#(dusts off this old sack of bones) let's do this

[underestimated-heroine]

"Autumnal", by Ray Harvey

Summer dies, the long days wane away. The heat in the sky melts like lead to liquid pools. The hills beyond are as white as clay. Now creep in the gentle autumn ghouls, Trailing behind their silken shawls of Lethe- an mist. Shadows warp, gourds enlarge. And now what is always there but not Quite clear — that blot lurking on the vision’s marge — Emerges with the year: unresting death, The slow blood sloshing with every breath Upon the bone-carved door. The senses clot.

Blue, blue days, windy days. The brittle clack of Leaves and their soft collisions in the dust. Dusty smells, leaf-fractured streets, the trees above Hissing thinly, like a pit of snakes. Must It all be quite so beautiful yet so hard to bear? This softly killing air with its furnace blast Of fume, its whispered currents of decay, Must it seep into my bones? Must it come so fast? One by one the rib cages of the leaves tear From their stems like wax. Big trees go bare. The glare Is great, extinction certain. Life won’t let life stay.

Now the morning grass lies flat, blanched and cold with frost. The sickles swing in the apple trees Whose limbs are stiff and leak like ink across The voided sky. A chopper fleet of bees Sack the throat of the friendly hollyhocks. They sweetly sway, but at what cost? At what cost are These people-sized flowers born? Why bloom At all? To what end? There at the field’s far Edge, where scarecrows spill their guts and the pale shocks Of corn glow white, the thud of fruit sounds like rocks On the hardened earth, and a goat coughs in the gloom.

The hunt sweeps out. Stag are bled, hung from their hocks In the boughs: throat-gashed, reeking, with antlers chipped, Disgorging chunked gallons into the groin-high stalks Where late the grasshoppers arced and flipped. Sweetly sour fall, with all your puffball that glow Like alien skulls in the lemon-lime glades, Glades choked with moss and mold. Yeasty earth, rains Distilling punky tea as color fades And hoof prints are raised intaglio On the forest floor. Across the ground below, Vapor hangs above the stubble plains.

And scuffed-up apples, so convex And so supple, come raining down with muted Clops. The cottonwoods are spending gold. Complex Odors — woodsmoke, crushed grass, denuded Bark — cast a pall. The sun is warm, the water cold, Streams die quiet in their empty beds. Stout-chested robins with their wind-mussed Hair, like shabby Halloween décor, jerk their heads, Leer. Last gnats everywhere ignite gold In the long last rays of the sun. Old Flies fall off. The summer moths have turned to dust.

We live a little while, a little while And we die. Our wings are mutable. This blown- Up shadow of me, hinged across a pile Of bone-white rocks, and once so small, is now grown Tall and unclear, in danger (I fear) Of slipping into nothingness. It’s slouched And leaning toward the extreme sea wall. The eternal surf is booming. Insects crouched On wobbly knees stare into the sere And melon vault. And do they, too, sense an ending near, Or care? Like me, both love and hate this lovely fall?

The year grows old. A wan crepuscular light. Time now for thought, time for bloody autumnal wine. Time for walking into the complicated night Beneath molten skies and moaning trees that line Like sentries the heaved-up, humpbacked, clicking walks. Pretty warts of lichen are tattooed all about. The squash exudes an oily musk. Gaudy gourds Bloat fast, tubers weird and curved like trout Beside these utterly lifeless rocks. Among a murder of crows, one groks From the deathless firs, and crickets strum their chords.

Is this my soul, then, expiring whitely Into the unanimous dusk? The clouds beyond Look similar. Harvest moon is lifting lightly Within — gorged and pocked, a lobeshaped flaxen-blond Or a skull of ice, soaring up new at the dying Edge of day, while simultaneously streaks Of a burgundy-and-purple sunset slaughter Bloom like flowers over the western peaks. Snows to come will come soundless, hushing the crying World. Full season’s here. The geese are flying Like arrows across the icy water.

[camsthisky]

"you’re not alone . you’re stuck with me forever . sorry . ” + Jason and Dick (and anyone other family member)?

“Everyone okay?” Dick croaks as the dust and rubble settles around them. He’s lying on his back, kept still by something pinning his legs down. He doesn’t dare assess himself quite yet. “Hood? Batgirl?”

“Okay,” Cass says, and Dick watches as she stumbles over to him, looking dusty, but relatively alright. She kneels next to him with a frown. She meets his eyes—well, relatively since they’re both wearing masks—and asks, “Okay?”

Dick grimaces. “Not really.” Louder, he calls, “Red Hood?!”

“Here, here,” Jason says, coughing into his fist. He’s missing his helmet and there’s a gash sluggishly bleeding from his right cheek, smearing a trail of blood down his face. He’s also limping, but only slightly.

“Can you move?” Cass asks Dick as Jason pulls out his flashlight.

Dick winces at the sudden light, his mask having already automatically switched to night vision. He huffs. “Jay. Off.”

“Names.”

Dick scowls. “The light.”

“Deal with it,” Jason snaps. “My night vision isn’t working.”

Dick turns off his own night vision feature, if only to not be blinded by the damn flashlight if it passes over his eyes again.

That’s when Jason’s flashlight lands on where Dick is pinned.

“Crap,” Jason breathes.

“Can you move them?” Cass asks, sounding a touch more impatient, and Dick realizes that Cass has already asked once. “Your legs.”

“No,” says Dick, just barely trying. He’s tired, but he knows that time is up. He can’t get away with ignoring his own situation any longer. Probably shouldn’t have even waited this long. His legs are tingling from lack of blood flow, mixing with a sharp pain shooting through them both. Still he’s lucky, because—“I can still feel them, though.”

“We’ll lift,” Jason says to Cass, who nods. Dick closes his eyes and braces himself for the inevitable pain of rubble being lifted off his crushed legs.

“Hhh.”

The sounds he makes is nothing more than an agonized hissed through his teeth, and Dick can’t help the cold sweat that sweeps across his body in a slow wave as his siblings manage to move the slab of—wall, maybe? who knows, really—from where it’s crushing his poor legs.

Something taps against his shinbone and then his kneecap.

“Stop, stop, I feel it,” Dick gasps, bringing his legs up in a protective curl as pain throbs through most of his lower body. His left hip hurts like hell, and his every muscle, bone, and tendon feels like they’ve been squeezed and then flattened like a pancake. He rolls over onto his side so he can bring his knees up to his chest, to wait out the lingering intensity of the pain.

“Breathe,” Cass says.

Dick breathes.

He closes his eyes and blocks out everything and, again, just breathes. His siblings let him.

When he has a better grasp on his agony, Dick finally relaxes. The world filters back in. Cass is running fingers through Dick’s dusty hair (something she one hundred percent learned from Bruce, because only a select few know how much the motion tends to calm him down).

On the other hand, Dick blinks his eyes open to find Jason agitatedly pacing.

“The hell?” Jason murmurs, his flashlight whipping back and forth with his movements as he surveys their surroundings. “Did we get completely sealed in?”

Dick wishes desperately he would stop. Even without night vision, Jason’s impromptu strobe light effect is causing Dick’s head to ache. Instead of saying this, he hums contemplatively. “Wonder if there’s a signal this far down.”

Jason huffs, not slowing in the least. He’s searching for something, and dear god does Dick want him to find it already. “You’re the one with the comms in your ear. You try it.”

They’re in the sewers, is the thing. And while Bruce and Babs have designed the comms system to work incredibly well, even in the sewers, the signal still needs to be able to make it to the system in order to be functional.

With the three of them sealed in this place, seemingly with no way out, pretty deep in the sewer system where they had been disabling bombs throughout the city, Dick isn’t optimistic about their chances of getting a signal.

(They’d just been a few seconds too late for that last bomb, which unfortunately led them to their current circumstances.)

While Jason grumbles, Cass activates her emergency signal and the comms. She calls out, “Batman? Oracle?”

Jason shuts up for the five seconds before Cass looks between both Dick and Jason and shakes her head.

Dick lets out a slow exhale through his nose. He hadn’t really held out much hope for that anyways.

Jason groans. “Holy batcannoli, I can’t believe we’re stuck down here. And where’s my hecking helmet?!”

Cass helpfully points to the rubble sealing them in. Jason kicks a rock with a yell. Dick sighs.

“Well, at least you’re not alone down here,” Dick says as optimistically as he can—although, given the circumstances, it does fall a little flat.

Jason snorts. “Right. Sure, Batgirl is an asset, but you’re a sack of bruised bones right now. That’s not helpful in the slightest, Dickface.”

Dick’s eyelashes flutter of their own accord. He hums. “Too bad. Looks like you’re stuck with me. Sorry.”

“Dick,” Cass says, her fingers tracing lightly over his face. “Stay awake.”

“I am awake.”

“You’re starting to—�� Cass pauses. Dick can’t see the look on her face, because somehow, his eyes have fully closed without his permission, and he can’t seem to find the strength to open them again. “—to slur.”

The sounds of Jason’s pacing stop. Silence rings loud in their sealed section of the sewers. Then, “Did he hit his head?”

“Not sure,” Cass answers.

“Dick,” Jason says, sounding quite a bit closer, like he’s maybe crouching down next to Cass or something—but Dick hadn’t heard him move, and Jason’s boots are too clunky to not make sound against the concrete. “Dick, did you hit your head?”

Dick’s eyebrows furrow, but he doesn’t open his eyes. He doesn’t remember hitting his head. The only thing he clearly remembers about the blast is heavy pieces of rubble crushing his legs. “Maybe?”

“Great,” Jason says. He’s pulling out his I’m-rolling-my-eyes-at-your-ridiculous-incompetency voice. “So my bruised bones of a big brother probably also has a concussion. Just great.”

“It’s not his fault he’s injured,” Cass tells Jason. “He was disarming the bomb.”

Which means Dick took the brunt of the blast when it was remotely activated.

Dick really means to tack onto Cass’s statement, maybe tease Jason a little and try to reassure both his younger siblings that not everything is hopeless, because he’s the best big brother ever, of course.

Only, he can’t find the strength to open his mouth and talk. Instead, the voices around him become watery, distorted, and Dick’s head flares in pain.

When unconsciousness comes to take him, he doesn’t resist.

—

“—manage to even find us in the first place?” is the first thing Dick hears as he swims back to consciousness. Jason almost sounds relieved.

“The seismic device didn’t just affect the sewers,” someone replies. It takes a lot of effort for Dick to recognize it as Tim. “A couple buildings partially collapsed, and since we knew the three of you were down here, it was a good starting point to look when none of you would answer the comms.”

“Huh,” is all Jason says.

“Nightwing,” Bruce says, startling Dick from the dazed lull he’d been in as he listened to his brothers talking. He opens his eyes, blinking up bewilderingly at what he can see of Bruce’s face behind the cowl.

“B?” Dick murmurs. He doesn’t move, yet, from where’s curled on his side, but he feels an abortive twitch of his fingers at the reassuring sight of Batman. “‘S goin’ on?”

“What do you remember?”

Right. Bruce did not give easy answers. Life is a series of puzzles, Dick Grayson, fueled by none other than Bruce Wayne himself.

Dick frowns and casts his mind back. “The wall blew up,” he decides. “I got hurt?”

He’s only half sure about that last one, but considering his position on the ground, the throbbing in his head and hip, and Bruce’s concerned dad frown that’s taking over his Batman grimace, Dick thinks that he’s probably on the right track.

“Concussion,” Cass says, startling Dick when she pops her head over Bruce’s shoulder. “Also, ‘a sack of bruised bones.’”

That—sounds familiar. He thinks he remembers Jason saying something like that.

Bruce’s frown gets deeper. “Straighten your legs.”

“Please,” Dick tacks on for Bruce when he lacks the manners to be nice, basically on instinct at this point, even as he—slowly, and with a great deal of agony—does what Bruce tells him to do.

They go through a couple more tests, until finally Bruce, unhappy, deems, “We need to move you.”

Dick blinks when Bruce turns away to murmur something to one of the others. A conversation washes over him, and Dick can’t help but let himself tune it out. The noise settles as vague humming—indistinct and comforting.

“—two, three,” Bruce says as Dick’s entire vision goes white.

He only manages to come back to himself in increments.

There are arms holding him tight. Familiar murmurs in his ear. The comforting sound of Batman’s heavy cape brushing against concrete.

“—there, Chum,” Bruce is saying, and if Dick had the capability, he would have teased Bruce for pulling out both the concerned dad frown and the concerned dad voice in one night.

As it is, the only thing that comes out of his mouth when he opens it are harsh pants for air. Every step jostles him, and agony is his constant companion throughout the entire journey to the surface.

Somehow, Dick is still conscious when he’s laid down in the backseat of the batmobile. He’s grateful he’s not moving anymore, and carefully doesn’t think of the upcoming ride back to the Cave.

He only really starts to relax when Bruce settles the cape over him. Wrapped up inside it, Dick almost feels like he’s ten years old again. Batman’s has always felt like warmth and protection and home. This time is no different.

“Batgirl and Robin, keep Nightwing as still as possible. Red Hood, in the front. Start updating Oracle.”

“Why do they—”

“You’re too bulky, Hood. Me and Batgirl are smaller than you. It’s still going to be a tight fit, but it’s the most comfortable for everyone this way.”

“Whatever.”

“Enough. Car. Now.”

There’s lots of careful but hurried scrambling. Dick thinks he passes out a few times on the way back. He doesn’t remember much, either. Just bits and snatches here and there—His siblings talking to him, Bruce giving orders, Jason being snappy and unwittingly dragging Tim into an argument.

And then—he wakes up. A lot more clear-headed than he’d felt the last time he’d been conscious (though, that wasn’t saying much).

To Dick’s surprise, he’s on his side again, dressed in sweats with a pillow between his legs. He opens his eyes to the Wayne Manor living room, and—yes, he’s on the couch. The curtains are drawn, but it’s clearly sometime past sunrise.

Bruce is sitting cross-legged in front of him, reading a book.

“Bruce?” Dick calls, his voice still somewhat slurred. “Why’m I on the couch?”

“You started crying when I said you had to stay in the infirmary,” Bruce tells him, grabbing a bookmark and setting his book off to the side.

Dick frowns. He doesn’t remember that. Still, he manages to say, “You’re such a pushover.”

“How do you feel?”

Dick blinks a dozen times in a row, trying to assess his body and keep up with the change in subject. “Kinda woozy. My hip hurts a lot.”

“Hn.”

“Think I need to brush up on my Bat speak,” Dick murmurs. “Dunno what that one meant.”

Bruce hums again. “You’re incredibly lucky. We’ll need to be careful for the next few weeks.”

“What’s the diagnosis, doc?”

“Crush injuries to your legs and left hip. Not overly severe, and we managed to stabilize you once we realized you were in shock.”

Dick thinks about that for a second. “Concussion? I’m pretty sure I remember something about a concussion.”

“It’s mild,” Bruce tells him. “It was the shock that was the real problem.”

“Oh.” Dick sighs into the pillow under his head. “I’m tired.”

Bruce gives him a soft smile, just slight enough that if Dick hadn’t been so familiar with Bruce’s microexpressions, he would have thought he’d been mistaken. Fingers lightly card through his hair, and Dick’s eyes start closing of their own accord.

“Then sleep,” Bruce says.

Dick sleeps.

[smells-like-mettaton]

soriel, 1 (chocolate) for the ask game?

Like a Box of Chocolates

Rating: G Word Count: 2734 Read on AO3: here

---

"Ok. I brought a few choices," Sans said while sitting with his back to the door. He pulled a plastic sack full of chocolate and chocolate-adjacent treats out from under his shirt.

"Oh, you did not have to do that." The voice behind the door sounded embarrassed.

"It's no big deal." He shrugged instinctively, though she wouldn't be able to see it. "Not like I candy things like this for you very often."

The lady laughed, even though the pun was a stretch. She was a great audience like that.

"I cannot argue with that. After all, it is the choco-thought that counts."

Sans let out a wheeze. Man, she had him beat in the bad jokes department. He needed to up his game.

"What can I say, I'm a sweet guy." That joke would work better if she could see his wink.

"You certainly are, my friend."

Sans blinked. He hadn't been prepared for the genuine warmth in her voice. Now he felt something like a melted chocolate himself.

"Uh. You'd better wait and make sure I didn't pick out garbage before you say that." He chuckled nervously and spread out the chocolates in the snow.

"Alright. Hit me with your best choco-shot."

He laughed out loud at that one too. She could really squeeze some mileage out of chocolate puns.

"First off we have the MTT-Brand Chocolate Mettaton. Which is exactly what it sounds like. Chocolate in the shape of everyone's favorite robot superstar." He scanned the back of the wrapper. "Contains sequins and glitter, but it's still monster food, so probably won't cause any more indigestion than Temmie Flakes. Still, wouldn't blame ya if you passed on that."

The lady laughed. "I do not know this 'Mettaton,' but he sounds like someone…"

Her voice trailed off, the way it always did when she neared a personal topic. It seemed to be happening more and more often lately. Sans didn't know if that was a good sign, or if he needed to do a better job of distracting her.

"Someone I know would have liked that," she finished clumsily.

"Welp. It's yours, then." He attempted to slide it under the door.

Attempted. The thick block of chocolate wouldn't fit through the narrow space.

"What are my other options?" The lady asked, not seeming to hear his failure.

(Or just ignoring it. The way they always ignored things they didn't want to acknowledge.)

Oh well. He'd deal with that later, if she wanted to.

He picked up the next box and rattled it. It looked thin enough to fit under the door.

"I think this one's called, uh, pocket?” He couldn’t tell for sure, since the box was labeled in a language he didn’t recognize. Where did Alphys get this stuff? “A pal gave it to me. They’re like chocolate-covered sticks, I think."

"Not precisely what I was looking for, but I would love to try it regardless," she said. "If I am allowed to have both options, I mean. If not, I should probably stick with the Em-Tee-Tee."

Sans bit back a snort. So she hadn't heard after all. That made this a lot more awkward.

"Do you wanna hear the other options first? Wouldn't want ya to have any regrets."

"Oh! There are more?"

She sounded as surprised as a kid finding an extra fry in the bottom of their Grillby's bag. He couldn't help grinning.

"Yup. Next up is a chocolate spider donut—”

“Made by spiders, for spiders, of spiders?” The voice seemed on the verge of laughter again.

His eyesockets widened. “Uh… welp. Guess you don’t need the whole spiel, huh?”

“There is a spider bakesale right around the corner from my home,” the lady explained. “I believe they are saving for a… ‘heated limo’? To travel safely through Snowdin. I wish I could help them, but I did not think to take much gold when I…”

Another dead end. That was fine, Sans could piece together enough. Not that her personal life was any of his business, anyway.

“If it makes ya feel any better, they really raked me over the coals for this one.”

“It does not!” came her quick reply. “I only asked for a chocolate bar. Not for you to spend money that you need on me.”

Geez, this lady was too good for him. As if Sans ever really went out of his way for anyone.

Except Papyrus, but he was family. And sometimes Grillby, if he felt bad about failing to pay his tab for too long. And Alphys, but he owed her for screwing off after space-time blew up in their faces.

And now, the lady behind the door. The lady he didn’t owe anything to, except a few good laughs.

Who was he kidding? Those laughs were more important to him than anything.

“Eh, it just cost me one day of selling ‘dogs. Donut worry about it.”

“Very well. Since it was for a good cause, I will not grill you any further. But please tell me that was the last chocolate you purchased for me.”

“It’s the last one I purchased.” He grinned. While she couldn’t see his expression, she must have heard the but in his voice.

“Please tell me you did not steal any chocolate for me.”

“Geez, lady, what do you take me for? I’d never commit petty thievery.”

“Well, that is reassuring.”

“Yep. Gotta save room for the real high-dollar crimes. Like the illegal hot dog stand.”

The voice behind the door went silent. He wished he could see her face now more than ever. His own grin slowly slid from his skull.

“Everyone knows about it,” he reassured her. “If the King really wanted to shut me down, he’d have done it a long time ago.”

“Oh, I am not judging you for that. I am sure the law is rigged against you if the King has any say in it.” Her voice was surprisingly bitter.

His real problem was that he couldn’t ever find the necessary documents to get licensed in food preparation. His birth certificate was presumably in whatever alternate dimension his old man had blasted them out of.

“You are judging me for something, though,” he realized. The chill of the snow seeped into his bones, but he didn’t dare adjust his position. Somehow he felt that if he moved, she would disappear.

“I am not. I was only thinking about…” She sighed. “It is complicated. There was a time when I could have helped you, but it is long past.”

“Help me? Look, lady, the ‘dog stand is fine. Promise. Better than fine, since I don’t gotta pay taxes on it.”

She chuckled at that.

“Very well. Forgive a silly old lady for worrying.”

“Done.” He smiled, settling back against the door more comfortably.

He should’ve known she’d have a problem with his illegal activities, though. She was a classy lady, and he was… him. Why had he even brought it up? It wasn’t a great joke. Did he really just want her to know?

Eh, whatever. She wasn’t mad, so no harm done, right?

“I would like to know how you acquired this other chocolate, if it was not through your sticky fingers.” She sounded like she was grinning.

“Huh? Oh.” He blinked and dug out the last chocolate of the bunch. Blue dusted his cheeks. “QC—that’s the lady who runs the shop in town—gave ‘em to me for free. They’re called, uh, kisses.”

QC had a knowing look in her eyes when she’d offered the bag of chocolates to him. It was his own fault for implying they were for a girl. Everyone already thought he screwed around in the woods on his shifts, and with the way gossip travelled in a small town, everyone at Grillby’s would be asking about his girlfriend tonight.

“Kisses,” the lady behind the door echoed. “This is not one of your jokes, is it?”

“Not this time. Sorry to disappoint.” His grin felt too tight. “They’re, uh, tiny chocolates. Kinda cone-shaped? QC makes ‘em herself, so they’ve gotta be good.”

“Oh.” Oddly, the voice did sound disappointed. Sans couldn’t imagine why. Not like he could kiss her through the door, even if he had lips. And even if there was some unlikely timeline where she wanted a kiss from him.

He wanted to thump his skull back against the door, but there was no point in worrying her like that.

“In that case, I will take the kisses. They will be perfect for…”

He was sure she would leave it at that. Cover up with some non sequitur.

So his eyesockets went wide when she said, “for the anniversary of my child’s passing.”

“Oh.” He let out a strangled little laugh. “I—geez, I’m sorry. If I’d known—”

“You would have what? Spent even more money on this silly old lady, who cannot even leave to buy her child’s favorite chocolate?” Her voice was firm. “No. I thought you deserved to know, after the trouble you went to, and because you shared your own secret with me today.”

“My ‘dog stand is hardly a secret,” he said, still feeling a little shaky. She had a kid? A dead kid?

Well, who in the Underground didn’t have skeletons in their closet? Metaphorically or literally. She was still his best friend. If she wanted his pity, she would’ve said something sooner.

“Regardless,” she said. “It is in the past. Forget it, if you wish. But please do not treat me any differently.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said sincerely. If there was one thing he was good at, it was maintaining the status quo. “So, uh. These chocolates. I kind of wanted you to have all of ‘em, if that’s alright with you.”

“It would be rude to refuse a gift, would it not?” She sounded like she was smiling again, to his relief.

“There’s just one problem. Uh. Don’t think they’re all gonna fit under the door.” He rapped on the stone surface with his knuckle for emphasis.

“I did not assume they would. The recipe I gave you before hardly passed through.”

Sans blinked. “Then you—huh?”

“I will open the door just a fraction. It can only be done from the inside.” She paused, like she was gathering a breath. “I would ask that you do not look. I promise I will not peek, either.”

Sans’s ribcage tightened. She was going to open the door. She would be right there, with no stone between them.

The thought opened a desperate floodgate within him. He hadn’t realized just how badly he wanted to see her, to know her, to live off of more than just scraps and unfinished sentences.

She once had a child. She had some kind of beef against the King. She wanted to give charity to spiders, but didn’t have enough money. All these facts he filed away, tucking them into the grooves in his ribcage.

It would be enough. He’d duct tape those gates shut again, if he had to. He wasn’t going to betray the trust she’d shown him.

“Got it. You don’t wanna be smitten by my good looks, I understand,” he joked.

(He had a feeling it would be the other way around, if anything. Not that quality of jokes translated to quality of appearance—he would know. If it did, he’d have biceps like his brother.)

“It would be tragic. Much too high a price for you to handsome chocolate to me.”

“Heh, I’m sure you’re a door-able too. But I’ll keep my sockets shut, since our friendship hinges on it.”

That got a raucous laugh out of her, the kind that started off high-pitched and quickly became something of a snorting bleat. That sound was sweeter than chocolate to him.

...Man, his pals at Grilby’s would be right to dunk on him. He was a massive dork.

“Alright,” she said once she caught her breath, “if you are ready, my friend…”

“Yeah.” He nodded. “Better choco-late than never, huh?”

That one only got a snort, but he wasn’t sure if that was because the pun fell flat, or because she was nervous. As far as he knew, she hadn’t been outside of the Ruins in years. And here she was, trusting a sentry—someone whose job it was to keep a look out—to turn a blind eye.

It was a good thing he’d never been good at his job.

Stone ground against stone with a dramatic rumble. His eyesockets stayed shut. Warmth emanated from somewhere near his shoulder, and he lifted the bag of chocolates.

His small hand brushed a large fur-covered one. A shiver trailed down his spine. One small touch shouldn’t have done so much to him, but—but she was real. She was more than just a voice behind a door. Which he knew, but knowing and feeling could be worlds apart at times.

She took the bag, and the moment was over. But the door didn’t close.

“My dear friend,” she whispered, her voice sounding closer than ever. “Would it be presumptuous to ask another favor of you?”

“‘Course not. Glad to do a favor for my favor-ite person.” He kept his tone light, unaffected by the swirling emotions inside him.

“If I could… oh, dear, this is embarrassing.”

He resisted the urge to open his eyes, to see what look might be on her face.

“It has simply been so long… may I hold your hand a moment longer?”

He felt the marrow heating within his bones.

“That all? I gotta hand it to ya, you made me think you needed an arm and a leg.”

She chuckled before awkwardly fumbling to grasp his hand again.

Heat poured from her palm into his phalanges. Aside from the fur, there were several spots of soft skin—probably paw pads. Was she a dog monster, like the Canine Unit in town? She didn’t make nearly enough dog jokes for that to be the case. Her laugh sounded more like a goat’s, but she obviously didn’t have hooves. Maybe she was some kind of chimera? You didn’t see those often nowadays, but then again, no one saw monsters from the Ruins, either.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice as soft as the snow that began to drift around him.

“Not disappointed?” He asked, only half-joking. “My hand can’t be as comfy as yours.”

“Ah, but it is all your bone. And that is wonderful to me.”

“Geez, old lady.” He was grateful she couldn’t see his blush. “You’re pretty fur-fect yourself.”

When she laughed, her body shook all the way down to her hand. The feeling more than made up for all the G he’d spent on chocolate and donuts.

Suddenly his hand was being lifted up, and then something soft pressed against his knuckles. His soul flared erratically, and his eyes nearly flew open. If they had, he was sure his left eyelight would have been blue from shock.

“A kiss for a kiss,” she said slyly. “It is only fair.”

“Heh heh…” His voice shook with more than laughter. “Technically, that was one kiss for a bag of kisses. Pretty sure that math doesn’t square up.”

“Oh, you are quite right! One day we will have to circle back and rectify that.”

He practically had to cast gravity magic on himself to keep his eyes from flying open.

“You—huh?” He said intelligently.

“Perhaps not soon,” she clarified. “This has all been… a lot, for me. But thanks to you, my dear friend, this day has not been so bitter as I am used to.”

“Uh, no problem, then. With all that chocolate, I hope it’s sweet.”

Sweet as the anniversary of a death could be, anyway. He grimaced. Maybe that joke was too soon, but she just squeezed his hand before finally letting go.

“I do think it will be,” she said softly. “I will look forward to hearing more of your punny jokes tomorrow.”

The door scraped shut, and he hesitantly opened his eyes. He couldn't help inspecting the door to see if anything changed. Pressing his still-warm hand against the smooth stone.

“Heh. Good luck getting rid of me now.” He grinned.

Then he tucked his hands in his pockets, where her kiss remained like a tattoo on his bone.

[lyrabythelake]

When you lose your sword... panic?

This idea was concocted from a conversation with @gintrinsic-writing and Just_Bonesy :)  

CW: blood, gore, violence

Twilight is not the best fighter of the group by any means, that title goes to Sky or Warriors, or possibly Wild when he isn’t setting the battlefield on fire. It’s clear which of them have had professional training and who hasn’t; where Sky moves with precise elegance, Hyrule fights with almost desperate brawl. Where Warriors parrys and jabs with meticulously calculated technique, Legend’s style is rather a brutish scuffle. But while the professional soldiers of the group have the upper hand while fighting with swords, there are certain situations where those who have learned exclusively from their own wits and experience come out on top.

Take now, for example, as Twilight faces three lizalfos head on. His sword is in the ditch somewhere having flown out of his hand a few moments ago courtesy of an unsuspecting swipe from his blind spot, and he has no other weapons on him. The others aren’t in any position to be helping him, they have their own battles to fight; the waves of enemies are approaching fast.

The lizalfos on the right comes at him first, swinging sword glinting maliciously, and Twilight jumps into action, light and sturdy on his feet. He lets his adrenaline run wild and his most animalistic instincts kick in, and he lets out a snarl, baring his teeth in battle-fuelled rage. He doesn’t dodge backwards away from the first swipe, he lunges towards it seemingly heedlessly so that instead of being hit by the blade, he’s struck with the inside of the beast’s elbow. It stumbles slightly in surprise and Twilight uses the opening to grab its wrist and turn it forcefully clockwise, hearing a couple of bones in its hand crack. In his mid-battle high, they might as well be twigs snapping beneath his palms. It lets out a pig-like squeal but doesn’t drop its sword – Twilight is forcing its hand to keep its grip underneath his own.

It’s a struggle, but he manages to turn it enough that the wrist too snaps beneath its scaly skin and the sword plunges into its own stomach with a little added force. Twilight shoves it away with excessive strength and it falls to the ground, unmoving, dark red pooling beneath its body, congealing with the grit and mud in a viscous concoction of its own defeat. Twilight staggers slightly from the momentum of the push, his knuckle scraping painfully along the floor, and the next lizalfos takes the small opportunity to grab him in a steel headlock.

He doesn’t hesitate as he turns his head to the side with sudden force and uses his entire weight to pull on the arm that holds him. It gives way immediately, almost too easily, and he twists his body, the lizalfos hand with it, until he’s in a position to shove it to the ground alongside its companion. He finishes it off with five kicks to the head, the tiny, fragile bones of its face shattering beneath his worn, blood-splattered boot.

There’s one left now, weaponless, and Twilight can feel it’s hesitance, it’s eyes flickering to it’s fallen comrades with what Twilight would like to think of as nervousness. Good. A hesitant opponent means it’s more likely to make mistakes, more chance of openings for a kill. Still, there’s strange determination in its cold, reptilian eyes when it runs at full speed towards him, and it’s almost a shame that it lasts as little time as it does.

Twilight squats in preparation, and as it reaches him, claws outstretched in front of it, muscular tail poised for attack, he manages to grip it around the underside of its arm with one hand and the scraps of its tunic in the other, and then pulls with all his might. It goes flying over his shoulder with more momentum than Twilight had expected, and he feels its neck crack as it tumbles to the ground behind him.

He straightens up, eyes roving over each of his three enemies to confirm that they are indeed still motionless, and rubs the dust off his hands contentedly before turning around, coming face to face with Wind, a fierce look in his sea-blue eyes.

“Show me how to do that,” the sailor demands, the pointy end of his sword pointing straight at him. Twilight takes a step back, startled.

“What?” he asks. The others are coming to the end of their respective fights and seem not to have noticed the gruesome brawl that went down only seconds ago.

“That.” Wind waves the sword to the place the third dead Lizalfos lies, “The thing you did with the twirly arm where you threw that guy over your shoulder.”

“The one arm shoulder throw?” Twilight questions, parroting the name Rusl had taught him all those years ago when his mentor used to beat him every time they sparred.

“I don’t care what it’s called! Just show me!”

So he does, later, when they’ve set up camp and the others are doing their own thing elsewhere, either practicing their own fighting or foraging resources for their journey. Twilight has had experience teaching hand-to-hand combat to the children of Ordon – it’s strongly believed in the village that children should learn to fight as soon as they are able, and not everyone can afford swords – and he is pleased, but unsurprised, that Wind has the enthusiasm of all of the village children put together. He is also considerably more competent at listening and picking up the moves (again, not altogether surprising considering he defeated Ganon at the tender age of twelve) and he manages to learn a good few techniques in just a couple of hours.

“This is fun,” Wind grins, looking down at him as Twilight picks himself off the floor having just been taken down for the umpteenth time, on this occasion with a solid kick to the back of his left knee. Hylia help them all if Wind grows any bigger, who knew his skinny legs held such brute strength.

“Hey Captain!” Wind shouts to Warriors who is walking into the clearing carrying a stack of logs, an axe on his back, “you wanna spar? Twi taught me some new moves.”

“Sure, Sailor,” he replies, dropping the logs into a neat pile by their camp and swapping the axe for his sword, “don’t go too hard on me,” he grins good-naturedly, clearly not noticing the mischievous glint in Wind’s eyes. Wind picks up his own sword and they get into their respective stances, eyeing each other from across the small clearing. Wind waits for Warriors to swing first, at which point he tosses his sword to the ground beside him.

“Wait, wha-“ Warriors manages to get out mid-swing before Wind is careening towards him and grabbing his wrist in the way Twilight taught him. Twilight is proud to see he executes the move perfectly, twisting Warriors’ wrist towards him and immediately sending him to the ground, sword and all.

“Holy mother of FUCK!” Warriors shouts, clutching his wrist in obvious pain, his sword lying some few metres away. Twilight hopes Wind didn’t break anything.

“What next, Twi?” Wind asks cheerily as the captain rolls around at his feet.

“Now you kick him in the balls,” Twilight informs him.

“WAIT, NO! STOP, I SURRENDER!” Warriors pleads, and Twilight gives Wind a wink before going over to help Warriors up, grasping his good hand and pulling him to his feet.

“Where in Hylia’s name did you learn to fight like that?” Warriors asks him, clutching his wrist to his chest.

“Rusl taught me some of it,” he replies, “some I learned from just being on the road, and some of it’s stuff I learned from goat wrangling.”

The Captain considers him for a moment, clearly impressed.

“You think you could teach that to everyone?”

So that’s how Twilight finds himself standing in front of a scene that might be even more chaotic than when he was teaching Colin and his friends hand-to-hand. In his defence, he’s almost certain it’s not his teaching skills that are to blame; goat wrangling is nothing compared to herding these supposedly ‘respectable’ holders of the triforce of courage.

Wind successfully managed to take down Time before the lesson even started, and he now sits next to him, sheepishly holding some ice from Legend’s ice rod over the old man’s nose while the latter glares stonily into the distance. Behind them, Warriors has Legend in a headlock and Twilight almost chuckles at the distinctly rodent-like way Legend is trying to squirm out of it, punching every square inch of torso he can reach.

Four’s eyes flash blue-green as he gleefully pulls Sky down to his own height by the clump of hair he mercilessly has clenched in one fist, and Hyrule and Wild are hanging upside-down from a tree (though Twilight is pretty sure that has nothing to do with the lesson at hand).

All learned technique has gone out the window. Scratch that, it’s left the Goddessdamned kingdom. Though, Twilight supposes, that was kind of the point in the first place. Besides, Wind has fully mastered the one arm shoulder throw considering the way Time landed face first in the mud like a sack of potatoes not so long ago and Warriors has lost his usual stringency that so often prevents him from improvising in tight spots. All in all, they’re not doing too badly, and he fancies next time they find themselves up against an enemy without a weapon, they’ll be considerably more prepared. Rusl would be proud.

[gumnut-logic]

It was late.

It had been a very long day.

A very, very long day.

Scott had been held back at the danger zone by bureaucratic nonsense and a CEO throwing a fit over a couple of Thunderbirds parking in his carpark and the resultant damage to a nearby building.

The insensitivity and self-involvement had John reining Scott in over comms. It wasn’t like he was going to hit the guy, really, no matter how satisfying it might have been. But it had been a gruelling and messy rescue digging people out of a collapsed shopping mall.

He and his brothers had been digging for hours.

Eventually he had to call it and had sent Thunderbird Two back to base.

He had intended to follow shortly after, but…obstacles.

It was just past three in the morning when One streaked into a hover above Tracy Island. The shift to vertical flight was smooth and mostly subconscious. Scott felt his ‘bird in his bones.

As he lowered her through the gap left by the pool, a dim light from the lounge told him he wasn’t the only one awake.

He had his suspicions who it might be and that only had him working through post-flight faster.

It could be Grandma, but chances were it was Virgil waiting for him to come home.

He didn’t always do this. Only after the difficult ones.

And this one had been far from easy.

Scott hurried up to the locker room and, shucking his uniform, washed the sweat and grime from his skin. It felt good to be clean, an extra step further away from the tragedy they had left behind.

He didn’t bother getting dressed other than to throw on some pyjama bottoms and an old t-shirt. he would check on his brother, possibly grab a quick bite of food and a drink, and then hit the sack.

The house was quiet as he made his way to the lounge. No doubt Grandma and Virgil combined were a force that saw the younger Tracys safe in bed. Virgil likely then turned on his partner in crime and bundled her off as well.

He was determined like that.

Sure enough, a quiet step into the lounge and he found his brother in their father’s chair.

Asleep.

Dark curls let loose from their product by a long-ago shower were a hastily combed mess on his forehead as Dad’s chair held Scott’s brother as if it were its owner. The worn upholstery cradling worn out rescue operative ever so gently.

Scott’s bare feet made little sound as he stepped across the hardwood floor. It was a warm night. The open windows let in a soft breeze off the Pacific laced with the honey scent of flowering pōhutukawa trees.

Virgil muttered and shifted in his sleep.

The sound drew Scott’s attention back to his brother. The desk lamp was the only source of light in the room beyond the starlight far above. The moon had already set and outside was almost as dark as it got, the ocean murmuring in the distance.

There was paper on the desk.

Scott didn’t use much in the way of paper himself. Most of his work was digital, often holographic and as ecologically sound as he could get it.

Virgil, however, did keep a stash of different surfaces to art on in his studio. Paper was one of them. Obviously, some had made it out tonight.

Pencil sketches covered the white sheets. Eyes, half drawn faces. Gordon popped up in one corner, a familiar smile on his face. Thunderbird One had her grapple out and was lifting something half-drawn.

He found his own face staring out of the paper. His drawn self was obviously angry and glaring at a faceless head.

Scott arched an eyebrow at the obscenity scratched into the cartridge under the non-person creature.

Virgil had obviously not been happy that Scott had been held up.

There were other words on the page amongst the drawings. Virgil doodling and possibly venting in the process. Even Scott could see the emotion drawn in graphite.

He sighed.

As if agreeing, Virgil snorted and tried to turn over in the chair, a manoeuvre that wasn’t recommended.

Scott caught his brother under his arms as he tried to slide off the leather upholstery.

He earned a grunt for his efforts. Bleary brown eyes opened and stared up at him. “Sc-t?”

“Hey.” A soft smile. “You planning on camping out tonight?”

Another grunt and his brother tried to right himself in the chair. “You took too long. Why didn’t you sic John on ‘em?”

“I did. But not until tomorrow. John needs his sleep as much as you do.”

“Yes. Yes, he does. Tol’ him.” Virgil’s eyes drifted closed again and he began to sink back into the chair.

“Oh, no you don’t. You’re going to bed, little brother.” Scott gripped Virgil a little tighter and pulled him up and out of the chair.

Various limbs pinwheeled a little and Scott ended up with his arms full of dopey brother, but he got the man on to his feet.

Virgil grumbled into his t-shirt and Scott let off a snort of a laugh. His biggest brother was hopeless when his sleep was disturbed. It was an ongoing source of prankdom – at the risk of the perpetrator’s life.

Hell, Gordon had managed to draw in a second pair of eyebrows on Virgil’s forehead once – while the man was supposedly awake and nursing his coffee.

The double-eyebrowed death monster that had resulted once enough coffee had been ingested was of legendary proportions. Grandma had literally roasted Gordon alive and a ban on markers on anyone’s faces had been instituted for all eternity.

Gordon was a multitalented artist, however, and simply switched mediums.

The honey had Scott blowing a circuit.

But dopey Virgil was a familiar and smile-inducing feature of the Tracy household.

Scott found himself grinning.

“Shuddup.”

Well, at least Virgil had managed a couple of neurons worth of thought.

Scott’s smile only got wider.

Virgil groaned and pushed his brother away and stumbled a little. “’M gonna bed.”

“You do that.” Scott had to stick out a hand and steady him as he wobbled into the side of the desk. “Need a hand?”

That triggered some incoherent grumbling that threatened bear territory. Scott couldn’t help himself and just grinned more as Virgil teetered away in the direction of the elevator.

The fact Scott had to save him from falling into the sunken lounge was probably a sign that the answer to his question was a definite ‘yes’.

A hand on his brother’s elbow prompted more grumbling, but the elbow wasn’t yanked away and by the time they made it into the elevator, Virgil had pretty much faceplanted himself into Scott’s shoulder.

The grin turned into a fond smile as he hit the button for the residential levels.

“You neeb togoto bed too.” It was muffled by the sleeve of Scott’s t-shirt.

“That’s the plan.”

“You bedda.”

Scott wrapped an arm around his brother’s shoulders. “Or what?”

More incoherent grumbling.

Scott pulled him in a little tighter as the elevator doors opened.

It was like leading a zombie down the corridor, though Scott could easily empathise. He was looking forward to his own pillow as soon as he saw Virgil to his.

A yawn escaped.

His brother looked up as if the medic had bypassed his brain and booted in safe mode. “You need sleep. Go to bed.”

He gestured towards door to Virgil’s rooms. “After you.”

Virgil frowned. “You first.”

Scott rolled his eyes and, reaching around his brother, activated the door and, with a little manoeuvring, manhandled Virgil into his rooms.

“Hey!”

His hand returned to his brother’s elbow and he marched him into his bedroom, amid protests.

“You need to look after yourself.” Virgil finger was jabbed into Scott’s breastbone.

Was it possible for a human to have one half of his brain awake and the other asleep at the same time? Apparently, some birds could do that. Gordon had gone into great detail that year they spotted some migratory waders landing on their beaches mid-transit.

In any case, Virgil obviously wasn’t all there as Scott backed him up against the end of his bed and pulled back the covers. Virgil continued to nag Scott to bed with varying levels of coherence. Smiling, Scott gave his rambling brother a gentle nudge and their gentle giant went Gulliver, flat on his back.

“Scott?!”

The eldest yanked up the covers and muffled the outraged mutterings. “Yes, Virgil?”

But his protests began to fade away and, as Scott pulled down the covers a little and tucked them in, he realised Virgil’s eyes were already drooping again.

Dopey indeed.

He brushed curls off his brother’s forehead. “Sleep, Virg.”

“Mmm, Sco’, go bed.”

Softly. “I will.”

“Mmmhm.”

Scott couldn’t help but smile a little more as Virgil drifted off.

A final touch to his brother’s hair and Scott straightened, his body creaking enough to remind him, that yes, he needed his bed as well.

He slipped quietly out of Virgil’s room and secured the door. A glance down the corridor, a thought, and he walked quietly down to check on Gordon.

The last he had seen of his fish brother had involved sad eyes and concrete dust. A quiet step into his rooms and he found Gordon as he had suspected he would.

The aquanaut was tangled in his sheets and throttling his pillow.

There was a frown on his face.

Much practised manoeuvring and he managed to straighten the Fish out and untangle him from his bedclothes.

Half asleep protests were halted by a plushie squid that awake Gordon would claim to his death never left the mantle above his bed.

Scott knew better.

His little brother quietened, falling into a deeper sleep.

After that, Scott couldn’t help but check in on Alan. It was probably a fortunate thing, because opening the door found Alan asleep in front of it.

The littlest Tracy had a history of wandering in his sleep. Scott had it checked out and it was directly related to early childhood trauma. Which one was a game of pick one.

It was managed, but occasionally it flared up. One of the most common symptoms was climbing out of bed and sleeping on the floor. Sometimes, the piece of floor chosen was a little inconvenient.

Scott was just happy the piece chosen wasn’t a balcony. Five and now Eos had been tracking Alan while he slept for years and issued alerts if he should wander too far.

Scott slipped into the room sideways and, with cracking knees, lifted his little brother off the floor.

Fortunately or unfortunately, Alan shared his sleep type with Virgil and slept like the dead. So, it was easy to move him over to his specially plush rug and snuggle him up with a pillow and quilt from his bed.

Alan muttered something about Virgil pulling him up, possibly something to do with the day’s rescue.

Scott reached out and touched Alan’s cheek.

His little brother mumbled his name and leant into his hand.

Scott blinked. The emotion that suddenly gripped him was just a sign of how tired he was.

Letting go, he pushed to his feet and slipped from the room. In the corridor, he closed his eyes and leant back against the wall for a moment.

One to go.

He tugged at the collar of his t-shirt. “Eos? You there?”

“Where else would I be?” Despite the smart-ass remark, her voice was quiet. Something she had learnt the hard way.

He ignored the comment. “John’s status?”

“John is currently in REM sleep. No signs of nightmare. Pulse regular, respiration as to be expected, body temperature 36.7 degrees Celsius. John is well, Commander.”

Scott let out a breath. “Thank you, Eos.”

“You’re welcome. Kayo and Mrs Tracy are asleep in their rooms, as is Hiram. Which is a concern, if I may say so, because he left Max on the ceiling.”

A blink. “Again?”

“It would appear so.”

Scott groaned. “Keep him out of the hangars this time.”

“I will try. But you know how he is.”

A grunt and Scott pushed himself off the wall. “I’m going to bed.”

“Good. Virgil was adamant you do exactly that.”

A frown. “Or what?”

“He said ‘or I’ll knock his ass out and drag him there myself’. His tone seemed humorous, however, John said it was a half-truth.” A pause. “Which half, I’m not sure.”

Another grunt. “Both halves, most likely.” To stave off a round of questioning at that, Scott quickly followed up with, “Tracy Island out.”

The house fell quiet after that and he let his shoulders drop, rolling his neck as he made his way to his own quarters. In his rooms lay freedom. A moment where he could just be himself, relax and sleep.

Sleep.

The door clicked shut and exhaustion caught up with him. It was a matter of steps to his bedroom, a modicum of the last of his energy to shove the covers aside, and he let himself fall face first into his pillow.

His body melted into the mattress.

It had been a shitty rescue, but his family was all home, safe, uninjured and resting.

He could let go.

So he did.

-o-o-o-

[sweetpickolwarrior]

The Three Times You Didn’t Want Them To Hear You, The One Time You Did (Part 3)

Established fic

Small!Brown!Female!Reader

Not too apparent but just letting you know in case.

Fic summary: You have been travelling with geralt and Jaskier for quite some time, you had always been told that your voice would take you places before you had no choice but to abandon your previous life. You still loved it though. This fic explores the times you let go and let yourself sing. We also explore your backstory and the developing relationship with your older and protective companions :)

PART 1 HERE PART 2 HERE

Chapter summary: Bit of a filler chapter, the wait was more so to plan out the rest of the story clearly. Y/N wants to repay geralt for his kindness and show Jaskier that she does not hate him, but has trouble with words and such. Further apologies for the wait... enjoy!

The fact that you had not been sober enough to truly appreciate the room that Geralt had decided to treat you with left you with a pang of guilt, but a wavering reluctance to bring up anything about that night lest he unnecessarily recall the sound of your voice. You don’t suppose he cared much, as far as you could pick out from that night, it wasn't something that mattered very much to him… but then why the room? The situation slightly baffled you. You much preferred going from contract to contract, tavern to tavern, losing yourself in the endeavours of your companions. You roamed the streets of this new, unusually pleasant town, the bustle of the morning bubbling through. Your mind turned to the small sack you had swaddled at the very bottom of your pack buried beneath your myriad of gatherings from your travels. A small, worn leather sack with a drawstring through the top, wrapped in an old sock that had outlived its original duty a few winters ago sat almost full, the weight of the coin inside at most an apple or two. You had kept it for emergencies, a few loaves of bread and some meat if rations had become sparse, a promise payment for a healer or mage, should one or more of you fall incapacitated while coin was low, an emergency room should the cold threaten to settle in someones bones too cosily, and should you feel the need to express gratitude to a generous but stoic witcher, apparently.

You wandered past a bakers stall, sweet pastries dusted with sugar beckoned, small honey dipped loaves with specks of lavender peeking through the golden slopes glinted in the morning light, puffy buns that had been baked with a clever twist in the top to result in a soft swirl sat in a neat row identical to the sweet fresh bread Jaskier had pressed into your palm earlier. You cringed at the thought of leaving so abruptly and didn't like all this coaxing going on, and hoped he would drop the subject so you could shove the topic down your tunic and carry on your simple shenanigans with the bard.

You strolled through, eyes on the dry dirt of the worn path through the centre, ladies walking with shawls wrapped tight around their shoulders gave you curt, tight-lipped greeting smiles as you passed through looking thoroughly disheveled. You had given up on dresses, petticoats, stockings and other such extraneous garments when tripping up on hems or sweating through layers upon layers had become more trouble than your chagrin had been worth. A tunic and breeches were sported now, along with unkempt, thick jet black hair. You tended to forget what a sight you would be to normal folks, constantly surrounded by the bard in his gaudy and intricate clothing (you still didn't know how he survived on the path) and a burly witcher clad almost always in armour and under that, similar garments to yourself. you supposed the three of you stuck out like an arrow between the eyes. Your mind flashed to what your mother may have said should she see you like this. It confused you for a moment, these memories suddenly deciding they were welcome in your conscious thoughts over the past few days. you stuffed the sudden pang of guilt and shame back into oblivion as your hands moved to your tangled mop, carding roughly through so you may find some semblance of being put together.

~~~~~~~~~~~

You tried hard not to cast your eyes down to your fingers, out of practice as they were. You tried to feel the sections, pick up more as you went, comb through soft with your fingers lest the ends get tangled, keep hold of the ribbon. Roach was being very patient with you. The fire warmed your back as you sat on your knees, tending to a horse who had decided to sit for you. You didn't know much of equine tendencies, but had heard that horses do not sit save for when it was going to rain. Your mind moved to days where your little troop had no choice but to trudge through hail, rain and thunder. She did not object and kept on wonderfully through these times and was rewarded with kisses and slips of dried fruit from you later on.

She had decided to understand what coaxing her to the floor with a brushing, soft words and rubs on her neck had meant that night and folded her legs, coming down with an impressive and somehow graceful thud. You supposed you couldn't know everything about everything and the clearest answer was that she’s just a very good girl. You relaxed as your fingers fell into a rhythm - right strand, left strand, ribbon, taking care to adjust the material so the nicer side was showing. “Expensive.” Geralt stated simply from behind. He was checking through his own pack, counting off vials of witcher potions and such. “Yes, well - an extra room must have cost.. and the food I didn’t touch” you focused on your hands, knowing Geralt was probably trying to avoid eye contact, too. After hearing a somewhat soft “hmm”, your attention returned to your fingers, having now grown a mind of their own. Roach’s auburn mane turned a dark coal in your minds eye, her soft huffs to small complaints of tugging too hard “hush now, or it won’t look nice” you barely whispered as her head jerked, it was an impossible task to try tie the hair of any child into a neat row, your sisters no exception. Your breath slowed as your mothers lullaby sat in between your lips, you tried to grasp the first note of the soft song.

Sisters? Here?

Your knees were cold and sore, kneeling on the ground so long, knobs of grass settling aches into your muscles; your hair unkempt and hastily scraped back, with a small leather tie, bumps hilling over your scalp that you had no care of. Your hands were dirty, grubby from foraging scraps of dry wood to keep warm through the night. Calloused from the past few years of plucking the string of your bow with arrows that reminded you with every swift hit that death was something permanent, immediate, inescapable. These hands were not the same ones that softly put braids in your sisters’ hair. These calluses were not the same ones that came from making music.

The first note of that bloody lullaby froze on your toungue.Best to stop trying to live in the past. Not that you were, trying that is. You wanted nothing more than those memories to keep sitting in the little box in your mind where they were meant to be. Happy, silent, unbothering. Instead they kept feeling the need to rise up, to pester you and drag you away, remind you that those days would never come back, that your whole life had vanished.

Well, this was your life now and different as it was, you needed to live in it. You pushed away the offending memories for the second time that day, focusing on finishing Roach’s mane.

Impeccable timing as always, Jaskier came strolling through after having washed everyone’s clothes in a nearby stream, no doubt a vein of the river you had found yourself in those few days ago. “Honestly, why do I bother? They're bound by fate to stink of ash and dirt anyway- I know! I could write a shanty about the smoked Witcher’s shirt - a real pub sway! Sometimes he smells of heroics and adventure! The whiff of a lady’s perfume often, but will always return to the ash of a trusty campfire” he leaned to put the folded pile down neatly. You were in awe of how these thoughts came running from your musical friend, you were convinced that he could write a song about watching clothes dry and still make it magnificent.

Ah. Exactly.

A dramatic gasp came from the bard, no doubt with a soft hand upon his chest. Your fingers tensed as you pat roach and tried to seem as nonchalant as possible.

"Now! Which one of you has been able to tie a bow so pretty all this time?”

You had laced the ribbon, as careful as you could to not disturb the strings, behind where they were pulled taut to the tuning pegs of Jaskier's lute, taking care that the tails would not brush against the front or impair his hands while playing. The ribbon you had bought was a soft lavender colour, embroidered with a deep violet, floral and feathery motifs weaving through the sleek fabric. You turned to see Jaskier caressing the fine fabric “I shall have to have an outfit made to go with this! Oh what a look that could be for the bardic competition this autumn! Simply revolutionary, a great stride forward in musical fashion! Bows woven through lutes, gods-” a theatrical palm to the forehead “How had I not thought of this before- and Roach! Oh! Exquisite, Y/N,” it seemed he had finally clocked onto the fact that this was your doing, both you and Geralt huffing amusedly as he was practically flying with excitement “I daresay Roach could be a fine show horse! Beautifully healthy and muscular, a shining coat, those deep glistening eyes- “She’s not a show horse” Geralt grumbled "I said could or rather might've been, had the twines of fate been wound a little looser.." You chuckled softly as your trusty bard rambled on into the night about how he knew a thing or two about show horses (being one in a past life, most likely) and you prepared your bedroll, smoothed it out with your hands and checked how close your damp clothes were to drying. When you reflected on Jaskier's words, you thought about how the warm and bitter smell of ash and smoke and fire made from Witcher magic was comforting to you. As you settled, you tried to smell other things, maybe someday you could smell half as well as a witcher if you trained hard enough. Ash, smoke.. the small burnt remnants of a meagre fish dinner, the distinctly horsey smell of Roach, the faintest traces of lavender lingering in your hair. You supposed you could try to hone in your hearing, too. You got comfortable, wriggling a little further in, catching a glimpse of the fine ribbon you had bought before closing your eyes...it was nice to see the splashes of the bright colour woven through your little group. You could first hear Jaskier mumbling on, the scratch of his quill onto the notebook he carried, the pops and snaps of the fire, the wind breathing contentedly through the leaves above, the last clinks of Geralt's potion bottles, then the slight crunch of careful steps in leather boots, his hands patting roach and hushed, almost inaudible whispers of him calling Roach his "pretty girl".

A/N : Hello, dears! I hope you've all been well and taking care of yourselves - I know it has been a tremendous wait. i've been planning the rest of the story out (i'm rly annoyingly particular about it) and lots of things have been a bit crazy the past two months. I hope this chapter isnt dissapointing given the wait but get ready for big angst, hurt/comfort and further progression of the story and characters in the next two chapters. I feel this filler was needed to transition into the next part of the story. I might change the description some as this story is not only about the fact that Y/N can sing, but also focuses on the way that changes her relationship with the boys.

More on the interactions of this night for the boys' POV in the next chapter probably x

I'm hoping the story is well fleshed out and flowing, and that its clear that singing is a great comfort and big part of Y/N's character. I hope its easy to immerse yourself and such. Again, its such a pleasure to receive likes and comments, and i'm very grateful to anyone who has read so far... be ready for great developments! As always, constructive criticism is welcome xxx Thanks gang!

Also yall thank my lil sister for helping me write this, she doesnt have an tumblr account so I cant tag her or anything but she super cool and rambling to her rly helps me organise my writing.

stay blessed!

tagged people:

@ladylizzieofdarbyshire i cannot find @sihxm i did try xxx

[jeannahas]

Servant to a Trickster God

(Partially inspired by elydice)

The hill was dry and dusty, as I took another step forwards. sand, small stones, and long-dried and sun-baked bones crunched beneath my feet as I surveyed the section of the valley before me.

It was a familiar sight to me. How many times had I stood there, in my younger years? Back before the expansion, before the lunar colonies? Before that fated first contact that had led to so many desperate changes? I thought back to those simpler years before regenerative treatments, before sapient AI, before we met the brilliantly colored - if slightly smaller than us - Phylexians.

Time I had spent holding tiny cups of water and gatorade for the annual half-marathon in July. Standing there with my father and brothers, trying to keep up with the mass of runners, watching the sun rise as we waited for the leaders, looking for interesting bones among the wreckage, trash, and dust of that selfsame hill.

We had learned much, over the course of the past many decades, but still - there were things that remained less understood, less precise.

I stopped, bending down to look at a few skulls that dotted the hill. I never understood why so many things died on that hill. Bones of Coyotes and squirrels lay alongside the ruined carcases of small deer and elk, and more than one bird lay among the ruins. A graveyard of natural life, completely driven by it's own whims.

As I walked along the hill, following the old highway that had been the lifeblood of the county, I spotted a lonely skull, bleached by the sun, long abandoned. Canid, with pronounced teeth.

I recognized it. The coyotes had grown less and less frequent with each passing year - the wild animals had begun to form packs to survive the presence of the humans, and the humans had in turn hunted those packs.

I winced. 20$ an ear- my brother had tried multiple times to run one over to collect that bounty.

I squatted down in quiet mourning, setting a hand on the dried bone, closing my eyes as I fell down into the whispers, letting the echoes call back into my mind - fleeting moments, running, biting, cleaning itself under a juniper tree under the light of a moon. Pain in it's leg as it was severed by a trap.

I sighed, patting the bone lightly.

"What do do about you? He's not going to like if I leave you here."

The skull, naturally, said nothing. It sat there. Among all the other bones that decorated the bone hill, innert, patient as only the dead can be.

I tapped my chin. "Well... I don't know if he'll like this or hate this... We're kind of re-writing a lot of rules given that we've forgotten a lot of the old taboos."

I glanced at the empty leather bag I had gotten the feeling to bring along. It seemed to be about the right size...

I gently lifted the skull, and set it as safely as I could inside the sack, next to the holo-projector that my family would sometimes call on. I had shut it off, but it was still nice to have it close.

I stood then, checking my mental map. I keep walking till I began to enter among buildings, passing an abandoned KOA that was home to the only swimming pool I'd been able to access for most of my childhood, looking down at the bare concrete, remembering fondly moments with pool noodles, splashing and spraying water at my brothers, staring up at the sky during summer to make sure that thunderclouds didn't form and bear down upon us. It had been close a couple of times - but we'd always made a point to be out of the water long before the storm arrived. The place was largely a ghost town now. I was only still alive thanks to, well, the being I went to meet now - and a dash of arcane science derived from re-verse engineered aline tech - and the friends and people I had known who had lived here were...gone. In a few ways. Scattered to the winds. Living in new cities. Dead. In many cases. Wars, old age, disease... I passed the childhood homes of old friends, now run down and decrepit, and I plotted my way across remnants of asphalt streets that led to the massive red stone that stood a good three stories tall, jutting randomly from pale sandstone as if placed there. The Red Rock had been one of the constants of the valley, as well as Temple Rock, that stood just a short distance away. Relatively. A mile or so.

I had a specific destination in mind today - a place of borders, of transitions - a place where I had very nearly died, and stumbled upon something truly unexpected.

There were whispers, now, about the "old gods." Of people with strange gifts, of strange things happening, people disappearing, strange cults people hadn't seen for thousands of years popping up again at random. Most didn't believe them. Why would you when extraterrestrial beings taught you science from beyond the stars, and tried to find a place for you in their massive federation? I however, knew better. I had been forced to know better. He had given me no choice.

I followed the rock until the smooth exterior suddenly fell back into a thin slot - about the width of three people standing next to each other, that led up into a canyon. One of my first dates. My first death.

My mouth quirked up here. Ah, how fate can be a strange tutor.

I began to walk along the sandy bottom, long since dried up, but I knew the monsoon season wasn't far away, and it would be a simple thing for a drizzle to turn this entire canyon into a mess of mud and water, for the bright afternoon light to be replaced with the overbearing dim of a desert thunderstorm. Too shallow to be truly life-threatening, but hazardous to be sure. I climbed, searching for the meeting place, a sandy bar about half way up where I had the feeling I needed to go.

I head it again - a little louder, the laughing on the wind, a faint echo of a tinny howl. I suppose it could be called a howl - it was what we called it there, the sounds of the Coyotes. I was getting close now, and the needs for speed and caution clashed in my brain, as I tried to protect the leather bag that held the coyote's skull, keeping it from banging against rocks as I ascended a ledge that had been narrow in my youth many years distant.

The strange howling laughter grew louder as I climbed, and I now moved with purpose, almost launching myself up, Nearly stumbling off of the cliff, the skull spilling out of my bag and thudding onto the sand of the ledge, I righted myself, scrambling on hands and knees away from the edge, pausing for a moment to catch my breath, chest heaving as I leaned on my knees after that particular ledge.

I looked up and nearly toppled off the edge, as a mouth full of canid fangs waited immediately in front of me.

The ghostly laugh echoed in my mind again, and I watched as the shadow after-image of the animal danced around the space, seeming to be in one place, then another, shifting and changing, in size, nature, intensity, health, transparency, and every other metric. before "settling" more or less in one place, still flickering, as if my eyes were playing tricks on me. It's head was oddly translucent, seeming to be there. and not, and in those moments, I could see the skull at it's center, the skull of the long-dead coyote.

I bowed my head, cautious, but still elated to actually see him again - my patron, my tutor of sorts, more real than I had ever envisioned, despite our many conversations, the many gifts he had shown and given me.

Have you come to see another trick?

"You know that when we meet, this is my purpose, Coyote."

The strange, etherial coyote seemed to pick at a tooth with a claw, before dancing away again in an impossible contortion of muscle and imagery, before pacing around me.

You always watch for our tricks - listen to the stones - listen to the lessons.

"You always have more to share - what else am I to do but try to understand?"

Coyote laughed again, and I still didn't know if the sound unsettled or comforted me, even after all of these years.

You're people have built more sky-ships, they leave this world.

I nodded. "They have. "

Will you leave this world? Travel to new worlds?

"I don't know if I can." I said simply. "It doesn't seem to be my lot in life to leave and travel for the stars - besides, aren't your kind tied deeply to our perceptions? To the places we have tied you to, the locations of importance?"

I thought of the canyon. Not this one, the canyon of the cursed, the people this fun-loving creature had turned to stone in a violent fit of rage and pain. Our próximo y to that place was the main reason he could manifest like this to me, and actually manipulate the skull he now used as a head- and it was also the reason I had head about him as a child, had known his name, had known his domains.

Coyote laughed again, before snarling as if facing some beast.

formed by mind of man - given power - able to influence...yes....beleif....your beleif...... we depend on this. All gods do, from the small to the great.

I sat down, as was our custom when we spoke, doing my best to keep my footprints obscured, to prevent Coyote from doing something to me while we discussed. He had...set precedents, during previous visits. He taught me the importance of things people left behind, ways your could mess with someone who drew a line in the dirt, who left their name on a wall. It only took once of waking up four hours later under a moonlit sky with no bearing on my location to be more diligant about where and how I stepped - and how I obscured my footprints.

"What would it take for your to leave this place? You like to wander, would you not like to wander the stars as well?"

I would speak to the god of ravens, Coyote began And he would not tell me - to the great protector I spoke again, and he would not tell me. To the invader gods of your ancestors I spoke, and they did not know, that which lied beyond the stars. They knew their children - and those who called themselves their children, and that alone was their domain.

I blinked.

"Uh huh."

Coyote sat, and waited. I blinked, he was sitting next to me, his golden eyes locked on my own.

We go where our children - where our prophets, go.

I paused. Never once had this creature referred to me as anything other than it's student.

"Are the children of Coyote many?"

They are some. They are fewer than they were. I am now weaker than many - but stronger than those who have been largely forgotten. I am remembered still - I am revered still - I am feared still.

I swallowed. I knew why. I had spoken to the ghosts inside the stones of that canyon - had heard the agonized cries of hundreds of people who had offended the creature who now sat seemingly calmly beside me. I never could ask what their offense had been. They never told me. Their minds were too far gone for that, shattered and splintered as stones broke off with time and fell into the canyon, to be washed away with the monsoon rains, and swept down into the barely -living town below.

Why had Coyote told me this? What did he want?

"What do you mean you spoke to the god of Ravens? Do you mean Raven, your brother?"

Coyote laughed again, and flickered, walking sideways on the wall, then bounding across the sand, kicking it up where he passed.

He sees that which will be - he alters that which will be, He is not raven, he speaks truths which must be.

I waited. Coyote continued after licking his behind.

All the speaker of ravens would say, was that I am bound to my children - and my children are free.

I frowned, glancing down at my bag, at the holo-projector. I thought of the indigenous peoples of this continent, how they had been enslaved, but their spirits, the projection of their collective souls, had been weakened over generations, unable to help or defend them from their enemies in a way that mattered.

"You're going to ask me to do something I won't like, aren't you." I stated it, I could see it.

I saw the mirth in his eyes, and I groaned internally.

Five weeks later, with a different name and wearing a different face, I stepped aboard the Phylaxian starship 'T'klalo'. We were leaving - Coyote said he wanted to visit mars, said that "Red Stone was familiar". I brought a few things - a tuft of fur. That skull of a coyote I found on the bone-hill outside the old town I had called home. One of the ghost- rocks from that canyon, full of people he had cursed. A few scraps of a former life as I breathed oddly stale air, surrounded by wealthy people and strange, violet-skinned and vaguely humanoid aliens with pronounced spines we had learned were venomous.

There were several steps to this plan. Make it to the Red Planet. Find a suitable place the Terraforming had already finished with - build a shrine as best as I could. In part to Coyote, to become his first place of Power, his first tether. But also...to me. My family. I had paintings to leave on walls, memories to leave behind. Most had passed on - there were few of us lef.

That would anchor him to that world, be Coyote's first step, the first great projection of the subconscious of the human existence to wander out into the wider universe along side us, actively, alongside one of their representatives, able to access their power. He felt that the other shamans who still venerated and called upon him would be able to "Hold the fort and keep the link active" back on earth. He planned on bringing all kinds of gossip.

Coyote had mischief to wreak, and how he had three entire species to wreak it upon.

Through me.

I let myself grin -

Just a little.

I already knew from experience, that as hard as this was going to be,

It was also going to be immensely fun.

[xsapphirescrollsx]

Silver Exposure pt. 6

Corona

Written: 14 Oct 2019

Pairing: Black Female Reader x Dark!Bucky Barnes

You, Bucky, Pepper, and Hope stood on the bank of the Hudson River. You had successfully rescued them from the settlement, though they had probably performed most of the work but you were still proud. Even more so now, because you at least were able to keep up with them enough to get into New York City.

The epicenter of the world stood in dreary glory. You rushed behind them as they ran for an empty building, crossing the desolate street and entered it. You looked around for a second, allowing your eyes to adjust. Chairs, and checkered blue and white table clothes over round tables. To the far right a long counter with a glass display case in the middle.

“God, I feel like I’m about to crawl out of my skin.” You said, rubbing your face sweat began to drip down your neck.

Bucky walked behind the counter and you followed his heavy footfalls into the kitchen.

“It’s the city,” said Hope ominously as she stepped up behind you.

You entered the kitchen, it was a bakery. Though completely sacked in the back, old flour and rolling pins laid on the floor, broken yellow dishes pieces scattered through it.

“We need to get to the tower basement.” Said Pepper, she turned and looked back out the door of the kitchen before fully coming back in.

Bucky tensed, he started to speak but Pepper held her thin hand up in the air.

“I’ll take care of Tony.” She added, “He won’t believe you if he doesn’t see me for himself.”

“Once we’re in – we have to find out how to shut it down.” Hope placed a thin screen on the dusty counter.

For a minute there was silence. Her fingers flew over the commands. Your eyes swept from Hope’s steely determined glare at the screen to Pepper’s resilient, raw power as she clicked back the gun in her hand.

Finally, you shifted toward Bucky standing near you, he crossed his arms over his wide chest and turned toward you. A smile met you. He always seemed to have one for you now.

“Here.” She pointed to an access shaft on the corner of the screen. “This is our way in, there is also a space here.” Your eyes glided with the shift in the screen to a large rectangular box. “Most of the generated power is produced here.”

“Shut it down for good?” asked Pepper.

Hope nodded. “I think so.”

“What about going inside? Is there a program to shut it down within the basement?” asked Bucky.

“We don’t have the suit,” said Hope. “I attempted to collect pieces of it– Bosch Settlement, I was meeting someone there. Then Clint moved us.”

“Tony’s been intercepting Steve for months now. He was there. I bet he’s got most of it by now.” Said Bucky, his eyes lingered toward you.

The pain in your bones hadn’t dulled nor had it let you forget that this foreign object was attached to you. “What does this suit do?” you asked.

“We created it to enter the next dimension. There was a theory that a person could walk between realities. We wanted to get the stones, unsnap everybody back to the world.”

“Who’s we?” your eyes glanced at Hope’s hands as she shut the screen off.

Hope tucked the screen into the front of the combat vest. “Carol Danvers, Tony, and me. There were others there, like you.” She jerked her head toward Bucky.

“And Thor, Wanda, Steve, and Clint.” Added Bucky.

Hope stepped away, glided her fingers over the flour-dusted island. “It didn’t work. Something different occurred, a split.” She said and rounded back toward the group.

“Can you feel it?” Hope asked. “That anger in your chest?” she pointed at her own, poked it hard as she glared at you. The tightening around your ribs increased, the thump in your wrist shivered up your arm too.

“It infected Carol first.” Said Pepper.

“Her and Steve for sure.” Bucky retorted.

“But that’s what it does,” said Hope. “The portal at first drew its power from what we provided. But now…it appears to create some of its own. A self-sustaining system is developing. And the stronger it gets the more powerful the buildup. It’s dark energy. That suit was made of it, and I believe the suit is the last component to shutting the door. I think it could end this hell.”

“How is it going to end what’s going on out there?” you asked.

“It’s a reset. Can’t you see? Once we shut off the machine it will start us over.”

“But if we get all of the pieces of it-“ started Pepper.

“Well we can’t depend on what might be.” snapped Hope. “This is the best I can think of right now. We’ve got to do something.”

“Then it’s good enough,” said Bucky.

It was true. The space looked bigger on screen than it appeared. You laid in the shaft, below the square space was already crowded with Hope standing in front of a panel. Miles of blue, white, and red wires snaked up the shaft and disappeared above your head. Pepper and Bucky squeezed in next to her.

He motioned to you to drop into the space. With one last glance, you turned around, stuck your feet out of the shaft and began to shimming down. But faster than you intended coupled with the pain in your left wrist shot up to your elbow. In the least graceful way, your legs flailed as you tumbled down the wall.

But hands caught you. Bucky held you around the waist allowing you to slowly touch the floor.

“This shit isn’t going to work.” Hope hissed. “I can’t access it.”

“Not that it would matter now. Look.” Hope shifted out of the way. Silvery, purple light flashed and danced off the metal in the space around you. Beyond it, as you peered over Pepper’s shoulder, you could see the edge of a massive pool of energy swirl.

“You know-” A voice chipped off into the metal cavern. Pepper gasped, you watched as she turned her head toward the shaft squeezing her eyes shut. “You really should have known I would have tracked that arm,” said Tony flatly.

The blast knocked Hope into the three standing behind her. Bricks, cement, and metal bent blasted opened into the basement leaving a gaping hole.

Tony stepped into vision. Devoid of his signature armor, he only wore a smug grin. But it faded as his eyes widen when they fell to Pepper.

“Pep?” he asked.

The back of Pepper’s head bounced up and down. She helped Hope back up who stepped out first. And then Tony stuck out his hand. Pepper did not hesitate and before she was completely free of the rubble Tony had her within his arms.

“Tony, Tony. Stop. Listen.” She shushed at him as he kept trying to pull her back to him. “We have to shut that portal down.”

“No shit. I’ve been trying to do that for years.” He said. “Where have you been? I never stopped believing…I didn’t want to think you were dead.” He tried to pull her in again but she only kissed him and glanced over her shoulder.

Bucky nudged you forward, gratefully he held your arm as you stepped over the dusted concrete.

Tony stepped back from Pepper, pointed at the man directly behind. “What’s he doing?” he asked, ill content dripped from his words.

You quickly stepped to the side, near Hope to allow Bucky to clear the hole.

The pain had never left. The dull ache in the bones of your wrist ground together as the metal tightened.

Pepper stroked Tony’s chest. “He’s going to help-Tony. I have-“ she tried to speak.

“No. You killed Clint.” He jerked his hand again toward Bucky. “And from the reports, I’ve received you also killed Steve.”

Pepper started to speak, agape she turned toward Bucky eyed him for a moment. “It doesn’t matter.” She said softly.

You tried to stay aware. But a wave of pain sent searing shards of hot deep twinges up to your shoulder. “Hey.” You whispered, tried to clear your throat but another shooting pain doubled you over.

“Murdering piece of- admit it!” Tony shouted.

“Clint sold your wife. And well, Steve? You would have done the same.” said Bucky.

A weak cry followed by an even more feeble sob shuttered from your chest. “Please. Help me.”

You jerked up the sleeve revealing the raw bubbled skin of your wrist. Still deeply buried into the flesh of your wrist the metal began to turn silver. The whooshing of water echoed from behind you. Farther down the room, the source of light, the portal churned. It blurred a bit, the longer you stared at the circular eddy the louder it became. You swayed were you stood as another wave of pain crawled over your left shoulder and down your back.

Bucky was at your side before the buckling of your legs. “What’s wrong with her?” asked Bucky to Tony.

“That’s the last piece.” He blinked a few times, gestured toward your wrist and then stared at Pepper. “Why is the final piece of my suit on this woman’s body?”

“I made that suit.” Chimed in Hope.

“Nobody here is keeping count princess. I’m talking about a highly unstable metal made from the guts of universes that is attached to her wrist.”

“Take it off.” You croaked.

Hope’s voice as she spoke was icy. “It’s not that easy.”

“What was that noise?” said the voice of a woman. Her long deep red hair floated in behind her.

“I was just cleaning house, Wanda. Look what I found,” said Tony. He started toward you never taking his eyes off the device on your wrist.

“Pepper! Hope?” said Wanda. She ran to Hope and wrapped her arms around her neck. “I thought I would never see you again.” She said tearfully.

“Wait.” Tony suddenly stilled, his mask rolled over his face bit by bit. “We have incoming.”

“Carol?” asked Pepper. “Tony we have to shut it down.”

Tony’s head shifted in your direction. “There’s only one way. But it looks like we’re out of time.”

He was right. The ceiling caved in just above the group. Darkness assailed you along with asphalt, concrete, and water from busted pipes poured down. Bucky pulled you, in a direction you did not know. But you felt even weaker when you tried to help him by running too.

Steadily, over mounds of debris, you climbed with Bucky and then back down again. Finally, you cleared most of it topside with his help. A few yards away whirled the gaping pulsing portal. Passed another deafening crash light blasted and mixed with the now present swirl of silver shimmer.

Carol’s bright dusky blindly corona dimmed as she stepped near the portal.

“I wouldn’t go any closer.” Shouted Tony. “You’ve done enough damage, Danvers.”

Tony landed with a thud. And then another, though lighter, landed just behind him. Pepper, in a sleeker model of his suit, blue and silver glistened as she strode powerfully.

“Damage?” asked Carol, her voice as light as the fading fiery licks around her as she turned. “I simply freed the world. People can use the pain. Weld it like a weapon. It’s the only thing that works.”

Unable to keep your head upright it hung. Resting, you told yourself. Gushes of water trickled in between the silence. Falling from somewhere in the gaping hole behind you began to pool around your feet.

“Okay enough of the evil talk. Go away. Let us fix this.” Said Tony.

Weakly you raised your head. Bucky’s warm fingers of his metal hand turned your head toward him. Shadows darkened most of his face. But you caught the look of concern in his eyes. Other than his metal hand it was the only part of him that vibrantly shone back at you in the dark.

Carefully, he held you around your shoulders as his metal hand dropped to your injured wrist. You watched him caress up your arm until he looked back at the scene.

“Fix it?” said Carol, you saw her move from the corner of your eye as she took a step near. “That would imply that you’ve found all of it. Where is it?”

Tony’s head shifted toward Pepper before turning back toward Carol.

“Wasn’t going that route. But if you won’t go then I guess we will have to make you leave.”

Tony and Pepper, shot Carol at the same time. Quick to defense, she blasted her power raising it as a shield to their bombardment. The force of it rocked you back even has Bucky held onto you tighter.

“We gotta get out of here.” Said Bucky.

“Negative.” Tony’s voice crackled into your earpiece. “Your girlfriend has the main piece.”

A burst of energy zoomed by your body as Bucky tore you to the wet concrete.

“We’ve been hacked.” Said Tony. Rounds of his bright beams landed far too close to you.

Laughter filled your immediate area. Made of fire you shield your eyes to the rays as bright as the sun. “You put it on?” asked Carol stepping over the concrete and making the metal bars melt under her footing.

Carol bent down to grab you but Bucky hit her with his arm. It knocked her back but she hit him even harder sending him skidding toward the portal. He was running back to you when a hot vice gripped your neck. Carol yanked you up from the ground squeezing away little chance to draw in a clean breath. Your skin bubbled into blisters where she held. The smell of it drifted in around your tiny gulps through your nose as you tried to claw at her energetic invisible shield.

“I’ll take that.” Her voice filtered up to you just as your eyes stared down at her menacing grin.

You come undone. Carol lets you breathe but only so you can feel the searing pain she applies when she grabs the device melted to your bones. Tears pour from your eyes. She burns you with her touch. Controlled, the burning in your wrist intensifies to the point you aren’t sure it could be felt any harsher.

You sobbed into the shredded basement.

Red, silky energy began to wrap around Carol’s legs. Tendrils, sparkling and dense crept up her hips and around her waist. And then squeezed.

You dropped to the ground and held your wrist to your ribs. Scrambling away to your feet Bucky caught you just as volleys of energy hit you in the back. Bucky held on to you, the shots stunned parts of you, like your thighs, hips but surprisingly it felt easier now to move.

“We need the suit.” Shouted Tony.

“Take it!” you screamed as Bucky huddled with you behind a mound of debris.

“Can’t.”

“It’s already calibrated to your body.” Shouted Hope.

“She’s right. No time to recalibrate.”  

You stare at the falling droplets. It wouldn’t be so bad. Death. Better than this world, you thought. From what had unfolded within the span of a day and night the thought of a peaceful rest looked appealing.

Bucky came in close. He knelt in front you, crowded you as he grabbed for your arm.

“We gotta think of something else.”

A crash near sent piles of dirt around you. Bucky plucked you up and sat you back down away from the falling trash.

“No time. Look, Barnes,” said Tony. Bucky held your face in his hands. “I know what this means. I was going to do it myself. But if we want to close this it has to happen now.”

“This can’t happen,” Bucky whispered, the big man you had begun to admire shrunk before your eyes. His shoulders sagged as he reached in and pulled you into his arms. “Bucky.” You said softly, your hand now lost in his hair glided to his shoulder.

“Bucky, I’ll go.” You said more forcefully, with better conviction.

“She needs to, Barnes. This is the last chance-hurry!” yelled Tony.

“I’ll do it.” You said again.

“Just so you know, if you’re exposed to that. There’s no coming back.” Said Hope.

“Do you hear them?” Bucky picked you up from the ground as he spoke. “You don’t-“

“There can be more.” You broke through, maybe for good this time. You stroked his beard, dirty wet fingers caressed over his bottom lip. “This world, it can be more. I can help.” You said softly.

You held onto his shirt, leaned forward and pressed your lips to his. He tasted of smoke, wet sticky burned earth, and water. You inhaled him, tried to hang on to just how he tasted and smelled. You wanted it to last forever.

“Are you ready? Incoming.” Said Tony.

You broke the kiss. “Ready.” You answered as the first piece hit your back thrust you forward into Bucky. You tasted hot metal in your mouth. The effect was like rocket fuel and burned down the pathway of your esophagus. The metal burned away your shirt and melted right into your skin. A blast of energy rushed through you. It soothed the pain a bit but not enough to make it feel right. No, the ache of the metal adhered to your ribs, your spine as it broke through your skin.

You pivoted unsteadily toward the wind rushing over the mound of debris. The portal was close enough, but you would have to run for it.

Another piece attached to your leg, and then another to your wrist completing the armor to your left arm.

“Go. Go. Go. Go!” yelled Tony.

“Tony!” shouted Pepper.

Further behind you where there once was a shaft hidden within a blasted hole a burning object was descending. Fast, the roar of her power steadily grew louder the closer she approached.

Two more pieces attached to your legs completely the bottom half. You ran for it with Bucky close behind. You shielded your head from the barrage of concrete and metal Carol used as fodder to shoot at you.

The last glove attached. Energy, like never felt before, pulsed through you in the same pattern of the whirl of the portal. The chest piece slapped on you, knocking you slightly to the left and causing Carol to sweep passed you. You were within spitting distance. You could feel the energy of the gateway calling to the power coursing in your veins.

Carol looped around the portal. To your right, she swooped down, like a great burning ball of white and yellow. The last sleek piece slammed on to your face. And with the last addition, an enormous blast of energy exploded from the portal knocking Carol out of your way.

You skidded to a halt. You breathed into the mask, couldn’t feel on your skin. Were you even alive anymore? You turned to look for Bucky, he was far away, almost back at the stack of concrete, laying on his back. You were alone and afraid of what should come next. But how was your heart so steady? You should have been more fearful, but you weren’t. The old you would have sobbed the old you would have run.

But you turned back to the portal.

A call. From deep within you, it hummed up your spine and into your ears. It resonated warmth, and pain all blended into an ancient hymn of servitude. And it called for you.

Another one of Carol’s energy bombs blasted passed you and hit the portal.

You ran. Harder than you could have possibly imaged, you bit through the pain. The faces of loved ones passed flashed through your mind. The beautiful wondrous places you had seen but never appreciated became the background noise to the image of Bucky’s lips. Those rough hands running down your back.

And then you jumped toward it headfirst.

You disappeared into the whirling silver strobe of light.

[whirlybirbs]

MOONLIT DUNES.    ;    boba fett / reader     ;     1 / ?

summary: you’ve found many things in the dunes. a gravely injured mandalorian is a new thing to add to the ever growing list. set directly after return of the jedi. 

word count: 3.5k

pairing: boba fett / scavenger!reader

tags: some body horror, injury mention, boba loses his leg, reader does first aid,  the great pit of carkoon really did one on our man

a/n: my hand slipped i swear.............. (this has been in the works since may)

In all your years spent drifting about the land of Tatooine, you’ve found many things in the dunes.

Rare racing pod parts that had been discontinued after years of upgrades... Discarded weaponry, no doubt used for something more nefarious than Bantha hunting... and many, many skulls, sentient and otherwise.

Such comes with the life of a scavenger — live off the land and the things buried deep; harvest trinkets of lives long since forgotten in the ever changing tides of glittering sand.

However, never in your life —  in all the days spent beneath the twin brother suns —  have you ever found someone alive in the dunes.

Until today, that is.

You should have known venturing North of Mos Eisley was a bad idea. After all, the plains beyond the space port were ridden with starved sarlacc pits. But, with Tanto — the resident Junk Boss — down your throat about catching up on your few owed debts, you’d decided to weigh the risk and trek on towards the looming beast on the horizon: the Great Pit of Carkoon. With any luck, you’d be able to scavenge what little undigested pieces the massive creature had belched back up — maybe some Gamorian armor, or a blaster or two — after one of Jabba’s usual disposal runs.

Ah, Jabba.

Rumor had it that Jabba Desilijic Tiure was dead.

You knew better than to ask about mere rumors being tossed around the clock-out lines as you turned in your hauls for the day. Like you did every evening, you kept your head down. But, you did listen. You always listen — and from what you could gather, there’d already been a few scavenging parties dispatched to the Northern region.

Something about a jedi, a princess and a hell of a mess.

Not that any of that mattered — because dwelling on some fantastical retelling of a lie by Frokop Golp, the resident drunk swindler, wasn’t going to keep you fed. You were hoping that at the least, the part about one of Jabba’s sail barges going down by the Great Pit of Carkoon wasn’t a lie. Then, you could maybe find a few transistor coolant coils...

The dawning realization that you were betting another day’s ration portion on a spun half-truth embellished by the local drunkard hits you as your dewback, a kindly older male you’d named Scud, finally reaches the crest of the highest dune overlooking the Carkoon wastes. For a moment, as you squint into the setting sun, you wonder if this is even going to be worth it.

You sigh, adjusting the light linen face covering over your nose and mouth, and gently urge Scud forward.

No use in dwelling. You’re already here.

“Hup.”

As you near, the wreckage seems to have been picked over completely. Scud plods slowly towards the wreck, tail swatting cautiously as the sarlacc a few meters ahead gives a low hiss at the vibrations riling it awake through the sand. You rock with the slow canter, one hand on the horn of the saddle and the other moving to reach behind you to your pack.

There rests a longspear — the top is crowned with the head of a gaderffii. You’d made it ages ago, well before your fifteen birthday, and it had become as much as a steadfast companion as Scud himself. With a flick and a satisfying click, the longspear extends from it’s compacted state. Resting the butt end against your forearm as Scud continues his meandering pace, you run the spear tip through the sand to your left.

No give.

The dunes creating a wall around the beast’s mouth stand strong. Over the large ridge, and a handful of meters away, tentacles swing eagerly through the air like malicious little whips, hungry for their next meal. The hulking beast, well over 10,000 years old, knows you’re here now — the desperate moan from it’s gaping maw is enough of an indication of that fact.

For now, keeping your distance and guiding Scud towards the barge, you’re safe.

The party barge had certainly seen better days — seems like a bolt from the main gun had ruptured a fuel line below the deck. Half submerged in an encroaching dune, you’re not surprised to be greeted by the foul stench of sun-rotting corpses as you hop down from Scud. Your boots, made of stretched and tanned Bantha hide, kick up a cloud of dust when you land.

Even with the twin suns beginning to set, the sand is hot.

There are footpaths leading to the barge, partially washed away by the wind pulling the sand closer to the mangled helm of the ship. Patting Scud’s neck as you pass, you grip your staff tightly — one tap of the durasteel spear to the twisted hole in the starboard side sends a scattering hiss of a pack of womp rats caught lounging in the evening shade. Carefully, you duck beneath the warped siding and over the lip of metal, eyes flicking around the cavernous sail barge.

The engine room is where you find yourself… or, well, what’s left of it. The engine has since bottomed out of the barge, no doubt laying in the dunes a few meters away. The smell of propulsion liquid burns in your nostrils, even with your white linen head-covering wrapped tight across your face.

You move on, hauling yourself towards the engine and grabbing two of the smaller propulsion pistons from the transmission. You swing your staff across your shoulder. The strap digs into your neck as you lean into the engine and try to disconnect the main hydraulic line from the engine part.

There’s a part of you, small and girlish, that remembers being scared of dark wreckages like this when you were younger. The terrifying scenario of stumbling into a krayt dragon’s nest used to play over and over in your head; and even now, the irrational little thought nags the back of your mind like a bite from a sand flea. What was rumbling beneath the sand, ready to make you its next meal?

In reality, the most likely scenario would be Tusken scouts roughing you up over encroaching on their territory.

Scud, though, you trusted enough to give holler at the sight of another being — skittish was one of his best traits, especially when sometimes the biggest danger out here in the dunes (aside from sarlaccs) was other sentients.

If the Kiqan tribe spotted you this far out? At worst, you’d lose some of the scavenged parts from earlier in the day as a barter. The Kiqan, the tribe local to this region, knew well enough that the majority of scavengers meant well. Unlike some of the tribes native to the Western lands, the Kiqans have come to terms with the traffic coming in and out of Mos Eisley.

Their chief, a broad and strong woman called Rhaza’hoq, led a clan of twenty Tusken men and women. On more than one occasion, you’d crossed paths with her — you’d come to recognize the womp rat jaw as a part of her head covering and a pelt of bantha donning her shoulders. Though their native tongue felt wrong to you, like prying dry sounds right from your throat, you’d tried to apologize for your trespass.  

That seemed to have been enough respect garnered for the chief to allow you to pass through the Bo’mar Flats in peace. You’d even offered up an armful of rifle components as a gesture of good faith — one you haven’t regretted since.

If they were to catch you here, you’d lose a good lump sum of money. The two battered sheets of durasteel strapped to the side of Scud, each four feet by four feet, would catch a fair price at the Junkyard in Mos Eisley. So, you quietly resign your attempt to dislodge the third propulsion piston and shoulder the two others. Your sack swings heavily against your hip as you plant your boot on the lip of the engine and reach through the hole the ignition blast caused in the floor.

Almost as immediately as you haul yourself up do you regret it.

The smell is wretched, and as you cough and gag you can’t help but recoil in disgust.

Your arrival on the main floor of the sail barge brings with it the cacophonous sound of cave beetles wings; the insects scatter as you press your forearm to your face — you’re left only to stare in horror at the sight before you.

Jabba Desilijic Tiure was very dead.

The infamous Hutt is little more than a snack for the various animals who have come and gone from the wreckage, now. Reduced only to a rotting mess of flesh and bones, you feel the swell of bile creep up into your throat as you tear your gaze away.

“Gods above,” you heave, coughing loudly.

That’s when you hear it.

A weak sound.

A strangled moan.

Small, quiet, and nearly nothing but a whimper.

For a moment, your muscles seize up so tightly that you're left holding your breath — was that you? Had that sound slipped from your throat the moment you’d let your eyes slip to the open windows along the starboard side of the ship, overlooking the Great Pit beyond the dune ridge?

Then, you see him.

It’s the single weak raise of a gloved hand in the dirt that spurs you into motion.

Scud, too, in that moment must have realized you both weren’t alone — he gives a great baying moan as you scramble, slipping through the whole and back down the engine. You scale it with ease, staff swung over your shoulder at the ready the moment your boots hit the ground.

You dart out into the sun, escaping the festering wreck, and bolt towards what you had previously thought was just a mangled, twisted piece of a rear booster. Making your way up the rising dune, you groan and push your muscles to reach what you now recognized as a destroyed jetpack — and beneath it, a man.

Your spear greets his body first, rounded butt end planting itself beneath his side and with one good nudge, rolling him over.

That’s when you realize he is very much alive and he is very much missing a leg.

Almost immediately, you sink to the dirt.

He’s big. His chest bears a cracked and scathed piece of armor. One arm, with a tattered sleeve and no glove, bears a shoulder pauldron with an insignia long since charred away. It seems like the entire left side of his body had been scorched by some sort of blast. His jetpack, mangled and shredded, is the first to go. You unbuckle the straps along his arms with an utterance of apology.

You’re greeted with a low groan. Slight protest.

Confusion.

His eyes do not open. Swollen eyelids stay shut.

Clicking your tongue and hollering in Huttese, your lumbering dewback trods closer.

His face is sunburnt, the plains of his sharp cheekbones blistering from the exposure to the sun and sand — though, something ticks in the back of your mind. These burns are fresh. From the last day at least. Suddenly, you’re wondering if he’s a fellow scavenger who’d fallen into the pit.

The jetpack would explain the escape.

You toss the pack down the hill.

You follow it, tripping down the sand towards the side of Scud as you scramble for one of the durasteel sheets. Laying it flat on the hot sand, you wonder how on earth this man had survived this long…. A day at least, judging by the sand swept around him and the burns along his arms and face. How long had he been in The Pit?

Gods above.

The Bo’mar Flats were not a kind place when left to the elements.

You land beside the man once more, this time speaking loudly.

“I am going to help you.”

You’re not sure if you’re saying it more for yourself or him.

There’s a part of you, as your eyes flick down to the stump of his left leg, that would give anything to turn away. Ride off, forget the gorish scene. Yet, the better part of you knows you’d simply come back come morning and do the same thing you’re doing now.

And then, come daybreak, he may not even be alive.

You tell yourself, as you squat and try and get a good grip, that you’re doing exactly what anyone else would do. But the reality is that’s far from the truth. Out here, it’s eat or be eaten.

With your luck, you’re stumbling into a metaphorical krayt dragon’s nest helping this man.

If only you knew.

You root both your fists in the material around his shoulders, worn enough to show the outline of where armor used to sit. And you pull.

It’s no easy feat. Even with gravity working in your favor, you’re struggling to haul the large man down the dune. The sand simply drags along, digging him into the dune as you curse in Huttese and spit out profanities sharp enough to make Scud shift on his peds. Your knuckles ache, fingernails having dug half moons into your palms through the material of his under-armor tunic. Landing backwards, you curse. But, you get back up again, and you pull.

It takes ten minutes to move him two meters to the durasteel sled downhill — and even longer to maneuver him onto the steel piece of scavenged material. By the end of it, you’re prying your scarf from your mouth to breath. Sweat tickles the back of your neck as your hands hit your knees and you groan.

“Koochoo,” you hiss at yourself in Huttese. Idiot is right. This is stupid.

Throughout this, the wounded man has offered nothing, not a single peep — you wonder if his last ditch hail of his hand was the only bit of energy he had left.

With him now on the makeshift sled, you move towards Scud’s left pack. Inside, you dig out your canteen and a spare bacta pack. The water sloshes around the hollow metal sphere. Once cold from your early hour of embarking, it’s warm to the touch.

It’s been a hot day.

Overhead, the twin suns have melted into a hazy coral color. They hang low across the horizon, suspended in a flickering bob of heat that dances across the clouds.

You fall to your knees in the sand. You need to move quickly. Soon, the sun will set and getting back to your hut just north of Mos Eisley is an hour’s ride at best.

The lower part of his left leg, from the knee down, is gone. The bleeding had long since stopped, clotted up from the sand and what looks like corrosive burns… Sure enough, the same patterning around his wrists tell you he sure as all kriff has been in the belly of the Great Pit of Carkoon. It’s the stomach acid that has melted the skin together just enough to halt the bleeding along his knee.

You exhale. Short and quick. Then, you pour your water across the limb.

That earns a loud groan of protest. Good to know he’s still alive.

The bacta is next, squeezed from the age old tube in a glob that lands above the wound. With an iron gut and quick sense of criticality, you rinse your own hands with water, all before holding your breath and pushing the palm sized amount across the mangled flesh and muscle. You try not to think about the way your own knee twitches, and instead, focus on planting your hand on the man’s chest — for the first time, he gives a true indication he feels it. The man writhes, contorting himself as a painful series of expletives fly from his mouth.

The chest plate buckles slightly, and when you lift your palm, the dirt smeared away shows a small emblem… Tan and green and red. What looks like wheat and a drop of blood…

It’s familiar, but you can’t remember why. You’ve seen it somewhere. Chewing the inside of your lip, you tear your eyes away and you move on. In a flash, you’ve hauled the linen head wrap from your hair. With the sun setting, you won’t need it as much as he will — keeping the sand out of the clean-enough wound will make a difference once you get him back to your home.

A part of you wonders if this man has any credits at all — truth be told you certainly don’t have enough to cover a visit to the local doctor. As you finish tying off his thigh, you reason that conversation is a bridge you can cross when you get there. For now, let’s just hope you can get him back to your dwelling alive.

Away from this wretched wreck.

By the time you’re mounted back up on Scud’s back, the suns have begun to dip below the dunes on the farthest horizon — the stars melt as they disappear, casting the shadows of the dunes in inky blacks. Behind Scud, the stranger is dragged, rigged to the saddle by two extending cables originally scavenged off an abandoned pod-racing setup, out by Bestine. The plating he rests on glides across the sand, leaving patterns in the dunes. You crane your neck, turning in the saddle, and frown.

There was certainly a first for everything.

⋆   ⋆   ⋆

Boba Fett wakes to the sight of a dirt ceiling.

The stirring confusion of unconsciousness subsides and almost immediately he is roused by pain — then comes the startling panic.

Is he dead?

Where is he?

What in the hell happened?

This is not the barge; there is no Luke Skywalker here, nor Solo nor the Wookie... The Pit… He’d fallen in. Yea, yea, he remembers that. But, he got out. Jetpack punctured. Flew him straight into the air. Burns. That’s the pain he feels. Burns? Yes. His back.

His leg. Something feels different. An ache. He tries to move his feet.

Boba groans, angled features contorting into a pained look as he tries to sit up on the cot; but suddenly, there’s a hand on the center of his chest. Gently, the hand pushes him down to the pillows.

Slowly, dark brown eyes follow the hand. Wrist, arm, shoulder, face.

Headscarf.

The first thing he realizes is that your eyes are beautiful, but soft. There’s kohl lining your eyes, making your stare piercing. Your brows are knotted in concern, and though he cannot make out the words that fall from your lips, he can understand the tone to be gentle. You’re speaking Huttese.

… Gods damn it all.

The Hutts.

Jabba.

Son of bitch was probably dead. He’s sure that the Desilijic Clan will have something to say about that.

Boba’s eyes slip shut as he exhales.

Sleep takes him easily.

⋆   ⋆   ⋆

When he wakes again, it’s evening. There are candles burning in the room, and once his eyes adjust he can make out your figure through a blanket covering the doorway at the end of the room — through the crack, he can see that you’re cooking over a small stove-top. He is laid up in the bedroom, he realizes, and on the floor across from the cot he lays upon is a pile of pillows.

You must have been watching over him.

Instantly, he’s looking for his blaster.

Call it a habit.

The mere act of bending sends pain shooting up his spine; and Boba finds himself gritting his jaw tightly as his knuckles tense and he tries to see any remnants of his armor or pack or weapons.

The commotion summons you in a flash.

This time, you have no headscarf on; Boba can now see the swell of your lips and the kind slope of your nose. You’re beautiful — his bruised and bloodshot eyes follow you as you glide into the room and duck beneath the patterned blanket separating the bedroom from the kitchenette.

There’s a plate of food in your hand. A fork and a knife rest on the edge of the painted plate.

“Careful,” comes a gentle utterance as you place the food beside his head on the table there, “Take it easy.”

Your basic is dashed with the light accent of Huttese. The syllables are melodic and gentle. You reach to help him into a sitting position, keen on making sure he’s comfortable —

Like a sand viper, the man before you has snatched the knife from the plate, swinging his hand quickly with a lethal sense of precision that stuns you silent. The coolness of the durasteel utensil is pressed right to your throat.

You can see the muscles in his arms tense, the sharp rise and fall of his bare chest. The blanket across his lap has slipped to his waist. Your jaw tilts upward, expression souring quickly. The kindness in your eyes quickly turns to ice.

When you raise your eyes to meet his, all Boba can see is defiance.

“Who are you?” he grits out hoarsely, “And how did I get here?”

“I found you,” you hiss, words scathing and hot as you raise both hands. There’s a wrinkle forming on the bridge of your nose, giving way to the angered expression flooding your face, “I’m beginning to see why The Great Pit of Carkoon spat you back up.”

The tension that builds settles heavily between you both.

And then, Boba Fett lowers the knife.

[earlysunsetsoverambrose]

Fool For You (1/4)

Lester Sinclair x f!Reader

Warnings: Cursing

Description: You are head over heels in love with the youngest Sinclair, but he could not be more oblivious to your feelings. 

A/N: Thanks to @mynameisliterallycash for the request! I was hitting a wall with writing, but this helped get the gears turning again! I hope this is what you wanted and that you enjoy! 

The sun streaming through your window roused you from a steady slumber. You groaned, stretching out your limbs until you finally collapsed back onto the mattress with a sigh. The sleep from your eyes cleared as you thought of the dream you had last night. Your heart raced remembering the way he took you in his arms and finally said he loved you too. You were so happy you could cry and now you could almost cry at realizing it was just another dream. He seemed to be all that occupied your thoughts: Lester Sinclair.

Lester was all you had energy for these days. If you weren’t with him, you were thinking about when you’d see him again. Even your dream world revolved around him as he’d made an appearance almost every night lately. You were like a damn schoolgirl; and it was as exhilarating as it was humiliating. You thought you were past the days of pining over boys, but here you were.

Slowly, you’d fallen head-over-heels for the man. His self-effacing humor, kind heart, and generous nature won you over so effortlessly. You didn’t even realize where you were headed until your little crush became an intense, desperate love for you closest friend. It practically consumed you.

It wouldn’t be so bad if Lester would just put you out of your misery. Falling in love with him was incredibly easy, but telling him was the biggest pain in your ass since Bo Sinclair.

It wasn’t for lack of trying. You tried hundreds of different ways – of varying levels of subtlety – to tell him how you feel. Extra physical affection? Nothing. Complimenting him on literally everything? Nothing. Baking treats specifically for him? Nothing. Asking him if he’d ever been in love before? Not a damn thing. You were running out of ways to get your point across.

Even if he didn’t notice the romantic intentions, he was always so receptive and enthusiastic, you couldn’t be upset for too long. Being a touch-oriented person by nature, he welcomed the extra hugs, squeezing you to your heart’s content. Your compliments always made him blush and he’d pay you back with as much flattery and twice the charm. After every treat you baked, he carved you thoughtful trinkets from wood and bone. And when you asked him about being in love, he lit up as he rambled on about a dog he met that confirmed for him the existence of true love. God, he was a goofball. You loved him so much.

At this point, you were vacillating between whether you should tell him at all, since everything you tried seemed to go over his head. You weren’t even sure he liked you back. Sometimes, you thought he might, but he was so nice to everyone, it was hard to tell. Maybe he really didn’t notice, or he did and he was trying not to hurt your feelings. Both were possibilities, but you sincerely hoped it was the former. But how could he not get it? Maybe you were better off as friends. It’d probably be easier.

You looked at the clock, realizing you would have to put your pity party on hold. Though the smallest part of you wanted to stay in bed and return to your dreamland where you knew Lester loved you back, you’d much rather spend all the time you could with him in the real world. You had plans to go to town with Lester to pick up more dog food. When he asked you if you wanted to tag along for his day off, you jumped at the chance to go with him. Anything for a few more hours together.

Once you got cleaned up and dressed, you jogged down the stairs and straight to the front door. You took a seat on the bottom step of the porch to wait for Lester to come pick you up. A shiver ran through your body, adjusting to the chilly breeze. You looked up at the sky to find it overcast, matching your mood. You wondered if it would rain.

You heard the door open and shut, followed by heavy steps down the stairs. You didn’t have to turn around to know who it was.

“Waitin’ for Lester to pick you up for your date?” Bo prodded, taking a sip from his coffee mug.

“It’s not a date.” You sighed, too caught up in your thoughts to fight with Bo.

“But you want it to be, don’t you?” He snorted, “You’ve had it bad for him for how long now?”

“Can’t you just go on to work without harassing me? Be nice for once and go away.” you asked, finally looking up at him to meet his classic smirk.

“Look, kid, if you wanna get anywhere with Lester, you’re gonna have to spell it out for him.” Bo advised, “God love him, but there’s nothin’ in his head. Plus, he’s dumb as a sack of hammers when it comes to women and sex.”

“Stop it.” You snapped, “Lester’s not stupid. And I don’t remember asking for your advice.”

“Well, you need it.” Bo interjected, “But if you wanna keep pussyfooting around and die alone, that’s your God given right.”

“Truly inspiring.” You said sarcastically, “You should become a life coach.”

“Thought about it, pay was shit though.” Bo quipped without missing a beat. He gave you a soft kick on the leg as his best attempt at comfort, before finally granting your wish for him to leave. He hopped in his truck and took off down the hill.  

You thought about what Bo told you. Maybe you should just come out with it already. You tried everything short of saying what you actually meant. You knew that being open and direct was the best way forward, but it would undoubtedly change things between you and Lester – for better or worse. You just dreaded the thought that after you finally told him everything, he simply wouldn’t feel the same. The idea of rejection, especially coming from him, was utterly terrifying. You didn’t think you could handle it if he were to start icing you out. You didn’t want to lose any part of him. Maybe you should have stayed in bed after all.

“Hello, Y/N? Anybody alive in there?”  

You gasped as your heart jolted and you snapped to attention. You looked up to see Lester chuckling at your expense. Even as your heartrate slowed, you felt it stutter at his laughter.

“Don’t sneak up on me like that, Les!” you said with a playful shove, feigning annoyance –your smile betraying you.

“I didn’t mean to spook ya! But I’ve been callin’ your name for two minutes.” Lester told you, “Ya sure were thinkin’ hard ‘bout whatever it was. Somethin’ on your mind?”

“Sorry, I think I’m still waking up.” You excused, adding a fake yawn to really sell it. Lester smiles wide at you, suspecting nothing.

“Well, wake on up then, we got places to be!” Lester said as he offered his hand to pull you up from the stairs. You happily took it and he hoisted you up with ease. Your eyes darted where your hands met as his touch sent sparks through your arm and into your chest. Now, you were just plain staring. He innocently tilted his head, “Ya sure you’re alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine!” you said quickly, releasing his hand. “Come on, I’ll race you to the truck! Last one there has to do all the heavy lifting!”

Lester broke into a sprint without a warning. You wondered how he always seemed to have so much energy at all hours of the day as you struggled to catch up with him.

He made it to the truck first by a long shot. He just smiled when you finally made it, not bothering to gloat. Both of you couldn’t help but laugh as you fought to catch your breath.

“Guess, I win.” Lester said simply

“I’m getting too old for this.” you said as you leaned against the truck for support.

“Oh, you’re never too old for a little fun.” Lester replied clapping you on the back, “’Sides, you’re awake now, ain’t ya?”

“Won’t be for long, if I black out from exhaustion.” You fired back dramatically, “You’re going to have to go on without me.”

“Hey, c’mon now, ya gotta go with me to carry all that dog food. Ya ain’t gettin’ outta this one, drama queen.” Lester played along.

“Vision going dark…legs too weak! Goodbye, cruel world!” you cried out with an exaggerated hand over your face. You made a show of stumbling around like you were about to faint, imitating all the terrible soap operas you caught on television. You wrapped your arms around Lester and made your legs limp, forcing him to support you as he laughed at your antics, “Remember me as I was: unwilling to carry everything by myself.”

“Alright, fine!” Lester agreed as he adjusted you in his grasp so he could look back at you. Your act faltered as you looked up into his warm whiskey stare, savoring the feeling of his arms around you, sturdy and gentle. “I s’pose I’ll help ya out a little. Guess it’s only fair since ya let me win and all.”

“Why, yes, of course, that is exactly what happened. Me, the true winner. I let you win, correct. That was the master plan.” You said, every word dripping with sarcasm. You stood back up, separating yourself from his embrace despite wanting nothing more than to stay that way forever.

“Yes ma’am! Ya coulda left me in the dust, alright, but ya didn’t. Thanks for takin’ it easy on me.” Lester said with a wink and a nudge as he made his way to the driver side of the truck. There he goes again with that unrelenting kindheartedness, “Well, hop in then! We’re burnin’ daylight!”

You opened the passenger door and got in next to Lester. You couldn’t help but look at him from the corner of your eye as he got settled and started the engine. He started driving down the road. You wondered how it was possible no one else had fallen in love with him the way you had so easily. Maybe many already did and they also failed to tell him.

You turned to look at him straight on, while his eyes were on the road. You could feel a fond smile pulling at your cheeks as you gazed at him. He had such an ease about him, you thought he looked so handsome without even trying.

“Do I have somethin’ on my face?” Lester asked, cocking an eyebrow as he looked back at you, “What are ya lookin’ at me like that for?”

“Huh?” you said cluelessly. You had been caught staring again.

“Did I leave the house with a milk moustache or somethin’?” he asked, looking in the rearview mirror to check himself, “Do I got a snot bubble?”

“No, you’re good.” You said, chuckling as you propped your head against your hand by the window. You kept looking at him, practically feeling the hearts flying out of your eyes.

“Whew, had me worried there for a second.”

“Sorry, about that.” You said with a smile, facing front once more.

“Don’t be, I get it, what with my devilish good looks and all.” Lester joked with a hearty laugh, sitting back without another thought. You looked back at him, holding back a sigh of disbelief. He didn’t know the half of it.

You leaned over to turn on the radio hoping some music would ease the tension you were feeling, even though you were sure Lester hadn’t noticed. He was delightfully oblivious to your plight. You heard the beginning of a steady, soft guitar. You immediately recognize the song, internally cursing the irony of it all.

I find it very, very easy to be true I find myself alone when each day is through Yes, I'll admit that I'm a fool for you Because you're mine, I walk the line

Even Johnny Cash could see right through you. As much as you wanted to be irritated with fate, every line perfectly summed up your feelings for Lester. You glanced at him, thinking about how there was no one else in the world who was as right for you. He was just like the song itself; soft and stable.

“You know, I really love this song.” You said hopefully, “Romantic, don’t you think?”

“Sure is,” Lester agreed, with an excited smile and glance in your direction, “But hell if Folsom Prison Blues ain’t one of the best damn songs ever written. That’s my favorite!”

“Oh…that one’s definitely great too.” You said with a small drop of your shoulders. You should have known better than to think that would go anywhere. You straighten up again, giving it another shot, “I Walk the Line just makes me wish I could find the Johnny to my June.”

“Aw, don’t worry about that, none. Won’t be too long ‘fore that happens. I’m surprised none of them bigshot city boys ain’t snatched ya up yet. Guess most of ‘em are just plain stupid. Hell, they gotta be if they ain’t fallin’ over themselves to get a ring on ya.” Lester hyped you up, looking at you, genuine as ever.

“I don’t think I want anyone like that.” You said, “Guys like that really aren’t my type.”

“Well, whoever ya do end up with is gonna be one lucky son of a gun, I’ll tell ya that much.” Lester declared with the utmost certainty.

“I think I’d want him to be like you.” You told him pointedly, scooting closer. Lester gaped, a huge grin still shining through the skepticism.

“Me? Shoot, ya gotta be kiddin’. No way! Ya don’t wanna shack up with a fella like me!” Lester denied with a wave of his hand, clearly amused but not entertaining the notion. He was sure you must be joking.

"Why not?” You asked, “You’re funny, helpful, incredibly reliable, thoughtful, patient, kind. You’re the real deal! Plus, you know everything about everything there is to know about animals. I’m always learning something when I’m with you.”

“Shucks, you’re gonna make me blush,” Lester chuckled, sending you a humble smile as he rubbed his neck, “I don’t know everythin’, but you’re real sweet for sayin’ so. ‘Sides, I don’t think there’re too many ladies that wanna hear me rattlin’ on ‘bout critters and whatnot.”

“Don’t be so sure.” You told him, nudging his shoulder with yours.

“Well, if ya happen to run into anybody ya think won’t mind if I set the mood with a little roadkill, ya send ‘em my way, alright!” Lester told you, slapping his knee. After he finished laughing at himself, he piped up, “You know who I’d marry if I could?”

“Who?” you asked, your heart stopping in its tracks.

“Dolly Parton! Whew that woman sure is somethin’!” Lester told you with a dreamy shake of his head.

You let out a soft sigh as you scooted back to your side; hiding your disappointment by looking out the window. Suddenly, Ring of Fire seemed more appropriate since loving Lester was starting to burn like hell. Even so, you were still charmed by his unrestrained joy as he started whistling along with the radio, totally oblivious to the way your fond smile overtook your features.

[imnotasuperhero]

I would lie and say you’re not in my mind.

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Stark!Reader

Type: Angst.

Summary: Reader finds herself alone, with no explanation as to where Wanda went. And life without her was a true nightmare she could only scape with not-so-nice coping mechanisms.

Wordcount: 2644

Warnings: Drug abuse, one suicidal thought and depression.

A/N: This is my submission for @jbbarnesnnoble writing challenge! I’m so sorry for the delay. Life and work got in the middle, leaving me drained to get some actual writing done. You can search this and other works with the tag #JBBNNMHAMChallenge which deals with different types of mental healt, as to raise awarenes about it.

A/N 2: Since it’s inspired in real events, I decided to twist this and give it a happy ending. People need to know there is hope. No matter how hard life becomes, you’ve got this and you shouldn’t suffer alone. Fight your fear and seek for help. I promise, life is worth living.

A huge than you to @marvelfansince08love for enduring her patience with my rants and mini meltdown about this monster. I could never thank you enough for puting up with my dumb ass, boo. I owe you a lot! <3

If you guys want more, I might have a plot for some kind of spin-off for this story. Just let me know. Also, criticism is welcomed.

"Miss Stark," one of the executives called your attention. "Your nose is bleeding."

Automatically, your fingers found your nose and yup, it was happening. Fucking hell.

Excusing yourself, you left the conference room with rapid steps to the closest bathroom, dismissing whoever you crossed on your way. You weren't new to this, after all.

Once you got the bleeding under control, you inspected yourself in the mirror. The reflection staring back at you was nothing like your old self. The circles under the eyes needed much more concealing and your smiles were forced. But at least you picked a black blouse today, which it'll do until you got a chance to go back home and change.

"Are you sure you don't want to go home?" Julia asked sheepishly.

"No. I'm capable of handling the rest of the day," you mumbled as you finished the last touches to your make-up.

"Mr. Stark could find-"

"Mr. Stark will find out shit," you cut your assistant. "This is just a sneeze that caused a vein to pop. Understood?" You could see how the woman in front of you shivered slightly and you almost laugh at it. You've become so pity.

"Y-yes, Miss. Is there anything else I can do?"

"No." You inspected yourself in the mirror once again before walking out. "Go over the rest of my day and make sure you send the informs to Stewart."

Fortunately, the day progressed smoothly with very few bumps. And none of them were about you, so you took it as a victory.

Kicking your high heels after closing the door behind you, you started to strip while walking towards the bathroom. The weekend was finally here, which meant you could wind out and enjoy your own company. After the latest events on Beto's, you made sure to lay low for a while. You didn't need another clingy bitch hanging from you all the time. You were just a gal wanting to have some release. Nothing more, nothing less.

In the middle of your calming bath, the sharp razor you kept for emergencies caught your eyes. 'God, it'd be so easy.' You thought to yourself. Just a little line in the right place would do it. The consuming pain would disappear and you'd be free. Hell, maybe you'd find her again in the afterlife.

Before you could continue the line of thoughts, your phone rang with your dad's personalized ringtone. Something you made sure of for when you were doing not-so-nice activities.

"Hey, dad." You absentmindedly sank deeper in the tub. The bubbly water covering up to under your jaw.

"Hi, Peanut." Tony's voice soothed your damaged soul the littlest bit. "It's been a while. How are you?"

"I'm fine," you answered nonchalantly. Lying has become second nature by now. "Living the life. How are you guys?"

"That's what I called you about. Pepper and I want you to come to spend the weekend here. We barely see you outside work so we thought it'd be nice to take advantage of the long weekend. Pleeeeaaase? With a cherry on top?" He finished in a child's voice and you felt your heart squeeze itself.

Truth was, you were tired of lying all the time. You were tired of faking and saying you were okay when you weren't.

"Okay," you sighed. 

"Yay!" Yup, he was a child. "We'll get your room ready. We'll have your favorite."

You didn't know the exact moment you started crying, your dad going a mile a minute talking about his latest invention and how he'd love for you to help him figure out the last touches.

Hanging up, you finally let out the awaiting sobs. Memories of an easier -and happier- time plaguing your mind, making it harder and harder to breathe. Life without her sucked balls.

After drying yourself and throwing on a fresh pair of pajamas, you quickly fixed your bag for the weekend, knowing fully well you'll wake up with just the right spare time before you had to leave for your dad's.

The next morning, you woke up before your alarm went off, which would be fine if it weren't for Wanda appearing in your dreams. Promises of a better life and reaching milestones together, fanning the painful fire in your heart.

Walking to your stash, you retrieved the white powder, forming three consecutive lines on your nightstand. A small straw between your fingers ready to be used. You wouldn't be able to consume when you were at your dad's, so you better took your chance before it was too late. Odin knew you needed the boost.

Stopping at a random café a few blocks from your home, you quickly got yourself a black coffee and a muffin before hitting the pedal once again, changing the playlist to something more upbeat. 

Soon enough, your mind drifted to the impromptu road trips you'd do with Wanda. Sometimes even a week-long trip. Just the two of you apart from the chaos of your lives. 

Out on the road, it was only laughs, music, and fast food with the occasional make-out sessions. God, if you could, you'd live in the past forever. 

Stepping out of your car, you couldn't help the smile that broke your face. Working in the same place as your dad didn't mean you've got to see him every day. And being honest, you were happy he offered you scape from her curse.

"Hi, dad." You answered once you reached him, returning his hug. And boy, didn't you felt safe in those strong arms. They never failed to soothe you.

After what seemed like hours of walking around your dad's property, you and Pepper came back to the house ready for a refreshing iced tea. But any trace of a nice calming bath dissipated away when you say your dad standing in the middle of the living room, his face stoic.

"What's this?" The quietness of his voice freezing your blood.

"I'm waiting, Y/N." 

You cringed at your dad's voice. The disappointment showing in his eyes made you regret not checking before you grabbed a random bag for this trip.

"Look me in the eyes and tell me this is not what I think it is," he begged, showing you and Pepper the almost empty baggy between his fingers. And you ignored him. He already knew the truth, after all. "Say it," he growled.

"So the bleeding nose-"

"Screw you," you muttered, cutting Pepper mid-sentence.

"Hey! That's no way to talk to her,"

"You know what?" You walked to your dad, looking up to his eyes. "Yes, I'm an addict. Good job, Sherlock. Now you can get rid of me as you did with my mom. After all, you never wanted me in the first place, so why should it matter." You snapped with burning tears in your eyes. "There's no need to keep faking it anymore." You walked away, leaving them mouth agape, trying to process your words.

Plopping down on your bed, you couldn't help the feeling of failure igniting inside you. The tears in your eyes burning your eyes as they appeared, flowing down your cheeks as the sadness and emptiness became just too much to handle.

You didn't remember when was the last time you were genuinely happy. And it sucked that it depended on someone. It sucked and you despised it more than anything. But then again, Wanda was everything you'd need to live in this world. Always positive, with a smile so bright that could light up the darkest room. Her eyes? God, you loved losing yourself in those green orbs of hers in the afterglow. And now you had to live without all these little things that made you happy. All the little moments of joy were gone, tuning you into this sack of bones and flesh, with no expectations for life.

It wasn't till much later that night that you left your room, after ignoring your dad's callings.

Padding your way to the bar, you served yourself a whiskey. The burning on your troat a welcomed feeling. Your mind going back to her, as it was the normalcy since she dusted away, leaving you with thousands of questions and a hole in your heart that you knew well you could never fill again. How could you, when you knew she was it? how could you even try to patch it up, when you knew there was no one else like her?

One whiskey turned into 5 and you didn't know when you started to cry, considering you thought there were no tears left after all these years. But the strong hand on your shoulder made you snap from your pity party, hurriedly drying your tears. Crying was for the weak, and boy were you weak.

"I'm sorry," you drowned the last of your drink before looking up, mustering the best stoic face you could.

"You don't need to fake around me, Peanut. We're family," your dad poured you another drink as he got one himself. 

"Look, what happened with your mother has nothing to do with you." He continued once he sat beside you. "And I would never leave you alone, Y/N. No matter how many headaches you give me." He joked but composed himself when you didn't react to it. "I- Pepper is pregnant. And we really want you in the baby's life. But.. Look, if there was a way to bring her back, I would. In a heartbeat. But Y/N, you have to understand, she wouldn't like this version of you. If not for yourself, do it for us,"

You wanted to speak, you wanted to answer him. But the lump in your throat was too big to swallow and the knife in your heart twisted when you saw your dad's eyes tearing up. And fuck did it hurt. To see him cry -for the first time- pained you like hell. And knowing you were the cause of those tears made you feel like you were the worst person alive. 

"I-," you paused to gather your bearings, but your dad beat you to it.

"I know, Peanut," his arms surrounded you in that way that only him could.

"I promise you," he continued once you broke away. "One day, it will get easier. Those feelings will never fully go away, but it will get easier." He dried your tear-stained cheeks softly. "You are not alone. And she'll always be with you,"

 And despite the grief eating you from the inside, you knew you had to live. For them. For her.

The next few months had been a true rollercoaster. You didn't know the abstinence would affect you so badly. And while others would have it much worse, you couldn't help the change of moods and the few tears you caused to those around you. Not to mention, the significant drop in your moods. But you also knew better. You've kept your word, and you hadn't touched it again. 

Under Natasha's supervision, you got rid of every secret stash you had at both, your apartment and your office, and you deleted the number of your dealer. And even if sometimes it seemed like hell would manifest itself as Nat was your watcher, you couldn't be more glad because, admittedly, the woman had balls and she did knew how to bribe you, to the point that you'd even quit drinking even if it was more of a social addiction, in your case. That, mixed with Natasha's friendship and support -as well as those around you- and the birth of Morgan, your little sister had you believing once more, even if you knew you'd never get to be the same person you once were. 

The little bundle of joy had come to this world with a few rays of sunshine for you, finally opening your eyes and making you realize that there was hope. Even if you never saw her again, life was worth living and you'd live it for her at your best capacity. 

So when Pepper asked you to babysit Morgan for a few days, considering she couldn't bring a 2 months old baby with her, you accepted in a heartbeat.

But as you were awoken by a fussing Morgan, after an eventful night in which you barely slept, you realized this might've not been your brightest idea.

Inhaling deeply, you got up and walked to her room, picking her up from her crib and rocking her as you made your way to the kitchen. Babies were a fucking clock. Which only served to add to your decision of never having kids. 

If you were on the verge of tears most of the time, wishing deeply for her parents to come back so you could have time for yourself, you knew you'd be mental if you had to live through this for the rest of your life.

Your ears catching the front door opening made you stop mid singing, turning around as you walked to the hushed words as you feed a calmed down Morgan just to stop dead in your tracks when you saw her. The only reason you stood still, was the baby in your arms. 

Your eyes scanned the room, looking for a sign that this was just a dream. That the image of your girlfriend was just a projection of your mind, like so many other times before during these 5 years since she disappeared from your arms. But the silence surrounding you all and 8 pairs of eyes inspecting you made you realize that this wasn't a dream.

The cries of Morgan took you all from your reverie and soon, Pepper was by your side, taking the baby from your arms before kissing the top of your head, something she always did whenever you felt unsettled.

"Peanut-"

"Is she real?" You questioned as you scrutinized a fidgety Wanda, who stood by the door, ready to run away if needed.

Natasha could sense your turmoil growing with every single second that passed and soon enough you felt a strong pair of arms supporting you, ready to catch you if you fell.

"She's here, Maliska. We brought her back," she spoke quietly, making sure you understood her words.

The wild thoughts on your mind got you walking towards her. The need to touch her and prove yourself that she was back, got your fingers itching. You could feel the blood running in your ears and you shaking steps as you got closer to who you thought was gone forever, leaving you empty and moving through life like a zombie.

The choke that broke through you when your hand cupped her cheek got you smiling as tears rolled down with every erratic thump of your heart.

"You're here," you whispered, afraid of breaking the spell you've found yourself into. 

But you couldn't stay in that thought for long because an intimately familiar pair of arms surrounded you as Wanda threw yourself at you, hiding her face on the crook of your neck.

Feeling her hot breath against your skin was all you needed to finally give in and hold her with all you had, knowing that she was here; with you.

You didn't know how long you both stood there, holding each other and basking in the calmness that surrounded you. All your previous tormenting thoughts dissipated in that exact moment. Wanda was back and you found the hole in your heart start to fill itself.

"Hi, Printsessa," Wanda murmured against your neck, kissing her way up to your jaw, peppering your face with kisses before she finally kissed your lips. And boy, did your knees trembled.

After 5 long years, the lips you've got used to kissing whenever you pleased were once against yours, igniting all the love and hope and good things you got to feel once upon a time.

You can find the continuation, here (:

Taglist: @summergeezburr @wannabe-fic-reader @natasha-danvers @jumbojamba47 @rooskaya-yelena @sananabdliw @aaron-despair @username23345 @nate-the-dreamer @higherfurther-romanova

[keirametzbrassknuckles]

A TRIFECTA FOR THE WHUMP ONE FOR YOU choose whichever one appeals to you most ;D - (1) “Is that fear I see?” with Vesemir/Rennes; (2) ‘Fine’? I heard you scream!” with Lambert/Coën (or Lambert/Coën/Aiden); (3) “Nobody’s coming to save you.” for Rorveth (I WILL SEE MYSELF OUT NOW I'M SORRY)

Happy murderfest to you as well my dear.

I chose to go with Vesemir/Rennes #1 "is that fear I see?" Because I love dying and being dead and I know you do too. And a lovely time was had by all (not really, I'm crying as we speak).

CW/TW for the sacking of Kaer Morhen, gore, injury, death of children, and major character death.

Vesemir comes to to the sound of screaming and a horrible weight on his chest. He can’t see for a moment, can’t get his eyes to focus, his lashes caked with blood that has run down into his eyes. He's stuck beneath a massive piece of masonry, pinned by his leg and entire left side as though he'd tried to throw a quen and the shield had shattered. He can't remember where he is or how he got there for a long moment; head feeling hollow with the lack of memory.

One of the walls came down, he remembers finally, blown apart by chaos. He'd been shielding a group of yearlings, his yearlings. A cohort of boys only Grassed three weeks ago blinking against the glare of the burning north tower, muscles shaking as they tried to hold up swords, bodies too week to fight. There were men and mages and orders to kill...

He remembers now.

Through the rubble surrounding him, he can barely make out the twisted mass of blackened bodies. An abyss of pulverized gore with white icebergs of bone visible in places, too obliterated to make out who they'd been. The boys, his boys, smashed to nothing.

Some cry of animal grief builds itself in the dust-choked cavern of his throat. He holds it there, chokes on it, doesn't let it pass his lips.

"Please" a voice says from far away, a boy's voice "please no"

Vesemir gathers all his strength and tries to lift himself, the primal instinct to protect overtaking him. He feels the thready rip of muscle tearing and falls back with a gasp, sparks swimming in front of his eyes. He can't feel it, not really which means his leg is breaking down, that the muscle is dying. He grits his teeth against the fear.

"Please"

He is powerless but to listen as the terrified plea of the boy, his boy, trails off into the bloody rasp of a cut throat. He feels it though, feels it like a knife to the heart.

The silence settles, horrible and reeking of spilled blood and smoke.

It's quiet for a moment, a long moment that seems to stretch into oblivion. He's going to die here he realizes, bleeding out against the stones of the courtyard of the place that has become as familiar and dear to him as the back of his own hands, the sight of his own face in the mirror. A place they were supposed to be safe.

There’s a poetic irony to it and he almost laughs, only to find his lungs too crushed to expand enough to produce the sound.

There’s a movement across the courtyard, barely visible through the smoke and debris. Vesemir, pinned as he is, unable to turn his head, is aware of movement but can’t see it for a long moment. He braces himself for pain, for a surprise attack but it doesn’t come.

A group of soldiers and mages strides into view, a prone and growling figure in a black fur cloak slung between them. They throw their captive to the ground. Vesemir hears the crack of kneecaps against the cobblestones. He’d know that shape anywhere; the haughty cut of those broad shoulders, those strong thighs, and his breath catches in his throat at the sight.

It’s Rennes, face mottled and swollen with bruises, bleeding from several stab wounds. The shaft of an arrow sticks out of his thigh, fletching stained with blood. Something in Vesemir breaks at the sight even as a deeper part of him wails in gratitude, in relief. Everything he’d lost come back to him.

When the alarm had been raised Rennes chose to meet the intruders alone. He had donned his black wolf-fur cloak and stepped out onto the trail - a Master to the very last. Vesemir had tried to go with him but had been ordered to stay, held back by Rennes’ hand. The first time the grandmaster had touched him in years.

“Stay” Rennes had ordered, hand heavy against his shoulder, calloused and scarred fingers curling against the side of his neck as though seeking to pull strength from his pulse. Vesemir hadn't let it break him.

But he had stayed, had done as he was told. A loyal dog to the last.

He had assumed Rennes had died there on the trail, hadn't seen him in the ensuing fray. Although he hadn't been in much of a place to look.

Now, watching them drag him, demiterium-cuffed and rope-bound he realizes Rennes's fate had been worse than death. He'd been made to watch.

He's still wearing his cloak, black fur blending with the silver-streaked thundercloud of his hair. Regality is written in every line of his posture even as one of the men hits him across the face with the hilt of his sword, even as he spits blood and fragments of teeth onto the cobblestones.

"So here he is, the last wolf," the one who hit him says, laughing "the alpha bitch. What did you think beastie? Did it turn you on when we killed them all?"

"They’re only children," Rennes says, quietly.

It's a spit-back of Vesemir’s own words and it chills him to the bone. How often had they had this argument? Are they children or witchers? Men or monsters? “Only the strong survive” Rennes would growl at him, slamming down his cup of whatever it was they’d been drinking hard enough to dent the table “That’s the way it has to be. Boys are like bones, break them and they’ll grow stronger. They'll grow stronger or die”

They’d spent lifetimes breaking children in the name of strength and for what? What good had that strength been in the end? What had it all been for?

“They’re only boys,” Rennes says again, coming to the realization too late for it to do anyone any good.

"Not anymore," the men say "no more monsters, no more monstrous children. No more witchers"

"The lone wolf dies," Rennes says, all glacial calm despite the blood bubbling up from between his lips "but the pack survives"

The men laugh, the leader taking Rennes' bruised chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing him to look around him; at the ruined Keep, at the bloody cobblestones, at the piles of bodies - child-small corpses - cut down where they'd stood hands shaking around swords too big for their frames

"Don't you see, beastie? Look around you. There's no pack left"

He knows that Rennes sees him from the way that the other man smiles, just a twitch of blood-burned lips, an old familiar gesture meaning what can you do? Meaning thank the gods you're here. Meaning I'm sorry.

"Is that fear I see?" The one with the sword says mockingly "did I finally make the soulless mutant feel something after all?"

“No,” Rennes says, eyes hard as chips of stone when he lifts them “not fear”

“Too bad,” the man says and lifts his sword.

There’s a horrible meaty crunch and Vesemir screams. Or maybe he just imagines he does, the shock too great for sound.

Rennes' headless torso falls to the ground with a resounding thud, blood pooling from the stump of neck, that strong regal neck. His head bounces once, rolls, comes to rest on one cheek facing Vesemir’s own.

His eyes are open, wide and bright, and full of defiance. Even facing down the executioner's blade his iron core of bravery hadn't failed him. Vesemir loves him, purely and completely for the first time in a generation even as the animal anguish of loss claws its way inside his chest.

He feels tears welling at the corners of his eyes - a feeling he hasn't felt in over sixty years, a feeling he didn't think he could feel anymore. They fall, lava hot against his freezing cheeks, mixing with the blood and ash to fall red against the stones beneath him. He gasps, sobs with it, his smashed ribcage protesting the expansion of the lungs beneath them.

Pinned as he is he can't turn his head, can't look away from the face of the man he’s spent his life loving, loathing; that strong nose, those snarl-bowed lips the curvature of which he knows better than the sound of his own heartbeat. He can't look away. He doesn't know that he would if he'd been able to.

How many nights has Vesemir spent in this same position; cheek on pillow gazing into those ice-chip eyes? They used to lie like this as trainees, whispering stories of heroism and chivalry to each other in the darkness of the shared dormitory. Later they lay like this as lovers, passing promises of forever back and forth like talismans between kiss-bitten lips. It's fitting that it would end like this, unable to do anything but gaze into Rennes' death pale face like a lover might - a position he hadn't held for decades but had longed for throughout it all, despite it all, despite loathing himself for the longing.

The sun sinks below the horizon, a bloody gash, choked with smoke. The darkness encroaches with the horrible silence of a mass grave, and Vesemir watches Rennes' amber eyes cloud over with death, milky as the moon.

He remembers when they were blue.

[whumpingcrow]

Ink Poisoning - Chapter 9

"Giovanni, Redacted."

Short Authors note: Please head the CW and read this chapter with discretion! It has very heavy themes and wording that discuss drug use/mental health in a very raw and uncomfortable way. I really advise this to be read by mature (18+) audience because of these themes. Thank you :) -Crow

CW: bbu and everything that goes with that, very poor mental health/slight suicidal language and themes, noncon drugging/drugs and alcohol (EXPLICIT), overdose mention, noncon/dubcon (EXPLICIT), multiple whumpers, lady whumper, dehumanizing language/themes, PTSD/nightmares, conditioned/trained whumpee, intimate whumper, death mention (let me know if i missed anything!)

Giovanni gets sick again. It's not like any ailment or injury he's ever experienced, it isn't like the bone chilling sickness he got from being outside for too long, it isn't like the exhausting nausea he used to get after long days of punishment and failure and violence. It's something altogether different, and in many ways so much worse. Nothing feels good anymore. Actually, he doesn't really feel anything, most of the time.

Besides fear. Fear is more of his way of existing than a feeling to him, now, sometimes it seems like the closest thing to home he has.

And so, the fear and the drugs and the confusing sickness all overshadow the things he really should be feeling. He doesn't even realize it when he begins to hate Rory, so he doesn't admit to himself or anyone else. He only really gets as far as telling himself he resents her, although he doesn't know how he remembers that word. But it wasn't resentment, he hated her. Almost as much as he hated his old master. Sometimes even more. It started out as a small burning anger toward her after she traded his body for drugs at Oscar's. Even then, he could convince himself not to be upset, that he was trained for that, that it was his purpose and he just had to get used to it. He could forgive Rory, even if she never apologized or even acknowledged what happened after, because at that point he really did still like her. Or was loyal to her. Or whatever.

But it just kept getting worse after that day. Rory had promised that after Gio did that awful thing for her, they would have fun. Gio soon found out that either Rory had a very different idea of fun than he did, or she had lied to him. She was able to keep them both high all the time, the backpack that Oscar had given her was filled to the brim. Every time Gio saw Rory digging through the bag to offer up his next dose, he couldn't help but think about the fact that he was seeing a visual of what he was worth: one huge sack of numbness in the form of pills. And to make it all worse, he was only half of the payment. Fitting enough. Still, he got tired of all of the bad trips and highs and lows, and he started to get mad at her again. Did it not feel horrible for Rory, too? She looked horrible, they both did, pale and borderline emaciated.

Gio was so angry with her that she was doing that to him, that she was making him sick and giving him pills so he'd never sleep (he was starting to actually miss sleeping and having bad dreams, because at least those he could escape, he couldn't wake up and leave this nightmare), and giving him pills so he'd be willing to do whatever she wanted and be subdued enough not to fight her or Oscar, or any other freak that she was letting have a turn with him that time, and giving him pills so that when she ran out he felt like he was dying, honest to God seconds away from vomiting out his own empty stomach and biting the dust immediately after. He had to forgive her, still, with no apology from her, every few hours for that.

Then Gio got sick. He didn't tell Rory, he was positive that he was too stupid to communicate the level of pain he was in anyway, and also wasn't sure if she cared. He was worried that one day he would just pass out from exhaustion or over exertion and he wouldn't ever wake up. Or that he would take a few too many pills at one time and his body would just give. That was sort of the easiest thing for him to forgive, as sad as it made him. Maybe it was because by then he was numb enough to not care about his health at all, or maybe he was just too tired to really try to fight anymore. He resolved that he had nothing to look forward to anymore, so why try? He not only forgave Rory for that, he surrendered that part of him to her completely. It was in her hands now, and sometimes it was very obvious that she knew that. And sometimes Gio thought he could see her enjoying it.

And through all of that, through all of the mistreatment and pain, Giovanni still liked her. None of that was what made him hate her. Because really, besides slowly poisoning him and trading him around for all the drugs she couldn't afford, she was nice to him. Or maybe he was just rewired to like anyone in charge of him.

The night he did start hating her, they were just getting back to their shitty motel that she had also managed to keep by letting the owner fool around with Giovanni from Oscar's place. Gio was tired like always, he was buzzing from the small taste of coke Oscar gave him to wake him up a little when he was done with him, he was embarrassed because that time Rory had been in the room with them, and mostly he just wanted to sleep. He was such an idiot for thinking that Rory would allow him to sleep. Probably more of an idiot for thinking he deserved rest. Rory was being nice to him in the car, calling him cute, she was such a fucking liar, telling him he was "a precious puppy", he felt nothing short of a repulsive monster, and petting through his hair, he never wanted anyone to touch him again.

Rory was nice to him when they went inside, too. Her hands were all over him, in all the same places that Oscar's had been, but with their own trademark tenderness along with their trademark perversion. Gio got lost in her movements, he let himself enjoy the gentle, almost teasing, touches. Then he let her push him back onto the bed, he let her crawl on top of him, he let her take his clothes off for a second time that day, he wanted to cry when she kissed him and pushed a pill onto his tongue with her own.

He didn't hate her then, he always enjoyed being used by her more than any of the others, and he felt nearly happy for the first time since he left with her. He was just high and all fucked out from Rory and Oscar. After, she rested her head against his bare chest, holding him close to her.

"You're wonderful, Gio," she told him, "You're the perfect person to do this with."

"To do what with, miss?" He knows he needs to stop asking questions, she doesn't owe him any explanation. But she's murdering him, the least she could do is explain herself.

She sat up to look at him, smiling at him like she always did. She looked beautiful. She looked just as sick as Gio felt. "Do you know about Romeo and Juliet?"

He did, although he didn't know why. "Yeah."

"That's like us, don't you think?" She crawled back on top of him, kissing him all over as she spoke. "Forbidden love, destined to never be fully together, dying in each others arms."

He was silenced for a moment, unsure which part of that he should address first. Did Rory love him? Of course not, he was unlovable, she was just high. They both were. And more than that, did she just confirm the meaning behind all of this: to die? Gio had spent the last few weeks stuck with her trying to convince himself that he was ok with that, that he would let Rory do what she wanted, and if she wanted him dead then he wouldn't protest against her. But hearing her admit it scared him. Maybe it was because he was foolish enough to hold onto a little hope that she wouldn't do something so horrible. She knew what she was doing, this entire time she knew that she was killing them both, and it was romantic to her. He was disgusted. He was horrified. He hated her.

"Rory," he whimpered, trying with his weakened arms to push her off of him. She was persistent, and had it been any other situation, Gio would've given up. He would've been quiet and just lay still and let Rory have her way with him yet again. But he was so scared, he was shaking, and he pushed at her again, harder. He didn't want to die. "Rory I don't want to die!'

She climbed off of him, allowing him to sit up and hide his face in his hands so she wouldn't see him crying. She was frowning at him, like she couldn't comprehend what he was saying. "You...You don't?"

"No! No, I don't want to die!" Gio was surprised in himself for shouting at her, for snapping his head up and looking right at her and yelling. She jumped back like she was afraid of him. She was such an idiot, didn't she know that she was the threat in this situation?

"Gio..." She shook her head to herself, then he could see her looking around the room, probably to locate the drug bag they had just picked up. "I just thought that you...I thought maybe you'd want some sort of escape. I know I would, if I were you."

He cried harder at that, but the tears felt different than usual. They weren't tears of fear or sadness, but tears of boiling anger. Did everyone think that of him? That he was so miserable and pathetic he must want a way out, he was such a hopeless situation he might as well just die? He didn't want to die, he didn't want to have some "forbidden love" with Rory, he didn't want the drugs, he didn't want any of this. "I want to go home. I want to go back with Nicko."

"What? No, Gio! No, come on, we're having a good time. We don't have t-to die, I was just kidding!" She laughed nervously to try and sell her point. He could sense her desperation, only this time he didn't want to help her. "You don't really wanna go back there, Gio-"

"I don't want this, Rory!" He pushed himself off of the bed and started to pull his clothes back on. "I don't fucking love you-"

"Gio!"

"And I don't want to kill myself for you! I want to go home, Rory! Take me home!"

The room fell silent after that. Gio wasn't afraid of punishment, he couldn't feel anything past his anger and hatred for Rory. He wiped his tears away, he knew they made him look weak, and he stared Rory down for a few more seconds. Just outside, he could hear two men shouting at each other. He wondered if anyone could hear him yelling at Rory. He wondered if they could tell if it was a box boy speaking out of turn and if they would take matters into their own hands to correct him.

"Fine." Rory spoke through her teeth, yanking her own shirt back on as she did. Gio couldn't believe that it worked so easily. "I'll take you back to Nicko. You ungrateful fuck."

He was ungrateful, he knew that. He didn't care.

Rory played the music louder than she ever had, signifying that she had nothing to say to Gio and didn't want to hear a word out of him. He liked it better that way, anyway, he didn't want to talk to her. She didn't take him all the way back up to Nicko's house, instead stopping down the street so he would have to walk past all of the neighbors houses in the snow to get there. He was more than happy to face the cold again rather than stay around Rory another agonizing second.

When he made it to the front door, something made him freeze. He had convinced himself that Nicko would be angry with him for leaving, and the idea of adding anymore pain to his already mangled body made him feel sick with anxiety. Or what if Nicko replaced him while he was gone? What if the new boxie was better than him? What if Nicko was glad that Gio left and would just send him back to the facility once he came back?

Then he decided that all of that was worth the risk of being inside a warm house, where his favorite person was, where Salem was, where he had a soft pink sweater hidden underneath his beanbag. So, with his last bit of energy, he reached out and knocked against the heavy wooden door.

[ask-the-riders]

A Chance Reunion

While out on a job, War hears a familiar song being sung, and she decides to follow it. That decision leads to an attack, a reunion with her best friend, and a reboot caused by immense embarrassment

The glitch made a face and paused what she was doing, the wind carrying some unknown medley in her direction. She knew she had a job to do here, but at the same time... What was that song?

As she began to follow the sound, doing her best to avoid the pricker plants and thorny brush, War gained a sense of familiarity. She'd heard that song before, but she couldn't pinpoint from where. The tune grew louder and louder until the song was crystal clear, and as the rider emerged from the bushes that lined a long forgotten path, she spotted the singer. The mystery person was perched on the edge of a dock, singing to themselves with their feet in the water. They seemed unaware of her presence, and she furrowed her brow bones. 

That sense of familiarity grew stronger, but before War had the chance to call out to the singer, a guttural growl was heard. Immediately following the growl, War was slammed into the side of a tree by the force of someone's full weight. She cried out in shock and instinctively reached for her sockets, but as if the attacker had seen this move before, one of his hands snatched both of her wrists, pinning them above her head. She screeched and began thrashing, her figure glitching heavily, "H-Hey, what the hell do you think you're doing?! Let me go, jackass!" 

Her attacker tilted his head and chuckled, his voice low and husky, "I don't think so, Glitchy. Not when I've already put you on the menu for tonight's dinner." Her sockets widened and she continued thrashing, "You can't eat me! I'll turn to dust the second my soul shatters!" The monster before her leaned closer, the stench of death and decay on his breath as he spoke, intentionally flashing his sharp, serrated teeth at her, "I know." He lifted his free hand, entirely too content as he tugged off her scarf, eyeing the fabric for a moment, "Huh. This might be somethin' my kid would like. Guess I'll have to hold onto it and ask her." 

With her neck vertebrae now exposed and vulnerable, War scrunched up her shoulders. Watching the futile attempt to hide her neck from him, the elder of the two skeletons laughed, "Cute, but I can still see your neck." He paused, leaning even closer and grinning as she squirmed. The instant she tilted her head again and he saw an opening, he buried his face in the crook of her neck and mumbled, "If you were anyone else, you'd be dead by now. You're funny though, so you should count yourself as lucky." As the glitch felt a grand total of four rows of jagged teeth graze over her neck, she whimpered, tightly squeezing her eyes shut.

A voice called out to her attacker and he let out a sigh, pulling back to look at a second monster. Hesitantly cracking an eye open to peek at her incidental savior, War frowned; That posturing, the clothing style, and those violet eye lights... Memories began to resurface and the rider narrowed her eyes in confusion, "......Betta?" The smaller of the pair before her blinked, her attention now focused solely on the glitch. With some prodding, her attacker released her wrists and took a step back, allowing his daughter to move closer. War's face became flushed as the other female skeleton began to sniff at her, starting at her face. As she continued sniffing around the glitch's body, she made a face, promptly deciding to step back and nonchalantly check her out, her violet, heart shaped eye lights roaming over War. As the realization finally clicked into place, she seemed to perk up, her eyes wide with excitement as a piranha-like grin stretched across her face, "MALLY! IT'S REALLY YOU!"

War yelped as she was tackled, nearly losing her balance. Letting out a deep sigh of relief, War made a sound of confirmation, awkwardly wrapping her arms around the lake dweller, "Yeah, it's me. I'm glad you finally recognized me, Weirdo." Betta giggled, visibly giddy at being reunited with her old friend. She shared a look with the elder lake dweller, "Dad, look! It's Mal! It's my best friend!" Her father rolled his false eye lights, disappointment flickering in his gaze at having lost his prey, "I can see that, Betta. I'll leave now so you guys can catch up, or whatever." Betta made a sound in acknowledgment, and with that, her father dismissed himself, vanishing into the forest. As soon as he was gone, War let out another breath, flooded by even more relief than before, "Oh, thank god. I thought he was gonna kill me. As much as I hate existing sometimes, I really don't wanna be someone's dinner." 

Betta continued grinning excitedly at her, "He would've done it too, if I hadn't shown up in time." War offered her a slight smile, "I don't doubt that at all. Thanks to you and your impeccable timing, I get to live another day." Betta beamed at her, "Mmhm! Once again, I've saved the day with only minimal effort." The glitch couldn't help the amused chuckle that left her; She'd forgotten just how much she missed this dweeb. Her body froze up and glitched in surprise, her entire face flushing bright blue as she felt teeth press against her own. It wasn't the first time Betta had kissed her like this, but it'd been so long that War had forgotten the way it felt. Her body began to relax and for a moment, she began to cave, melting into the kiss. 

Remembering her current circumstances, she placed her hands on Betta's shoulders, nudging the lake dweller and lightly pushing her away. Betta tilted her head in confusion, and War sighed, visibly flustered, "I know you're excited to see me, and I know it's been a while, but you can't do that anymore. I found my soulmate, and he probably wouldn't appreciate you kissing me." The lake dweller pouted, "Sorry about that. It's just been way, way too long, and I missed getting to kiss you... I'll try not to do it again." War's blush became a bit brighter and she looked away from her friend, "Thank you. At least you're listening to me, this time." Betta made a face and huffed, "Well, it's not my fault that you always smelled like chocolate! Pardon me for thinking you smelled nice." 

Memories of previous times the lake dweller had kissed her began to invade the glitch's mind, and her figure fizzled as she recalled the other's hands wandering on more than one occasion. War's face burned even brighter, and before she could snap at her friend to shut up, Betta smiled again as if nothing was wrong, completely casual as she chirped, "So you finally found your soulmate, huh? What's he like?" War shrunk back a little in embarrassment, avoiding eye contact, "He's... He's uh... He's great. Funny, unbelievably smart, good with animals, and absurdly charming." Betta hummed, "What's his name? Is he hot?" 

War's body glitched again and she glanced around, needing to remind herself that Pestilence wasn't there with her before answering, "His name's Pestilence... Wasn't always that, though. Mine got changed too. It's 'War' now. But yeah......... He's hot." Her face grew even brighter at the admission and she mentally cursed at herself. If Pest had heard her admit that she thought he was attractive, there'd be no way he'd ever let her live it down. The lake dweller remained completely casual, her brow bones lifting as she noticed War's scarf on the ground; Her dad must've dropped it when he left to go off and pout somewhere. She leaned down to pick it up, before offering the item to the rider, "You guys got your names changed, huh? That's cool." She paused as War reached out to take back her scarf.

As War busied herself with putting it on again and looping it around her neck, Betta watched her, tilting her head in curiosity, "Is he good in the sack, too?" As expected, the glitch's sockets widened, almost the size of small saucers as she stared at the lake dweller in disbelief, "...Are you seriously asking me that right now, Betta?" The lake dweller shrugged, entirely unashamed, "Yeah, I am. I'm just curious, y'know? I wanna make sure he's good at pleasing my bestie, in every sense of the word." War made a face, "I appreciate your concern, but I'm not answering that. That is extremely personal, and I won't be discussing it with you today." 

Knowing her friend all too well, Betta arched a brow bone and smirked, "So in other words, yes, he's amazing. I gotcha, Grumpy Butt." To finish off her statement, she teasingly winked, and War's sockets began to cloud over. Reaching maximum embarrassment, a dial tone sound could be heard, and War's body went limp. Acting fast, Betta was able to catch her, lifting the glitch into her arms and sighing as a reboot bar appeared above her head. Unbelievable; They hadn't seen each other in years, and after not even an hour of finally speaking again, War had already shorted out on her. The lake dweller couldn't help the way her expression softened as she looked at the rider, and she shook her head, smiling slightly. 

It was unbelievable, but at the same time, it was exactly like War to do this sort of thing. Despite all the time that had passed, the glitch really hadn't changed at all.

[ragingbookdragon]

Early Christmas Gifts

A Connor Kenway x Reader One-Shot

Word Count: 1,730 Warnings: None

Author’s Note: I’m in a Connor mood and it’s December. Sue me. Enjoy! -Thorne

She sat beside the old man in the rocking chair, occasionally sipping the tea she’d made. The first snows of December dusted the ground and while it was absolutely freezing, it was too much of a beautiful day to stay in.

           Her eyes drifted over to the old man who quietly flipped through the book he held. “Achilles, should I get you another blanket?”

           He shook his head. “No. I’m going to head inside in a few moments anyway, (Y/N).”

           She nodded and shifted her gaze to the masts of the Aquila. “Is Ratonhnhaké:ton in today?”

           “Should be,” Achilles said. “but you know him. He goes where the wind takes him.”

           (Y/N) hummed. “I think it’s more of he goes where curiosity takes him.”

           The old man snorted and snapped the book shut. “He is curious.” She nodded, thinking it was the end of the conversation—Achilles was a man of few words. “He’s curious about you.”

           Her head shot up and she gaped at him. “Excuse me?”

           Achilles merely offered her a knowing smile before rising to his feet. “I’m going inside for a nap.”

           (Y/N)’s mouth opened and closed. “Wait, Achilles, he’s what about me?”

           “Figure it out yourself. You’re not a fool.” He waved her off, the closing of the backdoor the real signature of the conversation closing.

           Brows furrowing, she bent over, her hands pressed to her cheeks. “Well, I know I’m not a fool, but what am I supposed to do?” Her face pinched and she argued, “I feel for him, but does that mean he’s curious about that? Or is he curious about colonial women in general? And to what end?” (Y/N) groaned and buried her face in her hands. “Oh, this isn’t good. Curse that old man for leaving me with a riddle like this.”

           “Like what?” A voice sounded above her and (Y/N) screeched like a banshee. In her mild hysteria she jerked back, the chair going with her and she tumbled over. She faceplanted onto the back porch and lay there for a moment before letting out a heavy groan.

           “Owwww!” she whined, and hands gripped her upper arms, lifting her up as if she were put a feather. She wiggled when they had her in the air. “Put me down! I am not a sack of potatoes!” They did as she asked, gently setting her down and she spun on them, immediately turning into a flustered mess. “Ratonhnhaké:ton? What? What are you doing here?”

           His dark brows furrowed. “I live here.”

           No? Really? I couldn’t tell. (Y/N) almost rolled her eyes and started picking the chair up, but Connor did it for her. “I thought you’d be out hunting or…whatever it is you do, you know…with your free time.” Nice conversing (Y/N), that’s really going to spur him into fancying you.

           “I was hunting earlier.” He said, folding the blanket that had fallen from her lap.

           “Did you catch anything?” she inquired, taking the blanket when he held it out.

           “I skinned a wolf and an elk.”

           (Y/N) perked up at that. “Did you save the meat?” He nodded. “I can make dinner with that.” She threw the blanket over her shoulder. “Oh! I could make elk jerky too!” She smiled. “You can take it with you to snack on when you leave.”

           His smile sent butterflies fluttering in her stomach. “I would appreciate that greatly.”

           Her cheeks warmed and she let out a ‘pfft’, hoping it would ease her embarrassment. Instead, she focused on, “So, what are you going to do with the hides?”

           Connor opened the door for her, letting her inside first. “I will most likely make belts with the leather and make blades with the antlers.”

           “I bet those would be nice to have.” She agreed, walking into the kitchen. He followed her, watching as she opened up the wax cloth. (Y/N) grabbed one of the knives from the rack and started slicing the elk meat but stopped when she felt his eyes.

           “…Do you want to help me, Ratonhnhaké:ton?” her question was quiet, as if she were in the middle of a circle of deer.

           “Would you like my help?”

           The response almost made her glare at him, but the look on his face held genuine earnest.

           “There’s some potatoes and onions outside. See if you can harvest any…please.” Connor smiled at her, and her face felt hot.

           “I will be right back.” He spun on his heel and exited the kitchen. The second the door closed, (Y/N) dropped her head on the kitchen counter and let out a groan. She was in way too deep. And somewhere in the manor, she could swear she heard Achilles laughing at her.

***

           The entire week was as chaotic and she had managed to avoid Connor at every turn, but it was getting harder and harder to excuse herself when he found her. Of course, she’d eventually backed herself into a corner, and by backing herself into a corner, she’d actually wandered too far into the surrounding forests of the Homestead and got herself lost. In her defense, she was looking for the hound that had run off.

           She shivered violently, puffs of air coming out in shimmering crystal clouds, as she trudged through the knee-high snow. For the life of her she couldn’t remember what her father had taught her as a child. Do I stay put or keep moving? (Y/N) stopped and looked up, the full moon stared back at her. Keep moving right? Tracks mean someone can follow. Following is good, yes? A lump rose in her throat and the chilly air made the tears sting her eyes, but she kept moving. Fear was definitely not something she did needed right now. She needed to stay focused and most importantly, she needed to stay calm.

           Her fingers felt like they were frozen solid, and she shoved them inside her coat, just under her arms. As long as she could still feel, she was okay. But time was against her, and with every passing second, she lost the feeling in her toes and it kept stretching, until it was at her thighs. (Y/N) took a heavy step and upon hitting a deeper bank than she realized, she stumbled over, rolling down the small hill.

           She lay there in the snow, too tired to move. The cold bit into her cheeks and nose but she didn’t care. This is it. she thought. I’m going to freeze to death in the middle of a forest. Her fingers twitched and she heaved, pulling herself up to her knees, but that was all the energy she could gather. (Y/N) buried her face in her arms and curled as tight as she could, hoping it would preserve heat. It did little compared to how freezing it was.

           Time passed by and her mind became hazy, but most concerningly, she started becoming warm. That’s a bad sign. (Y/N) vaguely remembered. Even I know that. She couldn’t feel her fingers now, nor her toes, and her pants were so soaked she could feel the chill to the bone.

           Through the cloud in her mind, she thought she heard footsteps her way, but wrote it off as possible hallucinations until she heard, “(Y/N)!”

           She picked her head up, brows furrowing as she looked around her. Finally, she caught sight of a familiar coat of blue and white coming her way rather quickly. Okay, now I’m really hallucinating.

           Connor slid to a stop in front of her, his hands coming to cup her cheeks. They were so warm that they burned; a whine left her throat. “(Y/N), I have been looking everywhere for you.”

           (Y/N) nodded weakly. “The dog ran off…was trying to…find it.” her words had started slurring and through her heavy-lidded gaze, she could see panic setting onto Connor’s face.

           He pulled the leather bag off his back and opened it, pulling out a leather coat. Getting to work, he moved (Y/N)’s arms, settling it on her. The sleeves were fur lined and she sighed audibly.

           He stared at her. “Do you think you can you stand?”

           (Y/N) shook her head, or at least that’s what she thought she did. “No…no I don’t…think so.”

           Connor immediately put his arm around her back, the other going under her legs. He picked her up and she found herself pressed up against his chest. (Y/N) rested her head on his shoulder, her face pressed close to his neck. He was so warm compared to her.

           “(Y/N)? Are you awake?”

           She moaned lowly, pressing her face to his skin. He twitched slightly at how chilled her lips were.

           “I need you to try and stay awake. Can you do that?”

           Wanting to laugh, but not capable, she let out a huff. “Keep me…awake.”

           His chest rumbled and she felt it. “I made something with those pelts.”

           “Mhm?” she mumbled.

           “I made this jacket and lined it with the wolf fur.”

           “So that’s why…it’s so warm.”

           Connor nodded. “I made it for you.”

           “For me?”

           “You talked about the presents on…” he went silent.

           “Christ…mas?”

           “Yes, that. You said you exchanged gifts with the ones you love on that day.” His grip tightened. “I was going to give it to you then.”

           (Y/N) felt a smile on her lips. “I guess…I got it…early then.” She hummed. “Any other…gifts?”

           “I made you a knife.”

           That actually cleared up her mind a bit. “…What?”

           Connor snorted. “You said it would be nice to have one a week earlier when I returned with the antlers and hides.”

           “Ratonhnhaké:ton…I meant for you.”

           “Oh…I see.”

           She let out a long sigh. “But I still…want it.”

           “That’s good.” She knew he was smiling again. He shook her gently. “We’re almost back to the homestead, (Y/N). Stay awake a little longer.”

           “‘m cold.” She muttered.

           “I know you are.” He grunted, stepping over a fallen log. “Once we get back, you can curl up in front of the fireplace.”

           “Yours.” (Y/N) mumbled against his neck.

           “…Mine?”

           She nodded. “Wanna be…with you.”

           Connor went silent a moment, then he whispered, “Do you care for me, (Y/N)?”

           She didn’t trust herself to say anything, so she simply nodded and hummed.

           “I…care for you too.”

           A lazy grin worked onto her lips and Connor could feel it. “I’m…glad.” (Y/N) sighed. “Thank you…for finding me, Ratonhnhaké:ton.”

           “Always, (Y/N).”

[gumnut-logic]

Late

I had a bit of a rocky night last night with a sick daughter and lots of lost sleep. She’s okay, but I was up between 2.30 and 5.30am. She went to bed at 4.30am and I took the opportunity to relax by writing self indulgent sleepy fic starting with our two eldest boys. I was totally wiped at the time, so didn’t finish it until tonight.

Warning: 2228 words of fluffy self indulgent goop that goes nowhere. Perfectly attuned to a slightly depressed, sleep-deprived Nutty. Also, lots of Virg, possibly so floppy he fell out of character. Ultimately Scotty took over, but it was supposed to be about both of them, so I don’t mind. ::eyes the Scotty fans who have me surrounded::

Many thanks to @tsarinatorment​ @janetm74​ and @scribbles97​ for the reading and support. ::hugs you lots::

I hope you enjoy :D

-o-o-o-

It was late.

It had been a very long day.

A very, very long day.

Scott had been held back at the danger zone by bureaucratic nonsense and a CEO throwing a fit over a couple of Thunderbirds parking in his carpark and the resultant damage to a nearby building.

The insensitivity and self-involvement had John reining Scott in over comms. It wasn’t like he was going to hit the guy, really, no matter how satisfying it might have been. But it had been a gruelling and messy rescue digging people out of a collapsed shopping mall.

He and his brothers had been digging for hours.

Eventually he had to call it and had sent Thunderbird Two back to base.

He had intended to follow shortly after, but...obstacles.

It was just past three in the morning when One streaked into a hover above Tracy Island. The shift to vertical flight was smooth and mostly subconscious. Scott felt his ‘bird in his bones.

As he lowered her through the gap left by the pool, a dim light from the lounge told him he wasn’t the only one awake.

He had his suspicions who it might be and that only had him working through post-flight faster.

It could be Grandma, but chances were it was Virgil waiting for him to come home.

He didn’t always do this. Only after the difficult ones.

And this one had been far from easy.

Scott hurried up to the locker room and, shucking his uniform, washed the sweat and grime from his skin. It felt good to be clean, an extra step further away from the tragedy they had left behind.

He didn’t bother getting dressed other than to throw on some pyjama bottoms and an old t-shirt. he would check on his brother, possibly grab a quick bite of food and a drink, and then hit the sack.

The house was quiet as he made his way to the lounge. No doubt Grandma and Virgil combined were a force that saw the younger Tracys safe in bed. Virgil likely then turned on his partner in crime and bundled her off as well.

He was determined like that.

Sure enough, a quiet step into the lounge and he found his brother in their father’s chair.

Asleep.

Dark curls let loose from their product by a long-ago shower were a hastily combed mess on his forehead as Dad’s chair held Scott’s brother as if it were its owner. The worn upholstery cradling worn out rescue operative ever so gently.

Scott’s bare feet made little sound as he stepped across the hardwood floor. It was a warm night. The open windows let in a soft breeze off the Pacific laced with the honey scent of flowering pōhutukawa trees.

Virgil muttered and shifted in his sleep.

The sound drew Scott’s attention back to his brother. The desk lamp was the only source of light in the room beyond the starlight far above. The moon had already set and outside was almost as dark as it got, the ocean murmuring in the distance.

There was paper on the desk.

Scott didn’t use much in the way of paper himself. Most of his work was digital, often holographic and as ecologically sound as he could get it.

Virgil, however, did keep a stash of different surfaces to art on in his studio. Paper was one of them. Obviously, some had made it out tonight.

Pencil sketches covered the white sheets. Eyes, half drawn faces. Gordon popped up in one corner, a familiar smile on his face. Thunderbird One had her grapple out and was lifting something half-drawn.

He found his own face staring out of the paper. His drawn self was obviously angry and glaring at a faceless head.

Scott arched an eyebrow at the obscenity scratched into the cartridge under the non-person creature.

Virgil had obviously not been happy that Scott had been held up.

There were other words on the page amongst the drawings. Virgil doodling and possibly venting in the process. Even Scott could see the emotion drawn in graphite.

He sighed.

As if agreeing, Virgil snorted and tried to turn over in the chair, a manoeuvre that wasn’t recommended.

Scott caught his brother under his arms as he tried to slide off the leather upholstery.

He earned a grunt for his efforts. Bleary brown eyes opened and stared up at him. “Sc-t?”

“Hey.” A soft smile. “You planning on camping out tonight?”

Another grunt and his brother tried to right himself in the chair. “You took too long. Why didn’t you sic John on ‘em?”

“I did. But not until tomorrow. John needs his sleep as much as you do.”

“Yes. Yes, he does. Tol’ him.” Virgil’s eyes drifted closed again and he began to sink back into the chair.

“Oh, no you don’t. You’re going to bed, little brother.” Scott gripped Virgil a little tighter and pulled him up and out of the chair.

Various limbs pinwheeled a little and Scott ended up with his arms full of dopey brother, but he got the man on to his feet.

Virgil grumbled into his t-shirt and Scott let off a snort of a laugh. His biggest brother was hopeless when his sleep was disturbed. It was an ongoing source of prankdom – at the risk of the perpetrator’s life.

Hell, Gordon had managed to draw in a second pair of eyebrows on Virgil’s forehead once – while the man was supposedly awake and nursing his coffee.

The double-eyebrowed death monster that had resulted once enough coffee had been ingested was of legendary proportions. Grandma had literally roasted Gordon alive and a ban on markers on anyone’s faces had been instituted for all eternity.

Gordon was a multitalented artist, however, and simply switched mediums.

The honey had Scott blowing a circuit.

But dopey Virgil was a familiar and smile-inducing feature of the Tracy household.

Scott found himself grinning.

“Shuddup.”

Well, at least Virgil had managed a couple of neurons worth of thought.

Scott’s smile only got wider.

Virgil groaned and pushed his brother away and stumbled a little. “’M gonna bed.”

“You do that.” Scott had to stick out a hand and steady him as he wobbled into the side of the desk. “Need a hand?”

That triggered some incoherent grumbling that threatened bear territory. Scott couldn’t help himself and just grinned more as Virgil teetered away in the direction of the elevator.

The fact Scott had to save him from falling into the sunken lounge was probably a sign that the answer to his question was a definite ‘yes’.

A hand on his brother’s elbow prompted more grumbling, but the elbow wasn’t yanked away and by the time they made it into the elevator, Virgil had pretty much faceplanted himself into Scott’s shoulder.

The grin turned into a fond smile as he hit the button for the residential levels.

“You neeb togoto bed too.” It was muffled by the sleeve of Scott’s t-shirt.

“That’s the plan.”

“You bedda.”

Scott wrapped an arm around his brother’s shoulders. “Or what?”

More incoherent grumbling.

Scott pulled him in a little tighter as the elevator doors opened.

It was like leading a zombie down the corridor, though Scott could easily empathise. He was looking forward to his own pillow as soon as he saw Virgil to his.

A yawn escaped.

His brother looked up as if the medic had bypassed his brain and booted in safe mode. “You need sleep. Go to bed.”

He gestured towards door to Virgil’s rooms. “After you.”

Virgil frowned. “You first.”

Scott rolled his eyes and, reaching around his brother, activated the door and, with a little manoeuvring, manhandled Virgil into his rooms.

“Hey!”

His hand returned to his brother’s elbow and he marched him into his bedroom, amid protests.

“You need to look after yourself.” Virgil finger was jabbed into Scott’s breastbone.

Was it possible for a human to have one half of his brain awake and the other asleep at the same time? Apparently, some birds could do that. Gordon had gone into great detail that year they spotted some migratory waders landing on their beaches mid-transit.

In any case, Virgil obviously wasn’t all there as Scott backed him up against the end of his bed and pulled back the covers. Virgil continued to nag Scott to bed with varying levels of coherence. Smiling, Scott gave his rambling brother a gentle nudge and their gentle giant went Gulliver, flat on his back.

“Scott?!”

The eldest yanked up the covers and muffled the outraged mutterings. “Yes, Virgil?”

But his protests began to fade away and, as Scott pulled down the covers a little and tucked them in, he realised Virgil’s eyes were already drooping again.

Dopey indeed.

He brushed curls off his brother’s forehead. “Sleep, Virg.”

“Mmm, Sco’, go bed.”

Softly. “I will.”

“Mmmhm.”

Scott couldn’t help but smile a little more as Virgil drifted off.

A final touch to his brother’s hair and Scott straightened, his body creaking enough to remind him, that yes, he needed his bed as well.

He slipped quietly out of Virgil’s room and secured the door. A glance down the corridor, a thought, and he walked quietly down to check on Gordon.

The last he had seen of his fish brother had involved sad eyes and concrete dust. A quiet step into his rooms and he found Gordon as he had suspected he would.

The aquanaut was tangled in his sheets and throttling his pillow.

There was a frown on his face.

Much practised manoeuvring and he managed to straighten the Fish out and untangle him from his bedclothes.

Half asleep protests were halted by a plushie squid that awake Gordon would claim to his death never left the mantle above his bed.

Scott knew better.

His little brother quietened, falling into a deeper sleep.

After that, Scott couldn’t help but check in on Alan. It was probably a fortunate thing, because opening the door found Alan asleep in front of it.

The littlest Tracy had a history of wandering in his sleep. Scott had it checked out and it was directly related to early childhood trauma. Which one was a game of pick one.

It was managed, but occasionally it flared up. One of the most common symptoms was climbing out of bed and sleeping on the floor. Sometimes, the piece of floor chosen was a little inconvenient.

Scott was just happy the piece chosen wasn’t a balcony. Five and now Eos had been tracking Alan while he slept for years and issued alerts if he should wander too far.

Scott slipped into the room sideways and, with cracking knees, lifted his little brother off the floor.

Fortunately or unfortunately, Alan shared his sleep type with Virgil and slept like the dead. So, it was easy to move him over to his specially plush rug and snuggle him up with a pillow and quilt from his bed.

Alan muttered something about Virgil pulling him up, possibly something to do with the day’s rescue.

Scott reached out and touched Alan’s cheek.

His little brother mumbled his name and leant into his hand.

Scott blinked. The emotion that suddenly gripped him was just a sign of how tired he was.

Letting go, he pushed to his feet and slipped from the room. In the corridor, he closed his eyes and leant back against the wall for a moment.

One to go.

He tugged at the collar of his t-shirt. “Eos? You there?”

“Where else would I be?” Despite the smart-ass remark, her voice was quiet. Something she had learnt the hard way.

He ignored the comment. “John’s status?”

“John is currently in REM sleep. No signs of nightmare. Pulse regular, respiration as to be expected, body temperature 36.7 degrees Celsius. John is well, Commander.”

Scott let out a breath. “Thank you, Eos.”

“You’re welcome. Kayo and Mrs Tracy are asleep in their rooms, as is Hiram. Which is a concern, if I may say so, because he left Max on the ceiling.”

A blink. “Again?”

“It would appear so.”

Scott groaned. “Keep him out of the hangars this time.”

“I will try. But you know how he is.”

A grunt and Scott pushed himself off the wall. “I’m going to bed.”

“Good. Virgil was adamant you do exactly that.”

A frown. “Or what?”

“He said ‘or I’ll knock his ass out and drag him there myself’. His tone seemed humorous, however, John said it was a half-truth.” A pause. “Which half, I’m not sure.”

Another grunt. “Both halves, most likely.” To stave off a round of questioning at that, Scott quickly followed up with, “Tracy Island out.”

The house fell quiet after that and he let his shoulders drop, rolling his neck as he made his way to his own quarters. In his rooms lay freedom. A moment where he could just be himself, relax and sleep.

Sleep.

The door clicked shut and exhaustion caught up with him. It was a matter of steps to his bedroom, a modicum of the last of his energy to shove the covers aside, and he let himself fall face first into his pillow.

His body melted into the mattress.

It had been a shitty rescue, but his family was all home, safe, uninjured and resting.

He could let go.

So he did.

-o-o-o-

 FIN.