in the water nearby. Looks like a duffel bag, but it’s actually a raft, he realizes. Well, that’ll work. He kicks his way over to it, adrenaline and fatigue and cold making him unsteady as he fumbles for the pull rope to inflate the damned thing. Mulder gets to his side just as he finds it.

“Heads up!” he yells, though his words are swallowed by the noise from the rotors.

In seconds, the raft inflates, and he and Mulder haul themselves aboard. There’s some relief as the chopper pilot ascends a fair bit, keeping his spotlight on them as he circles but not flying so low as to keep buffeting them constantly with wind and spray. For a while, Doggett and Mulder just lie there, catching their breath.

Hell of a day at the office.

It doesn’t take too long for the Coast Guard to arrive. Long enough for Mulder to lose his lunch a couple of times over the side of the raft though, the poor bastard. Not that he can blame the guy; the water’s more than a little choppy. When the rescue basket drops, Mulder tries to tell him to go first, but he shakes his head. No way. Mulder may have been the one to get them both into this mess, but Doggett is the one getting them out, and that means making damn sure there is absolutely zero chance of Mulder getting left behind.

Only once they’re both aboard the chopper, blankets wrapped around them like, he supposes, the trauma survivors they are, does he finally let himself comprehend the full scope of what just happened. He won’t go so far as to say Mulder was right about all of it, but he also can’t deny what he saw. Oil coming out of the foreman’s eyes. What happened to Diego Garza. The way the workers conspired to trap them and destroy the rig.

And oh, Kersh is absolutely going to blow his stack when he finds out about that last part.

If Mulder was right about one thing, it’s that Kersh sent him out here with an agenda. And that agenda was not to simply uncover the truth about what happened to Simon de la Cruz. There’s something decidedly unsavory about the political nature of Kersh’s priorities in this case; not that Doggett doesn’t understand and appreciate the stakes involved here, but his job is to find answers, not protect some oil company’s bottom line. Being given orders, implicitly or not, that run counter to that job is never going to sit right with him.

Of course, that is far from the only thing that’s not sitting right with him about this case.

He saw the black oil. Doesn’t mean he thinks it’s alien, but it sure as hell wasn’t standard crude, either. What happened to the workers was… well, “unnerving” doesn’t even begin to cover it. He honestly has no idea what the implications might be if the stuff ever gets back to shore, if Galpex doesn’t give up on trying to drill that area. Or what might have happened if he’d skipped on this case like he wanted to, if Mulder hadn’t pushed and gone behind his back to get the Bureau involved.

Mulder. Doggett shakes his head. He probably owes the guy an apology for the crack he made about being able to find a conspiracy at a church picnic. Turns out Mulder’s paranoia wasn’t so completely baseless after all. Doesn’t make his behavior any less obnoxious, of course, nor does it mean every claim he made about aliens was the gospel truth, but his instincts were still good. Doggett doesn’t have to agree with all his wild theories to recognize that much.

Then again, Mulder definitely still owes him an apology for going behind his back repeatedly in this investigation, but he’s not going to hold his breath waiting for one. Nah, he can keep his own mouth shut and just call it even. If it weren’t for Scully, he wouldn’t bother trying to get along with Mulder at all. Unfortunately, it doesn’t seem like that’s an option. Be nice if Mulder could at least try to meet him halfway, though.

It’s a little less than an hour back to the Texas shore, and A.D. Skinner’s there waiting when they land. Better him than Kersh, Doggett supposes. Skinner looks like he can’t decide whether to be pissed or relieved, as they climb down out of the helicopter. (“Damn it, kids, you crashed the family car, but at least you made it home alive.”) Mulder seems all too comfortable in the role of petulant teenager; after they’ve thanked the Coasties for saving their asses, he stalks over to where their boss is waiting.

“I’m betting Kersh didn’t send you down here to throw us a ticker tape parade for saving the day.”

“Actually, I’m here at Agent Scully’s insistence. You don’t need me to tell you, you’ve got almost as much to answer for to her as you do to the Deputy Director.”

“Yeah, well at least she appreciates what was at stake. What’s still at stake if Galpex Petroleum keeps trying to drill that site.”

Skinner’s frown deepens. “All the men on board were infected?”

“All but one,” Doggett answers before Mulder can. He’s not interested in being shouldered out of this conversation altogether. “I promised I’d help him get home, but…” He shakes his head, remembering the sight of Diego Garza’s burns. “I can’t even begin to explain the condition of his body, same as what happened to Simon de la Cruz.”

“I can.”

He just manages to keep from scoffing. Yeah, I’m sure you can, Agent Mulder.

“In any event,” Skinner says pointedly, “I assume based on what I heard over the radio that we're no longer dealing with a quarantine situation.”

“That's correct, sir,” Doggett tells him, while Mulder says, “We'll need to confirm that,” at the same time.

This time he does scoff. “No way did anyone survive that explosion. We only barely made it out alive, ourselves.”

“I'll agree with you that it's unlikely any human could have survived.”

“Oh, come on, you've got to be kid--”

“All right, that's enough,” Skinner cuts him off. “Fire containment efforts will include a search for survivors, as part of routine procedure. I'll make sure the FBI stays in the loop if they find anyone.”

His phone rings, then, and he turns away to answer it.

“They find anyone alive out there, it’s gonna be a miracle,” Doggett mutters.

Mulder glares at him. Really leaning into the petulant teenager thing full-bore, isn’t he? “After everything you saw out there, how can you possibly still be this dismissive?”

“What I saw, Agent Mulder, was men behaving strangely. I saw oil do stuff I’ve never seen it do before. I saw no proof whatsoever of aliens. And even if I had, why would I assume an alien could survive an explosion any better than you or I could?”

“I don’t know. Maybe you could trust that if I was right about the oil, then I’m right about this, too. Maybe you could trust that I’ve seen these things. But I guess you’d also have to believe that I’m not crazy, and I suppose that’s just a bridge too far for you.”

“I don’t think you’re crazy,” Doggett says, and he means it. “But you told me yourself that you’ll believe just about anything. That you want to believe. Whether that’s in aliens or ghosts or monsters or what-have-you. And in my experience, if someone wants to believe in something bad enough, they tend to ignore all the evidence that might refute that belief.”

“Yeah, well the same can be said of someone who doesn’t want to believe. Only they’ll ignore all of the supporting evidence, denying even undeniable proof out of sheer bullheadedness.”

Skinner comes back before Doggett can respond, holding his phone out toward Mulder. “Agent Scully wants to talk to you. Make it quick, we’ve got a debrief with the Coast Guard in twenty minutes.”

Mulder takes the phone and walks away, and Skinner watches him go, shaking his head. “I know he sounds nuts, but there’s truth to what he says. I’ve seen enough to take his word on a lot of the things I haven’t seen first-hand.”

“All due respect, sir, I’ve seen some things in this job that I never would’ve believed a year ago. But I’m still not gonna compromise my integrity and objectivity by jumping on the alien bandwagon when there might be some other explanation we’re missing.”

“And that’s fine, just… just be careful not to spend so much time looking for another explanation that you miss the one right in front of you until it’s too late.”

Doggett nods. “I’ll do my best not to, sir.”

Mulder walks back over and hands Skinner back his phone. Skinner takes it with a curt nod. “Right. Let’s get this debrief over with so we can go grab a few hours’ sleep. We’re on the first flight back to Washington in the morning.”

“I might go stand in the shower for a few hours instead, if it’s all the same to you,” Mulder says wryly.

Despite himself, Doggett laughs. “You and I might not agree on much, Agent Mulder, but I think that sounds like a great idea.”

#x-files fanfic #txf: vienen #doggettfic

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delkios · 6 years

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Into the Great Wide Open (DC TV)

Title from the Tom Petty song. Also please ignore the fact that I forgot about the lack of mountains along the Kansas-Missouri border, oops. Title: Into the Great Wide Open Fandom: DC TV Rating: PG-13 Word Count: 2374 In Responds to: ColdWave Week 2018: You Captured My Heart Characters: Len, Mick, Lisa cameo at the end Summary: Len decides to try a bit of camping. Spoilers: it doesn’t end well. “Len!” At the sound of his partner calling his name in distress, Len took off like a shot toward it. He ducked around trees, jumping roots and large rocks, trying to remember the path he’d taken, cursing to himself for not realizing when Mick had fallen behind. “Len!” He found Mick, half sprawled on the ground, and busted out laughing. “Shut up, asshole!” Mick snapped, face red either from embarrassment or trying to free his leg from a thick patch of mud. “Help me outta this!” “You can face down mob muscle and entire squads of cops, but it’s overly friendly mud that takes down the great Mick Rory.” “I’ll burn you in your sleep,” was the petulant retort. Len gingerly knelt by Mick at the edge of the mud. He gave Mick’s leg a tug, then a harder one. “You know, it’ll be easier if you just give up the boot.” “Well I guess I’m gonna fucking die here because there’s no way in hell I’m tromping through a damn forest without shoes.”

“So dramatic.” “Shut up and help me, dammit. This is your fault anyway.” He snorted, wiggling Mick’s leg to try to get a little room to work with. “It’s a camping trip. You’re not being kidnapped.” “You literally told me you were kidnapping me to go camping.” “Only because you refused to do it willingly. Aren’t you some kind of country bumpkin?” Len teased as he slowly worked Mick’s foot free. “I thought roughing it was in your blood.” “Camping sucks. The country sucks. Do you have any idea how goddamn dark it gets out here? You’re basically blind.” Mick huffed, carefully scooting back on his butt once his foot- and boot -were out of the mud. “Can’t believe some city bum wants to go camping.” “Yeah, well.” Len’s expression grew soft and melancholy. “It was one of those things my grandpa talked about taking me to do.” But it never happened, Mick knew. The man had basically worked himself to death trying to care for his grandchildren behind Lewis’s back. “Can’t believe I let you talk me into being uncomfortable and miserable for half a week,” Mick groused. Just as he hoped, it made Len crack a smirk. “There’s a reason people live in cities, you know.” “Getting away from it helps you appreciate those modern conveniences.” “I’m very appreciative. Can we go now?” Chuckling, Len slapped Mick’s shoulder as he stood up and started back on the path again. “If you want to find your own way back to the car, be my guest.” Mick hesitated before following grudgingly after. “I don’t trust you not to get your bony ass eaten by a bear.” “Glad to hear it.” Len looked over his shoulder with a wicked smirk. “After all, I did kidnap you for this trip so you can keep me warm at night.” Mick growled, eyes growing dark. He sped up until he was right behind Len, pressed against his shoulder. “We should hurry up and find a camping spot. Test it out. Make sure it’ll be comfortable for tonight.” Len just laughed at him. ~*~*~*~ Between the drying mud making it difficult for Mick to bend his ankle fully, a misplaced step twisting the other one just enough it twinged with every other step and walking face first into a branch because he hadn’t been paying attention, Mick was just as miserable as he said he’d be when Len finally decided to set up camp. To make up for the crappy trek, he let Mick make the fire as big as he wanted. “Just don’t let it get out of control,” he told Mick before grabbing the fire bucket and a spade to dig up dirt to put the fire out with later. Mick grumbled- just for show -and all but bounded into the trees like a kid in a toy store. While Mick did that, Len found a nearby stream- right where the map said. It was crystal clear and cold enough to shock Len’s teeth when he stuck his hand in it. Snow melt, he read, but it hadn’t really occurred to him just how cold it would be. Mick would hate it, he decided with amusement. He filled up his water bottle in the stream as well as a large container for general use. It was only about a quarter mile from where they’d set up but it would still be a bother making that walk every time they wanted water for mundane things like washing their hands. After that Len went about setting up the camp: putting up the tent- which Mick had to help him with because while the instructions were easy, the poles very much did not like bending that way -unrolling the sleeping bags, putting out things like the lantern, toiletries and a shotgun- which Mick refused to come without because there are goddamn wild animals out here and a little knife isn’t going to stop most of them, Lenny -in easy reach. Then stringing a hammock between a couple trees and setting the bear-proof canister on the outskirts of the camp. Len didn’t actually know if bears were that much of an issue in this area but when Mick saw it, he swore up and down he’d never go camping with Len. Which lead to lugging around the shotgun. By the time the camp was to Len’s liking, the sun was starting to set and Mick had finally gotten the fire pit to his liking. “Really, Mick,” Len teased as he broke out the skewers, marshmallows and chocolate because what good, non-arson-related fire was complete without s’mores? “They’ll be able to see this from space.” “Be a crappy view for ‘em,” came the distracted reply, Mick focusing on setting up the kindling. The fire, even Len had to admit, was impressive. And it brought Mick’s good humor back. They had a couple cold sandwiches and chips for dinner given the fire, according to Mick, was too hot. Anything they’d try to cook on it would be burnt on the outside and raw on the inside. They demolished half the bag of marshmallows, mostly by eating them but a fair few became projectiles that Len later scooped up and tossed in the fire to keep hungry critters from wandering into their camp. After their earlier hike just getting to the site, it didn’t take long for the sugar crash to set in. They put out the fire, put on their pajamas and slipped into the sleeping bags Len had zipped together. A chill was beginning to set but, between the thick layers, small space and shared body heat, Len thought it might end up getting stifling in the tent. The thought stayed in the back of his head as he began to drift off to sleep, face pressed against the curve of Mick’s back. “...Len?” Len just made a muffled noise in acknowledgement. “The ground’s too hard and it’s too damn noisy. I can’t sleep.” Scowling against Mick’s back, Len let his hand flop forward until he could slap it over Mick’s mouth. While that had been sufficient hint for Mick to shut up during the night, it didn’t stop Mick from tossing and turning. Which, in turn, kept Len from doing more than dozing. In the end, just as the morning birds were starting to sing and the temperature in the tent went from warm to boiling, Len unzipped his half of the joined sleeping bag and tried to salvage what sleep he could on the hammock. When he finally woke up not all that long later, Len was cranky, tired and sore. Mick, looking just as cranky, tired and sore, said from where he was cooking breakfast over a small fire, “I told you. Being in the country fucking sucks.” He ended up burning breakfast because something something, open fires are harder to regulate temperature than grills. Len was too irritable to care as he gnawed on plain bread, burnt eggs and a dry granola mix. Even with his food history it was a pretty bad meal. Afterward, Len walked to the stream to wash up. There was still plenty in the container he filled the day before but he figured he’d use the time away from Mick to calm down a bit. After all, it wasn’t his partner’s fault that the ground- and hammock -were terrible to sleep on. Maybe next time, if there ever was one, Len would consider an air mattress worthwhile to lug around. Len returned to find Mick was staring deeply at the fire. After putting his stuff away and dressing for the day, Len stood and surveyed his surroundings. “The hell do people do out here?” He asked. “Nothing,” Mick replied, gaze not wavering. “There’s not a goddamn thing to do.” If Len didn’t know any better, he’d think maybe Mick’s pyromania was a result of boredom. “Do you want to go for a hike?” When Mick gave him an incredulous look, Len shot back, “There’s nothing else to do so why not?” Mick continued to glare. In the end, though, he reached for the fire bucket and upended it over the fire. Len couldn’t help the warm smile as he overheard Mick mutter, “Can’t believe I’m in love with you.” The hike wasn’t too bad though Len’s internal map was off just enough that they couldn’t find the camp for a good half hour. By then the sun was just reaching its apex, leaving them both sweating and out of breath. Len grabbed their toiletries and told Mick, “Let’s wash up before lunch.” Mick, blatantly eyeing Len, growled in agreement. They reached the stream and Mick immediately pulled off his shirt, intent obvious. Len stifled a snicker as he dipped a washcloth in the stream, got it nice and wet, then slapped it against Mick’s bared chest. Mick yelped loudly, jumping back and pulling the cloth off him. “Fuck, that’s cold!” Len just cackled at him, lathering up his own washcloth. “I fucking hate you,” Mick said just before he retreated a good ten feet away, muttering about how his dick was going to shrivel up inside his body. Lunch was a simple affair of roasted hot dogs and buns toasted on the outskirts of a fire. That still left an awful lot of hours with nothing to do, however. When Len got back from cleaning up their lunch, he found Mick in the hammock, reading a book. He looked up at Len’s approach. “Wanna join me?” Len’s back twinged in protest but it wasn’t like he had anything else to do. He grabbed his own book and, after nearly capsizing the hammock three times on his way in, settled against Mick’s side. They stayed like that until the sun began to set. That night they layered the sleeping bags one on top of the other. It didn’t leave a lot of room for the both of them to lay together and they’d be chilly until the tent warmed up but there was a little extra padding. It still was hardly comfortable but it at least got them through the night. Still without anything to do, they went for another hike the next day. Instead of washing up at the stream, though, Len filled up a couple of bowls with water and brought them over to the afternoon fire to warm up while Mick cooked. After eating, with Mick eyeing the bowls with confusion, Len tested the temperature of the water. Deeming it acceptable, he began unbuttoning his shirt. “Uh, Lenny?” Mick asked, clearly confused. Len let the shirt slip off his shoulders, giving his partner a coy smile. He wetted a washcloth. “You do me, I do you?” “Are you seriously trying to seduce me with basically a sponge bath?” “Only if it works.” Mick stared at him for a moment. “Fuck it, I’m easy.” He pulled off his shirt and hummed in approval at the first swipe of the warm cloth against his skin. That night Len lounged in the tent, content, naked and- for once -unself-conscious, watching as Mick cooked dinner in nothing but a pair of boxers. Something both of them quickly came to regret after waking up covered in bug bites. Mick had a hand down his pants in a way that wasn’t remotely sexy, scratching at a bite high on the inside of his thigh. “Can’t believe we’re out here for two more damn days.” Len, in the midst of rubbing his back against a tree to get a trio of bites right under his shoulder blade, silently agreed. ~*~*~*~ “Oh, look,” Lisa said casually from her place on the couch. “You two survived.” She gave Mick a shit-eating grin. “I guess camping isn’t as bad as you made it out to be.” “Next time he kidnaps me for a camping trip,” Mick growled, “I’m dragging you with me. See how smug you are after that.” Lisa patted his arm, not even trying to hide her amusement. “I’ll be sure to steal any camping books he picks up so you can burn them.” She turned to Len as Mick stomped off to set down their gear. Her eyebrow raised. “Well? Everything you hoped it would be?” “Overrated,” Len admitted. His eyes drifted after Mick, thinking about the mornings in that little tent, warm and isolated, like the world was just the two of them or the afternoons they spent in the hammock reading to each other. He thought about Mick stripped and pliant as Len washed him, body gleaming with water and sunlight. He thought about the evenings by the fire as night fell, sitting between Mick’s legs and leaning against his chest, Len singing softly and Mick as enthralled by Len’s voice as he was by the fire. “But it had its highlights.”

#dccoldwave #dccoldwaveweek2018 #fic 2018 #leonard snart #mick rory #lisa snart

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elijahwoodnot · 7 years

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guess who finally got around to filling this request!!! (i’m so sorry anon. i’m sorry i am so slow) anyway, if you’re still here and waiting, anon, here’s your prompt fill! thank you so much!! 💖 this one was incredibly fun to write. (i think i’m missing the point of these prompt fills because they keep getting um. longer. but whatever, y’know *shrug emoji*)

(*fyi warning: there is a small bit of “uninvited attention” that takes place at the bar, but nothing beyond that. just be aware!)

Thus far, the cases presented to Dirk Gently’s Holistic Detective Agency had delivered the (some unwilling) members of the agency itself into some particularly… interesting situations, Todd would not deny this fact.

He did, however, think that he might be somewhere close to finally putting his foot down (for good) and drawing the line when one of these destinations happened to be a gay bar at the end of West Seattle.

“Come on, Todd!” Dirk prompted eagerly, latching onto Todd’s elbow and beginning to drag him toward the worn looking, metal doored entrance to the club, the heavy bass from inside already noticeably pulsating out into the cool evening air.

Todd hesitated, glancing between Dirk and the door warily, before he dug his heels into the ground and wrenched his arm out of Dirk’s hold in order to cross his arms moodily. Dirk turned in confusion to discover the reason for their stopping, only to roll his eyes petulantly when he caught sight of Todd’s expression.

“Oh, come on, then!” He cried in exasperation, “Surely this isn’t the oddest place one of our cases has led us, you have to admit.”

“I don’t know, Dirk.” Todd argued, well aware of how petulant he sounded, his shoulders tensing slightly when a particularly enthusiastic shriek sounded from the open window of the building before them. “Are you sure our guy’s in there?”

Dirk made a face. “What’s to say he’s not?”

“Do you actually have any proof?” Todd accused, standing firm and forcing himself not to bend in the face of Dirk’s pout. “Besides this being a… Universe thing?”

“It’s more of a hunch, really.” Dirk replied with a shrug, then grinned widely, suddenly appearing a bit manic. “But just think! There’s nothing telling us that he’s not in here, either!” He turned again and began striding back toward the building.

“Are you sure there’s not like…” Todd trailed off when Dirk turned back to face him, his eyebrows rising in curiosity. Todd shrugged and winced a little. “Like. Another reason for this?”

Dirk blinked, his brows furrowing in confusion. “What do you mean, ‘another reason’?”

Todd opened his mouth to reply, before letting is close again and frowning a bit. His previously intoned inquiries sounding, now that he considered it, a little lame. What was he supposed to say? We can go out some other time, some other place, if you want to go out. Or even, Is there any reason that you, particularly, might want to go to a gay club, Dirk?

There had to be more subtle ways of figuring things out for himself, Todd decided firmly, and he shrugged again. “Just… Nevermind.” He strode forward, firmly ignoring Dirk’s curious gaze following him as he passed and approached the door. “Let’s just get this over with.”

Dirk appeared at his side not a moment later and shot him a gleeful smile. “Excellent assisting, Todd.” He nodded approvingly. “I dig the enthusiasm.”

Todd rolled his eyes histrionically, but moved forward when Dirk threw the door open and entered the club, anyway.

Inside, the main room was dark, save for a handful of multicolored lights attached haphazardly along the ceiling, and scattered around what appeared to be the dance floor in the middle of the room.

Dirk grinned again before moving eagerly forward and toward a particularly large clump of individuals cluttered along the edge of the dance floor.

Todd watched him go, sighing and making to follow after when he caught sight of the bar (that had clearly seen better days) at the corner of the room. He hesitated, glancing at Dirk again and determining that the man was most definitely going to remain within his line of sight from the bar, before he began to wander in that direction.

“Todd?” Dirk called, turning back and frowning when he noticed Todd’s retreat. “Where are you going?”

Todd turned back and glanced at him over his shoulder, furrowing his brow before gesturing vaguely at the bar.

“Wait!” Dirk yelped, striding forward so he could continue to follow. “Don’t you think-- We’re on a case!”

“A case you determined would lead us to a gay bar.” Todd replied, trying to keep any unnecessary brashness from his tone. “I’m just trying to deal with the situation.”

“You!” Dirk gaped, drawing up to the bar alongside Todd. “You can’t just-- As your-- as your boss, I forbid it.”

Todd quirked a brow. “My boss?”

“Quite.” Dirk replied with a curt nod, all traces of a smile suddenly gone from his face.

Todd studied him another moment, before shaking his head and turning back to the bar, a mental list of drink options already running through his mind and leaving little room otherwise for considering the offended scoff Dirk let out not a moment later.

“Todd,” Dirk cautioned, leaning into his line of sight (Todd forced himself to keep his gaze trained firmly on the rack of liquor ahead, rather than becoming distracted by the way the hazy violet light of the club darkened the hollows beneath Dirk’s cheekbones, or elongated the shadows cast by his eyelashes…) “If you order even one drink I’ll be forced to-- to demote you.”

Todd snorted, finally allowing himself to shoot Dirk a wry glance from the corner of his eye. “I’m already a, what was it? A ward? How much worse could it get?”

Dirk gaped, and opened his mouth to reply when the bartender noticed them and strode over to their side. Todd watched as the man glanced at the both of them before letting his gaze linger approvingly on Dirk, his smile widening to the point of it appearing almost painful.

“What can I get you guys?” He inquired, his eyes flittering from Dirk only a moment as he spoke before they moved back as if drawn magnetically.

Todd tried not to bristle noticeably, and instead focused his attention on ordering a beer. (The darker the better, he thought, suddenly a little moody).

The man nodded distantly in reply, though he remained looking at Dirk. “And for you?”

Dirk, previously narrowing his eyes disapprovingly in Todd’s direction, glanced upward with a frown. “Pardon?” The man laughed (loudly and a bit over the top, Todd thought) and repeated the question. “Oh, I-- Um…” Dirk opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, before turning to peg Todd with a helpless, flabbergasted look.

“You may as well, while we’re here.” Todd commented with a shrug, before turning his attention back to the counter, studying the sticky stains on the surface with a newfound fascination.

“I’ll have a black opal.” Dirk finally piped up, with such confidence that Todd nearly spun around in surprise.

The bartender laughed again, though Todd couldn’t really understand why. “Coming right up.” He turned to fulfill the requests, calling over his shoulder. “My name’s Stephen, if you need anything. Love the accent, by the way.”

Todd felt his eyes widen, his nose crinkling in distaste. One glance at Dirk proved to only increase the feeling. The taller man’s cheeks were dusted a light pink, his eyebrows so high they almost reached his hairline, and his mouth hung slightly open.

When he noticed Todd watching from beneath a furrowed brow, Dirk attempted to school his expression. “Nice man.” He commented, coughing slightly.

Todd’s frown deepened. “I’m not sure about him.” He replied airily, giving Dirk another long look before turning back to the bar.

Their drinks arrived, along with another bright grin from Stephen, and Todd drank gratefully, firmly attempting to ignore the sinking feeling he could feel in the pit of his stomach when Dirk happily followed suit.

He wouldn’t necessarily call himself a man who experienced too many hunches on a daily basis (not nearly as many as Dirk seemed to, at any rate), but as Todd watched Dirk finishing his drink off happily before almost immediately ordering another, he could easily admit that he had a hunch that the rest of the evening was going to be a terrific disaster.

---

Three beers of his own later (and two drinks of Dirk’s own), Todd felt more or less the same about the entire situation.

After finishing his second drink, Dirk had glanced at Todd before announcing cheerfully that he was going to “investigate” the dance floor, and had flounced off, leaving Todd gaping at his retreating form before he had forced himself to turn firmly back to the bar and take a seat, reminding himself that he wasn’t Dirk Gently’s babysitter. The man was an adult, and could do whatever the hell he pleased, as far as Todd was concerned.

Whatever the hell he pleased, as it turned out, seemed to be dancing in the middle of a throng of sweaty strangers, and receiving plenty of attention in doing so.

He’d returned to the bar twice since the initial dancing had begun, both times to order another drink (Not his babysitter, Todd had reminded himself forcefully, and ordered another beer to keep up) and once to exclaim, breathlessly, “This is really quite a place, Todd! Why haven’t we been here before?”

Todd, neglecting to comment on just what visiting a place like…this together would have said about the two of them, had simply shrugged and torn his gaze roughly from the collar of Dirk’s powder pink shirt, now dampened slightly in perspiration, to stare at the various puddles surrounding the bar stools.

He watched now, far past caring how obvious his glances were becoming, as Dirk swayed on the dance floor, barely given a moment to himself before another patron of the bar would sidle up next to him and place their hands wherever the hell they pleased, apparently.

(And each time it happened, Todd had to swallow past the sudden thickness in his throat, his cheeks suddenly flaming and his frown deepening.)

Multiple times he’d had to stop himself from lurching upright from his barstool and striding across the room until he was at Dirk’s side, pulling each new dance partner firmly away and--

And what? Todd groaned slightly and took another long swig of his beer, frowning in disappointment at the now empty glass in his hand and, with one last glance at where Dirk was dancing (another man’s hands gripping almost dangerously low at his hips), turned to signal the bartender again.

“Ready for round five?” The bartender (Stephen, Todd reminded himself, ignoring the bubbling irritation he could feel pulsing along with the heavy bass from the club’s shitty speakers.)

“What?” He inquired, blinking at the man blearily.

Stephen’s sunny grin faltered, but held firm in the end. “Round five?” He repeated, before leaning close, his elbows on the bar now and his face far closer than Todd would have appreciated. “Listen, buddy. You don’t look so good. Are you sure you shouldn’t call it quits? Get your boyfriend home?”

Todd blinked, suddenly a little unsure of just how much of an effect the four beers had had on him. “What?” He repeated. “No, I, uh. Boyfriend?”

“I mean, I’m not saying he’s not having a good time.” Stephen commented, smiling a little in the direction of the dance floor. “But he’s getting a little close to his limit now, too, I think. Why don’t you pack it up? I can get your check right now.”

“I’m fine.” Todd replied immediately, feeling suddenly a little defensive. “Dirk’s fine. And we’re-- we’re not…”

Stephen furrowed his brow, looking a little confused before apprehension suddenly dawned on his face. “Oh, my bad.” He replied and drew back a little, dropping his gaze and beginning to scrub at one of the stains on the bar with a rag produced from the pocket of his apron. “I just assumed. The way he looked at you, I thought--”

“What?” Todd repeated for what felt like the hundredth time. “No, we’re not-- He’s just like that. He’s just Dirk.”

“Whatever you say.” Stephen agreed, scoffing a laugh, before his smile disappeared and he glanced over Todd’s shoulder with a frown. “Though I meant what I said. Your boyfriend-- friend. Just Dirk, whatever. He looks like he might not be enjoying himself quite as much, now.”

Todd blinked and frowned before the words caught up with him and he turned, just in time to catch one of the men on the dance floor elbow his way past Dirk’s current dance partner and, before either Dirk or Todd could react, reach out and grab at Dirk’s ass roughly.

Todd caught one look at the appalled and somewhat horrified expression crossing Dirk’s face, and jumped up from his bar stool before he could rethink the reaction, his affronted cry of, “Hey!” matching Dirk’s own.

The man, who stood taller than Dirk (and a good deal meatier), didn’t seem to take the hint. With a quirked smile he moved forward so that he was pressed almost entirely up against Dirk’s side, ignoring Dirk batting at his hands, and tightened his hold.

“Stop,” Dirk cried, struggling slightly against the hold. “Stop!”

Todd felt his blood begin to boil in fury, and before he could stop himself was striding across the dance floor until he was able to draw directly up to the man’s side. He forced himself between the two of them, ignoring Dirk’s surprised expression and shoving at the larger man’s chest with a strength that surprised even himself, forcing him to take a stumbling step backward.

“Hey, man!” Todd cried, standing as tall as he could physically make himself and jutting his chin out defiantly. “Fuck off!”

The moment was over far quicker than Todd expected. One second he was stood resolutely between the man and Dirk, and the next the man was lashing out, his fist striking the side of Todd’s face with a disheartening thud.

Todd dropped like a stone. His back hit the floor and he curled instantly inward, bracing himself for another blow that never came. A muted hush fell over the group surrounding them, the music cutting out not a moment later.

Todd hazarded a glance upward just in time to see the man glaring balefully down at him, before he turned and began striding hastily toward the exit; probably before he was forced to face any consequences.

“Todd.” Dirk murmured, appearing in Todd’s line of vision with a horrified expression scrunching his face. “Are you alright?”

“I’ll live.” Todd grunted, and with Dirk’s assistance propped himself up so that he was leaning back with one arm bracing him, with the other he reached up to prod tentatively at the side of his face, which already felt slightly swollen. “Are you okay?” He inquired, the reason for his sudden injury catching up with him. He turned to face Dirk, worry furrowing his brow.

“I--” Dirk trailed off, pursing his lips thoughtfully before he nodded. “I’ll live.”

Todd huffed a weary smile. “Let’s get out of here.” He groaned, allowing Dirk to help him to his feet.

After stopping to pay their check (Todd making sure to pause and give Stephen a weak smile of thanks), they did as suggested and retreated quickly out into the brisk evening air.

Todd sucked in a breath, watching his exhale cloud before his face, and turned to give Dirk an appraising look. The man was stood a few feet from Todd himself, his hands gripping the bottom of his red jacket and his gaze trained listlessly ahead.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Todd asked, not liking the way Dirk’s gaze snapped almost frantically to meet his. “That asshole didn’t do anything else, did he?”

“No.” Dirk replied, immediately, his tone reassuringly steady. “We hadn’t interacted, before that.” He paused, his eyebrows knitting together as he seemed to study Todd. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” Todd replied, following Dirk’s gaze to where it rested on his hands-- his hands, which were trembling faintly at his sides. He quickly stuffed them into the pockets of his jeans and shot Dirk a small smile. “I will be, anyway.”

Dirk nodded, though he didn’t return the smile. “What you did, Todd. It was-- Well, it was really--”

“Don’t.” Todd interrupted, frowning. “I should have been paying more attention.” He glanced away, studying the toes of his sneakers. “I shouldn’t have let it happen at all.”

“You weren’t the one being somewhat… outrageous on the dance floor.” Dirk commented drily. He seemed to hesitate a moment before he moved forward, stopping only when Todd could see the toe of one of his oxfords out of the corner of his eye. “It isn’t your fault. What you did was very much appreciated.”

Todd scoffed, raising his eyes to meet Dirk’s. “I’m sure you would have had plenty of other worthy defenders, in there.” He replied, before he could stop the comment from escaping, feeling a small shred of his earlier irritation flare up.

(He frowned at his own openness not a moment later, wondering if maybe the previous drinks hadn’t worn off as much as he’d originally assumed.)

“I’d much prefer it to be you, actually.” Dirk responded casually, the words hanging on the air a long moment before they seemed to catch up with him, and his eyes widened fractionally as the comment registered.

Todd’s own brain seemed to have come to a screeching halt. He felt his brow wrinkle in confusion, and his mouth gaping open entirely unattractively at the admission. “You-- What, Dirk?” He exclaimed.

Dirk took a long, deep breath, seeming to be working himself up to something before he turned his gaze slowly back to meet Todd’s. “I’d rather it be you.” He repeated, though much slower this time, and with much more significance placed on each word.

Todd inhaled a steadying breath of his own, releasing it on a shaky exhale, and before he could stop himself was moving forward and approaching Dirk slowly. The other man watched him approach, his gaze wide and aware, and took a few steps back to match Todd’s own forward, until his back was brushing the bricks of the building behind them.

“You--” Todd glanced down, his eyes resting listlessly on the loosened knot of Dirk’s tie for a long moment. “You don’t mean what you think you mean.”

“I obviously do.” Dirk argued, a touch of irritation coloring his tone. “I’m not a child, Todd.”

“You’re drunk, Dirk.” Todd pointed out at once. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“Todd.” Dirk cut in impatiently. “You’re quite sloshed, yourself.”

Todd decided to ignore the jab. He blinked, and met Dirk’s eyes hesitantly. “If you’re saying what-- what I think…” He trailed off. “I can’t promise that I’ll be able to stop once I start, Dirk.”

Dirk scoffed, though an almost gleeful smile was beginning to spread across his face. “Well, get started, then!”

Todd frowned determinedly, nodding once (just as much a reminder to himself as it was to Dirk) before he propelled himself forward and sealed his lips firmly over Dirk’s.

Dirk let out a joyful noise, opening his mouth eagerly beneath Todd’s ministrations, and raising his hands so that he could tangle them tightly in the fabric of Todd’s flannel at his waist.

Waiting for no further invitation, Todd pushed forward enthusiastically, his hands gripping at the lapels of Dirk’s jacket as he pressed Dirk firmly back against the brick wall.

Dirk made a noise of approval, and allowed Todd to explore his lips hungrily for a moment, before he tilted his head and began nibbling, experimentally and haltingly, at Todd’s bottom lip.

Todd let out a strangled keening noise at the attention, pulling away a moment later and gasping for air. “Fuck!” He cried, his pulse racing when he caught sight of Dirk’s elated grin. “Shit!”

“Indeed.” Dirk agreed, though the cool demeanor was somewhat discredited by the breathlessness of his own tone. He glanced at Todd’s face questioningly. “Can we-- I mean. This isn’t a... one time thing, is it?”

“God, no.” Todd replied immediately, barely restraining himself from lurching forward and wrapping his arms giddily around Dirk’s shoulders. “This isn’t a one time thing.”

“Good.” Dirk nodded approvingly. “Does that mean that I can do it again?”

“Fuck yes.” Todd breathed, moving forward as Dirk did the same and crushing their lips together with a groan.

They remained like that for a long moment, taking turns exploring and cataloging each other’s various reactions, before Dirk drew back slightly, his nose bumping Todd’s as they both panted heavily. “I want to…” He trailed off, before clearing his throat and attempting again, “Can I try something?”

“Anything.” Todd whispered.

Dirk nodded, glancing up to meet his eyes briefly before he leaned down (stopping briefly to brush his lips softly against the swollen bruise at Todd’s cheekbone) and pressed a long, sloppy kiss to the pulse point just beneath Todd’s jaw.

“Fuck!” Todd yelped, his hands rising to grip at Dirk’s shoulders. “Jesus Christ, Dirk.”

Dirk hummed approvingly against the skin, kissing the same spot again almost reverently before he opened his mouth and, before Todd could react, sucked sharply, his teeth nipping at the skin.

“Ah,” Todd whimpered, biting sharply down on his own lip (which was trembling almost embarrassingly) to keep himself from crying out again. “Dirk! Holy shit, Dirk. Stop! Stop stop stop.” He skittered away, feeling a little guilty when Dirk looked almost crestfallen at the lack of contact.

“You didn’t like it?” Dirk murmured, pouting a bit.

Todd bit back a groan at the sight. “No,” He insisted, immediately, feeling a little better about his own reaction when Dirk looked a little less distraught, and instead tilted his head in confusion. “I-- Um. I liked it. A lot.” He flushed at his own openness, but forced himself to maintain eye contact.

Dirk quirked a brow. “Then what’s wrong?”

Todd paused, before shaking his head slightly and stepping forward again to place a long, chaste kiss against Dirk’s lips. “I think I’d rather be home for this, if you’re gonna keep surprising me like that.” He murmured, when they drew apart.

Dirk blinked, before his eyes widened, and grinned approvingly. “Excellent suggestion, Todd.” He nodded eagerly. “Let’s go at once.”

Todd nodded in agreement, and hesitated, glancing down briefly, before reaching forward and tangling their hands together.

If Dirk’s wildly gleeful smile was anything to go by, he’d made the right decision.

Maybe, Todd thought as they turned in unison and began striding back toward home, the evening wasn’t going to end quite as disastrously as he’d originally anticipated.

When Dirk tightened his grip on Todd’s hand slightly, and turned to offer him a small, private grin, Todd knew without a doubt that he was right.

#THIS WAS SO LONG WOW #dirk gently #dirk gently's holistic detective agency #dghda #todd brotzman #dirk gently fic #dghda fic #brotzly #brotzly fic #lij writes #my writing #writing #prompt fill #long post #anonymous

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askmicrowaveayem · 7 years

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Boink! The Gaster Brothers Pt. 21

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Before he could grab his brother to maybe wrestle him and win this time, their mother called from the house that breakfast was ready. Dings shoved Rage a little to get a headstart before running back to the house.

It really was like they were kids again.

Rage stumbled and scrambled right back up again, racing after his brother.

“No fair!” he said, but laughed as he tumbled back into the house, grinning.

Dings swerved around his father as he lumbered to his seat, crashing down into his own and quickly sitting up like a good little boy. Vrinda looked at them both. “... Well it’s nice to know neither of you have grown up at all.” She smiled.

Rage sat down much more primly, sticking his ‘nose’ in the air and huffing.

“I am very mature compared to him.”

Treb laughed silently across the table from him. Vrinda just shook her head, smiling.

Dings would go about eating, not quite as fervently as the night before, but still packing away much more than usual.

“Do you need anything done around the house?” He asked eventually after swallowing a mouthful.

Rage perked up as his brother asked, glancing between his two parents and listening readily.

“We’ll help out if you need us to,” he said. “Anything.”

Basically anything.

The two shared a glance before Treb signed one-handedly; ‘You two should be taking it easy.’

Dings glanced at his brother, then back to Treb. “We wanna help out.”

He wanted to do normal things again, even if for a little while.

Treb sighed as much as he was able, ‘Alright, if you want. I can think of some things that need doing around the farm.’

Rage nodded, grinning a little. “Okay. Sounds good.”

He’d missed helping his dad out. He hadn’t done it much, admittedly--he was much more experienced with housework and usually ended up helping Vrinda with her chores, but he’d still managed to get outside some and help Treb as a teenager, even if it was just with things like caring for the mules or fixing up the wagon.

Everyone would eat breakfast just like they had so many years ago and then help wash up before Treb would give them a few tasks around the house - just small things like yard work and odd jobs that he hadn’t gotten around to. Dings went right to work with his brother. Repairing a few boards in the chicken coop, replacing the straw. Fixing some of the fences on the pigsty.

Rage scrubbed the kitchen floor and wiped down the table. Helped rake the manure onto the little garden that was surviving. Scrubbing things took more effort now that he could only feel the fatigue in his shoulders and his arms were heavier than usual, but he did it all the same, relaxing into the task and almost feeling like the last six years had only been a bad dream.

While Dings worked outside a group of children had been walking down the road.

They stopped to watch.

They started asking questions, their little voices heard from inside the house.

“Are you one of The Gaster Brothers?” “Do you live here?” “What’s wrong with your arms?” Dings ignored all of them.

Rage heard them from inside the house, sticking his head out the window and spying the children.

He blinked a little, surprised.

Why were there kids swarming around his brother?

…

He set down his rag and headed outside, walking over to Dings and asking, “....why are kids swarming around you?”

Dings signed a quick ‘help me’, looking like he wished he was a turtle and could just crawl into a bucket somewhere and hide forever. “Are YOU one of the Gaster Brothers?” One asked Rage.

Rage laughed at his brother’s expression and signing, then glanced back down the the kids, grin wide, a glint in his eye.

“And what if I am?”

A few of the kids looked at one another nervously, one leaning over to another and whispering ‘he probably isn’t’.

“You attack humans, right?” The child asked.

“Yep,” Rage said, bending down to their level, letting his arms flop out over his knees, still grinning. “Sure do. My favorite passtime.”

“Cool!”

“I still don’t think it’s them.”

“Are your arms really made of metal?”

“Does it look like they’re made of metal?” Rage asked, still grinning. “I mean, you can see for yourself, can’t you?”

He lifted one of his hands, curling and uncurling each finger in a row, letting the children get a nice up-close look at it.

“My brother made it for me.”

Ooos and aaahs spread across the children, some leaning in close while others kept their distance.

“Is he your brother?” One asked, pointing at Dings as he continued working behind Rage.

“He sure is,” Rage said, winking at the kid. “Isn’t he cool?”

Dings made an embarrassed mumbled from behind his teeth. “He’s cooler with the armor on.”

“What’s wrong with his arms?”

“Hm? What do you mean?” Rage asked, glancing back at his brother, looking at his arms. “Oh! The runes? Those are to help his magic be more powerful. But yeah, his armor’s pretty cool I guess.”

“He doesn’t look scary at all without the armor.”

“Are you sure you’re the Gaster Brothers? You don’t look tough at all.” One said, narrowing their eyes.

“We’re not scary all the time,” Rage said, mock surprise in his tone, “What? You want us to prove we’re the Gaster brothers?”

There was a near unanimous ‘yeah!’

Rage snickered.

“Okay, sure. How do we prove it so you’ll believe us?”

“Go kill some humans!” Came one ridiculous request. “Show us the scary armor!”

“Be scary and tough!”

“I can’t kill humans if there aren’t any around!” Rage said, fully open to killing humans in front of monster children. “And Dings finally got out of his armor. Let him rest. I can show you my magic, though. Is that scary enough?”

“Yeah!” One said, while others chattered about what little they had been told about the Gaster Brother’s magic.

Rage grinned and silently summoned one of his blasters, letting it hover over his shoulder before slowly floating down to the kid’s level, its teeth sharp but not glowing for once.

More loud oohs and aahs, some of them shoving others out of the way to get a good look at it. --

Rage laughed.

“Is this proof enough?”

He considered a moment.

“Toss a rock in the air. I bet I can hit it.”

There were mixed answers.

“I guess so.”

“Yeah!”

They all scrambled to find a rock, but the fastest one jumped up and down first, yelling “I got one!”

Then they turned, tossing it into the air.

The blaster spat out a blast of pure magic, hitting the rock mid-air and blowing it into dust.

Another collection of excited squeals.

A moment later and the house door flung open, Vrinda standing in the doorway and looking out shocked.

She frowned, “Rage Gaster!”

The blast was enough to scare her into thinking something was happening outside with her boys. She was thankful there wasn’t but understandably a bit angry that she had been scared into thinking that in the first place.

Rage flinched down, turning with wide eyes and looking maybe a little bit terrified. He was still surrounded by a small swarm of children.

“....sorry….” he said, hoping she could hear. “...they wanted to see?”

Vrinda just narrowed her eye sockets and slipped back into the door. At least now she knew what was going on.

“Hah.” Dings said, the first words around the children all morning. “Golden child gettin’ in trouble.”

Rage glared at Dings, “Shut up, you’re still a babybones who’s not even allowed to say bad words.”

A few of the kids stared up at Dings, enthralled with him finally speaking.

That was all they got though, Dings turning and going right back to work after a roll of his eye lights.

“Wait, are YOU the older one?” One child asked, pointing at Rage.

“...yeah,” Rage said, mildly offended they hadn’t already know that. “He’s my baby brother by, like… what, six years?”

“But you’re so much shorter!”

Dings laughed.

Rage looked petulant. “It’s not my fault he’s a giant! Besides, I’m still stronger than him.”

“Rude.” Dings looked back at his brother.

“You don’t look stronger.” One said, eyes narrowing.

Rage rolled his eyes, “Oh, sure, tell the guy he doesn’t look stronger because he’s short. Didn’t your parents ever teach you manners?”

He pouted at the kid.

There were a few giggles, one sticking out their tongue at Rage. “Is this where you grew up?”

Rage pouted at all of the gigglers before turning to most recent one brave enough to ask a question.

“Nah, we grew up way far away from here. Back farther south I think.”

“You think?” One asked, raising a brow.

“It’s been half a decade and I’m not fully sure where we are right now,” Rage said, raising his hand to flick that kid’s head. “Give me a break. I’ve been hiding out in a camp all week waiting for the rain to stop, I can be excused for being a little foggy.”

The kid yelped a little and held the spot that had been flicked, a few of the kids laughing at him.

One in particular seemed a little more interested in Dings working behind him. “Hey! Do you really have three eyes?”

Dings twitched a little but kept on working without saying anything.

“Does it matter if he does?” Rage asked, chin in hand, sounding curious. “I think it’s pretty cool.”

“Yeah it does!”

“So he does have three eyes?”

“Let me see!”

“Yeah, I wanna see!”

Rage turned, grinning a little.

“Diiiiiings,” he said.

Dings slowly turned, glaring daggers at his brother. A few of the children cowered a little behind the fence they stood by.

Rage pouted up at him, but resigned, turning back to the kids. “Nah, sorry, you don’t get to see it. But it is pretty cool, you know. He got it because he made his eyesight so good, he couldn’t keep it to just two eyes, you know? I’ve never heard of anyone else able to do that.”

The kids started to whine.

“Come on!”

“I wanna see!”

“It sounds cool!”

Dings stopped what he was doing.

Motherfuckingshitpissdammitfuck.

He walked over to them and yanked off his headscarf, the third eye looking down at them along with the other two.

“Oh, don’t be whiny, you already got to see his face, so--”

He blinked up at his brother when the headscarf was yanked off.

The kids were stunned into silence, huddling around each other, most of them appearing to shocked and frozen to move.

Dings stared them down, eyes narrowed and waiting for them to scream or run away or something just like the last people who had seen it did.

After a moment, one of the children began to sway wide. First to the left. Then to the right. Trying to see if the eye would follow her.

All three eyes followed her, left and right, back and forth.

… He tried hard to stay looking annoyed.

The little girl began to giggle. Loudly.

Rage covered his mouth, trying to hide a grin.

Dings tried really, really hard not to grin too.

A tiny smile managed to spread across his face before he turned to go back to work, not putting the headscarf back on. He shoved it into his pocket instead, the eye nestled in the hole in his head spinning around to keep looking at them even though his back was turned like it had been all that time before, just now it could be seen.

Rage let his hand drop as he turned back to the kids, letting his grin be seen.

“Satisfied?”

“Yeah!”

“That’s so cool!”

Another waved at the eye, grinning as it followed his hand even though Dings wasn’t turned towards him.

Rage laughed at their enthusiasm, grinning widely. “Dings doesn’t like to show it much because he’s secretly really shy. So you all should count yourselves very, very lucky he showed you at all.”

The eye light grew and Dings grabbed the scarf, tossing it at the back of his brother’s head in embarrassment. He stayed turned away and was thankful he couldn’t blush. Fucking christ he was going to beat the shit out of him later. A few of the kids laughed, “Is that why he wears the armor? Because he’s shyyyy?” They cooed.

Rage laughed and let the scarf hit him, pulling it off his head and holding onto it, but he paused at the latest question. “Oh, no, no, not at all. He wears the armor because the fights we get into are all so dangerous…”

“Oooo…”

“Tell us about them!”

“Hmm,” Rage said, frowning like he was thinking very hard. “I don’t know if I should tell you. Your parents might be upset that I told you about such scary things as humans…”

“Humans aren’t scary!”

“Yeah they are!”

“You’re totally scared of humans, don’t lie.”

A few of them shoved at each other playfully.

Rage looked around thoughtfully.

“How many of you have ever met a human?”

“I have!”

“No you haven’t!”

“I really have, honest! I saw one walking down the road towards that way by himself.” The child pointed in a direction while the others argued that he totally didn’t see that.

Dings finished what he was doing and picked up his scarf before settling in beside Rage, sitting on a bale of hay beside him.

Rage paused a little, distracted at the news, and leaned in close. “You saw a human here?”

“Yeah, like, a week ago!” The child said, pointing further away from the village down towards one of the side roads.

He looked over at his brother, frowning slightly, before looking back at the child. “Did anyone else see? Anyone we can ask more to?”

The child shook his head. “I was out playing alone. It looked like they might be moving.”

A few more chimed in their doubts that he hadn’t seen anything, but Dings shared his brother’s look. “Should we head that way soon?”

Rage nodded.

They had their next destination. Maybe they should even move that was as soon as tonight, if they could return to Vrinda’s farm afterwards.

He turned back to the kids, adopting his lighter tone again.

“Humans don’t look like much, but they’re really dangerous. Don’t go after them alone.”

He lowered his voice and glanced around, almost conspiratory. “You want to know how I lost these arms?”

The children all nodded eagerly.

“It was months and months ago,” Rage said, leaning in close, arms moving along slowly as he spoke. “I was on the front lines and I’d been separated from my brother. The humans were waiting for us to get lost, hiding in the trees and in the bushes… See, we monsters, we’d been winning battles left and right. Taking strongholds and freeing villages. The humans were angry. They wanted revenge. And so they took it out on my battalion--”

Rage launched into one of his stories, embellishing heavily on what may have truly happened.

A bitter human general. A handful of stalwart survivors. His brother not knowing where he was or that he was even in need of rescue, and Rage knowing he had to bide his time until news reached him.

“...and the General said to me, ‘you’re too dangerous to have around,’” he growled, a false mimicry of the man they’d bled out months ago. “And he turned to his guards and had them bring out a hatchet…”

The children listened, each one of them deathly silent throughout the story. A few of them gripped the edge of the fence, their little faces hiding behind the wood as the story unfolded in front of them.

Dings listened too. This wasn’t a story Rage had ever told him since they had lived it. It wasn’t as fun as he was embellishing now, but it was nice to hear a tall-tale version.

… When had their lives become a fairy tale?

Rage didn’t have any problem telling this story, not like he thought he would’ve. It tumbled out as easily as any of his stories about knights or princesses or clever-third-children.

Maybe because it was heroic. The story he was telling now. It was heroic.

The reality was anything but.

As rapt as the children might have been, to Rage it was… more like just another story that happened to have his name in it.

“Chop! Chop! Over and over. It took them three strikes to get my first arm off. The second was even worse. And I summoned my blaster and fired at him until the only way they could hold me down was to keep me in a place where no magic even worked at all…”

He continued until Dings’ gallant arrival. His bravely-prepared prosthetics already easily made.

They rode off to continue their journey together, never to be separated again.

Dings shifted a little as his brother talked about losing his arms. He knew it probably wasn’t quite like that, but… that only meant it was probably worse.

He still listened, but turned and messed with some of the hay he sat on to distract from it all.

The children were silent as it ended, only making small murmurs among themselves once they realized it was finished.

He grinned down at them.

“Now run on home. Your parents will start wondering where you are, soon. You all don’t go anywhere near humans, now, understand?”

He tapped one of his arms, grinning, for emphasis.

A few protested, “But we wanna hear more stories!”

“Then you’ll have to come back tomorrow, won’t you?” Rage said. “Bring requests. I’ll see what stories I can tell you.”

Excited mumbles carried out through the small crowd of children as they started to disperse. A few waved as they left, shouting back at them.

“Bye Gaster Brothers!”

“Get those humans for us!”

Rage waved back. “Bye! Take care, you crazy kids!”

He kept grinning once they were gone, feeling a little more energetic than he was used to.

Dings watched them leave, eyes trailing after them.

“... Thanks for saving me.” He grinned, pulling the headscarf from his pocket to tie it back on.

He was confused for a long moment, blinking at Dings, before realizing his brother wasn’t talking about being saved like Rage had been talking about for the last half hour--being saved from the prison--but about getting the kids to leave him be.

“Ha,” he said, grinning immediately as he figured it out. “Don’t thank me just yet. They’ll be back again tomorrow.”

He grinned a little, “But then I’m prepared and can hide.”

A pause.

Dings put his hands over his face, embarrassed. “Fucking hell I am shy.”

Rage laughed louder. “Wait, you didn’t know that!? Yeah, you’re fucking shy!”

“No!” Dings glared, but was smiling. “I didn’t think it was me being shy! Fuck, I just don’t like talking to people!”

The years in the military he only had Rage, then only Tybalt, who was social and hung around others his own age, but did come check on him from time to time and made sure he was alright. After that had been Grillby, but their friendship was a lot of silence most of the time. Not that he hated that, but… perhaps in another life he would have been more flamboyant in his affections towards him.

Not this one.

“Books are easier than this shit. I don’t know how you do it.”

“People are interesting!” Rage said, grinning back. “And they’re fun to be around! They’re all so different. It’s just entertaining to be around them?”

As long as he had Dings around, he would be fine, but he couldn’t really deny how much better he felt after having a conversation with someone, or even just being in the same area as lots of other people.

He just liked having people around. He didn’t even have to really engage with them, honestly. They just… were nice to have around.

“I don’t know how you keep up. People make me tired and nervous. Too much to look at. Too much detail.” He waved a hand dismissively, perhaps alluding to some of the problems with his eye for the first time.

He never complained about it or even talked about what it did at length.

Dings slipped from the hay bale and began to gather the supplies from earlier.

Rage frowned a little, following his brother and helping gather supplies. “Has it always been like that for you?”

“No, crowds didn’t bother me as a kid.” He said, having done fine running through the village and talking to strangers back when he could mostly sign to them.

“And single people?” Rage asked. “I didn’t like crowds as a kid; too many chances for thieves. But I liked when only a handful of people would come up and talk to me. They were always good distractions.”

Some were even outright nice.

“I got a little nervous, but…” Dings shrugged, “It didn’t bother me too much. Just sort of lost that along the way, I guess.”

Rage nodded, shrugging. “Being able to see every ugly hair on their face probably isn’t helping with that, huh.”

He laughed, “Yeah, probably. But it’s fine.”

Dings didn’t want his brother to worry.

He carried the supplies to the barn.

For now, Rage let him get away with that.

There were other things to discuss, anyway.

“So. A human around here?”

“... Yeah.” Dings said, setting a few extra boards against the wall of the shed. He turned to look at Rage. “What do you want to do? Track them down? The kid said they saw them a week ago. That means they have a week headstart.”

“I want to know if they’re still around, or if they left a trace of themselves,” Rage said. “A single human passing through the area? I doubt it.”

“... A scout?” Dings suggested, frowning.

“Maybe,” Rage said, frowning back. “In which case… we might be seeing a lot more humans than I’d ever care for here.”

He glanced out at their mother’s house.

He wouldn’t let them ruin this new home for her.

Dings followed his brother’s gaze and his frown deepened.

“... Should we check it out tonight?”

Rage nodded.

“Better now than let it sneak up on us.”

#undertale #RP log #wartime #mayem #the gaster brothers #BOINK!#rage #dings #vrinda #trebuchet #dismemberment

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geekprincess26 · 7 years

Text

Four Weddings and a Blizzard: Chapter 3

My (very late) entry for Day 4 of the Jonsa Season 7 Summer Challenge (sorry!). I chose the “Summer Nights” theme.

It was a fine summer night on the third of July when Sansa Stark and her fiancé, Harry Hardyng, flew from Pittsburgh to Milwaukee to celebrate the wedding of Sansa’s brother Bran to Meera Reed.

They were both welcomed warmly by Sansa’s entire family, including Bran’s fiancée, whom he had met in medical school. Sansa teased Bran about upsetting the Stark family’s gender balance by bringing in another girl, but he looked pointedly at Harry, and raised an eyebrow, which caused even Sansa’s normally strait-laced fiancé to chuckle. Meera, gracious as ever, chimed in by asking Sansa about her own wedding plans for the following June. “Now that the hardest part is over,” she said, and, seeing Sansa’s confusion, added with a conspiratorial grin, “Picking the groom, of course.”

Sansa had to agree with her: Harry had been an easy choice as a future husband. He had everything a girl could wish for: Ken-doll good looks and the cool charm to match, a Harvard degree, a burgeoning career at the top finance firm in Pittsburgh, and excellent taste in flowers. He had showered Sansa with gifts from the moment they had begun dating and waved away her protests when he had sent her three dozen roses on Valentine’s Day less than three months into the relationship, telling her he would be an idiot to let a good thing go when he found it. Sansa supposed the same applied to her. Harry may have been a bit of a workaholic who chided her on getting too emotional at times, but he was calm and logical, nothing like the petulant bully Joffrey had been. Besides, he was one of the only men she’d met over the past few years who would give her a second date upon learning that she was working as a secretary while she earned her teaching credential.

So when Harry had taken her to a five-star Italian restaurant and popped the question with a brilliant-cut two-carat diamond encircled with two layers of smaller stones, Sansa had said yes at once. She would have preferred a simpler ring, but Harry Hardyng was going places in the world, and he told her that he wanted to dress his future wife accordingly. That was true enough, and no girl in her right mind would complain about getting that expensive a ring. Besides, she and Harry both wanted a nice long engagement, which meant that she could get married in the summer, like every other Stark before her.

It was another fine summer night on the Fourth of July, when Bran and Meera held their rehearsal dinner at a historic hotel in downtown Madison, Wisconsin. Jon and his own fiancée, Val Freeman, had arrived earlier that afternoon, which had prompted a round of dry jokes from Jon about how long it had been since the two of them had seen Harry and Sansa. Harry and Val groaned; the two of them worked at the same brokerage firm, and they often rolled their eyes at Jon’s puns during the couples’ frequent double dates to restaurants and Harry’s and Val’s frequent company events. But Sansa adored both the puns and the mischievous twinkle in Jon’s eyes when he rattled them off, and she laughed enough for the three of them.

“Oh, don’t encourage him so much,” groused Harry, whose own mood had been unusually rotten since they had left Pittsburgh. His firm’s buyout negotiations with a smaller brokerage house had stalled two days prior, and it had been all Sansa could do to pry him away from his job, where he had been working even harder and more feverishly than usual to try and salvage the deal somehow, and get him onto the plane.

Sansa stopped laughing and stroked his arm soothingly. “We’re on vacation, honey,” she said, smiling up at him. “We might as well laugh.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Easy enough when you haven’t got a billion-dollar acquisition on your hands,” he muttered.

“I know, right?” Val stepped between Jon and Harry and shook her head at the latter. “Can you believe Mallister talked Pycelle into demanding the extra ‘good faith’ clauses being added to the contract? Of course, everybody knew he wanted to drill Mr. Varys because of their history at Casterly Rock, but still…”

They talked shop until the two couples retired to their rooms to prepare for the rehearsal dinner. As soon as the door shut, Harry’s mood reverted to sour, and Sansa bit back her observation about how much Robb’s wife Jeyne was glowing, now that she was in the second trimester of her pregnancy with their first child. Small talk only ever made Harry’s bad moods worse.

The excellent food and wine served at the rehearsal dinner mollified Harry somewhat, but he was still out of sorts and talked less than usual as the family gathered on the balcony to watch a spectacular fireworks show. He would snap out of it when he was good and ready, Sansa knew, and not before; so she spent most of the show chatting with Bran and Jon, who alternately explained the mechanics of fireworks and exchanged puns with her.

Harry disappeared at some point when Sansa was helping her mother, Arya, and Jeyne iron out the next day’s last-minute details with Meera. She could not find Harry anywhere when they were through, and his cell phone kept going to voicemail. Finally she found her father, who informed her that Harry had already gone back to the hotel where the family was staying some time earlier.

Sansa sighed as the elevator carried her up to the fifth floor, where she and Harry were staying in the room next to Jon and Val. Perhaps, she thought, it was time for her to break out the red lace bustier at the bottom of her suitcase. After all, they had not made love for over a week, and that particular piece of lingerie was Harry’s favorite of the pieces Sansa owned. It was Sansa’s least favorite, but enduring a few minutes in its scratchy lace and uncomfortably placed underwires was a small price to pay if it snapped him out of his sour mood.

But all thoughts of lace and underwires fled Sansa’s head as soon as she opened the door of her hotel room – or rather, she thought as she heard the sounds coming from the bedroom, not her room at all. Either she had had one too many glasses of wine at the rehearsal dinner, she thought as her jaw dropped, or the hotel had mixed up the key cards; for the blonde woman straddling a muscular pair of legs in the dim glow of the next room’s light was none other than Val.

“I know,” she was giggling. “So honorable, right? He called it ‘cutting corners!’ Good God, it’s such a turnoff.” She bent downward to kiss the legs’ owner, and Sansa cringed. She turned around and crept toward the door. Jon had become her dear friend and one of her favorite people in the world, and she had been happier for him when he had found Val than she had been for her own siblings when they had gotten engaged, perhaps because Jon deserved such happiness more than anyone after what had happened with Ygritte; but she did not need to watch him having sex with his fiancée.

But then a deep laugh issued from the bed, and Sansa stopped dead in her tracks. Her key card dropped noiselessly to the floor as she turned in disbelief. She would know that voice anywhere, and it did not belong to Jon.

“Well, that makes me glad,” it said, “because you are a turn-on.” It laughed again. “God, it’s a nice change to get some damn passion for once. And they say redheads give the best fucks.”

Sansa slowly forced herself to turn around. She knew it was Harry speaking without having to look, of course; but if she did not see the hard proof for herself, she might somehow talk herself out of believing it, and that would make her an even worse fool than she had been to think Harry loved her at all. Sure enough, there he lay, grinning at Val one moment and then groaning the next as she bend to nip her way down his chest.

“Oh, God, baby, that’s good,” he muttered. “Yes – like that – oh, God, rough like that, bitch – there – there – ”

His face contorted into an ecstasy it never quite had when he had been in bed with Sansa. Unable to bear looking at him or Val for one second more, she pivoted on her heels, twisted the door handle as quietly as she could, and exited the room. She turned to flee down the hallway, but collided into something solid before she could even reach the next room.

“Whoa!” Jon reached out to steady her with both hands. He was smiling, but his expression sobered at once as he saw hers. “Sansa? What’s wrong?”

Sansa gaped at him wordlessly. Nothing would come out of her mouth – not a word, not a sob, not a scream. That alarmed Jon even more.

“Is it Harry? Sansa, what is it?” he pressed, and at the mention of Harry’s name Sansa shook her head frantically.

“No – don’t look – it’s – Jon – ” she stammered, glancing back at the door of her room. She noticed with horror that the “Do Not Disturb” sign had gotten wedged in the lock mechanism, preventing the door from shutting all the way. Jon’s gaze snapped over to it at once.

“No – Val – ” The words left Sansa’s mouth before she could stop them. Jon’s eyes widened, and he bolted for the room and flung the door open just in time to hear his fiancée screaming – “So – much – better – than that – boring cold fish – ” mixed with Harry’s groans of, “Not – that – dull rut hole – oh, baby, you’re the only one who can – like this – oh, God – ”

Jon snapped the light switch on, and the noises stopped abruptly. Val took one look at Jon and flopped onto the bed and off of Harry, who yelped in pain. Then the room fell silent for several tense moments. Sansa risked a glance at Val, whose expression was surprisingly stoic. She stared straight past Sansa, who turned to see Jon standing expressionless beside her. Only the furious rise and fall of his chest gave any indication that he had just seen his fiancée having sex with another man.

At length Val cleared her throat, which snapped Jon out of his reverie. His jaw tightened, and then tightened further as he spared a look at Harry. Then he turned around and stalked out of the room.

Harry coughed, and Sansa turned back toward him in spite of herself. She wanted to scream any number of things at him – why?, how could you?, Jon, of all the other people you could have done it to? – and she might have done had she not noticed the plate of strawberries and two glasses of champagne sitting on the bedside table. She would have known the Dom Perignon label anywhere, for it was the same type of champagne Harry had had the waiter serve to them the night he had proposed.

Sansa did not remember walking over to the table, nor did she understand why neither Harry nor Val had stopped her. But they did not, and Sansa grabbed the fuller of the two glasses and upended it over Val’s head. Val shrieked, but Harry did not look at her. Instead, he stared at Sansa, as if daring her to repeat the motion on him. Without a second thought, she seized the second glass and dumped the contents onto his coiffed blond head. Before he could do anything but yelp, she picked up the bottle, drove its butt end into the covers piled over his groin, and left him moaning in pain as she stalked out of the room and slammed the door behind her.

Sansa got perhaps half a dozen steps down the hallway before she realized that she had just left her ex-fiance and his girlfriend in her own hotel room. She sighed. Perhaps one of Meera’s friends or cousins had a bed to spare, but Sansa knew none of them particularly well, and she would rather sleep in the hallway than bother Meera about it. Asking to bunk with any of her other family members would invite questions, and Sansa did not trust herself to lie; and the truth simply would not do, not when Sansa could barely admit to herself that to Harry, her Prince Charming, she was an bland piece of arm candy that he no longer wanted. No, it would be better to withhold the information as long as she could, preferably until after the reception, and tell anyone who inquired about Harry that he had taken ill all of a sudden.

Harry. Right.

Sansa fumbled through her purse until she found her phone. Her fingers were shaking, but she managed to text a message to both Harry’s and Val’s numbers.

You’re disinvited. Gtfo before 8:00 tomorrow. Stuff outside door.

Sansa bit her lip. She should not have presumed to speak for Jon, and she did not want to bother him any more than she wanted to bother anyone else; but it was either his room or the hallway at this point. More important than that, Val had spat in Jon’s face as hard as Harry had spat in Sansa’s; and Jon should not have to suffer from that alone unless he wanted to. So she pulled herself to her feet and rapped softly on Jon’s door. He opened it not ten seconds later, as though he had been expecting her.

“God,” he whispered as he stood aside to let her into the room. “I was about to go out and look for you.”

Sansa nodded and crossed her arms over her chest.

“I – ” Her voice shook as badly as her fingers were still doing, so she pulled out her phone and showed him the text message she had just sent while she took a few breaths to steady herself.

“I figured you’d want – if you want to change anything,” she began, but Jon shook his head.

“It’s fine,” he said, his voice taut. His face was flushed, and he reached back to scratch his neck. Sansa nodded.

“I mean – I can pack her bag for you if you don’t want to.” Sansa could hear the words running into each other in their haste to escape her mouth, but Jon apparently understood her, for he shook his head.

“You don’t have to,” he said. Sansa shrugged.

“Least I can do,” she replied. “Especially if I’m wanting – I asked – I mean – can I borrow a blanket for the couch? Or the floor?”

She thought she might have slurred the words, for Jon merely stared at her for several moments before he nodded.

“I’ll have the couch,” he said, and before Sansa could answer him, he padded over to the sofa and began removing the cushions. Within a few minutes, the two had removed the mattress and topped it with the spare blankets Jon retrieved from the bathroom. Sansa grabbed two pillows from the bed and tossed them on top of the sofa.

“I can take it, really,” she said, but Jon shook his head.

“Nope,” he replied. “I’ve got it.”

Sansa, not wanting to cause any additional conflict, nodded and turned toward the bed. For a moment she expected her suitcase to greet her; but she saw Val’s instead.

“And I can pack it up, if you’d rather not – if you want me to,” she said softly. Jon gave her an odd look, as though she might put a match to its contents, but she held up both hands palms outward.

“I won’t put snakes in it or anything,” she said, her voice still working at warp speed. “I’ve already dumped champagne on her. That was enough.” Seeing his bewildered look, she added, “Harry had gotten them room service.” Her voice caught an edge, and she felt her eyes sting as the tears sprang into them. She looked away from Jon and shrugged.

“I’m sorry, Sansa,” he said softly, and that only made Sansa want to cry more, especially when she saw his concerned expression.

“You didn’t do anything,” she replied. “He’s the one who thinks of me as an ugly red-headed sex toy.” Her voice had begun to shake again, but Jon shook his head.

“You shouldn’t have had to hear that filth,” he said, spitting out the last word like a curse.

“Neither should you,” Sansa responded. “You’re not cold. You’re warm. I mean – warm like you have a heart. The best kind of heart.” Her voice caught, and she bit down hard on her lip to hold her tears at bay.

“And you’re not dull.” Jon’s voice gentled. “Or anything else he said.”

Sansa shrugged. “I heard worse from Joffrey back in the day,” she said. Jon’s jaw tightened.

“You’re still not,” he said, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You should still have better.” His jaw twitched again, and he blinked and inclined his head toward the bathroom. “Least you can have is the bathroom. It’s all yours.”

Sansa nodded and once again turned toward the suitcase next to the bed. Once again, she realized that it was not hers.

“Shit,” she muttered. She did not realize she had spoken aloud until she heard Jon’s questioning grunt.

“Nothing,” she replied. “I’ll get a spare toothbrush from room service if they don’t have one in here. The rest I can manage.”

“Oh.” Jon rubbed the back of his neck. “Well – you can use anything in there you want to.” He shrugged one shoulder toward Val’s suitcase. Sansa, who had already decided she would not look at let alone use any of Val’s things except in case of emergency, merely murmured, “Thanks,” and headed for the bathroom. She turned both sink faucets on, but the task of hunting down spare toiletries distracted her thoughts, and the tears that had been threatening to pour out did not come, no matter how hard she willed them to flush themselves out under the cover of the running water. Eventually she smacked the counter in frustration, changed out of her dress and into one of the bathrobes folded neatly on a wicker shelf next to the shower, and shuffled back into the bedroom, where she found Jon staring blankly at a copy of Homer’s The Odyssey, which he always took with him on road trips.

“It’s all yours,” she said quietly. “Thanks.”

Jon nodded and padded down the hall. By the time he returned to the bedroom, Sansa had buried herself under the covers and switched off the bedside lamp. She laid there motionless until she heard the click of the lamp across the room and the creak of Jon settling his weight onto the sofa. More creaks followed as he shuffled and adjusted the pillows around him, and Sansa took the opportunity to shift her body to face the other way.

-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-

For the next several hours, they tossed and turned in concert. Sansa quickly gave up trying to sleep when she realized that she would hear Val’s groans or see Harry’s panting face or watch his mouth form the phrase dull rut hole every time she stayed still for more than a few minutes. So she shuffled and shifted as quietly as she could, and every time she did so she could hear Jon repeating her actions on the sofa.

Sansa dozed off about the time the sky began to grow light, but she awoke soon afterward to the sound of her phone buzzing. She picked it up and saw a message from Harry.

I paid for the room. Your stuff outside door. Get hers.

Sansa wanted to throw her phone at the wall, along with her engagement ring, but instead she forced herself to roll out of bed and turn the bedside lamp to its dimmest setting so she could pack Val’s suitcase. Jon rose from the couch almost immediately and waved off her apology, saying he was awake anyhow. His jaw quivered when Sansa showed him Harry’s message, and for a moment Sansa wondered if he would march into Harry’s room and pin him to the wall as he had pinned Joffrey all those years ago; but instead he helped her round up the last of Val’s belongings and wheeled the suitcase into the hall. He returned with Sansa’s bag in tow. Sansa opened it at once to ensure that everything was intact. Everything was, including her one-shouldered navy silk bridesmaid’s dress. Sansa stared at it and thought of all she would be expected to do and all of the tears she would have to hold in while wearing it. She knew she could do neither; there were too many hours ahead of her, too many people to face, too many false smiles to give. Her tear ducts released the contents they had been holding back for the entire night, and her stomach churned, and she dashed down the hall to Jon’s bathroom. She barely managed to fling open the toilet lid before her stomach released the contents of the prior night’s rehearsal dinner into the bowl.

Tears poured down Sansa’s face. She clutched the bowl for dear life as she retched over and over. The ugly aftertaste scalded her throat and made her gag. She bent forward over the water to let the bile drip out of her mouth, and her hair slid around her shoulders straight into the vomit-filled toilet bowl. Then it disappeared before her eyes, and Sansa blinked, startled. She blinked again when she felt something warm rubbing soothing circles on her back and shoulder. She knew it was Jon’s hand without having to look, and she sighed and let her body slacken into his arms. Her head drooped onto his chest, and her tears poured over her cheeks and soaked freely into his gray T-shirt as he settled them both back against the wall.

Eventually Sansa heard Jon murmuring something above her head. He murmured it a few more times before she reluctantly raised her head from his chest. She had to blink at him a few more times before she realized that he was asking her if she felt her stomach was empty. He nodded, gently settled her against the wall, and disappeared from her field of vision. A few moments later he returned with a glass of water. Her hands were shaking again, so he held the glass as she drank from it.

“Thanks,” she whispered at length, and Jon set the glass down.

“Are you OK to clean up?” he asked. “I can get your mom or Arya or Jeyne to help you if you need it.”

Sansa shook her head. “No,” she rasped. “I can do it. I don’t need to bother them. I’m not even telling them about – all this – till after the reception. As far as they’ll know, he’s had a family emergency.”

Jon reached back to scratch his neck. “I hadn’t thought of that,” he said. “I supposed there’ll have to be two family emergencies, or she’s really sick.”

Sansa shook her head. “People will want the doctor then,” she said, and Jon nodded.

“Right,” he said. “Do you want me to bring your bag, or anything out of it? Do you want more water?”

After another glass of water, Jon helped Sansa to her feet. She was still trembling, but at least her stomach had calmed, and she forced herself to shower and change. By the time Jon had gotten his own shower, her eyelids and his were beginning to droop, so Sansa made coffee for them, and they spent the next couple of hours reading, or at least pretending to, side by side on the couch, until it was time for Sansa to leave for the family photo shoot.

“Try and get a nap, all right?” she murmured as she grabbed her purse and the shoulder bag carrying her bridesmaid regalia. “You’ll have it to yourself now.”

Jon nodded but said nothing. Sansa shuffled her weight between feet for a few moments before she reached out to settle one hand lightly on his crossed arms.

“Thanks,” she said. “You didn’t have to let me get in your way like that. And make a mess of your bathroom.”

Jon only stared down at her hand. His gaze had turned numb, and she thought for a moment that he might cry; but finally he looked back up at her.

“There’s nothing to forgive,” he said. Sansa’s thumb stroked reflexively across his arm before she turned and headed out the door.

The next several hours passed in a blur; but somehow Sansa managed to smile and nod and make Harry’s excuses to anyone who asked. Arya gave her a suspicious look but said nothing; and that was closest anyone came to discovering the previous night’s events. Sansa even managed to shoot off two text messages to Jon to ask if she should save part of the family’s early dinner for him. He did not want any; but he did catch up to her not long before the ceremony began and pressed his handkerchief wordlessly into her hand.

The sun set in a fiery sea of orange and crimson as a fine summer evening set in. Its golden light reflected off the clouds and into the grand atrium of the Wisconsin Museum of History, where Bran Stark married Meera Reed in front of 90 guests arrayed on elegant wooden chairs. Tears streamed down Sansa’s cheeks throughout the entire ceremony, and as soon as she left the atrium behind the departing bride and groom, she pulled Jon’s handkerchief out of her purse. She put it to excellent use throughout the reception, and when she could manage to see out of both eyes she kept on the lookout for Jon. He had made himself scarce at one of the back tables, and although he clapped and raised his glass on cue during the toasts, he stared grimly at his glass the rest of the time. Sansa wanted more than anything to hide at the table with him and rest her hand on his arm again to ease the tension; but the dejected slump of his shoulders told her that neither words nor deeds would do him any good at the moment.

Soon enough the dancing began. Sansa pulled out Jon’s handkerchief for at least the dozenth time as the Meera caught her groom’s hands and swayed around his wheelchair to the sound of Elvis Presley crooning “Can’t Help Falling In Love.” She forced herself through the motions of a few dances with one or two of the groomsmen once everyone had been invited onto the dance floor, but exhaustion quickly set in, and she retired to the head table after the fifth or sixth song.

“Earth to Sansa! Hello!” Arya’s fingers snapped in front of her sister’s face, and Sansa jumped in her seat.

“All right. What’s going on?” Arya crossed her arms and shot Sansa the glare that pinned most people straight to their seats. Sansa was not most people; but she was far too exhausted and felt far too much like crying again to spar with her sister.

“I’m fine, Arya,” she said. Arya merely raised an eyebrow.

“Even you usually lie better than that,” she replied. “What’s really going on with Harry? He doesn’t have a family emergency, does he?”

Sansa shook her head. “We can talk about it later, Arya,” she said wearily. “I don’t want to upset Bran and Meera.”

“Over what?” Arya’s voice got sharper, and Sansa sighed.

“I said, we’ll talk about it later,” she answered. “Now is not the time.”

“Wait, did he – did that bastard break up with you?” Arya’s voice had gone from high to shrill, and a few heads from the front tables turned in their direction.

“No,” Sansa replied, lowering her voice. “Well, technically, no, but – it doesn’t matter, Arya.”

Arya’s gray eyes went wide, and Sansa could almost see the smoke pouring out of her ears.

“Did he – what did he – what did he do to you?” she demanded, and Sansa was only spared further wrath because Gendry walked up behind his wife and put his arm around her shoulders.

“Hon,” he said kissing her head, “you OK?” He shot her a meaningful look. “Not making the little bean jump in there too much?” He patted her on the belly, and Sansa’s eyes widened in shock. When Arya turned to mock-growl at her husband, she stood up and bolted out of the room.

How Sansa found the bathroom with the tears blurring her vision so badly she could not see straight, she never knew, although it did not do her much good. No sooner had she shoved open the door than she heard the sound of giggles bouncing off the walls. Two of the wedding guests were playfully arguing over which groomsman was hottest, and Sansa’s tears flowed harder, and she left the room as quickly as she had entered it. She turned down the first hallway she could find, but nearly jumped out of her skin when she saw someone huddled against the wall. She wiped the tears out of her eyes, but even if she had not, she would have known the familiar broad shoulders anywhere. Their owner was shaking noiselessly, and he rocked back and forth with his head slumped forward onto his knees.

Sansa stopped in her tracks. She swept across the hall, sank to Jon’s side, and embraced him. She nestled her head into his shoulder, splayed one hand across his back, and reached up with the other to stroke his dark curls. Jon continued to shudder, and within a few minutes Sansa felt rivulets of water streaking across her temple and smelled the salt of tears mingling with Jon’s usual scent of pine and earth and hazel. She traced her right thumb in a continuous circle over Jon’s neck. At length she heard somebody humming a low, lilting tune, and she almost jumped back in shock when she realized the sound was emanating from her own throat. Both Harry and her employers had frowned on her humming, and that combined with the stresses of her classes had made it a rarer and rarer occurrence. But now her voice vibrated in tandem with Jon’s deep breaths, which were slowly evening out; and at length she reached away from him to grab her purse from where she had dropped it heedlessly on the floor. She retrieved the handkerchief he had lent her and held it out to him.

“It’s still a bit wet,” she said apologetically, but Jon paid her no mind. He blew into it noisily several times before using the corners to wipe his eyes. When he was finished, he held it out to her; but Sansa closed his hand around it and propped her knees up alongside his. She rested her chin onto her knees and bent her head to look into his eyes. They were bleak and bloodshot; but she reached up unheeding and rubbed her thumb along his arm. He stared at it blankly for a few minutes before glancing up at her.

“Not too cold, then?” he asked. Sansa’s hand stopped still on his arm for a moment, and she narrowed her eyes, but only a little.

“What did you call what they said about me – filth?” she asked. “Allow me to call it utter fucking bullshit, Jon Snow. You’re the least cold person I know.”

Jon blinked, and two more tears rolled down his cheeks; but he did not look away. “Boring, then,” he said. “When one person says it, it’s them; but if two who knew you like that say it…” He shrugged, and his shoulders slumped again.

“Then in that case, boring is the best thing there is,” replied Sansa. Jon’s eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch, and she raised her hand to his shoulder. “And if you’re boring, then fuck the exciting people. Exciting to them means not having a fucking heart. And you have the best heart I’ve ever seen.” Her voice trembled, and she swallowed to combat the lump that had arisen in her throat. “So ‘boring’ really means kind and smart and generous and liking really great books, and letting people throw up on you and cry on you and not complaining, and forgiving people left and right, and – and being the best person in the world.” The lump rose again, and she swallowed it again. “So fuck them. ‘Boring’ is the best thing people like that could possibly say about somebody so much more wonderful.”

The tears began rolling down her cheeks, and she leaned her forehead onto Jon’s shoulder. In a moment his arms were around her, and his thumbs were wiping the tears off her cheeks. When she looked up at him, he leaned forward, and she closed his eyes as she felt his lips press a warm kiss to her forehead. When he drew back, he opened his arms, and Sansa curled up in them gladly, nestled her head back into his shoulder, and closed her eyes. She cared not if she missed the rest of the dances. The rest of the family – and the rest of her life – could wait a little longer.

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