#I imagine as they get older their head gets a little more wedge shaped

[foxyfrolic]

jack and sionna for if they had a kid

send me a pair name and I’ll tell you what I think it would be like if they had a child.

Name: Chimere (French for Dream)

Gender: Nonbinary

General Appearance:

Personality: Quiet, sensitive, soft spoken, clever, withdrawn

Special Talents: Enjoys making and mixing music. Probably ends up running a lofi channel or somethin

Who they like better: Probably Jack? They have the most experience with kids, and Sionna would probably wig out and be a little distant for a little while (Distant, but not negligent, important note)

Who they take after more: Sionna, or at least Sionna when they were tiny

Personal Head canon: Very very afraid of dogs

Face Claim:

@cyberneticlagomorph

[dannyphantom-justiceleauge]

This may be a minor gripe but something that has kind of bothered me about discussions and depictions of Dan is how often people seem to forget that Dan isn't just an older evil Danny, he's a combination of Danny and Vlad's ghost sides. Like people always talk about him like Danny threw away his humanity and turned evil but that's not even true. Sure, we can say that Dan is the result of Danny's action but that's a little unfair. (1/2)

(2/2) Him cheating on a test, coincidentally putting his loved one's in a position where they could be killed, is absolutely not his fault. Letting Vlad take away his ghost powers with a strange contraption might not have been the smartest move, but we are talking about a grieving CHILD here, of course he isn't going to make the best decisions. If anything Vlad's the one to blame here, and even then, it's not like he could predict what happened

---

you aren't wrong, my friend. it really isn't entirely danny's fault and the whole 'if you cheat on a test, you'll loose everything you love' moral is confused at best. i think as fandom we find it more interesting to look at danny's potential evil and moral struggle with himself. so simplifying it to be dan is a worse case scenario of danny makes the conflict less abstract.

particularly because when it comes to self blame danny isn't going to go easy on himself just because it was excusable mistakes.

i think another talking point should be how danny is the target of the time assassination more than vlad is, even though vlad is part of the evil whole. you could argue that danny is the catalyst of his friends death and vlad inventing the claw things. but vlad invented the claw things. maybe because his human side survived and acted relatively harmless from then on? or maybe it's because the observants based on the available evidence recognized danny as more of a threat. i think that fits actually, for all vlad tried to be an evil mastermind, his achievements outside of terrorizing a teenager and theft isn't particularly impressive. danny was the one who got shit done. all his fights he finished one way or another and i could see how that would bleed into dan defeating everyone.

the real question is how to we fix this. ideally we could shape this idea so it's less confused, though i do honestly find the dynamic of half danny, half vlad interesting. if for not other reason. than two half ghosts make a whole. actually that's something else to be said about dan. his self-loathing is what led him to killing his human half, another negative aspect coming from danny.

i wonder if we could frame it like fusion, from su. obviously dan isn't stable or healthy, or based on love. he's most comparable to malichite. but with less internal debate. dan took the best and worst of both of them. danny's determination, danny's fighting ability, danny's anger, danny's sarcasm, vlad's anger, vlads lack of morals, vlads schemes, vlad's control. heck, vlads desire to rule the world. i don't think we ever got that from danny.

maybe if vlad was more involved in the fight with dan it could have been used as an opportunity to compare and contrast their characters. to go we're not so different you and i. danny gets to recognize that he has that dark potential. vlad gets to be humbled by the fact that what he wants isn't good for anyone, especially himself. and to be fair, we do see some of that humbling with future vlad, but none of that character growth is given to present vlad, so, really it's just another vehicle for danny angst. it also depends on what you want to do with vlad though. he's a fascinating character and could be given redemption under the right circumstances or be a character who has the opportunity for redemption but chooses not to be redeemed every time.

that fits him and makes him both a more pathetic and despicable villain. it's hard to pity someone who ignores the opportunities to heal and grow.

as for danny, he becomes far more aware of the consequences his actions, especially his selfish and cruel ones can have. because that potential was always there. he has a history of abusing his powers. perhaps for this specific incident him abusing his powers can be something less understandable than almost cheating on a test that he couldn't study for through no fault of his own. (maybe i just have flexible morals?). maybe it could be something more character relevant, like he did something particularly vlad like, maybe he set up a prank at the nasty burger to get dash but it set off the explosion that killed his family. or maybe he did something particularly cruel and manipulative. there are better catalysts than a test. either way he recognized that he should never go that far again and strive to avoid being actively cruel.

he also has the opportunity to recognize that vlad does have a human half, even the one he's fighting everyday. he can face some conflict in it's not entirely clear what trait belongs to vlad and what trait belongs to him. he can empathize with vlad and he can recognize that situations aren't always in black in white. those who fly the highest, fall the hardest, after all.

it can be a growing experience. and while making it solely a danny goes bad and learns not to do evil kind of story. maybe we could cut vlad from the equation and just have danny face himself, full evil refection. i think exploring both vlad and danny through this fusion is far more interesting. especially because we can build on what's revealed about vlad in these episodes, in later ones. danny sees a future where vlad chills and that maybe his vlad could get their. later he see vlads past and what he lost to become who he is.

and then there's vlads turning point episodes. i don't know when motherly instinct took place but maddie fully recognizing he's a bastard and rejection him, was a turning point for his sanity, and danny helped it along. then we have danny rejecting him repeatedly, then we the clone episode, which we can all agree was a desperate move on his part, that danny once again thwarted. and we can all agree that this was the cannon turning point for his character where he stopped fighting for a family and started trying to be danny's villain. in that episode, i think danny could potentially pity vlad enough to try and reach out. he's not going to justify what vlad did and he's not going to apologize for stopping him. he went too far. he hurt danny and dani, he crossed a moral line that can't be justified even with his desperation. but if he changes...

he lost this time but if he changes, maybe they'll reach the point where they're ready to accept him.

i think the same thing could be said about his relationship with jack and maddie. if he changes, if he reaches out. if acts like less of a crazy fruitloop, his friends would be there for him. jack is still trying to be there for him, even if he's being oblivious about vlad's faults. vlads the one driving wedges into his relationships and pushing everyone away.

and that's so freaking human and understandable.it would be such a cool thing to explore with his character.

i could also see a potential arc where after valerie finds out vlad and masters are the same person she tries to get close to him, both to sus out how evil he is and to understand him as a halfa. afterall danny got her to acknowledge dani as human enough, the same would apply to vlad/plasmius, right? only he's a bad person and the more she uncovers about vlad masters the man, the more she realizes it's not the ghost half that's evil. but this is a double edged sword because, vlad is getting attached to her and encouraging her to be more evil. he's encouraging her to go darker and darker in her fight against ghosts and her fight specifically against phantom. to the point where she finally draws the line and says, i'm not doing that! boom exploring the moral ambiguity of her character and getting her to take a hard stance on her morals, because there's a line too far for her.

and boom a further breakdown of vlads character because he finally had someone outside the fentons to redeem him. she could have helped pull him out of the hole he'd been digging himself into. she wanted to help him. he got attached to her, but he and his bad decisions decided to dig himself deeper instead. so once again he's 'abandoned and betrayed'.

from that point, i think it'd be time for him to finally face jack head on. not through manipulative schemes. not through veiled threats and insults. but the full confrontation of 'i always hated you. you ruined my life. you're the reason i lost everything'. which is really just his own self loathing speaking. and jack... empathetic jack can see that vlad desperately wants help. and jack would offer it to him. jack would try to hug it out and apologize and give vlad the love and friendship vlad's been fighting to steal this whole time.

and vlad would reject it.

he'd probably lash out a jack and go into a full breakdown/world destroying attack. could finally put the stolen crown to use and try declaring himself king and embracing his megalomaniac thing and actually be a threat this time. and THAT would be our series finally. everyone teaming up to fight 'king vlad'. danny probably finding out that he's technically king because he beat pariah dark but the matter being a bit confused because he had help. val and danny trying to find the ring of rage or at least find someone who can make one. secrets are out. i imagine vlad, upon revealing himself to jack would out danny to make danny as sad and alone as him. except nope, his family still loves him and val has had the character development to come around to him. (she's still gonna punch danny for lying for so long.) the ghosts will come and help because no one wants another tyrannical kind and vlads obviously off his rocker.

ah, the could have beens

anyway, i didn't mean for this to become a full vlad character analysis and rewrite when we were supposed to be talking about dan, but hey, i'm a simple creature. i like good writing, and i have to rewrite things myself, so be it. - Hestia

[jangofctts]

Bloodsport (din djarin x fem!reader) (part one) 

rated: 18+

word count: 5.4k

warnings: smut, knife kink (no blood is drawn and consent is clearly given), blowjobs, vaginal fingering, din is sorta a virg duDE, alcohol, mentions of violence (reader punches someone in the face kwejrkejh), some gambling (sabaac) also please let me know if I missed anything!

a/n: oOf this is the first fic in sO LONG IM SO SORRY YALL KEHJRKEJH BUT ANYWAYS I HOPE YOU ENJOY

It’s been a couple months since Din’s stepped foot on the sandy nightmare of a planet. Went through hell and back and kriff—it feels like a lifetime ago. But the landscape before him hasn’t changed an inch, Mos Eisley same as always—busy with all sorts of scum and villainy he turns a blind eye to. 

Din hopes it’s not the only thing that’s stayed the same—selfish as it is. Someone as volatile as you is bound to catalyze and shift, so is the nature of life. A lot can happen in a month or two and it’s ridiculous to think that you would ever push your life to the side and wait for him to return.    

Turns out, you are here, still working as the resident mechanic. Though in the same elated breath of hearing that tidbit of news, it’s equally dissatisfying when he somehow misses you completely. You’re off planet, looking for power converters and electrical wiring—back in few days Peli promises. Maybe by the time his wild goose chase is over, back from the butt fuck middle of nowhere, he’ll get to see you— 

Nothing goes as planned—naturally. All Din finds is a man playing dress up, an oversized lizard, planetary drama he’s forced to resolve and—to top it all off—an attempted stickup. Maker—he’s not even worried about anything save for the kid and your speeder. The very same one now scattered over the sand in miserable heaps.           

At least some of it is salvageable…

By the time Din reaches the outskirts of Mos Eisley, the binary suns are smearing across the horizon like molten puddles of magma. Deep aches amass in his shoulders and back from the weight of the speeder parts, his gear, and the second pair of armor. Maker—it feels like his arms are going to be ripped off.

The baby babbles something incomprehensible. 

“Almost there, kid,” Din responds, sparing a quick glance down the baby. “How does soup sound?”

Instead of trudging back to the hangar, Din wanders to the cantina. Call it a hunch or just you and your aunt’s tendency to lurk around the premises, he’s certain he’s going to find one of you here. 

Din is right.

The moment he steps inside, he spots your mess of hair, the low solar lights illuminating the rich colors with a soft orange. The baby coos and blinks up at Din, his tiny clawed finger gesturing in your direction. 

Din hums. “Good job—you found her.” 

The child’s little teeth peek out, pleased with his discovery. Din steps into the doorway, down the carven stairs and over to your table. A older man—a ship rigger by the looks of his uniform—sits across from you, a game of Sabaac spread across the table between you. You’re winning. 

“Hello, Shiny.” You greet, dipping your chin in his direction. “Your armor is looking a tad ripe.” 

It’s true. The layer of slime coating his armor had baked and crusted under the suns—probably doesn’t smell too good either… 

“I killed a Krayt dragon.” Din states it with a twinge of smug satisfaction despite knowing how little something like that would mean to you. He could conquer three dozen planets and shower you in all the precious metals in the world and you’d still turn your nose up at everything.  

“And I curb stomped a centipede today—you aren’t special.” Your eyes never leave the set of worn cards you hold between your fingers, acutely ignoring him like you would an overly enthusiastic puppy. You inhale and scrape your right thumbnail along the edge of the hexagonal cardstock—it’s a subtle tell, one Din would more than likely miss if he were the unlucky bastard brave enough to sit at the other end of the table.  

“You playin’ or what?” Your opponent gripes. He scratches his unkempt salt and pepper stubble and quirks a furry brow. 

You lift your chin in scorned defiance and lay your hand down—full Sabaac. The man hisses through his crooked, clenched teeth and utters a curse as he shoves his winnings towards your end of the table.  

“Peli promised me information.” Din pushes, hearing the kid coo in curiosity as you begin shuffling the cards with practiced flare. “About others like me.”

“Do I look like my aunt to you?” You grumble. It’s the first time your eyes leave the perimeter of the game to look at him. They settle on the kid first with a guarded version of compassion, then leap to the faded green armor clipped to the heavy luggage, and then his visor. Your lip twitches at the green slime still coating the beskar. “I’m assuming my speeder didn’t make it.”

“A technical difficulty.”

You roll your eyes and snort, dealing out the cards then setting the stack in the middle. “Right…”

The background ambiance of the bar and the quiet rasp of cards fill the brief lull in conversation. Any other rational person would take the blaring hint to leave, but Din is just as stubborn as you are. 

“I don’t remember where the hangar is,” Din lies, cocking his head to the side in mock innocence, “could you show me?” 

The tip of your tongue peaks out of the corner of your mouth. The unconscious tic is not one of irritation—not yet. Though before you’re able to respond, your opponent beats you to it. 

“Yeah—I know where it is. It’s between fuck off and take a hike.”  

Din turns his head, the cool, even tone of his words sharper than shrapnel as he address the man. “I was speaking to her.”        

This is funny to you Din realizes—one of the tiny mysteries of your entirety clicking into the place of the puzzle map he’s conjured for you. 

“Well, I don’t have the time of day for cowards who wear shiny buckets over their head.” The man gripes into his drink, dark eyes flicking over to Din as he sizes him up. “What’s a Mandalorian doing out here anyway? Thought your planet exploded or something.”

The man’s ignorance irks him—sure. How could it not? But with years of harsh words and jabs at the foundation of Din’s very being, he’s learned to adapt. It’ll always sting no matter how many layers of beskar he wears but you on the other hand…

Your eyes spark, molten and bright like the last solar flare on the surface of a decaying star. Each encounter Din’s had with you, he’s bared witness to the deep well of your anger that fuels your being like the auto-mechanical heart of a droid. He’s felt the bite of your rage firsthand, but this anger—this is the tragedy of the delicate mayfly wings trapped between the black teeth of misfortune—the story of the boy who rammed a spear into the flank of an ancient beast that bites before it barks and gnashes its yellowed teeth in warning.

Din’s hand inches towards his blaster. He’s not willing to weigh the safety of the kid against your rash decisions, despite it being on his behalf.   

Though, just as quick as it appears, it recedes like the cool drawback of a tumultuous ocean. Din’s arm relaxes at his side as you release a puff of air. 

Your scuffed up fingers, stained with years of engine grease, scars and dirt, curl around your half finished drink. You stand, lay your cards face down onto the table and flash the stranger a feral grin.

Without a word, you toss your drink directly into the man’s unsuspecting eyes. In another breath, the pointed edges of your knuckles fly forward and hook beneath the point of his chin with a meaty thunk. The man’s head whips backwards and connects with the gravely wall—

Out like a light.  

Jaw clenched tight, you shake out your bleeding knuckles and gather up the strewn credits over the table. You shove them into the pockets of your jacket and side eye Din. “Restitutions for damages,” you mutter. 

The other patrons keep their eyes to themselves as the three of you hurry out the door. Only an apathetic glance from the bar tender serves as proof that something did, in fact, occur. No one wants to dirty their nose sniffing about where they shouldn’t be when they have their own business to safeguard.

The crisp night air rustles the stray strands of hair that escape from your ponytail. Ghostly moonlight carves the shape of your cheeks into an almost ethereal sight—one of those deep space creatures with pointy teeth and hellfire for eyes. Stuff of legends you’d never think to look in a dingy bar for.     

But he knows—Din knows that cool mask is just a front from what you hide. It is a hungry ghost that hounds your thin stretched shadow—what ifs and the glories of war you never really escaped. You forget that you are flesh and blood and ghosts are only air and echoes, nothing more. 

Din is sharp edged steel. A stray fragment of a shattered mirror, the lacerated reflection of a nameless purpose and a faceless existence. He’s torn edges and cracked glass but his heart beats within his chest with the blood of a thousand suns. Two souls under the umbrella of the word damaged but entirely different in nature.     

“No one—“ you growl, your voice a steady and lethal timbre that terrifies a part of Din’s unconsciousness, “—speaks that way to my friends.” 

Touching. 

“Don’t look at me like that, Creature,” you huff, staring down at the child who gurgles in return. “He deserved it—“

The reunion certainly wasn’t the one Din imagined, though it’s a relief to find that there’s no roughened edge like sandpaper over skin wedged between you. Picked up right where you left off—no questions asked and no inglorious retelling of how Din nearly died on the floor of a shitty cantina. There’s not a doubt in his mind that you'd laugh at him for it—it is sorta funny…   

The rest of the evening is spent walking back to the hangar, arguing over the fact that yes Din should take the couch instead of that miserable little hovel he calls a bed, and spend the night. He’d have to find some other mechanic to work through the night if he wanted to leave in the morning, because you certainly did not want to volunteer for that. And so—Din reluctantly takes the couch and agrees to let you tackle the monstrosity of fixing up his ship for tomorrow. 

He has to admit…the couch is a bit smaller than the length of his body, but it’s comfortable…maybe he’d buy a better blanket while he was here. As a treat.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- 

You purse your lips and whistle. “I swear each time I see it, it gets worse. Y’know, I know a couple guys selling—“ 

“Can you fix it?”

You fold your arms over your chest and roll your eyes.“Yeah I can fix it, jeez—no need to get your undies in a twist.” 

You try not to take offense, because hey—you’re offering him the info on the good deals on new ships (and at this point anything would be better than this old rust bucket). But if Din doesn’t want anything to do with that, then whatever. His loss.   

When you wander onto the ship, toolbox in hand, the Mandalorian tags along. Unsure if he doesn’t trust you with his things or just wants to hang out, it blankets the space with an air of uncertainty. Turns out it was neither of those guesses. All he does is throw open his stash of weapons, collect his pile of vibroknives, and set them on a table to polish and sharpen. 

Makes sense, you suppose. Everything has to be as shiny as his armor. 

You drop to your knees near the closest wiring panel you find. You wrench open the paneling and frown at the disarray of sparking wires and tangled cords. You organized these perfectly last time he was here. “Who the fuck junked up my rigging?”

Mando sits at the little table tucked away in the corner, brooding over his cache of weapons. He shrugs. “Could’ve come loose when I landed.” 

You roll your eyes at his half assed excuse and mutter a foul string of curses under your breath that’d make even Peli wince. It’s fine. It’s cool—no biggie. You can sort through this in a couple hours, maybe three. 

But of course rarely anything goes as planned. As time ticks away, arms deep in wires older than the kriffing Clone Wars, the distractions begin. The scrape of metal on durasteel makes the hair rise into little pricks all up your arms—you shoot a glare over your shoulder. Din tilts his head, your kneeling self reflecting within the ever dark visor, features scrunched into an obvious tell of annoyance. Huffing, you bury your head back into your task at hand. 

The second distraction arrives in the form of a quiet hum of curiosity originating from the Mandalorian. Out of the corner of your eye you see him bring a vibroblade up to his visor, inspecting the notch in the blade that disrupts the electrical current that flows through the weapon. Din then rubs his thumb over the handle of the vibroblade in a slow, sensual circle. You lick your lips and tear your eyes away. That shouldn’t be hot.

You furrow your brows and tear apart another wire, but the metallic tap, tap, tap of Din bouncing the tip of a different blade over the table is bothersome. You swing your head to your left, mouth parting to snap at him, but his hand—sans glove—brings you to a halting stop. 

It’s alluring, the way his long, weathered fingers twirl the knife with practiced ease—like silk through water and followed by the low hum of electricity meant to slice through flesh. Din tosses it in the air, watching it spin three rotations then catches it by the handle. Your lips purse when his visor meets your eyes. He spins it between his fingers.  

“Am I bothering you?”

Fucker.   

You scowl. “It’s fine.” 

The soft rasp of his thumb sliding along the flat of the blade entices the eye and damnit—he’s doing this on purpose. 

“Doesn’t seem fine,” he hums. 

“Well, it is.” You retort hotly. You snatch up your pliers and imagine you’re pulling his teeth out in place of the crooked paneling. “I’m currently thriving in my element.”  

Din hums, the sound buzzing with grainy distortion. “Do you want a closer look?”

You chew your bottom lip. He’s playing with an open flame and you with volatile jet fuel. 

“I don’t know, seems kinda lame from here.” You scoff, busying yourself by pinching and twisting another set of frayed wires between your fingertips. “A toothpick if anything.”

Din snorts behind you. The deadly whisper of beskar against the durasteel tabletop makes the hair on the back of your neck prick into points. You tense as heavy boots shuffle along the floor, the near silent rustle of armor tinkling behind you as Din steps closer. You’re slow to stand, even though the presence of the Mandalorian is no less than overbearing. You wipe your grimy hands onto a spare rag, continuing to face the paneling. You then turn, a coy smile threatening to break across your face. 

Stars Din is broad—and close enough you swear you’re able to see the perspiration of your breath fog the beskar plating. Your eyes follow the seams of the cuirass, across the leather bandolier and up to his helmet that’s fixed in an impassive glare of tempered steel. Your back bumps into the wall as Din takes another step forward, boxing you in. To escape you’d need to duck under his arm and yet…you refuse to move.   

Your breath catches as he languidly lifts his hand and taps the flat side of the vibroblade over your collarbone. The sharpened point tickles up the column of your throat, a crackle of nerves and your pounding pulse following in its wake. Din turns the blade to flat edge and pushes into the space right below your jaw—you squirm when he chuckles, the sound low and deep. 

“You like this…”

Din grunts as your hand reaches between his legs, squeezing the growing hardness there. “So do you.” 

Din circles his hand around your wrist with his free palm. Moons above his hands are warm. He murmurs your name—you shiver. “Tell me you want this—want me.”

A blush, hotter than the surface of Tatooine in the midday sun, rushes up your neck and pools into the apples of your cheeks. Maker you want him. With a shuddering sigh you nod—braving the scathing shrapnel of vulnerability. “I need you, Din—please.”

A low chuckle rumbles through Din’s chest. “Don’t think I’ve ever heard you say please before.”

Din drops his hold on your wrist as you roll your eyes. “Shut up, Bucket Head.”

The Mandalorian snorts and dips his head—gesturing towards the blade still lightly pressed against the base of your throat. “This ok too, Skitter?”

You flash him a wolfish grin. “Gonna fuck me with it?”

Din swears under his breath, crowding his body closer to yours. You hear his strained sigh as he dips his head closer, the beskar a chilly whisper against your cheek. “You’re depraved…take off your pants.”

You smirk, tear off your belt and shimmy out of your pants and underwear, bottom half now bare. His visor dips, entranced.  

Your heart leaps into your throat, your pulse roaring in your ears as he settles one of his bare hands over the swell of your hip while the other trails the blunt edge of the handle from your clothes collarbone, and down your belly. From your mid thigh he skates the handle up your bare thigh and then rests it over the crack of your thigh. Heat flushes through your entire body, a stark contrast to the cool metal of the handle. A shiver races down each vertebrae when he drags it over the swell of your cunt and then carefully pressing it against your clit. You gasp and arch into the light touch, your thighs involuntarily jerking as he increases the pressure. It’s cold, rigid and filthy. Who knows where that knife has been—how many lives it’s taken or severed through muscle and skin. 

You don’t find it in you to care all that much.    

He trades his hold on your hip to slide his hand into your shirt, palming and kneading your breast through your bra as you roll and whine against his fingers. The tight circles he's drawing over your clit burns through your abdomen, drags you closer to the precipice that you’re all ready so close to. Fuck—it’s been so long since you’ve indulged in this sort of pleasure.You whine his name as wicked heat licking up your body and spreading to each limb. You arch into him, the handle of his knife slipping through your folds as arousal drips from your cunt.   

Your groan as you tilt your hips into the handle, craving any lick of pleasure he’ll give. Your breath hitches as Din pushes the hilt closer to your throwing entrance, murmuring praise as he sinks the first couple inches inside of you. It’s cold—the knobby feel of the handle not too much thicker than one or two of your fingers combines. You huff and grab at his cowl, the warmth of his hand grazing your pussy each time he rocks his wrist forward. 

“You’re so quiet,” Din goads, pulling the handle free from your aching center. “You usually have plenty to say.” 

You shoot Din a glare, tongue weighed down by arousal to come up with a god retort. You lean your head back against the wall of the Crest and with a chuckle, Din’s hand leaves your shirt to pull you against his chest, the vocoder rumbling against your ear. The blade clatters to the floor and instead brings his calloused fingertips to your cunt. He softly rolls your swollen clit between his forefinger and thumb, delighting in the way you shake. “Be a good little thing and cum for me.”

Shit, you didn’t think it’d be that easy. Your body seizes as white hot heat ripples through your core. Stars, brighter than a dying sun burst behind your eyes, a high pitched cry filtering past your lips as shake and fall apart in his arms, your cunt clenching tight around the thick fingers he slips inside of you. 

You whine as he pulls out, little aftershocks of pleasure wracking through your body in wake of your euphoric high. You groan as he lifts your head and pushes his digits, coated in your juices into your mouth. You lick them clean, tasting the tang of your own arousal and the salt on his skin. “Fuck—that was good.”

You can only imagine that Din rolls his eyes. He takes a step back but before he can escape—

You drop to your knees, a wicked smile curling over your lips. The muscles in his thighs jump as your palms smooth over the outsides of them, then up to his narrow hips, your thumbs lightly massaging the ligaments that protects the fragile joints. Din sucks in a sharp breath when your fingertips hook around his trousers. 

“What are you doing?” Din asks, brushing a thumb over your jaw. 

You pause and glance up at him. You quirk a brow. “Was gonna suck you off, but if you have something else in mind…“ He hisses and tips his head back, flashing the underside of his chin as your hand leaves his hip to cup the heavy bulge tenting in his trousers. 

“Maker—“ He looks off to the side, inhales a choppy breath and then snaps his head back. “You’d…you’d do that?”   

You nod and flash him an encouraging half grin. “Wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t want to.”

Din mumbles an incoherent string of words under his breath and shifts his weight onto his right leg. His fingers touch your cheek again then tuck a loose hair behind your ear. “But—“

Moons above this man is straight out of some kind of fucking fairytale—arguing about getting his dick sucked—or not. 

Whatever.       

“Din…” His breath hitches at the sound of his name. “I’m asking you kindly to fuck my mouth—it’s cool if you don’t wanna, but my knees already kriffing hurt and—“

He cuts you off with a hasty nod. “Yes—stars, please.”

Fuck yeah.

You smile and slide your eyes past Din’s legs to the cargo crate shoved up against the wall. “You should sit—easier that way.”

He nods and shuffles over, lightly perching himself on the edge and ready to flee at the barest hint of well—anything.

Din’s knee jumps when you place your palm over it. You assume his nerves are from the nature of his occupation—trouble always strikes when you least expect it—and what better time would that be when his pants are around his ankles. “Relax—I’m not gonna bite—maybe.”

He makes a wary sound low in his throat as your fingertips hook into the waistband of his trousers and pull. Din lifts up as you tug the fabric further down his legs, tan skin and solid muscle following in its wake. Fuck…

You swallow, mouth feeling quite dry when your eyes drift between his legs. Din is thick, a rosy brown color, flushed at the tip and curling towards his bellybutton. Beads of liquid shine at the tip, dribbling down the underside and pooling into the dark patch of curls at the base. Din’s fingers hook over the side of the crate, squirming under the weight of your stare. 

Yeah—that’s gonna leave your jaw aching.    

You hear his breath hitch, magnified by the crackle of the vocoder as your lips descend over a silvery scar on the inside of his right knee. You pepper a trail of wet kisses and light nips up his thighs, and by the time you reach the crease of his leg, his hips mindlessly rock with need. 

The second the wet warmth of your tongue brushes over the tip of his cock, his hips jolt off the crate, a load groan echoing through the empty ship. It’s like striking a match to an open line of kerosene—devouring and explosive that’ll leave your delicate skin singed. You’re not nervous playing with fire if this barest scrap of wild heat is anything like burning to a crisp. 

Emboldened by his initial reaction, you wrap your hand around the base, pulsing and achingly hard beneath the velvety flesh. You flatten your tongue over the tip, lapping up the sticky liquid the slip the head of him into your mouth. His hands fly to your hair, tightening into fists as he throws his head back. The beskar scrapes over the durasteel with a sharp squeal, but you don’t find it in you to care about the abrasive sound—eardrums be damned.  

“Fuck—kriffing hell—“ Din snarls, arching his hips to seek more of your warmth. “K-keep going.”  

Your own rekindled arousal blazes hot in your core hearing his stuttered pleas. You pull away to catch your breath, feeling almost guilty for doing so at Din’s low whine of protest. He picks his head up, watching as you languidly jerk him off—entranced with the way your hand rolls over the leaking tip, back down to the base, then up again. You could keep him like this—tease until he cracks under the pressure and begs you for whatever iota of pleasure you want to give but—

You’re not that mean.    

Wetting your lips with your tongue, you part your mouth and slide nearly half of his length into your mouth. Din mutters something garbled, his hips jolting as you hollow your cheeks and bob your head.

Din shifts, arching his back and stuttering out broken whispers of encouragement. Placing your hand over his thigh, you can feel his pulse thrumming beneath your fingertips, wild and alive—something real beneath all that heavy armor and unforgiving helmet. 

“You—you look…” He grunts as you hum around around his cock, swallowing him down further. “Shit—you look so p-perfect like this.”

You groan and squeeze your thighs together, attempting to ignore the gnawing hunger snapping at your insides. 

Rolling your tongue along the underside of his shaft, your fingers slide over what your mouth cant reach—squeezing and gently coaxing him towards his high. He seizes up tight—yet, just when you think you’ve got him skidding off that precarious edge—

His hand fists your hair at the base your neck and yanks you off his cock. He huffs, breathy little pants as he folds into himself like he’s been punched in the gut, his head rolling forward onto his shoulder. Din shivers as he scrambles for control, beginning to loose that slippery foothold he’s so intent on maintaining. His cock, flushed an angry red and still slick with your saliva, twitches and throbs for the release so cruelly wrenched away. 

You let him catch his breath. The fingers tangled in your hair go lax and drop away to rest at his sides. You swallow, his previous skittishness suddenly clicking into place. “Din, are you…?” A virgin. Your question tapers off, unsure if it’ll embarrass and scare him off. 

“No,” he answers—not in a sharp way like you’d hear with a bruised ego—just stating a fact. “Just not—not this. Never had someone—stars—“

Your teeth roll your bottom lip between them, forcing your face to remain neutral despite the stroke of pride blooming singing in your chest. You’re his first—lucky enough to make this the best goddamned oral he’ll ever have. Something he’ll remember for years.  

“Do you want me to stop?” You ask, praying to the Maker he’ll say no. 

He shakes his head, sucking in another calming breath and unfurling himself. His fingers clench into fists then relax, crackling with pent up energy and unsure nerves as to where he should put them. You solve it by threading your fingers through his and placing them around you head. 

Your lips quirk. “You’re allowed to cum in mouth—don’t worry about it.”

His cock twitches as a quiet moan fizzles through the modulator. “You su-sure?”

“Oh, yeah.”

With a smile you bring your mouth back to his cock, tongue swiping up the entire length of him. Din groans as the soft warmth of your mouth slips over the flushed tip of cock, his thick length twitching as you hollow out your cheeks and suck. You bob your head as you slowly work him in further because even like this, hardly halfway into your mouth, you feel your lips stretching a bit too much around him. You groan and part your mouth wider, letting him sink into the soft warmth of your throat.  Din inhales, the sound shaky and unsure as his hips twitch with a few tentative thrusts. 

You take it slow—lifting your mouth nearly all the up to the tip then back down to the base. Din rolls his hips, helping you ease into the gentle pace. Saliva drips down his cock and over your knuckles making an absolute mess you have zero intentions of cleaning up. It’s his ship after all. Din swears as his hips stutter, your hand squeeing around him, trying to push him off that edge he so deserves. Din gasps your name, the pitch of his words knocking up to a lighter, more airy tone, warmer than melted butter. 

“Ca-can’t believe, it—ah—it fits.” He groans with astonished reverence. You preen under his praise. 

You swallow around him and grunt at the abrupt jolt of his hips. There’s no distinctive rhythm you can follow as you let him rock his hips into your mouth—seeking out his pleasure without a coherent thought in sight. Just a cacophony of gasping breaths and rough moans. 

You can feel is cock twitching over you tongue—he’s close—and when your eyes roll up to meet the darkened visor, he’s gone. He shouts your name and knots his fists around your hair as he spirals of that edge. You nearly gag from the force of his release hitting the back of your throat—cock throbbing and jerking in your mouth like he’s been denying himself release for months. His moans, fragile and gasping, filling the quiet space as his hips grind his cock deeper down your throat, his hands threaded into your hair acting as an anchor—the sole tether he has to the waking world. 

Din’s grip relents as the last few catastrophic waves tear through his body. He doesn’t move his hands, just lets them rest over your skull  as his chest heaves for precious air, a harsh crackle through the vocoder. You pull his still twitching cock halfway out, dragging the tip of your tongue below the frenulum while one of your hands circles the base of his length. Maker—he’s still going—

Last little dribbles of his cum spurt onto your tongue and drip over your knuckles still securely wrapped around him. His legs and lower abdomen flex when your hand falls lower to carefully knead at his balls, milking out his pleasure for all its worth. You let his softening cock slip from your mouth when he swears and mumbles your name.      

When you rest your back against the wall, he slips himself back into his trousers and joins you. You take a risk and rest your head over the chilly beskar pauldron. You’d never call this love—the word is much too harsh for this delicate string of seconds. Love means giving pieces of yourself to others like martyrs give their hearts to the sky—or risk fragile skin against the rays of an unforgiving sun. Broken ribs and clenched fists, immensity beyond comprehension—

“You should come with us,” he says with a hesitant mumble. Love is formidable—but you know that somehow, here, pressed against Din’s side, that this is right. In a golden way, a honeyed way, a path that tastes of blood, freedom and blaster smoke that will leave your lungs stained with blackened soot. Cowardice has long made a home inside of your soul, and he’s offering you a chance to shake off the layer of frost clinging to your bones and step into the gentle merciful dawn.  

“Yeah—alright, Din. I will.”

tags (only tagging some moots for now bc i have no clue what’s going on in this fandom anymore dbdndn): @goldafterglow @jango-fettish @djxrxn @blsmjoon @spookoofins @krissology @steeeeeeeviebb @teaofpeach @comphersjost @gummiishark @delusionsxfgrandeur @pettyprocrastination @huliabitch

[thekingslover]

Jetski For Sale (Lokius fic)

He stops riding the jetski.

He keeps it on the small trailer at the end of his driveway beside his modest split-level home and covers it with a blue tarp.

Every morning, in his brown button-up pajamas and a bathrobe, he walks to the end of the driveway and collects the morning paper. He’s careful to hold his coffee mug steady as he leans down, but he always manages to spill a drop or two. His slippers are covered in tiny coffee spots.

He tucks the newspaper under his arm and turns back toward his house. He left the television on; through the window, the screen flashes with the bright white letters, Breaking News! Two houses down, his neighbor is already out mowing the lawn. Further away, a dog barks.

Though he lives alone, it’s a perfect life. Everything’s simple. His mortgage is affordable. His brown sedan is paid off. And the jetski...

He doesn’t remember buying it. He always wanted one, dreamed of it. He had a savings set aside for someday. Yet... his savings is still there, and he still has this jetski.

He looks at it now, at the way it bulges under the tarp. A shame to leave it like that. He should take it out again. But the last time he did that...

Shaking his head, he walks back to the house. He drinks his coffee and reads his newspaper. He goes to work, comes home, goes to sleep, and does it all again the next day.

“Something’s different about you,” his sister says on the phone, their weekly call. “You sound different.”

“Same old me.” He’s good at keeping back his feelings and pushing forward the cheer.

She knows, though. Older sisters always seem to. “Are you sure you haven’t been seeing anyone lately?”

This sends him laughing. “A secret boyfriend? Come on, you have quite an imagination on you.”

“Laugh all you want,” she says, stern. She’s not backing down, though her voice does soften as she adds, “It’s only that you... Well, you sound... heartbroken.”

“That’s...” He should deny it. He hasn’t dated anyone in a good long while, but, well, now that she mentions it... He’s had his heart broken before, long ago, and it felt a little something like this. Like something crucial is suddenly missing. Like you spent so much time learning someone and adapting to them, shaping whole parts of your life around them, and then they are just... gone.

There’s a person-sized hole in his life now, but he can’t quite remember their shape.

No, that can’t be.

“That’s crazy,” he says, thinking, maybe I’m crazy.

“Why don’t you come visit us for a while?” she says. “The kids would love to see you.”

“Yeah,” he says, shaky. “Yeah, maybe that’s a good idea. Tell them I love them. Love you too.” Then he hangs up.

*

That night, he lays on his back in bed and stares at the ceiling, afraid to look to his right. He used to sleep sprawled across the entire width of the bed, a true bachelor enjoying his bachelorhood. When did he start picking one side?

He turns over, facing away from the barren expanse of the rest of the mattress, but the bookshelf offers little comfort. Most of his books are about history, biographies on interesting characters from the past. There’s a couple of jetski magazines wedged in, too. But what catches his eye... He remembers buying it, knows he did, the morning after watching a documentary on the perception of time and space. The documentarian had written a book. The Mobius Strip.

Frowning, he doesn’t find any sleep that night, no matter how many long minutes he closes his eyes, or how many sheep he tries to count in his head.

Mobius.

It’s a mathematical theory. Not a name. But it wedges between his ribs and stays buried behind them.

He’s not even a maths guy! But he can’t shake it. It feels heavy, too important.

He tosses and turns. He reaches out to the other side of the bed, realizes its empty, and snaps upright, dread overtaking him for one sharp moment before he remembers that its supposed to be empty.

This is normal. This is his perfect little life.

He flops back into bed and runs a hand down his face. Maybe he should go visit his sister, before he fully loses his mind.

*

His hands shake the next morning when he walks out to get the newspaper at the end of the driveway. Half his coffee spills when he leans to pick it up, but its fine. Maybe he should give up coffee entirely. Maybe too much caffeine is his problem.

He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him.

Turning towards the house, he spots the jetski, there under the blue tarp. The mysterious jetski that he doesn’t remember buying. The one, when he’s out on it, he sits too far forward, like he’s making space for someone behind him. But there’s no one there. There’s never anyone there.

The jetski, he decides, was the start of his problems. Maybe if he... If he...

Storming back into the house, he leaves what’s left of his coffee in the sink and the newspaper forgotten on the counter, and hurries into the office. He rips off a long sheet of dot matrix printer paper. Biting off the cap of his pen, he scribbles on it in large block letters, all caps, FOR SALE.

Back in the driveway, he removes the chocks from behind the wheels of the trailer, and flips off the tarp. He wheels the trailer and the jetski to the end of the driveway, right up against the road.

He must look like a mad man, out there in his brown button-up pajamas and coffee-stained slippers. The neighbor’s mowing the lawn. The dog’s barking further away. Everything’s perfect in this perfect little neighborhood, this perfect little life. But he feels like he is going insane.

He slaps the for sale sign on the front of the jetski, and starts back for the house. The sooner that thing is out of his life... Maybe... Maybe things would go back to normal.

His heart pangs in a way he doesn’t understand. Heartache. So much heartache. Why?

Does he even want normal?

But if not that, then what? What is he missing?

He’s at his front door, hand on the doorknob, when someone politely coughs behind him. He pauses a moment, there’s no way someone is there... But when he glances over his shoulder - yeah. Someone’s behind him, only a few feet away.

Not just someone. The most gorgeous person he has ever seen, wearing a sleek black suit and a pair of sunglasses. Long dark hair is slicked back and pushed behind their ears.

He should probably feel self-conscious, standing there in his brown pajamas in front of this god of a person - probably a model - but he doesn’t. Strangely, he feels more at ease now than he has in weeks. His whole body relaxes like he finally exhaled a held breath.

But that doesn’t make sense. They’ve never met. He would remember.

He would never forget a face like that.

“Hello,” the person says, and the word tremors slightly.

“Hello.” It tremors when he says it too.

There’s no car on the road. No bicycle on the sidewalk. However this person got here, it’s like they dropped down from the sky.

The person clears their throat. “You’re selling the jetski?”

“You...” He blinks. He knew jetskis were popular - hell, they are the best - but he hadn’t expected an offer before he even got his pants on. “Yeah. You interested?”

“Yes, I...” They drop their head a moment, taking their time to think. When they lift their head again, their shoulders lift too, like they are preparing for a battle.

He supposes negotiations can be seen as a battle, but he can’t bring himself to match the person’s pose. He’s ready to give up the jetski for free at this point. Whatever gets it gone.

The person asks, “What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing’s wrong with it. It runs like a dream.”

“Then why get rid of it?”

His heart hurts, so he laughs through the pain. It’s silly, but he can’t help feel his sister was right. This person wouldn’t know either way, so he finds himself telling them, “I’m heartbroken.”

The person goes very still. Their mouth opens and they take in a shaky, noisy breath. When they say, “What?” the word is bone dry and crumbling.

“It’s something we did together... I think.” He’s making it up, but it feels right. So he keeps talking. “And now. Well. It kinda reminds me of... I’m pretty sure I forgot a lot of things, but I can’t forget that. There’s supposed to be someone else. And I can’t... I can’t...”

He’s not making any sense, but the person is hanging on every single word.

“Anyway,” he says. “I’ll let it go cheap. Too many memories... or... I don’t know, feelings?” He sighs. “Just make me an offer, okay? I have to get ready for work.”

He wants nothing more than to keep this beautiful person on his doorstep, but... well, life isn’t always about getting what you want. This person wants a jetski, he has one. A transaction will occur, and this person will move forward like he never existed.

He’ll be left behind again.

Again?

Now, he’s the one to stand a little straighter. “Do you ever get deja vu?”

“Deja vu?”

“You know, where you feel like you’ve lived an exact moment already, once before. I’ve been reading this book about mobius strips and...” There’s that pang again, in his chest. A subtle ache that is swelling. He wants to ignore it, like he always has, but he’s finding he can’t really anymore. “Don’t you think that’d be a cool name? Mobius. Mobius M. Mobius.” He laughs, and it hurts. It hurts.

The person doesn’t laugh. Instead, they take a small step back. “I shouldn’t have come here.”

His laughter dies quickly. It wasn’t real anyway. “You don’t want the jetski?”

“I do,” the person says with naked longing. “More than anything.”

“Then its yours.” He shrugs. “You know, it kinda feels like it was already yours? Like, maybe its just been waiting around for you to show up and claim it.”

The person shakes their head. “It’s better off without me. It finally has a chance to... to... live the way you - it deserves...”

“I mean, that’s a nice thought. But in practice... wouldn’t it be better for jetskis to decide for themselves the kind of lives they want? Whose to say that their life before was all that great? Because let me tell you, this perfect little normal life I’m living? Kinda sucks.” He doesn’t really understand what he’s saying, but the words still fall out of him, like ripping a scab off an old wound and all the blood starts running again.

The person takes another step back, but this time, he follows, taking a step forward. Somehow, it feels crucial that he not let this person leave him behind again.

There, another again. What is he not remembering?

“There’s something terribly wrong with all this,” he says. “I’m forgetting something important, but whatever it is - whoever - I don’t think I can be happy without them. Not really. Not in any way that matters.”

“Mobius...” the person says, soft, under their breath. Stronger, “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

And the dam breaks.

“I know exactly what I’m saying, Loki.” The name, that name. How could he forget that name?

The person - Loki - exhales again, watery this time.

“Maybe if we never met, this would be enough. Maybe it was once. But not anymore. Never again. Not since you. And not even your little mind hocus pocus could change that.”

Mobius takes another step forward. This time, Loki does not move back. They stay just as they are and let Mobius close the distance. Mobius lifts his hands to Loki’s face and slowly removes those sunglasses. Loki’s eyes have always been the most expressive - the easiest to read. No wonder they would try to hide them. Because now they shine with sorrow and regret and... love. So much love.

And that, Mobius knows, is exactly what he’s been looking for when he reaches out to the empty space beside him on the bed. When he sits in his kitchen and stares at the pulled-out chair across the table. When he rides his jetski and turns, ready to laugh with the missing person behind him.

“I’m not angry,” Mobius says, tossing the sunglasses aside. He takes one of Loki’s hands in his. Loki grips hard onto his fingers. “I understand why you did it. It’s kind of flattering really, to know you’d give up your own happiness to try to give me mine. But there was a very big problem with this latest Loki scheme.”

“What’s that?” Loki asks in a whisper.

Mobius gives them a smile. The first real one since they parted. “You’re unforgettable.”

Loki laughs once, a burst, like they’ve been holding something in and now its escaping. The hard lines of their face smooth out. And they look less like a frightened, broken shadow and more like themselves, god of mischief, with a small but growing smirk. “Of course. I suppose I should have considered that.”

“Big flaw. Ruined the whole thing, to be honest.”

Loki leans closer. “I hate to admit to fault, but I fear there was a second issue that I had not considered.”

“Oh, yeah? What’s that?”

“Your absolute stubbornness.”

“Stubborn? Me? You should look in the mirror, pal.”

Loki closes their eyes a moment. Mobius studies the planes of their perfect face, and wonders how, in all the infinite timelines, he ever forgot it. 

“Loki,” Mobius says. “Do me a favor, though, huh? Don’t do this again. I... uh, well. It wasn’t the most fun for me.”

“Me, either.” Loki presses their forehead to Mobius’s. “I regretted every moment, but I... The TVA stole you from your life. I wanted to -”

“I know, I get it. I’m not mad. But communication is key to a relationship, yeah? So maybe next time you want to do a grand gesture of love for me, we should talk about it first?”

Loki leans back. They blink. But it’s not the love that trips them up, it’s, “Relationship?”

Mobius runs his hands along Loki’s arms, up to the shoulders and back down to the elbows. “Yeah. I mean, we’re partners, right?”

“Partners.” Loki doesn’t say the word with disgust, more... intrigue.

“Boyfriends?” Mobius tries.

“Boyfriends.” Loki frowns at that one.

“Lovers?”

Loki’s eyes are bright and full of wonder. How they could look at Mobius, someone so normal, like that... well. Loki makes Mobius feel like a god himself, no wonder he couldn’t go back to his old life.

“Lovers,” Loki says and kisses Mobius. Mobius smiles against their lips. Lovers, it is, then.

Kiss turns to kisses, and they linger. It’s right, so right that it further amplifies how wrong everything else was before. Mobius belongs here. Right here. With Loki. Forever, if possible.

When they break, they both laugh, and it’s light and true this time, for both of them.

“Hey, Loki,” Mobius says. “Want to buy a jetski?”

Loki pulls an annoyed face, but its all an act - Mobius sees right through it, and Loki’s not trying that hard to hide it. “I believe I’m the one who acquired that jetski for you. You have no right to sell it.”

“It was a gift,” Mobius says.

“It remains a gift. One I insist you keep.”

“Alright, alright,” Mobius laughs and Loki kisses him at the corner of his smile. “But only if you promise to keep me.”

“Oh, dear Mobius.” Loki brings their mouth to Mobius’s ear. “I hope you appreciated this display of selflessness, because I will not be repeating it.”

“Good.”

“I am a selfish god.”

“Uh, huh.”

Loki’s arms grip tightly around Mobius’s waist. “And from here to eternity, I will be keeping what’s mine.”

The last remaining knots in Mobius’s chest untangle. “And the jetski.”

“And the jetski,” Loki says and kisses him again.

[wiltingdecay]

was bored and couldn't get my pea brain to focus on writing after expending so much energy today so here's some half baked rowan charm "plans" (i use that term very lightly here)

halloween charm rowan

• BANSHEE ROWAN? BANSHEE ROWAN............... BANSHEE ROWAN!!

• banshees are just yassified ghosts so tattered white gown + white hood/veil thingy + some kind of waist corset thingy to rowanify it some more.

• hair MESSY and flying out around his head.

• dark and extremely smudgy make-up, maybe some white foundation as well (i don't think banshees have freckles :( sad)

• arms out pose so big ripped sleeves can dangle and be centred

• face like >:] and general heehoo im gonna getcha vibes

baewatch charm rowan

• beeeeeg sunhat, smthing similar to portia's but with darker colours perchance

• they probably didn't have obnoxious patterned hawaiian shirts in ye olden times but he's getting one anyway

• tiny lil dark plain coloured bikini top underneath bc said hawaiian shirt must be oversized + unbuttoned

• either equally tiny full ass out shorts or full transmasc board shorts. might sketch both and see which i like best

• chunky wedge sandals bc he's apparently been short coded, he can't not remind ppl that he is Tall

• pose..... idk but he will be holding a margarita. would be floating in a big donut but too similar to asra's + hides outfit. perhaps crouching by a rock pool befriending a crab

wedding charm rowan

• sitting SEXILY. legs crossed ass and thighs in full view.

• can't imagine rowan getting married at his ingame age/maturity level so make him look a lil older

• longer hair? longer hair. would be styled like his regular hairstyle but Fancier. thinking braided back like muriel's hair in his route

• white + gold outfit obviously but with red accents... red tie? red hair accessories? red lips? red bottom boots? yes

• white ruffly poet shirt showing off hefty amounts of chest... gold underbust waistcoat or corset w red detailing... frilly ass pants with gold embroidery.... white or gold heel boots... fuck maybe a white w gold or just straight gold tailcoat too he is getting MARRIED he should go all out (but on the other hand i don't want it to just be a recolour of his masquerade fit so we'll see)

• fanciest gold jewellery i am willing to spend time drawing

wonderland charm rowan

• i guess rowan is alice?? only thing that really makes sense lmao

• turn alice's skirt into shorts and her apron into a lil waist corset and we have ourselves a rowancore outfit

• pose + background elements; based on scene from the beginning where alice is falling into wonderland - pose rowan partially upside down/falling headfirst perhaps

• have plot important stuff falling with him; the emerald necklace, cards from asra's deck, myrrh pouch, julian's research, red beetles, etc

fruit charm rowan

• rowan is already a fruit and today that fruit will be a mango. red + green + lil bit of goldish yellow fits his aesthetique to a t

• outfits seem to be modern au + matching the fruit's palette for the most part soooooo... slightly slutty punkish dark academia outfit that's red/green/little bit of gold. idk what that would even entail but i'll figure something out

• pose/background details; sitting legs crossed on beeg half-mango "boat" and holding/eating smaller mango?? idk the composition of these charms confuses my pea brain for some reason

potion bottle shaker charm rowan

• finally i do not have to cook up a new outfit. breathes a sigh of relief

• pose.... idk he'll just be sittin. either he'll be a bit slutty about it or takin a nap against the side of the bottle, i could go either way

• heart shaped red bottle with a gold stopper inlaid with a turquoise gemstone(s) to match/reference their necklace. might have some gorse flowers around the top too. perchance.

• contents of bottle: two tarot cards. sammi. a chibi version of the tower (Uh Oh). the notebook that they scribble investigation stuff/General Thots in throughout the routes. a little flame.

tired so i'll plan out the rest some other time

[wyofabdoms]

Undercover I Do - Chapter 5

Characters: Javier Peña x female reader

Summary: While on an undercover assignment posing as a married couple, you are attacked and nearly assaulted. Upon waking, all you remember about Javier Peña is what you remembering seeing from two photographs of the two of you posing as the happily married couple. As you struggle to regain your memories, Javi struggles with his own feelings for you.

Rating: Mature (Eventual smut)

Warnings: fake/pretend relationship, married and undercover trope, temporary amnesia, hospitalization, blood and injury, swearing, awkward Javi, unrequited feels, mentions of sex toys, feelings, pining, 

Word Count: 3132

Notes: You're released from the hospital, and Javi sets up house. While doing so, he stumbles across a couple of things that make him feel all kinds of ways!

Read on Ao3

You were released from the hospital two days later under the stipulation that you were to rest and were not to return to any kind of active field duty until fully cleared by the doctor and his medical team.  Over the course of those two days, some of your memories had seeped back in, like figures appearing through thick fog and slowly taking form and shape.  But, it seemed to you, not any of the really important ones were returning.  You remembered now some specific events from the last two years of your time as an agent: big busts you had made, critical incidents that had ended badly for your agency, colleagues that had been lost in the line of duty.  You had been able to recall many details of your work against the worst of the drug cartels in Colombia from the last two years and even further back...but most memories of things from the past three or four weeks were still a grey void with nothing in them, not even shadows to hint at memories waiting there in the fog.

You were rarely alone at the hospital: if Dixon was not sitting at your bedside, then Javi was there in her place. Between the two of them, you had managed to scrape together some large pieces that were missing about your relationships: you had worked with Dixon earlier in your career in San Diego and when she had risen in ranks and earned a seat down here in the thick of things, she had brought you along with her.  You had the feeling that she viewed you as a bit of a protege and you felt confident that the memories you had of her support and backing of you were true.  Memories about your relationship with Javi proved to be a bit more difficult to get confirmation on.  While both Dixon and Javi were very willing to discuss and confirm anything you asked about your mentor, when you inquired or asked for clarification on your history with your husband, both agents seemed to hesitate for a moment before answering you.  Dixon was more guarded than Javi and the older woman would often change the subject as quickly as she could when you asked her about your husband.  You got a distinct sense that she did not approve of your marriage to the man you had been partnered with during your time here.

You remembered that was how you had met Javi; you had been assigned as his partner.  You remembered the earliest days of working with him: how he had flirted with you and you had rebuffed him, how there had been moments when your partnership had skated the line of something more.  But it was only the older memories that seemed to come clearly to you...the closer to present day you came, the emptier your memories became.  You had tried to remember when exactly your relationship with Javi had made the jump from work partner to life partner.  When and how had the two of you told each other how you felt?  And you had zero memories of a proposal, a wedding....no memories at all of how it felt to touch and be touched by the handsome man who spent hours sitting in comfortable silence next to your bed. You couldn’t bring yourself to ask him questions about those things...not yet.

Surprisingly, Dixon was the one who escorted you when you were released.  After the older woman saw you carefully buckled into the passenger seat of the car, you inquired as to why Javi wasn’t the one driving you home.  Dixon’s eye flickered behind her dark sunglasses, and she mumbled something about him getting your apartment ready for you. She assured you that he would be waiting at your home when you got there.

Your home.  For a moment, your stomach sank, thinking about how you would be going back to a place that was foreign to you but was supposed to be a safe haven, a refuge, the home you shared with a husband you were supposed to be in love with.  Would you remember any of it?  Would anything that you found there help jog anything loose in your memory?

You could only hope.

***

“Fuck!”

Javi growled as he struggled to keep a box from teetering off the pile of other boxes that it was precariously stacked on.  His hands were full of his clothes on hangers, halfway between the box he had just removed them from and the clothing pole in the closet.  He had been struggling most of the morning with lugging half of his possessions down the two flights of stairs of their shared apartment building and trying to make it appear as though he had lived in this apartment for longer than a few hours.  Both he and Dixon had agreed it would be best for her to return to familiar surroundings...but they still needed to keep up the premise that the two of you shared a life together.

Javi had never given much thought to domesticity.  The closest he had ever come was Lorraine...and the brief moment of introspection he had had when he had seen her those several years ago at that wedding.  Thoughts had crossed his mind then: what would it be like to have a wife, to wear a ring on his finger, to have promised himself to someone forever?  To have a future that was shared with another person?  To make important decisions with another person and not just on your own?  To have 2.5 kids and a house?  But he hadn’t spent too much time dwelling on it simply because none of that was really who Javi was, was completely unimaginable to him.  He had never once really thought that sort of life would ever be one he would want, much less be able to live.  And, quite honestly, he wasn’t all that sure that that kind of life was one that he deserved.

Now, it seemed, life was playing a little gag on him: turns out maybe there WAS a way for him to see if married life was for him...although he did hate the fact that his partner had had to be injured in the process.  

One thing he was certain of at the moment, though: if getting married and divvying up and combining possessions was as big a pain in the ass for real as it was for this farce?...Well, that was a strike against matrimony in his opinion.

At first he had merely grabbed a small duffle bag full of items; things he thought he might leave at a woman’s house if he was spending the night or a weekend: a change of clothes, toiletries, firearm.  But when he had let himself into her apartment two floors below his in their building, it had struck him that that wasn’t going to be good enough. 

Her apartment was lived in.  Unlike his own, which he realized now seemed a little sterile and cold, her’s was warm and (though not a word he often used in his vocabulary) cozy.  She had artwork on the walls, shelves full of books from all different genres...even a few board games and some well-worn records on the record player stand. He spotted a rolled up yoga mat under a bench beneath the window and a couple of handwritten recipes and smiling photos tucked under bright magnets on the refrigerator. Her bedroom smelled of lavender and soft vanilla; the bed was neatly made (again, unlike his own) and dirty clothes resided in a hamper rather than tossed carelessly into a corner. The spare room that served as an office housed neatly organized work related content and photo albums of people from home, holiday decorations stashed under the guest bed; her closet had her clothes neatly organized (by color, who knew!?). He had quickly come to the conclusion that he might need to put a bit more effort into this charade.

So he had proceeded to spend the next several hours being swept into a whirlwind of imagining what a shared space would look like if the two of them were actually married.  He had started with the few books he had in his own apartment; a few biographies, some car magazines and a ratty copy of “The Art of War” and “The Hobbit”.  He had jammed them onto the neat bookshelves in her living room before returning quickly with some of his own records: some Cumbia records and an Eagles album, which he shuffled in with her own Steely Dan, Creedence Clearwater and Three Dog Night. 

He didn’t have much to contribute to the kitchen besides a few bottles of whiskey and a bottle of tequila next to her own bottles of red wine.  He had pulled a photo taken when he graduated from high school from his wallet and placed it on the fridge next to one of her with her huge family.  He paused a moment to assess the contrast in the two pictures: her in the midst of her five older brothers and parents, all wearing matching Christmas sweaters...him standing bashfully and stiffly next to his dad, who grinned proudly at the camera, one arm awkwardly slung over a teenage Javi’s shoulder.  The bathroom didn’t take long, either.  He added his razor, a bottle of Old Spice, and his toothbrush and comb; he glanced into the medicine cabinet as he placed his deodorant there and eyed what looked suspiciously like a package of prescription birth control...his mind started to wander and he slammed the cabinet door shut, heading back upstairs to his apartment for another load.  

He had strong-armed his clothes still on the hangers into some file boxes to make them easier to carry down the stairs, then had hauled shoes, underthings, suits, jeans, and (what he had not really realized until this moment) a ridiculous amount of the same style shirt in different colors downstairs and was now trying to wedge them into one half of her closet, trying to make it look like they had been there for a while and doing his best to not become buried by the haphazardly stacked boxes.  Once the last set of shoes was stuffed into the closet next to a pair of sky high red heels he had never seen her wear before, (he was CERTAIN he would have remembered those) he opened the dresser to shove his socks and underwear into a drawer and gulped. Staring back at him was a drawer full of his partner’s bras and panties.  

For a moment he felt like a creep pawing through her underwear drawer, but he steeled himself and carefully nudged the sensible pieces of cotton material to one side of the drawer.  As the material shifted, he spotted a brief flash of red lace and something that could be black and leather, but he refused to investigate any further; he could feel his face flushing and his heart pounding harder.  He dumped his own underwear into the drawer and shoved it closed, sighing with relief and opening the next one; socks wouldn’t cause his mind to wander into dangerous territory nearly as badly!  He carefully shoved the rolls of clothing to the side to make room for his own once again and felt his hand hit something.  His breath hitched as he uncovered what was very obviously a vibrator.  Next to it was a tube of lube and a small box about the size of a deck of cards.  Try as he might, he could not stop himself from carefully tilting open the lid of the box...Javi was quite educated when it came to knowing his way around a woman, but he was clueless as to the purpose or use of the two small colored balls nestled into the velvet inside of the box...although he was pretty sure he at least knew where they were supposed to go.  

His mind clouded with images of his partner stretched out on the bed behind him, bringing herself to orgasm using these items and he felt himself harden in his jeans.  He let out a puff of air and carefully nudged the items to the other side of the drawer, reburying them beneath the socks as they had been before.  He piled in his own footwear, then shakily closed the drawer, still trying to blink away the images playing out in his mind.  He wondered what her face would look like as she came apart.  What did she sound like?  Did she cry out when she reached her peak?  What would his name sound like tumbling from her lips in the middle of her climax, what would she taste like…?

He stormed out of the bedroom, furious at himself for going down that path.  He felt like a pervert, getting so turned on after snooping through her personal effects.  He was angry at Dixon for insisting that they do this; but he was frustrated at himself, more.  He shouldn’t be going through her things like this.  He splashed some cold water on his face from the kitchen sink and trudged back up to his own apartment, pacing for a while once he got there, trying to both ease his erection as well as determine what else he should bring with him back to her apartment.  His eyes settled on the shoulder case that had been retrieved from the house that had been used in the undercover operation.  He pulled out the two framed photographs that had been next to “their” bed; the photos that she had referenced when she had first woken up.  He stared at them, thinking that if he hadn’t been present at the time they had been taken, he would have believed they were real, too...that they were actual photographs of two people madly in love with each other.  

Maybe…

No.  He stuck both pictures under his arms, grabbed another box filled with work files, tossed his favorite ashtray and lighter in the box along with one or two small tchotkes, a couple of coasters and a small plastic plant from the window sill, and made one more trip down the stairs.  He dispersed the items randomly throughout her apartment, thinking to himself that it at least gave a more unified image of two different people existing within the same space.  

He hauled the box of paperwork into her second bedroom converted into an office space and plopped it down on the desk, taking one or two folders and strewing them about the top of the desk, again in stark contrast to her own organized, neat piles.  It started to reflect their separate desks at work now, which he found convincing.  He sat in the desk chair for a minute and quickly shuffled through the small desk drawers, double checking for anything glaring that might be difficult to explain.  As he opened the bottom drawer, his eye caught a blue leather bound notebook.  Flipping through it, he saw pages and pages of writing in his partner’s familiar handwriting.  As he thumbed through, he was startled to spot his name on one page.  He carefully flipped back, scanning the writing and was surprised to find that it actually appeared quite often.  He turned a page and began reading from the beginning:

“Everything sometimes feels so incredibly heavy here.  The job, the humidity, the pressure of being a woman in this man’s arena.  I hate it!  I hate that I have to be strong all the damn time.  I hate that it feels like I can’t seek the same comforts as other women...even if I have insisted that it be this way.  I’m so grateful and proud of myself...most of the time...like 95.5% of the time.  The other times, I just wish I could let myself cry when something heartbreaking happens.  When someone says something scathing that hurts my feelings at work.  When I watch Javi go off to sleep with yet another woman.

Javi.  That feels so heavy all of the time, too.  I can’t seem to ever level myself out when it comes to him.  Some days he drives me absolutely insane and I want nothing more than to bash his face in with a paperweight.  Other days, I just want him to put his arms around me and hold me.  Not do anything or say anything, just hold me tight…because he is, truthfully, the only single person that I trust.  

And yet, am I fooling myself in saying that...in saying that I trust him?  Because do I really?  If I really trusted him, why don’t I just go to him?  He only lives two floors up.  Why can’t I knock on his door and fling myself into his arms and kiss him and feel what it’s like to press my body against his?  Why can’t I bring myself to do that?  Well...probably because I don’t really ACTUALLY trust him...not with that part of myself.  Javi is the man I want having my back in a shootout...but is he the man I want to be next to me every night when I fall asleep and every morning when I wake up?  I dream about him sometimes...about him being in my bed with me, but we’re usually not sleeping...we’re doing everything but.  I dream about it and then I wake up feeling empty because he’s not there, because it wasn’t real.  The emptiness is heavy, too...”

Javi clapped the journal shut, feeling his stomach churn.  He shouldn’t have read that and guilt thrummed through him.  These were her private thoughts; never meant for anyone else but her to read.  Once again he felt like an intruder and he loathed himself...Dixon...that asshole Ortiz...for putting both of them in this situation.  He dragged a hand over his face, growling low in his throat.  He looked down at the box at his feet, still open with a few files and the two photographs staring back up at him.  He reached in and took out one framed picture, sitting it upright on the desk: the “engagement” photo.  He took the “wedding” picture out and then tossed the journal into the box, carrying both items from the home office.  He carefully set up the photo on a bookshelf in the living room, then put the lid back on the box and headed back up the stairs to drop the box off in his apartment and lock up.  Before he left, though, he made sure to slip the freshly cleaned gold band onto his left ring finger.

His wife would be coming home any minute now.

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8,  Chapter 9, Chapter 10,  Chapter 11,  Chapter 12,  Chapter 13

[chokefriends]

Anatomy model Eustass Kid

By @godims0tired ♡ for my fic Life Drawing

Rating: E

Warnings: None

Characters & ships: Eustass Kid / Trafalgar Law

Word count: 2978

Summary: Law practices his anatomical drawing with Kidd as his subject. With his devil fruit abilities he can see right inside him.

Kidd finds this insanely romantic.

~~~

Read on Ao3 or below the cut. I know it's an older fic by now but I havent posted it here before so here!

~~~

Kidd jerked into full awareness as he lay sprawled in his bed. He checked around himself without moving and sensed a second heartbeat in the room, near enough that the dim echoes of its electrical impulses lapped at his skin like waves. Slow and calm. Just watching then; not yet poised to attack…

There were eyes on him.

It took him a moment to remember that the other heartbeat was supposed to be there. He wasn't used to having bedmates stay overnight.

Red eyes slid open and found keen grey ones fixed on him.

“The fuck you staring at.”

“You, idiot.”

The big redheaded sprawl snorted crassly at that and flopped over, returning the stare with sleepy menace.

Law smirked. He was wedged sideways in one of the heavy carved armchairs in Kidd's quarters, loosely wrapped in a sheet and busily scritch scritching in a large book. His gaze flicked from page to Kidd and back.

Kidd prodded him, “See something you want, Trafalgar? Come over here and take it.”

His limbs were still all loose and languid from when they'd fucked a couple hours before, but Kidd could stand to go another round. Especially with the sharp, evaluating looks Law was throwing him right now.

“Come on, c'mere.”

“Later. Go back to sleep, Eustass-ya.” The pen bobbed.

“Don’ wanna. What are you doing still up?”

“Just passing the time until my brain decides to let me fall asleep.” Law's insomniac woes again.

“A good fuck will do that for you. Lemme do the ligature thing and you'll be out like bam .” Kidd offered generously.

“Heheh. Thanks but oxygen deprivation is not the kind of sleep aid I need.”

“Your loss.”

Kidd burrowed into his cluster of satiny pillows with a sigh. For an infamously brutal pirate captain he sure liked his little extravagances. The whole room was draped with horribly clashing bits of luxurious fabrics and furs, and the odd shiny sharp thing. The manic magpie whims of past raids.

“Nah, that's no good,” Law recrossed long legs over the chair’s arm, well cushioned with some spotted pelt. “Go back to where you were a second ago.”

“Are you…? What, taking notes on me? Writing an ode to the sinful curve of my flawless ass?”

“Something like that. I'm adding my own anatomical diagrams to this medical text. It’s my favourite for reference material but the illustrations are scanty and kinda shit -- it's like they've never dissected anyone before.”

“Nice. Add a diagram of these.” Kidd kicked up a leg.

“Hah. I'm nowhere near the section on genital abnormalities, but I'll look you up when I get there. Turn on your side again, I was doing upper body musculature.”

“Ooo. I got lots of that, yeah.” Kidd complied.

The lamplight was flickering low behind Law. Kidd could see him and his book backlit dimly, the small hairs on his leanly muscled shoulders aglow like a nimbus. Tinged subtly blue.

Wait, blue?

“Do you have a Room up?”

“Yeah, so I can scan down and see the actual anatomical stuff.”

“Huh. That's handy. You don't even have to dissect anyone.”

“Yeah but it’s easier to see everything if you physically open someone up. You can isolate the individual structures that way.” Law peeked overtop of the book. “And it's more fun to do it the old-fashioned way, heh…”

Kidd gave a low laugh. Law wasn't even joking, he knew. He imagined waking up one night like this, to find some part of him delicately splayed open and the dark haired doctor sketching away with the same expression. If Law used his devil fruit power he could do it painlessly and bloodlessly, without even waking him. Kidd had seen him sever heads away from bodies completely within that blue sphere, both pieces still functioning as one. He’d never been the subject of that eerie power himself, though.

He didn’t think so, anyway.

Law untangled himself from chair and sheet, and finally came over to join him on the bed. Kidd was gifted briefly with a full view of the lithe figure. His recent handiwork was beginning to show in the mottling that ran up either thigh and the bites framing his chest tattoos.

The long limbs refolded next to him. “Stay there, I wanna do the neck muscles now.”

“Lemme see that first.”

“Don't be grabby,” Law complained, but gave up the book.

“Holy fuck.” Kidd flipped through studies of his back, shoulders, hands. “So that's how I look without skin, huh.”

He had been expecting more… yeah. Skin.

“I did say I was drawing the muscles.”

“And my bones and everything.”

“Yeah. Good skeletal structure too. Several odd calluses where breaks didn't quite set right, though.”

“You can see all of that?”

“Yeah, of course. Like I said, I can scan down to any level. Though it helps if I know already the shape of what I'm looking for.”

Something about the drawings was just so Law. The lines so precise, so sharp, somehow impatient. A little obsessive and overworked on certain details, like the hollow between his collar bones and the knobbly crook of his index finger, broken at least twice. Many practice studies on loose sheets of paper showed that Law had been trying to get these parts just right.

It occurred to Kidd that these weren't just anatomical studies using him as a model -- these were him.

Jotted notes crowded around the practice studies, but Law grabbed the book back before Kidd could read them properly.

“Trafalgar. Does that seriously say I have 8.2 litres of blood in me.”

“Nevermind that. Just an interesting fact. You have a lot of blood.”

Kidd stole another peek as Law held him off. “And that I have a grip strength of 68 kilograms in my right hand?”

“At least. That’s not something I can see; that's from uh, experience.”

Kidd leaned back with his hands laced behind his head to look at Law. “One might misinterpret this as a target profile of some kind.” Because that's exactly what it was -- a detailed map of Kidd’s strongest, and weakest points.

“Whoa, your blood pressure’s spiking.” Law grinned with more teeth than usual and leaned in to hover over him.

“Now you're just showing off,” Kidd complained.

“Does this disturb you?”

That wasn't exactly the feeling that was spreading through him, no. Or not entirely, anyway. Kidd just cracked his neck, stretching it out for Law's benefit, and raised an eyebrow.

“So you wanted some neck action? It's all yours.”

Law seemed to like the sound of that. He angled Kidd’s head away and up with a gentle press of fingers, so the ear and neck were exposed to him.

Kidd watched his shadow flicker on the opposite wall and listened to the pen scratch across paper. The undulating magnetic field of Law’s heart was so close now, washing over him. His own blood thudded in his ears, senses all on high alert from holding himself in this vulnerable position.

He could be fuckin patient. Sometimes. Well… when he had all of Law’s attention focused on him like this, he’d stay still forever. He could feel the sharp eyes on him like a touch. His own eyes started to wander back over…

He jumped a little when Law did touch him, nudging him back into place. And then trailing fingers over the mound behind his ear.

“Sternocleidomastoid,” Law mouthed to himself. “Levator scapulae…” The hand travelled down to his collarbone and rested there lightly, his thumb tracing little circles.

It was so calm. And strange. Rare for the reserved doctor to be so casually intimate. Even while they were fucking, touch was more like a struggle, hands straining against and into each other. Kidd was rough without even trying, but it was Law who seemed to flinch from any contact not resembling combat. Or medical care. Such structured things. He’d objected -- vehemently -- to being “pawed at” and “pet like a lap dog” often enough. As though anything less than bruising force would hurt more.

He was so guarded. It made Kidd greedy.

“You're hard, you know,” Law breathed onto his neck.

“Yeah I'm aware.”

“Heh.”

Tattooed fingers ran along Kidd’s side, over the tight bands hugging the ribs (“Serratus anterior…”), and pinpricks rose in their wake. Kidd found himself arching up against the hand desperately.

“Ah, fuck, Trafalgar…”

“Mhm,” Law responded, distracted. Or pretending to be. He followed a particular cord of muscle down Kidd’s powerful thigh with his thumb. “Sartorius. Gracilis.”

“Dick.”

“No that's not a muscle, Eustass-ya.”

“Oh for the love of GOD.”

Law made a sound that was probably a muffled laugh. “Hold still. I'm doing anatomical studies.”

“Oh is that what we're doing.”

“Obviously.”

“Where's the book.”

“It's…” Law looked around for a minute. “On the floor.”

Kidd covered his face with his hands and just laughed. Law sighed dramatically.

“Well. Guess I gotta start from the top again.”

 

---

Law could be a pushy bastard when he topped. But he kept up the slow, focused treatment this time and it was driving Kidd fucking insane.

“I'm gonna flip this the fuck around and pound you inside out if it takes any longer.” Kidd growled from under his arm, slung across his face.

This was as close as he could get to actually asking for it. Here he was laid out, so open and ready, core clenching and unclenching. Needing to be fucked, to have hands on him, in him, whatever. All of it.

“Nah you're not.” Law countered smugly.

“F-uck,” was all Kidd could come up with when a third finger twisted into his slicked up hole. His body tensed and spasmed before yielding itself open.

By the time Law was actually fucking him, Kidd had nearly popped a fucking vein.

Law pushed in slowly, slowly. Until they were pressed together as tight as they could go, breath hot on each other's faces.

“Shit, Tr--ahh…”

“Eustass-ya…”

He was done with all the slow shit. Kidd was a shifting mass of need under him and honestly, he was even more worked up. He dragged almost all the way out only to grind back in hard, and the tight body jolted.

“Aw fuck, yeah…”

Law braced his weight on his arms, pressing Kidd’s hips into the bed. He watched the muscles bunch beneath him with each impact, Kidd straining to meet him. Watched through skin so pale it was translucent, glowing and rippling.

Kidd still wasn't entirely sure what to make of that gaze. All hunger and splitting seams, open lips and ragged breath.

He quirked up one corner of a mocking mouth.

“The fuck’re you-- ah --staring at?”

Law didn't answer for a moment. Under Kidd's skin it was like… layers of red ribbons, wrapping him up. The ribbons all pulling and straining against each other when Kidd moved (when Law moved in him), like something inside was trying to burst out. Under them, ribs curving -- jealous fingers. Wetly clinging membranes. Then under that…

“Your heart. It's…”

Their bodies collided, beaded with sweat. Harder. More. Law could see, hear Kidd's heart beating faster as he picked up his pace. God, he could feel it in his palms. In his dick. Beating so strong it echoed in his ears, drowning out his own.

“Fucking perfect. It's perfect.”

Kidd laughed breathlessly. His heart. What the hell. “...You wanna get your hands on that too?”

Law did.

He wanted to grip it, feel it flutter, make it burst …

… What if I could? he thought. He slowed, thinking, and spread a hand over Kidd’s breastbone. Not just to incapacitate through dismemberment, but to cut a piece from the whole, one vital piece…

Kidd watched the pensive eyes flicker and gave him a swift jab of encouragement with his heel.

“You'll just have to get hold of it the old fashioned way. Hahahaaa…”

“Hah.” Law shook himself from his distracted state. He picked up a pace that was slower than before, though not less jarring. “Like… I should court you or like I should cut you open?”

“Whichever ...ah ... But you should fuckin get me off first.” Kidd guided the tattooed hand down from his chest to his dripping cock, and Law obliged, finally.

They fucked with foreheads pressed together and grips slipping on sweat slick skin. Kidd thought of Law digging his hands right into his chest and came in jerking starts like it was being beaten out of him, legs clamped tight around him. Skin thrumming with the echoes of hands and heartbeat.

 

---

Kidd flipped through the last few drawings with some undefinable flutter in his gut.

“That's some shit you won't see in any other textbook.”

“Mhm.” Law allowed himself to press against Kidd just slightly as they lay sprawled out, sweat drying in the cool air. He was in a fuckin good mood, kinda dazed.

“I do look damn good without skin, I'll say that much.”

“Heh. And with. You can see the suprasternal notch really clearly even under the skin, it's nice. I fuckin love all of that. That area.”

Kidd choked a little but Law didn't seem to realize what he'd said. And that's not even what he meant anyway, Kidd told himself.

But the whole thing kinda was the same as a confession, at least as far as Law went. The drawings, as vaguely threatening as they were, betrayed an intimate preoccupation with Kidd's finer points. Maybe even admiration. Definitely possessiveness. Need.

“I wanna do you too.”

Law grinned, “Already?”

“Not that, idiot. Draw you.”

“I didn’t know you could draw.”

“Well, draft. I can draft things -- just basic. For engineering stuff on the ship, mostly.”

“Oh, nice!” Law bounced up to get fresh paper from the floor by the chair. “How does one usually draft stuff? Don’t you need a triangle thing? Compasses, etcetera?”

“Maybe. I’ll just make an outline for now.”

Law seemed right into this whole idea. “Draw me like one of your machines, Eustass-ya.” He draped himself dramatically across the bed and Kidd shoved him with a grin.

“How do you want me, though.”

Kidd appreciated that question for a moment.

“Doesn’t matter,” he shrugged. “I don’t know how to draw from life -- like perspective or anything. So it’s gonna be pretty diagrammatic. I just need a few details and some numbers.”

“Like specifications? How to build a Trafalgar?”

“Yeah, so I can make another if this one breaks.”

That made him laugh.

“Okay lie out flat and lemme measure you.”

“With what measuring tools?”

“I'll just eyeball it,” Kidd insisted.

This turned out to mean that he was going to get his hands all over him, which Law supposed was fair. He tensed and shied but stayed mostly still, letting Kidd explore his dimensions and proportions. Pages filled up with ratios and vectors of movement. Things got off track again around when Kidd was testing the rotation arc of his arms and quickly became vicious rutting. Light, skimming hands could become crushing ones so quickly.

Anyway, turned out that Law could get off while his arms were being hyperextended behind his back. Pretty effectively, in fact.

After, when they were laid out next to each other once again, and Law’s breaths were finally lengthening into sleep, Kidd dared to try another light touch. Without their thin pretense of functionality this time -- just want. He smoothed a hand over all the tattoos he'd taken such careful note of earlier. A large heart on his chest with a grinning skull similar to his Jolly Roger. Hearts on his shoulders. Kidd’s fingerprints blooming dark purple on his upper arms.

Sixty-eight kilograms of pressure and Law hadn't made a sound, but a feather touch over the marks and a quiet ah pushed past his lips.

“Whose emblem is that tattoo?”

Law mumbled with his eyes closed, “Someone who died. Long time ago.”

“Someone…” Kidd repeated to himself, but didn't probe. “You going to get any more?”

“Nah.” His breath stuttered slightly when Kidd trailed knuckles down his jaw. “I just like… your marks…”

He fell asleep with Kidd's lips against the shell of his ear.

 

---

A roll of broadsheet tied with string arrived by carrier gull when Law was back on his sub some days later. He stole away to his cluttered quarters and spread the roll out on the bed.

Inside the broadsheet was a large-format technical drawing.

There were three flat outlines of Law: front, back, side. All heavily marked out in blunt pencil, all surrounded by arcs and lines, dotted and solid, indicating measurements and angles of motion. The insides of the outlines were empty except for perfectly to scale renderings of his tattoos.

[gildersbane]

The Gilder’s Bane

“ Portraits “ 

Boots, loose around the ankles from their laces removed to  make a lasso, fell upon stone floors as Princess Petra marched down the corridors. Morning sunlight dipped in through dusty glass in arched windows. Lighting her path as she journeyed past locked doors and prying eyes toward the nursery. A place she’d not been since she was a baby, but which was now the home of a baby sister.

A baby sister who picked a truly terrible time to decide to join them. 

They weren’t expecting her for another couple weeks. Maybe if they had been allowed that kind of time, this whole mess would have blown over. Maybe without a new baby in the home and a mother recovering from labor, everyone wouldn’t be on high alert all the time. This would have been a problem, obviously, but they might have actually let it go after a couple days. 

But it wasn’t as if they could just put her back. She was here now and everyone was going to have to get used to it. And Petra… Petra was going to have to start setting a “good example”. Whatever that meant.  She liked to think that she was setting a fine example as she was. 

Steps came to a stop outside the cracked nursery door. Petra pushed it open the rest of the way and peered into the shadows. Inside it was dimly lit, with only a bit of light slipping through the sheer white curtain over the window. It was warm inside from the morning sun beating against the castle but the sleeping little one in the antique bassinet. Looking at this old, plush piece of furniture, the elder princess couldn’t imagine a time when she was ever tiny enough to fit inside it. It sat beneath a lovely canopy of pink cloth that draped around it. Providing a little fortress for the child to rest without light from the outside world slipping in.  For now, though, those drapings were withdrawn, as Meliora had just been in here with her daughter. Liking sitting with her in the leather armchair that sat just beside it within the canopy.

The little girl’s eyes didn’t open as Petra approached and looked down at her. She was swaddled in a plush blanket and peacefully sleeping the morning away without a care in the world. Despite the noise from the castle staff hurrying from one wing to another, the construction happening up on the roof and the barking of castle dogs beyond the window in the courtyard below. She didn’t stir. For however much longer that would last before she’d wake and begin to cry again for food or clean dressings or attention. It was a miracle she was able to stay quiet long enough for the nursemaid to step out and fetch something.

Petra leaned against the edge of the bassinet carefully. Looking down at the itty bitty princess as she lay. Her baby soft, warm brown skin. The tuft of dark, fluffy hair on just the very top of her head. She looked more like a doll than a little human.

“You’re lucky you’re cute.” Petra whispered as she stepped back from the child to let her have her rest. 

Clearly the currently nameless infant wasn’t in dire need of care. She was fine unattended before Petra showed up, surely she’d be fine for another few minutes while Petra took a walk to clear her head. Luckily she knew just the place for it that happened to be right down the hall. So Petra slipped out of the nursery without a sound, leaving the door ajar so she could hear her sister if she started to cry. A moment later she was walking further down the hall in a direction away from where she’d find anyone else in her family.

This path led Petra to one of the more prestigious halls in the entire castle. Down the hall, down a short flight of stairs and around a corner, she found the portrait hall. A place where portraits of every ruler of Argustead hung along with some of their treasured items. Alongside at least a dozen portraits of people Petra wasn’t certain the identities of. But it was the rulers who had the biggest and most ornate frames. 

Aside from the princess and her ancestors this hall was vacant. Everyone had much more important business elsewhere. With her head hung, Petra walked past more than a handful of her ancestors. Her paternal grandparents frowning down at the world in oil paint. A sour looking pair neither Lucien or Petra had ever met. Their parents beside them, looking even more uptight with ruffled collars that looked as if they would soon be swallowed whole. An empty space made to accommodate the portrait that would someday hang for King Lucien- The latest in a long line of great men. And beside that space…

“Hi, Dad.” 

Petra’s voice broke the silence that filled the hall with a solemn tone. Her eyes didn’t lift from the floor at first to look at him. But when she did, her chest felt tight and her shoulders heavy. Stoic eyes the same color as her own stared out at the world, seeming to follow her no matter where she stood. His expression was still and lacking any emotion but Petra didn’t mind. It was just good to see him again. King Samuel, late king of Argustead, stood poised with his head high. In his grasp he held his trusty wooden shield. He wore a deep red velvet suit with the silver trim like his own parents wore. Meliora had always used to tease him about looking like a tomato with those red clothes and auburn hair on his stocky body. Over the years he’d grown out the thick ginger beard that covered the lower half of his face in this portrait. It was painted only a couple years ago. Before anyone would have ever considered that the worst could happen. 

Below the portrait, hanging on the wall at eye level was an old, worn shield of wood. The one in the portrait but with a few more years and a few more battles added to its life. It’s circular shape had been broken by a large wedge of it having been hacked out by a powerful axe blow. The bronze plate at its center was scratched and dented but sturdy. Damaged as it was, it wouldn’t be of any use in a battle these days. But it had served Samuel well in his life, up until the very end. And when tragedy struck, it was with its king until the bitter end. Meliora had given her blessing to put the shield on display. To immortalize her late husband’s bravery and honor his memory.

‘Honor his memory’...

With a hefty sigh, the princess turned her back to the wall and sank onto the floor. She dropped her head back against the cold stone and closed her eyes tightly. She could feel the frustration rising again just thinking about everything that had happened in the last few weeks. Everyone partying at the Coronation like it was just another celebration, everyone telling her to stop acting the ways she’s always been encouraged to act, hammering in how things would need to be different now.

“How am I supposed to honor your memory if everyone wants to change everything you left behind?”

Petra knew there wouldn’t be an answer, but she needed to ask somebody. Nobody else seemed to understand why she couldn’t just let the past go. Why she didn’t want to stop doing the things he’d taught her to do. 

When she was little, Samuel always had an adventure for her. He knew that she’d never have the same esteem as Lucien since she was the second born child to the second queen… So he’d tried his best to give her as much freedom as he could give. As much room to forge her own path as their kingdom could allow. When he realized how much she loved to watch the guards training, he realized that she wasn’t going to be the same kind of reserved and quiet child her brother had been. He asked the captain to let Petra join the younger class of future soldiers. She trained along with the future squires and young hopefuls who longed for the days when they could be a brave knight for the kingdom. Defending their furthest borders from all manner of fiend and foe. It wasn’t the life most kings wanted for their daughters, but Samuel wasn’t blind as they were to what his children needed. 

Petra could still remember the swell of joy when she was given the family armor. It wasn’t a full suit, it hadn’t been as long as it was in the royal family’s possession. It had been refitted generations ago to fit a smaller body than the broad shouldered men of their family. It was a perfect fit for Petra. She wore that silver armor as often as she could get away with it. Sometimes even wearing the greaves under her gowns at formal events. She only got in trouble for it a couple of times. 

But even that had changed. All because of that sword. The moment she discovered it in that ancient forge, it drastically altered her life. In ways that she still didn’t fully understand. But it was special. Petra could feel it. A smoke creature no one could identify had come out of nowhere to attack her for it. It was a mystery that needed to be solved and nobody but her was even trying. She was certain that if she just went back up to that forge she could find clues. Maybe Petra could learn who put the sword there for her to find it. And maybe figure out why she was having such strange dreams. But Lucien had forbidden her from going back up the mountain. In fact, after her last fight, he’d locked her in the castle indefinitely. 

True. It was the worst Petra had ever been beaten in a fight… But the injuries were mostly superficial and wouldn’t even leave scars. Everyone was making a big deal out of the wrong things. She was okay. They needed to find out what was going on.

Why wasn’t anyone on Petra’s side in this?!

“Your highness?”

Her eyes opened with a start and the princess looked around the previously empty hall. The portraits still stared lifelessly out at each other on both sides. The only People in the hall were Petra and…. Whoever the guy at the end of it was. 

He didn’t look much older than her. A year or two, tops. He had a long, rounded face Petra may have seen around the castle a few times, but never paid close attention to. Maybe down on the lower floors by the dungeons. Where the court alchemists and royally appointed smart people worked. But this guy didn’t look like he was one of those people. He didn’t look aged or bearded enough for that. Plus he still had a full head of black hair divided into many thick locks atop his head. A lot of those old guys downstairs had long since lost their hair to the years.

He also wasn’t dressed nearly as elegantly as the court mages in their flowing robes. This guy’s clothes looked second hand and well worn. With visible repairs made to the seams of his green overcoat. 

“I’m kind of in the middle of something here.” Petra pointed out, gesturing to the portrait over her head. 

The boy didn’t seem deterred. In fact he only smiled and walked closer before stopping a couple yards back and bending at the waist to bow. 

“Your highness, I was hoping for just a few minutes of your time.” He said, lifting his head to peak up at her. “I heard whispers- gossip really. I had to find out for myself if it was true. Did you truly fight a … monster?”

A loud groan rumbled from the princess’ chest as she hauled herself up onto her feet, “What? Have you come to tell me I’m crazy too? That I should stop running into trouble? Or that it’s my own fault that some big purple smoke monster showed up and attacked me and tried to take MY magic sword?”

The stranger popped up from his bow, eyes wide and sparkling with delight at her words. His face split into a wide grin and his hands dove into the satchel he wore draped across his body. He pulled a roll of wrinkled parchment and a quill out and took a few steps more toward Petra.

“Crazy? It sounds exciting! In fact, I was hoping that you would allow me to be the one to document your account of the events.” 

This was definitely a surprise to Petra. This guy was the first to volunteer to listen to her.

“Who are you?” She asked, her brow furrowing curiously as she looked him over, “Why do you want my account? Hasn’t the king already given everyone the official story?”

Petra nearly rolled her eyes. Yes. Lucien’s story had, of course, been that the assault on her had been an isolated incident and not a reason for panic. That the one responsible would soon be brought to justice and that their peace wouldn’t be disturbed. Petra wondered if anyone actually believed it. 

With a sheepish smile, the young man bowed his head once again. “My name is Micha Fontaine. I’m an apprentice to the royal archivist. Mostly I help keep our scrolls organized and make sure the old books get dusted. But I’m hoping to change that.”

He righted himself and clutched his paper to his chest with purpose, his eyes full of resolve.

“Can I speak my mind, your highness?” Micha asked, his tone hopeful but careful. Petra gave a shrugging nod. She figured he was already doing that… “With all due respect to his majesty, I don’t think his story was… enough. The people want details. They want a mystery and they want to see it solved.”

Already Petra could see that she liked where this was going. 

He continued, his voice lifting enthusiastically. “I want to give the world a story they’ll never forget. Mystery, action, magic-!”

As he carried on, Petra’s ears picked up on something else in the castle. A different sound she couldn’t quite make out. A faint, distant droning. 

“If what I heard is true, your story of what happened three days ago could be just what I need.”

Petra raised a hand, trying to quietly shush the boy as his bright voice completely overpowered her hearing. That sound was still going. Shifting and changing in pitch somewhere within the castle. But what it was exactly she couldn’t tell with Micha talking over it.

“If I get your first hand account of your experiences then I could finally prove myself and move up in the world.” He blinked, watching the princess waving her hands to try and quiet him. “.... What are you doing?”

“Stop talking.” She whispered, eyes darting around the corridor, trying to discern what she was hearing and where it was coming from. 

The droning continued in an unbroken rhythm from somewhere else in the castle but here. It was an unfamiliar tone to someone who had spent every day within these castle walls. Petra had spent her entire life getting used to every voice, every creak and every groan these old walls held. But this was entirely new. It was also markedly nothing like the pounding of the construction. And with the castle locked down, it was very unlikely that they had a visitor. 

Not a welcome one anyway. 

One look at Micha’s face and Petra could see that he also heard it and was equally disturbed. Despite the fact that they’d never met, it was clear that the boy had been around long enough to know when something didn’t belong. As the princess took a few steps back down the hall the way she’d come, a chill rocked Petra to her bones. The humming was coming from…

Upstairs… The Nursery!

Petra gasped, her eyes snapping over to where Micha stood. “Come with me. Now!”

This apprentice archiver was not exactly the ideal backup Petra would have wanted when running into a potential danger. But she was unarmed and he was taller than her. He might at least tilt the odds in her favor if something truly bad was happening upstairs. 

Without pausing to explain or wait for him, Petra took off in a full sprint toward the stairs. She stumbled in her loosened boots but didn’t let that stop her. 

She never should have left her sister alone. She’d told her mother that she’d be there taking care of her. If something happened to her because she wandered off, it would be all her fault! Maybe Lucian was right. Maybe she was being reckless.

Slipping and sliding on smooth stone floors Petra, with Micha quick on her heels and stuffing his belongings back in his satchel, came upon the nursery door she’d foolishly left open. It was now a bit more ajar than she’d left. Confirming that someone had indeed come to this room since she left. She gave a glance back at Micha and signalled for him to follow her lead as she approached. And now that they were coming up on the room the sound they had both heard was clear as day.

It was a voice. Deep, smooth and melodic. A man’s voice by the sound of it. It held a calm but eerie energy with every moment it continued. It was very different from the booming, bone rattling roars of the monster that Petra had fought. This had to be someone else. Whoever this voice belonged to, they seemed to be… Humming. There was no mistaking it, though. It was not a voice Petra knew. And if she didn’t know them, they had no business with her baby sister. 

Casting out any doubts and any fears she might have, Petra threw open the door and entered the nursery, ready to confront this mystery man. When she entered, she saw the canopy curtains around the bassinet drawn closed, though the light from the window shined through them. It was warmer than it had been when she was last in the room. But a cold stab of horror still ran through Petra as she took in the dark silhouette of a figure sitting within the pink curtains. Taller than anyone Petra had known but unmistakably shaped like a person. A person sitting in the nursery of a three day old child, notably cradling something to their chest in the shadows. 

With Micha hovering in the doorway, Petra advanced. In a few quick strides she crossed the room and reached for the curtains to pull them open. When she ripped the curtains back, there was nothing that could prepare her for what she saw within.

Petra might have expected someone foolish enough to invade a castle and attack a child to be dressed like some sort of bandit or thug. But this person- or whatever they were, was dressed too well to be either. He wore a fine black and cream colored suit jacket with gold trimmings and embroidery around the lapels, cuffs and closed waist. His crossed legs were covered in what the princess could only assume were tall riding boots for they were all black and came up well beyond his knees. Making his legs appear even longer than they already seemed to be. But his clothes weren’t his strangest feature. 

He was… Tall. Nearly at eye level with Petra even while seated. And he was grey. Blue-grey like lead or steel and with nearly the same metallic sheen where the light struck him just right. His eyes, kept lowered even as Petra barged in on whatever mischief he might have been up to, were sunken and dark. If there were sclera in his eyes, there was no shine or whiteness in them. Only pools of darkness around two gold irises dotted with blue pupils. He almost looked like a statue sitting in Meliora’s chair. If not for the fact that when Petra looked to his grey hands, she saw him gently holding the baby princess’ tiny hand. While his other arm held the fragile baby close to his body and very out of Petra’s reach. It was worth noting that the infant was, as of yet, unharmed.

And then… there was his hair. Shimmering golden waves- literally- pouring from his scalp. Looking far more like molten metal than strands of hair, it seemed to flow away from his head and stop  of its own accord around his shoulders. Petra now wondered if the added warmth in the room was coming from him. 

This person- This creature was unlike anyone or anything Petra had seen before. He certainly wasn’t the same as that smoke creature. But she had no reason to believe he wasn’t just as malicious.

“Ah.. Hello, Princess.”

That deep voice cut through the silence, knocking Petra from her confused, stunned stupor. She’d been staring and trying to process what she was seeing for so many seconds that she was startled. She tightened her jaw and fixed the mysterious figure with a hard glare as she watched those hollow eyes slowly raise and settle on her. The sight brought abrupt and frightening memories of her dream before she’d awoken on the beach and left her with a powerful and looming sense of dread. The figure didn’t stand up. Didn’t make a move toward her. He only pulled back his thin lips into an unsettlingly calm smile.

“You and I have business to discuss...”

[kashimos-hajime]

soldier | amaranthine (1/6) | b.b.

summary: a boy and a girl went off to war. they fell in love and the devil laughed.

WARNINGS: swearing, MAJOR angst, more fluff than usual wow, heckie doo dah they kiss, blood and vomit mentions, a lot of pain, guns, needles, trains pairing: bucky barnes x fem!reader word count: 7.5k

a/n: written for @the-omni-princess​ and their writing challenge! i really couldn’t help it, i loved bucky and this reader so much i turned it into a series. my prompt was soldier by fleurie. gif not mine. this series will have a happy ending ON GOD

amaranthine masterlist

Head in the dust, feet in the fire Labour on that midnight wire Listening for that angel choir You got nowhere to run

Sunlight filters through dust and Bucky Barnes thinks it’s too fucking sunny for a day in the trenches. His feet blister as he shifts against the wet mud wall. His stomach is hollow and he closes his eyes. Chains wrap around his bones, tying him to his mud post. Mud caked beneath his nails and a strange crackling feeling festering between his legs and his gut, Bucky Barnes tries to sleep for the first time in three days. All he can feel is the mud through his soaked uniform. Yesterday, it rained like Hell’s flames had reached earth, and beneath molding wood, Bucky had tried to keep his soldiers as warm as he could.

He can’t remember the last time he was dry.

“Sarge, it’s your turn,” a soldier calls and his eyes open as he raises his head from the mud wall. Dried mud crumbles from his head and he grabs his helmet, wedges it beneath his arm and lets his muscles scream. His stomach wails and his head spins when he stands but he blinks the dust away and instead sends a nod to the soldier who begins to lead him through the maze. Hand dragging along the crumbling trench wall, he heads through the pits he knows too well to where the rest of the 107th are waiting. They mumble him greetings as he walks between their legs and bodies, some of them groaning when he steps on mud that leaks out dirt water. They’ve yet to see them yet, then. 

Every soldier that’s gone in has come out remarkably brighter, and these men look more ashen than death.

He doesn’t know what to expect. Suddenly this medical corp was doing a standard health check while not in combat, and safe to say, it raised Bucky’s suspicions. He continues walking and walking, his blisters bleeding and he’s sure he has some trench foot or some other shit. His feet have been swimming in water and mud for days.

His eyes scan the back of the soldier’s head. Clean helmet, new uniform and boots. Lucky him.

“They’ll take good care of you, Sarge,” the soldier announces all sudden-like and Bucky’s head rings. “Get you into right fighting shape.” 

From then, it’s a blur. Hands take him and pass him on to other hands. They take off his clothes, pour warm water over his head and clean him inch by inch. The water turns dark with red and brown when they’re done and he’s sure he can feel the lice in his hair jumping ship before they show him to another tent and then another, each one doing something different. 

The last tent is when his mind finally plays catch up. 

“Sergeant Barnes?” a voice calls as his blue eyes drift warily around him. Beside him are other soldiers, countless rows of them. Some of them are bleeding through their bandages, there are three crowded around one bed playing cards, and he’s alone in his bed. He glances down at his hands, tough with calluses and scrubbed clean of dirt before raising his head. 

“That’s me.”

“Perfect.” 

The voice. His eyes find the voice and then he sees her. Her mouth moves and he hears her say her name, but all he can think of is one thing: angel. She isn’t wearing white, and she doesn’t have wings or a halo. Instead, she has dark half-moons imprinted on her face and messy hair and a fixed smile, and she’s anything but an angel, but it’s the only word Bucky can use to describe her. 

She has the inexplicable draw, and when he blinks, a little too stunned for words, her fixed smile softens.

He sits up a little straighter, and his heart beats a little louder, and for the first time in days, weeks, months, Bucky Barnes doesn’t feel the cold or the wet or the pain.

“Ma’am.” He clears his throat and she laughs as she sets down a tray of food in his lap. His hands instinctively reach to grab and when her fingers brush his, a jolt sends shivers up his spine. She’s the warmest thing he’s touched in days. The woman wears a uniform similar to his with tough stains along her front and in the creases of her jacket and when she bends over to pull the blanket away from his feet, he can spot the dirty rags stuffed into her pockets. A trained nurse, doctor maybe. “Ma’am, you don’t need to worry—”

“You were written down as potentially suffering from trench foot, Sergeant. I’m just going to take a look, treat it, and then I’ll be on my way,” she says, her voice lilting and soft, different than the sound of screams that seem to echo from tents away, the sound of soldiers cheering whenever they win a game of cards.

Bucky looks down at the tray of food. A bowl of hot soup, dry bread with cheese and a steaming cup of coffee has never looked so delicious. As he picks up the spoon to dip into the soup, he glances at the nurse who takes hold of his ankle. Quickly grabbing a hold of his tray, he steadies it and she sends him an apologetic look down the way. “Sorry.”

“No problem.” He smiles and his face stretches strangely. 

It occurs to Bucky he hasn’t smiled in ages, and the woman’s tiny smile in return is enough for him to keep his own grin going.

“Where are you from?” he asks even though it’s painfully obvious. He only speaks because it’s almost humiliating to eat and watch her inspect his feet, especially when he can occasionally catch the glances she sends his way; it’s almost as if she hates the silence as much as he does.

“South London,” she says, slowly setting one foot down. “They soaked your feet, correct?”

“They did. Never been so dry.” She chuckles and the sound is music to Bucky’s ears as she sets down the other foot. “I’m alright to leave, ma’am?”

“You need to be treated first,” she cuts him off, shooting him a narrowed glare. “Talcum powder is extremely helpful. It’ll keep your feet dry for longer and reduce the chafing between your socks and your feet.”

“A miracle.”

“Hardly.” She sends him a quick glance to see if he’s eating before beginning to pat the powder down over his skin. “You need to keep your feet as dry as possible, and expose them to the air, or you’ll be losing more than skin.”

“Hard to do in the mud, ma’am,” he says with a shrug, chugging down his coffee and she catches her bottom lip between her teeth as she pats white dust over his other foot. He wiggles his toe against her palm and she shakes her head with half a smile, gently nudging his foot with a stern rub. “The rain gets everywhere.” 

“I know. It’s advice I still have to give, though.” She claps her hands, white dust springing into the air in a cloud. Waving it away, she bends over to grab pillows and shoves them beneath his legs, exposing his blistering feet to the other soldiers who care to look his way. Wiping her palms along her pants, white streaks down the dark green before she pulls out clean socks and sets them by his bedside. “Put these on when you’re discharged. I hope I don’t have to see you again, Sergeant Barnes.” A sort of yawning ache splits Bucky down the middle as she brushes hair out of her face and turns to pick up a second tray of medical supplies.

“Any siblings?” he asks suddenly just to keep her around. She blinks, turns to check if anyone needs her, and then perches on the edge of his cot like a pretty little bird. Her tray balances in her lap, tools glimmering against the stark-white of a roll of bandages. He brings a spoonful of soup to his lips and it warms him all the way down to the belly. A bit of it dribbles down his chin and she reaches over with a thumb to wipe it off. 

“Three brothers,” she says, withdrawing her hand. Bucky’s lips part and he sucks in a soft breath as she smiles again, this time wide enough to dig into her cheeks. It changes her—makes her younger and softer. Against the grey of everything, she is enchanting. “Twin older brothers and one baby brother.”

“That must’ve been the worst.” He smirks, eyebrows raising and she hides a laugh unsuccessfully. Bucky’s been told he has an infectious smile and he’s glad war hasn’t taken that away from him. She scoots closer to the head of the bed as he eats and as she nears, he can almost count the stars in her eyes.

“My brothers never stopped getting into trouble and I always got caught in the middle of it. They taught me how to fight and we fought all the time…” Her voice fades away and Bucky frowns, eyebrows furrowing together. “Until the war happened.” Her smile slips away and her eyes no longer bare the bravery to meet his. A muscle in her jaw ticks and Bucky almost reaches for her hand. Almost. He cocks his head, letting his drying hair fall into his eyes and she looks at him again, this time not as warmly, this time with emptiness.

“My brothers fled to America a few months after they declared war,” she says. Some nameless, faceless men in Bucky’s head appear and he tilts his head, lips pressing together in a firm line. He could try to imagine a selfish man with her features, or maybe a man hiding under a hood as he boarded a ship with the same eyes, but he can’t. Not when his sister sits right before him. “Because in England, they can’t conscript the last son of a family.”

His thoughts crumble to ash.

“But you’re here,” he whispers and she looks down at his tray, unseeing. 

“I am,” she agrees, wistful, regretful. When their eyes meet again, Bucky wonders if she feels the heat, too. “And you? Any siblings?”

“Three.”

“And you’ve left them behind, too.”

“You’ve been at war much longer than I have,” Bucky points out and she tilts her chin up. The grey sun that streams through the tent flaps hits her face and she’s almost blindingly radiant in a way that breaks a man’s heart. Shifting in his seat, he blinks and tries to keep that image of her, an angel in grey light before it’s gone. She ducks her head to tuck away hair from her face and he twists to set down his tray of food beside him. “You know, I used to braid my sister’s hair before school,” he says and she looks at him, eyebrows shadowing her eyes. “Can’t be rusty when I get back.”

She laughs, almost incredulous, and very, very tired, and Bucky can see the minute the weight seems to lift off her shoulders. She sets down her tray and leans back on her hands, lip caught between teeth as she tries to bite her smile down. It only makes Bucky smile wider.

“Sergeant Barnes, would you please braid a girl’s hair?” she asks, dewy sweet, and Bucky nearly melts in his bed. Mouth dry, he clears his throat and pulls at his blanket. 

“What would I get in return?” He plays for keeps, and the angel grins, leaning towards him. His eyes fall to her lips as she brushes hair out of his face. Bucky can barely breath at the featherlight sweep of her fingers.

“Would my everlasting affection suffice?” She cocks her head and waits for his answer, fingers stilling on his cheek as his eyes flicker from her lips to her eyes. He wonders what it would taste like, to kiss her. Maybe it’d taste like coffee and cough syrup, or gunpowder and ash. Whatever it is, Bucky wants to know. So he nods 

“I s’pose it would.”

.

The cell reeks of dead rat and rank shit. With the wet drip-drip-drip of water leaking from a crack in the ceiling, Bucky digs his shiv into the cement. Scratching the tally mark, he lets the ugly grating of metal against the wall ring in his ears. A mind-numbing pain rests in his veins and just the mere effort of dragging his arm up the wall to run the point through the mark again is nearly too much. His mind swirls in a twisted knot, one that only tightens with every waking moment.

Whatever they did to him—lacing fire and ice into his blood, carving him from the inside out and sharpening his every sense until he can hear the roaches crawling on the walls—has changed him. Somewhere inside him knows he’s different, disfigured on a level he cannot understand. 

He lets his hand fall to the cot as the sound of rusted metal echoes down the hall.

“Let go of me! Bastards!”

Blinding candlelight streams into his cage and Bucky raises his head wearily, twisting onto his side to watch as German soldiers haul a furiously struggling figure between them. Muffled grunts and the sound of fabric rustling catches his ear as he blinks away the stars in his eyes and drops his shiv, hiding it beneath his ratty blanket.

“Herr Schmidt promised you your life for your compliance.”

“Let him choke on my compliance!” The voice rings in his ears as he pushes himself to a sitting position and his metal cell opens before the sound of a body colliding with the floor fills the silence. Bucky blinks hard, trying to get used to the golden light before it shuts him in the darkness once again, but the guards are already closing his gate. The person splayed on his floor gets up, rushing to the metal bars and slamming their first against the shaking thing as the soldiers laugh.

“What the hell?” he mutters, rubbing his eye and one of the soldiers look to him.

“You have company, Sergeant Barnes. Enjoy.” The sneer that seeps into the parting word causes an unwanted shiver to crawl up Bucky’s spine as the body crawls into the middle of his cell and collapses, letting out a sob. Propping himself on his hands, Bucky tries to remember where he’s heard this voice before. 

His brain feels burned, and the harder he thinks, the more it seems to whine. 

“Barnes?”

His name, whispered harshly and echoing in his four walls of prison, is the answer to his prayers, the answer he least desires. 

“Angel,” he utters, breathless as he slides to the floor. The rough cement crates against his weak, bony knees and hands take hold of him as a wet face presses against his cheek.

“Sergeant Barnes.” She all but melts into his embrace, and she burns with the heat of ten million stars, all too hot for his own feverish fingers yet still he digs his nails into her back hard enough that his bones ache. “What did they do to me?” she whispers, shaking, and Bucky pulls her back by the shoulder, one hand cupping her head gently.

“How long have you been here?” he asks carefully and she searches his gaze. “Where were you?” Her breaths shudder against his palm as he wipes away the tears from her face and in the grim, fading light, he can see blood leaking from her ear, dripping warmly onto his knuckles.

“After Azzano, they attacked the hospital.” Her breath, hot as summer rain, chills him to the bone. “They managed to evacuate all but the last few tents and they caught me.” A disgusted twist in her lip, her eyes unfocus. Bucky cups her face, feels something thrum in her pulse and she looks up, looks through him. “They said I was to be put under tests, and I’d be lucky to survive.”

Bucky’s hand on her shoulder trails to the collar of her shirt, gently hooking a finger and tugging. Colourful smudges of purple, blue, yellow, and green smear her skin. The effects of needles, huge and plunging and painful. If he looks close enough in the dark, he can spot the entry points, stabs that haven’t healed.

A flicker of fire burns brighter in his belly than the one that already soaks him in its heat.

“I don’t feel very lucky, Sergeant Barnes,” she whimpers. Bucky’s eyes flash back to hers, and when she blinks, fresh tears run over his skin. “It hurts everywhere.”

“You’ll be okay.” He brings her into his embrace, a hand on her head and the other wrapped around her back as he closes his eyes. Her arms slither around his waist and he presses his cheek against her temple. “You’re going to be okay, angel.”

She is silent. Two weeks and they’ve already beaten hope out of this place. Perhaps she isn’t quite used to the freezing agony set in her bones yet or the ache of ligaments tearing and building again as every fiber of her turns to steel. Bucky wants to tell her it’ll get better, but he doesn’t know himself. 

“You’ll have the bed,” Bucky promises and she pulls back immediately to protest but he shakes his head. “My ma would smack me if I didn’t insist.” He half-smiles and his muscles stretch pleasantly in his cheeks as her arms draw away slightly. Her hands rest on his hips and he nods to her. 

“You’re my patient,” she protests and he chuckles quietly. It’s a raspy kind of sound and it sounds hollow the more it echoes, but he means it. “I’m supposed to take care of you.”

“Angel, you took care of soldiers for years before I came around,” he starts, and something in her eyes flickers. He cups her cheek, the dim light barely lighting her features. The swollen bags beneath her eyes have only grown worse since he’s last seen her, and she’s lost what little healthy glow she had that coloured her face. “I think it’s time someone took care of you.”

“Sergeant Barnes, I—”

“Bucky,” he says, brushing limp hair away from her face. He can hear her thunderous heart, or perhaps it is his beating between his ears, louder than the ocean. “My name’s Bucky.”

.

“Where are the rest of the 107th?” she asks that night as they feed on cold soup. Bucky’s fingers tremble but the pain has receded into a tiny knot at the base of his skull. His arm feels like it’s about to drop off his body and with every move of his neck, heat and bruising pain spreads into his chest. She drops her spoon too loudly and they both flinch.

“They separated me from them after they began the tests,” he mutters, letting the cold broth slither down his gut. “No one came back from the isolation ward so I thought for sure I’d be dead.”

“Well, neither of us are.” She’s leaning against the metal frame of the bed, her knees tucked to her chest. Her scrappy uniform is scuffed with dirt and wet from the mold growing beneath their feet but Bucky merely smiles softly. His back against the wall, his feet are outstretched before him. He’s quite sure if she stretches her legs too, their boots would touch. “How many doses have they given you?”

“Two.” He sets down his bowl in his lap. She looks into her own, stirring, the metal cup perched on her knees. “You?”

“One.” Something in Bucky’s arm begins to tingle, as if the injection sites open wide at the sound of her voice. He lets his head tilt back until he knocks into the stone. “They kept me in another part of the factory to treat workers before they decided to use me like some lab rat.” Fabric rustles and a presence looms near him as he closes his eyes. Something warm is set in his lap and he lifts his head wearily as she settles in beside him. “You should eat.”

“What?” He picks up the one fresh ingredient to their meal, a slice of warm bread, and shakes his head. Picking it up, he tries to hand it back to her. “No, you need to eat—”

“You’ve been here longer, Sergeant.” 

“Angel—”

“I get the bed, and you get the warm bread.” She seems to sag into her shoulders and he frowns slightly. “It seems only fair.” Her hair is slick with dirt, sweat and oil as she rests her head on his shoulder and he tilts his head until his cheek presses against her scalp. Her boot knocks into his as he rips the bread apart.

“Fine. Can’t deny you a thing,” he whispers and she shakes with a silent chuckle, weak and tired. “How’re you feeling?”

“I don’t want to move away from you,” she murmurs blearily, her eyes closed as she turns her head to him. Her nose brushes his jaw as he swallows. “Tell me a story.”

“About what, sweetheart?” he asks, and the warmth of her is so comforting he could cry. Human touch that isn’t sharp and painful and terrible has caused his body to soften. Her body has twisted towards him, her knees bent and her legs hooked over one of his. “I can tell you ‘bout Brooklyn, I guess.”

“Would you?” she asks, exhausted, small, fading. She loops her arm through his, curls herself around it as he bites into the cooling crust. He swallows quickly, feeling it lump together on its way down to his stomach.

“Yeah, and I can tell you ‘bout Steve. He’s my best friend and I made him ride the Cyclone once on Coney Island. I gotta bring you there, the lights at night on a warm summer day… it’s the prettiest sight…”

He can tell the instant she slips away from him, the subtle change in her breathing and her heart rate, the peace that overtakes her face, the tender warmth that seeps into his own bones. He gently brings the slice of bread to his mouth, devouring it in two or three bites before picking up his bowl of soup again. Sipping quietly, he is careful not to disturb her as she squirms against him, seeking something warmer than what he can provide. He carefully sets down the bowl and wraps his free arm around her, squeezing gently in hopes that it’ll give life to her frigid skin.

His own heart thuds in his throat when she lets out a soft sigh and melts into his body. He tilts his head, nose in her hair as her breath puffs against his neck, soft as snow. He closes his own eyes and his mind wanders as her arms, wrapped around his arm, hold him even tighter to her own chest.

A small bomb explodes in his chest and he smiles even though no one’s looking. 

Bucky Barnes has never really loved a girl before, but in this moment, as her body fits into his like it is meant to be and he sits, rots, in an Austrian prison with poison running through his veins, he is sure he will gladly die for one.

.

It’s by the third dose for her do they understand best how to take care of one another. Bucky can usually tell when they’ll take one of them away by the meal they present. It’ll be warm, almost hot, and rich with nutrients their bodies crave, and in the mornings, fresh towels and ice will be shoved into their cell like they swelter from the heat. 

They toss her into the cell with a rattling slam with a promise to return for him soon but Bucky doesn’t say a word in return. An agonizing mess, his angel lets out a soft moan as he scoops her into his arms. The smell of clean soap and sweat clings to her skin, her hair slightly damp from the shower they always force upon them before the doses. Dark, reddening marks imprinted into her temples, her eyes stare sightlessly ahead as he lays her down on the cot. He dips a towel into the bowl of freezing water.

The soft clack of ice against the metal bowl echoes in his head as he numbly wipes away the sweat, gently cleaning her tears and soothing an ache he knows festers between her temples.

“Doctor…. Prisoner… 56899…” The words slip between her lips, soft and jumbled as she turns her head away and the pit inside of Bucky widens as he tries to catch her eye.

“Angel,” he whispers, running his hand over her cheek. “Come back to me.” Turning her face towards him, he lets out a sharp breath as her eyes stare through him. “Hey, hey, hey.”

“Bucky?” It’s like magic the way a soul seems to fill her body in a moment’s notice. Life pours into her eyes, and a hand grips at his sleeve.

“Hey, angel.” He dips the towel in ice once again and she raises a hand gently to touch his face. Her fingers tremble, clammy with sweat, as he blinks. A strange smile stretches her face and he thinks she’s laughing at him as he wipes away the blood from her ear once again. “What’s so funny?”

“You’re crying, Sergeant Barnes,” she whispers fondly and Bucky blinks again, just realizing the heat that floods his face is not from the factory that works around them. Her cold fingers swipe away the wetness from his cheeks, spread it over his face and he resists the urge to press a kiss to her palm. Instead, he uses his free hand to hold her palm to his cheek. A shiver runs down his spine. “Who’s gone and broken your heart?”

“I think you know the answer to that,” he says. She laughs again, painful and quiet, and this time her eyes flutter shut as she slips away from him. Despite how much stronger she appears with muscles that flex and wane beneath his arms, he sees the cracks they split into her soul. He hopes the love he harbours for his angel is enough to seal every single one.

He knows it is not.

.

Bucky Barnes doesn’t tell her he loves her.

He doesn’t think he can bear the thought of telling her and disappearing the very next day, but perhaps it’s the little things that count.

“There’s enough room on the bed, Sergeant Barnes,” she had said, and they started to sleep together on the small little cot barely fit for one, Bucky slightly hunched over her as they fell asleep in each other’s arms. Their legs entangled and more often than not, it ended with one of them squished against the wall and the other flush against them, but it was always worth the morning blush.

“Have my blanket,” he had insisted as autumn swept over their prison cell and warm food was more and more of a necessity. Even though they didn’t need to eat and hunger no longer clawed at their stomachs, Bucky always remembered to share the slice of warm bread with her as their fingers turned numb and chattering teeth filled the silence at night.

“Hold my hand…” as fingers entwined with fingers.

“I’ll take care of you…” accompanied the sound of blood dripping onto the stone floor.

“When we get outta here…” followed by a million promises and the scratch of the shiv against the stone wall.

It’s the little things that count.

.

“You’re upset.”

Her voice is soft, gentle as snow as Bucky runs a towel raggedly through his almost-dry hair. He twists on his bed to see her standing there, in a new uniform and hair damp as it falls around her face. He thinks she’s never been more effortlessly gorgeous. Life has returned to her cheeks and her eyes spark.

“Angel,” he says with a smile and he scoots over to allow her room next to him. After a wash, he can almost imagine feeling like a new man. He tosses the towel onto the pillow behind him as she sits down. “Did they feed you yet?”

“Just had a quick wash. I was planning on eating with you,” she chirps, sliding an arm around his waist. Tugging him towards her with extraordinary strength, she smiles as Bucky ducks his head underneath her chin. Wrapping his own arms around her middle, he closes his eyes.

“I’m not upset,” he mumbles as her hand trails up his back and runs through his drying hair. “I’m just relieved we got out.”

“I know it’s more than that,” she whispers, gently tugging his head to meet eyes. When he finds her gaze, he feels boneless. A warmth floods his blood and a smile overcomes his face, small, tired. “You always let your guard down when you think no one’s looking.” But I’m always looking are the words that hang between them.

Bucky swallows and cold flashes over his body. 

“Let’s give it up for Captain America!”

“You think Steve’s gonna last till next week?” he asks quietly, hands falling away from her. He flinches back when her hands reach for him and he doesn’t see the hurt that settles on her face. “We saw soldiers die, friends bleed out, and you think Steve is gonna be different?”

“He is different.”

“Yeah, so they’ll have him fight the good fight.” His words are bitterly strung out and he wants to put a hole through the wall. “They’ll have him on the front lines and I’ll be right beside him because I can’t abandon my best friend. A best friend who I can barely recognize, and—”

“Bucky, he’s still your Steve.”

“I’m supposed to protect him!” Frosted silence pools into his heart as his breath comes in rattled gasps. His heart hammers against his ribs and he can hear hers, a gentle beat. “And I failed. So that’s the rest of my life; that’s what I’m going to do. Make up for every time I wasn’t there for him and every time I couldn’t stop him from getting hurt—”

“Steve’s changed. Even you can’t protect him from war,” she says and Bucky, with a humourless smile and darkness in his cold blue eyes, shakes his head.

“I can damn well try. If not me, who?” A hollow where his heart should be swallows him whole and he only sees the darkness of the Austrian factory, the vomit and blood after every session. The soft sobs as he whispers he can’t remember his ma’s face. Rebecca is nothing more than a fading memory. “I’m not letting this war take more from me than it already has.”

“Neither am I.” Her hands are folded in her lap and despite how desperately he wants her touch, he feels like he’s just seconds from falling apart. Sucking in a deep breath, he brings his shattered pieces together and silently tells her not to disrupt the broken glass. “If you spend your whole life protecting him, who protects you?”

“I don’t need protection.”

“Bucky.” Her sigh sweeps into his ears as she reaches for his arm and he jerks back, standing sharply. His knees shake and he feels the soreness in his feet as he meets her eyes. Her eyes glisten as she blinks against the fading dusk and he turns away to the tent exit. He barely takes a step before she pipes up again. “Does he know?” 

Turning around, he barely utters, “What?”

“What we went through. Does he know?”

“That’s not important.”

“Like hell it isn’t!” She storms up to him, face an effigy of wrath as she grabs his arm. Turning it over in her fingers, she pulls up his wrist so he is forced to stare at his own veins. They run, bulging and blue-grey, and he can hear his own blood flowing. “We got fucked over, Sergeant Barnes. You don’t even remember what your mother looks like and you say it isn’t important?”

“It’s war! I’ve been gone too long.” Bucky rips his arm from her grasp as something in him slants.

“I never forgot my brothers’ faces until I went in there.” She throws an arm out, points to some distant corner of their tent but her glazed eyes do not stray from his. “Sometimes, I can’t even remember their names and you’re no different, and right now, it isn’t about Steve. This is about you and what happened to us back there!” 

Heat bubbles underneath his skin and when she does not speak, it’s almost as an avalanche rushes through his body. “I’m trying to forget what happened to me in there! I have a job to do and I can’t… I can’t be distracted because that will get Steve killed. People die every day and I’ve gotten used to it, but I won’t let my best friend be someone I have to leave behind in No Man’s Land. I thought you of all people would understand.” Sticky, humid air clouds his face and his vision blurs as he collapses to his knees. Hands immediately land on his shoulders, slide down his back as he’s pulled into a spine-crushing embrace.

“Oh, Bucky, I do,” she whispers. She pulls him back, cups his face and the suppleness of her skin causes his shuddering breaths to hitch. He sucks in a huge gasp as he continues to crumble. He slips between her fingers as he desperately tries to pull himself together but with her every swipe of his tears, he only shatters. “I promise I do. Just let me take care of you when you can’t do it anymore.” Her thumbs brush underneath his eyes as his hands on her hips squeeze and she lets out a gentle sigh. “You can fall apart on me. I promise I’ll protect you.”

“It’s not worth it. I’m… I’m… not worth it.”

“It’ll always be worth it if it’s you,” she promises and his eyes close. Another rush of tears spill over her fingers as gentle lips press between his eyebrows. “Besides—” Her voice whispers over his skin as she tucks her chin in to look at him. His forehead presses into her sternum as he melts into her body. His hiccuping breaths shake his shoulders jerking as she runs a soothing hand through his hair, down his back—“if you’re not worth saving, then neither am I.”

At this, Bucky raises his tear stained face to his angel and shakes his head, stubborn as they come. His heart slows in his head and cool wind kisses his wet cheeks. Their lips almost brush and his breath shudders in his throat.

“I will always save you no matter what.” 

She smiles, a soft exhale that could almost be a laugh puffing against his cheek as he shifts against her, sitting up straighter. She pulls back, wiping her hand along his jacket and he sniffs, a small, watery grin cracking over his face.

“You’re quite the romantic, Sergeant Barnes.”

“How many times do I gotta tell you? My name’s Bucky.” He can hear her heart quiver as he touches her face, spreads his fingers along her cheek and gently guides her closer until he can taste the smoke and lime that clings to her skin. He can hear her breathe his name, a gentle sigh before their lips meet, and he thaws underneath her touch. 

Her fingers brush his jaw as he closes his eyes and the feel of her mouth, chapped and warm against his, is ecstasy.

Their first kiss is everything and nothing Bucky has ever dreamed it would be. A desperate clash of tears and lips and teeth, yet softer than anything he’s ever known, he knows one thing is certain in his life now.

He has found the love of his life, and only Death will do them part.

.

The wind is knocked out of him the minute he sees her. His angel has managed to steal his heart all over again and Bucky wonders how he’s going to survive the night when his eyes are glued to her. Clean, soft, and radiant, she stands there almost bashfully, waiting for him to notice her. Her smile splits her face as he remembers to close his mouth.

“Sergeant Barnes,” she greets politely as she looks up at him. In her heels, she looks as if she could rule the world. Bucky barely manages to greet her before clearing his throat. His cheeks pool with heat and he looks down at his shoes, running a hand through his hair. “Where are you off to?” 

“Captain Rogers invited me to the Whip and Fiddle for an important meeting.”

“How strange. I was invited as well.” She grins as he extends an arm and she leans over to kiss the corner of his mouth. Bucky’s cheeks flare up and he turns to look at her. She loops her hand through, holding him close as they walk down the street and Bucky places a hand on top of hers along his arm.

“Who’s the lucky man?” he asks as if he isn’t walking the most gorgeous dame in all of London to some bar a few minutes away for their first date. 

“A very brave soldier,” she replies. Her heat seeps through his jacket and he turns to look at her, trying to come up with a compliment adequate enough to express how much he adores her. “You look very handsome, Sergeant Barnes.”

“Can’t compare to you, angel.” Her smile becomes tender under his gaze and she pauses just outside the pub. Inside, the frosted glass glows with the heat and with every swing of the door, merry singing and the beginnings of Dum Dum telling a story sweep into the cool air. Words pound at the back of his teeth as he stares down at her, looking so pretty in the warm lamplight of London. “How’s your family? Did you have a chance to see them?”

“Mum’s doing okay. Dad was out with my brother so I was a nice surprise to come home to.”

"It sounds like a warm welcome, doll.”

“You know, they would love to meet you, too.” He blinks, hand stalling from where he’d been brushing a strand of hair out of her face. “I told them about you, if that’s alright…” 

“They know about what happened to us?” His voice is tight, just the mere mention of it burning down his arms. 

“No.” She looks guilty and Bucky wonders if the weight on her shoulders has always been there. “Mum’s got enough on her plate with my brother leaving and all. He’s, he’s actually travelling to Oxford soon so it was necessary for me to say goodbye and Dad… I don’t think he can take it. He’s lost two sons already.”

Bucky runs his thumb down her cheek, planting a tender kiss against her forehead. 

“When this war is over, we’ll find them,” he promises and she smiles, pressing her lips eagerly against his. He can’t help the huge grin that spreads across his face and he chuckles into her mouth as she plants her hands on his cheeks and holds him there, kissing him again and again. “Give me a chance to show you Brooklyn ‘n’ Shelbyville, where I was born, Coney Island… We can take the Railroad and everything.” 

“Too many places for a time like this,” she teases, pulling back. “First the Whip and Fiddle, then I show you around London and then we go to America.”

“Deal.” She smiles up at him, like they’re not in the middle of war, like they haven’t just escaped prison with blue serum running through their veins, like they’re still the boy and girl they were before.

“Let’s go in. Steve’s probably waiting,” she whispers, turning to look at the warm, fogging glass. Bucky turns, glaring at the door. Suddenly, meeting Steve doesn’t seem so inviting. Her hands trail down his face and rest on his chest as she sighs longingly. “I don’t want you to go back in there.”

Turning around again, he takes her hand from his chest and kisses her fingers tenderly. “I’m staying right here for a while longer,” he murmurs, knowing that this is not what she meant at all.

A cool chill sweeps between their bodies and Bucky tucks her into his body, wrapping her in the tightest embrace he can manage. She’s all supple muscle, carbon bone, and she’s taller than before yet all Bucky can think of is protecting her.

I love you. I love you. I love you, he thinks, eyes closing as he rests his chin in her hair. He can feel her heart beating like a soft drum through her back as she drags her hands up his shoulders. 

“You’re the only one who understands,” she whispers into the wind, yet his ears still catch it all. She buries her face into his chest, her fingers digging into the ridges of his back as he brings a hand to cradle the back of her head. “Please don’t leave me.”

His eyebrows furrow together and he doesn’t even feel the wind bite at his skin until his fingers turn purple. His chest aches and everything inside him cracks like glass under pressure. Winding, and winding, long and elegant in a catastrophic kind of way.

Never, never, never. I love you more than anything. How can I ever leave you? He wants to scream it into the night, tell her until she understands. 

I love you, I love you, I love you.

.

“A zip line?” she says dubiously, the snow dotting her hair as she sits by the fire. Heat and frost play at her face, bathing it half in white light, and half in blazing orange. “It doesn’t sound very enticing.”

Bucky forces a smile and kisses her for what he doesn’t know is the last time. She tastes like beef jerky and mountain water, and he can hear Morita making some wise crack about how gooey the Sarge is being. “You won’t even notice I’m gone.”

“I always notice,” she retorts.

It sounds an awful like a confession Bucky can’t bear to hear right now.

.

They leave at dawn. 

The last thing he does is slip an envelope into her rucksack and he prays that he’ll be back before she can open it.

.

When his fingers slip, there’s a moment in time that freezes. He teeters on the edge of life and death, and he can see Steve’s outstretched hand just before his.

And then he falls and a million and one thoughts fly from his head.

All he can think of is broken promises and the Coney Island lights. The wind that rips away at him is like the way the Cyclone had tossed him through the air, safely bound by the metal bars, but this time, there is nothing holding him back. 

He throttles through the air, collides with something sharp and jagged before rolling down, through snow and ice, and his vision swims in inky black as he struggles to breathe. His lungs are paralyzed and his skull splits open as he tumbles over and he thinks the blood is coming from his head? Or maybe it’s his nose or his throat or how can he still think with all of winter’s wrath surrounding him? His head is buried in snow as he tries to remember what it was like to breathe again.

Snow falls softly around him, landing on his face like tiny kisses and it is almost as if his heart leaps to his throat. Blood bubbles at his lips, his whole body wracking with agony. He sinks into the snow, ice the pillow beneath his head. It dribbles warmly down his cheeks, leaking from the corner of his lips and the snow melts in the heat of his essence.

Wind caresses his face gently and he swallows a thick glob of blood that catches halfway as a sob pushes its way up his throat. 

He wonders how long he will stay here, broken and dying, until Death comes to collect him, but then something grabs his boot and his eyes jerk open.

Wolves. Wolves will eat me alive, he muses, too tired, too dizzy from pain to fight. The blurry grey-blue canvas above him stretches above him, brighter than anything he remembers seeing, as he raises his head blearily. Men take him by the legs and pull, something he can barely feel as his bones click into place.

“Sergeant Barnes?”

“Angel?” he mumbles beneath his breath, eyes rolling back into his head as it slams back into the snow and he thinks he can hear her laugh echo in the ravine above him. “I’m sorry…” 

For every promise I’ve broken, for every day I won’t be here, for every time I never told you I loved you. For loving you and leaving you. For leaving you. For loving you.

I’m sorry.

[sennokami]

parallelism - ch. 7

ao3

by selwyn

-

For Madara, Hashirama brought oranges. 

He went to visit him in the evening, after going home to recuperate from Mito tearing him a new one. There, while listlessly rummaging for something to eat, he found the oranges shoved to the back, a little old but not inedible. Some encouragement with the Mokuton coaxed color back into them and of the four he found, he ate two and let the other two sit, thinking about what to do with their fates.

He already knew, of course. It was just the doing that was hardest. By then, the sun was beginning to set but he still cut them up into little wedges, cutting carefully to make each one perfectly even and he stacked them on a plate and wrapped it all up in a dishcloth. Madara might not eat but he wanted to do it anyway.

The wing he was in was dark and empty when he got there, but he could hear voices inside his room. Or, rather, a voice.

Hashirama paused, one hand on the doorknob and, despite his misgivings, he pressed his ear to the door to listen. The sound was muffled, but he could just make out the words: forgive me. Please. Forgive me. A lump grew in Hashirama’s throat and he opened the door before he overheard any more.

It was dark inside – the light from the hall showed him Madara sat up on the bed, his knees pulled up to his chest. He was cradling his head. Quiet, now. Physically, he seemed fine, but that was the word, wasn’t it? Physically.

Something in the air compelled Hashirama to drop his voice to a whisper. “...hey.”

Madara didn’t move. He just shook his head. He entered anyway. “You slept for three days. You need to eat.”

“Leave.”

Hashirama sat down by his bed. He didn’t try to touch Madara and he didn’t offer him the oranges, not yet, but he wouldn’t leave either. “You need to eat.”

Madara made a noise. It could’ve been a laugh if it were stronger.

They sat in silence like that, Madara’s face hidden, Hashirama staring at his hands, at the blanket, at the window, at anything but him, and he noticed a dark shape on the other side of Madara’s bedside. It was a plate, an empty one. Someone came before him. Someone gave Madara something before him. And Madara had accepted.

The rest of his thoughts were distracted by Madara suddenly moving, unfolding with a long shuddering breath that seemed to hurt. His arms came into the narrow slice of light cast across his bed, revealing the thick bars of a heavy-duty seal on his arms that disappeared under the sleeves of his gown.

“You came,” Madara croaked. His face was wan, his hair greasy, but even so, Madara’s eyes were piercing. As strong as ever.

“Of course,” he said, slowly unwrapped the dishcloth with painstaking care, as if everything rested on the way he peeled back its thin layers. A brief thought spasmed inside him – I should’ve used the one that wasn’t so stained – and it stuck to the inside of his chest like a burr. Should’ve. Should’ve. Should’ve.

Hashirama picked up an orange wedge and held it up, an olive branch offering. Madara didn’t immediately accept it.

“Why...?” he muttered.

Hashirama’s fingers tightened on the wedge. He felt its juices trickling over his finger. “Because… because I care,” he finally said.  It was the only answer that he could give. “I care about you.”

Madara closed his eyes, the bags under his eyes impossibly heavy. “It can’t be easy,” he murmured. And then he held his breath, waiting.

Hashirama took his hand in lieu of answering and placed the orange wedge there. “I’m choosing to,” he said, brushing his thumb over his rough knuckles. They had the same hands – warring hands, heavy and thick with knuckles like steel. “It’s alright if it isn’t easy.”

Madara dropped the wedge back in his hand and pulled away. It wasn’t the worst rejection Hashirama could get but it stung like it was. He didn’t cry, he didn’t droop, but his tongue stuck in his mouth and the lump got heavier as he sat there. Madara wasn’t meeting his eyes.

“Won’t – won’t you just eat?” Hashirama said, trying not to sound pleading.

“I’m tired,” Madara said. “I’m going to sleep.”

Mito’s words came back to mind. She’d seemed to convicted in her belief that Madara felt just as strongly about him, but she didn’t know this side of Madara, a man who could be as elusive as water in cupped hands. Another time, another place, Hashirama would’ve insisted on staying. He would’ve insisted Madara eat and he would’ve kept going until he pried Madara open the way he wanted, but that was back then, when the only person reflected in Madara’s eyes was him.

Hashirama wasn’t used to feeling timid. It wasn’t arrogance to say that he never knew defeat. But this wasn’t a battlefield, or at least not the kind he’d grown up in – in this, he was lost and weary, unsure of the storm within and without. If he fought now, he feared that all he’d do was break something that would not let itself be fixed.

His early determination to catch Madara and make him talk seemed like a lifetime away. Hashirama picked at the dishcloth with nerveless fingers, searching for a reason to stay, but the greasy chill inside his gut told him what he suspected: he had nothing. He had… he had lost.

The scrape of the stool on the hospital tiles felt unimaginably loud to his ears. Hashirama moved to the door, feeling deeply foolish as he clutched his dish, and the cold sunk deeper as he paused. “You said a month,” he murmured and immediately felt even worse, as if he truly was stupid. Madara didn’t respond.

-

Hashirama never really outgrew his habit of sitting by the riverside when nothing else could soothe him. In a way, he wanted to be like the river stones at its very bottom, having all his edges and roughness worn away by ever-flowing water. He sat down on the bank, dropping the dish, not caring when he heard a crack.

He never felt more acutely aware of himself than now. You’re going to have to decide what the hell you want, was Mito’s ultimatum. Sitting on the riverbank, Hashirama had to admit that she was right. More, that she probably already knew his answer; Mito was, if nothing else, another dear friend. He cherished her for that. But make him swear on Ashura’s bones and this would be his truth: if love were light, Mito was a candle and Madara was the sun. Maybe in a world where Madara never existed, he could’ve learned to love her – but then again, in a world where Madara never existed, would Hashirama even exist? Certainly not as he was now. That felt like both a blessing and a burden, because only Madara could make him ache in such a personal way.

Hashirama stared into the dark water. Moonlight reflected across its surface in pieces, highlighting the dark bodies of everything under the surface. As he watched something that might’ve been a fish, he thought about that empty plate in Madara’s room.

Who? His clansmen, maybe? It would behoove them to visit their downed clan head, after all, but it was a cold comfort because he couldn’t stop imagining another visitor instead, one who held a claim on Madara with her lily-petal hands. Had Hisae visited Madara? Had she sat at his bedside, offering him her comfort, giving him nourishment, caring for him while he was weak? Worse, had he accepted it?

It was despicable of him to be jealous of a woman he barely knew. It was disgusting. His wife was shaking off a genjutsu and Madara was still in the hospital but Hashirama couldn’t stop it, couldn’t make himself not imagine Hisae and Madara married and happy and so, so fucking beautiful together. Mito had been right after all – Hashirama couldn’t stand the idea of being replaced. He wanted – he wanted Madara, he wanted to have his faith and fear, his anger and calm. He wanted to be the only one Madara ever looked at.

This is pretty pathetic, Madara would probably say if Hashirama actually told him any of this. You’re too late. You missed your chance and I have someone else now.

Was this how Madara felt when he married Mito? Hashirama felt even sicker.

He heard the rocks shifting behind him. Tobirama flared his chakra to introduce himself as he padded closer, sighing when Hashirama didn’t look away from his mournful contemplation of the river. His brother dropped into a crouch next to him.

“Anija.”

Hashirama tilted his head to show that he was listening.

“Are you alright?”

Saying anything felt impossible. Hashirama mutely shook his head. Tobirama sighed again.

“I don’t like seeing you like this.”

He felt something being draped on his shoulders. It was his haori – he’d left it at home when he went to see Madara. With the evening chill settling in, it was welcome. The nightjars were beginning to call to each other across the river, clicking loud enough to be heard over the rising cricket song. A few frogs piped in too, echoed by more frogs.

“I think I made a very bad mistake,” Hashirama said.

Tobirama grunted, not agreeing or disagreeing, just to show that he was listening. Bolstered, Hashirama continued.

“I… want to fix it? But I’m not sure how – it seems like everything I do just makes more messes. And it’s not the biggest problem I need to deal with, so I feel bad for focusing on it so much.”

Tobirama peered at him through the corner of his eye. “This is about Madara, isn’t it?” he said, sounding resigned.

“Mm.”

“Is it… bad?”

“A little, yeah.”

Tobirama huffed through his nose. “Do you really want to talk about it?”

“I – yes. I do.”

“Well. Then talk.”

So Hashirama spilled his guts. He didn’t do it a lot nowadays – the older they got, the heavier their duties got. He wasn’t just Tobirama’s brother, he was also his leader – in a way, he had to carry himself that way too. No matter how silly and ridiculous Hashirama could be and how much they squabbled, being actually… vulnerable… was a different story. Hashirama had to be someone Tobirama could lean on. But now, he told him about the first fight with Madara, about the tension, the strange atmosphere around his marriage, then the fight with Mito and the failed visit. He even told him about the more intimate details. Kissing Madara twice. Tobirama grimaced but he still listened.

“... Hisae seems like a perfectly decent girl,” Hashirama said miserably. “But just – thinking about her with him, them getting married, it makes me sick. And I shouldn’t be. I should be happy for Madara because she does care about him, she told me that herself. She thinks he’s kind – and he is, and I should be happy someone else sees that. But I…” he shook his head.

“- you’re jealous,” Tobirama finished for him.

Hashirama nodded.

“Hm. Then are you going to do something, or are you just going to sit here and be sad?”

Stung, Hashirama whipped his head up to give him a betrayed look. Tobirama was unmoved. He crossed his arms and stared back at him expectantly. “The way I see it,” he said, “you’ve always felt this way but you just never did anything because no one else in their right mind actually wants Madara. So you never had to do anything, really. But then the Hyuuga come in with their girl.”

It was a lot similar to what Mito had to say to him and equally merciless, if a shade less fiery. Hashirama picked at his sleeve morosely, wincing.

Tobirama noticed his discomfort and softened a little. “I’m not trying to be cruel. It’s just – how do I say this… well. Do you remember when we were kids and father told us that we’d have to get married soon?”

Hashirama blinked at the seeming non-sequitur. “Yes?”

“Itama cried, I think, said he didn’t want to get married. Father got mad at him and it was getting bad except then you started yelling about not getting married, so father got angry at you instead.”

Hashirama vaguely remembered that. He’d been, what, ten? Kawarama and Itama had still been alive. They’d all gathered at his feet and he’d said, Listen, fighting for the clan is just one of your duties. One day, you all need to get married and have children to make the next generation.

It’d only went downhill from there once he started on the details of how that next generation got made. Itama’s crying had only been one of the things to push Hashirama into action, because he could tell that all his brothers were nervous. Their father being angry at him wasn’t new, so he hadn’t been all that worried. Despite himself, his mouth quirked up a little. “You got all quiet and red during that, didn’t you? And you asked him if babies came from the moon.”

“I was seven,” Tobirama grunted, rolling his eyes. “And that was because you told me they did.”

“I can’t believe you actually believed me.”

“Seven,” Tobirama emphasized. Then he sobered up. “But that’s not the point. I just wanted to bring that up because you’re always doing things like that.”

“Like?”

“Where you take on more responsibility, like you always do. You always think you have to step in for someone else’s sake. And right now, for the village, you’re hurting yourself with that kind of thinking.”

Hashirama gave his brother a tight smile. That struck a little too close to home. But how could he stop? The village needed his attention. He couldn’t just – just take a step back and go on a vacation. “Tobirama, I’m the Hokage. I need to do everything I can, just like everyone else is.”

“It’s not about that. You being the Hokage, I understand that. But it’s just -” Tobirama kneaded the bridge of his nose, “- I know you got married back then because everyone was pressuring you to. And I know that you didn’t want to, but you did it to keep the peace. Back then I… I stayed quiet, because if you didn’t marry, then it’d probably be me in your place. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I didn’t say anything, because you wouldn’t be so unhappy now if I’d just -”

“Oh. No. Tobirama, no.” Hashirama grabbed his shoulder. “No, I wouldn’t have let you anyway. It doesn’t matter to me that you didn’t say anything. It was my choice and it was the right one back then.”

“Is it the right one now?”

He didn’t have a ready answer for that. Tobirama scanned his face and seemed to know what he was thinking. His mouth dipped into a frown. “This Madara problem has to be dealt with. It’s you – but it’s also the village too. And Mito-san… well, I think you should be fair to her.”

His reproach wasn’t open, but Hashirama caught it all the same. He bit the inside of his cheek. “What if it goes wrong?” he finally whispered. “After coming so far, what if this destroys everything?”

The Madara problem. Tobirama had a way with words, managing to wrap up everything complicated in a single box. The Madara problem, the great question that Hashirama’s heart rode on and what could make or break their dream. No pressure.

Tobirama sighed again. This wasn’t one of his exasperated ones, or the sighs he made when he was at a loss for words. It was just profoundly weary. He reached out to squeeze Hashirama’s shoulder and when he spoke, his voice was warm. “Whatever you choose,” he said, “I’m with you.”

Tell me what to choose, he wanted to say, but Hashirama knew better than to voice it. He let himself be comforted by the notion that, disregarding all else, at least Tobirama would back him up no matter what. If only he could just shake the idea that he wanted Madara to be the one here because he would’ve given him the answer he really wanted.

-

Hashirama went home. Tobirama dropped him off and refused his weak offer of tea, so Hashirama just crept towards his bedroom instead. He couldn’t feel Mito’s presence in the house but maybe that was for the better. By the light of the moon, he stripped off all his clothes and crawled into his futon naked, too tired to even look for his yukata.

Sleep did not come easy. A dark and silent house wasn’t what he was used to. Hashirama had grown up falling asleep to the lullaby of life, constantly surrounded from all sides by moving bodies, never a break in the activity. Alone, he was lost and had nowhere else to go but into his head, where his thoughts collected after going unheard for so long. If Hashirama turned around and examined the thread of his life, the defining moment felt like it was when he met Madara. It was like a knot in the thread, something that marked the before and after, and there, it was there it all began. Hashirama remembered his early days being studded by a profound sense of hopelessness, thinking that was it, that it was only a matter of time before he grew into his father’s war. 

Then Kawarama died. A child sans a sibling, he’d sat on the edge of his brother’s too small grave and prayed to the heavens. There has to be something out there, he’d pleaded. Something that will make all of this have a meaning. Show me that. Make me believe we’re not just gonna die.

Three days later, he met Madara. They’d both been the same, lost and scared and looking for meaning, and between jokes and quarrels, they confessed to the same dream. I don’t want to die. I want to be happy. I want to be your friend. Madara came to him like a gift from heaven, the answer to all his prayers.

It happened once before. So tonight, Hashirama squeezed his eyes shut and prayed again.

Don’t let it be too late.

[realityhelixcreates]

Lasabrjotr Chapter 51: Getting to Know You

Chapters: 51/? Fandom: Thor (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe Rating: Teen And Up Warnings: none Relationships: Loki x Reader (Getting There) Characters: Loki (Marvel), Additional Tags: Post-Endgame: Best Possible Ending (Canon-Divergent), Here Have Some More Weird Foreshadowing, Mynos Is Friend Shaped, Oh Shit Who Could Have Ever Guessed This Might Happen

Summary:  You and Loki share some quality time, and make a new friend. 

You huddled next to Loki on his black sheepskin rug, in front of his fireplace. The warm light of the flames-actually a fake fire, as the 'logs' were made of iron-spangled off his deep eyes, as he excitedly explained his new ideas to you.

He'd been side-eying you for two days. Not avoiding you or anything, and not distant at all; if anything, he was more attentive than ever. Something had clearly disturbed him, but you had no idea what it was. Ever since he had rushed you off to the healing wing after that weird candle dinner, he refused to tell you what you had said or done that had startled him so badly, he just told you not to worry about it.

He was definitely still worried about it. He acted as if you were still convalescing: trying to do everything for you, hovering, asking you over and over again if you were all right, how you were feeling, if you needed anything.

What you needed was for him to lighten up and back off a bit. You might have liked the attention under other circumstances, but like this it was just feeding into your paranoia. What was it you had done to make him act like this? Why wouldn't he tell you?

When he'd asked you to have dinner with him again, you'd hoped he was ready to discuss it, so you could finally get it off your mind. Otherwise, you would pick and pick at it forever.

But no, instead it was another weird dinner. Firelight this time, and trays full of finger food, on a sheepskin rug, on the floor of his bedroom, where you had never been before.

You would really have to ask Saldis if this kind of thing was normal. Because from your perspective, this screamed 'date', but he hadn't actually made his intentions clear, and you weren't sure you wanted to date right now, no matter how much you liked him. There was just so much on your mind.

He was in those damnably tight velvet trousers again though.

“So, you drew these?” You said, munching on some fruit. “They look nice. Very precise.”

They were. Every line was absolutely straight and perfect, just like his writing.

“They are longhouses. A little stylized, admittedly, but basically just longhouses. I saw buildings like this when I visited, centuries ago. They have a certain charm to them, don't they?”

“I see you've put your horns on them.” You said, pointing to the curved carvings on the apex of the roof at both the front and back entrances.

“Stylized, as I said.” He shrugged. “Besides, as the patron, I do reserve the right to put my signatures on the buildings. The inhabitants should know under whose auspices they live.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I intend to have these built. For the camp. Before Buridag. As a sort of symbolic gift, in the spirit of Buridag.”

“What?”

“They had difficulties last winter. It is hard to live in a tent when the snow can rise higher than your door. With these, they can climb out the roof if the snow gets high, and they can also keep warm, and safe from winds. We can build them with modern amenities as well. Electricity, plumbing, all of that.”

“You want to build them houses? Houses for the campers?” You asked, incredulous.

“I am Aesir. I was a god once, on this world. Even as a child, a youth, people of this world worshiped me. I never stopped being that, only now I have the power to do something for them.”

You set your fruit down and threw your arms around his torso. “They're gonna build you so many shrines!”

His bright smile betrayed his delight. “You approve then?”

“Of course I do! I was out there once, I saw what it was like. And that was in the spring! I can't imagine what winter is like here. Loki, are you really going to do this?”

“Yes. I'm going to build something for this world.” He blew out a breath, staring into the fire. “We are at the beginning of something, I can feel it. And while I may never get to make any kind of reparations for what I have done here, for the lives lost-” He cut himself off sharply, glancing down at you, as if waiting for something.

“What?” You wondered. “What is it?”

“Nothing.” He said after a moment of just staring.

“Is it because of what happened before? What did I do, Loki?”

“It doesn't matter, really.” He deflected.

“You say that, but it's bothering us both!” From your position snuggled into his side, you gazed up at him with a pleading expression. “It's freaking me out, Loki. Please, just tell me what it was?”

You had put on your best puppy-dog face, the one you always used on your father, and Nanna Beth. It almost always worked on them, but for Loki, who could say?

He gritted his teeth in a tiny grimace as you stared up at him, and you saw him break.

Well. Wasn't that interesting?

“It's...you said that you were waiting for the people I killed to return. As if there was a direct link between them returning, and the people Thanos killed returning. And then you instantly forgot that you had said anything at all.”

“Woah.” You breathed. “Okay, yeah, that's pretty freaky.”

“Yes. I thought perhaps there was some deeper damage to your brain, something we just hadn't picked up yet, or...” He clutched you a little tighter. “Your father told me about your families health issues, and I've promised to keep you-and specifically your head-safe. I am not going to allow some malevolent lump of flesh to harm you, but I was worried it might be something related to that.”

“Oh. Yeah. That's been looming over me for my whole life. You know, I didn't go to college, partly because I didn't have the money, but I didn't even try to get scholarships or financial aid. Mostly because I kinda thought it wouldn't matter. I figured I would die young, like my mom, and Nanna Beth, so it was no use. It wasn't like I'd have time to make anything of myself.”

His grip on you tightened.

“But I'm still here. I'm older now than either of them ever got to be.” You looked at the brand on your hand. “I got to grow up. I got to see things neither of them could have ever imagined. I'm going to become royalty. I'm going to be a sorceress. I'm going to be an advisor to a god. I'm gonna be...I am someone.”

He released you with one arm, only to stroke your hair with his free hand. You leaned into the touch. It was always nice to have your head tended to.

“You certainly are.” He murmured. “Please tell me something, _____. It's very important.”

“Yes?” You gazed back up at him, finding him staring earnestly back down at you. So beautiful. So close.

“What is your favorite color?”

“Huh?” And just like that, the somber mood was broken, sending you reeling into the mundane, but wholly unexpected question.

“Your favorite color. What is it? You have been by my side for months, yet I don't know what it is. I have seen many sides of you, shared things as intimate as dreams with you, but I don't know something as simple as what kind of music you like, or if you know how to dance. What is your favorite dish? Your favorite game? What is a Bulbasaur, and why do you like it? I would like for you to tell me about yourself. Please. Teach me about you.”

He held you in front of the fire for the rest of the evening, as you traded stories back and forth, questions, musings, and little tidbits of information. You put out of your head that you were in a mans bedroom, in his arms; Loki had shown himself too old-fashioned for you to fear his intentions. Finally, that fear had passed.

You were at that point where you wished he would kiss you, but were afraid for him to do so. Though it had been some time since you had been in anything resembling a romantic relationship, the last person you had been with was Todd, and that experience had made you wary, knotted up inside over the prospect. You were over Todd, but you weren't over it. Loki wouldn't do those things to you, you thought. But you weren't sure. How could you be?

Besides, desiring him wouldn't get you anywhere. You could not have him. Even though you were going to be declared royalty, the regal god-prince would always be way out of your league. What did a royal title mean, when you knew what you were? It didn't matter what title stood next to your name, you were a peasant. You had been raised a peasant, and though you now had the chance to make something of yourself, your roots would always be in the Iowa cornfields.

And for most things in your life, that was just fine. You weren't ashamed of it. But you knew it drove a great wedge between you two.

Perhaps Loki understood that too, if the thought of it ever even crossed his mind. He probably never even thought about it, never thought about you that way, because of that very wedge, even if he seemed to be constantly trying to shave away at it.

Eventually, you both grew quiet, and the food disappeared into one mouth or another. Allowing yourself a sliver of the comfort being in his arms should have brought you, you dozed off against his chest.

   *****

Flying through space was just as beautiful as always; the stars, the blue light, the rapidly approaching planet.

You'd been here before, to this hazy, orange world, the home of the supposedly extinct Titans. You and Loki landed once again at the edge of the sickly fields, Loki gazing around in concern.

“Here again?” He wondered. “Why?”

“The fields look better this time.” You observed. “The leaves don't look as crunchy.”

“That is because we have developed more effective water filters.”

Both you and Loki whirled to face the Titan behind you, knives in hands.

“I dare say, those are unnecessary.” The titan said, sitting on an hill, overlooking the fields. It looked like you had interrupted his lunch. “I pose no threat you you. I am merely a scientist.”

You weren't sure if he was the same Titan you had seen the last time you were here, but he was wearing similar clothing.

“Are you Mynos?” You asked.

“I am.” He replied. “And you travel with an Asgardian. Are you an invader?”

“No.” Loki replied. “We are travelers of fortune.”

“Ah. Well, you will find little of that here. I should have thought you'd have realized that the first time you came.”

“You saw us?” You asked.

“Yes, just as you disappeared into the storm. After it passed, I sought you out, but could find no trace of you. It was dismissed as yet another of my odd visions.”

“You happen to be known for such things?” Loki asked.

“Oh yes. Old Mynos is a capable chemist and engineer, and that's why he is kept around, despite all his oddness. Such as seeing Asgardians and...Asgardian-adjacents come floating out of the sky on a silent blue beam, rather than a roaring rainbow. Perhaps you are not actually real either.”

“We might not be.” You agreed. This had to be another dream, but the awareness of that didn't seem to change anything. “You're not worried about that?”

“I am not.” He said, taking a swig of water from a bottle with a large filter attached to the top. “I have seen things more terrifying than you, strange creature, and they were not real either, thankfully.”

Something clicked.

“These things...Did they have anything to do with someone called Thanos? Another Titan, from this world?”

Mynos slowly set his water bottle aside.

“So...You are either some waking dream, or all of that was real. I would much rather you be a dream. I wonder why you and I remember, but no one else does?”

“Thanos is not remembered here?” Loki asked. “Not at all, not even before he came to power?”

Mynos patted the dirt next to him.

“Sit.” He said. “It appears we have some things to share.”

Loki remained where he was, you took a seat next to Mynos. Though sitting himself, he towered over you, like a mauve boulder jutting out of the orange soil.

He might be like you; remembering things that technically never happened. That meant he might have magic, like you did.

“Will you tell me how an Asgardian and a...”

“Human.” You provided.

“...A Human know Thanos?”

“I don't know him.” You said. “Never even seen the guy. But I remember living through the results of something he did. That's been fixed now.”

“I knew him. He was as pathetic and perverse as he was powerful.” Loki said bitterly.

“Yes, that all matches up to my experience as well. The Thanos I knew was a farmer who became a military leader during the overthrow of our old government. When he was young, most of his family died of starvation, as the land began to die. During the Revolution, he took up a leadership role, and organized the remaining local people into a militant force, one of many that rose up at that time. As the Revolution wore on, he gained more and more influence. It seemed he was naturally gifted in charisma, but it was discovered later that he was actually very efficient at manipulation, intimidation, and the radicalization of his soldiers. After the Revolution, he made a bid for control of the new government, but it was discovered that he planned to cull half the population, and he was rejected. We had already lost so many, and the planet was still dying. He spoke of conserving resources, but his plan would have killed indiscriminately: scientists, who were needed to research and create plans to heal the planet, workers, who were needed to implement those plans. We couldn't afford to lose even one more mind, one more pair of hands.

He wanted all of the factories and infrastructure shut down before we had alternate plans in place. To force us all back into an agrarian society before most of us had been taught the necessary skills. In short, he wanted as many of us to die as possible. He was obsessed with death, seemed to nearly worship it, and his soldiers viewed him as a kind of prophet. The plants grew better on the battlefields and mass graves, and, to a generation of soldiers who had been raised on war and dead lands, that must have seemed like a miracle.

We built a tiny fleet of starships in the hope of harvesting resources from other parts of the system, to give our planet a rest. That seemed to be the last straw for him. He had his forces plant explosives in factories, city centers, bridges. Then he seized the entire fleet, and escaped the planet.

His madness, and the madness he cast over his soldiers became crystal clear at that point. He'd convinced his soldiers that not all of them could survive the coming journey, and had them plant explosives on each other's ships, all the ships save his own, promising each group that they would be the ones to accompany him on his new quest. Then, when he was far enough away, he detonated all of the explosives.”

“How do you know what he did?” Loki asked.

“Because after the initial waves of explosions, we located one of the soldiers who had been left behind, and interrogated her. She told us that he had discovered some great power source, and was going to use it to fix the universe. She had been laying explosives on one of the ships, but had been left behind when she went to get more. She and I were killed when debris from the ships crushed our shelter.. I remember this happening. And yet...”

“And yet here you are.” Loki finished.

“And no one else remembers.” You offered.

“Yes. You know of this.”

“Yeah. The universe spent a whole year with all life halved. People, plants, animals...even microbes, I guess. And then, it was reversed.”

“Can you tell me how?”

You glanced at Loki.

“Only the briefest summary.” He admitted. “I was barely there. Thanos continued in that form for many years, decimating planets and seeking this power source. He succeeded. But a group of survivors wrested that power from him, used it to reverse his work, and ended his life. It was thought that he was the last of you, but it appears that we were mistaken.”

“You may have been right. I remember not even two years since that time. Nobody else seems to perceive this gap. No body else remembers him, not even the people who were once his fanatical soldiers. They do not even recognize his name.”

“That wasn't part of the spell...Wait, did you feel that?” Loki asked. You had felt a jolt, and now the world was narrowing around you.

“I'm sorry Mynos, but I think we have to go.” You said, urgently running up to one of the plants, and snatching a leaf. “I don't know if and when we'll be back, but if it's possible to send you help, we'll try.”

“Idle promises have little worth.” He said. “But I appreciate the sympathy, Human.”

You wanted to say more, but the orange world blipped out, replaced by warm firelight, a sheepskin rug, and the arms of a prince, who was being shaken awake by a troubled Andsvarr.

“Your Highness!” He cried. “Your highness, please wake up!”

“Give me one good reason not to banish you, Alarrson!” He snapped grumpily.

“One of the camps has attacked the others! They created a distraction for the gate guards, then set the other two camps on fire!”

You were both suddenly very awake.

“Sofie!” You cried, leaping to your feet.

“No you do not! You stay here, you are in no way combat ready!” Loki commanded.

“But-”

“No! I will see to the humans, you stay here. I swear on my father's name, if you follow me out there, I will lock you in your room and throw away the key!”

You crossed your arms in anger. You knew he wouldn't do that, but you also knew that he was right about not being ready for a battlefield. Oh, you hated it.

“Then go!” You snapped. “Don't hang around here arguing with me. Get out there! Andsvarr, help my friends!”

“Yes, my Seidkona!” He declared.

[mellicose]

Lily Bloom

A Walter Jodell Fic

Rating: Explicit

Word count: 10,300

Warnings: none

Summary: Walt is deep in his birthday celebration trip, but there's not much joy to be found in anyone involved. He literally falls into the lap of an interesting woman with woes of her own, but soon, they make each other forget - and remember - that the real joy of life is loving.

Walt walked too slowly to the showers, basket and towel in hand.

He waited until the others got back on purpose. The stalls were communal, and he had no desire to soap up with his buddies’ cocks swinging just a few feet from him.

Katty said he was insecure. He snorted out loud. She said that, right after complaining for nearly an hour about the homoerotic free-for-all in the women’s showers. He pushed his glasses back up his nose and shook his head. He wasn’t insecure, he was fastidious. This was supposed to be his birthday weekend, but everything felt wrong; his friend’s minds were elsewhere, and Katty did not seem to be in any mood to-

The tip of his sandal caught on a tree root and he lurched forward, his basket of bath things flying everywhere-

An arm shot out from behind the tree, and it grabbed his wrist and pulled. Hard. Just as he was about to yell, his eyes focused on a wide, serious set of hazel eyes.

“Don’t you make one sound,” she said, her hand still pressed over his mouth. Before he could question her, she pulled him behind the large tree truck with her. He was too shocked to react. His heart beat fast. Was there … a wild animal around?

“What is it-“he whispered tensely, but she shhhh’d him, her grip viselike on his forearm.

In a few seconds, he heard steps nearby. She put her finger against his lips.

“Don’t breath,” she mouthed slowly, and peeked around the tree trunk. The steps got closer, grinding on the gravel of the path.

“Seriously, this is ridiculous. I don’t know why she’d disappear on me. She bloody hates the woods.” It was a female voice.

“Maybe you should look in the showers?” A young man’s voice chimed in.

“I already did. She’s not there. In any case, she didn’t take her shower things. They’re still in the tent.” the woman said, and sighed. “Let’s get back. It’s so frustrating! We came here precisely so she couldn’t damn well run away.”

“She’ll turn up. Neither of you seem very nature-inclined,” the young man said.

“Hardee harr harr. We’re far more resilient than we look. Let’s go before we miss the meditation session,” she said.

“Sure you are. Perhaps for the wilds of Milan,” the man said. She squirmed with irritation.

“Watch your mouth, Karl, or no more paid vacations for you,” the woman said tersely. The man’s mouth snapped shut.

She waited until their steps faded to silence to remove her hand from his mouth. He licked his lips unconsciously. They were slightly … sweet. He turned to look at her. She had a sharp, razored bob in a color that looked expensive and high-maintenance.

“I’m so sorry about that. But I couldn’t let you blow up my spot,” she said, standing up and stretching. She wore a pair of yoga shorts, and a tank top that left very little to the imagination. Although it seemed like she was avoiding yoga, she was obviously doing something to keep herself in good shape. He stared at her naked belly as she stretched her arms over her head.

“Your spot,” he said, his eyes lingering on the skintight yoga shorts wedged in the promising cleft between her legs.

“We were supposed to be glamping, getting drunk and high, and terrorizing the neighboring campsites. That’s what she said. Instead, it turns out it’s a fucking yoga retreat. No meat, no alcohol, no sugar … no fun,” she said, rubbing her damp palms on her hips. There was a small rucksack on the ground, and she picked it up and rummaged inside.

“Fig newtons,” she said, pulling out a plastic-covered roll of the cookies. She crinkled up her nose, but sat back down and stuffed one into her mouth. “Awful things, aren’t they?” she said with her mouth full. “I stole them off the campers next door. At least they’re not kale chips and mung beans.”

“They’re alright,” he said. “My mom used to pack them in our lunches,” he said, then instantly wondered why he volunteered the fact.

“Did she?” she said, and gave him a long look from his sandaled feet to his face. “She sounds sweet.”

“She was,“ he said, and shrugged. “She passed away three years ago. Heart issues.”

She dropped the cookies and squeezed his hands. “I’m so sorry,” she said with an earnestness that made his hairs stand on end. “Really.”

He felt the stickiness of her fingers, the crumbs lodged between their palms, but her touch was soothing. And kind, something he had not felt in ages, from a woman.

She sighed and let go. “Wanna cookie?”

“It’s more a bar,” he said, but he nodded and accepted a few. Even the treacly scent of them took him back to better times. To being loved, and the hope of one day loving. It’s odd what a simple scent will do.

“Okay, clever man. I guess they are. Bars, I mean,” she said, and pulled a flask from her rucksack. She took a sip, then shook it at him. He eyed it suspiciously.

“I don’t usually drink alcohol this early,” he said, and instantly felt lame as she burst out laughing.

“It’s water,” she said. “From the fountain by the showers?”

“Oh.” He took a careful sip. It was. Fresh and cool. “Water tastes different up her, doesn’t it?” he said as he handed back the flask.

“It’s from a spring, not a water purification plant,” she said, and leaned back against the tree. The sun was rising higher over the sky, and it was getting warmer. He sat beside her, eating his cookies in silence.

“Why no sugar or alcohol?” he said finally.

“Because they are physical pollutants,” she said. “The retreat is supposed to be like pressing the reset button on our bodies and minds.” She seemed to be imitating someone as she said it. “I don’t want to reset. I want to remember, even if it kills me.” Her eyes watered, but the tears did not fall.

He was quiet, but curious.

“What happened?” he said finally. He wondered whether Katty would come looking for him, then decided he didn’t care. He was a grown man.

“What’s your name?” she said, turning to him.

“Walter Jodell,” he said, extending his hand out of habit. She took it, and squeezed. “My friends call me Walt.”

“Okay,” she said.

“And your name?” he said.

“We’re not supposed to have names during the retreat,” she said, hugging her knees.

“Oh,” he said, flushing.

“Gwen,” she said softly. “And my sister’s name is Sara. And his name is Terrence.”

“The young man with your sister?” he said, sitting indian style. He thought he heard her sister call him something else.

“My partner. Terrence,” she said, then said it again. “Terrence.”

“Is he here too?” he said innocently. Of course a woman like her had a partner-

“No, he’s not,” she said, and rose quickly.” A young, promising dental student driving home from a frat party at USC decided that red lights were just a suggestion and slammed right into him, full speed. She’s fine. He’s not.” She wiped her hands again, although they weren’t dirty.

He didn’t know what to say. His hands turned to fists on his lap.

“I’m here for my birthday weekend. My friends are going to throw me a party tomorrow,” he said. Even as the words left his mouth, he cringed. But she didn’t seem bothered.

“Lucky you. Three glorious days of birthday free-for-all. Don’t party too hard,” she said, and patted his shoulder. “Happy birthday, Walt.”

“It’s not until tomorrow,” he said.

“How old?”

“45,” he said, smiling.

“You look fantastic for 45,” she said, extending her hand to help him up.

“Not there yet,” he said.

“Don’t be afraid of growing older. Those lines and white hairs? They’re a blessing,” she said. “You got family?”

“Yeah. They’re here. Katty - Kathryn, my wife. And Orvis, my son.” He nodded solicitously.

“Katty? She’s a lucky lady, then,” she said, and helped him gather all his toilette items and put them back in the basket.

“I’m the lucky one,” he said automatically. He felt something in him twist painfully.

“Right,” she said. “I better get back to it before my sister starts a formal search party,” she said, pointing in the direction of her camp.

“Me too,” he said. “We’re, uh, over there,” he said, pointing back toward where they stayed. “If you ever need to take a break, have a beer and a hot dog, come through.”

“And ruin your birthday festivities? Never,” she said, brushing the dirt off her butt. His eyes lingered there. She smiled.

“You won’t be ruining a thing,” he said. “Trust me.” His lips were parted, ready to confess the brewing drama, but instead he smiled and nodded.

“Then I’ll think about it,” she said. “Maybe I’ll see you around,” she said, and nimbly jumped over the tree branch that tripped him and onto the path.

He watched her take a few steps. She had Katty’s grace, but the line of her body was different - she wasn’t a walking apostrophe, straight and frightening. Gwen curved with every step. It was enticing.

“Hey-“ he said as she was about to disappear into the green.

“Hmm?” she said, turning and smiling at him. He temporarily lost his breath. She was lovely.

“I’m sorry. About Terrence,” he said.

Her smile blinked off, and she grabbed for a golden ring hanging around her neck. “Me too, Walt.” She turned and walked away.

Want more? Click here, or on the link above!

If you like it, please don’t be afraid to like/comment/reblog - it makes my fingers fly! 💖

[fallingin-like]

november 26

a two-man team by @idnis​ [requested by @foxsoulcourt​ and @sig66​]

see which other fics i’m reviewing this month! / my review request post!

this super cute fic features nicky who is doing his best to raise a kid while simultaneously falling for said kid’s teacher, erik mountain man klose. as one might imagine, this is hilarious and so fun to read

this is such a funny, wonderful, and adorable fic, it was really entertaining to see how nicky reacted to things and all his rambling. erik was such a star, i’m so happy that they were able to meet. i always love your unique writing style, and this time was no different!

parts i enjoyed:

”everyone who knew him two years ago knew there was a dark, dark year where nicky wore the same sweatpants for weeks on end until allison quite literally cut them to pieces while they were still on his body” ohmygoodness, this is so funny! i would have loved to see this, i bet allison was chasing after nicky who was running away yelling ‘but they’re comfortable!!’ and cutting off whatever chunk of sweatpant was closest to her

”they feel almost sacred, these few minutes in the morning where everything is completely silent” yes! i totally understand this

”sometimes nicky pretends he’s living alone, that he’s just like any other 25 year old, but he always feels guilty after” this is kind of heartbreaking. nicky has such a big heart and is a natural caretaker, but i think that he’s so used to this mindset of taking care of other people that he forgets he has to first take care of himself. he’s sacrificed a lot for the people that he loves and i wish he was able to see that he’s doing so much good and it’s okay if he misses the life he could have had. he really didn’t have much time to be a young adult

THE PINEAPPLE SOCKS! that’s so cute!!

the little socks emoji!!!!! such a great detail that you included

ohmygoodness erik and his mountain climbing haha

”hugo merely puts another potato wedge in his mouth” for some reason i really liked this sentence

”it’s like walking through a hobbit village” this is true haha so many tiny things

hhhHH margaret is the worst, like “nicky would like to fake-gently slap her”? well i want to aggressively slap her. people are so rude!! soooo annoying i can’t express it through words

”before nicky can shover her into the cute little coat racks” i love this! haha something about the contrast between nicky trying to skewer someone and the little kids things is really funny to me

ERIK LOOKS CLIMBABLE NICKYYYY

”nicky swears he can hear joyous goats bleating in the background” LOL this is so funny what in the world

ALL THE MOMS SUDDENLY DROPPING OF THEIR KIDS WHILE WEARING A RIDICULOUS AMOUNT OF MAKEUP (probably) JUST TO SEE MOUNTAIN MAN?? yikes. and also, hilarious!

nooooooo hugo thinking nicky forgot him?? how dare you!

i love that even though nicky is really interested in erik and wants to hang out with him, he prioritizes hugo and gets him out of that overwhelming environment. he’s so thoughtful

”in a way, because this isn’t normally where he finds attractive men, and he usually doesn’t share his crush with 20 middle-aged mothers” this is funny, but also? i don’t know how i feel about all these middle-aged women flirting with this teacher. (just kidding. i know how i feel. and that is bad. it’s kind of creepy of these moms to act like that…..)

it’s neil! and andrew! i am so happy to see that in this au, even after they’ve all grown up, they’re still close to nicky and are there to help him

”’have you made a move on him?’ andrew asks without blinking” sometimes i forget that andrew’s version of flirting is very… blunt haha

”nicky laughs awkwardly while mr. erik just stares at him” IS ERIK ALSO JUST BLANKING BECAUSE HE LIKES NICKY

”but he gets interrupted by the human embodiment of an air horn, loud and full of compressed air” oh my goodness this is the perfect description of margaret haha

”mr. erik looks down at his shirt with what looks like regret” LOL

i think it’s cute that andrew and neil are there, not just to help with taking care of hugo, but to give advice to nicky and help him as he’s freaking out

”the words are sweet, sweet vindication, because mr. erik refused to call margaret by her name” YES! take that, margaret

THE PICTURE HUGO DREW OF HIS FAMILY IS SO CUTE. the part to follow is not as cute, but it’s so great to read. we get to see a different side of nicky, where his concerns are and evidence of how much he’s trying. i love that he brought up the socks thing, it’s such a realistic thing to worry about, but also shows how good hugo is being taken care of

choosing what hugo should call nicky is such a tender moment!! so soft

”aside from a few prepackaged snacks that never see the light of day because nicky only reaches for them in the evening when hugo is already asleep” HAH

”’hugo,’ he says solemnly. ‘cancel all your plans tonight. we’re going to bake’” this is the most nicky thing ever!

oh my goodness, the bake sale. those moms probably spent all that time organizing their table instead of playing with their kids smh

”really? it does kinda look like it only took you half an hour” OH NICKY WHAT A BURN

THE COOKIE CART IS ADORABLE AND SO CREATIVE AND I LOVE IT

UHM MARGARET IS SO TERRIBLE AND AWFUL HOW DARE SHE SAY THAT ABOUT NICKY

bless erik, for being understanding and smart and for trusting that nicky is a good guy.

ohmygoodness erik touches nicky’s hair halsdkfsajf

PRIVATE BIOLOGY LESSONS? ERIK!!

”like it’s black friday and he’s a sephora store” YOUR SIMILES ARE AMAZING AND HILARIOUS

awww the updated family portrait is so cute!

”for a moment, nicky forgets he’s not an owl as he quickly spins his head around” LOLOL

”hugo pulls a face” big mood, hugo

woohoo!! allison has arrived to help nicky win his guy!!!!

ALLISON GOING IN TO SCOPE OUT ERIK WHY DO I FEEL LIKE THIS IS NOT GOING TO END WELL

”’which is what nicky, stupidly, says. ‘wow, you look gorgeous.’” NICKY NOOO WHY DID YOU DO THAT

”at that, hugo’s eyes turn big. ‘enchilada night?’” oh this is so precious

erik telling nicky not to cut himself off is wonderful!!! they’re such a good match, i think nicky really needs someone in his life that’s as supportive as erik. as supportive as the twinyards are, they’re more the silent type that shows affection through insults which is… not the type of support nicky needs

A TWO-MAN TEAM THANK YOU FOR MAKING THIS THE TITLE OF THE FIC EVERYTHING MAKES SENSE NOW

”if only that was possible, nicky thinks for a bleak, bitter moment, before he knows, knows, that that’s not true” NO NICKY IT IS POSSIBLE. EVERYTHING IS GOING TO BE OKAY

i know this is just like a tiny detail, but ohmygoodness hugo’s pineapple lunchbox sounds really cute. is it shaped like a pineapple (i would want this) or does it just have pineapples on it?

nicky is such a good parent/older person! it’s so nice to hear him asking for ava’s opinion amongst the louder, more outgoing kids

”ava asks in a deep manly voice that isn’t her voice at all” I LOVE THIS SENTENCE LOLOL made me laugh so hard!

wait, who were the parents of hugo? i can’t bear to think that any of the foxes were killed in a car crash

THEY KISS… and yet, there is still miscommunication and everything is back to being terrible

ahh allison and nicky is such a great relationship that i have not seen enough. they have such compatible personalities!

ANOTHER PARENT-TEACHER NIGHT. WE STILL HAVE TIME TO FIX THINGS

”’you don’t need luck when you look like that,’ he says, which is a very much needed confidence boost that nearly makes nicky tear up again” bless andrew, for knowing what nicky needs

everything! is! cleared! up! thank goodness!!!

ohmygoodness of course it’s margaret that discovers them

enchilada time! ahh, love this domestic scene and this part “he said he liked erik first, so he didn’t mind that nicky liked him too” what a kid thing to say!

nicky deserves Good Things and i am glad that he has them in this fic

i really haven’t read any nerik fics before, but i really should if they’re all like this! i loved the seeing everything from nicky’s perspective, he’s so dramatic that it’s always really entertaining to see his side of things. it’s great to see him taking care of hugo, i bet it’s a bit more rewarding but potentially more exhausting than when he was parenting the twinyards, due to the age difference and personality type of hugo, which was more similar to nicky. i think you did an amazing job with the characterization of him, neil, andrew, and allison. i don’t know too much about erik from the books, but i love the way that you wrote him, so caring and sweet and exactly what nicky needs to balance out his self-consciousness and match his humour. this was super fun to read, i’m so glad everything wrapped up so nicely. thank you for writing this!

[entomancy]

Fic: A Dawning realisation

Another worldbuilding one-shot. A different night, and another incident for Denis Joplin, Sheriff of Vegas Below - but this time it’s much worse than mutant vampiric housecats.

Title: A Dawning realisation   (Wattpad) Setting: VTM-with-the-serial-numbers-filed-off. Also, Vegas. Warnings: Gore. Words: 1912 Summary: It’s three in the morning, and there have been at least two murders. You’d think that would be the worst part of the night.

-

There certainly was an impressive amount of blood.

Ducking under the hastily-installed barrier of crime tape – and feeling a shiver in his fingertips mirrored behind his eyelids as the glamour fell away – Denis Joplin found himself stopping short at the revealed scene.  This far into Fremont and two alleys deep behind a derelict convenience store, it’d be reasonable to expect at least something nasty lurking around the dumpsters.  But this was way beyond even cynical assumptions.

The alleyway itself was less of a single passage than a collision of other spaces – one leading north, half-blocked off by the rusting carcass of a long-fallen fire escape; one going west that seemed to be where pallets came to die; and a sagging hole in the southern wall that opened into more rat-runs beyond. Garbage was ankle-deep, except for on the pathways newly torn by desperate footfalls and scrabbling fingers.  One body – still at least roughly the shape it should be, except for its angles – lay cradled by the bashed-in side of a dumpster; a gory, inverted waterfall of crimson splattered up the wall behind it. The head lolled against its uneven chest, barely held on by naked tendons and raw flesh, and the jaw had been torn clear away.  

The second body was more… dispersed.

Yet even that wasn’t the strangest part.  Sure, it looked like somebody had tried to pressure-wash the walls with arterial spray, but what really drew the eye were the weird, congealed blobs of black-scarlet scattered for a storey up the walls. They looked like something out of a particularly nasty fungus documentary: glistening and swollen with half-solid bubbles of wet scab.  There were a lot of them, too.

Je-sus.  It had been one of the bike-lads that called this in, and Joplin made a mental note to check in on the kid later.  Hell of a thing for someone to walk in on.

Of course, some of them were more used to this kind of shit than others.

“Bad night,” he said, partly in greeting, as his attention shifted to the other upright figure on the scene: clad in baggy forensics white, squatting down over a scattering of viscera with a camera in her gloved hands.  She took the picture and made a note before straightening up and turning to him.  One neat eyebrow arched as she pulled her mask down, revealing pale lips set into a tight line.

“Worse for some,” Dawn replied, sweeping a disapproving gesture around at the alley. “Honestly.  I have fourteen active cases right now; the last thing I need is someone breaching like a Screamfest wet dream all over my Thursday night.”

Joplin hesitated – but this was Dawn, after all.  Dawn Miller: Senior Forensic Investigator for the City of Las Vegas (Above and Below), five foot three of permanently-caffeinated brunette; most usually found within a baffling subterranean lair of sterile worktops and extremely expensive scientific equipment that just so happened to have no external windows whatsoever.

“Definitely not just someone with delusions of Dahmer?” he asked carefully.  Dawn sighed as she placed her camera back down then pulled out a small laser pointer, with a hint of dramatic flourish.  The tiny red light danced like a forensic firefly across the stained walls, sketching and circling in after-images.

“It’d be very difficult to get this sort of pattern any other way.  Now, tearing open an artery will do that.”  She gestured towards the crimson mark that was a bit higher than the dumpster-corpse’s head would have been.  Then she jabbed a latex-cased finger further up, towards one of the dripping clots wedged against a drainpipe.

"That? Not so much. I mean, I’ve got my suspicions about your blood pressure, Sheriff, but I figure even you’d have difficulty getting that far up on irritation alone.”

Joplin looked back down to the neatly-circled sections of corpse, tilting his head this way and that as he tried to work out what each bit had been.

“Any clear weapons?”

“Not lying around.” Dawn pointed at a piece of arm. “I need to get this all cleaned up to be sure of anything.”

“Thinking teeth or claws?” Joplin pushed, and recieved a cold stare in return.

“All I’ll say before he’s on the slab is that it took significant force to do some of this.  Arms don’t pop off Barbie-style for just anyone – present company notwithstanding.”

Joplin snorted.

“I ain’t a wookie, y’know.”

Finally, a flash of amusement made it onto Dawn’s face.  It was probably possible to be a science type without being able to spot a Star Wars reference at forty feet, but Joplin sure hadn’t met many.  Hell, she’d probably seen them on release.

“Yub-nub, Sheriff.  Anyway,” she continued, and her brows dipped again as she pulled a fresh swab out of her pocket. “I’ve put this off for long enough.”

She uncapped the plastic tube and Joplin caught The change in her eyes.  It wasn’t in anything so crass as pigment or reflection, but nonetheless the sheen there had altered, struck through now with very familiar sharpness.  She undid her mask, placing it carefully down on top of her kit, and moved over to the bloody wall with the swab raised.

When he’d first heard they had a vampire in forensics, Joplin had imagined she would employ a much more gruesome methodology.  He hadn’t figured that maybe she’d want to lick an alleyway wall about as much as he did.  

Dawn swiped the blood, then brought it back and pressed the stained cotton tip into the roof of her mouth, accompanied by an expression of contemplative disgust.  It had to go past the teeth, she’d told him once.  Something about how the whole vitae situation actually worked.

After a moment she withdrew the swab, slotted it into her clinical waste pot, and spat in after it.

“Yup, that was live when it hit. Initial attack either non-feeding, or the idiot’s never tried to drink a shaken soda.  But that…” she trailed off, looking up at the weird blobs overhead, and her lips twisted again.  “Give me a leg up, will you Sheriff?”

Joplin obliged, cupping his big hands together into a platform, and Dawn hoisted herself up onto a level with one of the congealed lumps.  Swab – suck – and this time she gagged, clapping the back of her hand over her mouth as she did so.  Joplin quickly put her down.  She threw the swab away like it had burned and began aggressively gargling bottled water. Once the dry heaves had stopped she looked back up at him, wiping at her eyes.

“Yuck.  I mean, yes, obviously, but – yuck.  No, that was dead on impact.  I’d say refractory emesis, but that’s – ” she hesitated again, glancing between each blob “- a lot.  Even if they were trying to dry them out, just eyeballing it, I’d say there’s enough blood mass here for a minimum of two victims.  And this guy might be a jigsaw, but I’d say we’ve got all the bits for him.”

Joplin sighed, and leaned back against a cleanish piece of wall.  So there might be another body to find tonight.  Which meant someone on a frenzy, because nobody needed two-and-a-post-spray-remainer’s worth of blood in one night for any sort of legal reason.  And someone with their faculties intact wouldn’t be out massacring by the bins.

Dawn pulled out her second kit: the much smaller, black metal box that had neither insignia or visible method of opening, and blew gently on its surface.  Faint patterns swirled under her breath before the lid popped and she drew out a different set of vials, and a set of small, oddly-shaped tools.

“Taking the specialist samples,” she muttered, half to herself as she selected one and crouched back over the remains. “Because of course, developing anything field ready that isn’t ‘suck on the corpse’ is never at the top of the funding lists, is it?”

Joplin shrugged.

“Don’t ask me.  I ain’t sure what any of you lab goblins do with half the stuff you collect; I ain’t gonna notice if you take a few more weird prints.”

“Liar.” She didn’t look up from whatever she was doing at the head end, but Joplin could hear a smile around her words.  He let her get on with it, instead returning his attention to the utter mess of a scene.  There was a time when this would have upset him a lot more – and he knew this sort of thing tended to get to Mitch in ways the cheery lad was crap at dealing with – but this wasn’t just the normal revulsion and muted horror that settled on him now.  Something about the sheer splatter of the scene was unpleasantly familiar.

He waited until Dawn had clicked the lid back on her little box of vampire tricks before he spoke again.

“Got a theory for me?”

“Always have a theory, Sheriff,” Dawn replied, stowing the box. “The trick is finding evidence.”

“So… if I were to say ‘Bel–’” Joplin started, but cut off as Dawn held up a finger warningly.  The look she gave him was old; far, far older than the ever-stilled thirty-ish of her face.

“I’ve confirmed a potential breach. I’ve got samples.  You’ve got another body to find, and I’ve got analysis to do.  Then, and only then, will I stick my neck out over that block.  Clear?”

“Y’always are,” Joplin conceded, and let out a long breath as he felt some of the sudden tension drop. “Want the rest of the crew in?”

“Oh hell yes.  I’m not scraping this all up by myself.”

Joplin left her to it.  He gave the nod as he passed the glamoured tape, signalling to the waiting figures that they could go in.  Dawn had finished the secret-squirrel bit of her work, and the crew understood enough about trouble Below to know what they were dealing with.  He made his way back to the car and slid in, resting his head back against the seat as he let out a long sigh.

Dawn was cagey – had to be, given who was not-breathing down her neck – but she’d said enough.  Frenzy either meant an orphan, a bastard or a break, and none of them were exactly appealing prospects.  Joplin drummed his fingers together, considering.  Orphan was unlikely – the clan-pires were real careful these days about their new bloods, and the loony market was still depleted from last time someone tried something Big And Stupid.  Bastard seemed most likely, since there was always some little fucker unable to keep it in their gums.

The idea of it being a break…

Joplin felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise, and tried to shake off the unease.  Okay, so there had been a familiarity to the scene, but it wasn’t like a signature.  Brutal, sure, but too messy.  Too much feeding. Any feeding, really.  But the way the bodies had been torn apart like that – that, that was setting off unpleasant shivers of recognition.

Not a break, then.  Not that particular potential nightmare and the shattering Breach it would entail, but… something related?

Bastard’s the most likely.  Jesus-Christmas; can he even sire anymore?

Joplin stared out through the windshield, at the distant fever-dream glitter of Vegas’ early morning, and felt the ghost of a few old wounds twinge.

“Fuck me,” he muttered.

He was going to have to question fucking Belton.

-

[vibranium-chakra]

Countdown

Pairing: Erik Stevens x Reader

Word count: 4.1k

Warnings: Smut per usual lol.

A/N: So this one is a request someone made in December, hence the New Year’s theme. (I’m so late lol I’m so sorry) It was a request for jealous sex. So I gave it a shot. Hope you guys like!

You were putting the finishing touches on your makeup. Smokey eye, glossed lips, and gold highlight; a simple but classic look for the occasion. Tonight was the company holiday party for your job, a New Year’s Eve celebration, and making a good impression was an understatement. It was no secret that for the past three years, your contributions at work were making waves in the Atlanta tech industry. You were one of the most talented black female coders in the area, and a highly sought out expert for new coming businesses. Company owners and city donors from far and wide would be in the building with offers for collaborations and donations to your program, and it was your job to keep them happy and entertained. You were more than willing to do whatever you needed to do to keep your rank on top, so if dressing up and cheesing for old white men was the ticket, then so be it. The planner opted for a local lounge for the event as opposed to the usual stuffy hotel ballroom. Clad in a satin red slit dress, you were more than ready to be see.

After moisturizing your hair, setting in the organic waves of the Malaysian extensions, you stepped into your bedroom to slip into your shoes and head for the door.

“I’ll be there, just hold off until then. Can you get the files from finance?” you heard from the living room. An occupied Erik sat on the sofa engrossed in a phone call with one of his assistants, you assumed. Being a director at the Wakandan Outreach here in Atlanta, Erik had been invited to the event too. You’d asked him to be your plus one a couple weeks ago, to which he strongly declined to your dismay. When you started dating almost 6 months ago, you both decided it was best to keep your situationship under wraps. You didn’t need anyone thinking he was your key into the tech business, and he didn’t want anyone thinking he showed favoritism to you or your company. By now you figured it was time to go public and just enjoy the holiday together. Erik, however, saw it as a bigger risk than you’d thought.

“Baby I’m headed out.’ you slipped out as you stealthily headed for the door.

“Okay babe, I’ll lock the do-” he started towards the door, stopping in his tracks once his eyes landed on you. His gaze traveled from your toes, painted white just like he liked, up past your supple thighs and cleavage that fit the dress like a glove. He didn’t overlook your French manicure and the special details in your makeup. His girl looked perfect.

“Damn Y/N, you know this is a work thing right?” His eyebrows furrowed in confusion, though his lip was wedged in between his teeth with lust.

“Yes,” you rolled your eyes and folded your arms. “A work thing you refused to go to with me.”

“Well if I knew you were goin’ out like this…” he muttered as he extended his hand for yours, prompting you to spin around. He stopped with your back turned to him, fully drawn in to your ass and how it sat in place against the fabric. He let out a gutting groan once he started feeling himself grow and strain against his sweats. Even though he got to see you next to naked nearly every day, seeing you dolled up did something different for Erik. It reminded him of how you would dress up for you guys’ first set of dates. Lately you both hadn’t had much time between work.

“Why don’t we just skip this thing and celebrate 2019 at home?” he grumbled into the flesh of your skin, peppering wet kisses along your neck and shoulder. You giggled at the tickle of his lips and fingers.

“I can’t baby, this is really important for me and we’ve got a lotta big faces coming.”

“Mmm my girl is so talented, so beautiful.” Erik mumbled the praises into your ear sweetly, moving to rest his forehead against yours.. “I’m so proud of you.”

You gave him a small peck and smiled against his lips. “Thank you. Now seriously I have to go. My ride is waiting.”

“You riding with Ayana?”

Here came the moment of conflict. Ayana was your best work friend, so it makes sense that Erik assumed you would ride with her. Erik had met her a few times going to work outings and conferences. Dallas Jackson, however, he didn’t take well to. Your 34-year-old supervisor was extremely easy on the eyes and charismatic for days. It was no secret that he was one of Atlanta’s most eligible bachelor. But his keen sense of entrepreneurship was what you admired, and lacked. Knowing this, Dallas had agreed to be by your side as you mingled with the big rigs.. Did Erik need to know all that? No. But you imagined how you would feel in his shoes, and it didn’t feel right withholding the information.

“Actually...I’m going with Dallas.”

Erik pulled away, jerking his head back and smacking his lips.

“Oh hell nah Y/N you know ion trust that nigga. I’m taking you,” he said blankly, sweeping his phone up from the couch and heading towards his shoes post-haste.

“No the hell you’re not, he’s my boss and he’s helping me talk to our clients. And how the hell are you gonna try to go now when I begged you and you said no?”

“That’s before I knew this nigga asked you. I ain’t having it.” He was almost completely dressed at this point, tossing his blazer on.

“Actually, I asked him.” you retorted, folding your arms and leaning your weight on your left leg. Erik shot his head up at the information, eyes glazed with malice and jaw clenching. The staring contest he was trying to hold lasted for about 10 seconds and you weren’t backing down.

“So you just gon’ ask this sneaky nigga to take you out like you single or some’, and I’m just supposed to show up and let it happen?”

“You can’t let or not let anything happen because I’m not asking. You not my daddy nigga.”

Erik unwillingly chuckled and smirked at your choice of works, leaning his head forward with a knowing look. You both knew good and well that he had definitely been Daddy on a couple of occasions.

“I’m not joking with you Erik, I needed a date and you said no, so I’m going with Dallas. Period.” You half-yelled, grabbing your clutch and heading for the door again. He stayed put in his spot, face still smothered with distaste and anger. He’s always been a little jealous, so the behavior didn’t surprise you. You wouldn’t ever tell him out loud, but the jealousy he had for you held a piece of sentiment that you liked. The competitive spirit and protectiveness he upheld in these moments made you feel wanted, safe, connected. But again, you weren’t telling him that.

“Y/N I’m serious!”

You sung out a smug goodbye, strutting out to the car and making sure that you were in Erik’s view. Served him right.

***********************

The ride to the lounge was fairly short and smooth. Dallas was dressed in a grey suit ensemble that accentuated his tall, slender figure. His reddish curly hair and low cut was shaped into a sophisticated updo that reminded you of the 30’s. Not quite your type, but handsome nonetheless.

Upon entrance to the club, you both were greeted by coworkers and other managers. The lounge was decked out in classy holiday decor, gleams of gold and silver lights along the high walls and tables. The doorways were all embezzled by glamorous satin ribbon pieces. The DJ was centered in the back of the space, currently playing a holiday selection that was scattered with jazz instruments. You casually sipped on a selected punch as Dallas chatted with an older white couple, the woman laughing infectiously. You observed the interaction closely, zeroing in on Dallas’s mannerisms. He would occasionally hold her hand or whisper in her ear, and she would blush like clockwork. From this view, you could see why Erik was cautious about him.

After a few more minutes, Dallas was back at your side, right arm draping across your shoulder..

“Okay Y/N, we got a big set of rounds to make. A few donors are ready to drop, so we’ll hit them first. You think you ready?” he asked, smiling down at you.

“I don’t know if I persuade like you can,” you said truthfully.

“Probably not yet,” he chuckled, “but you’ll learn. This is all just a game of cat and mouse. You know the business, and you look beautiful.” He eased out the last compliment fluidly. He may not have been serious, but you’d be lying if you said it didn't make you want to blush just like the woman he was just talking to. “Just be confident, and go with the flow. And when all else fails, let the dress do the talking for you. ” He nudged at your side playfully, pulling a more relaxed smile out of you. You accepted the small comments as platonically as you could and relaxed.

For the next two hours, you were joined at the hip, moving around from person to person. You had almost established a routine; if it was a woman, you would strike up conversation by complimenting her dress or shoes, and Dallas would segway into a pseudo-deep explanation of your company’s mission and goals to appeal to the ethos. For the men, he would introduce you and have you explain your programs, and you would do so while trying to ignore the old man’s eye on your breasts or legs. At any rate, each encounter ended with a check written in hand or a scheduled follow-up meeting to discuss donor options. It was astounding to watch Dallas memorize these people’s stories and lives and be able to recite it back to them. He was like a machine. You two were dynamic and racked up donations and collabs like it was nothing.

Every hour it struck close to midnight, you  two would take shot or drink. You had just taken another when you finally spotted Erik walk in with a few guys from the center. He spotted you out like a sore thumb, but didn’t dare speak to you. Everywhere you went with Dallas, you could see him out of the corner of your eyes, smiling and laughing with everyone. Women were flocking to him like magnets, and you couldn’t blame them. All black suit and shirt, dreads pulled effortlessly, but neatly to the back in ponytail, gold jewelry, Tom Ford dress shoes. A staple look for Erik that you never got tired of. What you didn’t see was how irritated Erik was getting as the hours went by, noticing yours and Dallas’s body language loosen up with every drink. If he didn’t know it, he would think you two were actually dating. It killed him.

It was now 11:37 pm, and soon after you lost count of how many people you’d met so far, your feet were begging for relief. Dallas picked up on your disinterest and excused you both from the older couple, leading you over to the bar. He helped you perch up in the high-set barstool and sat in the one to the right of you.

“Thank you, you don’t know how bad these heels are killing me,” you admitted as you rotated your ankles to recover the sensation in your heels and toes. He chuckled at the faint expression on your face.

“Well they look incredible, and thanks to you we’ve almost pulled in more contributions in one night than we had all year. All praise to them heels baby,” He put his hands up in surrender, pretending to bow and kneel. You cracked up at his serious expression, shamefully gushing.

“Shut up. For a second I thought I was gonna be overdressed.” you mumbled, adjusting your neckline.

“No such thing for something like this. These old niggas let their eyes do the thinking, and between your knowledge and that,” he motioned towards your dress, “they’re stuck like magnets. If I was your man I’d be scared to let you out the house like that.” He threw a playful wink before grabbing the attention of the bartender. If only he knew how close to home he’d hit.

“Champagne?” You thanked him as you took the tall slender glass from his hands, sipping and savoring the crisp and sweet beverage. You closed your eyes in bliss and opened them, only to be met grimly with a set of eyes you weren’t expecting heading your way. The sight sent you into a coughing fit before you even realized it.

“Y/N you okay?” Dallas urged, tending to you urgently. He patted your back until you calmed down. “Breathe, breathe.” You allowed the even breaths to get you back to normal. All the while, Erik fixed his eyes on the interaction until he was right in front of you.

“Can we help you?” Dallas asked, orientating his body towards Erik.

“Nah, we good fam. I got it from here.” He slid right past Dallas to stand in front of you.You peered your eyes up at him menacingly. There was no way he was really doing this. You were dreaming, maybe.

“Excuse me?”

“I said we good, bro.”

You stood up immediately, placing yourself in between the two.

“I’m sorry D, this is my...a friend of mine, Erik Stevens.”

“Ohhh I remember from the outreach program, nice to see you man.”

Erik stared at the man’s extended hand once before mugging back at him, uninterested in the gesture.

“Like I said we cool D, she wit me for the rest of the night.”

“Ah can you give us a minute please Dallas?”

“You sure?” he asked cautiously, unconvinced that Erik was in his right mind and was safe for you to leave with. You probably would’ve thought the same thing if you were in his place.

“She asked you nicely to leave, I’m not gon’ fuckin’ ask you dawg.” Erik asserted himself towards Dallas. He had officially lost his mind. Erik followed you as you dragged him towards the back of the lounge until you arrived at one of the private powder rooms. It was very spacious and lush, accompanied with a vanity mirror, granite countertop and a velvet bench. Erik followed in as you locked the door.

“Have you lost your damn mind?!” You gritted threw your teeth.

“Me? You lost your damn mind if you think I’ma let that nigga parade around here with my girl like that!”

“Newsflash nigga, I am not a piece of meat, I can make my own decisions! Just like you decided not to come with me tonight, right? And second of all, technically you’re not my boyfriend. What was I supposed to do, not let him touch me?”

“He touched you?!” he raged, leaning towards the door.

“Erik you’re going crazy! What do you want me to do, huh? Go out there and tell my boss to fuck off? Or tell the donors to not look at me while I’m trying to rally their support? This is my job Erik, a job I’m damn good at. I’ve been working hard to get to this point and Dallas was helping me with that. Do you even care to know that we pulled in more donations tonight that we’ve done all year?”

Erik remained silent at the statement, shame settling in.

“Of course not, cuz all you care about is who’s looking at my ass.” you retorted, turning towards the mirror.  You wanted to just leave his ass in here, but you were too embarrassed and ticked off to face Dallas again now. Erik slumped up from the bench and came behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist.

“Look baby, I’m sorry. I tried to stay away but all I could see was that nigga touching on you and talking shit, and you look so damn good tonight.” he kissed your cheek before looking at his and your reflection in front of you.

“And the fact that you’re jealous gives you the right to act an ass?”

“No, no it doesn’t. I didn’t mean to flip out like that, I just…” he sighed running his hand across his face. “I fucked up didn’t I.”

“Yeah genius, you did.” you shook away from his grasp turning towards him.

“Look I’ll talk to dude. Tell him I was drinkin’ and got caught up. It’ll be fine.”

“That’s not gonna fix this Erik, Dallas isn’t the problem.”

He studied your face for a minute, seemingly putting an answer together. The truth was, he trusted you with everything in him; he trusted you with his life. The past months with you had been some of the most transparent and memorable moments he’d ever had with a woman. You made him feel at home, a feeling he never wanted to lose. Perhaps that fear was exactly what kept him up in arms.

“I trust you, okay? Shit...it feels like I trust you too much sometimes. You’re one of the only people I trust, and that’s probably why I can’t stand seeing someone shiesty like that nigga come around you. I really am sorry, Y/N.”

You digested his words, and hated yourself for almost succumbing to him. Your time with Erik has taught you about his trust issues with the world, and you knew deep down that learning to be transparent with his feelings was a process. His constant need for your approval stemmed from something in his past that he didn’t want to revisit. However, you weren’t interested in becoming the punching bag for his insecurities.

“Can I tell you something else?” he murmured.

“What?”

“You look sexy as fuck when you’re mad at me.” He grinned, purposely letting his golds show. His whole demeanor had changed, and you’d be lying if you said your body hadn’t noticed. He picked you up quickly set you atop the vanity.

“No no no no, you’re not about try to pull me back in with some compliments and a cute face.”

“I can’t compliment my girl now?” he grumbled into your neck and collarbone, sucking gently. The sensation was unexpected, pulling sounds from you against your will. The devil knew your spots and weaknesses too well, especially when liquor was in your system.

“I’m not your girl remember?” You moaned out as best you could. Erik didn’t seem to care, his kisses getting sloppier and hungrier. The party sounded like it was picking up once you heard the DJ announce that there were 15 minutes left until midnight. Erik had moved from your neck towards your chest, and then quickly to your legs. He opened them by gripping your knees and proceeded to meet face to face with your pussy underneath a lacy black thong. The inside of your thighs had emitted enough heat to have the aroma hitting his nose. As angry as you were with him, he knew this might be his last time tasting you for a while. He groaned at the thought of that before pulling your panties to the side and diving straight into your lips.

Erik ate your pussy like he would never eat anything again. He shifted between sucking you up whole and flicking at your clit. As usual your mind went somewhere else; eyes shuttering, mouth stuck open, legs twitching. You tried to focus on not making too much noise up until he pulled away and full-on spit directly on your pussy and slapped it before eating it again. The vulgar move shocked you, causing you to peer down at his smirking face. He knew his girl liked the back of his hand.

“Mmm you eat my pussy so good baby,” you cooed at Erik, your hands moving to cradle his head. The small gesture of affection motivated him. He fucked you with his tongue expertly, hitting just the right spot. You were only a handful lip smacks and sucks away from cumming directly into his mouth. He used his power over your orgasm to mess with your head.

“You think that nigga can fuck you better than me?” he muffled out, face stained with your juices.

“No, baby.”

“Can he eat your pussy like this?”

You shrieked in fear, almost falling off the vanity from thrashing your legs. Erik anchored you down gently by your stomach to keep you steady and giving himself better access to your G-spot.

“You forgive me?”

Unfortunately, you weren’t that close.

“Ughhh, noooooo!” you hollered out, though it came out more like a loud moan. He didn’t like that; he was determined to break you.

“You sure?” This time, he kept his eyes on you during his attack. Seeing Erik on his knees, which was rare, and looking directly into your soul was sending you upwards. You both knew that you had forgiven him as soon as he started kissing you,but verbally saying it was another thing. Your hearing started to weaken aside from the repetitive sucking sounds against your clit until the waves of pleasure  rushed over you and out onto Erik’s face. You were out of breathe at this point, panting as his expanded lips kissed yours.

“I think your body is saying otherwise princess.”

“Just shut up and fuck me.”

He chuckled at your boldness. You’d managed to get up on the countertop on all fours, thong removed and dress pulled up above your waist. Erik marveled at your round cheeks and spread lips peeking out, arched just for him. He massaged them before tasting you one more time, then proceeded to undress his bottom half and press into you. The strokes were absolutely perfect, alternating between quick and hard to slow and slippery. As sated as he made you feel, you knew it had been a while since you stepped away and you needed to get back out to Dallas as to not raise any suspicions. Erik was purposely playing with your nut and you weren’t having it.

“Erikkkk I gotta g-, I gotta get back out there.”

“You want me to stop?”

“No I want you to make me cum,” you scowled looking back at him with a look that dared him to stop. Your pussy clenched at the sight of him watching you, making him hiss out.

“Shit, your pussy too good to rush baby. You should see how creamy yo-”

His praises were interrupted by the DJ calling out that there were 5 minutes left until countdown.

“Erik!”

“Okay! Whatever you say.” Erik grappled one hand around your waist and started pounding you. He covered your mouth with his other hand once your moans turned into small screams..

“Careful what you wish for princess,” he grunted out between strokes, not that you heard him. You were focused on heat rising in your stomach and flutters spreading. Erik slowed down, still stroking expertly,  determined to get his apology from you before letting you cum.

“Tell me you forgive me.”

“Stoooppppp Erik,” you groaned out. If you weren’t so close you might’ve started fighting him.

“Tell me and I’ll give you want you Y/N,”

“No! Shit fuck it,” you rose your upper body up from your elbows to perch on your hands, throwing your ass back athletically. If he wasn’t gonna give it to you you were more than prepared to take it. Erik’s strategy fell apart right in front of him, weak under your control.You were milking him at this point, pulling strings of curses and compliments from his lips. If this is what unforgiveness felt like, he considered making you upset more often.

The next thing you knew it was ten seconds until the new year. You continued to ride Erik to the sounds of the party congregation yelling and counting down, encouraging the orgasm you’d built up to release.

“10, 9, 8, 7, 6….”

“I feel that shit Y/N c’mon, I’m right there with you.”

He started to meet your thrusts with his, climbing towards his own climax.

“5, 4, 3, 2, 1….HAPPY NEW YEAR!”

The cheers and applause fluidly swallowed the sounds of you and Erik’s screams and orgasms. Though you were still worried about Dallas and your friends, neither of you could imagine a better place to be going into 2019.

You both caught your breath and started to freshen up quickly.

“You still don’t forgive me?” he asked buttoning up his pants.

“No, Erik I don’t. You embarrassed me from

You rolled your eyes at him through the mirror while reapplying your lipstick. Finishing and putting your makeup back in your bag, you threw him a hell no over your shoulder as you headed out the door carefully.

“More makeup sex for me,” he threw back.

Once the coast was clear, you headed out stealthily to the dance floor. You played at the hem of your dress, jumping at the touch of someone’s hand on your shoulder.

“Hey girl where’d you go? You missed the countdown?” It was your coworker Ayana.

“Oh I was in the restroom. Too much champagne girl,” you giggled out nervously. She gave a knowing smirk and mmmhmm at your statement, as if she knew something was up.

“What?”

She averted her eyes downward st your dress. You inspected closely until you landed on a white wet stain on the hem of your dress.

You definitely weren’t forgiving him now.

Taglist:  @amethyst1993 @thehomierobbstark @chaneajoyyy @hadtocomeoffigsotheycantstalkme @iamrheaspeaks @nickidub718 @raysunshine26 @wakanda-inspired @cancerianprincess @royalhearts

[raiswanson]

The Loving Seal shorts #3: Swells (Kaelan PoV)

(Halfway through the months and the shorts now!! I’m so glad people seem to be enjoying the selkie babies ❤️❤️❤️  It means a lot to me that you all love Kae and Nyv too)

This short is three of six, and actually the second one I wrote last March! I think it shows but ah, it’s for fun This time our selkie pups are a little older but there’s still a few things to work out ;)

(This short is a little over 3k words long)

I waited in my hiding place as another squeal rang through the water. That was one more down. How many were still hiding? Me and...two others? I tried to remember how many of us were swimming around in the kelp-ridden cove, and how many times I’d heard someone else get discovered.

The kelp swishing past the tiny alcove I’d wedged into moved sharply, and I froze. The last squeal had been close. Did that mean—

“GOT YOU!”

Nyvina’s shout was my only warning before she rocketed through the floating green and crashed right into me, sending us both spinning through the current as I added my own cry of alarm to the tally.

“Stop picking the same spot, Kae! You’re so bad at this!” she chided as she barreled away toward Aksel as he bolted from his place and tried to flee.

I answered with a disgruntled series of bubbles as her tail vanished into the kelp, then surfaced to catch my breath. The game wouldn’t last much longer now. Aksel would never outpace Nyvina, and she’d sniff out the last of us in no time. Bobbing in the waves, I peered over at the others around me and as I was ticking off who’d been found Aksel joined us with a whining croak.

It wasn’t long before Nyvina joined us too, preening gleefully as we turned scowls her way.

“It isn’t my fault none of you know how to hide. Pick better places if you don’t want me to catch you,” she scoffed, splashing water at our faces.

“There’s only so many places to choose in this cove, seaweed-breath,” Aksel answered, earning a hard headbutt for speaking up.

“We could try the West cove instead? The currents aren’t too bad today, so the rocks won’t be a problem,” I offered, making all but Nyvina look to me in horror.

“What, no! That’s too far!”

“Geez, Kae, do you want to be shark food?”

“I’m not allowed to go over there...”

“Sure. That’s a great idea.” Everyone looked to Nyvina like she’d lost her mind, but I chirped happily at the praise. I’d expected her to shoot the idea down as stupid, but she looked genuinely interested.

My mood dampened slightly when the others continued to resist it though.

“If you two want to go get smashed up on the rocks do ahead I guess. I’m going back to the pod.”

“Yeah, you two are crazy. I’m gonna see what my ma is doing.”

“I’m tired anyway. Gonna take a nap.”

Excuses were filed out as each head popped back below the water and everyone swam back for the pod’s beach, until the only ones left were me, Nyvina, and Laicy. Laicy had been the last one caught, so I supposed she was feeling rather brave, and the three of us bid good riddance to our fellow selkie pups and made our way for the West cove brimming with confidence.

As I’d thought, the cove was calmer than usual and riddled with hiding spots, and I proudly darted from place to place as the others voiced their surprise over it. Once we’d done a quick sweep to find choice nooks and crannies to burrow into Nyvina was chosen to play seeker again, and Laicy flipped past me as our friend swam for the surface to count down.

“Don’t let her catch you so easy this time, Kae. There’s not enough of us this time for her to pretend she doesn’t know where you are,” she called with a giggle, shaking her head when I gave her a bewildered look. She thought I was losing on purpose? It wasn’t my fault Nyvina was so good at hide and seek! I was doing my best!

Outraged, I darted to the sandy floor and burrowed under a bed of coral, determined to be discovered last this time.

I wasn’t.

Nyvina found me first for the next four rounds, and when it was Laicy’s turn to seek I didn’t fare much better. I’d given up at being good at the game and was “hiding” in a large cluster of kelp when it occurred to me I hadn’t been found in a while. Certain it wasn’t because I’d suddenly become harder to find, I poked my head into the open water and peered around to see what the hold up was just in time to see Laicy whipping by.

“Go! We need to go!” she said urgently before darting off and around to the edge of the cove.

Puzzled, I poked out further and watched her bubbles disperse, then looked back the way she’d come in time to see a large, familiar black and white shape coasting through the kelp deeper in the water.

I froze.

Orca.

Much, much too close to be outrun.

The half a lung of air I had left suddenly felt like it wouldn’t last another three seconds, and I remained frozen in place as the black and white flickers shifted, revealing two shapes gliding through the green. They hadn’t seen me yet, somehow, but it wouldn’t be long before they broke the kelp wall and saw me poking into plain sight.

I would have remained there until the giant creatures were upon me if I hadn’t been moved by a solid impact to my chest sending me careening toward the rock wall. Nyvina headbutted me again as I struggled to right myself, and before I knew it I’d been slammed into the bottom of a shallow crevice in the jagged rock, tucked behind a few thin strands of waving seaweed. She followed behind me as I was jammed into place, squishing herself over me to wedge into the hiding spot with me. Her claws gripped tight into my fur, and I stared wide-eyed past the swishing seaweed.

The orcas were in open water now. Drifting right by where I’d been seconds ago. One turned as it passed the spot, veering in Nyvina and I’s direction, and I hunkered lower with a tremor shaking through me. As it drew closer Nyvina set her head on mine, and we watched as it meandered by the rock wall.

It knew we were here. It had to. It had seen us, and was looking for where we’d gone.

It loomed closer, and as it floated by its body blocked out the light, filling our hiding spot with darkness. I could see into its eyes as the seaweed shifted, and in a heart-stopping instant saw the moment it sighted the seals tucked away in the rock.

“Stay here,” Nyvina hissed before darting out into the water right past the behemoth’s nose. My claws dug into the rock as the orca pumped its tail and gave chase. They vanished into the kelp, and I shivered as I found myself alone in the water, held frozen by bubbling memories.

“Stay hidden, sweet one. We’ll keep you safe,” Mama’s voice echoed, making me dig my claws into the rock with a whimper. I missed that voice. So soft and caring and beautiful. Right until the end.

Until she’d screamed, and screamed, and finally gone quiet forever.

The sea around me took on a red haze as horrible visions blurred in my mind, and I buried my face in my fins, telling myself it was all over. Mama and Papa were gone. Everyone was gone. But I was here. Nyvina was—no. Nyvina was still here, but she’d...

She’d told me to stay. Nyvina always knew best, like Mama had. She was smart. I would stay. I would do what she’d said. I would.

But as seconds ticked by all I wanted to do was help her. How though? What could I possibly do? She was faster than me. Cleverer. Smaller and more maneuverable. If anything I’d be in the way, and I’d get us both killed. But still…

More seconds passed, and with a timid bubble of air I forced my flippers to release the rocks and pushed out into the open water. These were orcas. Nyvina was amazing, but she was still just a selkie. And she was only here because of my idea. I’d never be able to bear it if she got hurt, especially not if it would be all my fault. I had to make sure she was alright. I had to. I’d keep my distance and move carefully, but I was going to make sure she’d made it to safety. I couldn’t hide away again. I didn’t ever want to hear Nyvina scream like Mama had.

Just a short distance from the kelp forest I came across a scene that made me glad I’d disobeyed. I peeked out from the green to see the orcas circling in the water beneath a small iceberg, heads popping up every few seconds to peer at something on top of it. I didn’t need to think hard to imagine what that something was.

Still, I drifted backward and raised myself to the surface anyway, taking a cautious gasp of air and raising my head just enough to see the above world. Sure enough, Nyvina’s spotted body was sprawled out in the center of the ice, splayed to hold her position as the orcas kicked up waves to try shaking her off. She was trapped.

I dipped back below and tried to think of a way to help. Nyvina hadn’t meant to go there. She was too smart for that. She’d had a plan. It hadn’t worked out, but she’d had one. What had it been? Trying to think through a plan like hers made my head hurt, but I tried anyway and slowly poked my head back up to look around again. She wouldn’t have tried to outrun them. She must have had a goal. What?

Casting my gaze around, I sighted a shore on a nearby island, long and sandy and full of inlets. Perfect shallow pools no orca could feasibly launch out at you from. Not quickly. They’d have to beach themselves, and on human legs escaping would be a joke. Was that what she’d been planning? It was close enough to be reasonable.

It was the best I had, and I knew I didn’t have time to find anything better before one of the circling orcas manged to shake Nyvina from her perch and tear her apart in front me. Shaking at the thought, I braced myself and took a few deep breaths to steady myself, then waited for one of the black and white heads to breach before loosing a loud howl.

I saw Nyvina’s head shoot up before I splashed beneath the water, but couldn’t take the time to look back at her as both orcas vocalized and gave chase. I shot straight for the shore I’d seen, aiming for the nearest inlet and praying I’d given myself enough space to make it there in time. Kelp and seaweed slapped my face on my bolting swim, but I welcomed it as opposed to sharp teeth digging into my flippers or sides.

Just a little farther. It hadn’t been far. The shore was right there…

A pitched cry right on my back put an extra burst of speed into me right as I hit the slope of the sand, and in a desperate dive I shot for the surface. I ripped out of my skin while still in midair, tumbling to the ground in a clumsy human heap, but clawed and scrabbled to keep moving forward as I heard loud splashes behind me.

Frustrated clicking followed me up the beach as I stumbled and crawled, but when I didn’t feel teeth catching my feet to flip and slam me into the ground I laughed hysterically and wheeled around to look back. The larger of the two was only a few lengths away, glaring at me as it seemed to consider trying to wiggle toward me out of spite, but when I took a few more steps backward it whistled and began wriggling back for the water as the other sprayed and watched from the shallows.

Safe but still terrified, I staggered further back and collapsed, letting my gaze go to the water to seek out the iceberg. It was empty. Good. With both orcas in sight I knew she’d made it to safety, wherever she’d gotten off to.

About ten seconds later, “wherever” turned out to be the very beach I sat on. I was still catching my breath and working shakes out of my system when Nyvina burst from the water and rushed toward me in human form. Her dark gray eyes were stormy and angry, and I knew I was in for it, but I couldn’t help admire her as she approached. She walked so smoothly, like she’d done it her whole life. Sure-footed and steady.

I beamed up at her heavily spotted form as she stood in front of me with her fists clenched at her sides. She flipped her wild curtain of black hair aside to ensure I witnessed the full—admittedly terrifying, but still lovely—expression of rage on her face, then stood at full height and kicked sand in my eyes.

“What were you thinking?! Do you know how close you were to being lunch, you idiot?! Why did you come out of hiding?!” she shouted, scuffing more sand until I coughed and rolled to my feet to squint down at her.

“I was worried about you. I didn’t want you to get hurt,” I replied, making her jerk back.

“I didn’t want you hurt either, stupid! That was dangerous! You aren’t fast enough to outswim an orca! Or good enough at hiding to avoid them! I thought I was going to have to watch them— I thought you were going to—” Snapping her mouth shut, Nyvina swallowed and calmed herself, giving me a gentle punch in the arm. “I wanted to protect you, Kae. I was scared. I don’t want to see anything happen to you. I don’t even want to see anything almost happen.”

“Why?” I blurted, blinking in surprise at the soft tone. That was a sound I didn’t usually hear from the feisty selkie—I knew she was kind, but she rarely let that part out these days.

Heart hammering, I waited expectantly as she wrinkled her spotty nose and gave my arm another punch, saying, “Because I like you.” Her face exploded with color as the words left her mouth, and I grinned widely back at her.

She scowled back, and her face darkened even more when I replied, “I like you too, Nivvie.”

“You like everybody, Kae,” she scoffed, arms crossing.

I shook my head and continued to grin, filling with a thrill even better than finding the perfect current to ride into a huge school of fish. “Not the way I like you,” I answered, feeling my breathing quicken when she stared back and words began bubbling out of my mouth. “It’s different with you. You make everything warm, and I look forward to seeing you every day, and I love watching you hunt, and you’re just so amazing to be around and talk to and—”

I stopped, seeing she was still staring at me, and lowered my gaze to fiddle with my fingers as I realized I’d gotten carried away. “Sorry, it’s just...I’ve...been thinking about it for a while. And I just wanted to tell you, I really…really like you, Vina. A lot. A whole lot. I think I want—”

Nyvina stopped me by stepping forward and catching my face in her hands, pulling me down into a kiss that turned my already-clumsy legs into jellyfish. I froze in place trying to keep myself upright, staring forward as Nyvina closed her eyes and held me close, and my mouth hung open when she stepped away.

“Oh.”

The wonder in my voice made Nyvina catch a few curls of her hair and twirl them, and she gazed into the eyes of my sealskin with her face still red. “...I like you a lot too Kae. I always have,” she mumbled, looking up with a jump when I loosed a relieved sigh and slumped further.

“Oh, thank goodness. I wasn’t sure if you did! I kind of worried that I annoyed you because you’re usually so cool and confident and amazing and I know I talk a lot and get excited and—oh. Sorry. Um. Anyway, I wasn’t sure if I should say anything or...I wasn’t sure if you actually wanted me around or if you were just putting up with me because you’re nice...”

Nyvina’s brow creased, and she nodded sternly. “Of course I do. You’re wonderful, Kae. How could I not? I’ve liked you since you joined the pod. You’ve always been my favorite,” she said, eyes widening when I beamed back with my heart leaping up into my throat.

I watched her with my stomach flopping as her face darkened, blinking when she reached a shaky hand to touch my cheek. It was a softer touch than the last, and very comfortable, and she gulped when I leaned into it with a soft purr. Her hand steadied as she stroked the side of my face, fingers tracing the scars there, and I reveled in the pleasant contact as she coughed to clear her throat.

“You never annoy me, Kae. I like hearing your voice. And you’re cute when you’re excited. You don’t need to apologize for that,” she told me gruffly, letting out a quiet “eep” when I stepped forward to bundle her in my arms and croon into her sea of hair.

“That’s because my great-grandfather was a siren. Nice voices run in the family, I told you,” I teased, laughing when she thumped my arm.

“Kae,” she warned, even as her hand slid to touch my back instead, more tenderly. “I mean it though. You’ve never annoyed me.” She paused, sighing, and added, “Not for being excited at least. Maybe when you do something dumb. Like try to make yourself into orca bait.”

I grinned into her hair and held her tighter, peeking over her head to look out at the water. “Speaking of, you think they’re gone yet?”

Nyvina snorted. “Doubtful. We should probably wait here a while until they get bored and find something else to chase.”

“So what should we do while we wait?” I asked.

Humming, Nyvina raised her head to look up at me, resting her chin on my chest as she blinked slow. “I don’t know. What do you feel like doing, Kae?” she asked, hands slipping under my sealskin to curl around my waist.

We stood there holding each other in silence, gazes locked, until I let go to touch her chin and croon out, “I wouldn’t mind more kissing.”

Nyvina’s mouth split into a wonderful smile and she caught my hand in hers to weave our fingers together. She pressed her lips to my palm and peeled away to swing our joined arms.

“Hmm. I think I could go for something like that. Okay siren boy, how about you sing for us on the way over to those rocks, and we’ll see how we’re feeling when we get there?” she suggested, beaming back at me when I laughed and launched into the first song to come to mind as she gave my hand a tug and led us along the sandy shore.