#The dancer still has her metal 'hair' plates

[spacedoutwitch]

Next one! These are pretty simple because I speedran a bunch of digital stuff full of colors and backgrounds yesterday.

Corresponding FFM Story

[cyberrose2001]

Hi!!! I love your works! 🥰 I was wondering if I could request a Tfp bots (Op/wheelJack/knockout) reaction to their s/o who is very sweet and shy normally who’s in uni but what they don’t know is that she’s a stripper/exotic dancer late night to pay her tuition and they see her perform and later they make her do a performance for them only and gets smutty 😏😳🤭 sorry if it doesn’t make sense my English isn’t the best 😭 (also totally not projecting at all I am a pole dancer to pay for uni and damn well I treat myself well hehe, if you ever do commissions I’ll be ready 🤣)

TFP Optimus, Wheeljack, Knockout w/ Stripper Reader

I'm so sorry that this took forever! My brain may be fried but this was still so fun to write! I'm sorry if I got some things wrong, I'm still learning how to translate choreography into words (and I know very little about being a stripper oop).

As much as I wanted these to be short, my fingers slipped and I wrote whole ass fics for each of them. So be warned, this post is VERY long! I hope you enjoy! <3

18 + ONLY MINORS DO NOT READ

Warnings: Stripper reader, mentions of alcohol use, small mention of blood, smut/valveplug, blow jobs, sticky sexual interfacing.

Word count (combined): 5,981

Optimus

Was this a bad idea? Maybe, but you'll worry about the consequences in the future. For now, you slowly approach a mass-displaced Optimus Prime sitting on a metal stool that is still far too small for his frame, who still towers over your body by a solid two feet. He's watching every step you take in every click-clack of your six-inch pleaser heels. The small portable speaker you set up begins to play a bassy remix of 'Dirrty' and 'Talk Dirty', respectively called 'Talk Dirrty'—a fitting song since you're about to lay down the dirtiest heat onto the flustered mech burlesque style.

This was Optimus' idea, after he had followed you on your lonesome to a local nightclub on the outskirts of Jasper, duffle bag in your hand. He wanted to ensure you were safe, but his curiosity had gotten the better of him, and he watched your little… performance for the locals from a side window. Safe to say, you were embarrassed once you had returned to the base at an ungodly hour, and he was, of course, still awake. But he had politely asked to see a performance of yours first-hand. And that's how you both ended up in this situation, in Optimus' quarters, door locked.

The first bassy note fills the room, accompanied by Christina's melodic voice as you flick your hair back, shaky hands dragging down your chest to your hips. A little taste of what's to come. Your hands come to rest on your fishnet-covered knees and shamelessly slut-drop a few metres before Optimus, who watches with bated breath. And in the sexiest way you could think of, place your hands down the floor in front of you and slide your body towards the floor, arching your back as you do so. It's a raunchy move, but the look on his faceplates is priceless as his optics flicker to your ass in the air.

You then move your knees forward and crawl towards his pedes, akin to a predator stalking its prey. He hitches his breath as you straddle the floor between his legs and slowly drag your hands up his pedes to his knees, and to his utter shock, you pry them open. Moving from his knees, your trail your hands up his silvery thighs, past his hips' blue plating and to his abdomen's plating, fingers lightly dipping into the crevices between them.

You can feel him shutter against your touch as you tease him, arching his back into your hands. In a smug move, you withdraw your hands from him and trail them back down to his knees, using them as leverage to push you upright. Arching your chest forward, you come within inches of his own until he has a frontal view of your barely covered cleavage. It's revitalising your confidence as you watch Optimus ogle. His frame shivering and servos twitching with a restrained desire, to which you would need to praise him for respecting the etiquette of lap dances.

"You look like you're enjoying yourself," You lean to whisper into his audio receptor before you lift your legs over one of his thighs, then the other, now straddling his waist, "Remember what I said before… no touching."

Optimus gives you a restrained whimper as you grind against his lap to the music, whipping your hair around with a hand on his shoulder for balance. The other hand moved meticulously across his chassis. This dance was supposed to be for Optimus, but you're enjoying this far more than anticipated. His broad shoulders were undeniably attractive, and his neck cabling, Primus, you could lean forward and tease the trembling mech with your tongue, but you knock back that thought. Instead, you lift yourself from his lap and flip yourself around, near bare ass making direct contact with his painfully bowed-out interface plating, and you can feel his engine rev at the move, and he makes a low groan from behind you.

"Primus," He growls as he watches you grind your ass on him. It's taking the strength of a thousand tugboats to keep him from shoving you onto the floor and ploughing into you like the out-of-control cargo ship he is. Whether those tugboats are strong enough is a matter of what your next move is.

And when you stand up to bend over, fingertips brushing the floor, he is greeted with a direct view of your backside, slick arousal and all. And within three seconds, his servos are on your ass, and he pushes you to the ground with the force of a cargo ship slamming into the shoreline. It knocks the wind out of you, forcing you to take sharp breaths.

Optimus flips your body around and settles himself atop you. The bump-and-grind music is drowned out by his harsh invents, and you can feel the roar of his engine in your bones as he lowers his helm to the nape of your flushed neck.

"I apologise for my abruptness, but I can no longer contain myself." He growls against the pulse of your neck, hammering against your skin at a speed you never thought was possible. Optimus losing his restraint and going against the rule book of lap dances was not expected, but a warm and hot welcome nonetheless.

The chair is long forgotten, tipped over when Optimus pounced on you like a big cat. And you don't care about the dance anymore. Your mind solely focuses on how his hands rip your bottoms and fishnets away. Note to self, add new pair of fishnets to the shopping list.

"I'm obliged to ask," He brings a hand to cup your chin, the gentle action contrasting his fiery optics boring holes into your own, "Do I have your consent?"

You bite your lip, an attempt to ignore the feeling of his knee bumping against your heat, which is currently wetter than the Everglades. You'd be crazy not to consent.

"Yes." You finally breathe out. That seems to satisfy Optimus as he begins to assault your neck with kisses, and you hold back a moan. So gentle yet firm as he trails them across your jawline and finishes with a drawn-out kiss to your lips.

He pushes his glossa into your mouth as he dips a servo in-between your thighs, prying them open gently. Optimus only had to press the tip of his digit for you to let out a breathy whimper against his intake, thighs already shaking, and Primus, you're wondering what his dick could possibly feel like inside you if he's already dragging you to heaven with just his hands. And you're eager to find out.

You break the kiss and struggle to keep your composure as he moves his digit gently within you, "Optimus- ah- no offence, but I think I'm - oooh - already wet enough."

He flickers his optics to your face, then back down to the hand working between your thighs. It's already soaked with your arousal, running down the palm of his hand and wrist.

"I see," Optimus says, prying his hand away from your slick. And with the same hand, he disengages his modesty panel with a grunt, letting his spike lay heavy in his hand, "However, I need to take necessary precautions of my own to ensure this encounter goes smoothly."

Now it's your turn to ogle at his junk as he uses the remainder of your fluids on his hand to pump the length a few times, and it's the hottest thing you've seen to date, despite you being a stripper. You've seen some shit, and Optimus' dick tops all of them. And he's about to top you with it.

Finished with lubing himself, he leans his helm down to the side of your head and presses the tip of his length against the folds of your pussy. Optimus uses his other hand to curl behind your head gently.

"Please, if you cannot handle me at any point, tell me."

And with a shaky vent against your ear, he pushes himself inside you. Even if you could scream, the bassy background music would down it out. But you're rendered speechless as your jaw slips once he reaches the innermost part of you. You're shaking and squirming underneath Optimus, and he gently squeezes your head as he cocoons himself around you, whispering sweet nothings and reassurances. You're already on the cusp of an orgasm, and he hasn't even moved.

Once Optimus has also regained somewhat composure, he draws his hips back and rolls them back into you. And your vision dots with stars, supernovas even, which would be a more fitting term as he grinds his hips against your own at an even swiftness. Your voice doesn't hold back this time as you let out a filthy cry against Optimus' audial fin.

"Optimus! Ahah!" You wrap your quivering arms around his helm as he pounds you into the floor. It's unrelenting, overwhelming all your senses. You're stretching beyond human limits. The music no longer exists according to you; the only melody your mushy brain desires to hear is his growls and groans against your ear as he ruts into you.

"I'm - ahh - closer to finishing than I thought," Optimus grunts, then nips the shell of your ear with his dentae, "You're… quite tight."

Despite being mass-displaced, you were about to respond with a sarcastic comment about the obvious size difference between you and him. Yet, all that comes out of your drooling mouth is a high-pitched squeal as Optimus delivers a harsh thrust to your G-Spot. To which he continues to abuse and grind his tip against.

"P-Please…" Another short thrust, and he's purring into the side of your neck, "Overload with - hgghn - me."

That's it. You're at the finish line, and you throw your head back and buck your hips up as your orgasm wreaks havoc over your sweaty frame. You're digging your fingertips into the crevasses of his shoulder plating as you let out a fluttery cry. Optimus, currently experiencing a religious experience from the sheer force of your velvet walls squeezing his spike, lets out a gravelly moan into your neck. His hips wildly buck as he experiences his overload, spilling himself inside you. It's everywhere, dripping down your thighs, transferring onto his thighs and the cold floor beneath you both.

A few glorious moments pass, a mold of flesh and metal entangled on the floor. With all the multicoloured lights cascading off your bodies, you could create an oil painting and make Da Vinci cry with how beautiful this moment is. Optimus slowly pulls out, craning his helm down to watch his transfluids spill from you. Then, like the gentle giant, he scoops his hands under your body and rolls onto his back with you lying on his chassis. You let your head come to rest against where his spark chamber is, hearing tiny little zaps and whirls as his spark slows down its beats. He places a servo on your lower back, and you crane your head just in time to see a mushy smile on his face. And you can't help but let one encompass your own.

"What are you smiling at?"

You give him a soft chuckle, "You. And also because I didn't even get to finish my dance for you."

"I suppose there will have to be a next time then, hm?" Optimus nonchalantly says before he pulls you to his face to kiss you deeply.

Wheeljack

"Thanks for the lift, Jackie." As you pick up your duffle bag from the passenger seat, you mutter and crack the door open, "I owe you one."

"Hey, anything for my favourite squishy," Wheejack replies, albeit slightly hesitant at the current location he was dropping you off, "Say, why'd ya want me to take ya here this time of night? It's kinda… unexpected."

"I uh…" You stammer, closing the door and hoisting the duffle over your shoulder, trying to think of some excuse for asking him to drop you off at a nightclub and not telling him that you were a stripper, "I work here. Yeah, I'm on the late shift."

"Oh, like a bartender? I never knew you were the one to pour out the drinks." He revs his engine, "Just com the base when you're ready, kid. I'll come an' pick ya up."

You nod and give his roof a few pats before you sundered off to the back entrance to the nightclub, hoping and praying that the rich guys were here tonight so you could get paid the big bucks. You're so caught up in your money-hazed vision that you overlook your Cybertronian Uber parking next to the building.

Gonna see what you're really up to, Wheeljack thinks, scouting the area for other humans before returning to his alt mode and settling down under a window.

-

It's times like this when you're grateful for your job. Yeah, the flow of money is hit-and-miss at times, but a night like tonight is what every stripper dreams of. Bands and bands of fresh cash stuffed half-hazard into your duffle. You could treat yourself, go all out and buy a new pair of lingerie. You could wander into the liquor store across the road and purchase a nice top-shelf bottle of vodka. But alas, most of this dough will be funding your university fees. A sad reality, but you'll do whatever it takes to graduate.

Stuffing the rest of the money into the duffle, you hear a familiar rev of a sports car and make your way to the front entrance. Most patrons had left, leaving you relatively safe to walk out alone. Not that you had to worry in the first place, not when you've always got Wheeljack looking out for you. You've grown on him, and he's grown on you. There's no denying that you've got some feelings for the wrecker, but you'll keep that to yourself for now. He opens the door for you, and you slide in. A soft sigh of relief escapes you, and you slump into the eerily warm seat. After you're safely bucked in, he pulls away from the kerb. The silence that drowns the cabin is… awkward.

"Hey," Wheeljack begins after a while, a slight edge to his voice. He then clears his vocaliser, "How was your, uh… shift."

"It was pretty alright," You fold your arms across your tank top, "Just the usual."

"The usual, eh?" You can hear a little cockiness show through like he's trying so hard not to smile, "Does your line of work usually result in a dollar bill getting stuck in your… What's that thing you females wear again? Uh, bra?"

You freeze, eyes burning holes into his dash before you glance down at your chest. It appears you missed one; the corner of a dollar bill is peeking out from the bra you wore on stage. There's no way Wheeljack would've noticed if he wasn't staring at your tits, which there's no denying because his rearview mirror is pointed downwards, reflecting your cleavage.

"I know you humans get up t'some strange things, but ya could've at least told me you were a stripteaser."

You bury your head in your hands, a pathetic attempt to squeeze yourself into a ball and hide your rosy face, but you can't because he's everywhere. There's no escaping, so you let out a muffled whine.

"Ok, you got me," You huff, any shred of dignity thrown out the window, "But if you tell anyone, and I mean anyone, that I'm a stripper, I'm coming for your aft."

"Oh, I don't intend to, sweetheart," He growls, and you can feel it in your bones, "Not if I can have ya all to myself."

"Wait wha-" There's no finishing your sentence as Wheeljack veers into an abandoned gas station, almost taking the wind out of you. He rolls to a stop and opens his door to let you out, or for a better term, stumble out, "What the hell?"

You watch Wheeljack transform into his bot mode, mass displacing himself so that he towers just a head above you, and you can see every little detail, every wrinkle and scratch. Oh my god, you need to stop staring.

"I quite liked your little routine, kid," He begins, poking a digit at one of the straps of your tank top, "But I'd like ta experience it first hand if ya catch my drift, right here, right now."

Your jaw drops, "You want me to… give you a dance?"

"I didn't stutter, did I?" And before you knew it, Wheeljack sits propped up against the gas station wall, a digit beckoning you over, "C'mere an' give me a show."

Well, there's no time like the present, you think to yourself. You cross your arms over your stomach and swiftly pull off your tank top before moving to your tracksuit pants, throwing both articles of clothing behind you. Your outfit was not modest in any regard, and you can feel Wheeljack's optics clawing at your exposed skin already. As you shakily rummaged through your duffle for your pleaser heels, Wheeljack switched on his radio, and you could hear the first beats of 'You Shook Me All Night Long' by AC/DC. You roll your eyes as you slip on your heels.

"What? Ya don't like this song?" Wheeljack chuckles, "I think it fits perfectly."

"It's the meaning behind it," You stand, the satisfying click-clack of your heels echoes off the walls, "I'd say you're looking for more than just a lap dance if I'm right in my suspicions."

"Cheeky, I like it," Wheeljack says with a shit-eating grin, "Go on then, show me what ya got."

And so, you do. You stand a few metres before the wrecker and swivel your hips to the drum beat, flicking your hair in the same motion as your hips, running your fingers through your hair as you do. As the first lyrics start, you take a few drawn-out steps closer to Wheeljack, running your hands over your breasts and down your bare stomach finishing off with a twirl. He's facing your back now as he watches you squat to the ground, hands dragging down your thighs, swivelling your hips as you do. While crouched down, you turn on the balls of your feet and give him a wink before arching your back and returning to a standing position. You high-kick and finish with another twirl, standing directly between his spread pedes. You repeat the crouch move, but you're facing him this time. In time with the main chorus, you slide to your knees to straddle the ground, bouncing your hips a few times, dragging your hands through your hair, and flipping it in a circle. You then slide your hands down your thighs and to the ground before you, slowly crawling closer to his thighs. Wheeljacks' optics had not left your frame during all this time, a small smile tugging on his dermas.

"That was impressive, kid," He nods before reaching for your hands and tugging them closer to his interfacing panel, "But I'm not blown away jus' yet. Do ya think you can help me with this?"

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you nod, hands ghosting across the bulging panel. Wheeljack seems rather impatient, so he slips away the cover for you, and the sight that meets your eyes makes you drool.

You knew Wheeljack was riled up from your performance, but this was the icing on the robot dick cake. He's thick, blue biolights run down the underside of the silver member and already dripping with precum. Half-naked, you're both out in the open at an abandoned gas station, and your dignity has already been thrown out the window. You were willing to indulge in him just for a short while.

Running your palm up the underside of his spike, you feel Wheeljack shiver. The textures and patterns are so foreign, like nothing you've experienced. Tentatively, you wrap your hands around the base of his spike and give him a few experimental pumps, drawing a few low moans from the mech above you. Feeling more confident, you squeeze him tighter and pump him faster.

"Scrap," He mutters, placing a hand on your shoulder, "You're good at that."

Smiling, you lean down and cautiously lick the tip of his spike, drawing even more delicious moans from the wrecker. And when you wrap your lips around it, he has to restrain himself from pushing you down further onto him. Living up to your 'cheekiness', you flicker your eyes to his face and stare at him right in his optics as you give him a harsh suck.

"Ah - frag - Y/n, stop!" Wheeljack half whines and laughs as he pulls you off him upon feeling a premature overload, "Sheesh, ya nearly got me there."

Placing a departing kiss on his tip, you crawl onto his lap, six-inch pleaser heels digging into his metal thighs. The music is louder from here, and you can feel it vibrating your bones, "I guess you're not satisfied just yet."

His vents hitch as you move your underwear to the side and press your very wet pussy lips against the tip of his spike, "Maybe not, sweetheart. Ya gonna change that?"

You slowly sink onto his spike, maintaining eye contact. You watch his face turn from a smug look into one you could frame on a wall. His face scrunches in pure pleasure as you stuff as much of him as physically possible in you. He may be mass-displaced, but his sheer thickness makes it a tight squeeze. You feel your own breath hitch as you take him to the hilt. He fills you up amazingly.

"Yes."

You roll your hips forward once, and you're already seeing white. The combination of Wheeljacks' spike dragging against your velvet walls and the vibrations from the electric guitar still playing on the radio strums your nervous system like an instrument. You're craving more, and he is, too, because his hands are on your hips now, and he's guiding you. He's the maestro, and you're the entire orchestra.

"F-Fuck." You whimper out, bracing yourself against his chassis as you start to bounce on his spike. Your thighs are starting to ache from the lactic acid built up from all the dancing you've done tonight, and thankfully, Wheeljack notices your struggle.

"Don't worry, cutie. I'll take it from here." He huskily breathes out before his grip on your hips tightens, and he bucks up into you. As he does, you fall forward flat on his chassis, cheek squishing against him as he proceeds to fuck you like his spark depends on it.

"Oh fuck!" You cry out, bringing a hand to cover your mouth in a pathetic attempt to muffle your moans. But nothing can silence the lewd sound of metal slapping against skin, not even the rock music, which has now clicked over to 'Pour Some Sugar On Me', and you'll never think of this song again without getting absolutely turned on.

"Take your - hggff - hand off. I wanna hear ya," Wheeljack growls as he grips the hand covering your mouth and forcefully removes it, "Y'know, maybe I can taste ya instead."

Within what seems like a nano-second, he wraps his arms around your midsection and smashes his dermas into yours. He presses his glossa against your tongue in a fight for dominance, and you're forced to surrender as he slams his spike so deep in your pussy you see galaxies, crying out into his intake.

"Oh, frag-"He murmurs into your mouth, keeping a death grip on your midsection, "Keep squeezing me like that kid, and I'm gonna-"

He's gone. Thrown into the deep end of his overload, he presses himself as deeply as physically possible and releases his transfluids inside you. You choke on his glossa at the delicious sensation of being stuffed full, and it triggers your own orgasm. You break the kiss and bury your head in the crook of his neck as your body shakes, crying out in utter euphoria as he bucks his hips to help ride out the shared orgasm. You can hear Wheeljacks' spark spasming in rhythm with his throbbing spike gushing in your tight walls.

"Frag…" He shakily ex-vents, holding you against his chassis, "You've certainly impressed me now, kid."

You're too exhausted to give him a cohesive reply, opting for a string of whines. You're also too focused on the sheer amount of fluids you can feel dripping between your thighs. He gives you a chuckle and presses a loving kiss to your temple, utterly amused at your dopey post-orgasmic bliss.

"You're so fraggin' adorable."

Knockout

There was nothing more refreshing to Knockout than clocking up speeds that could blow up a regular v8 engine along the winding rural roads of Jasper. It's freeing. It's elating. All heightened by the fact that he knows he shouldn't be out here in the first place. But there's nothing a little manipulation and the tugging of a few strings can't do to convince Megatron that he had good reason to be zipping around.

In the distance, he notices a peculiar establishment with bright neon lights surrounding the exterior. Strange, he's never seen such a place before. Knockout slows down, rolls into the parking lot, and is greeted with the muted sounds of music coming from inside. All the humans seem to be in there, so he transforms into his bot mode and crouches down to a window to take a peek. He notices some usual human behaviour, some drunk people, some cheering and throwing bits of paper at what seems to be a stage with a metal pole in the centre.

But it's not just the metal pole they're throwing currency at. No, they're tossing it towards a very under-dressed human hugging the pole, swinging around like an erotic firefighter he's seen in a movie once. Although, he's never seen a firefighter do that with their near bare ass. Conflicting feelings start to arise in Knockout, knowing that he shouldn't be out here and definitely should not be this fascinated by a human. But a part of him needs to meddle with this… alluring human.

-

"Wait, you want me to do what?"

It had been a regular night for you. You went to work, danced in front of an eager crowd, collected your cash and went home, is what you would say if a two-story alien robot hadn't grabbed you with a pair of extra sharp talons and transported you to god knows where. All you know so far is that through your screeching and thrashing around, you noticed that you were on a ship of some kind in a small room that was freezing cold. You had zero time to change out of your stripper wear and into something warmer before you were zipped away. And this red metal bastard sitting in front of you dares to ask you to perform for him, even though you find him mildly attractive in an unorthodox way.

"I know you heard me, squishy," The giant says with a toothy sneer, "Usually, I find your species rather obnoxious. Pityfull even, especially those other humans fawning over you like a scraplet in heat."

You have no idea what a scrapet is, but you ignore the strange synonym and probe him further, "If you hate us so much, why kidnap one? Wouldn't you prefer not to have a human here in your… quarters, I'm assuming?"

"That doesn't concern you." You swear you could see his face tint a slight blue, "Besides, wouldn't you prefer a little more excitement in your minuscule lifespan?"

Ok, he's got you there. Not every day you get to be kidnapped by an alien robot, let alone a hot one that wants you to give him a lap dance. You weigh your options, give him a dance, or he may step on you. Preferring not to be butchered today, you sigh in defeat.

"Alright, I'll give you what you want," You cross your arms and tap your heel on the floor, "But after, are you gonna let me go or…"

He holds his talons to his face as if checking his non-existent manicure before giving you the most sultry stare with his glowing red eyes, "That, my dear fleshy, entirely depends on whether you deliver or not."

You choose to ignore the heat that instantly pooled into your lower stomach and whip out your phone. No cell signal… even if you wanted to call for help, there's no way to do so. Glancing up at the mech still seated before you, you shakily scroll through your playlist and press play. 'I'm A Slave 4 U' pretty much sums up your current circumstance. How ironic.

You do what you know best, scrapping together any little confidence from the bottom of the barrel and just going for it because your life is potentially on the line. Your sway your hips, exaggerating your movements as much as possible. Hands exploring your own body and running them through your hair. You feel sexy as fuck, and you most likely look like it, too, because the look this robot is giving you is enough to sear holes into the surface of the sun. His eyes drag over every exposed inch of your body, and his lips are pressed in a line with a slight tug at one of the corners.

You finish with a dramatic split to the floor, then slide to your hands and knees and crawl towards the red mech. For some reason, he appears smaller than when you had started, but you decide not to dwell on it and regard it as a strange quirk of an alien.

"My, that was very entertaining," He grins, bringing a pointy digit to drag under your chin, the sensation making your eyes water, "But I seem to have a little… problem if you are willing to indulge me."

You quirk your head, "Uh… what kind of problem?"

With a smirk, he brings his other hand to the plating between his spread legs and fiddles underneath them. With a clang, the plating falls away. It reveals a very erect phallic object resembling a dick if it were created from metal.

Oh, that kind of problem.

He leans back against the wall and rests his forearm on a bent knee, looking like a poser straight out of a porn mag. You swallow heavily as it's your turn to rake your eyes over his frame, wide eyes landing on the throbbing silver mass resting on his hip. This is wrong on so many levels, but you don't seem to resist as you extend your hand to brush your fingertips on the underside of his cock. His breath hitches as you do so.

"Eager already. I knew you wouldn't be able to resist. You humans are all the same," He pinches your cheeks with the hand still touching your face, "Go on, I don't have all night."

Bastard. It seems to you that he's the eager one because he draws your face closer to his cock that it now pokes into your cheek. It's oddly warm with a slight metallic smell, and now all you're thinking about is how it tastes. This is wrong. You grip his cock in your hand and slip the tip into your mouth, circling the tip a few times to collect the tiny drops of precum on your tongue. So very wrong.

He shivers, his grip moving from your cheeks to the top of your head. His fingers are sharp against your scalp, but you don't care. You're going to give this alien what he wanted and more. You want to blow his circuits for kidnapping you. With this in mind, you push his dick past your throat and take him to the hilt, causing him to buck into your mouth. Your eyes are watering again, threatening to spill out onto your cheeks.

"Scrap!" He whines before gripping your hair and ripping you off his dick. Harsh ex-vents blow onto your body, "You almost caused an overload!"

You're assuming that's the robot equivalent of an orgasm. You smirk, "That was the plan."

He huffs, "Well if that's how you want to play, I'll have to make you overload first."

He pounces, and you fall on your back with an oof, sharp talons clawing at your pants, ripping them clean off. He moves one hand and pins your arms above your head, and the other drags across your thighs to your embarrassingly wet folds. You pray to god he doesn't poke you.

"Pfft, by the amount of fluids accumulating down there, it seems like you are enjoying this." He scoffs, rolling his thumb around your clit, sending jolts of electric shocks up your spine, "I'm right, aren't I?"

Your head lulls to the side, allowing the mech to give you direct access to your neck. He hums, leaning down to give you pecks and love bites. How strangely gentle of him, "Just - guh - hurry up."

You can feel him smile against your collarbone, "Alright, if you say so~"

He removes his thumb and replaces it with something much more significant in size. It's pressing right against your entrance, and oh my god, it's pushing inside you. You throw your head back and clench your hands in his grip as he pushes the rest of his length inside you. It's throbbing against your walls as he seems to display some restraint to not fuck you into the floor at the first instance.

"My, you feel… very tight, dearie." His hips are flush against your own now, and all you can do is squirm as you feel him pressing against your cervix, which you're sure is about to be ruined.

He draws his hips back and re-enters you, and your vision goes white. It's slow pace at first, an agonisingly slow pace. Most likely to prevent his own orgasm and to draw you as close to the edge as possible. The bumps and ridges along his cock drag across your walls mind-numbingly, and you're not sure how long you will last.

The pace picks up until he slams you into the floor with every rut of his hips, abusing your G-Spot un relentlessly. The hand that wasn't trapping your arms is now gripping the plush flesh of your hip, aiding him in his thrusts. His little mewls and praises were unexpected but delightful against your ear, and they only drew you closer to finishing.

"I - haAHH - never got your - hggnh - name." You stutter out as he send a particularly harsh thrust, arching your back into his chassis.

"Knockout, dearie." He grunts, claws digging into your hips deep enough to draw blood, "And I - hffgh - expect you to scream it."

That was it. Knockout only had to slam into your aching pussy a few more times before your orgasm knocks you off the cliff. You cry out his name, as ordered, as your walls strangle his cock. He yelps against your neck as he unleashes a disturbing amount of cum inside you, rutting into you in jagged thrusts as he rides out his own. You can feel it dripping down your inner thighs as your soft body fails to accommodate even a fraction of the amount. Legs quivering, he slowly draws his cock out, admiring your hole as the rest gushes out.

"Well, wasn't that exciting?" Knockout gives you a toothy smirk, lazily grinding his cock across your folds, "I think I'll keep you around, sweetheart."

No average person would be happy with that. Still, after tonight, you're very welcome to the idea of being a personal strip teaser for a devilishly hot alien robot.

[derpiedoxie]

Do you have a fnaf oc?

Yeah, I do actually! I made her a while back, but I kinda forgot about her lol

Thank you for making me remember that she exists and making me fall in love with her concept again!

Here’s a drawing of her! Guess you could call it her ref. Finished it earlier to give her a bit of a redesign!

(She still has her second arm, it’s just obscured here)

Her name’s Bella the Bee, and she’s built similarly to the main four, but is more of a side character and isn’t in the band. She’s a dancer and does lessons, and also has her own roller rink that she frequently visits

She was more of a last minute addition to the animatronic cast, hence why her face is, like Sun and Moon’s, more similar to a plate, and is exposed in the back, which is covered by her hair, and why her jaw is so sloppily attached. It unhinges every so often since it’s quality is so poor, which not only causes frequent visits to Parts and Service, but also some scares for the children. Because of this, she prefers not to move it while talking

She’s really good friends with DJMM and likes to hang out with him, and you can genuinely see her a lot in the arcade and the dance floor. She also gets along really well with Chica and Freddy, is a tad iffy about Roxy and doesn’t like Monty that much, but also gets along with Sun

During the events of SB, she’d also be on the hunt for Gregory, being a bit faster than the others if she uses her skates built into her feet. She’d try to lure Gregory in with offers to teach him how to dance and go to the roller rink together, and calling him “Honey”

Sometime within the events of the game she gets damaged by Gregory, which includes all her fluff being burned off and revealing her endo (no plastic underneath cause cheap), her lower jaw falling off and her wings being destroyed, apart from the metal skeleton. Her arms are also broken, so she can’t use them anymore. However, she starts using her broken wings instead of her hands, which drastically increases the capture radius. Her speed would decrease to make up for this

Personality wise, she is extremely extroverted and high energy, likes to motivate people and make sure they have fun and has absolutely no control over her own volume. She always gestures wildly while talking, and could very well accidentally slap someone who’s standing to close

So yeah, that’s my (pretty old at this point) FNaF oc!

[system-threat-detected]

Happy birthday @foibles-fables !!! Hope you enjoy these things Salty and I made for you :) 

The below story was written by the wonderful @saltyseafuck as an accompanying piece to the art! 

Aloy is comfortable enough in her own skin to make clambering out of her usual attire and into something else an easy affair. To her, it’s as easy as switching one style of arrow for another, or loading a different cartridge into her sling; the right tools, applied where they should be.

So while the noblewoman’s silks provided to her for the evening are not her standard choice of attire, and are… perhaps a bit more limiting than she might have liked, with their long, silken skirts and delicate, filigree jewelry, she adapts, fastening sashes and buckles, and squinting into the polished machine plating tacked to the wall as she applies the ceremonial markings to her forehead and eyes.

Stepping back and peering at her reflection, she nods to herself, picking up the matching headpiece, and holding it briefly to her brow, before finally discarding it on the bed.

She'll be more recognizable without it, anyway.

Easing the door to her quarters shut behind her as she steps onto the landing, she turns, raising a hand to knock on the door directly opposite hers.

“Done. Should we-”

Before her fist can make contact, the door jerks inward, slamming against the inner wall hard enough to make her jump. On the other side, tangled in the trailing silks of her dress, headpiece askew, Talanah glowers in her direction, resembling nothing so much as her title's namesake, complete with ruffled feathers and irate glare.

Pressing her already-raised knuckles to her lips, Aloy does her best to stifle her laughter.

“I’ve never seen you look this uncomfortable before, Talanah.”

Letting out a growl of annoyance, Talanah raises her arms in awkward protest, spreading them apart and letting the snarls of silk dangle.

“Not. A. Word.”

This time, Aloy fails to smother her laugh, nose wrinkling.

“You look like a Glinthawk. Here.”

Stepping forward and taking the scarf in both hands, she unwinds it from its snarl, threading its ends carefully through the loops of silk sewn into the dress's shoulders, and draping them artfully across her Hawk's upper arms. 

As she reaches for the sash, smoothing the folded silk and cinching the ends around it, Talanah stiffens, pulling in a sharp breath. Pausing with the ends of the sash clutched in each hand, Aloy frowns.

“Too tight?”

Vehemently shaking her head, knocking her headdress even further askew, Talanah clears her throat, ducking her chin (and doing her best to try and hide the flush creeping across her cheeks and neck.)

“No! No, it’s ...fine. R... Remind me again why we're doing this?"

Tying off the sash and reaching up to adjust the headdress, Aloy raises a brow.

"Because, Marad asked us to. He thinks that having us there and visible will deter the elements he's tracking from acting tonight. We just have to be there, and be present... but that means we have to look the part."

Taking a step back to admire her handiwork, Aloy nods to herself, satisfied, before turning toward the stairs, and offering her arm to the Sunhawk, elbow crooked.

"All we have to do is survive a night at a high society party. Easy, compared to our usual exploits, right?"

With a shake of her head that sets the ornaments attached to the edges of her headdress dangling, Talanah takes the proffered arm, giving Aloy's bracer a sympathetic little pat.

"Ah, poor Thrush. You have no idea how wrong you are."

-----

Talanah has always done her utmost to avoid gatherings of Meridian's nobility. They've been an exercise in frustration for as long as she can remember; boring, stifling, and full of two-faced language, insults dealt from behind painted smiles, and barbed comments, tossed her way behind her back.

Tonight's gathering is no different; despite the quality of the musical entertainment and the refreshments, the people themselves have changed very little, and more than once, despite her attempts to keep to herself, she catches several muttered comments and judgements about her new position that she has to silence with a withering glare.

They're the same old infuriating bunch of bungheads, all right.

But perhaps the most frustrating part of the evening is watching the subtle snubs and digs that are being thrown Aloy's way. 

Some of them pass over her head, whether through a lack of understanding or a lack of concern. But a few... a few land, and despite her attempts to shrug them off, or to play dumb... well...

Talanah has spent enough time around Aloy to know, by now, that the slight tightness in her shoulders and at the corner of her mouth, that the darts are finding their mark, worming their way into the cracks in her armor. 

It's enough to make Talanah's blood boil, and her teeth grind together, rattling the arms of her headdress and setting the little ornaments dangling from their ends jittering. 

She saves our asses from the Eclipse, rescues the Sun-King, and takes down Redmaw, and it still isn't enough for these chuffs. I have got to get her away from them. As soon as I can.

So as the musicians strike up an old, familiar tune, and her Thrush's conversational partners begin to drift away, seeking out new conversation or dancing companions, she seizes her chance to strike. 

Downing the rest of her drink, she slams the flagon onto the nearest table with enough force to make the metal ring, stalking across the room to the edge of the dance floor, and extending her hand in Aloy's direction, elbow crooked, fingertips pointed toward the ceiling.

“May I have the honor, Aloy Despite the Nora?”

A light flush creeps onto Aloy's sun-weathered cheeks and, hesitantly, she reaches out to press her wrist against Talanah's.

“Umm… yeah. Yeah, of course.”

Even through two layers' worth of stiffened silk, she can hear Aloy's pulse quicken at the contact.

It quickly becomes apparent to Talanah that, despite her many talents, Aloy is not an experienced dancer. The tension in her movements, the rigidity of her stance, speak more of combat than of dance training. 

And, judging by her persistent blush and the stricken look on her face, somewhere between panic and determination, Aloy knows it, too. Nodding as they circle in time to the rhythm, Talanah gives her an encouraging smile.

“Good. But loosen up a little. Now switch…”

Pivoting on her heel and glancing down at the placement of her steps, Aloy makes the transition more smoothly this time, pressing her lips together and frowning lightly in concentration. Again, Talanah favors her with a little nod.

“That’s right. You're doing great. Just keep your eyes on me.”

As they circle again, picking up the pace as the music begins to quicken, she leans in, conspiratorially, the ornaments on the edge of her headdress jingling lightly.

“Don’t listen to those bastards. They’ve always been like this. And they’re wrong, by the way; you’re fine.”

 Once again, Aloy flushes, cheeks coloring as red as her hair.

“I… don't need their opinion-”

Talanah cuts her off with a sharp tap, rapping her knuckles twice against the silk of her sleeve to catch her attention.

“Hey. Listen. You’re fine. All right?”

Hopefully, hopefully, Aloy will pick up on her meaning.

Judging by the way the tension that’s been building in her Thrush’s shoulders all night drains, like the air hissing out of a punctured Longleg sac, she does, and Talanah is gratified to see the corners of her mouth ease into a smile, instead of a twitchy grimace.

“Yeah. ...thank you.”

This time, when they turn, pivoting around each other again and pressing their hands together, her fingertips twine briefly with Talanah’s, and she feels her own face heat at the touch. 

Clearing her throat, as much to distract herself from the sensation of those calloused fingertips ghosting lightly over her knuckles as to change the subject, she leans in again, putting on a challenging little smirk.

“So, what do you think? Have you got a tie-down on it? Should we show them how it’s done?”

And this time, Aloy answers with an eager grin.

“Yeah. Yeah, I... think I’d like that.”

[be-a-snake-stab-your-brother]

Re: the Hawkeye trailer and the Steve Rogers musical...

I'm just imagining our favorite 100-something year old crumudgeon ex-assassin getting stuck in Midtown for some reason. Maybe he's on a Wilson family outing in New York. The boys want to see Times Square, but Sam has to head uptown for a press conference at the Apollo and Sarah's across the river catching up with friends in Jersey.

Ugh. Jersey.

And so Bucky's stuck on babysitting duty, stuck in the horror that is 21st century Times Square, a place he would never go of his own volition. Behave, Sam had told him before heading uptown. Grab a picture with Elmo, he had smiled, clapping Bucky hard on the shoulder before disappearing into Times Square Station.

Damnit.

Bucky supposed it could be worse. He could have had to go to Jersey.

And he's behaving. Really. The Winter Soldier would already have punched out at least two Elmos and knived a suspiciously aggressive Big Bird. Okay, so maybe he elbowed the yellow monstrosity with his vibranium arm when the bird-man (why was his life full of people overly-obsessed with birds?) tried to corner Bucky and the boys into taking a photo. And maybe AJ and Cass had asked, Uncle Bucky, what's wrong with Big Bird, as the gargantuan lout doubled over, trailing greasy feathers into an overcrowded Starbucks.

That guy? Bucky had pasted on his most charming smile, dropping his consonants in a pale imitation of a long-forgotten accent. Probably ate something from one of those sketchy hot dog carts, he pointed across the street. (Bucky would have doubled over, too. Six bucks for a Nathan's, un-frickin-believable. Hydra should have subjected him to that to begin with and saved them all the time and trouble.)

He steers the kids up 7th avenue, past a throng of humanity crowded around a pan flute ensemble battling with some break-dancers, hanging a left onto 44th, doing everything in his power to traingulate a wide course around the Applebee's that so proudly announced itself on 42nd Street.

Applebee's, he scoffs. Christ. These tourists come all the way to New York to eat at freaking Applebee's.

And that's when he sees it looming on the horizon. The bright, bumblebee banner accompanied by a tinny rendition of some third-rate Sousa march, the whole thing engulfed by a small army of tourists taking selfies as if their lives depend on it.

Rogers: The Musical! The facade proclaims in impossibly patriotic lettering.

"What the fresh hell is this?" Bucky mumbles, eyes rolling so hard he thinks they might come out the back of his head. (Not possible, an unhelpful voice reminds him. Hydra tried that. Multiple times.)

"Woah, Uncle Bucky!" AJ exclaims, tugging at Bucky's sleeve, pulling him towards the florescent, gaping maw. "I thought Steve Rogers was on the moon?"

I wish I was on the moon, Bucky grits internally as AJ and Cass whip out their phones almost as fast as the Winter Soldier could pull a knife, snapping photos of the cast, of characters that look suspiciously like Sam and Rhodey and that bastard Stark, rest his soul and all the rest of them. He does a quick once-over of the mural. No sign of a metal arm and the only person with long, dark hair seems to be wearing some freaky set of golden horns.

Bucky counts it as a win.

He stares at the eyesore of an advertisement as the boys continue to take videos and photos and livestream superhero poses and whatever else kids their age do on the internet. (He still isn't entirely sure what the hell a TikTok is and doesn't want to know). Bucky situates himself behind a seven-foot high replica of the damned shield that's been erected in front of the theater. It's enough cover to not be caught on camera, but good enough vantage to keep an eye on AJ and Cass.

He needs a plan. And not a Star-Spangled one.

On one hand, (Heh...hand. You're becoming a regular comedian in your old age, Barnes.) burning down the theater is probably on the exhaustive list of actions that would get his pardon immediately revoked. But that's only if he was caught. Which he wouldn't be. He was better than that, he was the damned Winter Soldier, after all.

Bucky rubs at his forehead, cursing under his breath in Russian. No, scrap that. Arson was never his preferred method and he doesn't want to put a whole bunch of underpaid, overworked actors out of a job. He's an (ex)criminal and an (ex)terrorist but he's not an absolute asshole.

So. Nothing illegal (it's not illegal of you don't get caught) and no one can get hurt (but everyone's gonna get hurt watching this thing. Me in particular).

"Uncle Bucky!" Cass calls. "Want to take a selfie?"

He'd rather buy one of those six-dollar hot dogs and swap tongues with Elmo. "That's okay, kid. Knock yourselves out." The last thing Bucky needs is his ugly mug in front of Steve's shitty musical blasted across the internet.

God damnit, Stevie.

A quick search on his phone provides some measure of relief. Rogers: The Musical isn't set to open for another few months and tickets are already sold out for the next year. Bucky's certain Sam could get them in (hell, Sam will probably get a gold-plated invitation to opening night), but it allows Bucky time to make a plan, maybe even arrange a convenient disappearance into the wilderness for a while. He can say he's getting back to nature as part of his recovery. Or something like that. The Alaskan tundra can be very nice in winter, he supposes.

Several months later, Captain America - aka Sam Wilson - attends opening night of Rogers: The Musical with his family in tow. Sarah is resplendent in a long, shimmering violet dress, smile wide, eyes twinkling as she talks to reporters about her nonprofit ventures in Louisiana. AJ and Cass, all dolled up in their miniature tuxedos, can't stop tugging on each other's sleeves as they walk down the red carpet to the flashes of paparazzi, striking Captain America poses to the delight of the gathered crowd.

And if Bucky is somewhere up in a forgotten projection booth, having easily evaded multiple layers of federal and private security, tapping his foot along with "Star-Spangled Man with a Plan?"

No one would ever have to know.

[sabraeal]

Sic Semper Monstrum, Chapter 6

[Read on AO3]

Obiyukiweek 2021, Day 2: Death Upright: Change, Ending, Release Reversed: Refusal to Change, Unfulfillment, Stagnation

A seam strains along a well-worn shoulder, so stretched he can actually hear it creak over the din of the canteen. That clinches is: that asshole’s got to be picking out too-small fatigues from the GI bin.

There’s no other way for him to look like that, biceps testing the tensile strength of cotton every time he takes a sip of his coffee. Sure, this guy’s jacked the way all the active rangers are, ready to heave 750 tons of metal onto their backs at a moment’s notice, but he’s not Mitsuhide. It makes sense when he pops buttons off his coverall, or stretches out one of their dingy cotton tees. But that’s not this asshole.

He’s lean, the kind that telegraphs that taking an elbow from him might be career limiting. There’s no reason the general issue tee should cling to his back like it’s painted on, his coverall hanging off his hips like he’s got an occupation other than freeloading. Shirayuki leans over, fingertips brushing over his sleeve with a laugh--

“Just punch him already,” Kiki drawls, “get it out of your system.”

Zen blinks, suddenly aware there’s still some Taco Tuesday left in his mouth. “What?”

“Kiki.” Dark bruises circle the skin beneath Mitsuhide’s eyes, underscoring the weary strain in his voices. “We shouldn’t be encouraging that sort of behavior.”

“Why not?” Her elbows dig into formica as she leans over her plate, shoveling rice into her mouth. At her father’s table, Kiki knows the use of every spoon, the name of every fork, but this deep in the dome, Ranger Seiran’s never met a meal she can’t inhale in five minutes flat. “I did it.”

Air hisses right through his perfect teeth, the only sign he’s annoyed besides the tense bar of his shoulders. “And you’re lucky you didn’t get caught.”

Kiki hums around the lip of her mug. “You mean like you did with Lugis?”

Mitsuhide doesn’t have skin like his, the sort that flares up like flash paper at the barest hint of sun or taunting. But still his neck flushes red as a burn, so bright Zen’s half tempted to slap it, just so he knows what it’s like.

“T-that was an accident,” he insists, even as his mouth settles into a satisfied smile. “Even the inquiry said so.”

It’s a struggle to keep his own from curling at the edges. “Only because Lugis didn’t want to press charges.”

“Only because he didn’t want it getting out that a girl ran circles around him on the mat,” Kiki corrects, each word a scalpel’s slice, excising those particulars from that shitshow with surgical precision. They can talk about this; Lugis’s challenge and the way Kiki swept him; that he was hardly on his feet when Mitsuhide somehow mislaid his fist and found it in his face, but everything else, the whys of it--

Those are all off the record. Forever. Or at least they would be, if Lugis wasn’t crawling through the dome like a stoat that’s caught whiff of an egg.

But that’s not what this is about. “And you want me to do that with that asshole?” Zen mutters. “Since it made Mitsuhide such good friends with Lugis, after all.”

“Obi isn’t Hisame,” Kiki informs him with the kind of steel in her tone that suggests she won’t be taking critique on that particular assessment. “All your issues with him are external.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he snaps, teeth gritting down.

It’s a mistake, a rookie one at that: never ask a Seiran a question you don’t want the answer to. “He’s got Shirayuki’s attention and you don’t.”

Mitsuhide clears his throat, shoulders set like Zen better plan to shelter in place. This particular storm isn’t about to hit its usual conversational breakwall. “Attention you’d have, if you hadn’t skipped out on your session.”

Zen grips the table to take that hit. But it’s not nearly the last; the stare Kiki turns to him is wide-eyed, half-betrayed. “You didn’t say anything about that.”

“It’s none of your business.” Even as the words fly from him, he knows it’s not fair, that he’s spitting nails into the wind so that they’ll hurt someone else instead of him. It doesn’t stop him, it never does, but a guilty knot settles in his gut. “The sessions are voluntary. They always have been. I don’t need--”

“Someone to keep your head on straight?” Every syllable snaps like ice, her eyes twice as cold. “That was the whole point, wasn’t it? So if something happens to us, you’d have--”

He can’t listen to this, not another word. “That was never the plan! I would never plan for you guys...”

Not coming back. For Redwood Dancer to be left a ruin on the sea floor, their bodies strapped in, hermetically sealed until the ocean wore the jaeger down to parts.

“Nothing is happening to you guys,” he grits out. “Shirayuki was always an addition, not a-- a replacement, because you’ll never--”

“No one can promise that.” Mitsuhide’s never one to throw a first punch, but oh, does he know how to end a fight. All the breath’s knocked clean out of him, and there’s Dancer’s right hand, shoveling down another bite of rice like it’s nothing. “Every time we go out there it’s a flip of a coin. It doesn’t matter how good we are, one day there’s going to be a kaiju that kicks us clean off our feet.”

He shakes his head, wishing the words would fall right out of them. “No. That’s not--”

“Zen.” He’s never heard a siren’s call, but it can’t be as inexorable as Mitsuhide saying his name in that tone, both firm and pitying and mournful all at once. “You know better than anyone. Rangers don’t grow old.”

There’s no thought when he levers himself up from the table, just up with away chasing its heels. He just can’t be here listening to this, not now, not after they just barely crawled home from another kaiju clawing its way across Korea’s shoreline. Not when he knows he should be fighting shoulder-to-shoulder with them-- that he would be if they stopped trying to saddle him with every rookie that rolled out of the simulator and finally put him with the only person that could fill that brace beside him.

“Zen!”

It’s easy to ignore Mitsuhide’s shout over the dinner rush; it’s just part of the noise, a buzz at the edge of his senses. Something to goad him, to push him out of there before either of them think to follow after. Their pity’s the last thing he needs, the last thing he wants. After all, it’s not him that won’t climb in the Conn-Pod, but his--

“Boss!”

Zen blinks, the empty corridor resolving around him. He’d let his feet carry him, their only imperative away-- and now he’s all turned around, every bulkhead the same. He’s heard about this happening to rangers when they lived in the dome too long; chasing the Minotaur, a ranger called it, three drinks down at the local hangar. And no fine little princess to give you string to find your way out.

Except he did have one of those. A person to help him through the labyrinth, even if she couldn’t show him the way. He’d been avoiding her.

That seems stupid now. It’s not like she’s on that asshole’s--

“Hey! Hey, boss.”

Speak of the devil. Zen turns, and there he is, too-tight t-shirt and all: his own personal problem. “What do you want?”

“Nothing.” He holds out his hands, as if that’s proof enough to clear him of ulterior motives. “I just...saw you head out and it looked like...”

Zen’s shoulders square, body braced like they’re back on the mat. “Looked like what?”

Obi’s breath rushes out of him. “It looked like you shouldn’t be alone.”

It’s not until he lifts his hand that he realizes it’s trembling, barely able to push his bangs back where he needs them. “Yeah? And you thought-- what? I’d want to see you?” Even to his own ears, his laugh is bitter, wrong, like it came from someone else’s mouth. “You, the guy who won’t get out of my way?”

Something ripples across this asshole’s face, too fast for him to catch more than its wake. “You think I’m the stick stuck in the mud here?” When those strange cat’s eyes stare at him, it’s out of placid waters, but that grin on his face-- it doesn’t reach them. “Rock, meet hard place.”

Zen’s hands clench, so hard his knuckles creak. “You think this is a joke? You’re trying to shove your ass in a seat that isn’t for you, and you--”

“You think I want to be out there?” He lets out a bark somewhere between pitying and derisive, arms folding over his chest. Zen takes special care not to check how stressed his seams are. “I did my time, Your Highness. I got out. I got told no one would ever look for me again.”

“Then why are you here?” Zen spits. “No one wants you.”

“You don’t know how true I wish that was.” A hand pulls at his shoulder, long fingers digging in around the blade. “But your brother dragged me down the coast because I’m not done. I’ll never be done, because I can’t sit on the sidelines and watch Snotju or Head Banger or whatever cosmic asshole crawls out of the rift wreck another wall.”

His hand lifts, scrubbing through the bristle of his hair, just a shade too shaggy to be regulation. “It’s fucked up, isn’t it, Master? I’m the one who doesn’t want to be here, but I’m the one who’s got the balls to get back in that jaeger. And you--” a cold gaze rakes over him-- “you’re content to sit there and watch the world burn just because I’m not--”

“Shut up.” He’s trembling, every muscle straining against his self-control. “Shut the fuck up. You don’t know a goddamn thing--”

“I’ve been in your head,” that asshole reminds him. “I know exactly what I’m talking about.”

“You don’t.” He can’t. “You don’t fucking know a thing about me.”

He cocks a hip, grin loaded like a bullet. “The prove it.”

Kiki’s right: in the instant where his knuckles hit that cut-glass cheekbone, Zen feels great.

Shirayuki’s office has always put him at ease; he stepped in here the first time before she’d even properly covered the walls, the tension seeping right out of him into the push carpet under his boots. There’s just something about how she fills a space-- something that has nothing to do with furniture or wall hangings or motivational posters-- that makes his brain put out whatever chemical that means safe. He’d never understood why the other rangers avoided her, not when they could have forty minutes in the room equivalent of a warm hug.

But it’s different this time.

“Izana made you call me here.” He’s ramrod straight on her worn couch, hands clenched in his lap. Or rather, right over the throw pillow he moved to sit. “Didn’t he?”

“The Marshal’s personal feelings have nothing to do with this.” Her words snap like a window on a sill, closing on that topic with a sense of finality he expected from the top brass, not their therapist. “The PPDC’s code of conduct is quite clear on the procedure to be followed after a non-sanctioned physical altercation between personnel.”

There’s a loose thread right by the fringe; he’d noticed it months ago, but never dared to tug it. Every time he’d felt the urge, he’d think of dominoes and load-bearing pillars, of the whole edge unraveling in his hands right as she looked at him.

Today, he pulls. It comes right off with a snap. “And that’s the only reason you brought me in?“

Shirayuki turns to him, one incredulous brow raised. “You were the one who cancelled our last session--” her mouth twitches as she twists the knife-- “last minute.”

Well, he deserves that one. Sure, he’s had his reasons, but Shirayuki-- well, she deserved more than one step up from ghosting. If the thought of having to look anyone in the eye after all that hadn’t made his stomach turn for three days, maybe he would have come to that conclusion before Kiki ripped him a new one over it.

“Sorry about that,” he mutters, aware with every word that it’s not enough, that there’s not enough apologies to patch up the trust he broke. “I wasn’t...ready to talk.”

He expects the clap back; yeah I got the message, or but you were ready to take a swing? But he should have known: that’s not how Shirayuki works. She’s a professional, whether that’s what he wants from her or not.

Instead he face softens, right back into his friend. “I know. What happened in the drift can be...intense.” She hesitates, teeth sinking into the plush bow of her lip. “I just wish that you had felt comfortable conveying that to me. As my patient, you’re supposed to be able to control--”

“I don’t want to be your patient.”

Her mouth closes with a grunt, hand pressed to her stomach as if he hit her. “O-oh,” she murmurs, breathless. “I hadn’t realized that you, ah, wanted to terminate our sessions--”

“No!” God, it would be nice to be able to say this all smooth like he’s sure that jacked asshole can, leaning against a wall with his hand right by her head, sexual tension rocking the Richter scale. “I just meant--” his teeth try to grind down his thoughts into something palatable-- “Shirayuki, I don’t want to just be your patient.”

He could fall into her eyes they’re so wide, rounded ‘o’s that match her mouth’s geometry. “Ah, Zen, that’s...”

“I don’t mean because I-I like you.” Even though he does, but there’s rules for that. The kind the PPDC will look the other way on, but not Shirayuki. She’s not from under the dome; she still worries about what people might think outside of it. “I just...wish you were on my side.”

“I am on your side.” Her shoulders pull straight against the back of her chair, her soft look hardening into resolve. “Which is different from telling you want you want to hear.”

He jerks back, cheeks stinging like he’d been slapped. “I didn’t say I wanted that,” he mumbles, hands clenching over his lap. “But I don’t need you to tell me to do whatever it is Izana wants me to either.”

“I wasn’t going to.” The notebooks in her lap closes with a snap, and with trembling fingers, she sets aside her shield. “Izana wants you back in a jeager for the legacy. For the unbroken line of Wisterias standing between humanity and the rift. But I...”

Her eyes lift to his, and they’re no longer the lush, leafy green of a forest, but the hard glint of emerald. “If you get back in that cockpit, you need to do it for yourself.”

It’s an effort not to say, I don’t see the difference.

“I saw you when the siren went off.”

Zen scrubs a hand over his face; he remembers. Their eyes had met over that seething mass of fear and competence, and-- and he’d been so sure that if he saw her, something more than that glimpse of red in the corner of his vision, he’d forget every inch of his resolve and go to her. That he’d just take her in his arms and tell her all the thoughts roiling in the sea of his mind, but--

But he hadn’t. He’s taken one look at her and, without even a pang of guilt, left her there. A real hero.

“Zen.” She says his name so firmly, so seriously, that his head jerks up, gaze tangling with hers. “You don’t want to be on the sidelines. You don’t want to be the general hiding being his troops. You want to be out there, Rex Tyrannis shoulder-to-shoulder with Redwood Dancer. And you could be.”

It’s his breath that’s rasping, the death rattle of the man he’s let himself be these past few years. “How?”

There’s not an ounce of hesitation in her when she says. “You have to choose to move forward.”

And cozy up in the cockpit with that asshole. He thinks about that grin, cocked with a confidence he’s never been in the neighborhood of having, and...

It’s so familiar that his double vision makes his head pound. “I can’t work with that-- Obi. I won’t.”

“I know that...” Her lips press together, bursting apart with a pop. “I know there’s no limit to the amount of people a ranger could potentially drift with, but there’s something...special when you find the right one. That there’s something right about it than can’t ever be replaced.”

He stares, head galloping in his chest. She shouldn’t know that-- there’s no way she could. Most rookies out of the academy just drift successfully once, and that’s it-- that’s their partner, for better or worse, like marrying the first kid you kiss. There’s exceptions-- emergencies, injury, irreconcilable differences-- but even though this job has a high turnover...rangers rarely die alone. There’s not enough people for a paper.

“Yeah, I’ve...heard that too.” Probably from the same mouth she did, though it seems Mitsuhide’s polished the speech since he last gave it. To him, at least.

“I understand that you have a vision of who you want beside you in the pod,” Shirayuki presses, voice growing tighter, more tense with every word. “But Atri’s gone.”

Every drop of blood in him turns to ice. “Atri?”

Her breath hisses out through her teeth, relief slumping her shoulders. “I know no one can be him, but--”

“You think this is about Atri?” A giggle bubbles up from him, bitter on his tongue. “I’ve been sitting here for weeks-- no, months! And you think all this, the whole reason I won’t climb in a jaeger with just anyone off the street is because of Atri?”

Every corner of her face lost. “Isn’t it?”

“No, I...” He pinches the bridge of his nose, like it might stem the pounding of his heart behind his brow. This whole time he’d been so careful, trying to be understood for once, to let someone see him instead of his mistakes--

But he should have known; as long as his brother is obsessed with sending him an endless parade of nobodies which he sits behind a desk, it’ll only be his hang ups hung out for everyone to rifle through.

“I should go,” he finally manages, levering himself to his feet. The room spins, his heartbeat thrumming in his ears, but he can’t stay here, not when she thinks-- when she’s always thought--

“Zen,” she murmurs, voice muffled by distance. “Are you all right?”

--That he’s pathetic. “Yeah.” He stumbles to the door, swinging it open. “I just need to--”

And of course, standing right there is that asshole, hand half-raised to knock.

“Boss,” he breathes, clearly stunned. “I, uh, didn’t think you’d be...”

The awkwardness in the office is palpable, so thick that he might as well be moving through molasses. Before this guy showed up, he’d though he had half a chance; he was practically the only one outside of K-Science that would even look at her, and his sessions always felt like more, but now--

Well, it’s no wonder he didn’t stand half a chance next to him, if she thought he was waiting for Atri.

“Don’t worry about it.” Zen pushes back him, shoulder clipping his. Or at least near enough to claim the feat. “I’d hate to keep you two from your--” date-- “dinner plans.”

Shirayuki’s breath gasps from her. “Zen, wait, we’re not--”

“It’s fine,” he lies, every muscle tense where he stands, fighting the urge to look back. “A couple of things are clearer now.”

It’s not just her. They all think he’s waiting for him, that one day he might stroll back in here like nothing happened, and Zen--

“Please.” Shirayuki’s voice trembles, and even if he’s not looking, he knows she’s at the door, vibrating in its frame. “Let’s just finish the session.”

-- and Zen’s been giving them nothing else to work with. All these years, looking like a kid stood up on prom night.

“No, I just remembered there’s something I’ve got to do.” He forces a smile on his face, giving her a bare hint of it as he peeks over his shoulder. “I’ll see you next week.”

It kills him how much hope lights in her eyes. “Next week?”

“That our appointment, isn’t it?” he says, light tone limping. “Unless I see you around the dome before then.”

“Right,” she breathes, cheeks flushed at both corners of her smile. Obi’s watching her, concern writ large in his eyes, and well-- maybe he’s not as much of an asshole as Zen wanted to believe. “Until then.”

He gets halfway down the hall, before Obi calls out, “Hey, boss...”

It’s clear when he looks back that Obi hadn’t meant to speak, but now that he has, he clear his throat, giving himself a visible shake.

“You could come with us,” he says, hesitant. “If you wanted.”

It’s an olive branch, one he doesn’t deserve. One he should take, if he wants all this to heal over without a scar. But he’s not ready for that, not yet.

“No.” He shakes head. “I wasn’t joking about having something I got to do. Go enjoy yourselves.”

This is a terrible idea.

He knows it the entire time he’s walking, the anxiety cresting the second he sees the plate on the door, engraved and letters painted black: IZANA WISTERIA. MARSHAL.

“Well,” Izana hums from his desk. “Are you going pace outside my office all day, or are you planning to come in?”

Zen lets out a rush of breath and pushes the door open the rest of the way.

“You win,” he says, all in a rush. “I’ll do it. I’ll give him another chance.”

“I think at this point, he’s giving you another chance,” Izana tells him, barely glancing up from his pile of papers. “But...I’ll arrange it.”

He nearly says, I figured you’d have it all arranged already, but bites it back. “Thanks.”

“My pleasure. And Zen.” His brother looks up, capping his pen calmly before he folds his hands over the desk. “It’s not me who wins. It’s humanity.”

“Yeah,” he breathes, meeting that steely gaze. “But I’m not doing it for them.”

For once, his brother doesn’t have anything to say.

It’s Obi who’s locked in first this time.

His cheeky smile is already waiting when Zen steps on deck, body gripped by Rex Tyrannis’s hydraulics when he throws him a wink. “Second time’s the charm, right Your Highness?”

“Third time,” Zen mutters, keying in his code. “It’s third time’s the charm.”

“Right, but you were top of your class.” A guy like Obi shouldn’t be so comfortable when he’s got twenty tons pinning him in place, not when he’s got a face just asking to be hit. “So we can shave one of those off, right?”

“Depends.” His mouth twitches. “Where did you rank?”

Obi’s grin grows stiff enough to float. “I think you’d say I’m a natural talent.”

“That bad huh?”

A laugh saws out of him, raw in the loud silence of the pod. “You have no idea.”

“I think I could take a guess.” The hydraulics hug Zen tight; even lifting to his arm to the panel is a chore. “Ready?”

“For you?” Obi’s mouth stretches into a leer.  For once, he feels like he’s in on the joke. “Any time.”

Don’t chase the rabbit. It’s Obi’s voice that says it; not the way he had before, serious and concerned, a scolding and a reminder. No, this one is a laugh restrained, sing-song. One pill makes you big and one makes you small.

There’s a faint riff of guitar, and Zen’s about to tell him to can it, that putting trash in the drift just clogged up the flow, but--

But between one breath-- one blink and the next, he’s lost in the tide, rolling through his memories rudderless. When a hand grips his shoulder and--

“I’m ready.” Zen’s always too honest, too eager but he’s young here, younger than he ever remembers being wearing the badge. “To pick up the legacy. To be what father meant us to be.”

The memory runs true, his younger self still chatting away with Shidnote, unaware that his whole world’s about to be cut off at the knees. But he’s not watching that now, he’s watching the way shadows crawl across his brother’s face, a storm front that appears and vanishes in the moments no one looks.

“About that.” Izana settles his hand on the desk, but the drumming is no longer bored but...nervous. An asynchronous beat that runs at the speed of his thoughts. “I meant to tell you. I’m being promoted.”

“Promoted” The word still kicks his legs out from under him, still knocks the wind out of his lungs as efficiently as any punch to the gut. “But I thought we would--”

“They want me in a command capacity now that Mother’s taking over Anchorage.” Izana won’t look at him. The man who has built his career on being able to stare down Orochi in Sagami Bay can’t bear to look him in the eye. “I’m being taken off active duty.”

“But--” He looks between them. “But--”

“But--”

“But--”

The memory stutters. It’s him, he’s the one who’s pushing away. He’d always thought he couldn’t give this to someone, to some guy right off the street, someone who might pity him, but it’s-- it’s him. He can’t look at this. He can’t face failure another time.

And he doesn’t know how to stop.

Hey. Obi’s voice is too close, but he’s just an outline in the drift, blues and grays fuzzing between misfiring synapses. Hey, we don’t have to watch this.

They do. They have to, if he’s going to get through this.

Right. There’s no way for Obi to sigh here, where there’s no air, but he does, long and loud. It sounds...different. Almost...feminine. I have worse. Want to see me wet the bed when I was--?

The words fuzz before they can continue. Go ahead, Obi says, sounding like himself. Take as much time as you need. It’s not like we have clocks here.

Zen can’t nod here, not without a body, but he breathes, one solid in and out--

“It’s supposed to be us.” Even with the distance of time, every word is carves straight from his flesh, laid out on a platter for his brother to see. “We’re supposed to carry on the legacy.”

“Shidnote will continue on in his current capacity,” Izana explains, bored, as if he didn’t even speak. “He’s served me well. I’m sure you’ll both be sufficiently compatible.”

“But--” Zen grits his teeth. “It’s supposed to be us. Why are you giving me an excuse--?

He blinks. He never said that. He’d been thinking it the whole way to his bunk, but in the moment it had only been a yes sir. I understand, sir.

Then why--

“It’s an excuse.” The shine’s all worn off Atri’s grin, baring the raw edge beneath. “That’s all I’ve ever been to you.”

Scrap litters the floor at his feet; he’s never known what jaeger-grade parts sold for on the black market, but he knows it’s not pocket money. This is a small fortune if someone knew where to sell it.

Which clearly Atri does.

“You’re going to blame me?” Zen’s laugh limps with bitterness. “I catch you with stolen goods, and it’s my--?”

“It’s not stolen, it’s salvage,” Atri snaps, snatching a length of steel from his hands. “It’s not like they’re using it.”

A lie-- there’s not a shred of steel or wire that’s wasted in the dome. Jaegars come with a price tag that only governments can pay, and any corner that can be safely cut on maintenance is considered savings passed onto tax payers. There’s no way he can’t know it, not after six months, but--

He doesn’t care. He never did.

“This is why you agreed to be my copilot.” Every word aches as he births them from his lips, a truth that cuts even as he speaks it. “You didn’t care about protecting your friends. You just wanted access to parts.”

Atri shrugs, the barest twitch of his shoulders. “I never said I gave a single fuck about all that hero shit. You just assumed I did, because you do.”

“But the drift...” His breath wheezes, the way it did when he was a kid, before his dad paid for all that to be fixed. “How did you...?”

“I just thought about the stuff you cared about. Friends. Kaiju. Me.” Atri’s grin turns smug. “Some of us don’t wear our heart on our sleeves, Wisteria.”

Wow. Obi’s outline fuzzes as he circles behind Atri, a single brow raised. He’s a real fucknut, huh?

His memories are jumbles, him-now and him-then all tumbled together until his first instinct is to jump to Atri’s defense. He may not be an academy-trained ranger, someone who has a lifetime worth of experience in a simulator, but put him in Rex Tyrannis and he’ll--

Steal the toilet cover? Obi offers, mouth canting into that insufferable grin. The one that always reminded him of--

Ah.

Obi darts a glance to where Atri stands frozen beside him. Jeeze, you really know how to hit a guy where he lives. You think I look like this asshole?

Just the grin, really. He’s almost a head taller, broader in the shoulders, and Asian besides. Better looking too--

Obi’s smile stretches into a leer. You don’t say, bossman?

Maybe Atri’s right. He’s got to get better about what he thinks about in the drift. Especially with someone this insufferable around.

If anything, Obi’s more amused. So it’s this guy though, he’s whole hold up you have with me? It’s not--

Against his will, Atri springs to life, mouth curled into his nastiest sneer when he says “I don’t know why you’re acting so betrayed. After all, you only wanted me to get back at the Marshal, and I played my part, didn’t I? I’m sure he’d jump in the pod if that meant he could be rid of me.”

“That’s not--” true, he should say. He can’t though, not when he’s not this-Zen, when he’s just looking out from his eyes, straight into Obi’s.

“Yeah.” There’s no spit to swallow in the drift, but he does anyway, a force of habit. “It is.”

The memory fuzzes away from him, and it’s just them now, two men braced in the Conn-pod, staring at each other through their visors.

“Right hemisphere, calibrated.” Zen blinks, watching as his hand opens and closes, the robotic voice’s dulcet tones washing over him.

“I never wanted this, you know,” he murmurs, “not if it wasn’t with my brother. That’s how it was supposed to be, me and him versus the kaiju.”

“Left hemisphere, calibrated.” His arms seem to move on his own, and it’s strange how he can’t keep the smile off his face this time. It feels good, moving like this again.

“No,” he breathes. “It was supposed to be me and him versus the world.”

“Ready to activate the jeager.“

Obi’s arms lift, a fighting stance to mirror his. It’s easy, so easy. Easier than he ever thought it could be. “What changed?”

He’d shrug, if the hydraulics would let him, but this isn’t Redwood Dancer. “Seemed like a shitty reason not to save the world.”

“Calibration complete.”

Obi grins, teeth shining bright under the lights of his visor. “Doc tell you that?”

Zen laughs. “Pretty much.”

“She’s got a gift,” Obi agrees, hands moving in sync with his. “And it’s making you feel like an asshole.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Looks like you jokers are getting along,” Kiki deadpans through their helmets. “How do you feel about taking Rex out for a drag?”

“After being cramped under this dome for months, Princess?” Obi drawls, tossing him a conspiratorial wink. “It’d be my pleasure.”

“Just give us a sec!” It’s been a long time since Zen’s talked much with the crew in CIC, but he recognizes that voice-- Yuzuri, one of Shirayuki’s friends. The peppy one with the cute accessories. The one that told him she’d give him cement shoes if he made her cry. “Let’s see if we can get you off your leash.”

He’d always liked her. Hopefully the feeling’s mutual, since she’s right next to the plug.

“Hey, boss.”

Zen blinks, glancing across the cockpit. “Yeah?”

“I know Atri was supposed to be a big fuck you to His Majesty, but...” He hesitates, thoughtful. “You drifted with the Big Guy for a while after that. Why?”

“Ah--”

It’s impossible not to think of it, the siren rising in the air, the men running past them, voices drowned out by the drone.

“I’ll do it,” he says, glaring up at the man across from him. “At least you know you’re just a seat warmer.”

“Zen--”

He blinks, the memory stuttering beneath him. That’s not what Mitsuhide called him then, that wasn’t until after--

“Zen.”

That’s not inside the memory, that’s inside his helmet. “Mitsuhide?”

“You’re out of alignment.”

He shakes his head, uncomprehending. “What do you--?”

“You’re out of alignment.” He repeats, each words strained. “You both chased the rabbit, and...Obi went straight down the rabbit hole.”

It doesn’t make any sense. “But I--”

“You have to go get him,” Mitsuhide says, dire. “He’s pointing the plasma cannon at Mission Control.”

[blue-heronstairs10]

R&R quotes I tabbed

*RUIN AND RISING SPOILERS*

key:

{…} = thoughts in book

(…) = my commentary

*…* = action

emojis = expressions

[…] = my subtitles

italics = it’s italisized in the books

-…- = not actually said in book

——————————————————————————————————

Apparat: he should not address you so.

Alina: why not?

Apparat: it was the Darkling’s title and is unfitting for a Saint.

Alina: then what should he call me?

Apparat: he should not address you directly at all.

Alina: next time he has something to say, I’ll have him write me a letter.

——————————————————————————————————

Zoya: are you ever going to name that thing?

Harshaw: she has a name.

Zoya: Oncat is not a name. it’s just Kaelish for cat.

Harshaw: suits her doesn’t it?

——————————————————————————————————

{David and Genya kept falling behind, but he seemed to be the one responsible for the lag. finally, Toyla hefted the huge pack from David’s narrow shoulders.}

Toyla: what do you have in this thing?

David: three pairs of socks, one pair of trousers, an extra shirt. one canteen. a tin cup and plate. a cylindrical slide rule, a chondrometer, a jar or spruce sap, my collection of anticorrosives,-

Toyla: you were only supposed to pack what you need.

David: *nods emphatically* exactly.

Alina: please tell me you didn’t bring all of Morozova’s journals.

David: of course I did.

Alina: maybe they’ll make good kindling.

David: is she kidding? *concerned look* I can never tell if she’s kidding.

Alina: {I was. mostly.}

——————————————————————————————————

Genya: David is oblivious. he’s been babbling about mineral compounds for the last hour.

Zoya: maybe he and Toyla will just put each other to sleep.

——————————————————————————————————

Harshaw: *cuts the sides of his scalp so there’s only hair in a single stripe down the center of his head*

Zoya: *shrieking* what did you do? you look like a deranged rooster!

Harshaw: Oncat insisted.

——————————————————————————————————

Mal: everyone okay?

Genya: never better.

David: *raises his hand* I’ve been better.

——————————————————————————————————

Mal: I am becoming a blade.

——————————————————————————————————

Ekaterina: I saw the prince when I was in Os Alta. he’s not bad looking.

Nikolai: *in the trees* not bad looking? he’s damnably handsome.

Nikolai: *still in the trees* brave in battle, smart as a whip. an excellent dancer. oh, and an even better shot.

Nikolai: *shoots Luchenko between the eyes*

——————————————————————————————————

Nikolai: first vomit, then tears. don’t tell me I’ve lost my touch.

Alina: I’m just happy you’re alive. though I’m sure you can talk me out of it.

——————————————————————————————————

Alina: thank goodness we had the foresight to be captured.

——————————————————————————————————

Nikolai: Saints, Alina. I hope you weren’t looking at me to be the voice of reason. I keep a strict diet of ill-advised enthusiasm and heartfelt regret.

——————————————————————————————————

Nikolai: we’re heading into Fjerda.

Alina: oh good. enemy territory. and here I was starting to relax.

——————————————————————————————————

Nikolai: it’s good to see you, Oretsev.

Mal: you too. thanks for the rescue.

Nikolai: everyone needs a hobby.

Mal: I thought yours was preening.

Nikolai: two hobbies.

——————————————————————————————————

Nikolai: Baghra, how are you this evening?

Baghra: still old and blind.

Nikolai: and charming. never forget charming.

Baghra: whelp.

Nikolai: hag.

Baghra: what do you want, pest?

Nikolai: I’ve brought someone to visit.

Alina: hello, Baghra.

Baghra: the little Saint. returned to save us all.

Nikolai: well she did almost die trying to rid us of your cursed spawn. 

Baghra: couldn’t even manage martyrdom right, could you? come in and shut the door, girl. you’re letting the heat out.

Baghra: *turns to Nikolai* and you. go somewhere you’re wanted.

Nikolai: that’s hardly limiting. Alina, I’ll be back to fetch you for dinner, but should you grow restless, do feel free to run screaming from the room or take a dagger to her. whatever seems most fitting at the time. 

Baghra: are you still here?

Nikolai: I go but hope to remain in your heart.

Baghra: wretched boy. 

Alina: you like him. *disbelief*

Baghra: greedy. arrogant. takes too many risks.

Alina: you almost sound concerned.

Baghra: you like him too, little Saint. 

Alina: I do. he’s been kind to me when he might have been cruel. it’s refreshing. 

Baghra: he laughs too much.

Alina: there are worse traits. 

Baghra: like arguing with your elders? *turns to Misha* boy, go fetch me something sweet.

(I’m sorry it’s so long it’s just,,, they’re so iconic and cute)

——————————————————————————————————

Alina: how does Nikolai know you’re the Darkling’s mother?

Baghra: he asked. he’s more observant than the rest of you fools.

——————————————————————————————————

Mal: I don’t reserve my friendship for perfect people. and, thank the Saints, neither does Alina.

(did mans just insult himself ?? 💀)

——————————————————————————————————

Genya: *talking about how David didn’t look at her before*

David: I know metal.

Genya: what does that have to do with anything?

David: I...I don’t understand half of what goes on around me. I don’t get jokes or sunsets or poetry, but I know metal. beauty was your armor. fragile stuff, all show. but what’s inside you? that’s steel. it’s brave and unbreakable. and it doesn’t need fixing. *kisses Genya*

Genya: 👁👄👁

Genya: *kisses David back empathcially*

David: *kiss ends* *😳😊*

Genya: *☺️😄*

(they’re the sweetest S&B couple don’t @ me)

——————————————————————————————————

Mal: you can introduce him to Ana Kuya.

Alina: I already unleashed Baghra on Nikolai. he’s going to think I stockpile vicious old women.

——————————————————————————————————

Mal: but I guess I’m the same selfish ass I’ve always been. for all my talk of vows and honor, what I really want to do is put you up against that wall and kiss you until you forget you ever knew another man’s name. so tell me to go, Alina. because I can’t give you a title or an army or any of the things you need.

Alina: goodnight, Mal.

(😳✋🏼)

——————————————————————————————————

Alina: *hits the side of a mountain with the Cut*

Everyone besides Baghra: *claps and whoops*

Baghra: hmph. they’d clap for a dancing monkey.

Nikolai: all depends on the monkey. and the dance.

——————————————————————————————————

Nikolai: does Morozova strike anyone as a little…eccentric?

Alina: if my eccentric you mean insane, then yes. I’m hoping he can be crazy and right.

——————————————————————————————————

Genya: I can’t believe I’m saying this, but Nikolai is growing on me. he’s nothing like his father. and the man can dress.

——————————————————————————————————

Nikolai: if you’re going to jump, at least give me time to compose a ballad in your honor. something with lots of sad fiddle and a verse devoted to your love of herring.

Alina: if I wait, I may have to hear you sing it.

Nikolai: I happen to have a more than passable baritone. and what’s the rush? is it my cologne?

Alina: you don’t wear cologne.

Nikolai: I have such a naturally delightful scent that it seems like overkill. but if you have a penchant for it, I’ll start. 

——————————————————————————————————

Zoya: toss him over. break his heart cruelly. I will gladly give our poor prince comfort, and I would make a magnificent queen.

Alina: you actually might, Zoya. if you could stop being horrible for a minute. 

Zoya: with that kind of incentive, I can manage a minute. possibly two.

——————————————————————————————————

{they wanted a Grisha Queen. Mal wanted a commoner Queen. and what did I want? peace for Ravka. a chance to sleep easy in my bed without fear. an end to the guilt and dread that I woke to every morning. there were old wants too, to be loved for who I was, not what I could do, to lie in a meadow with a boy’s arms around me and watch the wind move the clouds. but those dreams belonged to a girl, not to the Sun Summoner, not to a Saint.}

——————————————————————————————————

Genya: the day I curtsy to you is the day David performs an opera naked in the middle of the Shadow Fold.

——————————————————————————————————

Baghra: I am Morozova’s Daughter, and the Darkling is the last of Morozova’s line.

——————————————————————————————————

Alina: or a Ravkan heiress or a Grisha like Zoya.

Nikolai: Zoya? I make it a policy never to seduce anyone prettier than I am.

—————————���————————————————————————

Nikolai: I love it when you quote me.

——————————————————————————————————

Genya: you’re the prettiest walrus I know.

——————————————————————————————————

Alina: turned out I needed a good cry.

Zoya: next time, invite me. I could use one too.

——————————————————————————————————

Zoya: do you know what Baghra told me at my first lesson with her? pretty face. too bad you have porridge for brains.

Harshaw: I sent fire to her hut in class.

Zoya: of course you did.

Harshaw: accidentally! she refused to ever teach me again. wouldn’t even speak to me. I saw her on the grounds once, and she walked right by. didn’t say a word, just whacked me on the knee with her stick. I still have a lump.

Nadia: that’s nothing. I had some kind of block where I couldn’t summon for a while. she put me in a room and released a hive of bees in it.

——————————————————————————————————

Mal: same way Ana Kuhn got me to stop begging her to keep a lantern lit at night. 

Alina: really?

Mal: yes. told me I had to be brave for you, that if I was scared, you’d be scared.

Alina: well she told me I had to eat my parsnips to set a good example for you, but I still refused to do it. 

Mal: and you wonder why you were always getting the switch.

Alina: I have principles. 

Mal: that means, ‘if I can be difficult, I will.’

——————————————————————————————————

Zoya: if you’re not up here before I count it ten, I’m going back to sleep and you can carry me to Dva Stolba.

Alina: Mal, if I murder her in the Sikurzoi, will you hold me accountable?

Mal: yes. 

Mal: that means, ‘‘let’s make it look like an accident.’

——————————————————————————————————

Alina: *being mad and realistic then apologizing*

Zoya: maybe you’re hungry. I always get mean when I’m hungry. 

Harshaw: are you hungry all the time?

Zoya: you haven’t seen me mean. when you do, you’ll require a very big hanky.

Harshaw: to dry my tears.

Zoya: to stanch the bleeding. 

——————————————————————————————————

Toyla: he watches her the way Harshaw watches fire. like he’ll never have enough of her. like he’s trying to capture what he can before she’s gone.

Zoya and Alina: 👁👄👁💓

Zoya: you know, if you turned a bit of that poetry on me, I might consider giving you a chance.

Toyla: who says I want one?

Harshaw: I want one!

Zoya: Oncat has a better chance than you.

Harshaw: *holds up Oncat* why, Oncat, you rogue.

——————————————————————————————————

Zoya: you really didn’t think they were ghosts, did you?

everyone: 😬

Zoya: I am surrounded by fools.

——————————————————————————————————

Harshaw: Oncat objects to the landscaping.

——————————————————————————————————

Alina: Mal is the third amplifier.

——————————————————————————————————

[TW: hanging]

{the oak I’d once climbed on a dare still stood, untouched by the fire that had taken Keramzin. now it’s branches were full of bodies. the three Grisha instructors hung from the same thick limb, their kefta fluttering slightly in the wind- purple, red and blue. beside them, Botkin’s face was nearly black above the rope that had dug into his neck. he was covered in wounds. he’d died fighting before they’d strung him up. next to him, Ana Kuya swayed in her black dress, her heavy rings at her waist, the toes of her button boots nearly scraping the ground.} 

Darkling: she was, I think, the closest thing you had to a mother.

——————————————————————————————————

(unfinished)

[guiltysecretpasttime]

Contentment

So here’s a thought that became a Lin Beifong one-shot. If someone’s reading this... let me know what you think 🤷‍

---

Ever since she made it to Chief of Police, she found that she was able to take more control of her schedule. Nonetheless, quiet Friday nights at home like these were rare.

Using metalbending, Lin Beifong peeled her armor off and placed it in the cabinet beside the shoe rack, a reminder that she will get to its maintenance before going to work on Monday. She wiggled her toes and continued into the house barefoot, enjoying the feel of the cold marble floor against her skin. She headed towards the kitchen, tossing her work bag into the study along the way.

The paper bag of take-out food was plonked on the dining table and an old battered kettle with water was soon on the stove. She stretched her arms languidly then reached to turn on the radio, if only to fill the silence with white noise.

Plucking out some spice canisters from the shelves and taking out the vegetables she sliced earlier, Lin set about to prepare dinner. Humming softly with the radio tunes, she cleared a portion of the table and opened the containers of sliced vegetables. She sat down and unrolled a piece of cloth, intent on assembling a couple of vegetable wraps on the mat.

After decades of preparing vegetarian meals, Lin had learned to appreciate the cuisine and tweak it to her taste. She added spicy pickled kelp and sprinkled chili on some of the wraps. She made a mental note to ask her sister to bring more kelp on her next visit. (The older Beifong would never admit it but she dearly valued exchanging recipes with Suyin’s ex-pirate chef.)

The kettle let out a high-pitch whistle (which her husband hated and had thus more than once offered to buy a replacement kettle; which she adamantly refused to do so since her mom made it for their housewarming party years ago) and she took it off the stove, placing a steaming pot in its place. The earthbender tore open her take-out paper bag and dropped the store-bought dumplings into the pot.

She then arranged the vegetable wraps on the serving plate alongside the fried puffs she purchased from the vendor beside headquarters (“Assorted crab and tofu puffs, please”).  With not enough time to make dessert, she figured her husband would have to settle for some chilled moon peaches from the icebox.

As she waited for the dumplings to reheat, she decided to make herself a cup of coffee before dumping some tea leaves to steep in the kettle.

-----

It was a quaint and cozy scene that greeted the last airbender when he got home. A scene that still brought a lightness in his heart even after being married for fifteen odd years.

Leaning against the kitchen counter was his wife, apparently fresh from the shower as evidenced by the dampness of her short grey hair. Tenzin continued to observe her quietly as she absentmindedly continued to stir something in a saucepan while reading a book propped at the side, page held in place by an empty coffee cup. Barefoot and clad in a plain tank top and shorts, the stern protector of Republic City was barely recognizable in the casual setting. He smiled as Lin made a face, probably scoffing at the plot of her novel.

He made his way towards her, landing a kiss on her exposed shoulder from behind, effectively startling her.

“Spirits, Tenzin!” Lin raised the spatula in shock, landing whipped cream on her face and on his robes.

Tenzin grinned. He loved that he was the only person in the world who could surprise the otherwise vigilant metalbending chief of police. It was a testament on how comfortable she was with him that she never felt the need to be on her guard.

“Hello, dear.” He kissed off the cream from her cheek and was rewarded with a slap on the arm. “You seemed engrossed there, good book?” 

“Oh Agni, no.” His wife snorted as she marked her page in the book. “It’s just one of those trashy books that Su sent me, in the hopes that I get in touch with my inner dancer or something.” She placed the saucepan beside the peaches on the dining table.

The airbender accepted the napkin given by Lin to clean up his robes. “Still trying to convince you to join her dance group?” He turned to the counter, opening his paper bag of food.

“Yes, claims it would make me more flexible and limber - as if I don’t have enough training at headquarters.” (”Or in bed,” Tenzin muttered, getting swatted on the arm for his contribution). She offered her husband assistance as he poured the soup he brought home into a serving pot. “I have to constantly remind those children running the precincts that I am not old.” Her hand flicked in irritation. “And apparently, the only way I could assert that is by beating them down. While hanging on the ceiling. With my metal cables.” Little tremors were felt on the floor as she punctuated her statements with barely perceptible stomps of her foot.

Tenzin chuckled, guiding his wife into her seat in the dining room as she scowled. “I’m sure you enjoyed putting them in their place,” He added the pot of soup on the table. “Come now, I wouldn’t have thought a bunch of new officers would get you down. It’s the weekend!” He sat down, pouring tea for the two of them.

Lin shrugged and proceeded to pile Tenzin’s plate with two (bland) kale wraps and a few dumplings.

“This one’s new,” He lightly touched an angry red cut on her forearm.“And so is this.” He grasped her wrist when she placed his plate in front of him, gently massaging a darkening bruise on her elbow. “Where...?”

Having been raised and grown up in Air Nomad culture, Tenzin feels discomfort whenever his wife arrives home with another souvenir from work on her body (often temporary, sometimes somewhat permanent).

“A new group of non-benders instigated a faceoff with some benders near the cultural center today,” The metalbender downplayed the encounter, removing her arm from his hold. “Good thing we got there just in the nick of time.”

“And got yourself something which is more than a nick,” He frowned at the four-inch long scarlet mark that was a stark contrast against her pale skin. “Lin,” He quickly ladled some seaweed soup into a bowl. He knew it had properties good for blood loss. “Please be careful.” He pushed the bowl towards her.

“I always am.” She caught the sober tone of his reminder. “Don’t worry, I make sure to assess the risks beforehand. I’m no longer that reckless and brash detective who attempted to arrest her sister.” She tried to make light of their conversation.

As if on cue, as with any other time that her scars or the origin of her scars were brought up, Tenzin delicately cupped her cheek and gave her a soft kiss. He was a husband seeking a reminder that all was well. He felt the familiar pressure on his lips as his wife pressed back to deepen their kiss. 

They both ended the kiss, breathing heavily. She smiled, finally accepting the soup.

The rest of the meal continued uneventfully. Tenzin complimented his spouse on her thoughtfulness on the meal. They talked about how their day went (”Tarrlock, that chattering hog-monkey, would not stop about this new ordinance he wanted to pass. I was sorely tempted to ring Mother and Fire Lord Izumi to influence their representatives to vote against it out of spite.” “Oh Tenzin, but you wouldn’t. 10 yuans on you that you would not push through with that.” “You’re right dear,” A sigh was heard. “I wouldn’t have.”) and how their respective families were faring (”Mom hasn’t still gotten in touch with Su and I.” “Should we be worried?” “I don’t think so. Lord Zuko is out travelling as well - 10 yuans bet that they’re out on a life-changing field trip.” “Lin, what’s with you and 10 yuans??”).

-----

The couple decided to finish their dessert in the study.

Lin tucked her legs under as she got comfortable on the couch while Tenzin cleaned up (”You go ahead and relax, I’ll take care of the kitchen and dining table since you prepared the meal - well, most of it at least - ouuuuch woman, stop hitting me.”). She pulled out her (Su’s) novel to bide the time (yes, bide the time, she was not invested in the story of the lone ballerina who captivated the king in that one-night-only performance, nope, not invested at all, thank you very much) while waiting for her husband.

She had made it into a chapter and a half by the time Tenzin joined her. She got up to make space for him, then laid her head on his lap to continue reading while he elected to tackle his correspondence.

They passed the time in that position, with Tenzin alternately feeding Lin and himself some of the sliced moon peaches. The only sound was the occasional flip of pages and parchment being discarded on the side table.

Half-way into the book, Lin was making mental note to ask her younger sister if she had a copy of the sequel when the airbender released a deep breath.

“Is something wrong?” She lifted her eyes from the book and directed her attention to the face of the man above her, albeit a bit concealed by the beard from her point-of-view.

“The new Avatar has mastered Earthbending.” He indicated the letter he was perusing.

“That’s good news, right?” The earthbender sat up on her heels, taking her mother-in-law’s letter to go through it.

“It says here they’re inviting you to train the Avatar as her airbending master in five years time,” Lin felt her excitement building as she read Katara’s update. “Provided, however, that she passes her Firebending mastery test by then.” She knew how important this was to him. “Ten-!” She looked up and saw his faraway expression.

“Hey,” Lin tenderly took his face into her hands, looking into his eyes. Green met gray. 

Earth and air - their elements and their personalities were as opposite as they can go. While Lin Beifong learned early on how to master her emotions (which several times proved to be necessary in her line of work, sometimes even a matter of life and death), the man in shades of saffron and red before her wore his heart clearly. Even at the age of forty-six, he exuded an air of artlessness. Some of his detractors saw it as a weakness but she recognized it as his strength, the ingenuous sincerity which coated each of his interactions appealed to the constituents. Nonetheless, Lin knew him for as long as she was alive and she knew something was troubling him.

“Do you,” Like any earthbender worth his or her salt, she faced this head on. She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Tenzin,” She knew they had made peace with it in the past but she needed to ask, yet again. “Do you regret it?” Do you regret choosing me - the unsaid question hung thickly in the air.

-----

The last airbender covered her right hand with his and leaned into her palm. “Never.” He knew she can feel his steady heartbeats as she held him. After a beat, he leaned forward, capturing her lips with his.

Lin Beifong, while a confident woman, did need reassurances which only her husband can provide. He knew that she still experienced vestiges of guilt from time to time.

He saw it when she was reading the newspaper and an article called out the Chief of Police as a hard-ass with a heart of stone, unbending with the law and unbending in rehabilitating an extinct nation.

He saw it through the years as she accompanied him in various city council formal events and got asked on multiple occasions when they were going to start trying for kids. She would pleasantly smile, with a poise that would make the late Poppy Beifong proud. Then she would sweetly reply something along the lines of no, thank you, we’re not trying for kids but rest assured we’re frequently engaging in exercises that might (if we were not careful) result in one. Now, that (and the subsequent choking noise made by whichever pompous guest who dared ask) would make Toph Beifong proud.

He saw it whenever the entire family gathers at Air Temple Island to celebrate someone’s birthday and the Air Acolytes seem to walk on eggshells around her, never mind that technically she was the first lady of the nation.

Everyone else saw her smirk or her stoic blank face; no emotion betrayed by the absence of hunching of the shoulders or the lack of a furious blush on her complexion.

But Tenzin, her partner for most of her life, saw the little indicators - the tightening of her jaw, the stiffening of her spine, the whitening of her knuckles as she dug her nails into her palm... 

They simply did not know. They did not see her as a terrified child, fresh from being abducted by a convict on parole that her mother had put into jail years before her birth. It was the day that she first showed signs of metalbending as she broke off the chains the bound her. She was seven.

They did not see her stay up late as a teenager, waiting on the roof of one of the buildings in Air Temple island, scouring the horizon in the hopes that her mother might be coming home soon from a raid.

They did not see her collapse after returning to headquarters, after being beaten up (close to death) as a police captain caught in a turf war, getting more heat because of her ancestry. (”Bonus points in taking the metal woman down - her mother is the esteemed chief of police!” One of the fire-bending hooligans had spat.).

They did not see her weep neither did they hold her in their arms after a particularly difficult day on her job. She had murmured to him that she will never want to put a child, her child, in dangerous situations just because of the consequence of having her a mother. That would have been selfish. It was simply not an option.

Her (their) decision not to have children was publicly discussed and dissected. More than once, the usually calm Tenzin had blown up at the press to leave them alone. These only resulted in new heated rumors published the next day that he was probably selecting Air Acolytes across the Air Temples to impregnate to repopulate the Air Nation. If anything, while he was infuriated, Tenzin was glad to see Lin laugh out loud upon reading about it in the paper. His eldest brother Bumi had even called over just to check its veracity, volunteering to scout the United Republic in the next years in search for thick-eyebrowed large-nosed airheads cooped up in libraries across the temples.

Tenzin also dealt with the aftermath of these public set-downs once they returned to their home in Republic City. He would willingly offer the reassurance that only he can give her at her most vulnerable.

Even as the last airbender, Tenzin would do anything to make his metalbender happy.

-----

Satiated and relaxed, the couple adjusted their position on the couch, with Tenzin airbending the throw blanket over them. He noticed Lin fingering the letter from the Southern Water Tribe again.

“It’s just that - they’re asking us to move to the South Pole for the duration of Korra’s training.”

Lin raised her eyebrows at this. “Oh.” 

“But no,” Tenzin moved to put an arm around her as she sat in his embrace. “I wouldn’t want to uproot you. It’s not for a few more years; we’ll figure something.” He distractedly finished the rest of the peaches and cream from the crystal bowl. Between the two of them, he was the one with the sweet tooth. “I could start training Oogi for frequent long distance trips to the South Pole, if only to ready him for my frequent back-and-forth to you in Republic City.”

The sound of the scraping of the spoon against the bowl echoed in the companionable silence.

“Or, Tenzin, maybe - what if,” Lin played with the smoothness of the blanket. “You invite her to Air Temple Island?” She avoided his inquisitive gaze. “I mean, we can reinstate the White Lotus around the temple for security and prepare the island for airbending training. You’ve probably have enough in the coffers for a refurbishment on the Island, given that it’s been a while since your family lived there. But those would be best put into use in rebuilding the other temples; I have enough money to add from the Beifong inheritance, we could use that - it will be my home too, you know -.” She was interrupted by a tight embrace and a kiss.

“You’re amazing, you know that?” The response he got was just a laugh. “But, really, are you sure about this?” He rubbed her side gingerly, taking care not to hit any of her bruises.

“Of course,” Lin grinned at him. “But you better start training again - sounds like this Korra would be a tough kid to manage.” She patted his chest.

“Train you say?” Tenzin had a glint in his eye. “Why don’t we start now,” He picked up his surprised wife as he carried her in the direction of their bedroom. “Let’s get you all limbered up and flexible then let’s give your sister a call so I can give her a blow-by-blow account on how you need not be a dancer to limber up.” Laughter trailed behind him as Lin made sure to metalbend their door close.

Yes, they treasured quiet Friday nights at home like this.

=====

Related:

Follow-up fanfic: The Airbender’s Wife:  1 | 2 | 3 | 4

[queenvidal]

Reuinons

- 6 months are a long time, they have a lot of catching up to do -

- Work on AO3 -

Chapter 2 (NSFW)

The moment the elevator starts moving, Wrex has to shift from one foot to the other. Shepards smile is morphing into a mischievous smirk. "What's the matter, big guy? Nervous?" 

"Teasing, Lexis? You should know better than teasing a krogan you left waiting for months."

The smirk vanished as quickly as it had come. Instead her brows move into a frown. "Yeah, sure. Like the Alliance left me a choice."

"No, but I did. Told ya not to hand yourself in. I'd have loved to see 'em try to get you off my planet." Both knew the Alliances would have not tried anything. The peace between Earth and Tuchanka has been too fragile. 

Shepard folds her arms in front of her chest. "Mood killer, Wrex."

"Nah." He chuckles. "I know how to get you back in the mood." If only the damn elevator would hurry. His groin plates started shifting the moment he got word of the other races agreeing to board the Normandy for negotiations. Wrex armor is getting tighter and tighter. This topic might be a mood killer for her but surely not for him. If anything it reminds him of how long he has been abstinent.

 Neither of them said something about monogamy but still Wrex waited for her. The women of his clan are hard to seduce and furthermore his mind was very occupied with gaining and keeping his power among his clan and the others.

   Except for the one time he was on the Citadel, when he paid Cora's Den one final visit before it closed. They never lacked of beautiful dancers and hookers. He considered taking a human to the private areas of the club but in the end he just payed for his drinks and left.

   Somehow it didn't feel right. And for some reason he didn't find the human females nor the asari very alluring. Something he noticed with his own females, too. The work of making them agree to sleep with him started to seem not worth the outcome anymore. Not to mention that fun and enjoyment never were the main focus when sleeping with krogans anyway. Is only about procreation, nothing more.

   Oftentimes Wrex found his thoughts around his former Commander. Her lips and what they were capable of. Something no krogan could give him. Sure, Coras humans could have done it and probably even their asari but if he's honest with himself, it's not about the strange mouth pillows in particular, it's about them being Alexis.

   He still remembers the last time they were together, how she smelled, how she tasted, how she wiggled underneath him in ecstasy. Wrex can feel his quad tighten in anticipation, his armor is getting painfully tight. But he is holding himself back, he'd rather have her in the privacy of her cabin, than in this poor excuse of an elevator.

   Shepard seems to notice the reason behind his discomfort. They had a similar situation happen when she was on Tuchanka before she left for the Collector-Base. "So…" Her voice sounds suspiciously playful. Slowly she turns, facing him completely. With a coy grin on her face, her hands are wandering up his chest until they stop just beneath the exposed hide of his neck. "You really waited for me? A wonder you didn't exploded during my time under arrest. Six months are a long time after all."

   The elevator it is, then. Without a word he grabs her, lifting her up. Shepard quickly wraps her legs around his waist, pulling him to her even closer. Having her trapped between him and the wall, Wrex buries his face in the crook of her neck to savor her sweet smell. Damn, she smells even better than he remembered, having him even more turned on. Krogans may lack of lips for kissing but he quickly learned he still can nip at her skin. Having her sighing nevertheless.

   The stupid jacked of hers is getting in his way eventually, blocking him from the soft skin of her throat. Alexis can hear the buttons flying against the metal ground, Wrex ripped through the cloth but she couldn't care less with his hot breath against her neck.

   Finally the elevator doors open. Just in time. Wrex carries her out to the small anteroom. Her legs let go and he carefully lets her down, only to spin her around.

   Wrex is wasting no time, he opens up the seals of the goin plate of his armor. Finally releasing his rock hard member. Shepard hurries as well, she pulls both her trousers and her panties down, letting them pool around her ankles.

   She almost has no time to brace herself against the wall, when Wrex kicks her feet further apart to get better access to her hot core.

   The sweet scent of her arousal is floating Wrex nostrils, almost driving him insane. He positions himself behind her, coating the tip of his member with her excitement. With one quick thrust he enters her. He moans against her shoulder and she against the wall. Fuck, for how long was he craving for this?

   But Wrex won't let her adjust to his size, he starts moving forcefully, pushing in further, just to withdraw again. His talons are buried deep into the sensitive skin of her hips while he takes her in a fast rhythm.  His grasp might be too hard but he couldn't care less. That what she gets for teasing him and her moaning and sighing speaks for itself, no complaining from her side.

   Shepards legs start to tremble, the sensation of Wrex blunt spikes along his length is almost too much to bare. His thick and pointy tip is hitting are her g-spot with unbelievable precision. The tight coil in her belly is about to burst at any second.

   Wrex can feel her already tight walls closing in on him. Fuck, this woman is like a vice. Her moaning and slick hot wetness is drawing Wrex closer to the edge with every movement of his hips. When he feels her pulsing around him, after a few more hard thrust, he starts losing his rhythm. With a low grunt he spills himself inside her but instead of catching his breath he withdraws completely.

   Shepard wants to complain but whatever she was about to say, dies in her throat when Wrex spins her around to face him again. She looks up at him with flushed cheeks and half lidded eyes while his are burning with desire. Wrex grabs her thighs and picks her up to presses her against the wall again. He spreads her legs as far as possible.

   Shepard lets her head fall back when he pushes into her again. With the new angle, his groin plates are pressing against her clit. It feels way too good and she's biting her lips, trying to keep her sounds down.

   Something Wrex notices and doesn't approve of. He darts his tongue out and licks over her pulse point. His human buries her nails into his chest plate in response. But the muffled moans are still too quiet for his liking.

   Wrex increases the speed and strength of his thrusts, almost slamming into her. Shepard clings to him for dear life, she is close again. Wrex nips at her neck one final time before he bites her where her neck and shoulder meet.

   Unable to hold back anymore, Alexis cries out, not in pain but in pure pleasure. It's throwing her over the edge, hard. Her orgasm is leaving her squirming in her krogans hands. Wrex is responding with an orgasm of his own, her tightening and spasming walls making him follow her suit only seconds later.

   Both are panting heavily, not letting go of each other. Wrex leans his head against the cool metal of the wall while Shepard lets her head drop onto his shoulder as they recover. Not trusting her legs yet, Wrex tugs her closer and starts carrying  her to the door, down the steps and to her bed, where he carefully lays her down.

   Shepard swipes loose strands of hair from her forehead as she looks up at her krogan with a small smile on her lips. "Done already?"

   A low laugh rumbles through Wrex chest. “Heh, this was just foreplay. I’m everything but done with you just yet.” Only now he stars to remove the rest of his armor, Shepard crowls to the end of the bed to help him. It's falls unceremoniously to the ground, piece by piece until he's completely naked.

   He looks down at her to find her beaming at him. Damn, she is a sight. Slowly Wrex leans down to nip on her lips and Shepard kisses him back. It's ridiculous but Wrex can't deny he likes it. "My turn." She whispers against his skin.

   The bed shifts and protests loudly under Wrex weight but it doesn’t break. This time. Carefully he leans back against the headboard of her bed, watching her getting rid of the ridiculous jacket and her bra underneath it.

   Leisurely she's coming closer to straddle his legs. Wrex eyes wander over her naked form as she's slowly lowering her head towards his member. His pulse quickens when he feels the tip of her tongue taking its time to wander from the base up his length and to the head. She encircles it with her full lips and starts bobbing her head down ever so slowly.

   Dammit, it feels even better than he called to mind. It takes all his strength not to move his hips to thrust into her warm mouth. Her slow pace is maddening and perfect at the same time. Too much and not enough.

   The Clan-Chief can’t keep from growling, when Shepard starts to suck on his tip. She circles it with her tongue every now and then and continues to suck again. Taking more of his length in with everytime she does it.

   Stars are dancing behind Wrex eyelids. When he closed his eyes, he can't remember and he doesn't care. This is way too good to allow even the shortest of coherent thoughts. Alexis tongue starts playing with the blunt spikes of his shaft while swallowing around him.

   Wrex buries his talons in the sheets, almost tearing them. "Fuck…" He pulls even harder at the sheets, when he can feel Shepards delicate fingers massaging his quad while the speed of her working him with her mouth increases.

   Eventually she releases him again with a loud      plop    . Wrex opens his eyes again, just in time to see her carefully lowering herself onto him. A sigh leaves her swollen lips when he enters her again. Both stay still for a moment, only looking at each other before Alexis starts moving.

   Every so slowly she is rocking her hips. Leaning on his chest for leverage, before she starts to push her legs to go up and down.

   While enjoying the sight of her taking pleasure in riding him, Wrex lets his hands wander from her thighs up to the hips, where bruises are already developing. He can't tear his eyes from the traces of his talons on her dark skin. A visible mark, that she belongs to him. The idea alone is making his head dizzy. He encourages her to go harder by meeting her hip movements by his own.

   Shepard moans in response. "Ah, Wrex." And is going faster with her rhythm. Her walls are already starting to close around him again. He increases in speed as well. With his hands buried in the flesh of her tights again, he thrusts up quickly and hard. Her skin is clapping against his hide and plates. It's music in his ears.

   Her moaning is getting louder and louder, encouraging Wrex to let go of his self control. Her whole body starts to shake from the intensity of her orgamsn, when he takes her with force. Alexis is so hot and almost painfully tight, Wrex can’t hold himself back any longer. He slams into her until his quad tightens, preparing for the elease.

   He comes undone in her with a loud and deep rumble in his chest. It is vibrating through his whole body and his vision goes white. Wrex is completely losing all his senses for a long moment.

   It takes him a while to come back. When he is able to collect himself again, he finds that the tip of his cock started to swell, same for his once blunt spikes.

   Wrex tears his eyes open, when he realises what just happened. He looks up at the Commander, who looks back at him with wide open eyes, stunned. "What the fuck, Wrex?” She asks, still panting.

   “Sorry.” He simply whispers, completely out of breath and still a bit dazed. Without a thought he adjusts his hips, causing Shepard to hiss in pain. His spikes are keeping her in place and punish even the slightest movement. “Shit, Wrex. What is that?”

   “I… got carried away.” He starts as he lets his hands fall back onto her thighs. “I… we are locked. Won’t last long, though. A few minutes.”

   It is silent for a few moments until Shepard realizes what's going on. “Did… did you just knot with me?”

   Wrex doesn’t answer, he is still catching his breath. He catches the faint sound of a chuckle and light touches on his mouth. Shepard lowered herself down as far as his spikes allowed her to to kiss him. “Should I feel honored?”

   “Not when you are so damn smut about it.” He raises his arms to hug her to him. “Just be grateful it didn’t happen in your mouth.”

   Another chuckle and then silence again. Damn, as mind blowing as this was, the krogan Clan-Chief is feeling exhausted. All his limbs feel like heavy jelly and his eyes refuse to open.

   Shepard nuzzles her head at his neck, slowly laying down on his chest.  For once she doesn’t say anything, just letting him hug her.

   Wrex is savoring the moment of having his human knot with him. He totally forgot this feeling. Until now he did it only once, when he still was a young and stupid krogan, just after his rite with a female he can’t even remember the name of. Ever since no other woman ever got him even close to knotting.

   Hell, if someone had told him, someday he would have Commander Shepard kept in place by his member, he’d simply shot the person for talking shit.

   The swell of the spikes and the tip is wearing off, releasing Shepard from their hold, but neither her nor Wrex make any attempt to move. Shepards thumb is drawing lazy circles on his chest and he does the same on her back.

   “I’ve missed you.” He feels her whisper against his neck.

   “Of course you did.” He earns a light punch on his chest from her in return but he just huffs a laugh. While still hugging her, he rolls them to the side, finally able to face her without looking down at her all the time.

   It should be weird. Finding peace and comfort in the arms of a female human. To knot with one even. But it isn't, it feels right. He still can't quite believe he is with her, that she is as attracted to him as he is to her. As strange as it is, Wrex wouldn’t trade it for anything, except for-

   “Commander, the Dallatras gave us the exact position of the krogan females and left the ship. Do you want us to set course?”

   Shepard answers Traynor with a simply “Yes.” Not making any effort to move out of her lovers arms. It will take hours to get to Sur'kesh anyway, a short nap won’t hurt. Slowly but surely the Commander drifts off to sleep, when suddenly she feels Wrex low voice rumble through his chest.

   “Hey, Lexis?”

   “Hm?”

   “I’ve missed you, too.”

[arasokanbina]

All her outfits are top tier. I'm not even sure it's fair to put them order for that reason, so I'm not gonna haha! It's not just the outfits, I mean if she didn't perform so amazingly the outfits would miss that extra shine! And they do shine!

The stylists know exactly what they are doing! I'm sure Chung Ha herself has put her own thoughts into the outfits! All of the looks give little stories in my mind which is really high quality because they don't just fit the concept but make concepts!

Note: Sorry for any spelling or grammar errors I just type too fast because I gotta get my thoughts out lol. Also it took me a long time to get the photos and sort them and my net went off for about 20 mins so I'm pretty tired @u@;;; but I had to continue cause fashion lol. Also I'm on mobile and they still don't have a read more so sorry for the longer scroll.

Regal vampress and Comic pop punk. Since they are in the same stage I'm doing them both together. The key point for thr regal vampress is her long high pig tails and her mini ball gown. With her matching long gloves and boots this outfit is simply gorgeous. I love pig tails a lot and she looks so good with them! I also love it because of the length it adds elegance but still is youthful because its pig tails. Her comic pop punk is just so good! Okay so we have the bold colours, with an awesome cartoon bomber jacket. Her space buns with pink fabric in them match it well with her baby pink boots, bright bold pink shorts and graffiti pattern knee highs! This really is comic book heroine and I love it so much! Both outfits represent the playfulness and badassness of the song! Fantastic!

Electric playful punk. The key here is her the highlighter yellow lime colour and hair. Her hair horns remind me of a bicycle handle. The large outlined cat eye is perfection, so sharp and stunning with an added cuteness from the star. Her sparkling tights add that glamour femininity along with her going to kick ass boots that say "Get out of my way!" but in a playful way with the sparkles. The corset belt with the DIY tulle skirt that ruffles romantically at the back and rocker cut striped gloves that also have the sheer tulle fabric to match the skirt emphasis on the cute punk vibes. The large neck chain matches the corset belt chain as well adding again to that punk biker look. Just top tier!

Runaway circus, Midnight dancer. This look gives me a vibe of a post apocalyptic world. Where she finds herself after running away in a dark circus as its main dancer. There is fire, mystery and marvel! Another playful but dark stye! The key here is her eye makeup. Like a card of the queen of hearts, it's once again playful but calculated. Adding to her deadly aura is the knife heart top with the heavy looping belts around her waist. Finally matched with sexy, classy and punkish stockings that with her gloves and her long black sleek knee high boots! I was thinking they could have added a hat like Ryujin's in Not Shy but then that would take away from the eye makeup but maybe perhaps a small hair accessory just to add a little bit more, but I do like over the top shine haha so this is probably best. On closer inspection her braids have pretty silver strands and his fingers have rings! She also has huge chain earrings! Love the extra details and this is what I was looking for! Love it!

Metal cowgirl biker queen. The key point here is her braids in her hair and the fishnet tights, open chaps combo. Her painted nails with her cut gloves that look to be the same denim as the chaps or similar fabric are so cool. I love how the chest holster links with her chaps, and her top has a firey pattern. This outfit screams, "Sit back and watch me ride!", she isn't holding back! Her hair also has an light purple ombre and the plaits have silver threads to give a little sparkle. Once again this is another fantastic attention to details!

Ice punk delinquent princess. The key here is the cold white colour and her gangster school outfit. This outfit is so wonderful! When I was a teen I would have been trying to replicate this look for sure! I love the white fishnets, like it would have been easy to go just black and it would have matched the tie too but once again the stylists know the key is the fine details. Her gun metal nails with her smokey eye shadow are just so crisp and gorgeous on her. I love how the skirt has a little volume at the back to shape the blazer nicely and add that princess element. I could totally imagine her with a white baseball bat with spikes with the handle being silver. And let's not forget the thick boots and her delicate chains accenting her blazer and half skirt! "I got ice decorating my neck." Supreme!

True leather biker Queen. I couldn't find a vertical focus but the boots are the same as number 2 stage. The key point of this outfit is her neatly feathery hair bun and accent buckles and chains. The whole outfit works completely well because it's all leather or like leather material. Completely being the biker gang look. I love the belt buckle garter on her fishnets, her almost cat suit that is accessoried with chains. And even though her hair style is simple, the feathery back with the blonde extension is really fun! Her top also looks a bit like a battle armour breast plate. I'd just love to see her on a bike outside a dusty diner on a hot day. Can we just have a photo book of her looks with concepts please lol.

[liquor-and-intellect]

Clouded- Part 1

In which Jules might or might not have feelings for her best friend, Harry, who is getting engaged to another girl and everything just becomes... more complicated. 

or

friends to lovers to enemies to lovers- it’s complicated

“Where are you even at right now, Harry? I don't see you,” I laughed into the phone, scanning the train station for the familiar broad shoulders and soft brown hair.

“Uh... I'm by a big sign...”

I plugged my other ear from the excess chatter around me. “Yeah, because that narrows it down,” I scolded and rolled my eyes.

Maneuvering my way through the crowd I felt a hand grab my wrist, spinning me around to the wide smile I grew up loving.

“There you are,” he laughed into my hair, pulling me into his chest for a tight hug.

Wrapping my arms around his waist, I breathed in the smell of his favorite cologne.

It had been one long month since I had last seen Harry. One long month of hardcore English papers, late night studying sessions and the occasional all-nighter for an early exam. Even though we both lived in London, it felt like we never saw one another anymore. Between my new semester at uni and Harry's rising fame with his solo career, it was hard to sit down with the familiarity of a childhood face even for one moment.

I had been in the middle of closing my apartment door and wrestling the keys out of the lock when I answered Harry's call last week. He had been in the states working with the band on the new album and had just received the news that he had a week off.

“And I felt that we have a lot of catching up to do,” he had chuckled through the phone and my heart had ached with longing for our hour long conversations. It had been too long since I had sat down with my best friend.

“We do,” I had sighed into the phone.

Harry and I had grown up next to each, our birthdays only being months apart. Every memory I had was branded with a piece of him in it. First day of year one, first stitches, first prom... All of it lived with him by my side. I didn't know a life without him until I moved away for uni and he became famous, spending months away from me in different countries. The invisible cord that kept us connected was pulled so taut it hurt.

But the aching was subsiding as I leaned into his chest right now in the train station, the cord snapping us back together as I hugged him like I did when I was younger.

“When did you get so buff?” I laughed, squeezing his bicep. “it hasn't been that long, has it?”

He pulled away to examine his arm with thoughtful eyes. With a humble shrug he gave a simple, “Eh.”

I rolled my eyes. He was still the same Harry I had always known, the one that rarely thought of himself and refused to believe he was nothing but the lanky, over-looked teenager he had once been.

He gave me a gentle nudge. “Let's go before people realize I'm here. I'd rather pictures of me not get out before I’ve had the chance to see my mum”

He put his hand at the bottom of my spine, guiding me out of the crowd toward the waiting taxi. A warm London breeze slipped its way between us, blowing my dark hair out of it's braid and around my face.

“How does an ever-waiting Buffy the Vampire marathon sound?” I asked, settling in the seat beside him and taking note of the new stubble contagiously making its way around his jawline.

An eyebrow raised and a boyish smirk lifting the corner of his mouth, he replied, “I assume that implies pizza rolls?”

“When have you ever been over to my apartment and not been graced with pizza rolls?” It was somewhat of a tradition of ours to eat pizza rolls together. Neither one of us being graced with the ability to cook well— and a tendency to always overcook things when we did try—our parents gave up and started buying us the only thing that couldn't be ruined with an oven timer. The late nights in my basement watching Friday the 13th—or any scary movie we could get our hands on from my dad's secret collection— and the smell of pizza rolls dancing through the air had been our favorite thing to do.

The taxi wove its way across the busy street towards the corner by the university where my apartment was located. A tiny brick complex with ivy running up the side and a rack of bikes chained out front. It was small and my neighbors were ultimately quiet—although their cigarette smell would sometimes drift up to my tiny balcony— I was content. It was the quietest part of London that I could find.

Harry followed me up the metal stairs to my door, his tall figure looking strange against my lame potted plants and worn out “welcome” mat in the entrance. Turning the key into the lock, I pushed it open, the familiar melody of creaking hinges inviting us in.

“Remind me to fix that for you,” he hummed, running his hand across the dry bolts that held it to the frame.

I rolled my eyes at his worry, closing the door behind us.

My place was small and cozy. A one-bedroom brick walled apartment with dark wooded floor and a simply tiled I'm-not-a-chef kitchen. Harry waltzed straight into my living room, kicking his boots off and tossing himself onto my brown leather couch.

“How's Elaine?” I asked while walking into the kitchen to dig out the pizza rolls, thinking of the pictures of Harry and his girlfriend of two years that he had posted lately. She was a big- time traveling dancer, hitting the Hollywood spotlight with him all the time. Although I had met her on plenty of occasions, we never really clicked besides the one mutual subject of Harry. I wasn't sure if she liked me or not or just finally accepted my occurring appearance in Harry's life, but she was pretty quiet when Harry and I wanted to hang out- no longer the original reaction when she was completely jealous.

“She's good,” he called back from my couch, the noise of the television surrounding his voice. “she's actually in New York right now for Justin Timberlake's tour that just started. I saw her last week.”

I nodded, slipping the tray into the oven. Sliding Harry's legs out of the way, I joined him on the couch where he had started a sitcom. He laid his feet back into my lap without skipping a beat, keeping his eyes glued to the TV.

“You never told me if you went on a second date with that Will bloke,” he said.

I grimaced. Will had been a guy I had met at the student center a couple of weeks back. He was… okay, a Nike wearing, gel-haired and ready-to-party kind of guy. With nothing to do for a Friday night, I had agreed to let him take me to a restaurant down the street. He had been pretty nice, opening the door for me and laughing at my lame jokes. We had even had a pretty heavy make-out session back at his place, a well-deserved orgasm and a cordial “see you around” when I made a hasty exit.

“Because I didn't,” I mumbled, playing with the hem of Harry's pants by his ankles.

“Why don't you ever date, Jules?” he asked with pure curiosity. “I see the way guys look at you, you know you're gorgeous, right?”

I rolled my eyes, ignoring his last statement. “We didn't really hit it off, he wasn't that great. After I left his place… I just wasn’t feeling excited to see him again, y’know?”

“Left his place?” he inquired. “You went to his place.”

Shame settled in my eyes as I glanced down. While Harry was my best friend, I didn’t really disclose my sex life with him. I knew he had one and I’m sure he assumed I did as well. It just wasn’t something I ever felt was needed to be shared. I sighed, “Like I said… he wasn’t that great.”

His eyes glared into the side of my head until he used his foot to push my eyes to his, giving me a stare that was hard to place.

Swatting his foot away, I gave him an annoyed look.

He cleared his throat. “You say that about every guy,” he accused.

Trying to lighten the conversation, I poked him in the side. “I don't say that about you,” I added playfully.

He rolled his eyes and gave into our comfortable banter. “You're a mess.”

“You don't know how to true that is.”

 ….

“This was my favorite episode,” Harry said, nodding toward the TV and grabbing another steaming pizza roll off of the plate in front of us.

I watched as Buffy staked yet another vampire, not a hair out of place. “Mine too,” I agreed. “American television is just better in general.”

We had pushed my glass coffee table to the side of the room, dragging the comforter off my bed along with every one of the blankets I had in my closet onto the hardwood floor in front of the TV. Harry and I had huddled up with our backs against the couch, his long legs stretched in front of him and my ankles folded beneath me. I had a plate heaping with hot pizza rolls for us, Harry pushing one after another into his mouth.

“Do you remember in Grade 10 when you wore that hideous plaid skirt that went to your knees and no one talked to you for the rest of the day?” he asked, smirking at me over a pizza roll that had paused in front of his lips.

“Do you remember when you used to straighten your hair and would sing opera for every school talent show?” I rose an eyebrow at him.

He squinted his eyes at me, furrowing his brow.

I laughed, playfully hitting him in the arm. “It's okay because we were both losers together.”

The corner of his mouth lifted. “We are quite the pair.”

He went to sink his teeth into the pizza roll, when it split in half and flung sauce across his face. His chin and cheeks tainted with the reddish sauce.

I laughed at the dumfounded look he gave me, my eyes watering and my side cramping. Harry's tongue flicked out to reach the sauce at the corner of his mouth, his eyes crinkling with concentration.

“Did I get it?” he asked, looking at me innocently.

I giggled and shook my head, scooting closer to him. “No, Harry... it's all over your face, bub.” I looked down as my laughter bubbled up again.

Crinkles around his eyes formed as he smiled at my laughing. “Well?” he asked. “Are you going to get it off of me?”

I licked my thumb and rubbed at the corner of his jaw. I knew Harry's face like the back of my hand, but looking this close at him within this moment he seemed different. I guess I never realized just how much he had actually matured. His jaw was structured, the valley of it dipping down to his chin and holding two full, pink lips. Lips that were slightly naturally pouted right now, parted and surrounded by pizza sauce. And the stubble he had let grow out below his nose and scattering itself back around his chin was something else entirely different— Harry wasn't that little boy anymore.

I knew he wasn’t a boy. There would be times he’d release new pictures from magazines, hair slicked back, shirtless, tattoos on display… but I tried not to linger too long on them. It was Harry. My Harry.

It made me think of the countless times we had gone places where people had mistaken us as a couple and our quiet denying, “No, no, we're just friends.” And I never questioned it. I never even thought differently until this moment.

Thoughtlessly, I ran my thumb across the valley of his bottom lip even though no pizza sauce resided there. His light green eyes watched me intently, but didn’t make any move to stop me.

This— this fluttery feeling erupted in my the pit of my stomach taking flight into my ribcage where my heart did this strange thing that didn't exactly feel like beating, but skipping or dancing or maybe even spinning.

With my thumb resting in the middle of his bottom lip, his mouth closed around me, framing my finger with a small kiss and it did strange things to my heart.

But he was my best friend and even though we technically weren't doing anything it was wrong to feel this way about Harry. He had Elaine and I... this wasn't supposed to be happening.

I removed my thumb from between his lips, brushing hurriedly on his chin for the rest of the remaining sauce.

“Um-” I stuttered, feeling shaky and almost way too light. “I- uh- I.” I cleared my throat and looked down as red rose to my cheeks- I have never blushed in front of Harry before.

He released a long breath that he must have been holding, not letting his eyes leave my face.

Wiping my hands on my leggings, I shakily said, “I think I got it all off.”

“Jules, I-”

“I'm sorry, I just... you know. Spaced out for a second... there.” I nodded with myself.

He sat up straighter, holding his chin an inch higher. “Jules, I need to tell you something,” he stated, his voice rough.

I put my hands between my knees to prohibit them from doing anything else without my knowledge and nodded for him to continue, he looked so distressed.

“I um-” he cleared his throat. “The reason I wanted to see you this week was...” His eyes flicked away from mine to anything else in the room.

I narrowed my eyes at him, confused by what he was about to say. Usually I could read him so well but after what just happened... I didn't know.

“I'm going to propose to Elaine,” he said, looking at his hands resting in his lap.

My heart chipped at the edges, but I wasn't sure why. He was my best friend... shouldn't I be happy for him?

“Harry-” my voice cracked, but I couldn't let it. I couldn't let whatever I was feeling get in the way for Harry to have everything he had ever wanted out of life. And nothing even happened, it wasn't like we kissed or anything. It was just a stupid thing that I got carried away with because I didn't realize how incredibly attractive he was. That was it, that's all.

I pushed a pained smile onto my face, refusing to let it crack any piece of me. “Harry... That's... Great- lovely. I'm so happy for you.”

I wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling him close to me, letting his arms slip around my waist and his warm breath to brush my neck.

“I'm glad, Jules... Because if you wouldn't be okay with it, I don't know what I would have done,” he murmured, his prickly cheek brushing against mine.

“Why wouldn't I be okay with it, Harry?” I asked, trying to push the aching away into a far corner of my mind where it would never be invited over again. “You're my best friend. I want you to be happy… no matter what.” Even if my confused feelings suffered.

“I don't know... I didn't want you to think that if I married Elaine she would be the only woman in my life,” he said. “I wanted you to understand that you could still be there, you know. Even if we couldn't hang out all the time.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, pushing out my next words. “Harry. You're like my brother, there's no way I can be pushed completely out of the picture.”

I wasn't sure if I felt him pull me tighter or if I wanted him too.

 …

I laid with my back to Harry on my living room floor, a warm blanket tucked tightly around me and my ears heightened to hear his soft snores. We had both talked a little while longer about me wanting to be a psychologist and him wondering if fame had completely altered his personality. And after a few pizza rolls later, I agreed with him that I was tired and rolled over when I saw his eyes were officially closed. I wasn't tired though, rather awake and alert and buzzing with electricity. Here was my best friend who was in love with his soon to be fiance' and here I was hoping silently that maybe he would chang his mind. Maybe he realized that... I don't know- I don't know what I wanted.

I wanted him to be happy, I was one hundred percent certain with every cell in my body that I wanted Harry Styles to receive all of the love he himself gave into the world. I wanted Elaine— or any girl— to wake up next to him every morning thinking of different ways to love him that day. He deserved all the goodness you could find in the earth's heart multiplied by ten. He needed someone to assure him when he doubted himself- because he usually did- someone to rub his muscled shoulder and tell him he didn't need to worry about things out of his control.

I sighed, hoping and praying to God that Elaine realized this. That she realized he wore his heart on his sleeve and was perfectly fine with it being torn into shreds.

Harry stirred in his sleep, turning onto his side facing me and mumbling something incoherent. I rolled over, taking in his peaceful sleeping face and wondering if this was the last time we could ever sleep next to each other without Elaine getting in the way.

Harry moved closer to me, resting his chin on the top of my head, my ear pressed to his chest where the melody of a steady beat rang through. And that's where I fell asleep, listening to the only thumping of anyone's blood I cared to hear.

***

“Want eggs? I know how to make those now,” I asked Harry who was just starting to open his eyes from sleep, stretching his large arms out around him.

I had woken up with my head on his chest and his arms wrapped tightly around me. Quickly, without waking him, I had slid out and went to my room to sit on my bed and think of the cold absence from where I had been folded around him. I had been awake thinking for a while now when he finally started opening his eyes.

He nodded. “Yeah,” he mumbled, his voice nicely groggy from sleep, a silky melodious sound that I lived for. “yeah that sounds nice.”

I gave him a smile, loving the messiness of his hair and the droop of his eyes.

Harry shoveled plenty of my poor eggs into his mouth, he had always had an appetite and being a man didn't lessen that one bit. We lightly talked over coffee, Harry saying he wanted to look at some of the jewelry stores in town and wanted my input on rings for Elaine. I politely agreed and gave him a smile, even though it physically pained me.

Later, I tossed my hair up into a high ponytail, pulling my feet into a pair of chunky sneakers and a warm gray oversized sweater. The temperature had dropped in London and small drizzle was falling over the sidewalks.

I followed Harry down my apartment steps to the waiting taxi on the side of the street. He said he knew of a jewelry store on the edge of town where no paparazzi would bother us.

The small rain was still falling when we got out and I glanced through the glass windows to sparkling rings sitting on velvet cushions. Harry's eyes brightened as I walked in behind him into the immediate blast of the warm heater from the store.

“I don't know what kind of a ring to get her... There's so many,” he sighed, eyes passing over the diamonds in the cases.

As much as I didn't want to give my honest input, I knew he needed my help. I rubbed his arm thoughtfully, sliding my hand into the crook of his elbow to glance over his shoulder. The butterflies erupted again in my stomach, but I pushed them away. “What does she like?” I asked. “Does she want something flashy...? Thoughtful...?” I dusted my eyes over the yellow diamonds. “Unique?”

Harry looked nervous, eyes skipping from one ring to the next and before eventually shrugging.

“Looking for a wedding ring, loves?” said a balding man in a blazer walking from behind the counter. Leaning on the case in front of us, he looked between Harry and I with expectant eyes.

“Uh, yeah,” Harry told him, giving a slight chuckle. “and already failing.”

I sighed. “You're overthinking it. Don't worry too much,” I said, giving him an encouraging smile.

The man gazed over at us, a soft grin on his face. “Well, let's start with what you like, love,” he said, looking at me.

I stared at him for a second, slightly confused. Then, when it registered, I detached myself from Harry, shaking my head. “No, no, no, we aren't... together,” I said through a shaky laugh.

“She's my friend,” Harry told him, wringing his hands together.

The man nodded. “Yes, lad, so sorry. You lot just seem as if you were already married.” Gesturing to the two of us before moving on to a selection of rings. “If you see we have...”

I didn't hear what he said after that, because the thought of Harry here for me made my heartbeat impossibly fast.

It was a strange thing. Having a single moment that changed the way you looked at a person. Here I was, walking down the street with someone I've known my entire life—and here I was hoping that I would walk too close and our arms would brush just a little, just so I could feel him for a small moment.

I didn't want to feel this way. Even as his fingertips brushed mine, I knew it was wrong, but  why did everything feel so natural?

Harry led us to a cafe behind a few business buildings where the rain had finally died down. He had been quiet since we had left the store empty handed. I told him if nothing immediately reminded him of her, just to sleep a night and go back tomorrow, eventually he nodded and let me drag him out for lunch.

We sat at a table outside, the slick wind slipping up and around us, raising goosebumps across my arms.

“Why didn't you wear a coat?” Harry asked, looking away from the dreary sky to my awaiting eyes.

“I didn't realize hell was freezing over,” I mumbled, crossing my arms.

He sighed and slid off his coat. “And yet, this isn't the first time I've scolded you for not bringing a coat,” he said, giving me a little smile that warmed my heart after his previous sad attitude. “Here.” He nodded toward his leather jacket.

I've lost too many arguments on this subject before, so I greedily took it and wrapped it tightly around my shoulders, breathing in his cologne.

The waiter brought out our food and I didn't hesitate to hungrily pour sauce across my fries, listening to my stomach growl in response.

A loose piece of hair glided across my face from the gentle breeze, sliding across my plate and succeeding in smearing sauce across my cheek.

I gasped. “How did that even happen?” I mumbled under my breath, grimacing as I attempted to clean my hair of the food.

Harry chuckled, taking in my disheveled appearance before leaning across the table and removing the hair from my eyes and tucking it gently away. The tips of his fingers lingered behind my ear for a second too long before he removed it to wipe away the ketchup at the corner of my mouth. His thumb gliding across my cheek.

His eyes met mine and this strange unsaid feeling drifted in the space between us like someone I've never met. The pad of his thumb resting below the corner of my lips.

He swallowed. “Why do we keep ending up in these kind of situations,” he murmured, his voice low and unlike the Harry I was used to interacting with.

I grabbed his hand, turning slightly to lay a kiss into his palm and watched for his reaction. His eyes stayed on me and flickered with something that I've never seen in him before. “I don't know,” I replied back, my voice as soft as the inside of his hand.

He sighed. “Jules, I don't know what you're doing to me.”

I furrowed my brow. “I'm not doing anything.” I didn't know what was happening between us either these past few days, but if it caused Harry to look at me like that then the confusion was worth it.

He chuckled softly. “You're so clueless,” he murmured, but then dropped his hand to continue eating, leaving me feeling electrified and wanting to know what he meant.

The day went on like that. We would talk for a bit—never about the engagement— then we would brush hands or Harry would lean into me, everything taunting me and pulling this thought out of the far corner of my mind.

We had been walking down the sidewalk towards my apartment, our boots splashing in the puddles and my hands in the pockets of Harry's coat when he looked up suddenly, nodding towards the sky.

“Look, it's a rainbow,” he smiled.

I stopped and turned towards it, the colors skyrocketing from behind a building.

“Aren't they the strangest thing?” I asked him, not taking my eyes off of it. “They are just so beautiful.”

He didn't answer and I glanced back over my shoulder to see if he was still standing beside me. He was. His eyes glued to my face as if I held every answer in the world.

“Harry, why are you staring at me?” I whispered, pink painting my cheeks.

A bright smile immediately hit his lips. “Did I just make you, Julia Rebecca Lovewick, blush?” He looked back up, a smile of pure pride beaming on his face.

“You were staring at me like there was something on my face,” I replied. “and I was just embarrassed because the waiter was really cute and I couldn’t have that.” I gave him a smirk to hide the fading blush.

Crinkles appeared onto his forehead. “You're such a quick thinker.” He shook his head, beginning to walk again.

“You think I'm lying.”

“I know you're lying,” he said.

“Besides the fact that our waiter was totally checking me out,” I replied, his eyes rolling. “Why were you even staring at me?”

It was his turn for the tips of his ears to turn rosy.

“Oh my goodness!” I yelled, covering my mouth with my hand. “Did I just make Harry Edward Styles blush?” I shrieked, mocking him and stopping to stare at his annoyed expression.

He rolled his eyes yet again and continued to walk, trying to ignore me.

“You were looking at me because I'm beautiful, weren't you?” I said, jogging to catch up with him and giving him a wink.

“I thought we established I was looking at you because you have something on your face.” He still refused to make eye contact with me.

I grabbed his arm and spun him around to face me. “Just admit it, Harry. You've been caught,” I said, giving him a smirk. “You think I'm pretty.”

“I think you're a lot of things, Jules.” He popped an eyebrow, crossing his arms.

I tilted my head, silently asking him to go on.

He threw his arms into the air. “You act like you don't know you're absolutely gorgeous!”

I smiled. “I do know,” I told him, starting to walk again. “It's just always nice to hear it.”

We climbed the steps and stopped in front of my door. Turning around to face him, I said, “You know, you are pretty fit yourself.” I gave him an eye-up sarcastically, sliding my keys into the lock to hear him fall into a fit of laughter.

We walked into my apartment, both still laughing, where I immediately pulled the ponytail from my hair and shook out my dark waves. “That feels fantastic,” I laughed throwing the rubber band across the room.

Harry walked up behind me, taking me by surprise by running his hand through the ends of my hair, the laughter still visible around his eyes. “You should really wear it down more often, I like it better this way,” he murmured, looking up to meet my eyes.

I wasn't sure, but I think Harry was flirting with me.

“And I like it when you don't shave for a couple of days,” I told him, running the back of my fingers across the line of his jaw.

He wrinkled his nose. “Really? I like it but Elaine hates it,” he said and I dropped my hand, shamefully thinking of his girlfriend.

Harry and I were just friends, that was it. So why was I walking such a thin line?

My heart was pounding as I walked into my bedroom, the ringing in my ears increasing. I could feel it. Plain as day and cutting my heart into two, I had a crush on Harry. Maybe it was because he was about to be officially taken or because of the way his hair parted gracefully down the middle. This feeling that has been passing between us today couldn't have been one sided. If I knew Harry, I knew that he was acting completely different around me as well.

I didn't want Harry to leave me. I didn't want him to marry someone and absolutely disappear out of my life. What would I do without him? I had friends that I casually talked to or caught coffee with but Harry was the only one who I shared my thoughts. The only one who cared enough to know if I disliked the smell of cinnamon or the artificial taste of bananas in candy.

My heart was sounding in my ears and an unusual discomfort eating its way through my chest. I couldn't breathe, my lungs weren't collecting air.

He couldn't marry someone, not when I've just developed this crush on him. Not when I've realized that falling in love with your best friend could be the most natural thing in the entire world.

I felt like the world was closing in on me. The walls shrinking in and molding themselves around my neck and chest cutting my oxygen off.

I heard a voice, muddled and underwater, lift to my ears. I couldn't make out the words or syllables, but he was here. I could feel it.

There was something I was clutching, a corner of a desk or maybe a bed frame... I didn't know. Everything was blurry and running together like colors on a canvas. My hand gripped into the fabric in front of my heart, almost as if to catch it if it decided to jump out.

There were hands on me, clutching and pulling me up. Pulling me through the surface of suffocation and closing walls to the fresh air of my bedroom. Back to the present.

All I could hear were the repeating words, “I've got you. You're okay. You are right here, Jules. Do you feel this? That's me. I'm real and I've got you.”

I was closed in Harry's arms, the opposite of claustrophobia taking place and the choking fear subsiding in my throat. The warm skin of his forearms pressing me to his chest where his heartbeat was pulsing.

“Listen to my voice, Jules,” he murmured, brushing his fingers through my hair. “Match your breathing to mine. Just like that.”

And I did, I focused on his words and exhaled with him before taking a deep breath. We did that for a couple of minutes, standing there in the middle of my floor wrapped tightly in his arms both of us rising and falling together.

“Are you okay?” he mumbled, his thumb brushing underneath my eyes where I felt the moisture of uninvited tears.

I nodded, shaking from the incident and because I was slightly embarrassed. “I- I don't know what happened.”

His large hand brushed up and down my back, combing his fingers through the hair near my spine. “I think you had a panic attack,” he said and let out a long breath. “Jules, you scared me to death... I didn't know what to do.”

“Whatever you did worked,” I muttered, working around the shakiness of my voice. I closed my eyes tight into his chest. “it brought me back.”

He wrapped his arms tighter around me, pressing his lips to the top of my head. “Do you want to talk about it?”

I shook my head quickly, I didn't want to feel that way again.

“Okay...” He held my cheeks gently, pulling me back to look me over. His thumbs brushed the edges of my face, his fingers following suit and caressing across the length of my cheekbone. He used his other hand to tuck my hair behind my ear.

I leaned into his open palm, taking note of the warm feeling of home it left me with.

“Jules, I...” He didn't finish what he was about to say because I was looking into his eyes and suddenly realized he was leaning towards me.

His lips pressing flush against mine, my heart fluttering towards the sky. Parting my mouth with his and fireworks taking place behind my closed eyes. Harry kissed me softly, his hands cradling my face and the strangest feeling being built inside of me.

My heart was beating too fast and I pulled gently back to catch my breath. Eyelashes fluttering open, I made contact with the dark eyes that were staring down at me, waiting for a reaction.

“Harry...” I didn't know what to say. I had just been shaking over the idea that this feeling was one-sided, that I was alone. Then he goes and does something like this...

“Don't, it's okay. I didn't mean—” he broke off and let go of my face, his hands falling limply at his side. “I was just too caught up in the moment and still shaken up over what just happened.” He took a step away from me.

I couldn't stop myself. “So you kissed me?” I didn't mean for it to sound so ungrateful, because I was still floating from the memory of his lips on mine.

He wrung his hands out, a nervous gesture he tended to do. “I'm so sorry...”

“Harry-” my voice cracked. “don't be sorry-”

“I'm going to go,” he said, and rushed out of my room.

No. I wasn't going to let him walk away thinking that I thought it was a mistake. I quickly followed him down the hallway where he was pushing his boots onto his feet in the living room.

“Let's just forget about it, okay?” he said, his back to me as he laced the strings.

“No-”

“It was a mistake, I just wasn't thinking-”

“Harry!” I yelled loud enough for him to turn around and see my angered expression. “Shut the fuck up!”

He stood across from me, the distance maybe ten feet or so but the electricity buzzing quickly through as if we were pressed together. His clouded eyes stayed on me, waiting for some kind of answer that I could provide that could solve the way we were feeling, something that could ease his pain from being with Elaine but still being able to look at me the way he is now.

But I didn't have an answer like he thought I always did, because I was new here too. So, I stood there like an idiot- just staring at him, thumping my brain for some form of words.

He sighed and gave a single nod, before grabbing his coat and turning towards the door.

It was then that everything happened in slow motion.

His hand, resting on the doorknob. My feet, walking quickly across the floor to him. Because I had realized then that I had no words to say— none at all.

I grabbed his face in my hands, turning him around to look at me. Not giving him a split second before I pushed my lips against his.

I wrote this on Wattpad when I was FIFTEEN YEARS OLD! I’m 21 now and thought this story deserved a fair chance. I tried my best to edit some, but it’s still a bit rough. Let me know what you think and if I should post the second part- HINT, the second part is already written, I just have to upload it ;)

[mycupoffanfiction]

A Real Sweet Guy Part 2

A biker!Bucky x shy!Reader Series

Part 1  Part 2  Part 3  Part 4  Part 5  Part 6

The reader lives on the same street as Bucky, the leader of a biker gang, which everyone in her building is afraid of, except for her. When Bucky makes a simple act of kidness to the reader, she realises she was right to not be afraid of him.

Warnings: None - just fluff and Gladys. 

Word count: Approx 2600

Masterlist

Hi! Here’s part two, honestly this went from oneshot, to mini series to possible several part series 😅 Let me know if you want to be added to the tag list! 💕

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After a gruelling shift at work, you heave a heavy sigh and push open the door to leave. Your back hurt from hauling heavy orders from the back room into the shop and you were so ready to just lay down and let your aching muscles rest for a bit. Feeling a bit frazzled, you begin your walk home to get ready for your coffee with Bucky.

 Trudging up the last few stairs, you exit the stairwell and you internally groan when you see Gladys in the hallway. You rummage in your pocket for your keys, the sound of them alerting your neighbour and she gives you a disgruntled look. “I do hope you are not bringing that… That criminal into our building again.” She huffed at you as you approached. You really couldn’t be bothered with Gladys right now, so you blanked her completely. “How rude.” She says in a snarky tone. “You know what, Gladys, maybe you’re the rude one for getting in my business.” You grumble, jabbing the keys into your lock, flinging the door open and retreating inside.

 You immediately go for a shower, the hot water soothing your tired back and you bask in the relaxed state you find yourself in after that exhausting shift. You get yourself cleaned up and ready, freshening up with some light makeup. You slip into some simple jeans and a crop top and throw your usual jacket on. Stepping into your boots, you look at the time and decide it’s close enough and you head out of the door. Thankfully Gladys was not there this time and you heaved a sigh of relief as you locked the door behind you. Hopefully she didn’t throw her newspaper at Bucky today, but you knew it was unlikely that she hadn’t.

 Racing down the stairs, you bound out of the front door and onto the pavement. You cross over the road and make your way down to Bucky’s house, extremely ready for that coffee. You start to feel a bout of nerves as you near his front lawn and when you turn to walk down the front path, you can’t help but feel a pang of anxiety. You stopped in front of his door and rang the bell, the anticipation of him answering made your stomach flutter.

 Eventually the door swung open and there stood Bucky. Good lord. If you thought he was handsome yesterday, somehow he got more handsome overnight. Or so you thought. He stood wearing a red t-shirt with a black hoodie over top. He wore a similar pair of roughed up black jeans and his hair was thrown up in his effortlessly, messy bun, the same stubborn strands of hair hanging in his face. He smiled at you and you completely melted. “(Y/n)?” You were suddenly sucked out of your thoughts. “You alright there? You kinda zoned out for a second.” He chuckled. God how embarrassing, you had zoned out him greeting you all because you were enjoying the sight of him. “Sorry, I just, uh, I had a really long shift at work.” You sighed, squeezing your eyes shut in embarrassment. “Don’t worry about it, come in, I’ll get you a coffee ready.” Bucky grinned at you and you nodded, stepping in after him.

 Pulling off your boots and jacket, you joined him in his kitchen. Bucky’s house was so homey. An air of a vintage style to it. You could tell just from walking down his hallway that he enjoyed collecting old things. Stepping onto the tiled floor in the kitchen, Bucky smiled over at you as he prepared all the different types of coffee for you to choose from. His machine was really fancy and must have cost him a fortune. “Which one do you fancy, doll?” Bucky asks. You pick the one you want and he pops it in the machine for you. “How was your morning?” You strike up conversation as you watch the thick, warm liquid pour into your mug. “It was alright, managed to dodge Gladys, thankfully.” Bucky laughed. “How was yours?” He asks, pulling your mug out of the machine and pointing over at the sugar for you. “Honestly, not as good as it could have been, but it was alright. I was late this morning, had to run to work and then I had to carry heavy book deliveries around the shop all morning in between serving customers.” You say as you spoon sugar into your drink and stir. “I thought I saw you running down the road this morning. You’re deceptively fast.” Bucky chuckles as he puts his own coffee on to pour.

 You both collapse into his black fabric sofa with a coffee each. You look around Bucky’s living room and observe all of the vintage items he’s collected. “You have an impressive collection.” You say, your eyes drawn mostly to the old record player in the corner of the room. “Ah, yeah, I have a bit of an eye for things from the 40s.” Bucky explains, getting up and moving to his bookshelf. “We can put some music on if you want, I have some Glenn Miller records.” He suggests, pulling one out to show you. You nod enthusiastically and watch him set it up on the record player. He lowers the needle and the classic sounds of Glenn Miller’s swing music fills the room.

 As you’re drinking your coffee, you look down. Bucky always wears a glove on his left hand and you wonder why. You think it might be rude to ask, but before you can stop yourself, you’ve said his name and he’s looking at you expectantly. You let out a huff and mentally kick yourself. “What is it? You can tell me, doll.” Bucky assures you. “I don’t want to offend you by asking.” You speak quietly. Bucky catches you looking down at his gloved hand and he follows your meaning. “You couldn’t offend me if you tried doll.” He nudged you gently, giving you that lovely lopsided smile. It gives you the confidence and you nod, relaxing a little and take a sip of coffee. “Why do you always wear a glove?” You finally ask and instead of the cold look you had expected, you got a warm smile from Bucky. “Wanna see?” He asks. You have absolutely no idea what to expect but when he pulls off his glove, you certainly had not expected to see a metal hand. You had imagined maybe a very scarred hand or some kind of disfigurement, but this was totally unexpected.

 “Wow.” Is all you can manage and you reach for it but stop yourself. “Hey, it’s alright.” Bucky holds out his metal hand for you and you reach forwards, slightly brushing your fingers over the metal. Bucky pulls up his sleeve to reveal his whole arm is metal. Running your fingers up his forearm, you flinch slightly when the plates shift and whir under his touch. “Can I ask what happened? If that’s okay, at least.” You speak quietly and you’re surprised when Bucky responds because you’re sure you spoke too quietly for him to hear. “You can ask me anything, (Y/n).” Bucky looks into your eyes and you both pause for a moment. “I was in a car crash several years ago; my arm was too badly damaged to save so they amputated it. I found out about a program for experimental advanced prosthetics and signed up to the trial. I got fitted with this arm, and I’ve never looked back.” He explained. “Can you feel things with it?” You ask, still timid to ask questions. You see Bucky’s smile and it relaxed you more. You take in a long sip of coffee while he explains. “I can feel things, yeah, just not the same as a normal arm. I can feel that you touch me, I can feel the temperature difference in things, but I don’t feel pain or discomfort. I just know that I’m touching something or that something is touching me.” Bucky goes on. You want to ask why he hides it, but you know why. He’s self-conscious of it. “I think it’s beautiful.” You look up into his blue eyes and you give him the sweetest smile. He looks down and you see him blush. Bucky Barnes is blushing. “Thanks, sweetheart, no one has ever said that before.” He beams up at you, his eyes seem glassy for a moment, but he quickly blinks it away. You blush at the new nickname and look back down at his metal hand.

 Finishing off your coffee, you hear the next song come on and Bucky leaps off the sofa, grabbing your hand and pulling you up. “C’mon doll, let’s dance.” Bucky is suddenly full of excitement and you let him lead you into a dance, all the while you let a string of giggles leave your lips. You both dance around the room, Bucky is amazingly graceful in his step, you never took him for a dancer, but you guess he was right when he said there was a lot about him that’d surprise you. Bucky twirls you around and when you turn back to face him, his hand naturally lands on your hip. He quickly realises and retracts, apologising before twirling you around again. And to think everyone told you this man was dangerous, he was far from it, a misunderstood biker with a heart of gold. When you both break away from your dance you give him a huge smile. “You just keep surprising me, Bucky.” You giggle. Bucky laughs and you stare up at him, admiring the way the skin around his eyes crinkle when he laughs and his perfect white teeth and the way his deep, almost gravelly laugh vibrates through his chest. You lose yourself looking at him again, but you catch yourself before you can embarrass yourself further.

 “How about that ride, doll?” Bucky suggests. You pause and look up at him, you want to say yes, but also no. You suddenly lose your voice and all you can do if flash him a smile. “Hey, don’t worry, I was just gonna drive you around the block or something, if you hate it we can get off and no harm done, I promise.” Bucky grips your shoulder gently and you relax into his touch. That was enough to get you to agree and you nod. “Alright.” You finally use your voice and he grins at you. “Atta girl, c’mon doll.” He takes your hand in his and you feel yourself blush as you feel his hand against yours. His palm is calloused from his job as a mechanic down at the garage, but the back of his hand is unbelievably soft. You trail along behind him and you both get your shoes and jackets on, ready for the cool weather outside. Bucky hands you a helmet and you step across the threshold, clutching the helmet in your hand.

 Bucky pulls open the door to his garage and his beautiful Harley stands proud. He rolls it out of the garage onto the concrete and he puts his helmet on, waiting for you to do the same. “Hop on, doll.” He waits for you to climb on and you swing your leg over the seat, perching yourself comfortably on the back. You bring your hands around his waist and hold onto him and you follow his lead by putting your feet on the pegs on either side of the bike. “Ready?” He asks. “Yeah.” You squeak out. He starts the bike and you grip him tightly as it jumps to life, the roar of the engine filling you with nervous excitement and you feel much more at ease than you had expected.

 Bucky gives you a moment to get used to the feeling of being on the bike before he rolls you out of the driveway and takes you onto the road. Bucky takes it slow to begin with and then lets you know you’re going to go a bit faster on the main road and he turns the corner with you clutching to him as he leans to turn the bike. Speeding up you loosen up slightly and begin enjoying the ride as he drives you down the road and turns another corner to go around the back of the block. Adrenaline rushes through you as he speeds up again and before you know it, he’s pulling back up in front of the house.

 Bucky cuts the engine and you both pull off your helmets, your hair goes a bit wild, but you don’t really care. “How was that?” Bucky asks eagerly. “Amazing!” You beam. “Way less scary than I thought it would be.” You giggle, high on excitement. Bucky helps you off his bike and you grip his hand. Your legs feel a little shaky from the vibration of the bike, but Bucky knows this and instantly snakes his arm around your waist. “Here, let me help you. You get used to it after a while.” He explains, walking you over to his front porch and you plop yourself down on one of the wooden chairs he keeps out there.

 You both sit out on the porch, Bucky taking the seat next to you. “Hey, uh, it’s my day off tomorrow, do you want to hang out?” You ask. “I gotta go to work down at the garage tomorrow.” Bucky sighs, sounding disappointed. “But, if you want to, you could drop by and I can introduce you to my friends?” He proposes. “That sounds nice.” You nod. “Great, come by after lunch some time?” He suggests. You agree and you both fall into a comfortable silence. You don’t even realise you’re doing it, but you start absentmindedly playing with Bucky’s metal fingers and when you catch Bucky looking down, you realise what you’re doing and quickly pull your hand away. “Hey, it’s okay, I don’t mind.” Bucky gives you that reassuring, warm smile again. What you don’t want to admit to him though, other than the fact that his hand feels so nice and smooth, is that it somehow has a calming effect on you, which was unusual for you. You were full of nervousness and somehow the one thing that made Bucky feel self-conscious was making you feel less anxious.

 “So I’ll see you tomorrow?” Bucky asks as you both stand in front of his front door. “Yeah, I’ll see you tomorrow.” You confirm, giving him a sweet smile. You felt almost sad that you had to go, but you couldn’t live your whole life on Bucky’s porch talking to him. Well you could and you definitely would. But you shouldn’t. “Thank you for the coffee and the ride.” You thank him and Bucky gives you a grin. “Anytime, sweetheart.” He puts his and hand on your shoulder, but you read his actions completely wrong and go to hug him, but you stop half way when you realise that’s not what he was going to do. You bite your lip nervously but Bucky chuckles and pulls you in for a warm embrace. You rest your head against his chest and squeeze him gently. Before he pulls away, he reaches down and presses a gentle kiss to your cheek in return from yours yesterday. You feel yourself blush madly and you start to back away, grinning at him. “Bye, doll, see ya tomorrow.” He winks at you and you can’t help but smile uncontrollably before turning away to walk back to your apartment, excited for the next time you got to see Bucky.

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Tags:

@shygirl-00 @scuzmunkie @ thechaoticargonaut @allonszassbutt @smashley816 @paintballkid711

[jouretnuit-nightandday]

let me have a dance with her

Bumbleby Week Day 1 - Atlas Ball

They haven’t had much time to talk after getting to Atlas, though Yang wonders if they even need words at this point. They’ve both felt it, the shifting of their relationship, inevitable and immense like the shifting of continental plates. One minute they were still mending, dancing around each other, the tension palpable. The next, they’ve watched Adam fall to his death, blood staining his shirt, and Blake is crying on her knees, and Yang’s arms are around her, and everything’s changed.

Or: It’s the worst party ever, but Yang and Blake still find each other.

Yang usually loves parties, but this has got to be the worst she’s ever been to.

Everything about it feels stifling - the crowd of people dressed in their fanciest clothes, the chatter of conversation, incessant and grating, the air, heavy with perfume and incense and candles and the sour smell of sweat underneath it all.

She’s standing near a glass door that leads out to the garden, eyes scanning the crowd. She has no trouble finding Ruby and Jaune hovering not too far from Ironwood, who’s busy talking with a group of high-ranking Atlas military personnel. It takes her a little more time, but eventually she spots the rest of her friends, all engaged in conversation with various guests.

(Weiss is talking to Winter, hands crossed in front of her, and if Yang didn’t know her as well as she does, she wouldn’t notice the way her knuckles have turned white, the fragile tautness of her back, like a bowstring ready to snap. Yang’s heart aches for her, but she doesn’t move. She knows Weiss can handle whatever this is, and she also knows Weiss will call for help if she needs it.)

She sighs and takes a sip of her drink - some sort of creamy cocktail she hates - while she looks around for potential targets. It’s their goal after all, the whole point of going to this stupid, terrible party in Atlas: gathering information, making people talk, looking for any trace of Salem’s influence, any indication of where the war will hit next.

Yang hasn’t done much of that, so far. People here are just so fucking delicate, so poised and polished - they make her feel inadequate, awkward, too big and too loud and too much, a goliath in a dust shop. So she drinks, and flexes the fingers of her metal hand, and eyes the crowd, and reflects on the fact that this is the first party she’s ever hated so much.

She loves parties where people are happy, that’s the thing. There’s a way to loose yourself in a party, with the music and the lights and alcohol and bodies pressed close together and the sound of laughter. Yang grew up in a quiet house, after Summer died. A loving house, certainly, built by her father who, despite losing so much, still found the strength to give his children a home. But a quiet house nonetheless, so filled with absence and ghosts that even the babbling of her little sister couldn’t drown out the grief.

So Yang is drawn to the noise and the fun and the fleeting joy of parties. And this one has none of it.

She tries to smile at an older woman wearing an extravagant hat with silver feathers - the woman ignores her pointedly. Yang rolls her eyes, takes another sip. On the right side of the room, Blake is standing beside a marble column, talking with a man sporting the most ridiculous mustache Yang’s ever seen. He’s a little taller than her, and leans his head down to say something close to her ear. Yang catches Blake’s eyes, and winks. Blake rolls her eyes, clearly bored out of her mind. Yang hides a snort of laughter in her cocktail. The man smiles, Blake smiles too, and says something that makes him laugh. She’s good at this, Yang thinks, with pride. The daughter of a diplomat, through and through. She will be a great leader, someday, when the war is over and they have a future to think of.

A future. Yang can’t imagine a future without Blake, and now there’s something tightening inside her stomach, something pressing, urgent. She wishes she could just grab Blake’s hand and leave, and talk about their future, maybe. They haven’t had much time to talk after getting to Atlas, though Yang wonders if they even need words at this point. They’ve both felt it, the shifting of their relationship, inevitable and immense like the shifting of continental plates. One minute they were still mending, dancing around each other, the tension palpable. The next, they’ve watched Adam fall to his death, blood staining his shirt, and Blake is crying on her knees, and Yang’s arms are around her, and everything’s changed.

Blake brings her cup to her lips. The crystal lamps hanging low make her look ethereal, almost, in her black and purple dress, like a character out of a fairy tale, an enchantress, a queen. She’s wearing a bow, and Yang wants nothing more than to tug it out and free her ears, thread her fingers in the silklike softness of Blake’s dark hair.

Someone bumps into her, shaking her out of her reverie. “Yang, we’re supposed to be mingling”, Nora whispers way too loud. Inexplicably, she’s managed to get ahold of a full platter of dainty little fishcakes. There’s a waiter looking baffled and kind of scared on the other side of the room - Yang has no idea what went down, but she winces in sympathy nonetheless. “Stop staring at Blake and go talk to people!”

She stuffs an entire cake in her mouth - Yang can’t help but be impressed - and winks. “Or, you know, go talk to her, and ask her for a dance, lovergirl!”

Nora punches Yang’s shoulder, hard enough that if Yang were anyone else she’d be left with a bruise, and saunters over to where Ren is politely listening to a couple of old men wearing monocles and, absurdly, powdered wigs.

Yang turns her eyes back to Blake, but she’s disappeared in the ever-moving crowd. She sighs, takes one last look at her sad half-empty cup, and decides she’s had enough. She leaves the cup on a nearby table, and slips through the glass door, into the garden.

Outside the air is cold and sharp, refreshingly clear. It smells crisp, of fresh snow and something minty. Yang takes a breath, feels her lungs ache a little, pleasantly so, and rolls her shoulders. She’s in a paved alleyway, surrounded by marble sculptures and trees covered in a thin layer of ice. The music still comes through the opened window, and without the rest of the party, Yang can finally appreciate the lilting melody. The band is playing a classical piece, an atlesian waltz, both beautiful and melancholic. She closes her eyes, savoring the moment.

A sudden noise makes her jolt. A little further up the alley, in the semi-darkness, there’s something…someone? Yang takes a step forward, muscles tensing instinctively. “Is someone there?”

She hears shuffling, light footsteps, and then she blinks, taken aback. It’s a group of children, hiding in the garden, hesitantly walking toward her. Five of them, all dressed in warm and practical clothes, though not fancy enough to look like they belong in the party. Two of them are Faunus, siblings probably, with nearly identical dog ears amid dark curls of hair. The oldest looking one, who must be around ten, maybe twelve, pushes the other kids behind him, protectively. He’s glaring at Yang with outright suspicion. Yang relaxes her whole body, drops her shoulders, opens her hands, makes herself look as harmless as possible.

“Hello,” she says, with a smile. “I’m Yang.”

“Hi!” a little girl replies, cheerfully, before the older boy shushes her. “You from the party?” he asks, still frowning.

Yang nods. “Wasn’t much fun, so I decided to come out here. Lucky I did, cause clearly I found the real party!”

She winks at the kids, and they relax, all at once. She knows she’s won them over, so she crouches down to their level, and they come closer, curiously eyeing her metal arm, her wild hair, the shiny material of her ball dress. Yang pokes at the little girl, who giggles, delighted by the attention.

“What are you guys doing out here?” she asks. One little boy with dog ears and curly hair points at the door she just came through, rubs his neck. “Mama said we can’t go in, but we wanna listen to the pretty music. Are we in trouble?”

She shakes her head. “No, you’re not in trouble. It is very beautiful music.”

The older boy extends a hand. “I’m Max. Our parents are all working tonight, in the kitchen and stuff, so we’re waiting for them to go home. But we snuck outside to hear the music.”

Yang shakes his hand, gravely. “That was a smart move. I did the same thing.”

Max grins, looking down at their joined hands. “Do you know how to dance the atlesian waltz?” Yang nods, amused by his excitement, now that he’s no longer scared of her. “Would you, huh, teach me?” he asks, a little shy.

She laughs. “Sure thing.” She stands up, pulling him towards her. The other kids scatter in a half-circle, wide-eyed and fascinated. “Okay, so first you need to face me and put your other hand on my shoulder.”

It’s a little awkward - Yang is so much taller than him - but they manage a semi-correct position. Yang taps his feet with her own to widen his stance, then places her hand on his waist. “Okay, now listen to the rhythm of the music - one two three, one two three. We’re gonna follow the rhythm. Look at my feet.”

She leads him through the steps, and they start dancing clumsily. He’s clinging hard at her dress, a little unsure, and the line of his shoulders is too stiff - he almost trips a few times. Yang stays gentle, guiding him back to the rhythm again and again every time he falters. It reminds her, weirdly, of teaching Ruby how to swim - the patient repetition.

Max is not a bad dancer, and when he’s mastered the steps, Yang tries something a little more challenging. The other kids clap and cheer as Yang twists and turns the two of them around, her golden dress flowing in the cold air. She’s so focused on the dance - and on not stepping on poor Max’s feet - that she doesn’t notice when the other kids stop cheering, until there’s a hand on Max’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Blake says, to Max, with a kind smile. “Would you let me have a dance with her?”.

The boy glances at Yang, steps back, and suddenly his little hand on Yang’s shoulder is replaced by Blake’s, suddenly Blake is standing in front of her, face to face, her hair glowing under the moonlight, eyes brighter than any star above.

Yang feels warm all over. She rests a hand on Blake’s waist, almost shyly, and grabs her other hand. Blake’s skin is soft under her fingers, and familiar. They lock eyes, and start moving with the music, twirling on the icy paved alleyway, feet perfectly in synch. The children are standing on the side, watching them with awe and delight - the little girl’s mouth opens comically wide. Yang smiles, soft.

“What are you doing out here?” she asks Blake, low as a whisper, before spinning her around and back in her arms.

“I was looking for you,” Blake says, simply. She smiles too. The music slows, and she presses herself against Yang, until their bodies melt into one, cheek to cheek, heart to heart. “I couldn’t handle the party anymore, I just wanted to be with you,” she murmurs into Yang’s ear.

Yang trails her hand until it rests on the curve of Blake’s lower back, metal arm circling around her waist. “Me too.”

“Are you okay?” The words are soft, but sincere, and there’s genuine concern in Blake’s eyes. Maybe she’s wondering what drove Yang outside the ballroom. Yang’s chest fills with affection and gratitude.

She brings her other hand up to cup the back of Blake’s neck, and now the dance looks more like a swaying hug. “I’m great. Except…”

“Yes?” Blake breathes out. Her own arms are tight around Yang, fingers digging a little into the bare skin of her shoulder blades.

“Except I really want to kiss you right now,” Yang murmurs. She feels Blake shivering under her hands, feels the way her breath stutters out of her lungs, and she’s not nervous, not at all. It feels right, and the moment is perfect - the two of them in an iced garden under the moonlight, having just escaped the rigidity of atlesian etiquette.

Blake leans away a little, so she can look up and into Yang’s eyes. Yang reads wonder on her face, but also something else, something unwavering, the tranquil strength of absolute certainty. So she lets Blake tugs her head a little lower, until their noses are touching, until Blake’s lips meet hers.

It’s the gentlest kiss, the brush of butterflies wings against one another, yet it’s powerful enough to shake mountains inside Yang’s heart. Her cheeks burn, every inch of her skin is tingling, down to her fingertips. Blake kisses her again, a little rougher this time, capturing her lower lip between her teeth for the briefest instant. Yang feels on the verge of falling. Maybe she already did.

But she hears a small gasp, from behind her, then a giggle, and a couple shushing sounds.

Right. “We have an audience,” Yang murmurs against Blake’s mouth.

Blake chuckles and lets go of her, taking a step back. “Maybe we should go back to this later, in private.” Her expression shifts to something hesitant, and she blushes, pretty pink. “I mean. If you want to?”

“Yeah,” Yang says, catching Blake’s hand in her own, squeezing once. “I’d like that.”

The little girl comes up to Blake, and tugs at the side of her dress. “Excuse me,” she says, very solemn and obviously imitating Blake from a few minutes ago. “Can I have the next dance?”

Blake smiles, before schooling her expression into seriousness. “It would be my honor.”

She hoists the child on her hip, and starts spinning, and Yang watches her, her heart beating steadily in her chest, sure, like she’s never been before, of what she feels and what she wants.

Blake and Yang spend the rest of the evening laughing and dancing with children and looking at each other, thinking of their first kiss under the stars, and of many more to come, and when it’s time to leave, Yang sighs, happily.

See, now that’s the kind of parties she loves.

[c-is-for-circinate]

inauspicious-augury replied to your post: Fuck it, today has been confusing and annoying and...

Listen, I’m always down for FMA related anything

Let’s talk about the Ed-in-Ishval AU, then.  Let’s talk about Edward Elric, with all his stubbornness and certainty and impossible furious morals, sixteen years old in the middle of hell on Earth.  (Or at least, let’s talk about the path that gets him there, because it’s a long one and there’s more of this story yet to go).

Ed is born seven and a half years early.  Van Hohenheim leaves Resembool a couple of years late.  Nothing else changes, except in reaction to those two things--so everything changes.

Edward Elric is stubborn and fierce and golden and brilliant, and until he’s almost nine, he’s also alone.  He learns everything he can get his hands around, everything his mother can teach him, everything every adult in town can teach him, following everyone and asking questions until nobody can answer any more.  He reads every single book in his father’s study that his hands can reach, and learns to turn the floor into stepstools to reach for more, and he learns, and he learns, and he learns.

Al is born when Ed is eight and a half, and Ed loves him instantly, wholeheartedly, with everything inside of him.  Hohenheim isn’t there when it happens--off on another one of his mystery trips that he never explains no matter how much Ed asks.  Ed holds his younger brother before anybody else, before even his mother, because Sara Rockbell doesn’t quite manage to stop him sneaking in the door to the room in time.  His father doesn’t meet Al for another week and a half.  Ed spends every second of that time doting on his tiny miracle little brother, on his glowing tired miracle mother.

Ed’s mother keeps her house alone for three weeks out of every five.  His brother learns to sit, and then to stand, to hold things, to talk, to think, and Hohenheim is gone for so much of it.  Ed understands so much about the world, but there are things he still doesn’t get, mysteries he already resents for eluding him, and his father is the biggest mystery of all.  Hohenheim answers no questions, not ever, not about alchemy and not about where he goes, what could possibly be more important than this. Hohenheim watches this boy with eyes and hair like every dead soul from Xerxes, with alchemy sparking from his fingertips, with his ravenous hunger for knowledge and his bone-deep entitlement to every answer, his little boy’s surety and hubris, and is so very, very afraid for his child.

Ed runs away for the first time when he’s twelve, when he’s read every single book in his father’s study, even the ones on the topmost shelves, even the ones hidden behind locks that he has to transmute away, even the ones written in code so intricate it takes him weeks to break.  He kisses his brother and promises to write (Al is three, almost four, it’s more than old enough to be reading and learning and starting to figure out alchemical code), and leaves his mother a note.  He doesn’t say a word to his father, who’s been gone for a week and a half and won’t be home for another two, and doesn’t matter anyway. He spends four weeks on his own in the back country of Amestris chasing down rumors of a woman who can kill bears with her two hands and does alchemy without even a transmutation circle.  Izumi Curtis finds him on her doorstep, grinning and alone.  She keeps him for six months before Van Hohenheim shows up at that same door with a look of granite annoyance. Ed would stay, anyway, if Izumi didn’t throw him out face-first in the dirt outside her house to send him back to his mother.  He’d stay even then, find his own way, learn more and more and more, convince Teacher to take him back, but Hohenheim is still so much taller than him and his hand on Ed’s shoulder is a vise.  Ed’s learned enough from Teacher to throw him off, but--not skills to use on his father.  Not that. Hohenheim drags Ed all the way back to Resembool, never mind that he’d had plans, that the Dwarf in the Flask’s plans are drawing ever closer to completion, that he wants so badly to age and die.  Trisha has a cough that rattles deep in her lungs when he gets back, something it takes more power than Hohenheim ever would have predicted to heal entirely. Clearly it’s not safe to leave entirely.  Not quite yet.

Al grows up toddling after his big brother, reading every book Ed pours through and then passes over, as devoted and beloved as any younger brother has ever been in the world.  He and Winry are thick as thieves, Winry who’s too smart for the other kids in town too, Winry whose mother and father used to babysit Ed back when they were teenagers and expect him to return the favor.  Ed in all his skinny teenage gangliness roams around Resembool and its outskirts with a pair of toddlers who become small children who become older children, following him like ducklings the whole way. He doesn’t bother with the books in his father’s study any more, mostly, except to answer Al and Winry’s questions, to teach them whatever he happens to know about alchemy and engineering and metal, to answer every single question that nobody would ever answer for him when he was small.  He teaches himself, instead, tests and experiments, tries and tries again and learns, and learns, and learns. Al grows up with a treehouse just outside his home that his father tried to build by hand, ten years before he was born, that his brother fixed and enhanced and decorated with alchemy in ridiculous wooden gargoyles and spikes a few years after.  He hides there, sometimes, when he comes home and Ed and Father are shouting again. Ed shouts at everything in the world except for Al and Mama, and Father never shouts at anything at all except for Ed.  It should mean that Al would be able to get in between them, to make them stop, but he hasn’t figured out the magic words yet.  And maybe he shouldn’t have to.  Mama says it’s not his job, that Father and Ed are just too similar, that it’s up to them to figure that out.  Al thinks she’s probably right, but he’s allowed to be annoyed about it.

The second time Ed leaves, he’s sixteen and Al is eight, and this time Hohenheim isn’t the one to bring him back.

They scream at each other before they go.  Ed wants more, he has always wanted more, he has spent his whole life starving.  His mother has filled his every plate with oatmeal and stew and warmth and let him gorge himself on all of it, and she’s loved him, and he’s grown, just like a parent and child are supposed to do.  His father has refused his questions at every single turn and left him to scrounge for every scrap of knowledge he’s found.  So be it.  He’ll go off and find what he’s looking for on his own. His father tries to stop him with strong words and non-answers, yet more non-answers.  “There are things you’re too young and foolish to even realize you don’t want to know!”, he thunders, and Ed growls at him with glinting, golden Xerxian eyes. His mother cries, and it almost makes him stay.  “Promise me you’ll come back,” she says.  “Promise me you’ll find what you’re looking for and make it back to me.”

Six months later, when Hohenheim leaves, it’s for good.  He’s spent too many years already trying to temper his intemperate son, and there’s no helping him now. Al clings to his mother’s side, and she pets his hair and keeps him close, as days turn into weeks into months for both of them.  “There’s no keeping either of them, when they want to go,” she murmurs.  “But we’ll be here when they get back.”

Ed Elric, sixteen years old and so sure of himself, so very very sure, takes a train to Central and walks into the State Alchemist examination as the youngest test-taker in history.  If his father won’t teach him, then there are other experts.  There are other libraries.  He’ll find the best. There’s no risk in it, he knows, not for him.  He is smarter, faster, more powerful in his art than anyone he’s ever met besides Teacher.  He’s too good to waste on the front lines.  He’ll show them, and they’ll put him in a lab somewhere, to scour ancient tomes and try experiment after experiment, to unfold every alchemical secret the world has to hold. He transmutes a dozen different substances in his practical display, rock and wood, glass and ice and coal and air.  He moves from one to the other without a breath, without a blink, as graceful as a dancer, sketching arrays in the blink of an eye and daring the examiners to toss him anything more. He’s as hungry as Gluttony, in his own way, as possessive as Greed, as prideful as Pride.  He’ll do, the test proctors report to their Fuhrer, Wrath reports to his siblings, to his Father.  He’ll do.

.

The Quicksilver Alchemist shows up at Ishval Command sixteen years old and skinny, with a too-big uniform and an annoyed glare for the whole endeavor.  "I’m not a soldier, I’m an alchemist,” he complains to anyone who’ll listen. It is strange, Roy thinks, to have Elric here.  Not a scrap of him is military.  State Alchemists are given honorary rank, but most of the ones here so far have basic training and a legitimate military career to go with it.  Why Elric?  Why not set him to work in some lab, the way he clearly wants? He can transmute anything, the rumors say, any substance he’s handed.  He’s been researching cells and biochemistry: how to turn carbon and phosphorous and nitrates and water from base materials into plants, into meat, into food.  They call him Quicksilver because he shifts from one material to the next, one array to another, without a single blink as fast as it would take any other alchemist to find the right page in their own journals.  What is that worth right now, right here? It’s 1908.  The Ishvalan rebel forces are supposedly on the verge of surrender, say the half of the rumors that don’t have them overtaking the entire East in another month.  The war’s been raging back and forth for almost seven years, but it’s possible.  Maybe, Roy thinks, Quicksilver will get lucky.  Maybe he’s just young enough to’ve missed the worst of it already.  Maybe he won’t have nightmares about deserts.

Ed doesn’t fit in with the military alchemists, which it takes him about half an hour to decide is fine by him.  Grand and Comanche, who can barely transmute anything that isn’t metal at all, watch him with sheer disdain.  Major Armstrong gives him a big, beaming smile of encouragement and regales him for an hour with stories of Armstrong warrior-alchemists throughout the past four centuries.  Major Kimblee just watches him, quiet and considering and smiling.  It’s creepy as all fuck, but as far as Ed can tell, that’s how Kimblee watches everything. Kimblee and Mustang are the only ones here whose alchemy is interesting enough to catch Ed’s attention for more than a few seconds anyway.  Talking to Kimblee for more than five minutes makes Ed’s skin crawl.  Mustang just smiles, smug and enigmatic, and won’t talk about the secrets of flame alchemy at all, which just fucking figures. Ed can handle alone, though.  He’s been alone most of his life.  He writes Al, and his mother, and Winry.  He scribbles pages full of theories and ideas.  When Comanche and Grand sneer in his general direction, Ed sneers right back.

Lonely is easy.  Bored, though...bored is hard. Ed managed to squeeze three alchemy texts into his belongings besides his personal notes, which was two more than the orders sending him here suggested he’d have space to bring.  They’re the densest and most complicated-looking ones he could find in the week he had to pack, and he has the first one cracked before his train even delivers him to the Ishvalan front. He’s not a soldier, is the problem, and his new CO knows it, which means they’re not about to send him on missions like one.  Defend the encampment if insurgents attack, sure, Ed’s ready to do that, but what does he know about ferreting individual terrorist cells out of Ishvalan hidey-holes?  So far his only orders have been to wait. Fuck that, Ed figures.  Waiting isn’t exactly his game.

They’re stationed on the outskirts of a town five times the size of Resembool, on the edge of an orchard of date palms, where the whole horizon to the north and east is pale and flat with sand.  It’s one of the first places the Amestrian army took in the whole action, and it’s been subdued and cowed over and over again for seven years.  There are two bars where soldiers cluster and drink and sing, one for enlisted troops and one for officers.  There’s a house near the edge of town with no sign over the doorway where soldiers sometimes disappear, on leave, for an hour or four at a time; it takes Ed an embarrassing two weeks to realize it’s a brothel.  There are a handful of empty shopfronts down the main street of town, where soldiers don’t buy candles or sandals or childrens’ toys the way the town’s old residents used to, and an open-air market full of cloth-tented stalls where Ishvallans still try to sell fresh fruit and goat’s milk cheese and get by. It takes all of two days and a half before Ed slips out from the neat rows of soldiers’ tents in camp and loses himself, as fast as possible, in the clay tile and brick streets of the city.  If he can’t learn from books or the other alchemists around him--and he’s had years of that, years of finding ways to make his own lessons--he’ll find something else to challenge him.  The alleys are narrow and the houses are packed close together, nothing like Resembool or Dublith or Central or anywhere he’s ever lived. He’s got chalk in his pocket and all the hand-to-hand Teacher ever taught him, a white cloak over his stupid blue uniform, reflexes and a brain.  He’ll be fine.

This is what Ed learns, then, in his first three months in Ishval: The taste of pomegranates, sharp and sweet and juicy-red enough to drip down his chin and stain white robes much too brightly for blood until he figures out the right array to bleach it away again. Three different alleyway games played by children even younger and smaller than his brother, who don’t mind giggling and chasing around a blonde grownup who brings his own chalk for hopscotch and somehow always loses. The quickest way to cross four miles of desert in the middle of the night to surprise Yuiry and Sara in their clinic, and hang around fixing equipment and transmuting scrap metal back into usable ingots for new automail, and chat about home until they kick him out and he has to hightail it back to camp before dawn roll call again. What the stars look like, and the moon, in the widest sky he’s ever seen, in a place where clouds don’t form and it never rains.

He doesn’t kill.  Three months in Ishval, and Ed doesn’t make one single kill. He’s been on a handful of missions--patrol this secured area, establish that new outpost--all of them stupid and make-work, all of them pointless.  He wanders around the desert and scrapes lines in the sand with a stick to do basic construction because outposts and guard towers are annoying to build by hand.  For this they dragged him out of the library in Central.  They call it the front lines, but as far as Ed’s seen, ninety percent of the time it’s just a glorified camping trip. The other ten percent of the time is bad, sometimes.  He’s there when Cooper gets shot in the shoulder by an enemy sniper.  When Sayers falls asleep on watch, and a handful of Ishvalans almost overrun Outpost 37 in the middle of the night.  When the bloody, straggling remains of Captain Hughes’s team make it back to camp, two days late and missing three soldiers.  But... But Warren has pressure on Cooper’s shoulder in seconds, and Ed has a twenty-foot-high wall of sand between them in their attacker just as fast, and then another shot rings out from the guard tower behind them and Sergeant Hawkeye drops the other sniper anyway.  But he hates trying to sleep on overnight missions at Outpost 37 even more than he hates trying to sleep back at main camp, where there are at least a few raw materials that can be transmuted into something softer than solid rock under a paper-thin bedroll, and so do half the men stationed there, so everyone woke up before anyone died and most of the Ishvalans got away.  But General Fessler doesn’t put Ed on missions like Captain Hughes or Major Mustang, because he knows better.  Because Ed isn’t a soldier.

And Ed simmers, and Roy watches him, and Maes watches him, because who the hell puts a civilian kid like that in a place like this? Roy’s been a state alchemist for three years.  He’s been in Ishval for two.  Every day, he wakes up in a world that’s hot and dry and empty as far as the eye can see through to the horizon, and hopes that maybe there won’t be another mission today.  Another knot of insurgents to flush out and fry, and try to avoid looking in their eyes, and try to avoid recognizing how skinny, how young, how desperate they all look.  Another chance for those young desperate rebels to put a bullet through good men and women Roy’s spent two years fighting and serving and living shoulder-to-shoulder with. It all seemed so straightforward two years ago.  They’re tired.  They aren’t losing, but they’re not winning, either, and there’s news of fighting halfway throughout the East, and maybe the war just won’t ever end. “It will,” Maes says, and then he gushes about his Gracia some more.  To Mustang, who can be goaded into a smile if he works hard enough at it.  To Hawkeye, who can’t, but who sometimes relaxes her shoulders just that little bit and gets the twinkle in her eye that means she’s laughing on the inside.  To Elric, who’s a kid out here in the middle of the desert, stuck on the world’s most fucked-up extended camping trip in the most extreme game of high-stakes tag ever. Elric’s a good kid.  It’s worth trying to be there, to keep him from cracking.  It’s worth protecting him from what happens to deserters.  It’s worth trying to ease him into the slow discovery that war is always filthy, trying to show him how to keep a little piece of his soul clean even surrounded by blood in the sand.

Ed respects Captain Hughes, who’s willing to try him at hand-to-hand and doesn’t even always lose, in spite of Ed pulling out every move he ever learned from Teacher.  He respects Sergeant Hawkeye, who pulls him aside and teaches him poker before he can get sharked at the Lieutenants’ weekly game.  He even respects Major Mustang, who’s just as smug as ever even now that Ed’s figured out how to goad him out of his silence into argument after argument, daring Ed to try and figure out his array with every challenging smirk. Hughes brings his teams home bedraggled but more alive than dead again and again, and Ed doesn’t know what they do while they’re gone, but he knows Hughes’ only goal is to make it home alive again, and that’s fair, right?  Ed can respect that.  Hawkeye takes every single shot perfect and clean, like a hunter who doesn’t want their prey to suffer, and every single one of those shots goes through a human head, but that’s how war works, right?  Amestrian soldiers survive when she watches their backs, and nobody she hits ends up screaming and dying in agony on Sara and Yuiry’s operating tables, and maybe that’s actually mercy. He’s never seen Mustang use his array in a battle.  He’s seen scorch marks, precise and controlled and exact, and black-burnt corpses, but he’s never seen any sign of collateral damage.  A weaker alchemist might let flames run wild, but Mustang never hurts anyone or anything he doesn’t mean to, and that’s better, right?  That shows he has honor, or something, that he has a code and standards.  He won’t even let Ed have the secrets of flame alchemy without proving he can handle them by figuring them out himself, and right, that’s how it should be, that’s what’s right, and it’s fine.  It’s all just fine.

(And maybe Ed has nightmares sometimes, after he’s made it back to camp with an hour or two to spare for sleep after visiting Sara and Yuiry, nightmares about blood and moans of pain and seeing people he knows on those clinic cots, but-- And maybe he wakes up in a cold sweat sometimes, sure he’s heard another Ishvalan infiltration team creeping their way into camp, but-- And maybe he wonders sometimes, if he could kill, if he can, if he’ll be able to when he has to, if eventually he’ll have to, but--)

It’s okay.  It’s fine.  It’s all going to be fine.

Three months in, Fessler and Comanche are standing outside near the Command tent, Comanche looking even more self-satisfied and disdainful in Ed’s general direction than usual. “Not looking forward to dealing with more useless civilians like Quicksilver there,” General Fessler says, and Ed rolls his eyes right back. “Ah, who cares, sir?” Comanche asks.  “They’re finally taking the shackles off and using us right.  We’ll have the rats cleared out in no time.”

It’s 1908.  Ed is 17, barely, just a few days past his birthday, skinny and stubborn and much, much, much too smart, and the sky is wide and bleached pale blue, and the sands of Ishval are still golden and white instead of red.  For now. But it’s 1908, and order 3066 came down this morning, and nothing is ever, ever going to be fine again.

[jacklyn-flynn]

Space Trash Thedas Valentine's Day. It should be a thing there, shouldn't it? ;) Tell me if you have any ideas. :D

Oh, it’s a thing now! I couldn’t help but write something silly and slightly romantic. If you’d like to see the gentleman dork on a date (and don’t mind super minor spoilers) take a look below the cut!

Cullen knocked on Jules door. He straightened his shirt as he waited. He was wearing formal black slacks and white shirt with the top few buttons undone. He also wore his uniform jacket, open, so he hoped those buttons would make it look less formal. He hadn’t planned on wearing it at all but Jules had told Cassandra that she liked the fur collar and that the dark maroon suited him.

The door slid open and he couldn’t help but smile brightly. “You’re wearing a dress.” He blurted out in surprise.

It was a very well fitting sundress. Unusual amid the metal of the ship in the middle of space but incredibly flattering on her. It was a light Jade green with tiny white flowers embroidered on it. It had short, capped sleeves and the skirt fell to her knees. It hugged her hips, giving him a glimpse into the figure her jumpsuit always hid. He loved it. More than he would ever admit to anyone.

Her cheeks immediately flushed. “Is it too much? I’ve never worn one before. I think I look silly but Morgan and Cassandra said I look "adorable as fuck” and “divine”. Respectively, of course.“

"They aren’t wrong.” He said with a grin he couldn’t hold back. “You look beautiful.”

She swallowed hard and smiled slightly. “You-you look nice too. I um..” She hesitated, wringing her hands together. “I like your eyes.” She wasn’t lying, but the way she said it sounded so incredibly stupid to her own ears. She could feel her blush traveling down her neck. 

“Thank you. I got them-” Maker’s breath, Rutherford. Don’t say it. “For my birthday.” He groaned inwardly and ran his hand through his hair to rub the back of his neck awkwardly. He gave her an apologetic smile. He expected her to stare at him as if he was an idiot, at the very least be embarrassed for him. 

He didn’t expect her to start laughing. She covered her mouth with her hands, hiding her brilliant smile and stifling her oh so rare laughter. Regardless, it made him smile wider as well. 

He offered her his arm and she slid hers through it. “I don’t know anything about this holiday. I hope I don’t embarrass you.” 

“You could never-I mean, I promise you won’t embarrass me.” He assured her. Already the night was going better than expected. She’d smiled, laughed and taken his arm without hesitation. He was proud to have her on his arm. To be the one experiencing those rare moments with her. 

“Traditionally, flowers and chocolate are brought as a gift, but they are quite hard to find on the Herald.” He apologized. “All I have to offer you is a private dinner. Unless you’d like to go to the galley? Whichever makes you more comfortable.”

“Private. I don’t think I want everyone to see me dressed like this.” She said shyly. He wanted to stop her in the corridor and tell her how incredibly beautiful she was. To tell her all of the reasons why. He knew that would only serve to embarrass her and Maker knew the idea of having her undivided attention was appealing. 

He led her through the corridors, confident now in the layout of the ship. They returned to his cabin and the door slid open silently. He allowed her to enter first. She walked in slowly, taking in the room. 

“I thought you would have more belongings.” She commented. 

“When you become a Templar, you give up your worldly possessions in service to the Maker. While I am not a Templar anymore, I haven’t managed to get back into the swing of collecting material things.” He admitted. He did have one thing that he’d kept since his last day in Honnleath. Something he had considered giving her. He would wait until the right time and this didn’t feel like it. 

The small fold away table was set up, one chair on either side. Two plates with silver domes sat in front of them, silverware set up on either side. Whatever was beneath smelled wonderful. 

“I don’t normally drink wine, but I have some if you would like it?” He offered, pulling out her chair for her. She looked slightly confused, but settled herself in it anyway. He pushed her in and then moved to sit across from her. 

“No, thank you. I can’t get drunk and I don’t care much for the taste.” She explained. How could he have forgotten? He was glad he’d decided not to get it. 

Jules took the dome off of her plate and let out a soft moan of appreciation. Two small medallions of meat sat on the plate, beside a small, fluffy pile of mashed potatoes. Bright, crisp green beans with the soft sheen of melted butter completed the plate. 

“This looks delicious.” She said, slightly breathless at the decedent spread. 

You look delicious. He almost said. Instead, he just smiled. “Let’s see if I can get this right. It’s brown butter braised filet mignon. It’s supposed to be….I don’t know. Fancy.” He said with a short laugh. 

It looked far too fancy for the likes of her, but she was starting to get used to that. Being exposed to things that had previously been far out of her reach. 

Neither of them were sure what to say, so they just started to eat. Every time he looked up from his plate he hoped to catch her looking at him but she never was.

She finished her last bite and pushed the plate away slightly, stacking her silverware on top. He only had a few bites left.

“This is a very weird custom.” She commented. “To eat a meal together because it is a certain day of the year.”

“As I mentioned there’s usually flowers and chocolate. I was thinking we might dance a bit as well.” He suggested. 

“Oh no.” She said quickly. “I don’t know the first thing about dancing. I would look ridiculous.”

“You could glue feathers to your face and quack like a duck and you still wouldn’t look ridiculous.” He said quickly.

She looked perplexed. “Why would I do that?” She asked, genuinely curious.

“Well, you wouldn’t, I was just-nevermind.” He laughed. “I’m not a very accomplished dancer myself but I know a basic waltz. It’s just four steps. It’s a little fast for your favorite song, but we can just take it slow and enjoy the music.”

She looked like she was leaning toward no while she contemplated, but eventually nodded. “How close do we have to be?” The softest hint of apprehension in her voice.

He stood and offered his hand. She took it and stood up as well, nervously adjusting the skirt of her dress.

“You’ll hold this hand and put your other on my shoulder. I would traditionally put my hand on your waist, but I don’t have to.” He explained.

Jules smiled and his heart flipped. “It’s okay, I trust you.”

He laid his hand on the gentle curve of her hip ever so slightly, as if she might shatter at his touch. Releasing her hand he leaned over to touch the small panel on the wall.

The sounds of gentle strings started to play. The long, vibrato of the deep cello note made her eyes close and a smile grace her lips. The very visceral reaction to the music, the pure joy on her face made everything worth it. 

“Air on the G string. Bach.” She opened her eyes but the smile remained. “How did you know this was my favorite piece?”

“Morgan.” He told her, slightly distracted by her gentle smile. “He said that you like to play it with him. I would love to hear you play sometime. He says you’re extremely talented.”

“I’m not really.” She said, her smile fading. “It’s mostly because of the augmentations.”

He continued to sway with her, leading their dance. “I don’t believe that’s true. Music isn’t just about technical skill. It takes passion. He told me that when you play it’s like you’re in another place. Just you and your violin. He also said that you’ve moved him to tears before.”

That lovely rose blush started to color her cheeks again. She looked down at their feet but couldn’t hide her smile. “He did?” She sounded both surprised and pleased.

“He did.” Cullen confirmed. “I don’t think a man like that would admit such a thing lightly.”

“No, he wouldn’t.” She looked up at him through her lashes. “Maybe you can come and watch us the next time we play.”

“I would like that, Jules. Very much.” He sincerely hoped she knew he meant it. Every bit of it.

The song ended with a beautiful harmony of strings. She released his hand and stepped back.

“We did quite well for two terrible dancers.” He said, reluctantly lifting his hand from her hip.

“Did we?” She looked up at him and he couldn’t contain his smile.

“Neither of us stepped on the others’ toes. We did phenomenal.” He chuckled. “Allow me to walk you home?”

“I am home.” She said, confused. “And I know the way back to my cabin.”

“I know you do, it’s another silly tradition.” He tried to explain. “Men would accompany the woman they were wooing to ensure they got home safely.”

“Are you wooing me, First Commander?” Her delicate brows raised slightly. He didn’t know how her non-organic eye could show as much emotion as her real one, but it shone with amusement all the same.

“If you’ll allow it.” He let her make the decision. 

“I don’t feel that it’s wise on your part, but you’ve been so nice to me.” She reasoned.

“You don’t owe me anything. I’m very fond of you, but if you don’t feel the same, you don’t have to spend time with me because I’ve been nice to you.” Maker, it hurt his soul that he had to explain that to her.

“Can I think about it?” She asked softly.

“Of course.” He said immediately.

“Okay, you may walk me to my cabin to protect me from harm.” Was she actually teasing him?

He offered his arm again and they walked back to her cabin in silence. He didn’t realize he was staring down at her, admiring the golden curls of her hair until she looked up at him. He felt his own cheeks flush at having been caught blatantly oogling her.

“Now what?” She asked when they reached her door.

“We say goodnight.” He said simply. “Traditionally with a kiss.”

To quell the flash of uncertainty in her eyes, he grasped her hand and raised it to his lips. He kissed the back of her fingers gently and released her. “Goodnight, Jules. Thank you for indulging in my silly traditions.”

She bit her lower lip and nodded. “Goodnight.” She smiled up at him again. He would see that smile in his dreams. He nodded and headed back down the corridor.

“Cullen?” He heard her take a few steps to catch up with him. Surprised to hear his name, he turned. She was right behind, and now directly in front of him.

His heart stopped when she raised herself onto her toes to kiss his cheek. When she stepped back, she was blushing furiously.

“You may continue to woo me, if you’d like.” She said quietly.

“Thank you.” He said, still shocked.

She nodded and walked back to her door, slipping inside. His fingers brushed his cheek where her soft, warm lips had been a moment before. With a huff of laughter, he headed back to his own cabin.

[complicatedandstained]

The Other Day  at Hot Topic: The Lion, the Witch, and Marluxia

The Claire’s employees Marluxia had said were looking forward to meeting Xion look like they would much rather be watching beige paint dry. 

They remind her of back-up dancers that just stepped off the set of a punk rock music video, all tall, tat’d, and pierced, with lean muscle, barely concealed by skintight clothes. Blasé attitudes and dead tired. 

Xion had thought that flower crowns and purple aprons would make anybody look approachable, but she had been dead wrong. 

“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop or anything,” Xion continues quickly, waving her hands in front of her, “I promise!”

“Of course you didn’t,” the woman says in a falsely sweet voice. Her eyes return to examining her manicure. She’s gorgeous—looks like an Amazon who accidentally got a cute pixie cut. 

The other one doesn’t say much of anything, his eyes flitting out the store altogether like he has better places to be. He looks like a lion turned into a man, clad in metallic gold jeans and sporting a literal mane of untamed scarlet hair. Even his eyes are feline, lined with sharp, neat strokes of black. 

He sighs and slips his phone out of his apron pocket. “Why would she?” he mutters and whether he doesn’t believe Xion either or he’s challenging the Amazon is difficult to tell. 

Xion’s not sure which of them makes her more uncomfortable. She knows deep down she should be giving them the benefit of the doubt. She’s probably going to be spending a lot of time with them. 

They’re probably super nice once you get to know them. 

But it’s a little hard to convince herself when they look so miserable.

Marluxia seems to agree. He clears his throat again.

“So…” The Amazon perks up, running her hand back to adjust her lavender flower crown and giving Xion a once over like an unsatisfied military general picking out imperfections in her uniform. “You’re Kairi 3.0.” 

Xion doesn’t understand what she’s saying, and even if she did, she doesn’t think she can make her mouth do the talking thing. 

The lion man rolls his eyes. One hand lands on the hip of his eye-catching jeans and the other gestures to Xion with his phone. “She means to say that you look a bit like a couple of our coworkers,” Lion corrects in this smooth, almost gratingly lyrical voice.

Xion’s cheeks get so red they could probably glow in the dark. 

Oh. So they think I’m the stereotypical bubble-headed Claire’s employee, is that it? 

That stings a bit. I was hoping being pleasant and liking cute things would be a-okay here...

Having two more of me might be nicer than this. 

Marluxia groans then offers Xion an apologetic smile. “They mean to say it’s a pleasure to meet you.” He levels a hard glare at the pair of them, and it’s mildly reassuring that this at least isn’t the impression he was going for. “Really, you two...” 

He gives both of them another shoulder squeeze, and they scowl in unison. Realizing that they have, they smirk at each other, earlier tension apparently set aside for the time being. 

Marluxia lets them go and nods at Xion, pushing heavy bubble-gum pink hair off his shoulder wearily. “Sorry, darling. I only wish I could say they’re usually better behaved.” 

He can’t be much older than either of them, but his face is the dictionary definition of beleaguered dad, and Xion can’t help but giggle, even if it sounds bell-like and nervous to her own ears. 

Marluxia primly swishes his hand before her like a noble introducing a princess. “Larxene, Axel, I would like you to meet our newest associate, Zion.”

Xion smiles. If she had a dollar for every time someone accidentally called her the kingdom of heaven, she could start some kind of small, hood-wearing cult of her own. “Xion,” she corrects. 

“She-on?” he clarifies with raised eyebrows. 

Seriously, how is it that all of them have such good eyebrows?

Xion nods in encouragement.  

“Xion,” he corrects smoothly, drawing neatly manicured nails out toward the blonde Amazon, “Xion, this is Larxene.”

Larxene gives Xion a quick, businesslike handshake, and a purred, “Charmed, I’m sure,” that Xion can’t tell whether she means to be sarcastic, flirtatious, or just hella scary, but kind of comes off as all three. 

“Pleased to meet you,” Xion says anyway, smiling, telling herself maybe Larxene’s just having a bad day. 

Marluxia clears his throat emphatically again, though Larxene does not look particularly apologetic. Marluxia swishes his fingers toward the lion man. 

“And this is...” Marluxia pauses for the other man to introduce himself.

The lion’s arms are crossed and he doesn’t reach out a hand or even react until Marluxia repeats his name. He texts another few words and lowers his phone, half smiling. “Good news. Demyx says crisis averted.”

Larxene laughs sharply. “And you believe him?”

“Excellent,” Marluxia replies dryly. “Now you can put it away and introduce yourself.”

“Really was a crisis, Mars,” Axel insists, slipping the phone back into his pocket and peering down at Xion like he’s a little surprised to see she’s still there. He nods. “Hey there.”

Maybe he’s...also having a bad day?

“Axel,” Marluxia concludes for him, just a note of irritation, “your name is Axel.” 

The lion’s eyes narrow, his lips quirk. “Thanks for the info, Marly.”

“Axel,” Xion repeats, and she can feel her brows bouncing up. Why does that sound so familiar?

“That’s it,” the lion man—Axel—has a grin like he’s planning to eat somebody. “Get it memorized. You’re gonna need it.”

“She doesn’t need to memorize it,” Larxene objects, poking the little metal name plate clipped to the man’s purple apron. “You’re wearing a nametag, dipshit.”

“Oh,” Axel glances down to confirm, straightens up, “Huh. So I am.” But he’s paying more attention to Xion now, which is not an entirely welcome sensation. His eyes kind of narrow in and burn. 

Marluxia seems anxious to keep the ball rolling, “Axel’s our resident piercing artist. He’s very good at what he does, but he has trouble with the concept of ‘dress code.’” He turns to Xion, nodding at her wardrobe choice in approval. “You may want to think of him as a counter-example. If Axel’s wearing it, you probably shouldn’t be. Today being an exception, although from the sound of it,” he smirks ever-so-slightly, like he can’t help but find nagging Axel a little bit amusing, “that was largely an accident.”

Axel’s tight black tee literally has Let’s Fucking Dance printed across the chest of it in slate gray cursive, but Marluxia doesn’t seem to have noticed, and Xion’s not sure now is the right time to bring it up.

“Yeah, yeah, I scare the children, I’ve heard it before…” Axel’s hands gesture dismissively. Free of his phone he seems livelier. One hand pats Xion’s shoulder. “I don’t think you’re going to have to worry about that with My Little Care Bear here.” 

That feels a little uncalled for and a lot condescending.

Xion can feel the burn in her cheeks travelling to her ears. He’s officially her least favorite. 

Marluxia adjusts a bending display sign, beside Axel’s shoulder. “I just want her to realize that we do have standards.”

Xion feels a little burnt on Axel’s behalf, but he just smirks lazily. “I hope you’re also going to tell her that Larxene is our customer service counter-example.” 

Sign corrected, Marluxia pockets his hands. “That goes without saying.” 

Larxene doesn’t look up from her manicure. “You’re both assholes.” 

“Case in point,” Marluxia replies glancing around to ensure no customers heard this latest remark and looking relieved to find no one nearby. “Anyway, Xion, one of these fine, upstanding employees has volunteered to train you this morning.”

Xion’s mouth tries to shape an objection, her lips opening and closing like a goldfish. She kind of hoped Marluxia would be taking the reins on this one.

 “Volunteered.” Larxene snorts. “That’s cute.”

Axel tilts his head, sparing Xion another glance, grinning. “Marly, you’re really cracking the whip here.”

“I’m sorry!” Xion says immediately, eyes feeling hot, wishing she could train herself. Her boot scuffs uselessly along the carpet. “I don’t mean to be a burden!”

“Hey, hey,” Axel’s saying before Xion’s even done apologizing, smile evaporating. He steps up to her side, hands spreading in the air as if to physically smooth things over. “Not to worry, Newbie, I’ve got you covered.”

“Really?” Xion blinks up at him, trying not to cringe. 

He elbows her arm, winks at her, stage whispers, “Least until someone nicer arrives.”

“Uh… Thank you, Axel. I’m… I’m sure you’re perfectly nice.”

Axel gives her a brief flash of teeth that it wouldn’t be fair to call a smile. “I’m basically Prince Charming.”

Marluxia gets a little divot between his brows and shakes his head slightly. “Behave.”

“Right, right. So.” Axel steps past Larxene, hopping up into the adult sized chair at the piercing station. He plucks a sharp looking piece of equipment from the depths of his apron pockets. “How squeamish are you?”

Xion takes an involuntary step back. 

“Axel.” Marluxia palms his forehead. “Maybe start with something else?”

“Oh.” Axel glances at Xion, brows bouncing in concern that Xion has trouble believing. “Sure thing, boss.”

Larxene gives Xion a sympathetic grimace and a brief flutter of her fingers. “Good luck with that, 3.0.” She struts off to man the register, where the Christmas shopping mom has wrangled her kids. 

“Right, well, Xion, I’ll clock you in. I’ll be in the back for a bit if you need me.” Marluxia glances down at an elegant wristwatch, and observes, “Aurora should be here to relieve Axel by noon. That is, if she hasn’t overslept again…”

Xion’s not sure if this comment is meant to reassure her, Marluxia, or Axel, so she just hums. 

Axel smirks, says, “Roger that, Captain.” Axel’s tone and the tiny, cheeky salute he pairs with it, feel almost… flirtatious?

Xion blushes. 

Marluxia stiffens for a half second, like he’s second guessing several life choices that have led him to this moment, but then he gives his head another little shake, chuckles, and starts to walk off.

Xion wonders how Roxas would feel to know this mall has so many flirty red heads on the loose. What are the odds? Two doors down and...

Wait… What are the odds?

Axel. His name had sounded so familiar. Axel. 

Axel gives an exaggerated sigh of relief. “Alright, he’s gone. Just got to check on somebody…” He’s already spinning in the piercing seat, phone set on the table, so Xion doesn’t feel too bad slipping hers out as well. Scrolling through the notifications from the contact nicknamed “Twin” and skimming until she finds the right messages, hoping to read another name typed there instead. 

The three(!) text messages about one man. Apart from calling him ‘ridiculously attractive’, they hadn’t even been that romantic. But there had been three(!) of them. From Roxas. Roxas who never wants to talk about boys, never gets crushes—I basically don’t have a heart, I didn’t even love my ex, I don’t know what I’m doing wrong—Roxas. 

But. There it is. Plain as day.

Axel. Axel. Axel.