#Thousands of soldiers feel the Thrill

[cosmereplay]

One of the fascinating things about addiction (intellectually, not to experience, obviously) is that the pathways involved in addiction (famously dopamine but others too) are also the pathways involved in connecting to each other. Feeling good is connected to feeling a sense of safety and belonging.

Humans are mostly social creatures. Broadly speaking, most of us want to be around other people, and rejection hurts. Bad. If we get rejected, those dopamine pathways make us crave belonging, and that pain motivates us to do whatever we can to get back in the social circle, to belong again and feel safe. Sound familiar?

It's no coincidence that people who are lonely and rejected are more at risk for addiction. Dopamine-mimicking drugs can briefly give us that sense of safety and belonging when we don't have it. At their best, drugs provide us a brief respite, a feeling of safety that can carry us through when we can't get it (with abusive families or pandemics, for example). At their worst, drugs are a distraction from facing the ways we've hurt other people and doing the hard work to actually belong with people again. Often with addiction, it's both at the same time.

(There is lots of evidence out there about the connection between addiction and belonging. A great entry point is Johann Hari's TED talk called Everything You Know About Addiction is Wrong.)

Moash is particularly vulnerable to wanting to keep Odium's gift for both reasons - he's isolated and lonely, and he wants to avoid thinking about the people he's hurt. He misses the camaraderie of Bridge Four back in Oathbringer, even before his new 'family' of Graves and co are all killed by the Fused. Moash needs to belong, and Odium sucks him in. He's given jobs and gifts and even a new name to show how he is welcomed there. But he's not safe there like he was with Bridge Four, and deep down he knows it. Odium's gift of 'peace' is enough to distract him - to quiet his doubts, and squash any motivation he might have to escape from a very bad situation.

One of the the things that I've noticed is how addicting Odium's powers/boons are. Obviously, we have the Thrill, where people get addicted off the high of killing people. We have the Heart of Revel, where it entices you to indulge.

But I haven't seen much of Moash's addiction to Odium's "peace." Like, I've read it as Moash is drugged. Odium's boon is literally him taking away guilt and hurt and pain. I've never had alcohol or drugs, and a big plan of mine is to never have any, but from the way i've heard and understood it, that's what drugs do. They take away emotions that you don't want to have and artificially create "happy" ones. And then once they wear off, emotions crash in, and you body craves the high from that substance, they don't want to be feeling these "bad emotions."

That's literally what happened to Moash.

[kneelingshadowsalome]

I Never Missed You 1/3 (Bodyguard!Ghost x F!Reader)

Word count: 3.5 k

Tags/warnings: 18+ only. Romance, eventual smut, fluff, light angst, banter, pining, flirting, minor injuries, major character death, HFN ending. Lady/Knight dynamic. Unequal pairing trope. Bodyguard AU. Reader is a rich bitch (how else could she afford a PPO?)

Summary: 1/3 You hire a bodyguard to protect you and hunt down the one who's been sent to take your life. This man was your lawyer's first recommendation, and you never even looked through his file because you had better things to do. But it soon turns out that this man – this Simon Riley – is very talented... Talented in driving you crazy.

A/N: A three part fic based on this request. The first chapter features banter and pining. If you're here for smut, stay tuned. There is an entire chapter of it coming right up.

Your lawyer says it would be a good idea. He even dares to look at you from under his brow like you're a child who doesn't know what's good for her.

And you don't.

Because that's exactly how you feel like: a grown woman who's stunted to a kid, now being supervised by adults. 

The bodyguard they assigned you - the one you accepted because he was your lawyer's first choice - is exactly the broad, brooding type you have always imagined bodyguards to be like.

But he's not wearing sunglasses, and he's not wearing a suit. He says the point of a bodyguard is that they don't look like a bodyguard. 

The first thing you actually pay attention to is the milky-white eyelashes. Only days after you hear that this man rarely shows his face. You were given a file on him, but you never peeked inside it because you were pissed that such drastic measures had to be taken in the first place. You just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Now you pry it from the pile of papers you buried it into, open it, and the first - and only - photo you see is a perfect portrayal of what Death looks like. 

He's the Reaper himself when adorned with that human skull. Keen but emotionless eyes stare from the pits of the sockets to somewhere in the distance, but that look is a stare into the past. The photo raises thousands of questions, and not only the need to know why this man prefers to wear human bones when he's shooting people.

Because apparently, that’s what he used to do before he became a bodyguard. He's buff, that you already know. But in that picture, he looks even more packed, with what you suppose is a bullet vest beneath that blouse. He’s holding an ugly-looking gun – not a pistol, but a rifle of some sort. The gear on him no doubt weighs something close to 60 pounds. His sleeves are rolled up and expose the crisscross veins on his forearms along with war-ugly, crude tattoos, and you swallow. 

Were you really looking at a picture of a barbaric soldier like it was some peculiar soft porn now?

You flip the file closed and toss it on the table, rather disgusted with yourself.

The next time you see him, you look into those brown eyes a moment longer. That stoic stare is the only thing you recognize as that of the man in the picture. That, along with his size, although photos really can't convey how this brooding grunt makes you feel: small and insignificant. Nor do they illustrate how the man looks like he’s the most graceful bull in a china shop when moving inside your house.

You suppose he grew up poor, the way he looks at your furniture, your half-a-mile bookshelf, and the latest art piece you got last month in your living room. He's judging you. 

You're posh. And clueless. And a child.

And this brute lives with you, for now. He's placed downstairs until the target is neutralized. And he's not just a bodyguard: he's hunting the hunter while you're the bait.

It should give you a thrill; your friend giggles when you two gossip about him over a lunch while he's standing only a few feet away. But this situation does not give you a thrill. It just makes you pissed.

And it's not just the situation, it's this... Simon Riley who makes you pissed.

Couldn't they teach manners, some conversation skills at the bodyguard school or wherever the hell this pale, emotionless Hulk came from?

You recheck his file and snoop some more details about his past. He didn't go to bodyguard school (of course he didn't); he used to work for some PMC. The brute's a cold-blooded, cold-hearted mercenary. To put it more eloquently, he's an elite soldier of some tactical unit. But all of that is classified, as is almost every other detail about him. The only thing you are left with is that he's British through and through, but you can already tell that by his accent - the thick Mancunian that makes your stomach and heart flip.

It's gruff – of course it's gruff – and sometimes chafes your ears like they were being grated with the softest grater. You find yourself thinking about him while you're in the shower, when your fingers start to drift and wander.

And for the love of god, you are not thinking about that accent and those eyes while you're masturbating. You're not going to mourn the fact that he never rolls his sleeves when he's with you. When he's at work.

"I saw your file," you start to chitchat over breakfast one day.

"I reckon."

He won't even touch the coffee you poured him but proceeds to drink almost all the tea. The delicate china looks miniature in his hands as he pours the Earl Grey into his cup. The cups are dainty, too – this savage would prefer a large, black mug, perhaps, from which to gulp his tea.

"So. What made you become a soldier?"

"Joined the SAS when I was 17."

And another thing he won't do is look at you when you speak. No manners at all in this man, only rough, sharp edges. He sits as far from you as he can, at the other end of the table, as if you were in a meeting. Or a war council.

"That's not what I asked."

"I know."

You roll your eyes. Conversation skills, god. Just give this man at least some charm…

"I'm going to do some shopping," you declare. "You can stay here."

Finally, he raises his stare. It's full of tired distaste.

"Nah. That's not how this works."

You rise from the table, gracefully and with a neutral face, indicating that you are an adult and won't be needing a babysitter at a store.

"Lady." 

The command is dark and stops you before you have taken one step from the table. It's a slur, almost.

He rises from the table too, and you almost feel sorry, noticing he hasn't yet finished his toast.

"You hired me. And I'm gonna do my job."

He looks big and broad, like a beautiful storm, with that piercing stare and the most alluring lashes you have ever seen on a man. Your voice turns into a meek, pitched attempt to reason with a giant.

"...I'm just going shopping."

His head tilts with a mock: you're only a child in his eyes. 

"Then let's go shopping."

…......…......

Sitting next to this giant in a taxi must be a hilarious-looking scene. A charming, vibrant lady and a sullen, intimidating Theseus – what a pair.

You've also never been this close to him. The man always sits with a wide spread. One heavy thigh almost touches your knees, which you have turned towards him for some unfathomable reason. You were taught to sit with knees closely set together, and that’s what you’re trying to do now: make yourself as small and feminine as possible. It only accentuates this man's size compared to yours. There's a pile of shopping bags between you two, and your gaze is directed outside the window, but you can feel his presence like there's a thrumming monolith beside you.

And he's always dressed in black. You kind of enjoyed how you two looked at the store: you in your heels and a pearl white suit, he in black, tactical ripstop and boots. You wouldn't define the man well-dressed… but he is sharply dressed in his own field, that's for sure. Even a commoner like you could see that.

He had complained about your clothes. White draws too much attention and makes for a bigger target. You had brushed him off with a scoff. You’re not going to change the way you dress because of this.

"You're from Manchester, right?"

You're only trying to make the journey home more enjoyable, but feel like you're snooping again, this time from the man himself. The less you know about Simon Riley, the more you want to learn who he is. It is only natural to get a little curious when his file barely had two paragraphs and a photo. You suppose even that single picture was taken and given forward with reluctance. 

And the only thing you learn is that small talk is a completely foreign concept to this man.

"You're quite the Sherlock," he mutters with that fat accent that gave him away the minute you two shook hands. You Sherlock about some more, look at the left hand that rests on his thigh.

There's no ring. Not even a tan line. He must be lonely: no relationship could stand working hours like these.

"Do you still live there?"

"...No."

"Do you miss the place?"

"No."

The short answers are guttural and spoken from the back of his throat. You don't know if he's doing it on purpose, or if this Simon is like this with everyone. He's not annoyed, though, not the way you're beginning to be.

"Aren't you a chatty one…" you mumble while watching cloudy London pass by. You figured he might hear it, and perhaps that was your purpose, even if your voice was barely a whisper.

"I'm not here to talk. Ma'am."

…......…......

You are told to stay away from the windows. The dinner table is moved so no one can aim at your head through a glass. And even then, most curtains must be closed at all times. 

He goes through doors first, and advises against going out at all. You get a list of things you should take into consideration if you do go out.

And you’re not going to give in to fear.

You simply take different routes to your friends and family, have lunches at different restaurants than usual. He says you should get an armored car, but you don’t have a license. Of course your brooding bodyguard could drive, but what will you do with some armored tank after you're finally through this thing?

What's far more interesting is that it turns out this Simon Riley is a smoker.

Disgusting, you think at first, then think about him all sweaty and grimy after some gunfight, reaching for a cig, curling those thick fingers around a pure-white coffin nail. No, wait – he had gloves in that picture; he wouldn't bother to take them off before he smoked, he would just lean on his gun and on some crumbling wall and sigh from the joy of being alive, of being bloodied and dirty and victorious before taking a long drag from his cigarette.

Ugh.

Reluctantly you agree that perhaps there is an odd charm to this man after all. Either that, or then you are in need of some serious therapy.

Breakfasts are torturingly quiet with Simon, and you can hear the slow roll of eyes every time you make plans to go to a party or an art gallery.

Once, a zipper gets stuck and you have to ask him for help. It’s mortifying, and he doesn’t say a word, only mocks you with his eyes as you turn around for him to place a warm hand on your hip and another on your back to pull up the zipper you had fought to reach and drag up by yourself for at least 10 minutes.

A week passes, and he’s buried in work, not only because he’s guarding your body 24/7, but because he’s trying to locate the hitman. The fact that Simon Riley is technically speaking a hitman too - to think that you have hired a killer - is something you don’t have the mental strength to delve into right now.

"Found the one who's hunting you."

Another file is dropped before you at the end of the week. The man marches into your office like there's no door there at all. Doesn't even bother to knock. 

This isn't what you meant when you politely told him to make himself home…

You roll the glass of water on your temple and sigh. The file reveals another photo, this time of a man who looks like an executioner.

"Goes by the name König," he says and clasps his hands over his crotch while taking a wide stance in front of your desk. "Austrian war criminal. Skilled with knives… Likes to torture people first."

Nice. More brutes.

"Why are you telling me this?" 

You're tired, there's a headache approaching, and you really don't care to go over some details about a professional lunatic killer right now. But Simon Riley - codenamed Ghost, you’ve lately learned - looks down at you like a storm cloud over a carefree meadow.

"Because you clearly don't understand the danger you're in." 

He adds "Ma'am" as a footnote. Purposely forgotten...

And you wish he would forget that silly, overly courteous term.

"Well–" you sigh your frustration in the air between you two, then realize that perhaps you're being treated like a child because you behave like one. "What are you going to do about this man...?"

"Gonna kill him," he simply shrugs, the eternal, distant look in those eyes gaining a smug tone to them. 

He enjoys this. Enjoys killing, but what's even worse, enjoys seeing how his ruthlessness makes you shift uncomfortably in your chair. Or perhaps he just likes shocking you with that file with an image of a lyncher in it. You know perfectly well that you're in trouble and under threat. That's what you've tried to forget, but no one lets you forget.

Simon takes a deep breath before placing his humble petition before you.

"Ma’am. I'm gonna need your help."

And nothing in this man is humble. Even though he rarely speaks and never shows his talents, not to talk of showing off, he reeks of pride and testosterone.

You set the glass on the table and straighten the file to align with the leather pad on your desk. Your fingers are not trembling. Yet.

"What do you mean?" 

He gives a hoarse laugh. The sound drills straight to your core and starts to bloom there. You realize you have never seen him smile before. And he's not smiling now: the short laugh is just a dark chuckle that mainly stays inside his chest; it only makes those stocky shoulders rise and fall.

"Not like that," he looks down at you with a tad of mercy. "You're gonna serve as bait."

"Isn't… that what I've been the whole time?"

"Yeah. But this time, we're gonna lure him in."

The way he talks makes your thighs rub together without your consent. You wonder what it would feel like if you were trapped between that solid chest and a wall, what it would be like if those hands woke you up with a calloused caress of a thigh.

You don't quite understand the difference between bait and a lure but find yourself willing to do whatever you can to help him. Help Simon…

"Sure... I'll help you," you say as if this man wasn't on your payroll.

"That's the least you could do."

That barely hidden bite in his dry retort doesn't escape you. This man's audacity buries whatever odd want you have started to feel for him and replaces it with searing, womanly fury. 

He could be a little more sensitive.

You're the one who has a target on their back. You're the one who fears going to sleep at night and feels lucky they're alive come dawn. If he wasn't so crude and uncaring, you would've asked him to sleep in the same room with you from the start. But he has to be a brute, has to follow and mock you with those ink blot eyes at every turn.

You rise from the chair when he turns and walks toward the door. It's almost a snappy jump, an attempt to reclaim your power. You're sore and thoroughly peeved.

"I never wanted this," you tell him with an annoying timbre in your tone. He stops right before the door but doesn't turn.

"Neither did I."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Could be somewhere warmer with no damsels giving me their cheek."

The BDU blouse you saw in that picture was yellow, burnt yellow. Desert wear… He wants to be in a hot desert with a cold gun in his hand. Dropped straight from some plane, working alone, in a place where damsels aren't giving him their cheek. Where there are no damsels at all. 

You're relatively sure there is no Mrs. Riley. No woman could stand this man.

"Then go somewhere warmer," you snap, almost stomp your heel on the soft carpet. This man is simply intolerable. The way he never reacts to anything makes you want to throw things at him. 

He must be trained to be so calm, but you're not. You're used to making men a little stupid and flustered. You're used to men eating out of your hand. He's not behaving at all like he's supposed to. Simon Riley is just a mountain without emotion.

He turns with that eternal, downgrading look in his eyes. There's a flash of amusement there, too.

Soddy bastard…

"Nah. Not until I've done my job."

His voice is warm now; the gruff and gravel make way to a smoothness that goes directly to your knees. Your lips part, and his eyes fall on your mouth just before he lifts his chin a hair of an inch.

"Your job…" you breathe, too furious to even rage or shout. 

Your fucking job.

Why did you even want this job if it's so–

"Yeah. My job. Some people got one."

You have to take support from the table with your fingertips. 

"Excuse me?"

There's the tiniest curve at the corner of his mouth before he takes his leave.

"Good night, ma'am."

…......…......

The next day, you start the breakfast by apologizing. 

You barely slept that night, first because of this man's utter nerve, then because your wrath eventually cooled down into a bleeding consciousness of how you must look in his eyes. 

He has accepted this job, something different from what he usually does, for reasons unknown to you. He might not be on some faraway battlefield where bullets fly past, but this is no less risky. The picture he showed you, the file on König, haunted your restless sleep last night – when you finally did get some sleep. 

You have been running around like everything’s normal when it’s not. The man’s just trying to do his job. 

And you're the one who hired him. Not your lawyer.

"I want to make peace," you coo while spreading some jam on toast. You expect Simon to finally melt a little. You might even get a smile. You secretly hope your reward is that this brute turns into a tamed lap dog you can feed some treats every now and then. 

The situation is thrilling: the beefiest man you have ever seen is going to kill someone for you. Even if he's being paid to do so, he is prepared to die for you. There's something incredibly sexy about that.

But there is silence at the other end of the table. Only the crunchy sounds of toast getting sugar on top can be heard.

"That so?" 

He doesn't sound like he's melting. He doesn't sound at all domesticated. He only sounds more and more amused.

"Yes. I'm happy that you're here," you put the toast down and turn to look at him with angel eyes.

He laughs. When he stops, he looks you up and down, then laughs some more, a silent, shoulder-shaking chuckle.

"I'm… I'm serious," you hurry to add. "I mean it. I haven't been treating you the way I should–"

"That's for sure."

You see more warmth in those eyes. But it's not because of your humble apology.

His eyes are trekking down the neckline of your blouse, and to your horror, you notice – feel – how one of the top buttons has opened, revealing much more than just some skin. You're pretty sure he gets an ample view of the fuchsia bra you're wearing underneath.

If you reach for that button now, you underline that he's not supposed to look, even if it's your mistake that you're so obscenely exposed. If you close it now, you tell him he's not allowed to look. And that's not entirely true.

"Will you forgive me?"

You feel like you're offering peace, or at least a truce, with more than just that peepy question. Because your breasts swell inside that blouse. They rise and fall with your breaths, your nipples grow hard from that look that stays down a bit longer before drifting back up. 

"There's nothing to forgive," he says, voice dropping a note or two. 

"Good," you swallow. The following sentence comes out so weakly that it's almost a whisper. "After all, I hired you."

"Ain't that the truth."

The dim glint in those eyes still holds you as a prisoner, and his tea is growing cold.

"Are we going shopping today?"

"No," you utter, dreading the next inevitable question.

"What then?"

"I… I have a yoga class."

"Of course you do."

…......…......

Taglist: @cumikering

[shybluebirdninja]

Control Room

Summary: Bucky’s voice is in your ear, instructing you while the camera rolls; every move is his to command.

Pairings           : Bucky Barnes (The Winter Soldier) x Female Reader

Note                 : sex tape, masturbation, domination

The low hum of the camera filled the dimly lit room, casting a soft glow over the tangled sheets that lay beneath you. Bucky's voice came through the earpiece, smooth and commanding, wrapping around you like a warm blanket, igniting a fire deep within.

“Alright, doll, you ready for this?” His tone was low, a dangerous mix of anticipation and raw lust that sent shivers down your spine.

You nodded, even though he couldn’t see you. There was something about the way he said doll that made your heart race. Bucky had that effect on you—like he could light you up from across the room, making every nerve sing with desire. “Let’s do it.”

“Good.” He chuckled softly, the sound like a rumble of thunder in the distance. “Now, let’s start slow. I want you to tease the camera for me. Show me what you’ve got.”

You shifted, letting the soft sheets slide against your skin, exposing your body to the lens. The way Bucky watched you felt like a thousand eyes on you at once, but it was only his. You could feel the heat radiating from him, even through the earpiece, and you could practically see the way his dark blue eyes would be glimmering with desire.

“Show me that pretty face of yours, babe,” he urged, the gravel in his voice sending another wave of heat through your core. You bit your lip, trying to suppress a moan as you arched your back slightly, lifting your chest for the camera.

“That’s it, just like that. You look so good when you’re trying to please me,” he growled, and you could hear the slight hitch in his breath. It was music to your ears, knowing that you could bring him to the edge with just a look.

“Now, touch yourself for me,” he commanded, and it was less of a request and more of a demand. You couldn’t help but obey, feeling every bit the submissive under his watchful gaze. Your fingers trailed slowly down your body, teasingly lingering at your thighs before moving to your center, where the heat pooled, begging for release.

“Fuck, just like that. Keep going, don’t stop,” he said, his voice thick with lust, each word dripping with need. You let out a soft moan, closing your eyes for a moment, reveling in the sensation and the sound of his voice.

As your fingers moved with purpose, you could feel his eyes on you—every touch was amplified, every moment stretched out, suffocating with anticipation. “Bucky…” you breathed, not sure if you were begging or pleading.

“Keep it up, baby. I want you to feel every second of this. I’m right here, watching you, and I won’t take my eyes off you.”

You could hear the way his breath quickened, matching the rhythm of your fingers. It pushed you further, igniting something primal inside you, fueling the fire that was building. You knew he was waiting, just a heartbeat away from the edge, ready to take you where he wanted.

“Now, get on your knees,” he ordered, the authority in his voice sending a thrill down your spine. You obeyed without hesitation, moving smoothly to position yourself, the cool air brushing against your heated skin. “Good girl. Now, look up at the camera while you play.”

Your heart raced as you complied, the sight of your flushed cheeks reflected in the lens pushing you to the brink. You could hear the low growl from him, and it sent electric shocks of pleasure coursing through your body. “Damn, you’re fucking beautiful.”

“Bucky…” you whined, desperate for more, for him. “I need you.”

“I know, babe. Just hang tight for me. We’re just getting started.”

With that, he instructed you to switch positions, wanting to take full advantage of the two hours you had set aside for this. “Let’s see you ride that pillow. I want to watch you grind.”

As you shifted again, a wave of confidence surged through you. You positioned yourself over the pillow, feeling the plushness beneath you, imagining it was Bucky’s body instead. You moved slowly at first, teasingly, just like he liked it, but the growing need inside you pushed you to pick up the pace.

“Yeah, just like that. Feel that pressure building? I want you to let go when I tell you to.”

His voice was a tether, holding you close while pulling you deeper into that spiral of desire. You could almost feel his hands gripping your hips, guiding you along, but all you had was the pillow and the sweet promise of his words.

“Now, faster,” he commanded, and you obeyed, the sounds of skin against fabric filling the room. You felt your body respond, heat pooling and building as you chased that sweet release, and Bucky’s breath quickened in your ear.

“Almost there, babe. I can feel you getting close. Just a little more, don’t stop.”

The tension in the air thickened, coiling tighter around you as you desperately chased the edge. “Bucky! I can’t hold on much longer!”

“Then don’t. Let go for me. Now.”

You obeyed, crashing over the precipice he’d crafted with his words and that commanding presence of his. Pleasure shot through you like fireworks, your body quaking in delight as Bucky’s voice drummed in your ear, urging you on, coaxing every ounce of ecstasy from you.

“Good girl,” he praised, and you could hear the satisfaction in his tone. “That’s it. You did so well.”

As your body calmed, you leaned back against the pillows, panting, heart racing. Bucky’s next command was already on the horizon, and you could feel your anticipation building once more.

“Alright, baby, let’s switch it up. Now, I want you to lay back, and I’m going to take control.”

With that, the room filled with a new wave of heat, and you knew the next hour would be even more intense, just as he wanted. The camera rolled, capturing every second of Bucky's relentless hunger for you.

[deadtired-highkeyenergetic]

No One Else

This idea came to me whilst I was lying on my bed so here you Bucky fans go! You're welcome! Reader has fire powers in this fic and it's set in an AU where Bucky lives in the Avengers Tower + goes on missions with them.

Summary: Your marriage proposal to Bucky doesn't quite go how you expected it to...

"Can't believe we're actually doing Operation: Rescue the Genius Billionaire." You twirl the knife in your hand, sliding it into its sheath as you stand up, stretching.

"You're the one who volunteered for it. And then proceeded to volunteer me," Bucky snorts, double checking his rifle. "You only have yourself to blame for this."

"Hey, this means we'll probably get to share his black card. Think of all the expensive things we could buy!" You laugh. "Or at least I hope we'll be able to."

"Did you just sign us up for a dangerous mission with no guaranteed reward?" Bucky shakes his head, ruffling your hair. "If either of us die on this mission I'm blaming you."

"Good thing we're both pretty hard to kill." You flash him a grin, moving to the door of the plane. It's almost at your destination and adrenaline is coursing through your veins. Blue flames flicker at your fingertips, ready to be unleashed at a moment's notice. You can't recall the last time you felt this excited to go on a mission, maybe it's the fact that you've been partnered up with your favourite super soldier after what feels like forever, maybe it's the fact that Tony is going to owe you a big favour after this, or maybe it's the thrill of the fight to come.

"Fortunately." Bucky hums, walking over to stand next to you. "The amount of stupidity you bring along on missions would've killed a normal person at least a hundred times over."

"Hey I'm blaming the influence a certain idiot has on me. You know, the idiot currently standing in the same plane as me because he couldn't turn me down." You feel Bucky place his hand on your back, patting you a few times before adding a little more force as the door opens and sends you flying out of the plane. Thousands of feet in the air without a parachute. This bastard.

A long string of swear words flow from your lips, spoken in every language you can think of and you swear Bucky is laughing from up inside the plane. You can picture it clearly, his lips quirking upwards, the mirth in his ice blue eyes, the pat on the back he definitely gave himself before diving out of the plane.

Oh.

You twist your body so that you face upwards just in time to see a figure diving towards you. More curses spill forth as said figure wraps his arms around you, grinning as if the both of you aren't falling through the air with no parachute in sight.

"You know you're not that light, right?" You grunt, resisting the urge to bite him.

"Pure muscle and a metal arm, doll." He flashes you a smirk as you try to pry the super soldier off you to no avail.

"If we both go splat on the ground it's your fault."

"Then you're just going to have to ensure that doesn't happen, doll. I'm counting on you." You hate it when he says those four words. It always makes you fold and he knows it.

"You — You're going to be the death of me someday," you scowl. He only laughs, brown hair fluttering in the wind as you both plummet towards the ground and you feel your chest grow strangely warm. Your heart pounds against the ribs that cage it, stomach flipping when his eyes meet yours, his gaze soft and carefree. "Don't regret relying on me."

"Do I ever?" His thumb brushes over your skin, electricity crackling at the contact and you nearly lose concentration. You swallow, pushing his face away and he laughs again, the sound a beautiful melody to your ears. Shoving your bubbling feelings down, you focus on your descent towards the ground that is coming up to meet you rather fast.

"Hang on tight!" Gathering the flames within you, you push them outwards via your feet and shoot towards the warehouse where Tony is being kept, adrenaline causing your lips to curl upwards into a maniacal grin. Blue flames roar around the both of you, under your firm control and devour the roof of the warehouse before it can even touch either of you.

"Look who finally decided to show up." Tony smirks, watching you and Bucky land in a fiery blaze next to him. "And with such a fiery entrance too, what a show-off."

"You're welcome." You roll your eyes, meeting Bucky's gaze. He nods, and you conjure a ring of flames around the three of you, pushing it outwards as he lunges at the nearest kidnapper. A quick flick of the wrist from you burns through the ropes holding Tony hostage and you turn your attention to the fight happening in front of you.

Dodging the swing of an electrified baton, you slam your foot into your attacker's chest, sending him stumbling backwards. Fire daggers follow suit, flying in his direction and he slams into the wall, slumping to the floor. Whirling around, you fire a blast of flame at someone who was trying to ambush Bucky from behind and throw up a flame wall to give the super soldier a moment of respite. He shoots you a glance and gives a signal before jumping through the blue wall of fire, unloading his rifle's magazine into the unfortunate souls in front of him. A quick reload later he spins around, taking aim and fires another barrage but this time around his bullets are reinforced by your flames, piercing through the air at a startling speed and hitting their targets.

It doesn't take long for the kidnappers to fall to the combined might of you and the Winter Soldier. Before long there's only three beings left standing in the warehouse — you, Bucky and Tony.

"Go team," Tony cheers sarcastically, clapping as he makes his way over. "Didn't expect either of you, really."

"You're welcome. Now as for payment, I'll take your black card for at least one week with no spending limit —" You're cut off as Bucky shoves you aside.

"Ignore the idiot. A helicopter is on its way to pick us up, it'll be here in fifteen." Bucky ignores the punches you're landing on his right shoulder and ruffles your hair.

"I'm the idiot? When you jumped out of the plane without a parachute?" You yelp, dodging his attempts to further mess up your hair.

"I knew you'd catch me. That's called trust, not idiocy."

"It's called idiocy when you dive straight at me in midair!"

"I knew you'd be able to create an entrance into the warehouse, I simply tagged along so we'd get here faster."

"We could have died if I couldn't conjure enough flame to send us both flying here!"

"But we didn't."

"That doesn't mean you're not an idiot! It just means I'm powerful enough, you idiot!"

"Maybe the idiocy is contagious. I think you've spread it to me, doll." He laughs, leaning out of the way of your punch. "We can be idiots together!"

"I'm not an idiot!" You tackle him to the ground which only causes him to laugh harder. He effortlessly blocks your fists, ice blue eyes twinkling with mirth before flipping you over, trapping you underneath his bulk.

"Don't worry doll, being an idiot isn't always a bad thing —"

"Get off me you oaf!" You howl.

Tony sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "The two of you argue like a married couple, just get married already and spare the rest of us."

Bucky blinks, staring at Tony while you push him off you, climbing to your feet.

"Yeah so when are we getting married?" You run your fingers through your hair, stretching. He stares at you blankly, mouth opening and closing. You see his throat bob, his metal fist clenching and unclenching — his usual signs of nervousness and feel your heart plummet. He doesn't say anything, not a single word falls from his snarky tongue. Your attention quickly shifts to the helicopter that has arrived just in time to prevent a lengthy period of awkward silence but the ride back to the Avengers Tower is filled with tension that makes even Tony uncomfortable.

Once the helicopter lands, Bucky doesn't even try to help you down. He simple leaves, walking straight to his room and locks the door without speaking a single word to you. You watch as he leaves, barely hearing Tony's passing apology through the ringing in your ears and feel a pit growing in your stomach.

Is this it? After all that time spent cultivating this relationship with Bucky that you love and cherish, this is how it ends?

After taking a much needed shower, you collapse onto your bed, staring up at the ceiling. Did you overstep? Had you read your relationship wrong? Curling underneath your blanket, you swallow the tears that threaten to spill over, fingernails digging into the flesh of your palm. You want nothing more than to take it all back, to preserve your relationship with Bucky. It brought you so much joy, happiness, even if sometimes you didn't act like it did. You had cherished all the time spent with him, whether it was fooling around or going on missions, the only thing that mattered was the fact that you had someone to tease, banter with, be yourself with.

"Y/N?" A voice sounds from outside your room door. Bucky. "May I come in?"

You pause, gripping the sheets. Your heart thunders, anxiety gnawing away at you but your hand finds its way to the door handle and pulls the door open anyways. The brunette shifts anxiously then pulls out a box of your favourite snacks, offering it to you.

"A peace offering?" He bites his lip, gaze flicking to everywhere but you.

"Sure." The word clogs up your throat and you take the box, stepping to the side to let him in. Closing the door behind you, you gesture to the bed. "You can take a seat there."

He nods, taking his usual spot on your bed and you take your seat next to him. He plays with the hem of his shirt, Adam's apple bobbing and exhales sharply. "Did you mean it? When you asked when we were getting married?"

You blink, mouth opening and closing before giving a nod. "I did."

The words come out as a whisper, your chest constricting and tears begin to blur your vision. "I'm sorry I —"

"No, you didn't do anything wrong." Bucky reaches over, taking your hand in his. "It's just…are you sure about it? I'm not someone you should be stuck with for the rest of your life. You deserve someone better, someone who can give you the life you deserve, the family you seek. I can't give you any of that."

"So who do you think can?" You squeeze his hand, looking him in the eye. "Tony? Steve?"

"Tony would be a pretty good choice. He's handsome, rich, can take care of you —"

"Yeah sure Tony is handsome. But he's not the one I call handsome, is he?" You lean in. "You're the one I call handsome."

"That — that's because —" His cheeks redden and he looks away, embarrassed.

"You're the one I want, not Tony, not Steve, not anyone else. I know what I'm getting into, proposing to you but I want this. I've never been more sure of anything in my life, I know I want you in my life forever, to be by my side forever, to intertwine my fate with yours and be yours as much as you are mine. I know the burdens you carry, you know the burdens I carry, and I'm willing to help you shoulder yours, if you will let me." You gently turn his face towards you, earnestly looking into his ice blue eyes. He locks gazes with you and you see the tears that have started to form.

"Will you?"

He blinks and tears start to flow down his cheeks. You simply continue to hold onto his hand and feel him squeeze yours.

"If you will have me."

You beam, pulling him in for a kiss that he returns with a hungry desperation and feel his metal arm wrap around you.

"Of course I will," you whisper breathlessly, breaking the kiss for air. "I love you, James."

"I love you too, Y/N." He cups your cheek with both hands, metal and flesh thumb brushing over your skin then presses his forehead against yours, closing his eyes.

"This wasn't how I expected my proposal to go, really. I had something way better planned out but Tony had to just go and ruin it." You chuckle softly and he smiles.

"You can propose to me again, doll. I don't mind."

"I'd quite like to get married, thank you very much handsome." You boop him on the nose, laughing at the way he wrinkles it immediately.

"So, Tony's black card?" He queries, ruffling your hair.

"Of course. We're going to put the wedding tab on him, on top of a few other valuable items as payment for rescuing him. He can't say no, not after he told us to get married." You grin, swatting his hand away before your hair can get messed up even further. "I can't wait to choose all the most expensive options."

Bucky huffs in amusement, catching your hand and presses a kiss to your palm. "I can't wait to get married to you. You're the only one for me, no one else."

"You're the only one for me," you echo, smiling. "No one else."

[birthdaycakeplate]

@fluffythecthulhu said they wanted a fic in a comment under my Mother’s Day Megop art. I’m not sure how serious you were, but I still made one! It’s short for once, but it got embarrassing fast.

Thank you for the sweet comment, btw 💕🦑

TFA Carrier Optimus Megop

Warning in the tags✨

-/——————-

Optimus hadn’t touched his rations all cycle- more concerning still, he hadn’t fueled properly in a deca-cycle. He complained more about feeling nauseous or on the constant brink of downright purging than he ever did use that snarky mouth of his to consume his Energon.

Megatron had grown used to him neglecting himself in ways he formerly thought him too sensible to make the mistake of. Choosing to ignore fueling in lieu of finishing a communication relay at least a thousand lightyears out of range to reconnect a straying ship- which could take hours, where every precious minute counted.

Strika had ordered him not to work so hard to salvage the fodder that either purposely veered off their course, or were too stupid to read a set of coordinates correctly. She would insist that it was what they deserved for acting so foolishly.

And every time, Optimus would argue that that was no reason to leave them there to suffer both the chilling isolation of lost space or such a flippant branding from their superior. There was always some reason, he insisted, for their severed connection. There was always some argument he would make that Strika and the other high command -or any average Decepticon in close range willing to insert their opinion upon hearing the conversation- were being too harsh.

She’d leave in a huff, Optimus would resume working himself to death, and his rations would go untouched for another hour straight.

Megatron regretted assigning a brat with such an unprejudiced, smart little mouth a position in communications.

Unfortunately, Optimus’ abhorrent lack of charisma was unexplainably magnetizing…somehow. And he was by the book and strict in regulations, making him a fantastic -brainwashed- soldier to trust to carry out an order. His dedication to everything he was tasked with, as well as that odd charm, assured Megatron near immediately that he was the best choice for the job.

Optimus would always do what he was told and do it to a fault, so long as no one else suffered unfairly for it. It was perfect for Megatron who was looking for a mech willing to communicate with both halves of the reunited factions. Especially since no one else could be convinced to take the job. Those that were willing were sorely lacking the skills to delegate, and so it went to Optimus not a mere three cycles after his reassignment to the Nemesis exploration crew.

That meant having to deal with the sassy bot more than Megatron would have liked to- at least once a cycle, in fact.

Things…. Only developed from there.

It wasn’t Megatron’s fault- contrary to what Starscream insisted otherwise regarding fragile little civil frames, and their easily overwhelmed, shy nature. Never daring to make the first move and take up so much space in the affairs of their large counterparts.

As Decepticons, thus far, hadn’t the single most qualm with inserting themselves into the matters of their new, tiny crew mates.

But truly, it wasn’t Megatron’s fault. He was not the instigator.

It was the fault of limited worthwhile conversation for so many millennia and the equally refreshing opportunity to have an unbiased presence in his life once more. One, unlike Strika, who wasn’t adverse to talking about subjects unrelated to warfare and maneuvers. One that was keen to show Megatron respect as his newly appointed commander, though not to defer to his every whim and judgement and roll over for him in niceties.

It made their time together less like the chore of keeping basic communication with his personnel, and more a thing of thrill and fancy.

Megatron was having fun again.

More fun than he’d ever had attempting to destroy the mud ball planet his new officer so loved. Who knew?

Of course, it…. Quickly turned into something else….

Which was more or less ignorable for a time, since both parties knew best that they would benefit from an aloofness and detachment while resuming their duties. Keeping to formalities anyplace outside the berth.

It helped that Megatron had deluded himself into thinking he actually meant it.

But their coupling had admittedly lead to this new current issue Megatron was having. The matter of his once dependable -brainwashed- soldier refusing to feed himself, and Megatron caring a lot about it…

None of that was to say how unsettling Optimus’ sudden bouts of stasis were.

Whether the mech was walking peacefully on his way to deliver his reports, or merely sitting in on a barely mandatory -but damned if Optimus wasn’t going to be there with bells on- conference Shockwave routinely made Civil bots sit through on cross-build interactivity regulations, the little mech was always seen falling into recharge. Cheekplate propped up in one palm or with pedes propped against the table.

It was horribly unsettling… Horribly. Had Megatron mentioned that?

Strika said he was paying too much attention to the colorful thing (and chalking it up to that). Somehow oblivious to the scents still faintly permeating Megatron’s armor where little servos had held on to him tight the night prior.

He knew it was true all the same, that something was wrong with his former Prime.

Megatron blamed it on his extended workload, combined with the appalling lack of Energon he was consuming. But that theory only lasted for so long.

When even Ratchet was petitioning him on Optimus’ behalf to allow the firetruck to take a temporary leave, Megatron was certain this strange new behavior was something far more sinister than an overworked Officer.

This was… stressful. Worrying.

The space between them had grown much smaller over the vorns. Their relationship had significantly changed- whether Optimus shared that opinion with him or not.

Staying over in Megatron’s berth had become a much more frequent occurrence. As of a few cycles ago, a proper nest -normally a construction reserved for two settled mechs- had appeared, and was drenched in their combined scents to the point they left Megatron’s quarters each morning practically wearing the other out.

That was comforting, smelling the irritating aft everywhere he went throughout the day. Megatron didn’t want to lose that.

Was Optimus’ condition dire?

Was their time soon to be limited?

Would their bond nest come to unravel with the eventual loss of its imperative second occupant? Their time, was it to be cut so short so soon, fated by Primus as punishment for all his wrong doings?

They’d only just started sitting together in the command center when Megatron ushered him forward to give his report- finding him a place by his throne. On the armrest…

Was there to be no more late night rendezvous where Megatron graced him rare glimpses of his poetry and Optimus laughed at the absurdity of the writings?

Was he doomed to spend his entire functioning a solemn, bondless mech, now that he’d had a surprising and unforeseen taste of a partner worth sharing one with?

Was he to give up his dignity and dilute all their ship’s resources into traversing the galaxy for some impossible cure to safe his sickly lover?

Was he going to have to replace his only willing Communications Officer?

Optimus approached him in the middle of another one of these fantastical spirals on the bridge one evening, while Blitzwing stood awkwardly at his side, waiting patiently to be given his dismissal post debriefing.

To Megatron’s surprise, he looked more alert and awake, frankly, than he had in nearly two Earth months.

When he looked down at wide, frightened optics peering up at him with so much uncertainty and fear, Megatron dropped to one knee in an instant. Uncaring who was seeing such a display, when insanity had muddled his processor so throughly into thinking the worst of his last moments with this precious mech.

“Optimus, what ails you?” He crooned, trying to pacify the quivering thing. Barely able to resist grabbing ahold of him.

Optimus said nothing- could say nothing, as his throat tubing began to tighten.

Megatron looked at him so earnestly, so despairingly…. When had this change occurred? When had they begun to care so deeply for one another? So openly.

Optimus assumed the answer to that was sometime around the creation of the tiny passenger he was carrying that they had both been oblivious to- or else the little one couldn’t have ever come to be…

Megatron blinked worried, narrowed optics at him, just as that thought seemed to fully integrate itself into Optimus’ logic unit.

He…began to smile up at the towering mech. Though it vanished in the next instant with the realization that Optimus would need to explain his… ‘ailment’.

“Megatron, sir. I need to discuss… This isn’t about my reports…. Actually, I… It’s….”

“What is it?” His new commander urged him on. No longer able to keep large palms from encompassing his shoulders in a caress for every pair of curious optics on the bridge to see.

“No need for formalities, even here, Optimus. Just tell me what’s wrong- you haven’t been fueling.”

Optimus lost his courage -or ability- to speak then. As his mouth clamped shut again and his optics grew wet, pointed finials began to droop down his helm. Clearly still frightened by something.

But whatever it was, he could always tell Megatron.

They were lovers now, destined to share a nest and a sparkbeat- Megatron would have it no other way. Regardless of what it was going to cost him to lead the excursion for Optimus’ sickness’s cure.

“You can tell me anything, beloved. Anything at all. Speak to your spark’s content, I shall listen-“

“Should I leave for zhis?” Blitzwing murmured cautiously from behind, still waiting to be released after the last time he’d been punished for breaking formation early.

“No matter what it is, speak it to me now, Optimus, and I shall tend to the matter however is necessary.” Megatron continued to soothe his little Sweetspark.

“I will not fail you- I will not leave you behind-“

“Even if it’s really bad…?” Optimus burst out.

“…And pretty permanent?”

Megatron blinked. Optimus swallowed, maintaining optic contact through sheer force of will and…. Hope?

There was a strange glimmer in his eye, and Megatron, no matter how keenly he tried to chase it as it bounced around the other mech’s shimmering optics, he couldn’t discern its meaning.

The smaller mech’s question, however, was easily answerable.

“Nothing at all could stand in the way of my devotion to you, Optimus.” Clawed digits carefully curled around strong, scarlet servos.

“Now that I have you, I shall not release you to any unkind fate or the malevolent will of gods.”

Besides an ever present amusement for his mate’s dramatics, Optimus looked much more settled and ready to spill everything then and there. His optics losing a great deal of the uncertain edge to them.

But still….

“Can’t stress enough how bad this is…”

“I should leave, right? I von’t be thrown in ze sparring room vith Sixshot again for failure to be properly discharged if I do, ja?”

“You encompass my entire being, little Autobot. You fill me with meaning and faith, dare I say it! Faith that there is a life far better than one fighting for a meager home on Cybertron once more… You promise me a home with spirit and life. You are my home, Optimus.”

Optimus, for his part, had lost much of the color to his derma that made it blue. Shades of searing red painted high above the arch of each cheek, filling out his round face nicely with a sweet dusting that faded seamlessly where it began to spread.

Megatron was enraptured. In love.

Optimus was enraptured, too, with the severity of his words. Megatron’s promises to him.

No mech had ever promised themselves to Optimus like this- he hadn’t even bothered to entertain the thought he’d see such a thing in his lifetime. And if that was how Megatron felt, it made much more sense how their extra passenger had came to be.

“Ratchet told me to triple my fuel rations… He put me on mineral additives and a stasis increase.”

Megatron blinked slowly. Thinking that didn’t sound anything like a debilitating disease he was about to have to fight god for. That sounded like he was treating Optimus for something else, actually… but….

“Why would he do that?” Megatron asked with his barely functional glossa.

“Ah- I really zhink I should leave for zhis!”

Optimus cheeks managed to burn brighter as, finally, he lost the battle to keep Megatron’s gaze. Blushing faceplate turning into the hollow between Megatron’s shoulder and collar.

The bigger mech didn’t fight him, finding himself in something of a daze as well.

“Um…. Well…. Ah….” Optimus attempted to explain. Poorly.

Megatron tried to focus back on the blushing bot when he lifted watchful…. glittering optics back up at him.

“Sorry, I’m still here!?”

“I’m carrying.” Optimus murmured. Cheeks pleasantly warming for reasons other than horrific embarrassment under Megatron’s powerful gaze.

“Carrying?” Megatron echoed back in something less like a whisper, and more like a string of broken syllables being carried off by the nonexistent wind.

“Wow…” said Blitzwing.

And also,

~Whirr~

“Straight shootin’, Tex!”

Optimus watched the emotions morph across his new Sire’s faceplate. Watched his utter confusion change into absolute delight, then pride. A pride himself to have been able to provide, a pride to have found himself such a perfect mate- with whom he had made such a perfect sparkling with.

And finally awe- no… Reverence. Like Optimus was a god amongst mortals, complete with a glow and this holy essence about him, as Megatron stared in blissful silence at the place in Optimus’ gestation tank where it would soon fill with a sizable bitlet, likely to take after his or her’s sire.

Now Megatron understood. That ‘hope’ he’d seen in his love before, it was an instinctual faith in his new carrier that Megatron would be proud. That he would be loyal and strong and provide.

Well, his hope was not misplaced- Megatron would surpass all others as sire!

Megatron reached down and settled a hand over the ridges of Optimus’ otherwise perfectly flattened grill. Soon, his body would change, quite drastically, in fact.

Hard edges would soften, the heavy duty armor making up most of his abdominal plating would part and reconstruct to allow for room for the protoform to grow. Strong, healthy pleats in his armor below his eventual ‘bump’ would aid in the support of his growing frame.

And inside, the sparkling would turn about happily at the thrum of their Sire’s sparkbeat close by- as there was no doubt in Optimus’ mind after Megatron’s words that they would never be parted again.

Which would only become an issue anytime his doctor attempted to check on the sparkling’s progress and Megatron’s (more than adequate) donations of raw materials.

The ex-warlord, and frankly feral gladiator, would not stand for another to touch his expectant mate.

Which made Blitzwing’s right as the new Sire’s witness -some strange, apparently credible Decepticon law- to survive a hand to the carrier’s belly to feel for the sparkling’s pulse every now and again all the more surprising.

Optimus couldn’t even be angry with the big brute when he condemned his lover with child to their nest for the foreseeable future- not even on Ratchet’s order.

It was the first time any bot had felt so passionately about him before… and primitive coding in Optimus’ core couldn’t help but encourage him to defer to the Sire. Orbit, kicking and bouncing away the cycle inside his gestation tank, didn’t seem to mind either.

——————

I could not proof read this the way you deserved me to- every day is like a rush to survive, now that summer’s here.

You’re always so kind when you comment, though, @fluffythecthulhu 💕✨thank you!!

[whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk]

In My Civilization You’re the King and the Queen (ao3)

For day 7 of @cassianappreciationweek ❤️ (if you thought Semper Eadem was self-indulgent, this is a whole other level...)

When a favour for Rhys brings historian Cassian up to the special Manuscripts reading room at the British Library, he crosses paths with the formidable - and beautiful - archivist, who isn't at all pleased when this towering and tattooed newcomer badly handles one of her Anglo-Saxon treasures.

Cassian’s eyes hurt.

He didn’t know how it was possible— he’d only been working for two hours but, he supposed, staring grimly at the pile of books still waiting on his borrowed desk, he’d spent every moment of those two hours scanning page after page of printed text, looking up only to type up his notes. Given the fact that his head was spinning and his water bottle remained sealed away in the lockers downstairs, forbidden in any of the library’s reading rooms, it was probably no wonder that the two hours he’d been there was already starting to feel like two years.

How do you get a headache in your fucking eyes, anyway?

God— he needed a break. 

The pulsing at his temples was the nudge he needed to push away from his desk with a final, cursory look at the stack of material on twentieth-century warfare, closing his laptop with a gentle snap that seemed to resound through the carefully maintained silence. The single blunt pencil he’d brought with him was left on the desk beside the small notebook he’d scribbled in; a silent I’ll be back soon conveyed in the piece of paper he’d used as a bookmark and tucked between the pages of the book he’d just been rifling through like his career depended on it. 

Given the current state of the higher education job market, perhaps his career did depend on it. 

He didn’t let loose the derisive snort that bloomed in his throat as that thought crossed his mind. Instead he kept his steps silent as he abandoned his desk, cutting through the expansive, high-ceilinged space filled with sunlight streaming in from the high windows. On all sides he was surrounded by the rustle of pages turning, of wooden seats creaking, of fingers typing rapidly on keyboards— and Cassian breathed it all in, drawing it deep into his lungs in the hope that it might chase away the headache before it could take root. 

As a historian, he wouldn’t ever deny the thrill that research gave him.

He slipped out of the first-floor reading room in silence, and only when he was outside, standing in the cool hallway that seemed to echo with a hundred voices drifting up from the foyer below, did he let loose a breath. Already the headache was starting to subside, like all he’d really needed was some fresh air, and in the brief respite he allowed himself before he returned to his desk, he leaned against the wall and pulled his phone from his pocket. 

He was only half surprised to find a message waiting from Rhys. 

Are you at the BL today?

Cassian rolled his eyes before sending back an affirmative. Yes— he was at the BL, or the British Library. The home of thousands upon thousands of books and historical artefacts, including the journals Cassian needed to write his latest article and the hand-written accounts of some soldiers present at the Somme which would form the basis of a conference paper he planned to give in the spring. 

Almost immediately, Rhys responded.

Remember that favour you promised me last year? I’m calling it in.

Against the pale stone wall, Cassian blinked warily at the message chain, wondering what in all seven hells Rhys wanted this time. A senior lecturer at the same university, Rhys was a historian of language and literature, already well on the way to a professorship in some stuffy department that somehow saw twice the amount of funding as Cassian’s modern history department, despite receiving less than half the number of students. Cassian often imagined his brother’s office hours to be little more than him donning a velvet smoking jacket, legs crossed whilst seated in a leather armchair before a roaring fireplace. What are your conferences like, he teased Rhys often, Mr-fucking-Tolkien?

Rhys only ever rolled his eyes and launched into a pre-prepared lecture about the fucking structure and etymology of Beowulf or something. 

But before he had chance to ask what, exactly, it was that Rhys wanted, the bastard was already calling. 

“Why do you only ever call me when you want something?” Cassian asked as he picked up the call, tucking it between his ear and shoulder as he pushed off the wall and made for the spiral staircase that would take him down to his locker. 

“I do not,” Rhys insisted, his voice thick with indignation. “You know I love you like a brother.”

Cassian only hummed, and in answer Rhys let out a short laugh that echoed down the line. From that alone, Cassian knew Rhys was in his office on campus. Cassian had to share an office that was roughly the size of a fucking postage stamp with another member of the modern history department, but Rhys— oh, Rhys had a sprawling office on the top floor, with a sash window that looked out over the green, and ceilings so high that his voice tended to echo. 

Bastard.

“There’s a manuscript I need you to call up from the stacks for me,” he said, his voice growing distant, like he’d left his phone on speaker on his desk as he paced around his palatial office. “The archivist is dragging her feet and says there’s a ten-day wait for scans of the pages I need. I can’t wait that long, Cass, and I won’t get chance to get down there myself and see the thing in person.”

Cassian sighed. “So?”

“So I need you to request the manuscript and take some photos of it for me.”

“Can’t you just promise a big donation to help speed things along?”

Rhys snorted. “I tried. She wasn’t having it.” A brief pause followed— one where Rhys’ footsteps sounded, growing closer to the phone, and when he next spoke his voice was clearer, louder, like he’d taken it off speaker. “Would it help if I said please?”

Cassian let out a laugh of his own, equally as dry and echoing on the smooth floor of the hallway outside the locker room. “It might be a start, yeah.”

“Look, I’ll send you all the details. All you’ll need to do is take the manuscript out, and take some photos of like, ten pages for me.”

Cassian sighed, pinching his brow as he thought of all the work he had to get through himself, and any hopes he’d had of an early finish dried up like an abandoned well. 

“That means I’ll have to go to Manuscripts, Rhys. Fucking Manuscripts.”

It was, truly, Cassian’s worst nightmare. 

Manuscripts was the reading room tucked into a corner on the top floor, a mezzanine that stuck out two levels above the ordinary reading room, like the scholars using it quite literally enjoyed looking down upon the rest. Reserved for those consulting the oldest and rarest of texts, it was far smaller than the other reading rooms below it, with a low ceiling that gave the place a feeling of closeness that was ludicrous considering the size of the building. It made him shudder just to think about it. He’d been there only once before, when Rhys had dragged him in as part of a joint research trip, and Cassian had suddenly understood why Rhys was so damned stuffy. 

It was like a fucking advertisement for tweed, in there. 

He huffed heavily, and Rhys laughed again, his voice distant once more.

Bastard.

“Mhm,” he answered, clearly distracted already. Cassian heard typing, and knew that Rhys had already started working again, his phone likely discarded on his desk as he waited for Cassian to agree. With a scowl, Cassian headed for his locker and punched in the code, slamming the door when he’d fished his water bottle from his bag. 

“You owe me,” Cassian hissed. “You won that favour in a bet and this is way beyond—“

“I’ll send you the details,” Rhys cut in breezily, his voice practically fucking melodic with victory. “Oh and Cass? Tell the archivist I said hi.”

***

As soon as Rhys sent over the manuscript’s details, Cassian put in the damned request.

Back at his desk, he didn’t bother to read the brief description of the manuscript on the archive catalogue before submitting, but he glimpsed the words tenth-century and groaned so loudly it earned him a scowl from the library’s patrons on either side of him. 

Already he’d begun to pray that the request might be rejected— after all, even though his reader’s card granted him access to the collection - and the letter of introduction he’d provided years ago extended his access even further - there was still no guarantee he’d be cleared to work with a document that old without the archivist asking questions. It was older than anything else he’d ever touched by a solid nine centuries, and even though his account no doubt listed his status as a professional historian, well…

For once, Cassian thought, Rhys might just have to be disappointed.

He flicked his eyes up to the mezzanine jutting out over the reading room, suppressing a sigh before turning back to his own work instead of focusing on Rhys’. 

It was three hours before he checked the request status, crossing his fingers beneath the desk as the page loaded. Rejected, he thought. Please be rejected.

He’d have time to kill before his train home. Could swing by a nice cafe, or grab a beer at Coal Drops Yard before catching a train at King’s Cross. Hell, if he walked the other way, he could even call to the British Museum for an hour, given that it was open late on Fridays. He could relax after a day spent reading harrowing accounts of twentieth century battlefields, and—

Ready to collect.

There, right in the status bar; three little words that derailed what had, for a moment, promised to be fucking lovely evening. 

Cassian scowled. 

Around him the library was entirely silent apart from the soft clacking of keyboards and the rustle of turning pages and as the afternoon neared four-thirty, most of the patrons began to pack up and think about going home. But before Cassian could so much as glare at that mezzanine for a hundredth time—

His phone screen lit up with a text from Rhys.

Don’t forget my manuscript, he’d written.

Prick, Cassian answered. 

***

“I have a request,” he said ten minutes later, standing at the desk on that mezzanine floor.

He’d already had to sanitise his hands before entering - once he’d asked Rhys why they didn’t wear gloves like they do on TV, and he’d received a ten-minute lecture about the fragility of vellum and the friction created by gloves - and flash his pass at the security guard sitting by the door, watching like a hawk.

Dragons, Cassian thought. The fucking lot of them— like dragons hoarding treasure up here.

But the woman behind the desk had her arms full with a bound manuscript that was easily two feet long, and for a moment she ignored him entirely as her fingers curled gracefully around the navy-blue binding. She carried it like it was nothing, held it like something precious close to her chest, and for a moment Cassian simply watched her, tilting his head at the way the overhead lights turned her golden-brown hair to muted bronze. It was braided in a coronet that framed her face, and when her eyes flicked up, they were a blue so stunning that for a moment Cassian completely forgot why he was there. 

She raised a single eyebrow, placing the tall manuscript down in the pile to be sent back to the stacks, and Cassian had to clear his throat.

Right— Rhys.

A favour for Rhys.

“Name?” she asked, holding out one elegant hand for his readers card.

“Cassian,” he answered, handing it over, wondering if this was the woman who’d given Rhys so much trouble.

God, he hoped it was.

He flashed her a smile. “Just the one manuscript on order.”

She hummed, lifting her eyes to study him. She scanned him head to toe, taking in the tattoos that peeked from the neckline of his shirt, curling at the base of his neck, before tracking her eyes down, over the muscles that corded his arms to the ink on his knuckles. He’d gotten vita and mors tattooed on his knuckles after finishing his PhD— life and death in Latin, a fitting tribute to the fact that he spent his life with the dead.

There was something about the way she looked at him— something that said she was trying to piece him together, puzzle out the man that towered over the collections desk half an hour before closing on a Friday. And when her eyes flicked up to his once more, Cassian let himself smirk just a little, lifting his chin as he watched her slide his card back towards him over the counter. 

Maybe he should have said something, asked for her name. 

But before he could so much as remember what words were, she turned sharply on her heel and headed for the shelves behind her, where one single, small manuscript sat alone in the collections pile. 

“Here,” she said, sliding it slowly across the desk.

It was bound in black leather, with the gilt numbering on the spine its only identifier. A nineteenth-century binding Cassian would guess, though it was far from his area of expertise. He merely took the manuscript in hand, waiting for the questions— waiting for her to ask why on earth he’d turned up and requested this manuscript in particular.

But she had already turned away, tracing a hand along the spine of another manuscript as she tucked a request card beneath the cover. A stray piece of hair from her braid crossed into her eyes, and without breaking her focus she tucked it back behind her ear. Looking down, her eyelashes almost brushed her cheek, and as she began to scribble away at something in pencil, she drew her bottom lip between her teeth in concentration.

Cassian couldn’t stop watching her— was entranced, and only with effort did he pull himself away and turn for the four rows of mostly-empty desks that stretched behind him. It was a world away from the countless rows of desks downstairs, and as he made his way across the muted olive-green carpet and picked a desk at random, he’d honestly forgotten why he’d been so unwilling to come up here in the first place.

She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. 

God, he wished he’d gotten her name.

Sighing softly, Cassian plunked the manuscript down on the desk, sinking into the chair and taking a single breath as he stretched his neck, easing the stiffness that had worked its way into his muscles after an entire day spent with his head bent over old books. He plucked at the manuscript’s cover, fingers lingering on the leather.

Not as old as this, he thought dryly.

His phone buzzed once in his pocket, breaking him from his thoughts. It was Rhys— sending yet another text to check that Cassian had actually managed to take out the manuscript with no issues. Rolling his eyes, Cassian snapped a photo of the manuscript, still closed, on the desk.

Happy?

Rhys sent him back a simple thumbs-up. 

With an indulgent shake of his head - and a silent promise that he’d make Rhys pay through the fucking nose for this, perhaps in the form of a very expensive bottle of whiskey - Cassian pulled the manuscript towards him, opening the front cover with one hand whilst with the other he pulled up the list of page numbers Rhys had messaged him over. 

The leather creaked as he cracked it open, and inside he was met immediately with stiff vellum pages, yellowed with age. It smelled of ink and dust and aged parchment, that curious combination that was musky and thick and far from unpleasant— like somebody had taken the smell of a library and distilled it down to its most concentrated form. He breathed it in, running a hand along the edge of the pages that were soft, worn from centuries of handling. 

No, this wasn’t his period, and he’d never call up something like this from the stacks himself but…

The historian in him saw the age of the thing in his hands and couldn’t help but feel a sense of awe. 

The ink inside was still a bright black, as if it had been penned yesterday, and each line was straight as an arrow, the script perfectly uniform and precise, meticulous. Cassian inhaled, breathing in the utterly unique scent of age-old craftsmanship, but even as he scanned the first line, trying and failing to find any word or, hell, any letter he could recognise, he felt the frown creasing his brow. 

Is this even English? he asked Rhys, thumbs flying over the keys. 

Yes, Rhys replied instantly.

Cassian snorted quietly to himself, barely suppressing the roll of his eyes as he glanced up, flicking his attention towards the one other scholar still in Manuscripts at quarter to five— fifteen minutes before closing. How the fuck do you even read this shit?

He could practically hear Rhys’ dry tone when his brother responded. It’s called palaeography, Cass. Those of us interested in real history learn it.

Cassian snorted again.

Rhys was firmly under the impression that anything that had happened less than a hundred years ago barely even counted as history. He’d almost had an aneurism when Cassian told him one of his colleagues had a student writing their dissertation on the pop culture of the 1980s and 1990s. “That’s not history,” Rhys had said as he’d spat out his drink in the pub. “That’s sociology at best, and at worst— it’s our fucking childhood. It doesn’t count.”

With a wry smile, Cassian turned his attention back to the manuscript in his hand, flipping through the pages to find the ones Rhys needed. On each, the script ran edge to edge in flowing black, in a hand Cassian couldn’t even begin to decipher. The initials were grand though, decorated with swirling vines and small figures, as though some monk in the 900s had poured his heart and soul into the writing of this volume. Something about that tugged at Cassian, at the part of him that longed to uncover every version of the past there was to find, and as he brushed a finger over the ink once more, he almost wished he was able to read the text; almost wished he could find out what, exactly, that monk had deemed so important he’d immortalised it with his pen. 

There was something wondrous in it— something that called out to him and made him feel like a child again, staring up at the walls of a castle in ruins, embers of insatiable curiosity igniting like a wildfire he’d never been able to extinguish. The manuscript in his hands had survived centuries— war and plague and famine and fire, it had weathered them all. It had witnessed the breadth of human history and arrived here, to sit beneath his fingertips and give Rhys the means to write his article. 

Not that he’d ever admit any of that out loud, of course. Rhys would have a field day.

Rolling his eyes, Cassian flipped another page over, finally finding the first of the ones Rhys wanted photographed. Using one hand to splay the pages wide open, he picked up his phone in the other and lifted it up to take the picture—

“What on earth are you doing?”

Cassian startled, and looked up to find the woman from the desk - the archivist, surely - standing behind him, her arms crossed over her chest as disbelief flitted across that beautiful face. Something like horror flared in those magnificent eyes, and her lips were parted in an expression of abject shock. Cassian’s brow furrowed.

“A favour for a friend,” he said slowly, confused. For a moment he wondered if Rhys had gotten it wrong— if this was one of the manuscripts not permitted to be photographed. But the archivist shook her head sharply.

“Are you an imbecile?” she asked bluntly. “Or have you just never been inside an archive before?”

Cassian bristled. “Of course I’ve been inside an archive before.” 

Just not to examine documents…. quite this old.

He’d admit that he was perhaps a little bit clueless when it came to this— handling things that predated anything else he’d ever worked with by almost a fucking millennia.

And yet… he wasn’t about to let her know that.

He pushed away from the chair, rising to his feet as the carpet hissed beneath his boots. God— she barely came up to his shoulders, but she didn’t back away. No, instead she lifted her chin to fix him with that encompassing stare, her glare almost enough to melt the flesh from his bones.

“I find that difficult to believe,” she hissed, nodding at the desk. “No book rest. No snake weights. And no historian would ever open a manuscript the way you just did.” She scowled as she nodded to the vellum pages he’d just had his hands all over. “The pages in that manuscript are a thousand years old.”

Suddenly there was a fire rising in his chest, some kind of beckoning interest flaring to life as he looked down into eyes brimming with so much ire they threatened to tear him apart. Every inch of her was lined with hauteur, her jaw tight as he canted his head and looked down at her, folding his arms over his chest in a stubborn gesture that said he wasn’t going to be the one to back down. She met him stroke for stroke, catching his gaze and refusing to step back, standing so close that he could smell her perfume. Something in Cassian relished it, revelled in the way she was forced to tilt her head back as he took a step closer, eliminating the distance between them until barely an inch separated his folded arms from hers. 

“I’m a modern historian, sweetheart. I’m just here to take some pictures for a colleague of mine and then I’ll be out of your hair.”

“Oh— oh,” she said, inhaling sharply, and Cassian saw the moment she made the connection. Her eyes darkened, her brows rising, and if he’d thought she was pissed before… Christ, he hadn’t known the meaning of the word. “You’re here for that prick who somehow found my office phone number and called me to demand that I rush his request through.”

Cassian bit back a grin. He had no idea how Rhys had managed to find her number. Azriel, probably. 

“Does the word no mean anything to either of you?”

“No,” he answered easily, letting a feral smile loose across his lips. Indignation flared in her eyes, and Cassian could have sworn he felt his heart skip a beat or several. “Look, just let me take these photos and I’ll be gone. You can have your decrepit old book back then.”

Her scowl deepened, those sharp eyes growing somehow - impossibly - sharper. Like she’d taken offence on behalf of the manuscript he’d just called decrepit. 

Fucking hell, she was stunning. She reminded him of a blade— shining as bright and as pure as silver, and yet sharp enough to have him bleeding if he so much as breathed wrong in her direction. And that scowl… 

It was enough to have him simpering after her like a fucking teenager.

She said nothing, only huffed forcefully before turning on her heel and marching briskly back towards the desk. Cassian nodded once before turning back to the manuscript, but before he could so much as raise his phone for another photo, the archivist had returned, slamming down a thin string of weights onto the desk beside him. With her other hand she reached around him to pull forward the foam book rest that sat at the back of his desk.

“Move,” she said sharply.

Cassian could only hold up his hands in surrender as he backed off. 

With perfect and practised care, gently she lifted the manuscript from its spot on the surface of the desk. The thing wasn’t inherently fragile, but still she checked the spine for damage - aiming a pointed glare over her shoulder as she did so - before setting it down on the book rest, letting the foam cradle it. 

“You open bound manuscripts from the centre, not the front cover,” she said, like it was the most fundamental thing in the entire world. “Otherwise you’ll strain the binding.”

Slowly, she teased the pages apart, starting right in the middle and working her way back to the page Cassian had been photographing only a handful of minutes ago. Then, she draped the thin string of weights across the pages to keep them spread.

“These are used to keep the pages open— not your hands.”

She took a step back away from the desk, folding her arms back over her chest as she studied the new set up. For a heartbeat, her eyes dropped to his hands, lingering once more on the tattoos decorating his knuckles. Once it might have been considered a professional hindrance, to have so much ink on display, but historians with tattoos were far from rare these days. And he didn’t think that the woman before him looked with disdain, either. 

“What would I do without you?” he drawled, tilting his head to the side. 

She rolled those devastating eyes of hers, and when she shook her head, Cassian caught a hint of her perfume. It was delicate, something floral with just a hint of spice— like rose and honey, and it had him drawing her deep into his lungs, savouring it and throwing her a wink that he knew might end up with her throwing him off the ledge of the mezzanine altogether. 

“Be banned from ever entering my reading room ever again,” she muttered, her voice low and bitter. She shook her head again, sending her small silver earrings glinting beneath the bright white lights. Harsh lights, not flattering for anybody, and yet— she was beautiful. When Rhys had called, Cassian hadn’t really known what to expect, but he sure as hell hadn’t expected the archivist to be… well. Like this.

As he snapped another photo for Rhys and nodded for her to gently turn the page - parchment rustling, binding creaking, weights whispering as she arranged them carefully on the edges of the vellum - his eyes fixed on her hands, elegant and sure.

No ring there, he noticed.

He didn’t know why he’d looked, or why he’d even bothered to note it. Just because she wasn’t married didn’t mean there wasn’t somebody in her life, and besides, whether she did or did not, it didn’t necessarily mean that he had any real interest anyway, did it?

Or perhaps he was just kidding himself— practically tripping over that empty space on her finger in case it meant he might have a chance.

His mind was entirely somewhere else as he took the remaining few photos Rhys had requested, barely seeing the script on the pages anymore and too caught up with the way she stood silent by his side, her eyes occasionally flicking his way when she thought he wasn’t looking. He couldn’t have missed it, though. Her attention was like a match dragged along his skin, setting fire to him with a spark and a hiss and a perfectly lethal glare.

And when he was done, when the last photo was safe in his camera roll, Cassian drew fully away from the desk. Glancing up and taking in his surroundings for the first time since she’d stormed over, he noticed that the last scholar had left, leaving them almost entirely alone save for the security guard by the door. 

A breathless kind of anticipation crept up his spine, pricked his skin as he lingered by that desk. 

There was only one thing he wanted to ask now— one thing he’d been dying to know ever since he’d walked through that fucking door.

“What’s your name?” he asked, drawing closer as she lifted the weights from the pages and let them pool on the desk. 

She paused, not turning to look at him as she lifted the manuscript from its cradle and eased it closed. “Why should I tell you that?”

Cassian shrugged. “Because.” When she glanced over her shoulder, he flashed her a grin that could have been called cocky, could have been called boyish in its charm. “I’m a historian. Curiosity’s part of the job.”

“Historian of what, exactly?” she demanded, turning around sharply, in a tone so much like Rhys’ that Cassian couldn’t help but let his grin spread wider, unfettered. “I’ve never met a historian who can’t handle a manuscript before.”

“I told you. I’m a modernist, sweetheart.”

She ran her eyes up and down, lingering on his chest, his broad shoulders. Then her eyes flicked to his face, his long hair pulled back to reveal the earring studded through one lobe. 

“So you really haven’t been in archive before.”

“Of course I have,” he countered. 

“Not a real one,” she muttered and God— she sounded so fucking much like Rhys that Cassian thought they might even get along, if ever they met. If they could detach themselves from one another’s throats for more than five seconds. 

He let out a laugh that echoed through the vaulting space, something inside him igniting when her eyes widened, the hush breaking like glass beneath his feet. She blinked again, muttering something about how he clearly hadn’t ever been in a library before either, before gathering the manuscript in her hands and turning sharply on her heel, pushing past him to heard towards the collections desk. 

And like Theseus following Ariadne’s string, Cassian followed her.

Somewhat more earnest, he leaned against the counter, curling his tattooed knuckles loosely into his palm. “I do appreciate it, you know. You coming over to help.”

“I did it for the manuscript, not you,” she pointed out dryly.

He grinned. “Come on. Give me your name at least— so I know who to address the thank you note to.”

“Only a note?” she fired back, raising her eyebrows. 

Cassian felt a thrill skip through him, tripping along his veins until it reached his chest and made him feel slightly breathless. He liked this— the banter, the back and forth that was so remarkably easy it felt like falling into step with someone he’d known all his life. This stranger - this beautiful stranger - glared at him as he leaned over the counter, his chest pressing into the wood as he brought his face hardly an inch from hers, and he’d already figured out that her eyes sparked when she was irritated, that she huffed in exasperation often, and that the small tilt at the corner of her lips was the only outward sign she’d allow that she was entertaining him and his cocksure posturing. 

This close, he thought he might have died and gone to heaven. His eyes dropped to her lips again, unable to look away.

“What else would you like, sweetheart?” he murmured, offering her a crooked smile. “Shall I get on my knees and extol your virtues to all of London?”

She hummed. “It might be a start.”

Cassian laughed again, easy and free. She had no idea how willing he already was to get down on his knees. He half thought he might break his kneecaps in the rush to prostrate himself before her, and as he watched her standing there beneath the white lights, precious manuscript in her hands, something stirred in him. A kind of interest he’d not had in someone in, well… years.

The archivist drew back, putting space between them that left Cassian blinking like a fool as she took the manuscript back to the shelves, ready to be returned back down below to the stacks. He could only watch her stride purposefully away, his eyes straying to her hips and down, all the way to her heeled boots, and God, that couldn’t be it, could it? He couldn’t let that be it. Could he?

Suddenly, there was only one thought in his head.

Fuck it.

“Let me buy you a drink,” he said suddenly, the words leaving him in a rush that was far too loud in the silence of the reading room. 

With a gentle thud, the archivist set the manuscript down. Her silver-blue eyes flicked up so sharply that Cassian honestly wondered if one day she’d manage to cut a man and make him bleed with those eyes alone. 

“In what world do you think I’d want to get a drink with you?”

Cassian grinned. “Oh, come on, sweetheart.” He leaned back casually, tilted away from the desk when only a moment before he’d been a breath away from vaulting over it and falling at her feet.  “Consider it an apology for Rhys’… stubbornness.”

She straightened, her face turning contemplative as, slowly, she made her way back towards him. Imperious, she lifted one perfect eyebrow. “If I said yes, would you promise never to come into my archive again?”

Cassian let out a low, rumbling laugh as he lifted his shoulders in an idle shrug. He didn’t think he could promise her that. Suddenly he was wondering just how different the first world war and the eleventh-century were really, and whether he could pull off a drastic change in his field of study, just so he had an excuse to see her again. To come up here and have her lecture him some more on how rough he was with some ancient books. 

God, if he was lucky - exceptionally lucky - maybe he’d even get the chance someday to show her how rough he could be with other things, too. What else he could do with the hands she kept glancing at. 

He cleared his throat again. Now was not the time to be turned on, and yet. 

And fucking yet.

“I’ll even throw in dinner,” he said with a wink.

The archivist rolled her eyes. “You don’t even know my name.”

Cassian leaned forwards over the counter again. “So tell me.”

She paused, and the silence grew so weighted that Cassian could feel it. But it wasn’t oppressive or suffocating— it was electric. He could feel the air thrumming between them, dancing with tension that was so thick it was making him dizzy. Her eyes dropped to his lips— his to her neck, that expanse of bare skin that he was fairly sure he’d be begging to taste before the night was out. 

“Nesta,” she answered at last. “My name is Nesta.”

Already he wanted to know how it would feel to whisper her name in her ear, to feel it on his tongue. To shape it with his lips until there was nothing else left. 

“Well then, Nesta.” He offered up another winning smile, just a breath shy of rakish. “Dinner?”

She paused, assessing him like he was just another one of her manuscripts. He flourished beneath that attention, tilting his chin up like a fucking peacock, and if anyone else were here, he might have reined it in, might have kept himself in check. But apart from the security guard standing at the other end of the room, they were alone, and when Nesta looked at him with nothing but blatant interest in her eyes, Cassian felt his blood begin to hammer through his veins and knew that he had one more card to play— an ace hidden up his sleeve.

“You know,” he began slowly, tracing an idle finger in circles on the desk, “the British Museum is open till half six on a Friday.”

He cast a glance to his watch. 4:55pm. In twenty minutes they could be standing in the sculptures gallery, marvelling at beauty crafted by ancient hands. In the grey light, surrounded by the gleaming white marble, Cassian had no doubt he’d be falling over himself to impress this woman. 

“A bottle of wine and a couple of ancient artefacts. You do know how to charm a girl,” Nesta quipped. She laid a hand down, splayed on the desk between them, and as she raised her eyes to his, Cassian swore time stopped altogether. 

Her voice was dry, acerbic, but Cassian grinned, damn near feverish. 

“I know how to charm you, princess. Aren’t ancient artefacts your thing?”

“Well, they’re certainly not yours. Planning on breaking into a display case and shattering the Sutton Hoo helmet?”

Cassian grinned, feral in his delight as he shrugged. “Who knows what might happen if you’re not there to stop me.”

Nesta rolled her eyes, but she didn’t draw back. With every breath she seemed to shift a half inch closer, and Cassian’s heart was a war-drum in his chest, beating so fast, so loud, it was a wonder she couldn’t hear it. He wasn’t breathing— wasn’t sure he even remembered how. 

“Is that all I am? Your chaperone?”

He couldn’t think of anything witty, couldn’t find some cutting remark to send her way. She was so maddeningly close, all it would take would be a slight shift on his part to bring him crashing into her, and as his eyes fell to her mouth, all he could think about was her sharp tongue, her soft lips, how much he wanted her.

He wanted to kiss her so badly he thought he might die if he didn’t get the chance. 

Nesta said nothing, only stared at him in a way that said she knew exactly how undone he was. 

She was close, now. So close, and as his eyes roved across her face, he couldn’t think beyond the desire that was building in his chest, lining his throat and making him desperate to touch her. He wanted to reach out. Wanted to brush a thumb across her cheek, graze his knuckles across her jaw until he reached her lips. All he had to do was lift his hand—

The moment shattered when the security guard slammed a mug down on his desk at the other end of the room, looking pointedly in their direction as he plucked up his coat and prepared to leave.

Cassian reared back, clearing his throat, suppressing the laugh in his chest. A blush stole across Nesta’s cheeks, so perfectly pretty he wanted to reach out and brush it with his fingers. 

“Well, sweetheart,” he said as he cleared his throat again. “Is that a yes?”

Nesta took a moment, but when she huffed, there was a small smile at the corner of her lips, a glint in her eyes. She shook her head like she couldn’t quite believe she was about to agree to an immediate date with a total stranger, and Cassian’s grin was feral as she bit back that smile and walked away from the collection’s desk, into the back rooms of the library reserved for staff alone. But she looked back, glanced at him over her shoulder and said,

“Meet me downstairs in ten minutes.”

Taglist: @asnowfern @podemechamardek @c-e-d-dreamer @lady-winter-sunrise @starryblueskies7 @melphss @sv0430 @that-little-red-head @misswonderflower @fwiggle @tanishab @xstarlightsupremex @burningsnowleopard @hiimheresworld @wannawriteyouabook @hereforthenessian @valkyriesupremacy @kale-theteaqueen @moodymelanist @talkfantasytome

[onegianthotmess]

Divian crying because Lilia is always just out of reach. This is before they got married, of course, but I imagine her being tortured in a way after Lilia’s murder in his first life.

She spends the next few centuries catching glimpses of Lilia. She sees a man who looks like him, or sees him with another woman and a child in a market, even being haunted by his memory in her dreams (I’m imagining something similar to that scene of Blitzø’s hallucinations of his mother in the Helluva Boss episode GHOSTFUCKERS) because she wasn’t able to protect him or keep him by her side the night he was murdered—the night they were supposed to run away and be married by dawn. Divian sees glimpses of Lilia, reminders of what she could’ve had if she’d just asked sooner or maybe if she’d went to go and try to find him sooner.

But the true heartache is when Divian meets General Vanrouge, Lilia’s second life as a fae. His life was now much longer, only being about 300 when they met again. While Divian was thrilled to finally see the love of her life again, she could feel that he was likely in love with someone else. So, she simply decided to try and coexist with Lilia, eventually becoming a soldier in Briar Valley’s Right Army.

I see her eventually trying to tell Lilia how she actually feels and explain herself, but she eventually walks in on something unnoticed and misinterprets the situation and just leaves. She should’ve known better—she’d already lost him, and he’s always be just out of her reach. Always a love she’d lost, never to be found again. Gone for the rest of her life.

It isn’t until they start to take care of Malleus and Mealodie after Meleanor’s death that Lilia actually realizes he loves Divian and he ends up telling her so about thirty years after they’re entrusted with the Prince and Princess.

But even when Lilia starts to try to subtly show how he feels, Divian denies it all and thinks he’s just trying to find companionship on a slightly deeper level. It takes Lilia finding her crying in front of the portrait she’s kept for nearly a thousand years about how he’s always just out of her reach and asking what she’d done to deserve such torture for everything to come out into the open.

It’s that night that Divian explains herself, who she actually is and how she’d known Lilia very well when they’d first met. Lilia listens and tries his best to comfort her. He then asks if Divian would like to try a relationship, telling her that they’d go slowly and that he would never be farther than a single mumble of his name away.

And thus began the soft beginnings of what evolved into the sappy old married couple who will likely die in each other’s arms after going for a nap they’d never wake up from that they became-

[comfortmechsforverystablepeople]

Gender crisis

@yourlocalmechanism-dr-carmilla

warning in the title

Jonny

Immediatly noticed that something interesting is going on. It's like a natural sense for him, he can detect a queer person in less then ten seconds in a room packed with straights. He is very subtle about it either, but he's very excited. He would hang around you like an overexcited puppy in hope you will tell him first. This is such a good news that you are figuring out stuff about you! Let him know! He wants it so badly!

Nastya

If Jonny knows, then everyone knows. Especially Nastya, who loves to travel through the vents and spies on everyone. Maybe she even witnessed a few of your moments where you were trying to figure out yourself. Nastya knows how it is and will never acknowledge she saw you, letting you controlling if and when you will come out. She will just keep an eye on the others to stop them to out you before you are ready. Lots of wires and pannels accidents...

Ashes

Ashes is an expert. They are the queer big sibling who will teach you everything they know. You need a safe-place to experiment? You are at the right place. Need clothes? They will lend you anything. Need to ask some question? They are here for you. Whatever you need, Ashes will take everything in charge. Will punch anyone who misgenders you.

Ivy

Do you need informations? Because Ivy have thousands of years of experience across the cosmos! You can find new names and pronouns all day together, that would be fun. She also has a tons of books, and every over media ever, about what you are going through. And It helps her to figure out how she feels when reading about it, so maybe it could help you too!

Brian

This is great news! Brian is so, so, so proud of you. So strong and brave! Will give you a big hug to celebrate. What do you mean you didn't figured out everything? It doesn't matter, celebration hug is appropriate none the less! Will also cook a celebration cake with your new name/pronouns on it.

Toy Soldier

Honestly, it never really understood how something so tiny could be so important... Maybe it's like when someone says its a real person and not a toy soldier. It makes it pretends to be heartbroken, usually ending with one of its crewmate to kill the offender. Oh! It should act like that! Be ready to have a brand new bodyguard which will attack anyone misgendering you. Don't fret if you are changing your mind over the details, just tell it and it will be happy to adapt who it should punch!

Tim

Heck yeah! One of us! One of us! One of us! He never really had problems with his gender, but saw enough people going through similar journeys. In any case, he will be with you each step of the way. And will surely drag you around like a rpoud siblings to brag about how great you are. You can expect hug from him too!

Raphaella

Can she experiment? She wants to experiment! Nothing too crazy (unless you want to~), just observing and studying your thought process during this period of your life. Don't worry, she likes you very much and will never try to interfer. And it could help you to! Knowing what you are thinking and why is very useful and helps to avoid spiraling.

Marius

If you have any emotionnal need, he's the expert! This is the first thing he studied when he tried to become a psychologist. Because he wants to help people like you! So, he knows it's not all rainbow and sunshine, it can be draining and exhausting. If you need a good cry or just a place to rest peacefully with snacks and water, you can go to the medbay or in his quarter.

Aurora

She is so thrilled! She adores to see people she loves becoming the best version of themselves and evolving! She herself had gone through similar questions when she was young and after the... cyberian incident. And even if her conclusion was that she didn't need to change anything, it doesn't mean you shouldn't! You should do whatever you prefer! As a reward, she will update whatever you want in your crew file she keeps on hand.

Scuzz

Congratulations, you are braver than a lot of people. You are facing a very challenging situation which only you can figure out.

...

Do you want a hug? They are not really great at it but they really want to help.

Carmilla

She is so proud of her sunshine! She had been there AND a doctor! So, maybe the most understanding person you can find. She would provide everything and more. Especially physical affection if you are into it: quick hugs, smooch on your forehead, ruffle hair, squeezing your shoulder... And so many compliments! Everything to make you feel good in your skin.

In general

The Mechanisms are the queerest and genderest space pirate who makes music ever! So they would 100% behind you and ready to help in any way. Prepare yourself for a queer party when you figure out everything, a weird fusion between a birthday and a baby shower. But it's the intention which counts, right?

[badolmen]

Maybe Next Time

Inspired by @reds-skull's Revenant AU - please go check out their art its so goddamn cool.

He feels alive.

Which is a frighteningly alien sensation.

At first, Soap kept the caution of a living man, as though the next blast would kill him for good this time. The first suicide mission he bears with a grin – who else but him could survive it? It’s practically his obligation to die in the stead of soldiers who have no guarantee of getting up again.

The second suicide mission, the third, the fourth…he lost count of the times he felt shrapnel bite his bones and fire sear through his flesh. He bears it with a grin and a joke that no one laughs at – who else but him could survive it? He is a Revenant after all. It’s what he’s still here for.

Isn’t it?

Because if that’s all he lives for, to die for men who see him as a cheap flesh alternative to bomb robots, a tool to be used, bloodied, cleaned, then used again…

Then why does this mission make him feel alive?

In all his time with the SAS, Soap never met another Revenant. They are rare, and thus closely guarded. This one – only called “Ghost,” with not a picture in his file – doesn’t even have a description of his abilities. All Soap can glean from the single page file is that he’s a Lieutenant of a taskforce – the 141. Who they are and what they do is a mystery to him, but it’s not like he’s being recruited.

This is a joint mission, acquiring intel for the 141. He’s on loan, his abilities coveted for this mission given its circumstances. Who the hell guards intel with explosives? (Someone who would rather destroy it than let it fall into enemy hands.) The nature of the intel is kept from him, but he doesn’t mind. This is the most he’s known about a mission outside of ‘there’s a bomb’ in a long time.

He tries not to get his hopes up; this job is the same suicide mission he’s done a thousand times before. Infiltrate, locate intel, disarm or detonate the explosives, crawl back with whatever is left. But this time, he isn’t alone.

And that’s as terrifying as it is thrilling.

He feels alive for the first time since he died.

--

Soap decides he likes Ghost, even if the feelings aren’t mutual. The Sargeant’s attempt at levity during on-boarding is met with a muttered curse. (“Save you a seat, LT.” Ironic considering this is a two man mission and most of the helo is unoccupied.) The two review their mission brief on the flight to the drop location: three buildings to clear, intel in two. Enemy presence is shockingly low, but that’s to be expected considering they don’t know what’s coming. Besides, who needs soldiers when you have enough explosives to level a city block?

Drop off goes off without a hitch and immediately any expectations for a standard mission (as standard as Soap knows it) is chased away. Ghost uses the comms actively, almost to the point where Soap wonders for a moment if there are normal soldiers on this mission that he doesn’t know about. But he’s making call outs for Soap, letting Soap know when he clears a sniper, muttering what one might construe to be praise when Soap cleans out an entire level of a building while Ghost picked off the patrols.

“For an explosives expert you’re one hell of a shot.”

“Aye, glad to see I’m not too rusty. Used to clean up like this back in the day; why do you think they call me Soap?”

“Perhaps you need some.”

“Was that a joke LT?”

A flashbang catches the Sargent off guard, a quick curse and crack shot clearing the final enemy.

“Keep it tactical, MacTavish.” The words sting, but the faintest shimmer of amusement that crackles over the comm static has Soap sweeping to the second floor with a grin.

“Movin’ up, second floor Bravo-7.”

“Solid copy. I’m moving to building C.”

“Copy. Let me know if you need me.” To die for you the mission.

The sudden lack of response is almost deafening.

Soap knows when he isn’t wanted.

He knows well the pointed silence on comms, the curt order to keep it tactical when he tries to joke with the others on a mission. He has a keen eye for cold shoulders and stolen glances. The others on a mission know what he’s there to do. They know he will be torn apart, bloodied and burned so that their mission is successful. Something between a sacrificial lamb and Frankenstein’s monster. Something that isn’t spoken to, either out of pity or of fear.

There’s the rank difference, sure, but they’re from separate operations, so even if Soap is only a Sargent, the usual power dynamics aren’t at play. Part of him wants to indulge, to push and grab at whatever scraps of humanity he can get from the guy. Part of him is too scared there isn’t any left, not for him.

There is only grim silence as he takes down the final two enemies on the second floor. No intel on the second floor. Sweeping the first reveals a basement hatch, and Soap can feel his heart sink with every step into that dank cellar. The air is thick with the tang of gunpowder and practically humming with primed charges.

Soap suddenly feels out of place, creeping slowly, smoke grenade highlighting trip lines that he follows to disengage explosives. Most missions didn’t care how messy things got, so long as no one but him and the enemy got hurt. Going loud was less an option and more a standard he had gotten a bit too comfortable with. Here, taking it slow, focusing on every breath and movement, Soap is alive. There is a heady rush of adrenaline in his blood as he cuts wires and pries primed mechanisms to safety.

Between clearing tangos with a voice in his ear and setting aside disarmed charges, Soap is holding that bittersweet nostalgia of Before with both hands. Because if he fucks this up, it’s going to hurt. A lot.

Not to mention Ghost would see his fuck up. Soap isn’t sure why that idea bothers him so much, but he has a job to do, so he pushes it aside to focus on the frankly overcompensating amount of explosives.

(What was this, some comic book supervillain storage lair?)

(Well, maybe it kind of is – his own fingers are aflame, sparking against the metal housings of the laser projectors. What was that character called again? The human torch? Soap can’t remember if he merely burst into flames or exploded –)

Focus, MacTavish.

He’s half tempted to comm Ghost, just to see if the other will answer, just to see if he will be ignored. He can’t hear gunfire or explosions here in the cellar, but Soap assumes Ghost is having a bit more excitement than he is right now, taking care of tedious and boring bomb disarming.

He hisses, holding a housing too-tight in his palm as the metal warms and warps against his powers. He nearly dropped the red hot shell right on top of a charge. He needs to focus. This isn’t a loud mission and Reapers knew if Ghost realizes he would have to drag what was left of Soap back to base if things went tits up. The last thing they need is a Revenant falling into enemy hands.

(How would they use him? There’s no point killing such a powerful asset. Would he still be a glorified one-man bomb squad? Or would they put his powers to more sinister use -?)

Fucking focus, MacTavish. Ghost has probably finished clearing the other two buildings while you’re down here faffing about.

There are boots on the stairs. His hands are full of primed explosives.

“Freeze!” His heart sinks, the fire at his fingertips licking against the charges in hand. “Hands up, slowly.”

“Easy boys…” Soap hums, not moving his hands. If he drops the charge it will go off. If he raises his hands the tangos will see his fire and shoot for fear of him accidentally setting off the charge. Better to draw this out and maximize the casualties.

They filter into the cramped basement, weapons aimed at his head and flashlights sweeping the disarmed charges on the floor. Four tangos. Someone must have reported their earlier kills – no other reason for a full patrol unit to be walking around weapons primed.

Ghost is definitely having more fun than Soap is at the moment.

“Let’s be reasonable –”

“Shut up.” The order is punctuated with the muzzle of a rifle pressed under Soap’s chin. The adrenaline kicks in, thrill and terror mixing in crystallized euphoria. He could die here. Again, for good this time. His conditional immortality did not include point blank bullets to the face.

His Reaper wouldn’t be too happy about that.

The memory of fluttering insects and light so bright it burned and why he was sent back is like swallowing sun-warmed honey, sweet but cloying. He will not die here. It will hurt. But he’ll live. He always does.

“Bravo-2 how copy?” Ghost’s voice is sharp as it crackles from his radio. Before the tangos around him can use their own comms, Soap takes a step back, hands burning hot against the fragile charge as he pulls it to his chest. The swansong of igniting thermite and roaring fire is all he hears before the world around him is torn to shreds.

--

His Reaper hovers nearby, a buzz under his skin, buffering him against fire and shrapnel and rubble. If he doesn’t look too closely, he can see them in the cinders and smoke. Warm, golden insects the same color and temperature as the fire sparking at his fingertips. They flutter past, carried on the fumes and swirling air currents, fading out of view as his vision darkens.

Soap’s consciousness rises and falls like a weak tide, a few seconds of painful clarity defeated as blood loss and agony blur his thoughts and catch in his blood filled lungs. For so long it is awfully quiet. He can feel the slick of blood from burst eardrums running down his neck, but soon enough he can hear his gargled breathing and knows they’ve heal.

He can hear footsteps, or at least, he thinks they are footsteps. A voice – no, probably not a voice. Why would they be calling to him? They’re probably talking to someone else. They will pick him up when the mission is done. However long that took.

Christ, he is so fucking tired – he can feel his Reaper’s power surging through his body, coalescing around what he knows to be a bad puncture wound too adrenaline numbed to be felt. He just needs to clear it, at least enough to start healing, because replacing all of this blood is going to take weeks at this point.

Hands. Right, he has hands, he just needs to –

Feeling rushes back into his blood like a tidal wave, a full body shudder as his nerves burn back to life. His eyes snap open, burning in the smoke and welling with tears.

Steamin’ Jesus, he is going to be sick. And even though he hopes to pass out again, he knows he won’t.

Soap thought he would get used to it by now, the almost-death, the not-death he died when his heart stopped beating but his soul couldn’t leave. Dying the first time had been easy, practically painless. It’s the coming back that seems to get worse with every mission.

The strangled sound in his throat seems to garner some attention, footsteps echoing in the shadows – are his eyes still getting reconnected to his briefly deceased brain or is the smoke still that heavy?

“Ghost?” The name is garbled, croaking from his spasming throat. He can’t seem to get enough air, one lung collapsed and the other fighting remember how to breathe. His vision tunnels, a skull mask hovering in the near distance. It has to be Ghost – or maybe Soap is dead-dead this time, and death happens to have a sick sense of humor.

“Soap? Johnny where – oh fuckin’ hell.”

Soap writhes, trying to push himself off the rebar stake through his chest. He’s holding up the operation – Ghost probably needs him to take care of some other explosives –

He can’t fucking heal like this.

“Could – could use a – a – a hand here, LT.” Soap forces the words through gritted teeth. No use being a whiny cunt when it’s his own damn fault for taking so long with the charges.

“How can I help?”

Soap wants to laugh – he almost does, the muscles in his abdomen clenching and making the rebar impaling him burn hotter than any thermite. The whimper that crawls up his throat in response is strangled into a growl.

“Gettin’ me off this fuckin’ spike would be nice.” The frustration in his chipped voice is undercut by an apologetic warble as his breathing hitches. “Please, I cannae – I can’t heal like this.” He swallows back another mouthful of blood, the pressure of Ghost’s hands on his shoulders gentle compared to the fracturing agony pulsing from his injuries.

Part of him is glad there isn’t a countdown, the blinding pain forcing a pathetic whine from the back of his throat while he clamps his jaw shut hard enough for it to ache. The world fades gray, his vision blacking out as he feels Ghost set him down, a slab of cold concrete to his back. His Reaper’s power flushes into the gaping wound, a sob shuddering through him as he feels a bloom of healing fire flush through the injury.

He just needs to get his breathing under control; he needs to get it under control faster before Ghost – is Ghost already pissed at him? He’s at the very least annoyed – he sounded annoyed on the comms – his own comms were probably broken in the explosion. Fuckin’ hell he just got them replaced…

Christ, focus, MacTavish – quit being a little bitch and breathe and get up and –

“How long do you need?”

Soap cracks his eyes open, vision still spotted with stars but he focuses on the mask in front of him. Those coal brown eyes are...warm. Ghost is crouching in front of him, still waiting for his blood starved brain to string together a coherent response.

“Just – just a few more...a few more breaths. Dinnae worry I –” He winces, something in his chest snapping. He can feel bone fragments wriggling free from mangled flesh, piecing back together ribs. It takes a few quick breaths for him to work through the pain enough to continue speaking. “I’m fine. Not that bad – had worse. Really.”

Ghost doesn’t look convinced, but he turns to sit next to MacTavish, rifle across his lap.

“Take your time. Don’t have to worry about tangos for now.”

Soap finds himself staring and he can’t quite look away for fear that he is, actually, dead-dead and death just happens to have a sick sense of humor. But Ghost doesn’t fade away or explode into a swarm of golden butterflies dancing with the acidic warmth of his Reaper’s disappointment. Ghost just sits there, close enough to brush shoulders with as he scans the rubble around them.

Soap’s thoughts are swirling; he’s desperate to push his luck and lean against that steady presence, and frustrated that he is too distracted to focus on getting his breathing back. If this was a normal mission they would need him on his feet by now – if he wasn’t diffusing bombs, someone who could actually die, dead-dead, would be.

It’s almost a relief when Ghost rises to his feet, stalking across the crater’s debris. Almost. A selfish part of Soap wants to reach out and grab him back, just to know he’s still there.

“We – we can get going. Sorry for holding this up.” Soap pitches forward to follow, shaking hands braced against the ground with a groan as his vision swims. He needs to get up, follow Ghost, get to exfil, get back to base, and sleep for a fucking week.

The first step is always the hardest, right? Bracing against the concrete slab, he’s able to slide to his feet, shaky legs wobbling like a newborn deer as his vision flashes white with pain.

Get up. Check.

He waits a few breaths for his vision to come back, the bloody spoke of rebar he had been impaled on the first thing he sees. His halfhearted glare shifts, Ghost’s silhouette in the distance.

Follow Ghost. Check.

He could do that. One foot in front of the other. Don’t stop moving – except Ghost has stopped moving. Soap blinks down at the warped frame of a safe. Right. He has a job to do outside of blowing himself up.

“I got it.” He bites back sob as he drops back to the ground, the pain of rubble under his knees a grounding distraction. Soap holds his fingertips to the thick wall of the safe, metal sparking red then white under the intensity of his powers. Rotating his hand slowly, he’s able to create a near perfect circle, pulling away a chunk of the molten metal to open a window to the safe’s contents.

Soap sits back on his heels, melted iron running off his fingers as his powers dim. Blood is puddling below him, the wound in his side still gushing. If only he had been able to pull himself free before Ghost showed up, just a few extra minutes to heal.

“Good work.” He looks up at Ghost, who briefly inspects the hard drive he had fished from the safe’s interior. Soap blinks up at him as Ghost straightens where he knelt, silhouetted in starlight and lingering smoke. He blames blood loss for the bloom of warmth in his chest and the giddy smile sliding onto his face. Ghost’s eyes narrow, head nodding to his injury. “You need something for that?”

Soap opens and closes his mouth, choking on whatever he was going to say and exchanging it for a shaky laugh.

“Nah, nah – it’ll be fine. Eventually. Just – just gotta get back to base and rest up.” He rises to an unsteady half kneel, breathing too hard and too fast. The world spins, his vision graying out for a few faltering breaths.

Why did he laugh? It hurt so much worse now – was it bleeding more? As his nausea passes, Soap spots Ghost fishing a medkit from his pack. He halfheartedly swats it away.

“No – no, that’s for you. I’ll heal up without anything.”

“I’m stopping the bleeding and giving you some stims. I don’t feel like carrying your ass to exfil.” Soap slumps under Ghost’s unwavering stare, dropping back to the ground like a kicked dog. Ghost isn’t his CO – hell, he isn’t even sure if Ghost can pull rank seeing as they’re from separate operations – but he isn’t going to argue. Not with that tone; he’s already a burden to the mission as it is.

“Right...right, yeah. That – yeah.” His words are slurred, accent thickening as he mutters curses to himself. Pull it together MacTavish, you’ve had worse, you’ve walked through a minefield with worse, crawled to exfil without your legs with worse.

“Bloody hell MacTavish…” Ghost’s growl is almost a whisper as he lifts the hem of Soap’s shirt, baring the gory wound. He isn’t sure what stung more – the thread of disappointment in Ghost’s voice or the hemostatic bandages now secured on either side of his torso.

“Sorry.” His apology croaks unbidden from his throat. It isn’t like an apology will speed this up.

“Choices have consequences.” Ghost huffs as he wipes his bloodied gloves on his pants. “Don’t blow yourself up next time.”

For a split second he latches onto that. ‘Next time.’ He wouldn’t mind a next time. Or maybe he would – working with Ghost is…different than being assigned to various crews as the de facto bomb robot. He isn’t sure yet if different is better. Soap hums in agreement, wincing as a stimpack bites into his shoulder and a rush of wakefulness stirs in his blood.

“I was taking too damn long. Got caught.” He shrugs, either a flush of embarrassment or some color finally warming its way onto his cheeks. ��Easier to take them down with me, seeing as I’m the one that can get back up.”

“Easier than waiting for me to help?”

“I’m an impatient guy.” Soap hisses, the injury still stinging as he pushes back to his feet. “Can we go now? I’m right as rain.” He wobbles on his feet, not impressing Ghost as he holds an arm to his side, keeping pressure on the wound. Ghost heaves a sigh, starting towards exfil without another word.

Climbing out of the crater is the hard part, but Soap can bite his tongue and push through the blinding white hot agony of reaching and climbing over debris. The bandages are soaked through in minutes, seals broken by the agitating movements. He makes sure to keep behind Ghost, partly to keep the still substantial blood trail he’s leaving out of sight and out of mind.

That doesn’t mean his too-loud, hollow breathing is something the other soldier will continue to ignore.

“Do you need a break?” The question is paired with a gentle glance, so foreign to Soap after so long on the receiving end of snappy COs and stressed soldiers. He doesn’t respond, wide eyed and panting with a hand on the wall for stability. The softness in Ghost’s eyes flickers, something shadowy in their depths.

“…‘m fine.” Soap finally manages to grit out, breaking eye contact and stumbling forward. He nearly yelps when Ghost snags his right arm, powers flickering from his fingertips as the Ghost pulls the arm over his shoulder. “Careful – I’ll – my hand…”

“I’m not afraid of a little fire, MacTavish.”

The Ghost straightens, helping support Soap’s weight as the pair shamble forward. This close there’s no hiding his pained breathing, the way every other step sends stars sparking behind his eyelids as the agony ripples through him like a wave. They’re moving even slower now, the empty compound eerily silent and still save for their limping procession toward the exfil point.

“What’s got two legs and bleeds?” Soap almost doesn’t realize the question is meant for him, blinking blearily up at the Ghost.

“Me?” He isn’t sure if it’s a joke at first, blood starved brain struggling to parse the tone of the question. But Ghost glances down at him, eyes crinkled to crescents. Is he smiling?

“Half a dog.”

Soap’s bark of laughter tapers with a groan, a fresh flush of blood as his wound wept from the outburst.

“I hate dogs, but that’s fuckin’ brutal.”

“What you have against dogs?”

“Rabid bitch bit me.” Soap tilts his head up, baring the pale pink scar under his chin. A scar from when his body remembered every near-death experience. Now he’s had too many to count and nothing to show for them. “Rabies shots fuckin’ suck.”

“So I’ve heard.” Ghost’s voice rumbles like thunder, a hum of contemplation in his chest. “That before or after?” The event in reference is left unsaid, a haunting shimmer of his Reaper’s golden glow still mending his broken flesh.

“Before.” Soap bites out the word, hissing in pain as he trips, Ghost keeping him from falling flat on his face as they keep moving forward. “Since you’re learnin’ so much about me, I’ve got a question for you: what’s with the mask?”

Ghost stiffens, almost imperceptibly under Soap’s arm, but his silence as they continue walking speaks volumes. Something in Soap’s chest aches at the lack of response, aside from the still reorganizing lung tissue and rib bones. It’s too much like being ignored on comms on normal missions.

“Bet you’re ugly.” He bites his tongue hard enough to taste fresh blood the second after the words fall from his lips.

“Quite the opposite actually.” Ghost’s response is smooth, a hum of amusement loosening his tensed shoulders. What has Soap done to deserve this stranger’s good graces? He’s tempted to push, to take all he can before it inevitably blows up in his face. It isn’t like they’re going to be seeing each other anytime soon; he can risk burning a bridge built to be temporary.

“Prove it.” Soap’s voice lilts with a friendly challenge. “Take off the mask.”

“For you, MacTavish…” Ghost pauses, reaching towards his face and – playfully tapping the hard shell skull of his mask. “Not a chance. Maybe next time.”

Next time. Soap would like a next time. But as helo blades drone overhead and Ghost’s comms crackle to life with two separate COs asking for sitreps, he sighs and sags against his fellow Revenant.

Reapers knew if their teams would ever work together again, let alone have the two pair up as they had for this mission. But there’s a spark of something other than power and fire in his chest. For the first time in a very long time, he feels he has something to hope for.

Next time.

[aiyexayen]

wen kexing and link. smooch

It is just past noon on a brisk autumn day, and Wen Kexing is basking on his favourite sunny rooftop, drowsing in and out to the drone of midday insects, the warmth of the sun in his bones, when he catches, out of the corner of his eye, one of the Siji disciples coming in through the front gate.

At least, he has no reason to expect it's anyone else accompanying the flash of blue fabric amid the orange blossoms. Not up on their mountain.

Ages of peaceful living have not dulled his reflexes, however, and he's barely deemed the person not worth turning to look at when some hesitance in their step sends an alert pinging through his nervous system.

Wen Kexing blinks himself fully awake and peers across the empty courtyard, nostrils flaring, hands twitching. Not a disciple. Not even someone he knows. Hm.

Siji Shanzhuang's mysterious visitor seems to be in no hurry to locate the residents of the manor they've just waltzed into, either, taking in the cultivated garden at a leisurely stroll as though they have all the time in the world and every right to the places in it. They're no messenger, not with a soldier's tension in their limbs and an elaborate sword strapped to their back...

A sword that looks familiar, Wen Kexing thinks, squinting at the sheath as it catches the sunlight in sapphire and gold. He can't quite place it at this distance.

He watches, waiting, but the stranger doesn't notice him at all after a couple minutes and that just won't do. He scoffs under his breath as he stands and with a flourish he descends from the roof to touch down in the courtyard, right in full view. As the birds take off from the blossoming trees around him he strikes a pose of exaggerated grace, a swirling vision of robes in bright Siji colours, fan fluttering, head tilting at a playful angle to let his hair fall appealingly over his shoulder. Or, it would, if it wasn't all pinned up today.

The visitor flinches almost too obviously--their sharp eyes and subtle shift into fighting stance reinforce Wen Kexing's assumptions. A warrior of some kind. Sent here on some mission, perhaps. Delightful! It's been much too long since he got to play this sort of game.

Wen Kexing is the picture of a perfect gentleman, only the barest hint of danger threaded along the edges of his welcome as he approaches. "Welcome, traveller," he says. "What business have you with Sij--Fi?!"

He is cut off by a jolt of memory as the stranger's sword shimmers again, this time with its own internal light. The echo of an old friend dances around the courtyard in teasing glimpses of silvery-blue. If Fi is here, then--

His eyes snap back to the visitor and he looks so different than Wen Kexing remembers. Older, or younger, or longer in the face, or shorter in the ears, or just. Different. But then, who doesn't look different after a few thousand years. Relief and nostalgia bloom together, a flowering fractal in his gut. It has to be. "...Link?"

Link's brow shoots from deeply furrowed to pushing at his hairline. Wen Kexing's fan falls closed as his facade drops and he rushes over to grab him by the shoulders, laughing in delight as he looks him over. "It is!"

Amusingly, he seems even smaller than he used to, but such is the way of memories when their subject is larger than life. His mouth drops open but Wen Kexing doesn't bother to let him get a word in first, gripping his shoulders tighter and hauling him into an enthusiastic kiss, curled down over him almost possessively, taking advantage of his open mouth, unrelenting from the start as if they're already in the bedroom. Link startles, the muscles in his arms tensing under Wen Kexing's fingers, but somewhere between a muffled squawk and a huff of amusement, he melts into it.

He's smaller but not remotely less strong; Wen Kexing can feel that overwhelming spirit rushing up to meet his, now that they're touching. Ah, he has missed the thrill of holding something this powerful between his hands, has missed Link himself.

How long has it been? Even longer than the last time he saw Ye Baiyi, surely.

Sadly, though, he can't just have Link right here in the courtyard. He wants to. He contemplates it. But...no, not when an actual disciple could come in at any time. He's a responsible shishu, in spite of all A-Xu's claims to the contrary. So after a lingering minute he sighs and pulls away.

He expects any manner of things to come out of Link's mouth when he finally lets him have it back--the sound of his own name, an explanation for why he's here or where he's been, even asking after A-Xu, or Chengling.

What he doesn't expect is for Link to step back, a bit dazed, lick his slightly swollen bottom lip, clear his throat, and say, sheepishly, "Well that was nice...but, uh...who are you?"

[akanesheep]

Devildom’s Heirarchy & Diavolo’s plan of unification

Diavolo couldn't have been more thrilled that Lucifer brought 5 brothers with him when he fell. Lilith being on the verge of death was unfortunate, but Lucifer’s pledge of loyalty was more valuable than another soldier. With the other brothers falling more or less in line with Lucifer gave Diavolo what he would desperately need in times to come. Powerful allies.

His father’s last act before falling into his long sleep was to rank the brothers in relation not only to themselves, but within the Devildom as a whole. Even as newly born demons with no experience within the Devildom, Lucifer and his brothers, and the newly born Satan, are the most powerful beings in the Devildom aside from the Prince and King themselves.

The old lords, hiss and gnash their teeth about these ‘angels’ who have usurped many a long held power structure. They refuse to accept these newcomers, and by proxy, refuse to accept Diavolo’s rule. They scheme and plot to find ways to be rid of the lot of them, since Diavolo would defend and accept the brothers.

What pisses them off the most is the King made them the avatars. See, demons, aside from royalty and a very few nobles are aspects of one of the seven sins… by naming the brothers the avatars mean that his problems with from thousands (or more) to less than 20. Sin-aspected demons are compelled to obey their avatar… they cannot disobey or rebel against them. That leaves the others. The old lords. They aren’t sin-aspected. They’re lords of Chaos. Just like Diavolo. Like most nobles in any scenario, they mostly share some sort of relation to the royal bloodline. Distant relatives that fall somewhere into the chain of succession, but not closely enough to have an outright claim to the throne.

A chaos demon is a rare thing. They do have aspects of all seven sins, but aren’t subservient to those sins, instead, they thrive on the unpredictable, chaotic events that take place around them. Because of this, they only have subservience to their King.

You see where this is going and what it means, right?

Diavolo stands atop a mighty pyramid. Instead of having to deal with so many things at once, he now has the brothers to not only stop-gap the problems from lower demons, but they field all issues themselves, only addressing the most critical of issues with the young king. (I’m convinced that his father may never awaken in the story of this game, or when he does, he will automatically allow Dia to fully ascend to the throne).

The old lords are his main focus now. He can work to get them all in line without too many major distractions. He has the ability to see the threats before they become a danger, and can take appropriate actions.

The brothers are an excellent source of chaos, keeping him well fed, so much so that anything else that occurs is gravy.

In Nightbringer, we’re watching the process happen. It’s the most unstable period in recent memory. The king falling into this strange sleep, the fledgling prince making bold strokes of change, the fallen angels creating waves of chaos as they struggle to adapt to being demons and being in the Devildom. Even for chaos demons, it seems too much to deal with. It feels like the kingdom is about to collapse under the weight of itself. They’re naturally unsettled and wanting to find a way to not only survive, but improve their own station as well.

I fear talking much more goes into repeating things I already said… but I hope you all like it ^_^

[mariacallous]

Ukraine: Enemy in the Woods is a surgically precise, raw and devastating documentary about a seven-week mission undertaken in November 2023 by the Ukrainian Berlingo Battalion. The stakes of the Berlingo’s mission are extremely high. The 99 soldiers must defend a section of a railway line that runs through the forest that lies north-west of Kupyansk. If the Russians were to take it, they would be able to resupply and potentially push on to Kharkiv, the second largest city in Ukraine.

This film does not so much explain the mission as show it in visceral detail. You will see death and dead bodies; these images are unlikely to leave your mind. I have never seen war portrayed in this way, so close up, grotesque and frantic.

While the soldiers discuss their experiences in interviews, we also see battles from two other positions. The first is through drone footage. Viktor and Denys are drone pilots who fly explosives, or what they call “gifts”, over the Russian troops and their “foxholes”. With FPV (first-person view) drones, the pilots wear goggles, giving them a direct view of the explosives reaching their targets. When they blow up, the screen cuts to fuzz.

In one attack, from the sky, we see a Russian soldier enter a house. The drone follows him in through the front door. A second drone captures the explosion that follows. The Ukrainian soldiers speak frankly of the thrill of it and how they feel about the men who die: “Why should we feel sorry for them?”

In their own foxholes, the Ukrainian soldiers eat, talk, joke and pray. They hold up rudimentary explosives, made from soap and petrol. They extract mice from their food supplies. They talk about the Russians and ask, again and again – sometimes asking captured Russian soldiers directly – why they have come to this country.

The Ukrainians know they are outnumbered. Maksym, who is 19, says more Russians come every day: “They just die, but they keep coming and coming and coming.” Watching a livestreamed battle on a laptop, Dmytro, a company commander, says: “We kill a thousand, they send another thousand.”

Bodycam footage brings horror from another side. We see decisions made on the fly, hectic and desperate. The Ukrainians shoot at Russian soldiers and the Russians fire back. Foxholes are destroyed by Russian drones. We watch the men discovering the bodies of their comrades, then carrying wounded comrades, groaning in agony, through the forest. In the snow and ice, there are so many bodies. To hear the rapid, panicked breathing of these men – to hear the adrenaline and the fear – is so utterly intimate, direct and powerful. It is deeply disturbing. And it should be.

Over the course of just one hour, we get to know these soldiers, who are deep into a rotation they should have left weeks ago, but there was no one to replace them. Natalia, a combat medic, is the only woman in the battalion. She has a veterinary degree, but now she treats people. She has become “emotionless to certain moments of life”, she says, unconvincingly. Vlad, a unit commander whose family fled Kherson during the Russian occupation, has been rapidly promoted through the ranks. He is “fully 19 years old”.

This film is full of haunting landscapes. In one moment, a soldier examines by torchlight a heap of bags piled on the floor. These are the possessions of the soldiers who have left the battalion. Many are injured; some are dead. A battle takes place at night, in the black of the forest. It is lit only by the flashes of gunfire and explosions. The sky turns red. It is a vision of hell.

But the soldiers of the Berlingo often talk about the after times: what they will do and what they dream of in a free Ukraine. Sometimes, these dreams are as simple as football and festivals, life as it was before. They would like houses, dogs, to spend time with children. In war, in all the loss of humanity, there is a sliver of hope.

Many of us find ourselves scrolling through social media feeds that casually drop in images and footage of conflict and war, among holiday snaps and selfies, flattening these nightmares into a swipeable passing moment. Documentaries such as this insist on the opposite. It is distressing in its frankness – of course it is. But it makes the conflict real and asks you to look, understand and remember what is happening, not so far away.

Ukraine: Enemy in the Woods aired on BBC Two and is available on BBC iPlayer

[madaboutmunson]

Look through these blackened eyes You'll see ten thousand lies

I Think I Could Have Been Someone - Chapter 9

Ao3 Link

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Link to fic overview and all parts

Chapter Summary: Pumping with the adrenaline from their fight and with his permission, Eddie attempts to exact his revenge on Steve between the sheets. But is retribution all that is at play here?

Author Notes: This is a mature story, definitely 18+ only.

This is my first ever published smut chapter. I am sweating with nerves as I type this lol.

I have a few bang event projects to finish up, so this story will have to take a short break. Though the next few 5 chapters are already written then need to be edited, which takes me a lot of time. Sorry :(

Tags/Warnings: rockstar!AU; band; touring; music industry; alternate universe; drug usage; alcohol abuse; performing; enemies to lovers; road trip; stobin; platonic stobin; platonic with a capital P; canon typical violence; angst; masochism; fist fight; smut

Word Count: 10.5K

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I Think I Could Have Been Someone - Part 9 - Eddie POV

Even in his wildest dreams, Eddie couldn’t have possibly imagined this because nothing about this moment in time makes any sense to him at all.

Hasn’t he loathed this man for years now? Didn’t this guy ruin his life? Hadn’t this guy just seconds ago tried to beat him down verbally and physically? Eddie realises it’s a resounding yes to everything, yet he feels a pulsing energy around them—something teetering on a cliff edge.

He didn’t know why he’d answered that way. It just fell out of his mouth, Only everything.

And he did want that. He wanted to steal everything from Harrington, just like he’d stolen everything from him, but he knew that wasn’t just revenge talking. Although that feeling is still very present, another looming entity is in the room. Lust. He could feel its selfish, irresponsible form like some gelatinous ooze was creeping all over him. Seeping into every recess of his brain, turning off logic centres as it passes, only leaving primal things in its wake. The only reason he lets it continue its pilgrimage into his very being is because it’s evident he isn’t alone in this.

Harrington’s lips are still at the shell of his ear. The last thing he’d heard from them was a whimper at his reply as his entire body weight rested on top of him. Eddie is in semi-thoughtful, mostly impulsive deliberations with the ornate ceiling above them. Then there is the delicate brush of stubble as Harrington pushes his head further over his shoulder until his lips press against his ear, “Then take it.” He whispers like silk, and Eddie is not god’s strongest soldier, or anyone's for that matter. His eyes roll back as the words and all their potential implications ignite every neuron in his body. Surging to the tip of his tongue for the next thing to say. Rocketing to his fingertips for the next thing to touch. His heart thumps powerfully in its skeletal hideaway, but not for love, for an imminent frenzy. For the thrill of finally getting something over the man who’s haunted his every waking day, every nightmare-filled night, and the poor wretch is offering it up to him on a silver platter. Take it.

Eddie never considered himself an angel, but he had principles and morals that kept him on the right side of judgement from himself and maybe others, but this might be a temptation too far. Harrington was correct. He had been a fan in the early days, at least. Perhaps even up until everything fell apart. Recalling his world imploding, he feels his grip on Harrington tighten again like he wants to squeeze the breath right out of him, but he resists when he hears that gentle groan in his ear.

He feels like he could both give in to something basal and still satisfy the need to get one over on Harrington if he follows the path his hormones are gouging out for him. He feels his accomplice's hands shakily run up his sides. The breath at his ear is now against his cheek as Harrington turns to face him, head still heavy on his shoulder. Maybe he was exhausted? Perhaps he’d already given up?

Eddie has to decide. Morally, this was bad. Professionally potentially the worst decision ever, but personally, maybe the sweetest fucking revenge. The holy grail of blackmail, or perhaps no one would even believe him if he told them. No one would think that Harrington, who walks the red carpet with his doting wife, or Harrington, who gets papped with his tongue hanging out for some harem of female groupies to hang off by sucking on it, would forgo them all to fool around with an average joe, like him. A nobody. A nobody who was, at one time, on the cusp of being a somebody. 

And maybe that’s what seals the deal for him. He violently pushes Harrington off him, hoping to press against one of the many bruises currently developing, and he must because he hisses as he meets the carpet with a thud. 

Eddie gets to his knees, and before Harrington can let any more spiteful words leave his wretched mouth, he grabs a fistful of hair and yanks him up until they are face to face. But Harrington isn’t struggling; he lets himself hang limp in Eddie’s grip. The previous violence has begun plumping parts of his face, the red marks deepening as burst blood vessels spill under his skin. His mouth hangs open slightly, “Take it,” he mumbles a reminder through swollen split lips.

Eddie’s other hand rapidly finds its way into Harrington’s obnoxious, luxurious hair and closes the gap between them with a clash of teeth. Their lips meet brutally. He can feel the hair strands fall between his fingers as his grip tightens, pulling it out from the roots. There is no polite request for entry when Eddie’s tongue forces its way into his mouth, but he’s not met with any resistance, only moans of pleasure. 

Initially, Harrington is a malleable thing in his hands, bending to his will, letting Eddie cruelly bite and drag his teeth over the wounds on his lips before kissing his hisses and whimpering back into his mouth, like he doesn’t want to hear them. And he doesn’t. He doesn’t want to hear or see anything that might induce him to be merciful. Soon enough, Harrington springs to life, grabbing fistfuls of a T-shirt at Eddie's waist, twisting it around his fingers until Eddie feels it pull tight across his back. With a grunt pushed into his mouth, he finds himself yanked flush with Harrington. The heat and pressure from another makes the skin in all the places their bodies meet feel like embers of something long forgotten, but as they move together, the sparks find their fuel and ignite a searing wildfire across the surface of his skin. He can feel his heart pounding. He can hear it in his ears like a bass line to the wanton melody of noises between them.

He feels a shift again. Harrington’s knees bracket one of his own, forcing them closer together. Another sigh spills from out Harrington, and Eddie consumes it hungrily. Like he’s trying to capture everything. He would let the night have nothing. This was all his. Every sigh, moan, whimper and groan. He would gorge himself on everything he was pulling out of Harrington until he was sick from overindulgence or until Harrington had no more to give.

Then, just like he’s acclimatising, nothing further happens between them below the belt line, but Harrington’s hands find their way up and under Eddie's shirt. Calloused fingertips but soft palms glide over his back, urging him closer, even though it is physically impossible, but the gentleness is distracting and has no place here. Eddie drags his teeth over Steve’s tongue as he pulls away, only to have his mouth adorably chased by the man opposite him, who looked starved for it, even though they’ve been clamped together for who knows how long. Eddie ignores it, licks along Harrington’s jawline, and bites down on the hinge of it with his teeth, a helpful reminder of what is happening here.

He gets the message.

Harrington’s hands raise to his shoulder blades, rough fingertips press into his skin there, and then excruciatingly slowly, he drags his blunt fingernails down Eddie’s back. A gasp fights out and into his ear, causing a reactionary hip buck into his thigh from Harrington, whose fingers soothe their way back up the fresh scratches.

Harrington, for the first time, leans back, his spit-wet mouth slightly parted as he observes Eddie through barely open hooded eyes before raking his nails down him again, faster this time, making Eddie’s back arch towards him with a yelp from the stinging pain melting into a sigh caused by a wave of endorphins rearing up and crashing down on him. Involuntarily, he closes his eyes, maybe to savour the sensation of the burning strands of heat trailing over his back, perhaps to not look at Harrington. He isn’t sure, but he soon finds himself pulled into a more comfortable measured distance of zero. But no lips meet his. A hand grasps his jaw tightly and tips his head backwards. He feels a breath at the base of his throat, the moisture evaporating so quickly from him there is a coolness for a second before Harrington’s tongue drags up the column of his neck, sending a shiver down his spine. “Wait here,” he’s instructed as Harrington leaves, and he finally dares open his eyes, tries to catch his breath, palms at the bulge in his jeans for a second of relief, and relaxes back on his heels.

He watches Harrington busy himself with a door handle sign, and he opens the door a crack. Immediately, Buckley’s face appears in it.

“Jesus Christ, Steve!” She exclaims quietly, but he’s already trying to close the door again after hanging a do not disturb sign.

“Relax. We’re not fighting anymore.” He says and slams the door.

“Then what are you doing in there?” She yells angrily through the door.

Steve yanks the door open again, “I dunno, fucking hopefully,” she’s about to say something else when he slams the door shut and locks it again.

That makes Eddie spring to his feet, and his brain feeds him a million reasons why he really should leave, but the problem being he still has a reason to stay, and he’s still horny as hell.

Harrington slinks his way back and leisurely looks Eddie over, “What happened?” He smirks, “Didn’t wanna be on your knees when I got back?” Harrington reaches over and takes his arm, runs his hands over it, inspects it, leads him to the couch, and sits them both down. He waits for a second before crawling towards Eddie. He looked more creature than man. Almost under a spell, Eddie feels himself doing one thing but saying another. He reclines back on the seat, coaxing Harrington into his lap, saying, “This is a terrible idea, Harrington.”

“Oh, the absolute worst, for sure,” Harrington smiles slyly as he straddles Eddie’s thighs, “And I think it would be even worse for me to hear you call me by my name and not my brand.”

Eddie’s chest heaves as he is manhandled to make him a more comfortable seat, “Yeah, that would be a really dumb thing to do, wouldn’t it, Steve?” And he watches as Steve’s eyes shoot to his and shift from something amused to something all the more sultry. He tilts his head a little like he didn’t hear correctly, eyes firmly fixed on Eddie, who thinks he knows what he’s being asked to do, “Did you hear what I said,” Eddie lets his eyes fall to his lap and drags them unhurriedly back to meet the blooming dilated pupils of the man seated on him, “Steve?”

Like his own name is the shot of a starting pistol, Steve launches himself at Eddie again, with force enough to rock the furniture.

Within seconds, things start to feel almost competitive. Every kiss was returned with a more forceful one, every grip on the other's body was returned with a harder, more cruel squeeze, and every needy grind down was met with a hard thrust upwards.

The one-upmanship leaves Eddie intoxicated. He’s trying to think but can’t. He’s overwhelmed by sensation. His primitive brain just hungers for more. To take everything until all that is left is a carcass of the man huffing and panting in his lap. For a second, he doesn’t think he has ever seen anything more gloriously desperate as Steve. He wants Eddie with abandon of everything else. His persona seemed shed. He seemed real. Human. Not a nemesis. Not a celebrity. Not an object to covet. Just a guy. A hot as sin, ravenous, wild, hazardously beautiful man. 

Something threatens to bloom inside Eddie’s chest, and a fresh urgency springs to life, like a survival instinct almost. He reaches for Steve’s shirt and begins unfastening it. His fingers feel their way clumsily over the buttons as the rest of his body is otherwise occupied. He finds his hands grasped and pushed down to rest on Steve’s thighs as he leans back for a moment to pull the shirt over his head, and he finds his hands placed back on his torso, and that feeling of much softer than expected skin under his fingertips is tantalising but as he caresses over his body, it’s when his fingers meet the stubble at his chest or the trail down his abdomen that really sends Eddie into a spin. It overheats him. He feels like his own clothes are suffocating him. That they are needlessly in the way. He craves to feel this against his own skin and reaches behind his head, leaning forward to shed himself of some of it, but a hand on his chest pauses him.

Eddie looks up to find Steve toying with one of the many long chains draped around his neck, but instead of asking any questions, his eyes force him on a mini visual expedition of what his hands had been trailing over. A short, stunted breath leaves his mouth. This was crazy. He’s seen this body a million times in magazines, adverts, album covers, billboards, through his own camera lens and eyes, yet it feels like he’s never seen anything like it before. Littered with tattoos, a visibly heaving chest, ribs that appear and disappear as he breathes, muscles that flex and pulse as he writhes his body, but eventually, he hears him.

“Does it hold any sentimental value?” Steve rasps, his eyes trailing over and grasping onto his T-shirt. 

“No,” he replies with a pointless, unseen shake of his head. Steve immediately yanks a necklace from his neck with a grunt of effort, and he slides that under Eddie’s shirt. The chain still attached slides along his skin. Some links are still heated from Steve in parts. Others were cool enough to almost make him want to jerk away from them.

The safety-conscious part of Eddie is urging him to look at what might be happening under his shirt, but the hedonist who has clawed his way from the depths to the surface only wants to feast on what it wants to store for future reference. 

It’s innocent enough to start with, taking in how engaged he is with his task at hand, how his eyes that, naturally slope into a sadness, are wide and alive with anticipation. The way his bruised lips are pressed together in concentration and occasionally bite back into his mouth. Then his eyes trail further down to the sizeable bulge in his jeans, how it’s pressed against his own. He can’t stop his hands from sliding up to his hips, running his fingertips over the bone he hopes to be more intimately acquainted with as soon as possible. He settles on gripping them tightly, rocking his hips upward impatiently. A series of tuts raises his eyes to Steve’s face again, noticing a small smile growing, “Patience, baby. Patience.” He barely mutters out, his eyes still focused on the job at hand until his hand stills high up on his chest, the pendant still gripped in his fingers, “Hold still.” He says with an audible metallic click. Eddie dares to look down but can’t quite see what’s happening until Steve raises his other hand, splays his fingers in a V-shape, pushes down on the material, and the small blade pushes through.

Panic sets in, and a new adrenaline wave surges through him. He should leave immediately. This was fucked up. The fact he had a knife on him this whole time was terrifying, regardless of how little damage it looked like it could do. As he takes a panicked gasp of breath, he looks up at Steve, who is almost chewing on his bottom lip, his heavy-lidded eyes focused on the metal, and he makes a sound of appreciation before rearranging his hands so that he can hold the material taught and pull the blade down. It slices through easily, the fabric falling open, exposing him as it glides down. Eddie’s still breathing hard, but his heart isn’t thumping so much with fear anymore as the knife cuts through the hem, and Steve retracts the blade and tosses it somewhere into the room. His fingers grip the top of the slit, roughly yanking it apart to rip open the collar with a grunt.

Eddie stays entirely still and simply observes Steve. He wishes he had his camera to hand, as it’s quite a sight to behold. He can’t remember the last time someone looked at him like this, not just lustfully, but like he was the most spectacular thing they’d ever seen. Steve’s large hands smooth over his skin and delicately push back the material. A yearnful noise emits from Steve like he can’t have what’s laid out in front of him as he presses into his skin, exploring it with his fingertips, his eyes trailing after them.

So Eddie reminds him that he can. He surges forward, capturing Steve in his arms, pulling him in tightly, pressing them together, and capturing his mouth with his own. It’s a mess of lips, groans and saliva topped with wandering mouths, causing careless, hurried nips of cuts and bruises. But the apologies are wordless. A hiss of too much from one is answered with a pleasurable pinch or caress elsewhere by the other.

Suddenly, Steve’s thighs clench hard around Eddie, and it doesn’t need explaining, but an excited smile sweeps across his face mid-kiss. He grips the back of his thighs and moves them up to wrap around his waist. Denim drags against denim, and he finds his arousal pressed up against something a lot plusher, and at the same time, Steve’s is now pressed into his abdomen, and he resolves these clothes have got to go now. He shuffles to the edge of the sofa, one arm holding their bodies together, the other draped under Steve’s legs, holding him up, simultaneously copping a feel of his ass.

And this must be where their experiences differ because Steve pulls back and looks unsure. Eddie smiles, “Better hold on to something, sweetheart.” He realises his mistake as soon as the pet name leaves his mouth, but he’s not gonna apologise awkwardly over words right now. He pushes himself up to standing, and Steve’s arms urgently wrap around his neck. Eddie checks in on him. Just a glance, he tells himself. Expects to see an almost comical face of panic, and he does for a second until he hears the thick swallow from Steve’s throat and watches his eyelashes bat slowly in a dazed blink at him.

Typically, Eddie knows he would have settled for the couch, but like he said, he wanted everything, and one of the things he wanted most right now was to see Steve an absolute mess under him.

He pushes adjoining doors open until he finds a bed. He stops at the edge of it, peels Steve’s arms from around his neck and unceremoniously lets him go so he lands on it with an oof and a bounce. Then Eddie’s hands quickly find his own belt buckle to finally get out of the remainder of his clothes. Steve doesn’t interrupt him. He just looks him up and down as he rests back on his elbows, his legs dangling off the edge of the bed, wetting his lips in anticipation.

He lets his jeans drop to the floor and kicks off his sneakers. As he bends down to remove his socks, he looks up and finds himself level with Steve’s knee, and his eyes trail up to his crotch, but from this angle, it’s easy enough for Steve’s eyes to capture him again and as he does Steve spreads his knees apart a little more and bites his lip temptingly.

That’s when Eddie acts out of sorts. Usually, he’d just let the other guy give him a show, but he reaches for Steve’s boot, unzips it and removes it for him, and the sock and the other set in turn. Like he’s saving him then trouble. Then clasps onto Steve’s calves, kneading into them through the denim as he works his way up over his knees until his hands glide over his upper leg. Steve’s mouth drops open a little with hope as he glances between Eddie and himself, but Eddie's nimble hands skirt around the place Steve wants him most to undo the fly of his jeans, but once he removes the belt and buckle from the equation he doesn’t find one. He sees where a zipper should be, something akin to the back of a laced corset. Metal eyelets with a black cord running crisscross through them. He tugs at one end, and the ties fall apart easily. His fingertips wander into the waistband of them. He anticipates feeling the fabric of some designer brand briefs, but he finds none. Only the softness of skin. Of course, he’s not wearing any underwear. Eddie almost laughs as he stands to get a better grip on removing his pants, but he’s interrupted.

Steve, obviously not happy about anything slowing down, has sat up, pushed Eddie’s hands out of the way and is currently mouthing at him through his underwear, and Eddie wants it not to feel this good, but it absolutely fucking does. He looks down to meet the hungry, longing eyes already looking up at him, planting eager kisses and licks over the material that is gradually getting soaked through. Steve’s chipped, black, polished fingertips crawl into the band of the Kirkland signature briefs. Eddie wonders for a second how much more expensive the nail polish is compared to them before nodding and Steve pulling down his underwear so he can finally spring free of its oppression. 

Steve stops. He stares and goes a little cross-eyed before looking back up at Eddie and running his tongue over his bottom lip. This is different from how he wanted this to go exactly, but who is he to say no. Nobody says no to Steve Harrington, right?

He watches himself taken in ringed hand, fingertips running down his length are soon accompanied by the flat wet expanse of Steve’s tongue dragging up it until it’s rolling around the throbbing head of his cock, and as his lips finally wrap around him, he looks right back up at him again, Eddie has to look away. He puts his hands in his hair, lolling his head back and groans with delight. Not solely because of the fact he’s getting his dick sucked, not just because it’s someone famous, but because it felt like, finally, the tables had turned. Finally, he’s in charge.

Steve’s hands urge him closer, but Eddie plants his feet and steps back even. He looks back down to watch himself pump in and out of that pretty pink pout. and it’s so good, but he needs more. He cards his fingers through Steve’s hair, which gets his attention. Their eyes meet again, and this time, Eddie makes himself gaze back. His hand falls to the side of his face as his head bobs rhythmically. His thumb brushes over his cheek, his fingers cradle his wide-open jaw, and it feels like Steve leans into his palm. Eddie shakes his head quickly, moves his hand back into Steve’s hair, and holds onto it. And it brings the current events to a slower pace. 

Steve opens his mouth wide, extends his tongue out, and laps at the underside of the head of his shaft in a sort of come hither motion with the tip of his tongue, but Eddie does something else. He grips more tightly onto his hair and drags Steve towards him and off the bed until he’s on his knees. Steve doesn’t complain. Smiles even, with his tongue still hanging out, desperate for its next taste.

With a firm grip, he tilts Steve’s head back a little so he can see his face as he tugs hard on his hair, pulling him towards him forcefully until he gags and pulls him back off again. Looks down at him and raises an eyebrow in question as Steve catches his breath. He smiles up at him and drops his mouth open again, letting his tongue hang to his chin. Eddie slowly drags him by his hair up and down, repeatedly, occasionally forcing Steve’s nose to be pressed hard into his thatch of curls and held there, choking, his throat squeezing around Eddie as he does before he’s forced off of it again. He lets Eddie wield him like a plaything. And soon, that’s not enough either. Eddie finds himself gripping the sides of Steve’s hair, observes the grey tear stains rolling down his face, the drool pooling at the corners of his mouth, and by the gods, Eddie wishes he had his camera right now. And he thinks about it, about pounding himself into Steve’s face until oblivion, until he’s spent, leaving Steve hard and unsatisfied, but he finds his hand trailing over his face again. Whatever he was trying to prove, he felt like he’d just done that. Now, he wants something else. He wants to hear Steve fall apart.

He cups Steve’s jaw gently, encourages him to stand, and once up, he wipes at his face a little. He wants to ask him if he’s ok, but he knows he shouldn’t. He smooths his hands down his back until Steve takes matters into his own hands. He swiftly turns them around, deeply kissing Eddie as he does so, walking him back towards the bed. He feels the back of it hit his knees and sits down as Steve finally frees himself of his pants but doesn’t give Eddie much of a show about it all. Before Eddie has even had a chance to perceive how perfect his dick might be, Steve has clambered onto the bed too. He crawls up Eddie until their mouths slot together again, as one of Steve’s hands presses against his chest, encouraging him further back until he hits the headboard.

He finds himself caged between Steve’s arms, pressed against one another without a safety barrier of fabric. Desperate kisses move south to become more languid and wet at his throat, which chills him when Steve intermittently huffs out a breath over the sites of desire as his hips roll down into his own, causing delicious friction between them.

Steve moves lower but scoops his arm behind Eddie’s back, arching his chest upwards to dip his head and trail his tongue, which he wields like a demon, over it. He mouths over his stiffened nipples as he finds them, kitten licks them, chances a drag of teeth over them, as his lower position has him slowly thrusting against Eddie’s thigh. With each roll of hips, Eddie watches him slowly coming undone. Controlled deliberate kisses turn into him sucking down on Eddie’s skin, placing fresh areas of burst blood vessels next to the less recent ones. Ones from pleasure next to ones from pain. Calculated nips at his torso become full bites that linger to quieten his moans as they seep under Eddie’s skin.

Whilst it’s thrilling to watch Steve fall from grace as he uses Eddie as a means to get there, and it feels fucking fantastic, he wants it to be him that does it. He wants it to be him that pushes Steve over the edge. Up until the fight earlier, he’d been entirely sure that this guy was as straight as they come, but from what Eddie had witnessed so far, that was absolutely not a possibility. He’s done this before. Maybe countless times. Maybe with other guys like Eddie? Maybe with guys more like himself who both have to keep it quiet? Something hideous squirms inside him unpleasantly at the thought.

He captures Steve’s chin on the knuckle of his index finger, lifts his head, and receives a dopey smile. Eddie hasn’t seen him take anything, yet he looks pretty out of it, “You ok?” He asks, even though he knows he shouldn’t, but he doesn’t want to be doing any of this with someone out of their gourd.

“Mmmhmmm,” he nods on the crook of Eddie’s finger and smiles lazily. 

“Did you take something?” he asks plainly, scanning him for clues.

Steve shakes his head and crawls forward so their noses brush against one another, “The only thing I want right now is you,” his voice trembles as he leans in for another kiss. Eddie's stomach flips, which he can’t help feeling is very inappropriate. 

That isn’t what this is, he reminds himself. 

He pushes him back to break the kiss and runs his fingers over Steve’s lips, cuts and bruising included, before hooking two of his fingertips inside his bottom lip and gently pushing them further into Steve’s mouth. Eddie almost shudders at how obediently he opens his mouth wider with a nudge of his hand. He doesn’t even have to ask. He adds fingers, letting Steve suck down on them until he feels it’s enough.

He lowers his saliva-soaked hand between them and reaches for Steve first. Rolls his palm over the head before sliding his fingers easily down the shaft until he has him in his grip. At first, his strokes are slow and soft, not for Steve but for himself. He watches Steve’s eyes close, his breathing deepens and shudders, still on all fours hovering over Eddie, his fists clenched against the bedding, as his head drops forward against Eddie’s shoulder. He quickens his pace and tightens his grip until Steve is just a series of cut-off guttural noises in his ear. Then he lets go, takes himself in hand, and lazily moves his hand up and down. Their proximity means that the back of his fingers occasionally bump against Steve’s shaft. Maybe sometimes he stretches his fingers out so the contact is for longer, just so he can hear those whimpers in his ear again that are swirling around his head, disorienting him from his goal. He hadn’t realised how much faster he’d gotten, like Steve’s delicate whispered exhales reverberating through him were speeding him up. Soon enough, he finds his own moans intertwining with Steve’s.

“Fuck, you sound good.” Steve manages, and his first instinct is to quicken his pace further, let Steve’s voice ring in his ears as he succumbs to pleasure himself, but somehow he resists. Turning his attention and hand back to Steve, and the gasp in his ear, he’s sure he’ll be able to recall until the day he dies because his name is whispered out immediately after. 

He must have heard Steve’s voice in his ear hundreds of times before, listening to his music and interviews before everything went wrong. He remembers how thrilling it had been to hear his whispers on record or the bits a live recording would catch before and after a song, and now Eddie was collecting his own, all just for himself, never to be released or shared with anyone else. 

From the corner of his eye, he notices Steve’s arm shaking, the one Eddie had to beat his way free from. He sits up a little, taking the weight from his arm upon himself, and maybe it’s an act of compassion too far. Perhaps he should have waited until he’d collapsed because he feels his eyes on him again. He can’t help but glance, and he’s greeted with a snapshot of brutalised perfection. His lips, cheek, and one eye are swollen and reddening, but his jawline is still perfectly angular, the beauty marks still decorate his skin, his long lashes flatten out against his cheek when he blinks dumbfounded, maybe even a little surprised, mouth dropped open letting stuttering breaths pass freely. Eddie takes a mental snapshot. A pang of fleeting guilt runs through him, but entirely by chance, it’s interrupted.

Steve’s hands quickly reach out to clumsily hold Eddie’s face. His palms on his cheeks almost squeeze a little too hard, pulling him towards him, but the fingertips in his hair, caressing his scalp and the lips that ravenously meet his, make him forget to breathe. 

The sea of sin Eddie had been cannonballing into and happily disrupting the surface of suddenly didn’t feel like his safe space anymore. Occasionally a shadowy something below the surface reaches out. Threatens to drag Eddie down with it. He wonders how long he’ll have the strength to escape its grasp.

Eddie adjusts his position a little, doesn’t pull away from Steve, gets closer so he can take them both in hand, slides his hand over them both, takes his time, and thumbs over the top of them for any droplets of added lubrication he can find. The moans passing into his mouth grow louder. He opens his eyes to see Steve’s brow knitted together, his eyes no longer softly closed but screwed shut. Eddie moves faster, and Steve pulls back. A string of curses leave his mouth, “Shitshitshitshit.” He quickly moves out of Eddie’s grip with a hiss, “Fuck!”

“Something…wrong?” Eddie teases a little. Steve shakes his head, looks down at himself, wipes his hand over his face, and laughs a little. “If you wanna stop, put your big boy pants on and say so, Harrington.”

Steve’s smile fades, and his mood switches. “I never fucking said that. If you…” he starts, and whatever was about to leave his mouth makes him cower back down, “I-I didn’t say that, that’s all.”

Eddie can’t guess what he wants to say but wants to know, “My mistake.” He offers, and Steve looks up at him again, hopefully. Eddie hops off the bed and retrieves the wallet from his jeans. On return, he props himself up with pillows, tips out a bunch of lube sachets and condoms from his wallet and then tosses it onto the floor somewhere.

Eddie tears open a lube sachet with his teeth and squeezes it over his cock and hand. The cold sting of it makes him bite down on his lip to hold in a reactionary noise. He hitches up his knees and makes eye contact with Steve as he pleasures himself. The slick glide soon has him breathing more heavily, and like a moth to a flame, Steve is soon stalking his way back up the bed, looking between Eddie’s face and his display. Eddie stills his hand, sighs, and looks expectantly at Steve, “If I what?”

“If you…” Steve starts, and Eddie starts pumping his fist again. “If you hadn’t got laid in this long” He catches on pretty quickly as Eddie quickens his pace, lets his growling moans out freely, and watches how it makes Steve’s dick twitch when he does. Maybe he over-performs a few to wind Steve up further. He then exhales slowly as he squeezes the base of his shaft and stops again.

“What are you just playing Yahtzee with your friends in your playroom, Harrington? Is that it?” Eddie chuckles, and Steve looks a little conflicted.

Steve takes a hard swallow of what must be his pride and talks directly to Eddie’s glistening dick, “I might as well have been,” he starts, and so does Eddie, “I haven’t been able to, um, you know” Eddie pumps himself faster, trying to make the most lurid noises with the lube and an occasional exhale of a moan from his mouth. Steve is silent, quietly inching his hand towards himself. Eddie slows again, raises an eyebrow at Steve when he looks at his face, “Fuck, I mean, I thought it was gone for a year or something. Until…well, tonight.” 

And now many pieces are slotting into place for Eddie, why he’s so desperate and needy. Letting Eddie use him, why he pulled away, he doesn’t know if this is a one-off or not, and not just with him but his own body too. He wants the works, and though Eddie really shouldn’t have any pity for him, he feels a spark of it.

“Lie back,” Eddie says, and Steve double-takes.

“What?” He frowns.

“Don’t what me, asshole. Come up here, and lie fucking back, Steve!” Eddie performatively snarls, and he sees the corner of Steve’s mouth twitch up as he ungracefully hurries to obey.

He straddles Steve’s thighs, pinching them closed between his own and transfers most of the lube still on his hand onto Steve’s thigh ungraciously. Nothing too exciting for him right now, not yet.

He leans over him, careful not to create too much friction between them. Brackets Steve's broader shoulders with his arms and returns to how they started. Urgent kisses, wandering hands, teasing tongues. Walks a series of gentle bites along his jaw, licks at his throat, and sucks down onto his skin, leaving his mark as he travels down, making a kiss or lurid lick pitstop at every beauty mark and tattoo he finds. Pulls gently at the nipple piercings with his teeth and soothes over them after with the wetness of his tongue. Traces over every muscle dip until he gets to those hip bones he’d promised himself earlier. Steve writhes like the reptile he is under him as he mouths over them. Eddie might be getting a little too into it and reaches down to give himself some much-needed touch before moving down further, resting his chin on Steve’s thigh and looking up at the dewy-eyed, breathless creature above him. 

Eddie observes him and waits for his attention before blowing gently on the moistened tip of Steve’s dick. He watches Steve’s craned neck release and throws his head back into the pillows, “Jesus!” he breathes into the air above him. 

Eddie waits a little while until his breathing slows before hitching up Steve’s knees and separating them so he can lie between them. He trails a mixture of wet kisses and teeth drags along the inside of his thighs, watching his body constantly, ensuring it’s enough to keep him in that sweet spot but never too much.

He tests a slow trail of kisses along his solid shaft, which, on closer inspection, as Eddie had predicted, was indeed as perfect as the rest of him. It would almost be annoying if Eddie wasn’t having such a good time.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Steve moans as his hands grip onto the bedding. Eddie smiles. This is what he’s after, keeping him right here until Eddie decides to push him across the line. He wets his lips and pushes himself onto his elbows, admiring the gift before him as Steve settles down again. Then, he licks a fat stripe with the flat of his tongue from base to tip, and Steve jolts. He flicks the tip of his tongue along the slit to collect what is pooling in it and watches Steve’s back arch off the bed. Gods, Eddie wishes he hadn’t done that. He tastes delicious. So fucking good, Eddie is trying to spread the tiny droplet around his tongue so he can savour every aspect of it, and that makes Eddie lose sight of what he’s supposed to be doing. His hand rushes down to fuck into his own fist as he takes Steve wholly into his mouth until the tip of it threatens his throat. He just about hears Steve’s broken-off ahs and chanting of his name over his own guttural moans caused by hollowing out his cheeks and letting his tongue massage the underside of the throbbing cock in his mouth. Strong hands grip his shoulders, pull him out of his trance, and he releases him with an audible pop.

Steve’s chest and face are sweetly flushed as he’s gasping for air, and then the knitted brow falls into a content expression once he’s calmed again.

Eddie reaches over him to grab a few more lube sachets and a condom, but as he does, Steve desperately grabs at him again, pulling him in for another kiss, and Eddie isn’t sure it’s because he’s so damn close himself, but it makes his head spin, almost drops what’s in his hands. It’s not a hard, rough kiss like before, but it has passion and want all the same.

“Turn over,” Eddie says gently as he encourages him back down to the bed. Steve stalls for a second. Eddie figures he’s misheard, “Turn. Over.” he repeats softly, and this time he meets the request, “Just so I’m clear, this past year, you haven’t fucked anyone but has anyone fucked you?”

“No,” he answers quickly, though the pillows slightly muffle it, and Eddie has to bite his lips together to not whimper with anticipation as he sits behind Steve, rips open another packet of lube, and observes this new angle. The huge wolf tattoo he’s seen plenty of times, and the text stamped at the base of his spine he’d seen twice before partially, but now Wild Thing had an entirely different meaning. 

Sachet, still hanging out his mouth, Eddie has an idea. He wraps an arm around Steve’s waist and pulls him onto his knees so his peach of an ass is raised in the air. He runs his hands up Steve’s back and out to the sides so he can hold his arms. Trails his fingers down them until he has hold of Steve’s hands and brings them around so he can spread himself for him, and he wordlessly obeys as Eddie takes off his rings. 

He generously applies the lubricant to Steve and himself, secretly relishing in every exclamation or body spasm from the man before him.

He touches the pink puckered flesh, circles it gently, listens for the melody of moans he’s conducting and feels infinitely harder with each one. Waits for that magic moment when Steve backs up towards him, eager for it. Eddie pushes his finger inside and holds it still for a while as Steve’s body tenses, accompanied by a hiss until he finally relaxes. Relaxes might be a strong word because the way he’s clamped around Eddie’s finger makes him wonder if this would be possible at all.

Steve pushes back again, taking him deeper, and honestly, Eddie is impressed with how keen he is but does a quick glance of a check anyway. Steve’s face is side on, pushed into the pillows, panting heavily. He thinks maybe it’s enough. He’s had his fun, he’s already a mess, but Steve catches him looking, “What’s the holdup, stud?” he mumbles out, pushes back again, and that pisses Eddie off. Fine. He was just trying to be courteous, being fond of switching it up himself. He knows how it feels on the other side of things, but fuck it, right? Steve doesn’t give a shit.

Eddie does, however, and he’s not letting this debauched freak drag him down to something he’d regret. So he continues loosening Steve up, sometimes, to be spiteful, excruciatingly slowly, delighting between the switching Steve’s whines of frustration and groans of ecstasy as his fingertips meet the spot he knows is making him see stars.

When he’s primed to Eddie’s satisfaction and squirming in the hotel’s bright white sheets, a pathetic begging mess of a man, Eddie reaches around and quickly gives him a few firm strokes, making him huff out into the pillows. Eddie returns his fingers to his mouth for another taste, like an amuse-bouche before the main event.

He taps the sheathed head of himself at the tight entrance, pushing Steve’s hands away, and amuses himself by sliding over it a few times because it feels exquisite and drives Steve insane. He waits like a predator stalking his prey, waiting for Steve’s frustration to reach its peak. He waits for Steve to turn around with a frown, pushes the tip of himself inside as they lock eyes, wipes the scowl right off of it, and takes his breath away. 

Eddie would love to smugly smile back, but he’s gripping Steve’s sides for dear life. Jesus Christ, he was tight. He stays perfectly still. Which alone is making him start to sweat. He pushes himself deeper. Another x-rated groan from Steve and clenching around him almost has him retreating entirely. A strange jealousy sweeps over Eddie. All those noises from Steve were supposed to be his. He wraps his arms around Steve’s torso, coaxing his back to press to Eddie’s chest. Steve almost panics when he realises his weight might slide him down quicker than he wants, but Eddie holds him tightly until he’s found a comfortable squat, “There you go, sweetheart, take your time,” he croons slyly in his ear. 

And Eddie expects this evident pain slut to impale himself on his dick, but that isn’t what happens. His arms that are wrapped around his torso are mapped over by Steve’s, their fingers become intertwined, and as he turns so, they are face to face again. The grey streaks of eyeliner-saturated tears and tenderness take Eddie entirely off guard and snap him out of his attempted cruelty. He couldn’t figure this guy out at all. 

This close, he can see that no photograph would do his eye colour justice, not without editing, and where is the reality in that. Eddie gets lost in the pigments, getting bullied to the edges of his iris by his dilated pupil or looking at the beauty marks on his face that aren’t hidden by the blemishes he caused. 

Before he can say something clever or push him away, he finds his bottom lip trapped between Steve’s teeth. He pulls and drags his teeth over it as he sinks down a little more. It’s released when a groan threatens to escape Steve, which Eddie swallows down in a kiss and feels the fingers intertwined with his squeeze tightly. 

Eddie senses the danger now, but it happens in fits and starts because, in between the warning signs, his pleasure centres are blocking out any logical functions. Eddie knows he’s treading water, the shadowy thing licking at his heels, making its presence known but never quite revealing until it disappears again. He wonders if Steve feels it, too. If he feels like there isn’t just hate and lust here. He hopes to any deity listening that it is simply his hormones talking nonsense. That he’s merely just in the heat of the moment.

Steve pushes down again, and Eddie is in to the hilt. He’s clenched around him tightly and overwhelmed by sensation, and Eddie gives in. He softly sighs into another kiss and almost forgets why he’s doing any of this in the first place. Almost. It’s the roll of Steve’s hips and the whimper of “Fuck Eddie. You feel so fuckin’ good.” That pulls Eddie entirely out of his trance, reminding him of the aim here, 

“Good.” he purrs in his ear before untangling their hands and pushing him back down to the bed. 

Initially, the pace is slow, deep and deliberate as his fingers grip tightly onto Steve’s hips, and Eddie is just enjoying watching himself disappear inside him when Steve decides to say something stupid.

“Is this how you fucked that guy at the hotel?”

And in that one question, everything comes flooding back to Eddie again. The reason he’d stayed at the hotel, the reason he had to come crawling back to work with Harrington, everything he’d lost. 

With an absence of a reply, he tried to jog Eddie’s memory, “The one that looked like I used to?” As if implying that Eddie fucks so many people in hotels he’d not know which one he was talking about. It makes Eddie's lip twitch into a discrete sneer.

“No, but I probably should, shouldn’t I? Treat all you sluts the same, right?” Harrington’s body tenses under his touch as he pushes him around, making him arch more and his legs spread wider. He grabs his wrists and pulls them behind his back, landing him face-first into the bed again. Eddie tugs on his wrists, pulling him into a stretch almost. He starts thrusting again much faster this time, enough to make Harrington’s groans waver with each one, “He was beautiful, wasn’t he? Actually had some meat on his bones, something to really dig my teeth into. Something that I thought about for days later, and thank the gods for you bringing him up now, Harrington, because I get to think about him all over again whilst I fuck you wide open.” Eddie goes for broke and wants to make Harrington feel like dirt, like nothing, that he's lost it all in this moment.

Eddie sets a relentless pace. There is no talking now, just the sound of skin on skin, an occasional curse word from Eddie and Harrington’s muffled groans as he bites down on a pillow. With every noise, he fucks into him harder to shut him up until he’s just a set of stunted breaths, and Eddie becomes a sweaty grunting mess.

Harrington’s noises go up an octave as Eddie lets go of his arms and adjusts his position. And soon Eddie, hearing his name chanted again in a mixture of curse words and blasphemy, knows he’s got him where he wants him.

“My god, Eddie, fuck,” Harrington babbles. “I’m so close, Eddie, please” And fuck does he think about stopping right there, but he’s achingly close himself. Only a staring competition between this fucking giant wolf on Harrington’s back was helping.

Eddie spits in his hand, reaches around to spread it over Harrington’s length, and takes one of Steve’s hands and places it there, “Go ahead, Harrington, make a mess of yourself,” Eddie says with a slight mockery in his voice.

Harrington doesn’t need telling twice. Eddie watches his arm move in time with his thrusts and with a screwed-up face and a strained “Jesus. Fuck” Harrington spills with a loud exhale, and Eddie slows to a stop and pulls out as Harrington’s body stutters before it goes limp. He’s desperately near cumming himself, but he wants the full view. He rolls Harrington over so he’s lying in his own cum, picks up some on his fingertips and decorates Harrington’s lips with it whilst he’s trying to catch his breath. He then repositions himself between his legs and hooks them over his shoulders.

Harrington looks down but can’t form a response. He just slams his head back into the pillows behind him in blissed-out exhaustion. Eddie reinserts himself easily and leans right forward, bringing Harrington’s knees nearly up to his shoulders and leans down to messily lick over his lips as he rears his hips back only to slam them back down, a guttural winded noise leaves Harrington, and Eddie grins, looking down at this picture perfect fucked out freak underneath him.

Eddie wedges a hand between them and runs his fingers over his length to see if he’s got anything left or just to overstimulate him. He gets the latter, some amiable noises, turning into things on the edge of expressing pain, but he’s not doing a single thing about it. He slams into him again, and this time, the gasp comes with a sigh of enjoyment. Eddie continues to pick up the pace as he watches Harrington’s face contort underneath him.

And Eddie starts to lose himself. He closes his eyes as they roll backwards at the pleasure he’s feeling course through his body. He whimpers and moans, curses the gods, curses Harrington. The sweat is dripping from him as he closes in on the finish line. Steve’s hands on his face make him finally open his eyes. He’s brushing the curls and sweat from his face between huffed-out noises from Eddie’s jackhammering.

“You’re so fucking, hot, Eddie,” Steve sighs out as one of his hands reaches in between them. Finds Eddie’s hand to jerk off Steve together. “Are you gonna cum for me?” He manages before his brows push together, and he moans loud and long. In his pre-climax state, Eddie leans forward to capture his sounds for his own.

“Mine.” He growls through gritted teeth as his hips rut faster into Steve.

Steve’s unoccupied hand cradles his jaw, “Yours,” he whimpers out, and Eddie’s insides, already buzzing with adrenaline and imminent climax, completely somersault. “That’s it baby, cum for me.” he urges Eddie on, and stupefied by hormones and sensations, Eddie wholeheartedly agrees.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum so hard for you, sweetheart,” Eddie pushes through his teeth.

And that has Steve in a real mess, his arm moving much faster. Eddie watches him babble incoherent things, his eyelids flutter, and tears spill out as he cums again between them. 

This was everything Eddie wanted. He had finally broken Steve Harrington, maybe not in all the ways he wanted, but certainly in an unforgettable way.

As Eddie's most satisfying climax is seconds away, a broken Steve paints Eddie’s lips with his cum covered fingers, “Mine,” he hiccups as the tears spill out of his eyes, and he reaches up for a kiss as Eddie's hips stutter against him and he careers off the edge into complete euphoria.

As Eddie slowly comes down, he finds himself repositioned, held in Steve’s arms, fully collapsed against him, slow kisses being gently applied all over his lips and a hand in his hair. 

Still catching his breath, Eddie raises his eyes to his. With their chests heaving, for some reason, they both laugh, and Eddie sees a side of Steve he’s not encountered before that maybe he’s seen glimmers of. When he laughs, he holds on to himself, and his eyes almost completely disappear from view because the apples of his cheeks are pushed up so high, even though there isn’t much to them these days. There is only silence or the sounds of their breathing for a while.

Eddie finds himself back where this started, staring at another ornate ceiling. His heart still thudding in his chest, he chances another glance over at Steve, only to look away quickly because he was already being observed. Steve’s hand gently plays with his hair, “We should probably clean up before they get here. Make it just look like a fight.” Steve’s voice is quiet and rough, but Eddie thinks he can hear a little sadness, too.

“Before who get here?” Eddie asks in confusion.

“Whoever the label sends when they get wind of this.” He sighs, “Damage control. To make sure you aren’t gonna leak anything. To remind me to behave myself, maybe teach me a lesson,” Steve pats him, sits up, takes the condom off Eddie, ties it up, and then starts gathering the wrappers before heading to the bathroom. Eddie hears a flush before he returns, “Come on, get up,” he says kindly with a smile, “gotta get this in the laundry shoot asap.”

Eddie can see him favouring one arm over the other as he tries to gather up the bedding. He winces occasionally but makes no sound of pain. He just tries to bundle everything up as Eddie watches the melancholy work its way over him. The Harrington of it all makes Steve disappear again. “Here, let me do that,” Eddie pretends to be annoyed as he bumps Steve out of the way to take over, “Goddamn rockstars got no clue about chores, obviously” he bundles everything up in his arms, “Where is it going?” Eddie looks at him like it’s the biggest inconvenience in the world, but Steve just stares for a second before silently pointing him to the private shute. Eddie heads towards it, calling back, “Let me know when you're done in the shower.” as he shoves the material down.

But the reply is closer than he expects, “You can wait if you want, but there’s room for two,” Steve says, looking between Eddie and random objects around the room. Steve swallows, “Or you know more? I’m pretty sure I’ve had four or five in there at a squeeze before,” with that, he walks away, saying, “You know, saving the planet, Eddie, not wasting water or whatever.”

He’s frozen in deliberations with himself, can feel that shadowy thing lurking closer now, and senses the danger of where his endorphins are taking him, but he’s also curious about Steve’s behaviour now. Was he afraid of the label?

Eddie resolves to take a chance. If what he said was true, this could be their last few minutes or hours together, the final opportunity for information for his book. He quickly shoves the material down and ensures it has not got stuck on the way. And follows the sound of running water.

He eventually finds the lavish bathroom. For a moment, he is confused that he can’t see a shower but can hear one until he realises another part of the room is around the corner. He pokes his head around, and the sight that meets his eyes is not what he expects. Steve's forearms and fists against the wall, his forehead pressed against the tiles, and his body slightly hunched over as it shakes like he’s sobbing. Eddie retreats quickly and thinks about leaving entirely. Was it because of what he’d done? Fuck he’d wanted to get revenge so badly he’d forgotten there was a human inside. What had his anger led him to become? Another bully, another vile person in a despicable place.

Eddie swallows down his emotions and resolves this was enough, he’d gotten something, which wasn’t everything but better than nothing, and maybe if he could fix this with the label, he’d get his career on the up again. He nods at no one and steels himself, “Steve, are you in here?”

“Y-yeah,” Steve replies, and Eddie gives him a few seconds to compose himself before strolling in like he’d seen nothing, putting on a show, looking around the area and whistling.

“Wow, this is truly fancy, huh?” He smiles, and Steve mirrors it as best he can and pushes open the door for him.

“This is the presidential suite.” Steve jokes and that’s the last thing said between them. They shower in silence, but it doesn’t feel awkward. Steve occasionally hands him a bottle of product. He doesn’t look at him when he does; he just holds it in his eyeline to take. Eddie notices the hair products are specifically for curls.

Steve gets out, towels himself, and sits in the chaise lounge. Eddie goes to grab a towel from the pile, but before he can, Steve hands him one from a rack, and it’s warm to the touch. 

As Eddie dries off, he can see Steve examining the aftermath in the mirror. Poking at his face and body, wincing occasionally. Eddie joins him in the reflection.

“Shit, man, I’m sorry. I lost it,” Eddie tries.

“I deserved it,” he says back simply before checking over his teeth, which makes Eddie feel terrible. He looks at the floor and goes to leave, “I started it on purpose, Eddie. You tried to walk away.” Steve says as he continues to look in the mirror.

“Yeah, well, I should have just kept walking, shouldn’t I?” Eddie says solemnly.

“I wasn’t gonna let you walk out of there without hitting me.” He says, running a comb through his hair, which he hands to Eddie as he catches up to him.

Eddie plays with the comb between his fingers and leans against the hallway wall, “Do they do this often?” Eddie asks.

“Who? Do what?” Steve asks, a little confused.

“The label about people you spend time with,” Eddie says vaguely, not looking up from the comb teeth he’s running his thumb over.

He hears Steve sigh, “Look, as you’ve probably guessed by now, I’m not as straight as I’m portrayed, ok? They want me to stay that way. That’s what keeps me making money. If I were to come out, it would ruin the whole thing. So no, they don’t normally do this because I don’t normally do this. Buckley usually keeps me in line, not because she wants to, but because I ask her to,” he pauses, “and sometimes I ask her to turn a blind eye, when we’re away, when there are fewer company spies, but usually, that’s for five minutes or so, at some no coverage allowed party, you know?”

“Why don’t you just tell them to fuck off? You’ve got more money than you could possibly know what to do with.”

“Yeah, but it’s not just me, Eddie. It’s Buckley, Denise in PR, Fred in merch, and Gina in finance. Harrington isn’t just me. It’s a machine, and I’m just one cog everyone can see,” Steve says, “also, money can’t buy everything, or so I’ve found. Sometimes you gotta be in with the right people too.”

“Steve, you paid nearly a million to work with me. You’re telling me there is something millions of dollars can’t buy?” Eddie folds his arms and almost laughs.

“Do you, maybe, wanna stay over?” Steve asks, ignoring the question.

Eddie is surprised. Isn’t that what people typically say before sex rather than after? Was this guy insatiable? Did he want another round? No, he’s just made sure the evidence was gone.

“You haven’t gotta, I just thought maybe….I dunno. I guess I just don’t know what’s gonna happen, is all, and punches and fucking aside. I kinda like your company and, uh, though this isn’t your responsibility, I don’t really like waking up on my own. I mean, I could get Buckley to call someone in, but, um, they might ask questions,” Steve gestures to himself.

Eddie looks up at him, but he’s looking down and toeing at the carpet. Eddie huffs out a laugh, “Guess it beats walking past Buckley on my own right now.”

Steve raises his head, and there is a twitch of a smile, “Thanks,” he says as he disappears for a minute or two, leaving Eddie with his thoughts, before returning fully dressed, holding Eddie’s clothes and wallet. He takes the cut-up T-shirt, returns to the lounge area, and starts planning his crime scene as Eddie puts his underwear back on. He starts placing glasses and leaving drops of alcohol in them, spilling a little on the carpet and doesn’t tidy up any items cast on the floor. Partially fills two glasses and carries them through to bedroom further down the hall. He places a drink on each bedside table and hands Eddie a fresh T-shirt from his own clothes.

“You're gonna have to put it all back on, so it doesn’t look…well…gay?” And Steve bursts out laughing at that, and Eddie joins him. The bed is enormous, so there is no need to be close. They take a side each.

The lights go out, and it’s still and quiet again.

“Goodnight, Eddie,” Steve says.

“Goodnight, Steve,” Eddie says as he closes his eyes for sleep to take him.

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Songs that inspired this chapter: Touch Me I’m Sick - Mudhoney, Low - Foo Fighters, Closer - NIN, Last - NIN

[ilikemicrowaves]

CLAY'S NIGHTMARE

Summary: Starflight dreamvisits Clay while on the Volcanoic island, but an unsettling nightmare takes over Clay's head.

This takes place in the Loyal Starflight AU. This au is going undersome changes, so This writing may nit be true to its complete story later on.

Starflight put the dreamvisitor to his forehead.

Bring me to Clay! He thought, but nothing happened. What was he doing wrong?

Maybe I have to invision him. OK, think Clay.

He held the dreamvisitor tighter to his head, as though he could suck himself inside of it.

Big, but soft. Muscular, brotherly. He imagined the orange mudwing galloping by his side on the beach before they went to the summer palace.

Kicking sand on their wings and splashing at each others faces in the water.

Suddenly, flashes of orange and white blinded his eyes.

He felt dizzy and ill while his consciousness flew across the sea and pulled him far from his body.

Where am I? He thought as the new view began to take shape.

Starflight stood on an edge, dead grass underneath his claws.

A battle field... Starflight recognized it, the one they saw before Clay went to the mud kingdom.

It seemed it stretched on forever, likely the effect of the dream Clay was having. Or nightmare.

Thousands of dead body's covered the ongoing plain until it hit the horizon.

Red over blue, orange over white. Countless dragons murdered over a throne not theirs.

Why is he having a nightmare? Starflight asked himself. Is it about Crane?

He looked closer to the battle feild and realized specific looking mudwings where surrounded by icewing soldiers.

Oh, oh Clay.

"I have to help them!" Said a panicked but warm voice.

Clay stood on the same ledge as Starflight. He didn't move though, he stood, petrified.

"Clay!" Starflight Shouted. He was thrilled to see his best friend again but not in this situation.

"You gotta go help!" He tried pulling him by his shoulder but the dream logic wouldn't allow it.

Suddenly the ground started to sink. Starflight jumped back at of fear, but Clay was still sinking, and fast.

"No!" Starflight tried to grab him but his head already went through.

He had no choice but to jump in. He braced himself and leaped.

He sank through fast, and landed in a chair at the end of a long polished table. Nothing stood around them. It was almost as though they where floating in a black void.

He sat next to Clay, who was at the end on his side.

Several mudwings that looked like Clay sat and laughed and cheered as they feasted and what Starflight thought was music in the background played.

At the other end of the table was a black figure, with purple light reflecting off of it.

It was the shape of a dragon, and it stood on its hind legs with its front talons outstretched onto the table.

It glared at Clay as he stared back into its purple, dagger shaped, eyes.

Starflight could feel the intensity and possibly even Clay's heart racing in his dream.

Starflight realized multiple whispers came from the figure. He had no idea what it was saying, all the words jumbled into nonsense.

More silence went by other than the happy mudwings, but that was clouded out by the figures voice.

The light source flickered and shut completely off before turning back on immediately to reveal the music had stopped and the other mudwings who looked directly at Clay with black soulless expressions star

"Crane..." Clay's voice squeezed.

He looked to the end of the table at the mass of purple darkness. That's supposed to be her...

The figure spread its wings to its largest extent and leaped onto the table. It raced down towards Clay while roars of pain came out as though something had slashed its throat.

Once it reached their end it widend its jaws and Ingulfed them in a mass of the pitch black that surrounded them and nothing could be seen.

Starflight woke up in a cold sweat and was breathing heavily as though he wasn't breathing.

He yanked the dreamvisitor away from his face and stuffed it into his pillow.

He looked towards the doorway and saw the glow of the volcano and the layers of ashes falling from the clouds, like an ugly snow.

He swallowed and roleld back onto his side and closed his eyes. "I hope you're okay.." He whispered before falling asleep and letting the intensity drift away.

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Yay! more Loyal Starflight AU content!!! :D Been a while since I messed around with this au haha.

Reblogs appreciated :)

[causeitsagame]

Fic: Aquila (4/?)

Pairing: Hajime Hinata/Fuyuhiko Kuzuryuu

Author: @miggylol

Notes: Last week was late-semester hell and seeing GotG3 yesterday absolutely stomped all over my emotions, so it's CATHARTIC ANGST TIME, BOYOS.

Previous Chapters: in the tag.

Excerpt: Gasping, Hajime lurched up from his mattress. With deep breaths, he tried to ignore the queasy, heavy feeling in his gut. Above him, a fan's blades spun lazily in his hotel room and the soft sound of ocean waves rumbled through his tilted shutters. The typical streaks of moonlight barely made an appearance through them. That was him, he told himself in his dark room. That was him. That wasn't me, that was him.

Yes. It'd been Izuru watching all of that, not him. But it was his eyes that did the watching and his feet that walked away. And so, it still hurt. Hajime had managed to wrangle his brain into a somewhat more balanced state, but that apparently meant that his memories didn't feel so neatly segmented. He'd get to freely remember not only the world's worst days, but like he himself had chosen to stand in their midst. Great.

-----

"Hey! There's someone!"

Hajime ignored the footsteps behind him. They were soft, matching the youthful voice he'd heard. In front of him was a developing scene of destruction, which mattered more than whoever approached. Not that the Remnants' efforts were especially interesting, either, but this battle had the chance to steer the path of many days to follow. Such scale had more relevance than a few lost children.

In the distance, a regiment wore matching black-and-white helmets. The electrical fields inside of them kept their wearers compliant. The highest-ranking soldiers wore those helmets not by force, now, but out of deep (and sometimes desperate) loyalty. In the earliest days of Japan's collapse, after the massacre at the National Diet, many potential fighters had indeed been forced into the mind-control helmets. They were strong, but Nidai was stronger. Once he'd gotten one man under control, they now had two people forcing others into the fold. Then, they had four. Then, eight. Then…

Such force hadn't been necessary for long. Plenty of civilians would pledge loyalty to anyone who suddenly held the power of life and death over them. The most capable had been allowed to put those helmets onto themselves. For some, joining the Remnants' army was a way to let their families stay safely ignored. For more, it was a thrill to be released from a stifling, suffocating social contract, and they joined the slaughter with glee. Some civilians who couldn't join the elite guards still tried to show loyalty by dashing a smear of red paint or lipstick over their left eye, or by piecing together a halftone outfit split down the middle.

But the true core of the Remnants' army in Japan wasn't civilians who'd joined the fold. It was the twenty-two thousand trained killers who'd once lived as the underworld, and now gripped the nation by the throat. There had been five thousand more yakuza fed to the military meat grinder. They'd bought time for the Imposter to give fatally conflicting orders in the guise of a dozen different generals, and then for Souda's machines to take out the remaining soldiers' hardware. Another few thousand more from the clan had died in loyal defense of its former leader, or in revenge for his abrupt patricide.

Many of those trained killers were now lined up against forces rallied by the so-called Future Foundation. Based on who was victorious in today's conflict, Japan would tilt very slightly toward one of two paths.

"Mister?"

The soft footsteps behind him had finally made their way up the staircase of broken cement and shattered brick. Hajime turned just enough to see the speaker in his peripheral vision. It was a girl, perhaps nine or ten years old, with a younger brother struggling to follow her. In her arms, she carried an infant wrapped in dirty rags. All three of them had dry, cracked lips and their skin was liberally speckled with cuts and abrasions.

At the full sight of who she'd been speaking to, the girl drew back in surprise, then fear. But she looked down at her infant sibling, forced a deep breath, and took another step forward. "Mister? Do you know where to find water?"

As he'd thought, they were orphaned. Knowledge of how to treat abandoned wild animals filled his head, and Hajime turned back to watch the battle. In such a threatening environment, any animal's lost young would certainly perish.

"Please," the girl begged. Her voice cracked, and as she walked right up next to Hajime's side, he saw that the skin of her lips had, too. A drop of blood pooled there, thicker and slower than it should. "Please. I'm trying to find food and water for them."

So, Hajime thought distantly as he watched the battle begin in the distance. These were Enoshima's chosen lieutenants. It wasn't interesting to watch them work, but at least it was a wealth of data to observe for future calculations. For the moment, as bodies and bodies and bodies and bodies hit the asphalt, he wasn't bored. Not interested. But not bored.

"Please!" the girl screamed, grabbing his shirt. "They're gonna die!"

He'd seen enough. The Future Foundation had bolstered its strength, but they wouldn't topple the Remnants any time soon. Enoshima's plan inside the Academy would continue unhindered, and Japan would continue to wither as destruction spread from that impressive edifice. Hajime turned, then glanced down at where a tiny fist still tried to hold him in place. He looked back up to meet the girl's gaze with inhuman crimson eyes. "Probabilistically, you're all dead already."

Her eyes filled with tears that she couldn't afford to shed, and her grip tightened.

Hajime reached down, forced her hand open, and ignored the cracking of bone and the screams that followed. He walked down the unstable pile of rubble with sure footing, and let the shouts of dying men and the sobs of dying children wash over him.

Gasping, Hajime lurched up from his mattress. With deep breaths, he tried to ignore the queasy, heavy feeling in his gut. Above him, a fan's blades spun lazily in his hotel room and the soft sound of ocean waves rumbled through his tilted shutters. The typical streaks of moonlight barely made an appearance through them. That was him, he told himself in his dark room. That was him. That wasn't me, that was him.

Yes. It'd been Izuru watching all of that, not him. But it was his eyes that did the watching and his feet that walked away. And so, it still hurt. Hajime had managed to wrangle his brain into a somewhat more balanced state, but that apparently meant that his memories didn't feel so neatly segmented. He'd get to freely remember not only the world's worst days, but like he himself had chosen to stand in their midst. Great.

Well, he wasn't going to get any more sleep. Hajime pushed himself roughly out of bed and spent a good few minutes listening to the noises outside his window. He was here, he insisted to himself, not there. In those dust-choked ruins of a city, wind hadn't rustled through lush trees, nor blown waves to splash against white sands. Insects didn't chirp and hum there, and a few noisy birds didn't brave the early hours.

He'd spent years alone in dead, silent hellholes, silently suffocating under the weight of isolation. Under the weight of what world-class butchers had done to him. Hajime gripped the windowsill harder, and heard it creak dangerously under his fingers.

The most dangerous moments passed. Now, he focused on a sound that managed to drown out the gusting winds. Izuru had led a solitary life (if that could even be called living), and so he certainly hadn't slept next to anything like Kazuichi's absolute buzzsaw of a snore. The ruckus powered out through Kazuichi's half-tilted shutters and in through Hajime's. It was exactly what Hajime needed to hear: they were people, and they were here, and life still went on.

The usually obnoxious sound became a meditation mantra. Hajime focused on it, breathing in and out with the same rhythm, until he'd calmed down enough to turn toward the shower.

Hours later, at breakfast, Akane studied Hajime critically as she peeled a banana. "When'd you wake up?"

The sense of panic that'd choked him was long gone, but he hadn't been able to fall back asleep. He hadn't even tried. Apparently, that lack of sleep was written plainly on his face. "Dunno. Few hours ago."

"Rough night?" The voice put a real smile on Hajime's face, and he turned to see Fuyuhiko walking in to the hotel restaurant. His question had held real sympathy, but it vanished in the face of the open surprise he saw from the others. "What, am I not allowed to show up here, any more?"

"Of course, and we're so glad to see you!" Sonia insisted. "We just didn't know to expect your return. Since your departure was so sudden."

"Yeah, man!" Kazuichi cheerfully said, and tried to shove a bowl of fruit over to welcome Fuyuhiko to the morning meal. It didn't slide as he'd expected, and wobbled to and fro before tilting toward an edge.

Fuyuhiko lunged forward to steady it. With a deliberately suspicious look toward his friend, he wondered, "Can't even slide a bowl, huh? Are you safe to be left on your own?"

"Hey," Kazuichi protested. "There was a rough patch on the table. And you're one to talk about being on your own. Why'd you take off, anyway?" At the question, Akane also looked up with keen interest.

Shrugging, Fuyuhiko tilted his head in the direction of the hotel hallway. "I got sick of feeling like I was stuck at boarding school. Remember, I didn't do dorms at Hope's Peak. Besides, the cottages over there are a hell of a lot nicer."

Sonia nodded and took a brief sip of coffee. They'd discovered where coffee plants had been established, but would still need to harvest and roast the beans. That was hardly a priority with everything else they faced, and so coffee was currently a luxury. For all of Sonia's many and varied skills, she wasn't good at denying herself those. "Hajime also described those cottages as much nicer than this hotel. Perhaps we should focus on the roof repairs, then, and all move?"

Remembering Kazuichi's loud snores from the night before, Hajime blanched. With a good block of time between now and when he and Fuyuhiko had kissed—

holy fuck that's right we totally kissed

—His brain had focused on more everyday matters. But now he remembered the heat of skin against skin, and how he'd spent the evening before that mired in (confused, frustrated) arousal. In the future, those situations could easily lead to very specific, very audible behaviors. During neither of them did he want Kazuichi, Sonia, or Akane sleeping behind open shutters, right in an adjacent room.

"I really don't think it's a priority, with everything else we need to do," Hajime replied, beating Fuyuhiko to the trigger. His voice sounded odd in his ears. Distant. "If Fuyuhiko's willing to walk back and forth and really wants a cottage, then I guess he can do that for a while."

"Mmm. A fair point," Sonia said, and studied Hajime over the rim of her coffee cup.

He nodded uncertainly to her.

Breakfast was fruit, of course. Between natural foliage and what had been planted for the tourists, they'd never run out of food. Even when they managed to wake up their friends, they could easily sustain themselves on the first island alone, let alone the rest of the archipelago. That was good, Hajime thought as he worked on a papaya's soft flesh. Considering how this was 'forever,' and all.

In morning's bright light and after he'd worked out the situation with Fuyuhiko, 'forever' did seem much less of a threat than before. Hajime found himself smiling faintly as he worked on his meal.

As everyone eventually began to finish, Sonia was the first to speak up. "If I might propose today's tasks?" Once they'd offered her their attention, she continued, "Since Fuyuhiko is focusing on internal logistics, I would feel much more at ease if I verified our external defenses. Kazuichi and Akane, would you mind accompanying me to the police docks on the fifth island? I'd like to review what they used to defend the tourists."

Hajime looked over to Fuyuhiko and caught his eye. They both looked back at their meals and said nothing.

"Defend the tourists," Akane repeated. "Huh. I guess you're right. With all these rich people staying here, they'd need to have some way to send any pirates packing."

Kazuichi folded his arms. "Yeah, now that you mention it, they wouldn't let millionaires and fancy resorts just be sitting ducks. I guess that makes sense for why it showed up as a full-on military base in the simulation."

Sonia nodded proudly. "Precisely. We too should know exactly what defenses are at our disposal." She took another long sip of coffee, then looked up to study Hajime and Fuyuhiko. "Since they've talked about managing the animal population here, the two of them can stay here and work on that."

"Makes sense," Kazuichi said, and tipped back his glass of water. "And I'm just not gonna think about how our freezer might suddenly be full of chickens."

"Oh, yeah!" Akane said, beaming at them both. "All those chickens. You guys better get right to work!"

"Sounds like a plan," Fuyuhiko said with a deliberately level tone, and kept eating.

The five of them had already established such strong habits that it was no wonder that Fuyuhiko's sudden absence had caused such a ruckus. Today felt more normal, and so like usual, they waited until everyone had finished eating before standing to tackle the day's tasks. Akane rushed out to beat Kazuichi to the boat, while Sonia set a more level pace. She offered Hajime and Fuyuhiko a bright smile before walking to follow her companions for the day, and vanished into the distance while humming an obscure eighteenth century waltz.

Hajime watched her go with a faint frown, wondering why she'd studied them with such curiosity, but that faded as soon as Fuyuhiko cleared his throat and he was reminded of who he stood beside. A smile instantly appeared, instead. It would have been a huge relief to move from 'weird, uncertain argument' to 'normal again.' Moving from 'I don't know why, but we're apparently fighting' to 'holy shit, we're actually kissing!' was an even better outcome, and it left him feeling rather giddy.

"Sounds like they'll be on that other island for the rest of the day," Fuyuhiko levelly said.

"Sure does."

A warm breeze whistled through the restaurant, bringing the scent of perpetual summer. Hajime inhaled it deeply, focusing on its touch across every inch of exposed skin. When his eyes opened, he noticed Fuyuhiko watching him. For a moment, their gazes held.

A moment later, Hajime backed Fuyuhiko against another sturdy wooden table, and easily hiked him up to sit on it when it interrupted their path. Fuyuhiko kept his arms wrapped firmly around Hajime's neck as he was positioned, which also kept their mouths locked together. A low, pleased noise rumbled out of the back of his throat. Hajime instinctively echoed the sound.

"Okay," Fuyuhiko said when they broke apart for air. His cheeks were pink again, like when they'd first kissed. Then, it had looked like embarrassment shifting into disbelief. Now, this was only excitement. "We're supposed to figure out the animals."

Laughing reluctantly, Hajime pulled back. "Do you have to be so… responsible?" Fuyuhiko had been the one to shoo them away from his cottage yesterday, too. Just because they'd had their first kisses ever, with each other, didn't resolve their daily checklists.

"We've got a whole day alone," Fuyuhiko reminded him. "And there are way too many fucking chickens."

"Right," Hajime relented, and stepped away. "The chickens."

Ten minutes later, as they walked to where goats and chickens had once been raised and penned, Fuyuhiko broke the silence. "You never answered me."

Hajime glanced over. This interior road had been used to truck food and other supplies between the hotels, airport, and docks, and so it was much broader than the scenic trail used only for electric tourist carts. It was two lanes comfortably sized for trucks on both sides, and with no concerns for setting the mood for tourists, trees were hacked away well clean of the road's shoulders. There were no palm fronds overhead, but the two of them were already tan enough to not worry about burning. A breeze would be nice, though. "Answered you? About what?"

Fuyuhiko studied him for a few steps, then looked back ahead. "I asked if it was a rough night."

"Oh." Hajime also took a few steps to reply. "Yeah."

Fuyuhiko nodded, and said nothing.

"According to Akane, I look like hell. I guess it's not a secret. But I dunno, I just didn't want to say much in front of everyone."

"I get that, but still." Fuyuhiko shoved his hands into his pockets and let his gaze wander across the trees. "Everyone understands. We all have bad nights"

"Yeah?" Hajime asked softly. It'd been likely, of course, but Fuyuhiko had never admitted to also being trapped inside memories of those past years.

"Yeah." Suddenly awkward at admitting weakness, Fuyuhiko plastered over his sincerity with a sidelong smirk. "Should I be worried that you had a bad night right after we…?"

"Well," Hajime reluctantly admitted, "I did dream about you." Fuyuhiko nearly tripped over a stray pebble, and Hajime laughed as he clarified, "About one of the big fights with the Foundation. I was watching. But no, having a bad night had nothing to do with you. I'm pretty sure it's because there were clouds over the moon. And it's only a crescent right now, anyway."

Fuyuhiko worked through that, and clarified, "So, it was dark? That's what can set you off?"

After moving to this grimmer topic, Hajime could no longer say that he was in a good mood. And now that they were talking about specifics, even 'okay' faded. "Yeah. Seems like it." Fuyuhiko was willing to accept that without comment or judgment, and for that, Hajime was grateful. He was. Truly. But suddenly, he felt truth rise in him like vomit wanting to come out, and he knew that he had to share something for the first time. "I think I know why."

With uncommon patience and clear concern, Fuyuhiko waited.

Even though this demanded to be said, it took Hajime a few dozen steps to find the words. "They had to develop talents that involved vision. Marksmanship, art forgery. Whatever." With each step, Hajime's face prickled warmer, but this wasn't the excitement he'd felt while pressed up against Fuyuhiko in that restaurant. This was the boundary of a panic attack, where the only worse thing than speaking the memory would be trying to force it back inside. "And so they wanted to improve my sight, too."

"So, what did they do?" Fuyuhiko hesitantly asked. Their pace down the road slowed.

"I still don't know," Hajime managed. His speech was choppy, by now, and each word hurt. It felt like he could barely get enough air into him to fuel more than a single syllable at a time. "But they cut the optic nerves. And left me like that. For a while. Until another surgery. Then I saw better." His hands shook, and he missed the first time he tried to brush away a tear trailing down his cheek. "But until then. It was all dark."

A hand gripped his wrist, hard, and Hajime was forced to a halt.

Fuyuhiko's cheeks weren't pink, now; he was crimson with rage.

Hajime's face prickled as blazing fire and terrible cold ran across it. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest like it wanted to burst free.

When he finally spoke, Fuyuhiko's voice was a low growl, barely audible. "Are all of those motherfuckers already dead?"

Sharing that memory had exhausted Hajime. He nodded once. "I'm sure they are."

With no targets for which to plan a murder, Fuyuhiko was left shaking with futile fury. His eye rotated in its socket, looking for a tree or signage pole or anything in close distance that he could punch. There was nothing. With a frustrated cry, he instead grabbed Hajime and drew him close. His hands gripped the back of Hajime's shirt nearly hard enough to tear it, and they strained and pulled until the worst of his anger ebbed. "Those pieces of absolute dog shit," he spat, his face buried against Hajime's shoulder.

Getting that memory out really had been like vomiting. He'd avoid it if he could, but once it became inevitable, Hajime did feel better with it out of him. He wrapped his arms around Fuyuhiko in return, and let himself sag and be held up. Hajime couldn't say why, but it felt almost like he should apologize for putting the words out there.

Eventually, Fuyuhiko pulled back enough to look up at him. "Do you want me going back to the hotel?"

Confused, Hajime blinked. "Huh? For what?"

"In case you have another bad night, if it's that dark again." Regret filled Fuyuhiko's eye, and he reluctantly added, "Or anything else they did that might set you off."

"No. No, it's fine." Hajime tried to force levity back into his voice, and barely succeeded. "We want an excuse to have some privacy over there, yeah? Besides, right now, you're the one dealing with any rough nights alone."

Realizing his meaning, Fuyuhiko shook his head. "Trust me, what I remember… there's nothing like that. Nothing even close."

Hajime studied him critically. No, Hajime remembered a brand of horror that was—thankfully—unique in the world. But Fuyuhiko would remember feeling the hot splashes of blood as his parents died in front of him. He'd remember more blood as he personally toppled a government, then watched the ugly years that followed with full knowledge that it was him: he'd ended things. He'd wrecked supply lines, he'd shattered infrastructure, he'd left dying children hunting for food and water. He'd pushed the men who trusted him to lead them into the slaughterhouse.

That sort of practical horror had a less demanding presence. It probably wouldn't reach up and drag him forcefully down, but should Fuyuhiko sink into the depths himself, Hajime didn't know how he'd climb back out. And like Hajime had said: right now, Fuyuhiko was the only one left dealing with terrible nighttime memories alone.

"What if I move out to a cottage, instead?" Hajime slowly suggested.

"Huh? That's not…" Though Fuyuhiko instinctively countered him, his argument trailed off.

"So long as we're there for breakfast and dinner, it'd still feel like normal, right? They wouldn't complain. And I can just say that if you're going to stay out there, then I didn't want you to be alone. Sonia already worried that you could get hurt or something and we wouldn't know about it."

"She needs to stop worrying about me," Fuyuhiko groused. "I can take care of myself."

"So?" Hajime prompted.

Fuyuhiko didn't meet Hajime's eyes as the last bit of righteous anger left his expression. He seemed suddenly aware of how close they still were, but he didn't step away. "Yeah. That'd… be nice."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. I'll move out."

"Okay. Good." Fuyuhiko cleared his throat. "Into a different cottage."

"Obviously, yeah. But close to yours?" There were multiple pathways that arced over the water, some quite long.

"Yeah."

"It's a plan, then," Hajime committed, and nudged them back into motion. It was so bright, today, and the horrors of last night seemed increasingly distant. He was here on the island, not watching death from atop a throne of rubble. Fuyuhiko was beside him, not facing down the would-be saviors of humanity. They were here, and they were them. And for now, all they had to worry about was all those fucking chickens.

[silyabeeodess]

SJ Oneshot: A Demonic Mold

Years of carefully done planning wasted: The world's greatest hope against the immortal monster that was Aku had vanished.

Not dead, just... vanished. If the Emperor's son had been slain, Aku would've made a bigger point to boast than he did—and oh, did he boast. It just wasn't the kind of show he usually put on whenever he removed some thorn in his side. This time, there was no body to put on display. This time, he was vague, nervous even, as if the Shogun of Sorrows himself wasn't completely sure of his own victory. 

The Warrior couldn't imagine anyone from the Emperor's bloodline to be the type to turn tail and run, so Aku must've played some trick when the two battled. In any case, the prince was still missing. Aku was still expanding his influence over the whole of the Earth. People like himself were still fighting, holding off the villain's forces which only seemed to grow by the day.

Aku's tower loomed in the distance: A dark, jagged spire that threatened to pierce the heavens. Behind the Warrior stood a thousand more. There was no point in trying to launch a surprise attack by nightfall: It would just give their demonic, shadow-like enemies an advantage. No, he'd catch Aku off-guard some other way. He wasn't exactly bred for combat and he didn't have a magic sword, but he did have his wit. And in the very least, he had to try...

"The men are ready," came a gruff voice from behind, "We'll move out as soon as you give the order, captain."

Biting back fear, the Warrior offered the other a small grin, "Don't call me that..."

"Who else would I call that?" the soldier guffawed in reply, "You're the brains of this operation, remember?"

Yes, and when every last one of them died, he'd have no one to blame but himself. In reality, even he knew that this was a suicide mission. At this point though, they just didn't have any other choice but to fight. And even on the small chance that they did succeed, it was almost assured that most of them wouldn't be around to join in the celebrations...

For not the first time, the Warrior found himself comparing his own shape to that of the men who accompanied him. Most of the soldiers were fierce and loud; big, hulking men that looked like they could snap a tree like a toothpick. Meanwhile, he was that toothpick. The Warrior was tall, toned, but ultimately lanky in appearance. Outside of his gift for strategy, he didn't belong with them.

His only weapon was a long bow, which he now unslung from his waist. He pulled out an arrow wrapped with a tiny, damp cloth on the tip, then ignited it. The Warrior took a deep breath, then fired—launching it into the sky with a parade of sparks.

The army behind him erupted into a roar. The sound was terrifying, like the a massive wave breaking through a ruined dam. However, a part of him had to admit, it was also thrilling. Countless hooves beat the earth as the men and their steeds charged past him, racing on to meet their fates.

Moving with a smaller team, the Warrior circled the main advancement at a distance. For a while, all they could do was lie in wait as their allies clashed with Aku's demonic forces. Then, a break finally appeared closer to the base of the tower. 

They made a mad dash for it. He road almost center while the rest of his team took down any enemy soldiers that crossed their direct path. The way inside was blocked, but not shut, so that the next wave could move out when ready. The Warrior quickly fired off an arrow to take down one of the soldiers, then leapt off his horse and raced inside.

The gate's controls sat on a dais not far off. Again, he launched another arrow and the demon guarding it erupted in a haze of smoke as it struck his chest. He raced up the steps and broke the lever, locking the gates in-place. 

That took care of Phase One—granted, it was far too easy for him to feel comforted in making it this far. Phase Two involved splitting off even further to locate the Shogun of Sorrows and free any prisoners he might be keeping close-by. For the most part though, his role was done. He wasn't strong enough to join in rest of the fight.

The Warrior leaned his back against the porous wall behind him, his bow nevertheless at the ready. He looked down one of the adjacent passages, its harsh, red light seemingly taunting him where he lurked in the equally oppressive shadows. To his growing wariness, Aku's forces only trinkled out in small numbers, which were swiftly dealt with as their own soldiers closed in. There was no sign of the second wave. 

A moment later, he straightened himself back up, shouting down to the others, "I'll scout ahead!"

Without alerting them further, he ventured higher into the tower. He sneakily took out a few more of the demons from a far along his way; however, beyond that, the halls were as eerily bare as the ones below. It could've been that Aku's minions simply spawned out of thin air in the very same vapor they returned to when destroyed. Still, though he did make an attempt to keep himself hidden as much as he could while he progressed, it was as if nothing even truly bothered to register his presence.

At least not until he reached what he thought to be the heart of the tower. The second he entered, he felt an immediate, overbearing sensation of someone's eyes locked onto him. His skid to a halt, his final footsteps echoing throughout the massive chamber. Looking around, he saw nothing.

The Warrior's only company was the low drone of the cavernous pit below. With the red, flame-like patterns of the walls surrounding it, it was like staring into the core of a dying star. There was no clear end to it, and as he stared at it long enough, he could've sworn he saw the shadows it stretch and claw along its perimeter.

A rush of air at his back nearly toppled him. He turned around to find that part of the shadows had molded into a towering, solitary form: Aku himself.

For a moment, the Warrior was completely frozen. The dark entity looming over him gave him a knowing, cruel smile. Before a word was said between him—as if he could even clearly hear anything the villain said, he was so terrified—the former grit his teeth and fired. The arrow pierced the monster in the waist, but Aku didn't even flinch. The weapon was simply absorbed into his body.

Aku then raised a claws hand. The arrow was launched back out, the Warrior lunging away in time for it to only graze him in the arm. He stumbled along the crowd, his mind scrambling to remember how to escape. 

Then, like swatting a fly, Aku knocked him away—directly into the pit. The Warrior felt his body falling helplessly before darkness overwhelmed him, following by what sounded like a chorus of distorted, screaming voices all trapped within the void. He was drowning in them, fighting and kicking at enemies both real and imaginary.

Until they suffocated him.

Until they consumed his every thought.

Until he tired, all while never able to find a moment's rest.

Until he gave into them, feeling the shadows flood every part of his being.

Until, one day—out of the countless days he spent in that sea of horrors—he heard a familar voice call out to him: "From deep within the bowels of the Pit of Hate, I summon you."  

((Author's Note: This has next to no canon basis outside of bits and pieces ducktaped together. It's just an idea I had about how Aku gets some of his minions, and I wanted to put it to words. I mean, when we first see him create them in in the timeline, they're not all of the various monsters we see him manifest later. They're more like copies of himself, or possessed soldiers puppeteered to act like doubles of himself. I also personally don't see how a being like Aku, who is evil and destruction incarnate, can truly creating anything. Still, there's a lot of lost souls the Pit of Hate devoured over the years, even before Aku gained consciousness. I can see, rather than simply dying, some of those souls becoming distorted, demonic entities themselves.))